235

And battles long ago;

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

"THE HEAVING ROSES OF THE
HEDGE ARE STIRRED"

THE heaving roses of the hedge are stirred
By the sweet breath of summer, and the bird
Makes from within his jocund voice be heard.

The winds that kiss the roses sweep the sea
Of uncut grass, whose billows rolling free
Half drown the hedges which part lea from lea.

But soon shall look the wondering roses down
Upon an empty field cut close and brown,
That lifts no more its height against their own.

And in a little while those roses bright,
Leaf after leaf, shall flutter from their height,
And on the reapèd fields lie pink and white.

And yet again the bird that sings so high
Shall ask the snow for alms with piteous cry;
Take fright in his bewildering bower, and die.

CANON DIXON

236

AUTUMN

A DIRGE

THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;
And the year

On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.

Come, months, come away,

From November to May,

In your saddest array;
Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling.

Come, months, come away;

Put on white, black, and grey;
Let your light sisters play-

Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.

237

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

"WHEN THAT I WAS AND A

LITTLE TINY BOY”

WHEN that I was and a little tinie boy,
With hey, ho, the winde and the raine:

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the raine it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate,

With hey, ho, the winde and the raine:
'Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate,
For the raine it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas, to wive,

With hey, ho, the winde and the raine:
By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the raine it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, the winde and the raine,
With tos-pottes still had drunken heades,-
For the raine it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begon,

With hey, ho, the winde and the raine,

But that's all one, our Play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

EMILY BRONTË

240

THE SANDS OF DEE

"O MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee;"

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-
A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY

241

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

BREAK, break break,

On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

242

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

I

O, WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow