EXERCISE III

Dirge in Cymbeline.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd-lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flow'rs
the deck the ground where thou art laid.

Whow howling winds and beating rain
tu tuvaa shake the sylvan cell,
(
de oase, on every plain

EXERCISE IV.

Come, Shepherds!

1

Come, Shepherds! we'll follow the hearse,
And see our lov'd Corydon laid:
Tho' sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let the sad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the Pride of the Plain :
In sooth he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd in his elegant strain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.

2

On purpose he planted yon' trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins! that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your master bemoan;
His music was artless and sweet,
His manners as mild as your own.

3.

No verdure shall cover the vale,
No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter discolour the year.
No birds in our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges, so vocal before,)

Since he that should welcome the spring

Can greet the gay season no more.

4

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listened, and envied his lays,
But which of them equall'd his song?
Ye Shepherds! henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus-let me break it in twain.

EXERCISE V.

Ode on Solitude.

1

Happy the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

2

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

3

Bless'd who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

4

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation;

And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

5

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

EXERCISE VI.

The lament of David over Saul and Jonathan

The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!

Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.

Ye mountains of Gilboa! let there be no dew, neither let there be rain upon you, nor fields of offerings; for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.

From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty.

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.

Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights; who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel.

How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O, Jonathan! thou wast slain in thine high places.

I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.

How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

EXERCISE VII.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phœnix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world, and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow,
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.