CLXIV. TO-MORROW In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honours may wait him to-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly And while peace and plenty I find at my board, And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, thread wish to spin o'er again : Nor my But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare today, May become everlasting to-morrow. J. COLLINS Life CLXV Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear— Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; -Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. A. L. BARBAULD 181 BOOK FOURTH CLXVI ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold Oft of one wide expanse had I been told Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : -Then felt I like some watcher of the skies He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Silent, upon a peak in Darien. J. KEATS CLXVII ODE ON THE POETS Bards of Passion and of Mirth -Yes, and those of heaven commune 182 Ode on the Poets With the noise of fountains wonderous Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Thus ye live on high, and then And the souls ye left behind you What doth strengthen and what maim :— Bards of Passion and of Mirth J. KEATS 183 CLXVIII LOVE All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine stealing o'er the scene She lean'd against the arméd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, |