And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, 1844. 40 44 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE How many Summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Time, like the winged wind Some weight of thought, though loath, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,-a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget; All else is flown! 8 16 1832. To Mary Ah! With what thankless heart Look, where our children start, With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time! 24 Bryan Waller Procter. TO MARY THE twentieth year is well-nigh past, Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, 8 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 12 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil My Mary! 16 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; 20 Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 24 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st My Mary! 32 36 40 28 1793. John Anderson My Jo And still to love, though press'd with ill, With me is to be lovely still, But ah! by constant heed I know And should my future lot be cast My Mary! William Cowper. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, 44 48 52 1790. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we 'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo! 16 Robert Burns. PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS PIPING down the valleys wild, And he laughing said to me: Pipe a song about a lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again"; So I piped: he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; 66 1789. Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' While he wept with joy to hear. Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read." And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, 8 12 16 20 William Blake. |