THE NYMPH'S REPLY. A gown, made of the finest wool A belt of straw, and ivy buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, Then live with me, and be my love. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. IF that the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, And all complain of cares to come. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. TO THE UNSATISFIED. WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still: Leaf and flower, and laden bee, are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw; If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world, through weal and woe; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. TO THE UNSATISFIED. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, When all nature hails the lord of light, Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Thou art wealthier- all the world is thine! Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, Nature wears the color of the spirit; Sweetly to her worshipper she sings; HARRIET WINSLOW. 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 withered 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 redbreast oft, at evening hours, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds and beating rain Or midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell, |