The ladyes wrang their fingers white- O lang lang may the ladyes sit, And lang lang may the maidens sit, O forty miles off Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. La Belle Dame Sans Mercy AH! what can ail thee, wretched wight, The sedge is withered from the lake, Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful-a fairy's child; I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean and sing A fairy's song. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed deep; And there we slumbered on the moss, On the cold hill-side! I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors-death-pale were they all; Who cried, 'La Belle Dame Sans Mercy Hath thee in thrall!' I saw their starved lips in the gloom, And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering: Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. KEATS. The Child and the Snake HENRY was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread. Which through his mother's orchard ran. Finding the child delight to eat His bread and milk close to a snake! Upon the grass he spreads his feast The least small noise, O have a care The least small noise that may be made, The wily snake will be afraid— If he hear the lightest sound, He will inflict th' envenom'd wound. -She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath; No sound she utters; and she soon Sees the child lift up his spoon, 'Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:' (O what a change from fear to joy !) Tom Bowling M. LAMB. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, Tom never from his word departed, His friends were many and true-hearted, But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd ; For though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. C. DIBDIN. The Kitten and Falling Leaves THAT way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! Withered leaves-one-two-and three- Through the calm and frosty air Sylph or Faery hither tending,— -But the Kitten, how she starts, In her upward eye of fire! Now she works with three or four, Quick as he in feats of art, Were her antics played in th' eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure 'Tis a pretty baby-treat ; |