And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be

seen.

W. DRUMMOND

142.-A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN

1

I'VE heard the lilting 1 at our yowe-milking,

Lassies a-lilting before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning 2The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts,3 in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning,

The lassies are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin',5 but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

6

In har'st at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart,8 and runkled, and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching 9. The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en in the gloaming, nae swankies 10 are roaming

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearieThe Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.

1 Singing. 2 Lane.

5 Chatting.

6 Milk-pail. 7 Sheaf-binders. 8 Grizzled.

9 Coaxing.

10 Lithe lads.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers o' the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
JANE ELLIOTT

143. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,—
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true,1 the blushful Hippocrene,1

1 i.e. As inspiring, but real, not fabled (see Class. Dict.)

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stainèd mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy

ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine

Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer

eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a museful rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for
home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath

Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep?

J. KEATS

144.-STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:

*

*

*

Around its unexpanded buds ;

* 1

Like many a voice of one delight—

The winds, the birds, the ocean-floodsThe City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore

Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone;

1 There are at least three versions of this stanza: one replaces a "missing" line by asterisks; a second gives-The breath of the moist earth is light"-involving the repetition of "light," as a final syllable, three times; a third avoids this repetition by reading (line 4) "transparent might," of which it is difficult to make sense. I have adopted the first of these readings, and have ventured to follow the precedent of the Golden Treasury in ending the poem with the fourth stanza.