CHERRY RIPE THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand, These sacred cherries to come nigh, —Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry! MORNING PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day, Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow ANON Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast, bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! T. HEYWOOD. DEATH THE LEVELLER THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. J. SHIRLEY. N ANNAN WATER ANNAN Water's wading deep, And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am loath she should wet her feet, Because I love her best of ony.' He's loupen on his bonny gray, He rode the right gate and the ready; And he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through moor, and moss, and many a mire; His spurs of steel were sair to bide, And from her four feet flew the fire. 'My bonny gray, now play your part! And never spur shall make you wearie.' The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare ; But when she wan the Annan Water, She could not have ridden the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. 'O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for golden money!' But for all the gold in fair Scotland, He dared not take him through to Annie. 'O I was sworn so late yestreen, The side was stey, and the bottom deep, He spurr'd her forth into the flood, I wot she swam both strong and steady; UNKNOWN. TO A WATERFOWL WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest Thou'rt gone-the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, W. C. BRYANT. |