'Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle ; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle e ; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear? a sound O Lord! 'tis in my neighbour's ground, They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees, To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses! how they prose By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, And I must work thro' months of toil, To grow my own plantation. ST. AGNES' EVE DEEP on the convent-roof the snows My breath to heaven like vapour goes: The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creeping hours Make Thou my spirit pure and clear Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, So in mine earthly house I am, Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, He lifts me to the golden doors; All heaven bursts her starry floors, For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide- SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend To save from shame and thrall: |