CXXV. WILLIAM COLLINS, 1721-1759. H ODE. OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest CXXVI. ON FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. 'O fair Fidele's grassy tomb, T° 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 And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, The red-breast oft at evening hours When howling winds, and beating rain Or midst the chase, on every plain, Each lonely scene shall thee restore ; And mourned till Pity's self be dead. CXXVII. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774. WHEN OLIVIA'S SONG. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, CXXVIII. TO MARY. WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800. HE twentieth year is well nigh past, THE Since first our sky was overcast ; Ah! would that this might be the last; My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly would'st fulfil My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, My Mary! |