Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude ;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then, heigh, ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

*

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then, heigh, ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Winter.

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

* To weave into a firm texture; to make solid. A.S. wearp.

When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;

To-whit, tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel* the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,†
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs ‡ hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;

To-whit, tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

ALFRED TENNYSON: 1809—

The Song of the Brook.

From "The Brook."

See p. 132.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker § down a valley.

By thirsty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps,|| a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

* Skim (Ger. kielen); or it may mean "to cool," from A.S. cœlan.

Moral saying. Du. saege, N. saga, A.S. secge.

§ "To splash," or else "to gurgle."

+ Crab-apples.

г

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret,
By many a field and fallow,*
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel,

With many a silver water-break
Above the golden gravel.

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots,
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars,

I loiter round my cresses.

* Ploughed land left exposed to the air. Sc. fale, a sod; or A.S. fealo, yellowish-red.

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: 1770-1850.

We are Seven.

See p. 162. In the following poem (written in 1798), the first stanza of which was written by Coleridge, the central thought is that the notion of death as the end of existence is, as Wordsworth said of himself, quite impossible for a child. The first stanza, standing entirely apart from the rest of the poem, merely serves to strike the key-note, and was composed after the poem had been almost completed.

A SIMPLE child,*

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl :

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we ;

And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

"

* Coleridge wrote the first line originally, A little child, dear brother Jem," referring to a friend of theirs, James T―, but Wordsworth objected to it as being ludicrous.

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be?"

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,
I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain:
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."