The shepherd swains shall dance and sing If these delights thy mind may move, C. Marlowe VIII THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES See the Kitten on the wall, Withered leaves-one-two-and three From the lofty elder tree! Through the calm and frosty air Sylph or Fairy hither tending, In his wavering parachute. With a tiger-leap half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four, Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure! W. Wordsworth IX THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID As I a fare had lately past, Which as I was about to bring, And came to view my fraught, Thought I, what more than heavenly thing Hath fortune hither brought? She, seeing mine eyes still on her were, Soon, smilingly, quoth she, Sirrah, look to your rudder there, Why look'st thou thus at me? And nimbly stepp'd into my boat Naked and blind, yet did I note And two wings to his shoulders fixt, With far more various colours mixt Or it transform'd hath been, For such a thing, half bird, half boy, I think was never seen. And in my boat I turn'd about, And wistly view'd the lad, And clearly I saw his eyes were out, Though bow and shafts he had. How lik'st thou him? quoth she. Why, well, quoth I, the better should, How say'st thou, honest friend, quoth she, Wilt thou a 'prentice take? I think, in time, though blind he be, A ferryman he'll make. To guide my passage-boat, quoth I, His fine hands were not made; He hath been bred too wantonly Why, help him to a master, then, Quoth I, when you your best have done, Than to a harper bind your son, Quoth I, I pray you let me know, Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow, Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born. On my simplicity. Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear. Quoth I, if't be no lie, Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear, E'er practis'd archery. A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss, Nor to be elder than he is It is a mystery to me, An archer, and yet blind! Quoth I again, how can it be, That he his mark should find ? The gods, quoth she, whose will it was Gave him this gift, though at his game That he should have so certain aim, As not to miss his mark. By this time we were come ashore, But not a word she utter'd more, M. Drayton X SONG Under the greenwood tree, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. |