As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace, To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some on earnest business bent Their murmuring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, Gay hope is their's-by fancy fed, Their's buxom health of rosy hue, And lively cheer of vigour born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait And black misfortune's baleful train! Ah, shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; Lo! in the vale of years beneath More hideous than their Queen: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? And happiness too swiftly flies. GRAY. Dirge in Cymbeline. SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring No wailing ghost shall dare appear, And melting virgins own their love. Shall kindly lend his little aid, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lovely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved, till life can charm no more; COLLINS. The Old Familiar Faces. I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, I have been laughing, I have been carousing, I loved a love once, fairest among women; I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. CHARLES LAMB. |