THE BETTER PART Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, "We live no more, when we have done our span." "Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, "who can care? From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes our life without a plan! So answerest thou; but why not rather say: "Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high! Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? "More strictly, then, the inward judge obey! Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he !" Matthew Arnold IMMORTALITY Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn, And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn No, no! the energy of life may be Matthew Arnold ROCK OF AGES Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Cleanse me from its guilt and power. Not the labours of my hands Nothing in my hand I bring- While I draw this fleeting breath, Augustus Montague Toplady ON HIS DECEASED WIFE Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the Old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined So clear as in no face with more delight. But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. John Milton MORNING The lark now leaves his watery nest, And to implore your light, he sings; The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. Sir William Davenant THE SIRENS' SONG Steer hither, steer your winged pines, Here lie love's undiscovered mines, Perfumes far sweeter than the best Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. For swelling waves our panting breasts, The compass Love shall hourly sing; We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss: Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. William Browne A SERENADE Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, The village maid steals through the shade To Beauty shy, by lattice high, The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know But where is County Guy? Sir Walter Scott EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE Underneath this sable hearse Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Ben Jonson |