On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. All are gone away and past! She would weep, and he would craze : So it is; yet let us sing Honor to the woods unshorn! And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by, Let us two a burden try. SONNETS. TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. MANY the wonders I this day have seen: The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of Morn ;-the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ;The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,— Must think on what will be, and what has been. And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. ΤΟ HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. How many bards gild the lapses of time! Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude: Do they occasion; 't is a pleasing chime. Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES. As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew A fresh-blown musk-rose; 't was the first that threw As is the wand that queen Titania wields. I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd; My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd. |