XIII EPITAPH ON A HARE Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, His frisking was at evening hours, But most before approaching showers, Eight years and five round-rolling moons And every night at play. I kept him for his humours' sake, My heart of thoughts that made it ache, But now, beneath this walnut shade, He, still more aged, feels the shocks W. Cowper XIV ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) An angel writing in a book of gold :— 'What writest thou?'-The vision raised its head, The angel wrote and vanished. The next night Leigh Hunt XV LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, The sedge is wither'd from the lake, Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; Fast withereth too. I met a Lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a fairy's child; I set her on my pacing steed, I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes, So kissed to sleep. And there we slumber'd on the moss, I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cried 'La belle Dame sans mercy Hath thee in thrall!' I saw their starved lips in the gloom And this is why I sojourn here Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, XVI 7. Keats WINTER When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the Shepherd blows his nail, And milk comes frozen home in pail ; 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 Tuwhoo! Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. W. Shakespeare |