But a trouble weighed upon her, And perplexed her night and morn, With the burden of an honour Unto which she was not born.

Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmured, 'O that he Were once more that landscape painter Which did win my heart from me!'

So she drooped and drooped before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died.

Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh House by Stamford town.

And he came to look upon her, And he looked at her, and said, 'Bring the dress, and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed.'

Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest.

_A. Tennyson_

LXV

_THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL_

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter 'Little prig;'

Bun replied, 'You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry: I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.'

_R. W. Emerson_

LXVI

_EVENING_

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course has run.

See the dew-drops how they kiss Every little flower that is, Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads.

See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from underground, At whose rising, mists unsound, Damps and vapours fly apace, Hovering o'er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come Striking dead both bud and bloom.

Therefore from such danger lock Every one of his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come, as a scout From the mountain, and ere day Bear a kid or lamb away; Or the crafty, thievish fox Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourselves from these, Be not too secure in ease.

So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your master's love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids: so, farewell; Thus I end my evening knell.

_J. Fletcher_

LXVII

_THE PARROT_

_A true story_

A parrot, from the Spanish main, Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's sh.o.r.e.

To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky, And turned on rocks and raging surf His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold, He lived and chattered many a day: Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew grey.

At last when blind, and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla's sh.o.r.e;

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied; Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, Dropt down, and died.

_T. Campbell_

LXVIII

_SONG_

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone in the forest tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?

I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

_J. Keats_

LXIX

_THE BLIND BOY_

O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy, Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

_C. Cibber_