90

MEMORY AND MELANCHOLY.

MEMORY AND MELANCHOLY.

MEMORY, hither come,

And tune your merry notes:

And while upon the wind

Your music floats,

I'll pore upon the stream

Where sighing lovers dream,

And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet's song,
And then I'll lie and dream
The day along:

And when night comes, I'll go

To places fit for woe,

Walking along the darken'd valley
With silent melancholy.

William Blake.

LOVE AND DEATH.

91

LOVE AND DEATH.

GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights and ease,
Can but please

The outward senses, when the mind
Is or untroubled, or by peace refined.
Crowns may flourish and decay,
Beauties shine, but fade away.
Youth may revel, yet it must
Lie down in a bed of dust.
Earthly honours flow and waste,
Time alone doth change and last.
Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare
Rest for care;

Love only reigns in death; though art
Can find no comfort for a broken heart.

John Ford.

92

SORROW-SONG.

SORROW-SONG.

OH, sorrow, sorrow, say where dost thou dwell?
In the lowest room of hell.

Art thou born of human race?
No, no, I have a furier face.
Art thou in city, town, or court?
I to every place resort.

Oh, why into the world is sorrow sent?

Men afflicted best repent.

What dost thou feed on?

Broken sleep.

What tak'st thou pleasure in?
To weep,

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.

Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never.

Never till she finds a grave.

Samuel Rowley.

SLUMBER-SONG.

93

SLUMBER-SONG.

CARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,—
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers;-easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses:-sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain.
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

John Fletcher.

TO ECHO.

SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell,

By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroider'd vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

O, if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.

J. Milton.

94

ORPHEUS.

ORPHEUS.

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing.
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing Care and Grief of Heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die!

W. Shakespeare.