361 His murdered friends and kindred he does see, much is he tossed at sea and much at land, THE DEATH THE LEVELLER A. COWLEY HE glories of our blood and state there is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings: must tumble down and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. they stoop to fate, and must give up their murmuring breath then boast no more your mighty deeds; see where the victor-victim bleeds: to the cold tomb; only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 362 J. SHIRLEY THE GREAT LEVELLER WHY should man's aspiring mind WHY burn in him with so proud a breath, when all his haughty views can find in this world yields to death? The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, to strew his quiet hall. Power may make many earthly gods, The flatter'd great may clamours raise Death levels all things, in his march A. MARVELL 363 Go THE GREEK BOY 'ONE are the glorious Greeks of old, their bones are mingled with the mould, the forms they hewed from living stone and scattered with their ashes, shew Yet fresh the myrtles there-the springs flowers blossom from the dust of kings, as many an age before; there nature moulds as nobly now, that braved Platea's battle storm. Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek their heaven in Hellas' skies; her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, and Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see a shoot of that old vine that made W. C. BRYANT 364 CONTEMPLATION VOICE divine, whose heavenly strain W. HAMILTON 365 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TUrning one down WITH THE PLOUGH TEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, WEE thou's met me in an evil hour; for I maun crush amang the stoure to spare thee now is past my pow'r, Cauld blew the bitter-biting north scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield o' clod or stane, adorns the histie stibble-field, unseen, alane. but now the share uptears thy bed, 366 Such is the fate of artless maid, and guileless trust, till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, of prudent lore, till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, who long with wants and woes has striven, to misery's brink, till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou, who mourn'st the daisy's fate, till crushed beneath the furrow's weight R. BURNS 367 ON DISAPPOINTMENT WHAT is this passing scene? WHAT a peevish April day! a little sun—a little rain, and then night sweeps along the plain, and all things fade away. Man (soon discussed) yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is Beauty's pow'r? it flourishes and dies! Will the cold earth its silence break, beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all o'er Beauty's fall; her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall The most beloved on earth not long survives to-day: so music past is obsolete, and yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, but now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade in memory fade when in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. H. K. WHITE |