But bless you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers—but still-ah, the pity, the pity! Look two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles. One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals. Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! R. Browning. POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE WHO IS SYLVIA? WHO is Sylvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? The heaven such grace doth lend her, Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. To help him of his blindness, Then to Sylvia let us sing That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling. To her let us garlands bring. W. Shakspere. THE INDIAN SERENADE I ARISE from dreams of Thee Hath led me--who knows how? The wandering airs they faint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine O beloved as thou art! Oh lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh! press it close to thine again P. B. Shelley. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT SHE walks in beauty, like the night One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow The smiles that win, the tints that glow A heart whose love is innocent. Lord Byron. TO CELIA DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee! B. Jonson. O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE O MY Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve! R. Burns. A SERENADE AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd's suit to hear; To Beauty shy, by lattice high, |