Made green, and trimmed with trees: see how Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, Made up of white thorn neatly interwove; And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day, A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth, Many a kiss, both odd and even: From out the eye, love's firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked: - yet we're not a Maying. Come, let us go, while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short; and our days run Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying. TO LAURELS. A funeral stone Or verse I covet none, But only crave Of you, that I may have A sacred laurel springing from my grave; Blest with perpetual green, Not so much called a tree As the eternal monument of me. TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer: But being spent the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, THE CROWD AND COMPANY. In holy meetings, there a man may be DELIGHT IN DISORDER. A sweet disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe string, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. TO DAFFODILS. Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: MUSIC. The mellow touch of music most doth wound ONLY TO LIVE BY HIS BEST. Julia, if I chance to die GRACE FOR A CHILD. Here, a little child, I stand, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on our all. Amen. WITH FIRE AND SWORD.1 BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. [HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, the foremost living Polish novelist, was born of Lithuanian parents at Vola Okrzejska in the Lukowschen, in 1846. After pursuing his studies at the University of Warsaw, he adopted a wandering existence, and in 1876 proceeded to America, where he spent considerable time in southern California, and wrote for the Warsaw papers numerous stories and impressions of travel. He subsequently returned to Poland, and took up literature as a profession. Nearly all of his works have been translated into English, and enjoy great popularity in the United States and England. The most important are: "Children of the Soil"; "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," and "Pan Michael," forming a trilogy of historical novels; "Quo Vadis," a tale of the time of Nero; "Yanko the Musician" "; "Without Dogma "Hania."] THE DEATH OF THE TRAITORS. Ar the house of the inspector of weights and measures, in the outskirts of Hassan Pasha, at the Saitch, sat two Zaporo1 Copyright by Little, Brown & Co. |