MARIANA. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. Mariana. She said, "I am aweary, weary, 95 "Mariana in the moated grange."-Measure for Measure. Were thickly crusted, one and all; That held the peach to the garden wall. Uplifted was the clinking latch, Weeded and worn the ancient thatch, Her tears fell with the dews at even- Either at morn or eventide. MILTON. After the flitting of the bats, She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn She only said, "The day is dreary- She said, "I am aweary, weary, About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept ; The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. All silver-green with gnarléd bark ; MARIANA. She only said, "My life is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" And ever, when the moon was low, She saw the gusty shadow sway. And wild winds bound within their cell, She only said, "The night is dreary- She said, "I am aweary, weary, All day, within the dreary house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue-fly sang i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mould'ring wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd through the doors; She only said, "My life is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, "" I would that I were dead! N 97 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The poplar made, did all confound Ode. TENNYSON. OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By fairy hands their knell is rung, There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, COLLINS. [Written in the year 1746.] [WILLIAM COLLINS, a poet chiefly known by his beautiful odes on "The Passions," "To Evening," &c., had a short and mournful career. As a literary adventurer in London, he underwent privations which unsettled his mind; and when at last relief came, in the shape of a legacy of £2000, the unhappy poet was mad! And thus he died, hopelessly insane, at thirty-six years of age.] |