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When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armour,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
Gentle Peace, whose wand of
Lulls to slumber woe and pain,
In affliction's sternest hour
Thou canst soothe the wildered brain.
Here I wander tempest-driven,
Seeking comfort, seeking rest;
Child of Heaven,
Glide, O glide into my breast!
Qvom promta Bacchi est interior nota,
Fulgetqve lampas grandior, et nuces
Vivis inardescunt favillis
Castaneae, verubusqve pingvis
Torqvetur hoedus, qvom iuvenes focum
Festa corona cum senibus fovent,
Virgisqve cistellas puellae
Deproperant, pueriqve formant
Arcus aduncos: qvom reparat pater
Arma, et minacis cornua cassidis
Inflectit, et matrona fuso
Torta trahit radiante pensa,
Flentes recensent non sine risubus
Qvanta ille custos pontis Horatius
Virtutis antiqvae futuris
Ediderit documenta seclis.
Caeli progenies, malas
Delenire potens solicitudines,
Et, qvo mens magis angitur,
Maiori recreare alma levamine,
Me tot respice taediis
Fessum: qvid faciunt omnia luctubus Alternantia gaudia?
O subrepe meo, grata Qvies, sinu.
There was a Poet, whose untimely tomb
No human hands with pious reverence rear'd,
But the charm'd eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness :
A lovely youth! No mourning maiden deck'd
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:
Gentle, and brave, and generous, no lorn bard
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:
He lived, he died, he sung in solitude.
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes;
And virgins, as unknown he past, have sigh'd
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,
And Silence, too enamour'd of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.
Inscription for a Lighthouse.
Far in the bosom of the deep,
O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep;
A ruddy gem of changeful light
Bound on the dusky brow of night:
The seaman bids my lustre hail,
And scorns to strike his timorous sail.
Vatem illum rapuit mors inmatura, sepulcroqve
Invidere homines, grati pietate laboris:
Sed desiderio fervens divinitus aura
Desertum celebravit agrum, marcentiaqve ossa
Frondibus auctumni marcente instruxit acervo.
Ah pulcer iuvenis! non virgo maesta cupressum
Votivam inspersit neque flores rore madentes,
Solus ubi aeterna sopitus nocte iacebas.
Tam dulcem periisse virum fortemqve bonumqve
Debita non socius rupit suspiria vates;
Ille canens idem natus moriensqve fefellit.
Ut stetit ut flevit ferventes advena cantus
Aure bibens, visoqve semel, dum praeterit, illo
Flagrantes oculorum aestus mirata puella
Deperit, et lento ignoti tabescit amore.
Nunc teneram longae flammam exstinxere tenebrae,
Lumina diriguere, et in ipsa voce laborans
Includit taciturna cavo Proserpina saxo.
Longinqvo procul in maris recessu
Horrentem excubias ago per oram,
Ceu fulget vario colore gemma
Furvis crinibus inplicata Noctis;
Me si navita viderit rubentem,
Non curat timidum inligare velum.
R. Infer fair England's peace by this alliance.
E. Which she shall purchase with still lasting war.
R. Tell her, the king, that may command, entreats.
E. That at her hands which the king's King forbids.
R. Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen.
E. To wail the title, as her mother doth.
R. Say, I will love her everlastingly.
E. But how long shall that title 'ever' last?
R. Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end.
E. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last?
R. As long as heaven and nature lengthens it.
E. As long as hell and Richard likes of it.
R. Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject low.
E. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.
R. Be eloquent in my behalf to her.
E. An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.
R. Then in plain terms tell her my loving tale.
E. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.
The Mother's Stratagem.
While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See to the last, last verge her infant steals!
O fly yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.