Puslapio vaizdai
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Open, open gate and door:
Mark! the moment we implore,
Comes the daughter of the squire,
With such figs as wake desire.
Maiden, for this favour done,

May thy fortunes, as they run,
Ever brighten be thy spouse

:

Rich, and of a noble house;

May thy sire, in aged ease,

Nurse a boy who calls thee mother;
And his grandame, on her knees,

Rock a girl who calls him brother;
Kept as bride in reservation,
For some favour'd near relation.
But enough now: I must tread
Where my feet and eyes are led,
Dropping at each door a strain,
Let me lose my suit or gain.

Then search, worthy gentles, the cupboard's close nook;

To the lord, and still more to the lady, we look: Custom warrants the suit, let it still then bear

sway,

And your Crow, as in duty most bounden, shall

pray.

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THE Swallow, the Swallow, has burst on the sight,
He brings us gay seasons of vernal delight;
His back it is sable, his belly is white.

Can your pantry nought spare,

That his palate may please,

A fig, or a pear,

Or a slice of rich cheese?

Mark, he bars all delay:

At a word, my friend, say,

Is it yes-is it nay?

Do we go-do we stay?

*The song of the swallow, who, as the harbinger of spring, was a great favourite among the Greeks, by which, too, the little mendicants used to levy contributions on the good-nature of their fellow-citizens.

One gift and we 're gone;
Refuse, and anon

On your gate and your door
All our fury we pour.

Or our strength shall be tried
On your sweet little bride:

From her seat we will tear her ;
From her home we will bear her;
She is light, and will ask

But small hands to the task.
Let your bounty then lift

A small aid to our mirth;
And whatever the gift,

Let its size speak its worth.
The Swallow, the Swallow,
Upon you doth wait:
An almsman and suppliant,
He stands at your gate;

Yet open, yet open

Your gate and your door; Neither giants nor grey-beards,

We your bounty implore.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Milton.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

TO A WOUNDED SINGING-BIRD.

Barry Cornwall.

POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun,
Or the sharp winter done thee harm?
We'll lay thee gently in the sun,

And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still

May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild,

Till summer fall on field and fell,

And thou shalt be our feather'd child; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song.

Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,—
We'll use thee kindly now;
And sure there's in a friendly word,

An accent even thou should'st know;

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