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She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, I knew (such subtle brains have men !) As she sits at her lattice and shells her That she was uttering what she should n't; peas.
And thought that I would chide, and
then The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;
I thought I would n't. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her away she skips Few could bave gaz'd upon that face, Over tables and chairs with apparent Those pouting coral lips, and chided :
A Rhadamanthus, in my place,
Had done as I did. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;
For wrath with which our bosoms glow (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Is chain'd there oft by Beauty's spell ; And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, And, more than that, I did not know Which wholly consisted of lines like
The widow well. these.
So the harsh phrase pass’d unreprov'd : PART II
Still mute (O brothers, was it sin ?)— She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled I drank, unutterably mov'd, cheeks,
Her beauty in.
The moonlight fell, “Would she say She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson
By chance, or Yes ?”
That I already was almost
A finish'd coon. cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) But when she caught adroitly up And gaz'd at the piper for thirteen weeks ; And sooth'd with smiles her little daughThen she follow'd him out o'er the misty
And gave it, if I'm right, a sup
Of barley-water ; Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them,
And, crooning still the strange, sweet (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
lore And this song is consider'd a perfect gem; Which only mothers' tongues can utter, And as to the meaning, it's what you Snow'd with deft hand the sugar o'er please.
And kiss'd it clingingly (ah, why
Don't women do these things in priI watch'd her as she stoop’d to pluck
Should not survive it.
And from my mouth the words nigh Anon I heard her rate with mad,
flew, Mad words her babe within its cot, The past, the future, I forgat 'em, And felt particularly glad
"Oh, if you 'd kiss me as you do That it had not.
That thankless atom !”
Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,
And try the “ Marlow cure.
And scare away each frown,
At quaint old Marlow town.
Here Shelley dream'd and thought and
wrote, And wander'd o'er the leas; And sung
and drifted in his boat
Great poet of renown,
At good old Marlow town!
On, Bisham Banks are fresh and fair,
And Quarry Woods are green,
Enchanting is the scene !
As swift the stream runs down,
That flows by Marlow town !
And half the season 's done,
And bask there in the sun.
The “ Angler" or the “ Crown” Will suit you well, if you're inclin'd
To stay in Marlow town.
And sometimes I incline
And play with rod and line ;
And let my face get brown ; And dream away the sunny days
By dear old Marlow town. I go to luncheon at the Lawn,
I muse, I sketch, I rhyme ;
I list to All Saints' cbime.
Dull care I strive to drown,
At pleasant Marlow town.
You feel you can endure,
In sunny girlhood's vernal life
She caused no small sensation,
To others leaves flirtation.
Although sometimes her features
For those two tiny creatures.
Asserts with voice emphatic,
Their rule is autocratic :
Their musical narcotic,
Are even more despotic.
Soft lullaby when singing there,
And castles ever building,
William John Courthope FROM "THE PARADISE OF Sweet to smell the freshening mould ; BIRDS”
But far sweeter than them all,
Flowers, sweet breath, or songs of lovers,
Are shilling eggs of golden plovers.
For their palate magic taste ;
Shift the prices, woman's eye When the first Lent lilies spring Leaves the diamond, likes the paste ; When the birds their troths do plight, If the market run not high, And all feather'd lovers sing ;
Heavenly nectar may go waste; Eggs of golden plovers reach
But each shilling paid discovers In London town a shilling each.
Fresh flavor in the eggs of plovers. Sweet it to see the gold
Brightening on the cowslip tall; Sweet to hear on lonely wold
O UNHATCH'D Bird, so high preferr'a, Birds by dawn their lovers call; As porter of the Pole,
ODE — TO THE ROC
Of beakless things, who have no wings,
Exact no heavy toll.
The theme itself is sweet ;
I sing the Obsolete.
Of birds preceding Noah,
Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa. These, by the hints we get from prints
Of feathers and of feet, Excell'd in wits the later tits,
And so are obsolete.
Doublet and hose, and powder'd beaux ?
Where are thy songs, whose passion Turn'd thought to fire in knight and
squire, While hearts of ladies beat ? Where thy sweet style, ours, ours
while ? All this is obsolete.
In Auvergne low potatoes grow
Upon volcanoes old ; The moon, they say, had her young day,
Though now her heart is cold ;
Seasons of snow and heat,
To become obsolete.
I sing each race whom we displace
In their primeval woods,
To traffic with their goods.
In breeding might compete ;
Will soon grow obsolete.
Great cities plough'd to loam ; Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings;
Dead Greece, and dying Rome.
Or stack the farmer's peat; 'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths,
Mean men the obsolete.
The astrolabe of every babe
Reads, in its fatal sky, “Man's largest room is the low tomb —
Ye all are born to die.”
The noblest we may treat ;
IN PRAISE OF GILBERT WHITE
Shall nought be said of theories dead ?
The Ptolemaic system ?
Duns Scotus lik'd to twist 'em ? Averrhoes' thought ? and what was taught
In Salamanca's seat ? Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs ?
IF Transmigration e'er compel
A bird to live with human heart,
From human ills apart.
forth, And watch'd affairs in every nation, They found for ever, south and north,
Vanity and Vexation.
So let him dwell not in the Town
There Trade and Penury roar and weep: But 'neath the silence of a down
Disturb'd by grazing sheep.
Pillion and pack have left their track ;
Dead is “the Tally-ho ;”
Of the old world and slow;
Nor Maypole in the street ;
St. George is obsolete.
So many a frolic fashion ?