Old-world Idylls: And Other Verses

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K. Paul, Trench, 1885 - 245 psl.

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199 psl. - All passes. ART alone Enduring stays to us ; The Bust out-lasts the throne, — The Coin, Tiberius ; Even the gods must go ; Only the lofty Rhyme Not countless years o'erthrow,— Not long array of time.
231 psl. - There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars...
206 psl. - Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. " He makes as though in our arms repelling He fain would lie, as he lay before ; Love comes back to his vacant dwelling...
198 psl. - When the hard means rebel, Fairer the work out-grows, — More potent far the spell. O POET, then, forbear The loosely-sandalled verse, Choose rather thou to wear The buskin — strait and terse; Leave to the tyro's hand The limp and shapeless style; See that thy form demand The labor of the file.
93 psl. - If I were you ! FRANK. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, — the mildest ' honey-dew,' I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! NELLIE. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the ' Cynical Review ; '— FRANK. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you ! NELLIE.
11 psl. - WHITEFIELD preached to the colliers grim, Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him ; WALPOLE talked of " a man and his price " ; Nobody's virtue was over-nice : — Those, in fine, were the brave days when Coaches were stopped by . . Highwaymen ! And of all the knights of the gentle trade Nobody bolder than
219 psl. - SINGER of the field and fold, THEOCRITUS ! Pan's pipe was thine,— Thine was the happier Age of Gold. For thee the scent of new-turned mould, The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, O Singer of the field and fold,! Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,— The beechen bowl made glad with wine . . Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
2 psl. - ... wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons, — round his throat, A soft cravat ; — in all you note An elder fashion, — A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, — whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspires compassion. He lived so long ago, you see ! Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting ; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in "garden trim," And watch, about the fish tank's brim,...
169 psl. - How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-god ; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid ; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee ; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe...
xv psl. - Tis a long Lane that has no turning,' John ! " Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile — . We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile ; Dear Prue won't look, and Father...

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