CXXXII.

SONG.

Y silks and fine array,

MY

My smiles and languished air,

By love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:

Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was 't given,

Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb,
Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet;

When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat :
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay :
True love doth pass away!

CXXXIII.

W

TO THE MUSES.

'HETHER on Ida's shady brow,

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove ;
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,

The sound is forced, the notes are few.

CXXXIV.

IPING down the valleys wild,

PIPING

Piping songs of pleasant glee,

On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

'Pipe a song about a lamb!'

So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;

Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read ;—' So he vanished from my sight;

And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

CXXXV.

TIGER,

THE TIGER.

IGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes ?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the lamb make thee?