HENRY KIRKE WHITE. YES, 'twill be over soon. This sickly dream HENRY KIRKE WHITE. GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head, Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, Dissolving sad in dying symphony, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear; That I may bid my weeping friends good b'ye, Ere I depart upon my journey drear; And smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last! A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Festively she puts forth in trim array; As vigorous as a Lark at break of day : Is she for tropic suns or polar snow? What boots the enquiry ?—Neither friend nor foe Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. |