"Underneath the old oak-trees With green chaplets I would crown him; Do him dearer courtesies Than a queen could smile upon him For his famous victories; "While my noble knight would tell Hard adventures, wild and daring; How the wizard-robber fell, And the flames, the midnight scaring, Shot up from his citadel; "How the potent Fairy King Was his Genius and his leaguer; Of the wondrous Horn and Ring; And the Goblet, to lips eager With wine gushing, like a spring; "How he passed through forests old, "How the Hush! what strains are those? Some enchantment o'er me creeping?" Soft and slow her eyelids close She droops sideways-she is sleeping, While the music ebbs and flows; Sleeping, cheek upon her arm, Her unknotted hair loose straying; Naught can fall to her of harm With the placid moonlight playing On her eyelids like a charm. Lo, a thousand merry sprites, Like the crystal rain a dashing To the small, sweet, tinkling sound' "Happy and free, Flit through the dells, Of flower-cups and bells. Know where we bide, Snugly we hide! Zephyr, Moonlight, never tell Where the Fairy people dwell!" Tu whit, tu whoo! tu whit, tu whoo! Sleep and Fairies fly together. From the grove glides Helen, too, Slowly, slowly, wondering whether It was all a dream, or true. BOKER. DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. CLOSE his eyes-his work is done; Hand of man, or kiss of woman? In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know: As man may, he fought his fight- Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know: Fold him in his country's Stars, Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow; What cares he? he cannot know: SONNET. NAY, not to thee-to Nature will I tie The gather'd blame of every pettish mood; And when thou frown'st, I'll frown upon the wood, Saying, "How wide its gloomy shadows lie!" Or, gazing straight into the day's bright eye, Predict ere night a second fatal flood; Or vow the poet's sullen solitude Has changed my vision to a darksome dye. But when thou smil'st, I'll not look above To wood or sky; my hand I will not lay Upon the temple of my sacred love, To blame its living fires with base decay; But whisper to thee, as I nearer move, "Love, thou dost add another light to day." |