======================================== SAMPLE 11 ========================================

The painter's brush, the lover's maid,
Each in their city's pride arrayed,
Beside th' thateret which is ours,
Be wanting here a tear or two,
That would eclipse the orb of blue.
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So fare we forth, beside thy happy isle,
As monarchs may in Bethlehem smile,
To greet the mother of his babes;
Rejoicing, though we lose the world, yet still
According to the pilgrim's will.
The birds our twilight hours beguile,
The dews the glowing fields bedeck,
We book the coming year beguile
Designed, for tribute, to the sick;
The while with easement curtained, say
Approving time its course delays,
And every flower and tree doth pay
To dews of Autumn season rose.
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And when the last poor year is past,
Perchance the bells that chime and peal
Will wake to warblings still at last
THE walls are falling, window-pane;
God-gathering means to one by one;
God-gathering means to one by ten;
But modest cowled and timid bird,
I fear I fear me, needs must stir.
God-gathering means to one by ten;
God-gathering means to one by ten;
But gentleness remembers God,
I rather fear that I shall die.
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And Joseph, these and many others,
Down sounds of praise and scorn you smack
The name of him you slew with brother?
Ay, Ajax, you, Ajax, find
Your loss in every battle's mind,
But not one choking gasp I give:
The like name evermore I live.
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I let you take yours through the ink,
Your fame without falsehood carry;
The something never said understands you,
With all men's care in these matters,
You died a hundred times I think
To live your death while Agamemnon
Sighs to you, straddling, bitterly;
With all men's scorn in this v ..."
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Once throwing by his feet,
Poor fool! while Ajax tosses high,
His evil spear yet holds him down
Full length along celestial way.
His woes taught Perse's pathetic lash,
His dart still flies, his dart still flies
Through his he suffered and decayed,
All ground and looped within his breast
He is a deep despised guest;
And sapless Teucer still deceives
The love-craft which his love deceives.
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He sang what gift his handmaids lighted,
How Creole her white arms enfolded;
How young Ulysses at his side
Gave chase, how deftly rolled he round;
Of Alp in tune to Ormuz wheeled it,
Or11 whence by the dull beans strown;
The rod.*
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A sworn oath, yet beyond all praise
Toji Pindar's dark wallays;
Ye gods! I would my word raise
To Jove, if like a flash of flame
From iron gates your wings, o'ercame.
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"Behold good fruit in Lacedaemon, Fleet Street."
Haste, haste; do, officious dames;
Not this the least; your names she bears
On marriage-bed embossed;
To be, or else, all maidens fair
Of virtue; afterood of sport,
One mortal woole she suppresses,
Her swain: match, favour, or loan;
What gem is this? where is thy fair?
Heaven casts a palm from off my teat;
Shades follow oft, accursed:
Whom gold has robbed I've robbed, alas!
Oft, as by care instinctive fell,
Since first I slung the mortal shell;
Poor froward wretch! whose ashwort dures,
And spits, nigg'd, fleshless, in her arms!
An Apologian this, and that
Of poplars puddling in her hand;
While Tritons round them cluster, and
Sing trompets in their native sand;
What garment, thou? where dost thou spread
A more illustrious, better head?