Ave Atque Vale

Joys of my age,

In true wisdom delight;

Eyes of my age,

Be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age,

Dread ye not the cold sod;

Hopes of my age,

Be ye fixed on your God.

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St. George Tucker [1752-1828]

AVE ATQUE VALE

FAREWELL, my Youth! for now we needs must part,
For here the paths divide;

Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,-
Divergence deep and wide.

You'll wear no withered roses for my sake,
Though I go mourning for you all day long,
Finding no magic more in bower or brake,
No melody in song.

Gray Eld must travel in my company
To seal this severance more fast and sure.
A joyless fellowship, i' faith, 'twill be,
Yet must we fare together, I and he,

Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.

But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs,
On some dim, iridescent day in spring,

Then I may dream you are remembering
Our ancient vows.

Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn,
Looks through the dark eyes of the violet,
I may re-cross the set, forbidden bourne,

I may forget

Our long, long parting for a little while,

Dream of the golden splendors of your smile,

Dream you remember yet.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863

TO YOUTH

WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?

With wing at either shoulder,
And smile that never left thy mouth
Until the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seemed to whisper near
That thou and I must part;

I doubted it; I felt no fear,
No weight upon the heart.

If aught befell it, Love was by
And rolled it off again;
So, if there ever was a sigh,
'Twas not a sigh of pain.

I may not call thee back; but thou
Returnest when the hand

Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow
His poppy-crested wand;

Then smiling eyes bend over mine,
Then lips once pressed invite;
But sleep hath given a silent sign,
And both, alas! take flight.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

Он, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled;
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Stanzas for Music

Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

341

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull de

cay;

"Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch
again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes

down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice

appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreathe,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray be

neath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,

-

Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished

scene;

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though

they be,

So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow

to me.

George Gordon Byron (1788–1824]

"WHEN AS A LAD"

WHEN, as a lad, at break of day
I watched the fishers sail away,

My thoughts, like flocking birds, would follow
Across the curving sky's blue hollow,

And on and on

Into the very heart of dawn!

For long I searched the world! Ah me!
I searched the sky, I searched the sea,
With much of useless grief and rueing,
Those winged thoughts of mine pursuing―
So dear were they,

So lovely and so far away!

I seek them still and always will
Until my laggard heart is still,

And I am free to follow, follow,
Across the curving sky's blue hollow,
Those thoughts too fleet
For any save the soul's swift feet!
Isabel Ecclestone Mackay [18

"AROUND THE CHILD”

AROUND the child bend all the three
Sweet Graces-Faith, Hope, Charity.
Around the man bend other faces-
Pride, Envy, Malice, are his Graces.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

The Quest

343

ALADDIN

WHEN I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,
But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for the cold,
I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded, with roofs of gold,
My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night,
I have money and power good store,
But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright
For the one that is mine no more.
Take, Fortune, whatever you choose;
You gave, and may snatch again;
I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
For I own no more castles in Spain!
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE QUEST

It was a heavenly time of life
When first I went to Spain,
The lovely land of silver mists,
The land of golden grain.

My little ship through unknown seas
Sailed many a changing day;
Sometimes the chilling winds came up
And blew across her way;

Sometimes the rain came down and hid
The shining shores of Spain,

The beauty of the silver mists
And of the golden grain.