C. L. M. 397 Make this addition to thy perfect praise, C. L. M. In the dark womb where I began, Down in the darkness of the grave Nor knock at dusty doors to find If the grave's gates could be undone, What have I done to keep in mind What have I done, or tried, or said John Masefield (1874 STEPPING WESTWARD STEPPING WESTWARD "What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea." -'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, The dewy ground was dark and cold; I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound The voice was soft, and she who spake The very sound of courtesy: Its power was felt; and while my eye Before me in my endless way. William Wordsworth (1770-1850] The World A FAREWELL TO ARMS (TO QUEEN ELIZABETH) His golden locks Time hath to silver turned; But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,- To be your beadsman now that was your knight. THE WORLD THE World's a bubble, and the life of Man' In his conception wretched,-from the womb, Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years Who then to frail mortality shall trust, Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools; The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men; And where's a city from foul vice so free, Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Those that live single, take it for a curse, Some would have children; those that have them moan What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, Our own affections still at home to please To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, -What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die? Francis Bacon [1561-1626] "WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY" From "Twelfth Night" WHEN that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. A Lament But when I came unto my beds, A great while ago the world begun, 401 And we'll strive to please you every day. OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK WHEN we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with nobler resolutions decked, The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new. Edmund Waller [1606-1687] A LAMENT THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain |