CL

'LOSE thine eyes and sleep secure,
Thy soul is safe, thy body sure;
He that guards thee, He that keeps,
Never slumbers, never sleeps.
A quiet conscience in the breast
Has only peace, has only rest:
The music and the mirth of kings
Are out of tune unless she sings.
Then close thine eyes and sleep secure.

KING CHARLES THE MARTYR

3

HE

E nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye

The axe's edge did try.

Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head

Down as upon a bed.

ANDREW MARVELL

UP-HILL

DOES the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn till night, my friend.

But is there for, the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at the door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yes, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

FEBRUARY I

OON-and the north-west sweeps the empty

NOON

road,

The rain-washed fields from hedge to hedge are bare;
Beneath the leafless elms some hind's abode

Looks small and void, and no smoke meets the air
From its poor hearth: one lonely rook doth dare
The gale, and beats above the unseen corn,
Then turns, and whirling down the wind is borne.

Shall it not hap that on some dawn of May Thou shalt awake, and thinking of days dead, See nothing clear but this same dreary day Of all the days that have passed o'er thine head? Shalt thou not wonder, looking from thy bed Through green leaves on the windless east a-fire That this day too thine heart doth still desire?

Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth yet, The useless hope, the useless craving pain, That made thy face, that lonely noontide, wet With more than beating of the chilly rain? Shalt thou not hope for joy new-born again, Since no grief ever born can ever die

Through changeless change of seasons passing by?

WILLIAM MORRIS

DOWN

CANDLEMAS

OWN with the rosemary and bays,
Down with the misletoe ;

Instead of holly now upraise
The greener box, for show.

The holly hitherto did sway;
Let box now domineer,
Until the dancing Easter-day

Or Easter's eve appear.

Then youthful box which now hath grace
Your houses to renew,
Grown old, surrender must his place
Unto the crispèd yew.

When yew is out, then birch comes in,

And many flowers beside,

Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,

To honour Whitsuntide.

Green rushes then, and sweetest bents,

With cooler oaken boughs,

Come in for comely ornaments,

To re-adorn the house.

Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.

ROBERT HERRICK