The Hundred Best English Poems Part 8

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his G.o.d.

_Mitford's Text._

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

30. _To R. T. H. B._

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever G.o.ds may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circ.u.mstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is b.l.o.o.d.y, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

31. _I. M._ _Margaritae Sorori_ _(1886)_

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, grey city An influence luminous and serene, A s.h.i.+ning peace.

The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires s.h.i.+ne, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

So be my pa.s.sing!

My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.

_1898 Edition._

GEORGE HERBERT.

32. _Virtue._

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky: The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye: Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

_1633 Edition._

ROBERT HERRICK.

33. _To the Virgins, to make much of Time._

1. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

2. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting; The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

3. That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

4. Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

34. _To Anthea, who may command him anything._

1. Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be: Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

2. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

3. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And't shall do so for thee.

4. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see: And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee.

5. Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee.

6. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me: And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

_Grosart's Text._

THOMAS HOOD

35. _The Death Bed._