Francis Turner Palgrave

A thousand forms and passions glow Upon the world-wide canvas. So With larger scope our art we ply; And if the crown be harder won, Diviner rays around it run, With strains of fuller harmony.

Shakespeare's stage must hold the glass to every age.

Our hope is less to last through Art than deeper searching of the heart, than broader range of uttered truth.

The monument outlasting bronze was promised well by bards of old.

They bring back light on their faces; But they cannot bring back to me What the lilies say to the roses, Or the songs of the butterflies be.

I may not enter the garden, Though I know the road thereto; And morn by morn to the gateway I see the children go.

There is a garden where lilies And roses are side by side; And all day between them in silence The silken butterflies glide.

Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them, Bright and beguiling:— Bright and beguiling, as She who glances Along the shore and the meadows along, And sings for heart's delight, and dances Crowned with apples, and ruddy, and strong:—

The Sun whispers, O remember! You have but thirty days to run, O sweet September!

Follow, O follow!—and we follow

In the hollow Silver voices ripple and cry Follow, O follow!

With the cry I wake;—and around me The mother and child at her feet Breathe peace in even whispers; And the night falls heavy and sweet.

Earth all one tomb lies round me, Domed with an iron sky: And God Himself in His power, God cannot save me! I cry.

I see the lost Love in beauty Go gliding over the main: I feel the ancient sweetness, The worm and the wormwood again.

Sleep puts out silent fingers, And leads me back to the roar Of the dead salt sea that vomits Wrecks of the past ashore.

Let the children play And sit like flowers upon thy grave And crown with flowers,—that hardly have A briefer blooming-tide than they.

Time's corrosive dewdrop eats The giant warrior to a crust Of earth in earth and rust in rust.

In the season of white wild roses We two went hand in hand: But now in the ruddy autumn Together already we stand.

The azure lake is argent now Beneath the pale moonshine: I seek a sign of hope in heaven: Fair Polestar! thou are mine. A thousand other beacons blaze; I follow thee alone...

When once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely.

This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the attempt made to include in it all the best original lyrical pieces and songs in our language, by writers not living, and none besides the best. The Editor will regard as …