Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/746

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While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own ;

But there I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou habt forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thec Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!


FROM the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,

The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.

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