(BY SIR E. L. B. L. B. L. B. LITTLE, BART., AUTHOR OF 'THE NEW SIMON,' ETC.)
Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place,And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips,How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face,And press thy tender form unto my lips!Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream,And beautiful as Oread of the lawn;Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream,And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn.For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song,And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True;The dying notes of thankfulness prolong,And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you.Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food!Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife!Antigone of crumpets! mild as good,Decent in death, and beautiful in life!Fairest where all isfare! shine on me still,And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days;In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill,My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.
Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place,And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips,How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face,And press thy tender form unto my lips!Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream,And beautiful as Oread of the lawn;Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream,And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn.For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song,And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True;The dying notes of thankfulness prolong,And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you.Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food!Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife!Antigone of crumpets! mild as good,Decent in death, and beautiful in life!Fairest where all isfare! shine on me still,And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days;In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill,My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.
Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place,And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips,How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face,And press thy tender form unto my lips!
Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place,
And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips,
How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face,
And press thy tender form unto my lips!
Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream,And beautiful as Oread of the lawn;Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream,And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn.
Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream,
And beautiful as Oread of the lawn;
Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream,
And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn.
For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song,And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True;The dying notes of thankfulness prolong,And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you.
For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song,
And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True;
The dying notes of thankfulness prolong,
And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you.
Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food!Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife!Antigone of crumpets! mild as good,Decent in death, and beautiful in life!
Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food!
Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife!
Antigone of crumpets! mild as good,
Decent in death, and beautiful in life!
Fairest where all isfare! shine on me still,And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days;In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill,My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.
Fairest where all isfare! shine on me still,
And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days;
In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill,
My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.
[Ascribed to the author of 'In Memoriam,' but not believed to be his.]
We seek to know, and, knowing, seek;We seek, we know, and every senseIs trembling with the great intense,And vibrating to what we speak.We ask too much, we seek too oft;We know enough, and should no more;And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,And look to earth, and not aloft.A something comes from out the gloom—I know it not, nor seek to know—I only see it swell and grow,And more than this would not presume.Meseems, a circling void I fill,And I unchanged where all is change;It seems unreal—I own it strange—Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.I hear the ocean's surging tideRaise, quiring on, its carol-tune;I watch the golden-sickled moon,And clearer voices call beside.O sea! whose ancient ripples lieOn red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,O voices all! like you, I die!(Dies.)
We seek to know, and, knowing, seek;We seek, we know, and every senseIs trembling with the great intense,And vibrating to what we speak.We ask too much, we seek too oft;We know enough, and should no more;And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,And look to earth, and not aloft.A something comes from out the gloom—I know it not, nor seek to know—I only see it swell and grow,And more than this would not presume.Meseems, a circling void I fill,And I unchanged where all is change;It seems unreal—I own it strange—Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.I hear the ocean's surging tideRaise, quiring on, its carol-tune;I watch the golden-sickled moon,And clearer voices call beside.O sea! whose ancient ripples lieOn red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,O voices all! like you, I die!(Dies.)
We seek to know, and, knowing, seek;We seek, we know, and every senseIs trembling with the great intense,And vibrating to what we speak.
We seek to know, and, knowing, seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great intense,
And vibrating to what we speak.
We ask too much, we seek too oft;We know enough, and should no more;And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,And look to earth, and not aloft.
We ask too much, we seek too oft;
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth, and not aloft.
A something comes from out the gloom—I know it not, nor seek to know—I only see it swell and grow,And more than this would not presume.
A something comes from out the gloom—
I know it not, nor seek to know—
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this would not presume.
Meseems, a circling void I fill,And I unchanged where all is change;It seems unreal—I own it strange—Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.
Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I unchanged where all is change;
It seems unreal—I own it strange—
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.
I hear the ocean's surging tideRaise, quiring on, its carol-tune;I watch the golden-sickled moon,And clearer voices call beside.
I hear the ocean's surging tide
Raise, quiring on, its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled moon,
And clearer voices call beside.
O sea! whose ancient ripples lieOn red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,O voices all! like you, I die!(Dies.)
O sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
O voices all! like you, I die!(Dies.)