HYMN TO DIANA

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia’s shining orb was madeHeav’n to clear, when day did close:Bless us then with wishéd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak’st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.Ben Jonson

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia’s shining orb was madeHeav’n to clear, when day did close:Bless us then with wishéd sight,Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak’st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson

I went out to the hazel wood,Because a fire was in my head,And cut and peeled a hazel wand,And hooked a berry to a thread;And when white moths were on the wing,And moth-like stars were flickering out,I dropped the berry in a streamAnd caught a little silver trout.When I had laid it on the floorI went to blow the fire a-flame,But something rustled on the floor,And some one called me by my name:It had become a glimmering girlWith apple blossom in her hairWho called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air.Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly lands,I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are done,The silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun.William Butler Yeats

When I had laid it on the floorI went to blow the fire a-flame,But something rustled on the floor,And some one called me by my name:It had become a glimmering girlWith apple blossom in her hairWho called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly lands,I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are done,The silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun.

William Butler Yeats

Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and vallies, dales and fields,And woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs,An’ if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me, and be my love.Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepar’d each day for thee and me.The shepherd-swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me, and be my love.Christopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and vallies, dales and fields,And woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs,An’ if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepar’d each day for thee and me.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me, and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe

Come, all you brave gallants, and listen a while,With hey down, down, an a down,That are in the bowers within;For of Robin Hood, that archer good,A song I intend for to sing.Upon a time it chancëd soBold Robin in forrest did spyA jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,With his flesh to the market did hye.‘Good morrow, good fellow,’ said jolly Robin,‘What food hast? tell unto me;And thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,For I like well thy company.’The butcher he answered jolly Robin:‘No matter where I dwell;For a butcher I am, and to NotinghamI am going, my flesh to sell.’‘What is the price of thy flesh?’ said jolly Robin,‘Come tell it soon unto me;And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,For a butcher fain would I be.’‘The price of my flesh,’ the butcher repli’d,‘I soon will tell unto thee;With my bonny mare, and they are not dear,Four mark thou must give unto me.’‘Four mark I will give thee,’ saith jolly Robin,‘Four mark it shall be thy fee;Thy mony come count, and let me mount,For a butcher I fain would be.’Now Robin he is to Notingham gone,His butcher’s trade for to begin;With good intent, to the sheriff he went,And there he took up his inn.When other butchers they opened their meat,Bold Robin he then begun;But how for to sell he knew not well,For a butcher he was but young.When other butchers no meat could sell,Robin got both gold and fee;For he sold more meat for one penyThan others could do for three.But when he sold his meat so fast,No butcher by him could thrive;For he sold more meat for one penyThan others could do for five.Which made the butchers of NotinghamTo study as they did stand,Saying, surely he was some prodigal,That had sold his father’s land.The butchers they stepped to jolly Robin,Acquainted with him for to be;‘Come, brother,’ one said, ‘we be all of one trade,Come, will you go dine with me?’‘Accurst of his heart,’ said jolly Robin,‘That a butcher doth deny;I will go with you my brethren true,And as fast as I can hie.’But when to the sheriff’s house they came,To dinner they hied apace,And Robin he the man must beBefore them all to say grace.‘Pray God bless us all,’ said jolly Robin,‘And our meat within this place;A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood,And so I do end my grace.‘Come fill us more wine,’ said jolly Robin,‘Let us merry be while we do stay;For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear,I vow I the reckning will pay.‘Come, brothers, be merry,’ said jolly Robin,‘Let us drink, and never give ore;For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way,If it cost me five pounds and more.’‘This is a mad blade,’ the butchers then said;Saies the sheriff, ‘He is some prodigal,That some land has sold, for silver and gold,And now he doth mean to spend all.‘Hast thou any horn-beasts,’ the sheriff repli’d,‘Good fellow, to sell unto me?’‘Yes, that I have, good Master Sheriff,I have hundreds two or three.‘And a hundred aker of good free land,If you please it to see;And I’le make you as good assurance of itAs ever my father made me.’The sheriff he saddled a good palfrey,With three hundred pound in gold,And away he went with bold Robin Hood,His horned beasts to behold.Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,To the forrest of merry Sherwood;Then the sheriff did say, ‘God bless us this dayFrom a man they call Robin Hood!’But when that a little further they came,Bold Robin he chanced to spyA hundred head of good red deer,Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.‘How like you my hornd beasts, good Master Sheriff?They be fat and fair for to see:’‘I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,For I like not thy company.’Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth,And blew but blasts three;Then quickly anon there came Little John,And all his company.‘What is your will?’ then said little John,‘Good master come tell it to me;’‘I have brought hither the sheriff of Notingham,This day to dine with thee.’‘He is welcome to me,’ then said Little John,‘I hope he will honestly pay;I know he has gold, if it be but well told,Will serve us to drink a whole day.’

Come, all you brave gallants, and listen a while,With hey down, down, an a down,That are in the bowers within;For of Robin Hood, that archer good,A song I intend for to sing.

Upon a time it chancëd soBold Robin in forrest did spyA jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,With his flesh to the market did hye.

‘Good morrow, good fellow,’ said jolly Robin,‘What food hast? tell unto me;And thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,For I like well thy company.’

The butcher he answered jolly Robin:‘No matter where I dwell;For a butcher I am, and to NotinghamI am going, my flesh to sell.’

‘What is the price of thy flesh?’ said jolly Robin,‘Come tell it soon unto me;And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,For a butcher fain would I be.’

‘The price of my flesh,’ the butcher repli’d,‘I soon will tell unto thee;With my bonny mare, and they are not dear,Four mark thou must give unto me.’

‘Four mark I will give thee,’ saith jolly Robin,‘Four mark it shall be thy fee;Thy mony come count, and let me mount,For a butcher I fain would be.’

Now Robin he is to Notingham gone,His butcher’s trade for to begin;With good intent, to the sheriff he went,And there he took up his inn.

When other butchers they opened their meat,Bold Robin he then begun;But how for to sell he knew not well,For a butcher he was but young.

When other butchers no meat could sell,Robin got both gold and fee;For he sold more meat for one penyThan others could do for three.

But when he sold his meat so fast,No butcher by him could thrive;For he sold more meat for one penyThan others could do for five.

Which made the butchers of NotinghamTo study as they did stand,Saying, surely he was some prodigal,That had sold his father’s land.

The butchers they stepped to jolly Robin,Acquainted with him for to be;‘Come, brother,’ one said, ‘we be all of one trade,Come, will you go dine with me?’

‘Accurst of his heart,’ said jolly Robin,‘That a butcher doth deny;I will go with you my brethren true,And as fast as I can hie.’

But when to the sheriff’s house they came,To dinner they hied apace,And Robin he the man must beBefore them all to say grace.

‘Pray God bless us all,’ said jolly Robin,‘And our meat within this place;A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood,And so I do end my grace.

‘Come fill us more wine,’ said jolly Robin,‘Let us merry be while we do stay;For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear,I vow I the reckning will pay.

‘Come, brothers, be merry,’ said jolly Robin,‘Let us drink, and never give ore;For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way,If it cost me five pounds and more.’

‘This is a mad blade,’ the butchers then said;Saies the sheriff, ‘He is some prodigal,That some land has sold, for silver and gold,And now he doth mean to spend all.

‘Hast thou any horn-beasts,’ the sheriff repli’d,‘Good fellow, to sell unto me?’‘Yes, that I have, good Master Sheriff,I have hundreds two or three.

‘And a hundred aker of good free land,If you please it to see;And I’le make you as good assurance of itAs ever my father made me.’

The sheriff he saddled a good palfrey,With three hundred pound in gold,And away he went with bold Robin Hood,His horned beasts to behold.

Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,To the forrest of merry Sherwood;Then the sheriff did say, ‘God bless us this dayFrom a man they call Robin Hood!’

But when that a little further they came,Bold Robin he chanced to spyA hundred head of good red deer,Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.

‘How like you my hornd beasts, good Master Sheriff?They be fat and fair for to see:’‘I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,For I like not thy company.’

Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth,And blew but blasts three;Then quickly anon there came Little John,And all his company.

‘What is your will?’ then said little John,‘Good master come tell it to me;’‘I have brought hither the sheriff of Notingham,This day to dine with thee.’

‘He is welcome to me,’ then said Little John,‘I hope he will honestly pay;I know he has gold, if it be but well told,Will serve us to drink a whole day.’

Then Robin took his mantle from his back,And laid it upon the ground,And out of the sheriffe’s portmantleHe told three hundred pound.The Robin he brought him thorow the wood,And set him on his dapple gray:‘O have me commended to your wife at home;’So Robin went laughing away.Author Unknown

Then Robin took his mantle from his back,And laid it upon the ground,And out of the sheriffe’s portmantleHe told three hundred pound.

The Robin he brought him thorow the wood,And set him on his dapple gray:‘O have me commended to your wife at home;’So Robin went laughing away.

Author Unknown

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.Allan Cunningham

O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.

Allan Cunningham

Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo;Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack-hare.Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.His diet was of wheaten bread,And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins’ russet peel;And, when his juicy salads failed,Sliced carrot pleased him well.A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear;But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.

Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins’ russet peel;And, when his juicy salads failed,Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear;But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.I kept him for his humor’s sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.But now, beneath this walnut-shadeHe finds his long, last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.He, still more agèd, feels the shocksFrom which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney’s box,Must soon partake his grave.William Cowper

Eight years and five round-rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor’s sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shadeHe finds his long, last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocksFrom which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney’s box,Must soon partake his grave.

William Cowper

Who would true valor see,Let him come hither!One here will constant be,Come wind, come weather;There’s no discouragementShall make him once relentHis first-avowed intentTo be a Pilgrim.Whoso beset him roundWith dismal stories,Do but themselves confound;His strength the more is.No lion can him fright;He’ll with a giant fight;But he will have a rightTo be a Pilgrim.Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend,Can daunt his spirit;He knows he at the endShall Life inherit:—Then, fancies, fly away;He’ll not fear what men say;He’ll labor night and day,To be a Pilgrim.John Bunyan

Who would true valor see,Let him come hither!One here will constant be,Come wind, come weather;There’s no discouragementShall make him once relentHis first-avowed intentTo be a Pilgrim.

Whoso beset him roundWith dismal stories,Do but themselves confound;His strength the more is.No lion can him fright;He’ll with a giant fight;But he will have a rightTo be a Pilgrim.

Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend,Can daunt his spirit;He knows he at the endShall Life inherit:—Then, fancies, fly away;He’ll not fear what men say;He’ll labor night and day,To be a Pilgrim.

John Bunyan

First FairyYou spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.ChorusPhilomel with melodySing in our sweet lullaby!Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh!So good-night, with lullaby.Second FairyWeaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence;Beetles black, approach not near;Worm, nor snail, do no offence.ChorusPhilomel with melodySing in our sweet lullaby;

First Fairy

You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.

Chorus

Philomel with melodySing in our sweet lullaby!Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh!So good-night, with lullaby.

Second Fairy

Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence;Beetles black, approach not near;Worm, nor snail, do no offence.

Chorus

Philomel with melodySing in our sweet lullaby;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh!So good-night, with lullaby.William Shakespeare

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh!So good-night, with lullaby.

William Shakespeare

And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—Koran.

In Heaven a spirit doth dwellWhose heart-strings are a lute;None sing so wildly wellAs the Angel Israfel,And the giddy stars (so legends tell),Ceasing their hymns, attend the spellOf his voice, all mute.Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamoured moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levin(With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven)Pauses in Heaven.And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)That Israfeli’s fireIs owing to that lyreBy which he sits and sings,The trembling living wireOf those unusual strings.

Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamoured moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levin(With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven)Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)That Israfeli’s fireIs owing to that lyreBy which he sits and sings,The trembling living wireOf those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty,Where Love’s a grown-up God,Where the Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.Therefore thou art not wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassioned song;To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest:Merrily live, and long!The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit:Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute:Well may the stars be mute!Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely—flowers,And the shadow of thy perfect blissIs the sunshine of ours.If I could dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.Edgar Allan Poe

But the skies that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty,Where Love’s a grown-up God,Where the Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassioned song;To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest:Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit:Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute:Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely—flowers,And the shadow of thy perfect blissIs the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.

Edgar Allan Poe

Jaffár, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,The poor man’s hope, the friend without a peer,Jaffár was dead, slain by a doom unjust;And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrustOf what the good, and e’en the bad, might say,Ordained that no man living from that dayShould dare to speak his name on pain of death.All Araby and Persia held their breath;All but the brave Mondeer: he, proud to showHow far for love a grateful soul could go,And facing death for very scorn and grief(For his great heart wanted a great relief),Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the squareWhere once had stood a happy house, and thereHarangued the tremblers at the scimitarOn all they owed to the divine Jaffár.“Bring me this man,” the caliph cried. The manWas brought, was gazed upon. The mutes beganTo bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords,” cried he;“From bonds far worse Jaffár delivered me;From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;Made a man’s eyes friends with delicious tears;Restored me, loved me, put me on a parWith his great self. How can I pay Jaffár?”Hàroun, who felt that on a soul like thisThe mightiest vengeance could but fall amissNow deigned to smile, as one great lord of fateMight smile upon another half as great.He said, “Let worth grow frenzied if it will;The caliph’s judgment shall be master still.Go: and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,The richest in the Tartar’s diadem,And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!”“Gifts!” cried the friend; he took, and holding itHigh toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffár!”Leigh Hunt

“Bring me this man,” the caliph cried. The manWas brought, was gazed upon. The mutes beganTo bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords,” cried he;“From bonds far worse Jaffár delivered me;From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;Made a man’s eyes friends with delicious tears;Restored me, loved me, put me on a parWith his great self. How can I pay Jaffár?”

Hàroun, who felt that on a soul like thisThe mightiest vengeance could but fall amissNow deigned to smile, as one great lord of fateMight smile upon another half as great.He said, “Let worth grow frenzied if it will;The caliph’s judgment shall be master still.Go: and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,The richest in the Tartar’s diadem,And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!”

“Gifts!” cried the friend; he took, and holding itHigh toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffár!”

Leigh Hunt

Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?Gray and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake;Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thievesHear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon;Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mistOf opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.Merry, merry England is waking as of old,With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting sprayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Love is in the greenwood building him a houseOf wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs:Love is in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies;And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep:Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down togetherWith quarter-staff and drinking-can and gray goose-feather;The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled awayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows;All the heart of England hid in every roseHears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of oldAnd, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold,Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glenAll across the glades of fern he calls his merry men;Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the MayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ashRings theFollow! Follow!and the boughs begin to crash;The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly;And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.Robin! Robin! Robin!All his merry thievesAnswer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves:Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Alfred Noyes

Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thievesHear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon;Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mistOf opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.

Merry, merry England is waking as of old,With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting sprayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Love is in the greenwood building him a houseOf wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs:Love is in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies;And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.

Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep:Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.

Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down togetherWith quarter-staff and drinking-can and gray goose-feather;The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled awayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows;All the heart of England hid in every roseHears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of oldAnd, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold,Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glenAll across the glades of fern he calls his merry men;Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the MayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ashRings theFollow! Follow!and the boughs begin to crash;The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly;And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.

Robin! Robin! Robin!All his merry thievesAnswer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves:Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Alfred Noyes

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed:And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!Lord Byron

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed:And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy;For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war.Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and Henry of Navarre.Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,And Appenzel’s stout infantry and Egmont’s Flemish spears.There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood,And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed;And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,Down all our line, a deafening shout: “God save our Lord the King!”“And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,And be your oriflamme today the helmet of Navarre.”Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din,Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André’s plain,With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,Charge for the golden lilies,—upon them with the lance!A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein;D’Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain.Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,“Remember Saint Bartholomew!” was passed from man to man.But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is my foe:Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.”Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?...Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen’s souls.Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!Thomas Babington Macaulay

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,And Appenzel’s stout infantry and Egmont’s Flemish spears.There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood,And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed;And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,Down all our line, a deafening shout: “God save our Lord the King!”“And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,And be your oriflamme today the helmet of Navarre.”

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din,Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André’s plain,With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,Charge for the golden lilies,—upon them with the lance!A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein;D’Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain.Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,“Remember Saint Bartholomew!” was passed from man to man.But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is my foe:Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.”Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?...

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen’s souls.Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!

Thomas Babington Macaulay

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the Lamb, make thee?Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?William Blake

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake

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