Written by
Ben Jonson |
II.
— TO PENSHURST.
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told ;
Or stair, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water ; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport :
Thy mount, to which thy Dryads do resort,That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names
Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames ;
And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke
The lighter fauns, to reach thy lady's oak.
Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never fails to serve thee season'd deer,Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed ;
The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed.
Each bank doth yield thee conies ; and the tops
Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydneys copp's,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side :
The painted partridge lies in ev'ry field,
And for thy mess is willing to be kill'd.
Fat aged carps that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loth the second draught or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray.
Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand,
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The blushing apricot, and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.
And though thy walls be of the country stone,
They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan ;
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down ;
But all come in, the farmer and the clown ;
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
The better cheeses, bring them ; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands ; and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves in plum, or pear.
But what can this (more than express their love)
Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such ? whose liberal board doth flow
With all that hospitality doth know !Where the same beer and bread, and self-same wine,
That is his lordship's, shall be also mine.
And I not fain to sit (as some this day,
At great men's tables) and yet dine away.
Here no man tells my cups ; nor standing by,
A waiter, doth my gluttony envý :
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat,
He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat ;For fire, or lights, or livery ; all is there ;
As if thou then wert mine, or I reign'd here :
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found King JAMES, when hunting late, this way,
With his brave son, the prince ; they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires
Of thy Penates had been set on flame,
To entertain them ; or the country came,Didst thou then make 'em ! and what praise was heap'd
On thy good lady, then ! who therein reap'd
The just reward of her high huswifry ;
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was far ; and not a room, but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest !
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.
They are, and have been taught religion ; thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray,
With the whole household, and may, every day,
Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see
Of touch, or marble ; nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold :
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told ;
Or stair, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water ; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport :
Thy mount, to which thy Dryads do resort,
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane
and looked out
at the bright sunshiny morning.
The cobble-stones of
the square
glistened like mica.
In the trees, a breeze danced and
pranced,
and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown
water
of the canal.
Down stream slowly drifted a long string
of galliots
piled with crimson cheeses.
The little boy thought they
looked as if
they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs.
He said,
"Oh!" with delight,
and pressed against the window with all his might.
The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed.
His
beak was open
like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged
in it.
"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy.
"Can't you
hear me
through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You
should crow
when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc.
" But
the golden cock
stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.
He could not understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico"
when he said anything.
But he was hung in the air to
swing, not to sing.
His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses
drifted away down the canal.
It was very dull there in the big room.
Outside in the
square, the wind
was playing tag with some fallen leaves.
A man passed,
with a dogcart
beside him full of smart, new milkcans.
They rattled
out a gay tune:
"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti.
Have some milk for your tea.
Cream
for your coffee
to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,"
and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop!
milk for your tea.
Plop! trop! drink it to-night.
" It was very pleasant
out there,
but it was lonely here in the big room.
The little boy
gulped at a tear.
It was ***** how dull all his toys were.
They were so
still.
Nothing was still in the square.
If he took his eyes
away a moment
it had changed.
The milkman had disappeared round the
corner,
there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her
head,
picking her way over the shiny stones.
But the wind pulled
the leaves
in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful
advantage.
The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and
they seemed
sprinkled with silver.
The little boy sighed as he looked
at his disordered
toys on the floor.
They were motionless, and their colours
were dull.
The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun.
There was none
left for toys.
The square was quite empty now.
Only the wind ran round
and round it,
spinning.
Away over in the corner where a street opened
into the square,
the wind had stopped.
Stopped running, that is, for it
never
stopped spinning.
It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated,
and turned.
It burned like a great coloured sun.
It hummed, and buzzed,
and sparked,
and darted.
There were flashes of blue, and long smearing
lines of saffron,
and quick jabs of green.
And over it all was a sheen
like a myriad
cut diamonds.
Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel,
and the little boy's head reeled with watching it.
The
whole square
was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,
faster and faster.
The little boy could not speak, he
could only gaze,
staring in amaze.
The wind-wheel was coming down the square.
Nearer and
nearer it came,
a great disk of spinning flame.
It was opposite the window
now,
and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more
than the wind which he saw.
A man was carrying a huge
fan-shaped frame
on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper
windmills,
each one scurrying round in the breeze.
They were bright
and beautiful,
and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little
boy
who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.
The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed,
for the circling windmills made him dizzy.
Closer and
closer
came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy
in the window of the Ambassador's house.
Only a pane
of glass
between the boy and the windmills.
They slid round before
his eyes
in rapidly revolving splendour.
There were wheels and
wheels of colours --
big, little, thick, thin -- all one clear, perfect spin.
The
windmill vendor
dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued
to the window-pane.
Oh! What a glorious, wonderful
plaything!
Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had
any one ever preferred
those other toys which never stirred.
"Nursie, come quickly.
Look!
I want a windmill.
See! It is never still.
You
will buy me one, won't you?
I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue.
"
So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed
with blue,
and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood
a moment
to pay the vendor.
Then he entered the house, and in
another minute
he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on
the end
of a stick which he held out to the little boy.
"But
I wanted a windmill
which went round," cried the little boy.
"That is the
one you asked for,
Master Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to
do.
"See, it is silver, and here is the blue.
" "But it is
only a blue streak,"
sobbed the little boy.
"I wanted a blue ring, and this
silver
doesn't sparkle.
" "Well, Master Charles, that is what
you wanted,
now run away and play with it, for I am very busy.
"
The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane.
On
the floor
lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick.
But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his
big wheel
of whirring splendour.
It spun round in a blaze like
a whirling rainbow,
and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed
a maze of spattering diamonds.
"Cocorico!" crowed the
golden cock
on the top of the `Stadhuis'.
"That is something worth
crowing for.
"
But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled
bit of paper on the floor.
|
Written by
Eugene Field |
I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown,
Through yonder lattice creepin';
You come for cream and to gar me dream,
But you dinna find me sleepin'.
The moonbeam, that upon the floor
Wi' crickets ben a-jinkin',
Now steals away fra' her bonnie play--
Wi' a rosier blie, I'm thinkin'.
I saw you, Maister Bawsy-brown,
When the blue bells went a-ringin'
For the merrie fays o' the banks an' braes,
And I kenned your bonnie singin';
The gowans gave you honey sweets,
And the posies on the heather
Dript draughts o' dew for the faery crew
That danct and sang together.
But posie-bloom an' simmer-dew
And ither sweets o' faery
C'u'd na gae down wi' Bawsy-brown,
Sae nigh to Maggie's dairy!
My pantry shelves, sae clean and white,
Are set wi' cream and cheeses,--
Gae, gin you will, an' take your fill
Of whatsoever pleases.
Then wave your wand aboon my een
Until they close awearie,
And the night be past sae sweet and fast
Wi' dreamings o' my dearie.
But pinch the wench in yonder room,
For she's na gude nor bonnie,--
Her shelves be dust and her pans be rust,
And she winkit at my Johnnie!
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