My northern pines are good enough for me,
But there’s a town my memory uprears—
A town that always like a friend appears,
And always in the sunrise by the sea.
And over it, somehow, there seems to be
A downward flash of something new and fierce,
That ever strives to clear, but never clears
The dimness of a charmed antiquity.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my Castle, before the hot day
Brightens the blue from its silvery grey,

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:
Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

What is by this stir reveal'd?

Doth the East glad tidings bring?
For my heart's deep wounds are heal'd

By his mild and cooling wing.

He the dust with sports doth meet,

And in gentle cloudlets chase;
To the vineleaf's safe retreat

Drives the insects' happy race,

Cools these burning cheeks of mine,

Checks the sun's fierce glow Adam,
Kisses, as he flies, the vine,

Flaunting over hill and plain.

And his whispers soft convey

Thousand greetings from my friend;
Ere these hills own night's dark sway,

CALL on the present day and night for nought,
Save what by yesterday was brought.
-----
THE sea is flowing ever,
The land retains it never.
-----
BE stirring, man, while yet the day is clear;
The night when none can work fast Draweth near.
-----
WHEN the heavy-laden sigh,
Deeming help and hope gone by,
Oft, with healing power is heard,
Comfort-fraught, a kindly word.
-----
How vast is mine inheritance, how glorious and sublime!
For time mine own possession is, the land I till is time!
-----

For woman due allowance make!

Form'd of a crooked rib was she,--

By Heaven she could not straightened be.
Attempt to bend her, and she'll break;
If left alone, more crooked grows madam;
What well could be worse, my good friend, Adam?--
For woman due allowance make;
'Twere grievous, if thy rib should break!

First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call
The intellect, wherein is seated life's
Counsel and regimen, is part no less
Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts
Of one whole breathing creature. But some hold
That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,
But is of body some one vital state,-
Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby
We live with sense, though intellect be not
In any part: as oft the body is said
To have good health (when health, however, 's not
One part of him who has it), so they place

I am a mild man, you'll agree,
But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages.
II
Or when a chap a book I lend,
And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
As if he owned it.
III
But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don't return them.
IV
My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever . . .
May he who rapes one from its shelf

Propertius: Elegy VIII, Part 1

"Tune igitur demens nec te mea cura moratur?---"


O Cynthia, hast thou lost thy mind?
Have I no claim on thine affection?
Dost love the chill Illyrian wind
With something passing predilection?
And is thy friend--whoe'er he be--
The kind to take the place of me?

Ah, canst thou bear the surging deep?
Canst thou endure the hard ship's-mattress?
For scant will be thy hours of sleep
From Staten Island to Cape Hatt'ras;
And won't thy fairy feet be froze

In Dublin town I was brought up, in that city of great fame.
My decent friends and parents, they will tell to you the same.
It was for the sake of five hundred pounds I was sent across the main,
For seven long years in New South Wales to wear a convict's chain.
Chorus: Then come, my hearties, we'll roam the mountains high,
Together we will plunder, together we will die.
We'll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron chains.

Well, Bokardo, here we are;
Make yourself at home.
Look around—you haven’t far
To look—and why be dumb?
Not the place that used to be,
Not so many things to see;
But there’s room for you and me.
And you—you’ve come.

Talk a little; or, if not,
Show me with a sign
Why it was that you forgot
What was yours and mine.
Friends, I gather, are small things
In an age when coins are kings;
Even at that, one hardly flings
Friends before swine.

Rather strong? I knew as much,
For it made you speak.