Oh! did you hear those bells ring out, The bells ring out, the people shout? And did you hear that cheer on cheer That over all the bells rang clear?
3. I am that merry wanderer of the night: I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I, a fat and bean-fed horse, beguile, Neighing in likeness of a silly foal. And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab; And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dew-lap pour the ale.
1. The honey-bee that wanders all day long The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, To gather in his fragrant winter-store, Humming in calm content his quiet song, Sucks not alone the rose's glowing breast, The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips; But from all rank and noisome weeds he sips The single drop of sweetness ever pressed Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet In all the varied human flowers we meet In the wide garden of Humanity, And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear, Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.
2. Now the laughing, jolly Spring began to show her buxom face in the bright morning. The buds began slowly to expand their close winter folds, the dark and melancholy woods to assume an almost imperceptible purple tint; and here and there a little chirping blue-bird hopped about the orchards. Strips of fresh green appeared along the brooks, now released from their icy fetters; and nests of little variegated flowers, nameless, yet richly deserving a name, sprang up in the sheltered recesses of the leafless woods.
3. I know, the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature or art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.
1. Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand, Bearing lilies in my hand. Comrades, in what soldier-grave Sleeps the bravest of the brave?
Is it he who sank to rest With his colors round his breast? Friendship makes his tomb a shrine: Garlands veil it; ask not mine.