Still had she gazed, but midst the tide Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue, The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize; Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood Some speedy aid to send: No dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, A favourite has no friend! T. Gray LXXXV THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH A fox, in life's extreme decay, Weak, sick and faint, expiring lay; All appetite had left his maw, 'Ah, sons, from evil ways depart; 'Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer? Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here. These are the phantoms of your brain; And your sons lick their lips in vain.' 'O, gluttons,' says the drooping sire, 'Restrain inordinate desire, Your liquorish taste you shall deplore, And never feel the quiet hour. Old age (which few of us shall know) Now puts a period to my woe. Would you true happiness attain, Think what our ancestors have done; Though we like harmless sheep should feed, We shall be thought to share the feast. 'Nay then,' replies the feeble fox, J. Gay LXXXVI THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM 'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried, 'The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man Now tell me the reason, I pray.' 'In the days of my youth,' Father William replied, 'I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.' 'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried, 'And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone, 'In the days of my youth,' Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.' 'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried, 'And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, I pray.' 'I am cheerful, young man,' Father William replied, 'Let the cause thy attention engage ; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God, R. Southey LXXXVII THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE I Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 2 'Forward, the Light Brigade !' Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, 3 Cannon to right of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Rode the six hundred. 4 Flash'd all their sabres bare, All the world wonder'd: Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd ; Then they rode back, but not— 5 Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, |