Wake, Lady! wake! thy lover waits,
Thy steed stands saddled at the gates;
Here is a garment, rich and rare,
To wrap thee from the cold night-air;
Th' appointed hour is flown.
Danger and doubt have vanish'd quite,
Our way before lies clear and right,
And all is ready for the flight,
Save thou alone!
Wake, Lady! wake! I have a wreath
Thy broad fair brow should rise beneath;
I have a ring that must not shine
On any finger, Love! but thine--
I've kept my plighted vow;
Beneath thy casement here I stand,
To lead thee by thine own white hand,
Far from this dull and captive strand--
But where art thou?
Wake, Lady! wake! She wakes! she wakes!
Through the green mead her course she takes;
And now her lover's arms enfold
A prize more precious far than gold,
Blushing like morning's ray;
Now mount thy palfrey, Maiden kind!
Nor pause to cast one look behind,
But swifter than the viewless wind,
Away! away!
_Ibid_.
* * * * *
THE GATHERER
"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
SHAKSPEARE.
* * * * *
FILTHY WATER.
If the unhappy victims of mud-juice had constant access to the solar
microscope, and there was occasionally in London a little sunshine to set
off the animated bedevilments which are crowded into the composition, and
could see thousands of animals, generated in filth, and living in the
highest spirits and the greatest abundance, in the stuff destined for
their stomachs, they would go mad.
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