Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/603

 THOMAS CHATTERTON

With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre: Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my hcartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

GEORGE CRABBE

494 Meeting

"Y Damon was the first to wake .The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take

The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away' Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss;

For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this ?

\ dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.

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