THOMAS CHATTERTON

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes 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

480. Meeting

MY 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 ? But love can every fault forgive,

Or with a tender look reprove ; And now let naught in memory live

But that we meet, and that we love.

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