Pine.... Pity.

Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollowness That moves more dear compassion of the mind Than beauty brought to unworthy wretchedness Through envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind: I, whether lately through her brightness blind, Or through allegiance and vast fealty, Which I do owe unto all womankind, Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pity I could die. Spenser.

Like Ariadne, when in pale despair The Athenian left her,—so sad Eva pined, And so she went complaining to the air, And gave her tresses to the careless wind:— The colour of her fate was on her mind, Dark, death-like, and despairing;—and her eye Shone lustrous, like the light of prophecy. Over the grassy meads,—beside lone streams, To perilous heights which no weak step could reach, She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreams With musing, and would move the tremulous beech And shuddering aspen with imploring speech; For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed) Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride. Barry Cornwall.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman’s glittering glory— Has Hope been that bird to thee? On branch after branch alighting, The gem did she still display, And, when nearest and most inviting, Then waft the fair gem away! If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, When Sorrow herself looked bright; If thus the fond hope has cheated, That led thee along so light; If thus, too, the cold world wither Each feeling that once was dear;— Come, child of misfortune! come hither, I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear. Moore.

The blind man groping cautiously his way Along the crowded pavement of a city, Has natural claims upon our tender pity. Whether ’twere night, or whether it were day, Would seem to make small difference to him Whose days and nights alike are ever dim; Yet still the tramp of human feet, and hum Of human voices, sweetly fill his ear; The surgings of the tides of life appear Like the deep sounds that from the ocean come At midnight to the listener. Pity’s glance Upon his form instinctively we throw; And while some sadness clouds our countenance, To God we pray to save us from such wo. MacKellar.

Come, chase that starting tear away, Ere mine to meet it springs; To-night, at least, to-night be gay, Whatever to-morrow brings! Like sunset gleams, that linger late When all is darkening fast, Are hours like these we snatch from Fate— The brightest and the last. Moore.

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. Moore.