Thy golden largess fling,
And longer hear us sing;
Though thou art fleet of wing,
Yet stay.
Alas! that eyes so full of light
Should be so wandering!

IV

Thy locks are full of sunny sheen
In rings of gold yronne,[C]
All in the bloomèd May,
We pri' thee pass not on;
If thou dost leave the sun,
Delight is with thee gone,
Oh! stay.
Thou art the fairest of thy feres,
We pri' thee pass not on.

[Footnote C: His crispè hair in ringis was yronne.--Chaucer, _Knight's
Tale_. (Tennyson's note.)]




=Contributions to Periodicals 1831-32=


XXV