ii»^»»f«>:^ 
 
 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 PR1109.M84 
 
 Literary studies from the great Britisli 
 
 3 1924 013 280 213 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013280213 
 
LITERARY STUDIES 
 
 FKOM THE 
 
 GREAT BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 e ■ 'J' 
 
 H.*^ h; morgan 
 
 ST. LOUIS: 
 AJVIERICAN SCHOOL BOOK CO. 
 

 ^ 
 
 ORNELL 
 
 UNIvrRSsTY 
 \LJBRARV 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by 
 
 HORACE H. MORGAN, 
 in tlie Office of tlie liibrarian ol Congress, at Washington. 
 
Col. THOMAS EICHESON 
 
 This book is dedicated as a personal recognition of his unselfish devotion 
 to the interests of the community in which he has so long been a citizen, 
 and more particularly for his intelligent and constant efforts to encourage 
 and rationalize the educational interests of his city. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The design of this book is to encourage an acquaintance with 
 the masters of English Literature. To this end the compiler 
 has attempted to present specimens which fairly represent the 
 versatility of the authors, and which illustrate the peculiarities 
 of their several styles. It is, of course, impossible to present 
 dramas, epics, histories, and essays in their entirety, but, wher- 
 ever possible, the endeavor has been made to offer some entire 
 poem of the writer. It is hoped that any student of any age 
 may be enabled by the use of this book to begin an acquaint- 
 ance with the authors, and be led by his interest to use the 
 Index as direction for further reading. An attempt has been 
 made to present authorized texts and through the Glossary to 
 supply such explanations as are not accessible through Webster's 
 Unabridged ; on the other hand, it has been considered injurious 
 to explain what the student may easily ascertain for himself 
 without access, to any library, but a dictionary. The compiler 
 has, in his capacitj^ of instructor, been made very familiar with 
 what is ordinarily attainable with young students, and has been 
 guided in his selections and glossary by this experience. 
 
 In the case of writers like Swift, Shelley, and Byron, certain 
 characteristic selections are excluded by the fact that coarseness, 
 immature views, and sensuality should not be emphasized even 
 when among the qualities of an author. 
 
 The. Index presents the date of pubUcation of the first work, 
 which, taken in connection with dates of birth and death, seems 
 to be the nearest approach that one can make towards marking 
 the contemporaneousness of authors. The compiler has con- 
 sulted all reputable editions, but in making his selections has not 
 
 (V) 
 
^1 PREFACE. 
 
 been content to appropriate the work of others, but has re-read 
 all the authors mentioned in this manual. 
 
 The compiler does not believe that any booli can continue to 
 live unless it fills a useful office ; nor doe's he think that a book 
 is valueless because it does not meet the wants of everybody. 
 He therefore trusts that as the work has been done neither care- 
 lessly nor without an attempt at adequate preparation, it may 
 meet with acceptance upon the part of those who have yet to 
 acquire an acquaintance with English literature. 
 
INDEX TO AUTHORS AND SELECTIONS, 
 
 TOGETHER WITH REFERENCES EOR FURTHER READINGS. 
 
 Addison, Joseph, b. Milston, England, 1672; d. London, 1719; pub- 
 lished The Campaign, 1704:. • 
 
 1. Gate, Act v.. Scene I. Gate's Soliloquy, 133. 
 
 2. Psalm 23d, 135. 
 
 3. The Spectator: No. 470, Criticism, 128. 
 
 i. The Spectator: No. 303, Criticism on Paradise Lost, 131. 
 
 5. The Spectator: No. 276, Dissection of a Beau's Head, 125. 
 Further Beferences : A Great Book a Great Evil ; Omnipresence of 
 Deity; Importance of Time; The Medal; Cato, Act I., Scene "VI., 
 and Act II., Scene V.; The Spectator (Criticisms on Paradise Lost; 
 Sir Roger de Coverley at the Theatre ; The Spectator's Account of 
 Himself ; The Vision of Mirza) . 
 
 Bacon, Sir Francis (Lord Vbrulam). b. London, 1561; d. High- 
 gate, 1626; Of the State of Europe, 158(^ 
 
 1. Essays: Discourse, 39. 
 
 2. Essays: Studies, 43. 
 
 3. Essays: Travel, 40. 
 
 4. Introduction to Novum Organum, 43. 
 
 Further Beferences : The various chapters of The Advancement 
 of Learning, omitting B. III., ch. 4 and 5, B. IV., ch. 1, 2, and 3, B. 
 v., ch. 1-5, B. VI., ch. 2, and B. 9. 
 
 Beaumont, Francis, b. Leicestershire, 1586; "1 
 
 d. London, 1615; I The Woman Hater,. 
 
 Fletcher, John. b. Northamptonshire, 1576; f 1607. 
 
 d. London, 1625; . i 
 
 1. The Folding of the Flocks, 71. 
 
 2. Melancholy (Fletcher), 73. 
 
 3. Song to Pan, 70. 
 
 4. Song to Pan, 71. 
 
 (vli). 
 
VUI INDEX. 
 
 Beaumoxt and Fletcher (cnntinneil') . 
 5. To Sleep, 70. 
 , Further References: Beggar's Bush, Act IV., Scenes I. and VI.: 
 The Maid's Tragedy, Act IV., Scene I., and Act V., Scene IV.; On 
 the Tombs in Westminster Abbey (Beaumont) . 
 
 BiiOWNixG, Elizabeth B.\krett. b. Ledbury, Herefordshire, 1809; d. 
 Florence, Italy, 1861 ; An Essay on Mind, 18^6. 
 
 1. Cowper's Grave, 347. 
 
 2. First News from Villafranca, 346. 
 
 3. The Cry of the Children, 350. 
 
 4. The Sleep, 355. 
 
 Further Beferences : Chorus of Spirits (Drama of Exile) ; The Sera- 
 phim ; A Vision of Poets ; Lay of the Broivn Rosary ; Bertha in the 
 Lane; Lady Geraldiue's Courtship; A Musical Instrument; King 
 Victor Emanuel entering Florence ; Pan is Dead ; Sonnets from the 
 Portuguese; Casa Guida Windows; De Profundis; Only a Curl; A 
 False Step ; My Kate ; Song for the Ragged Schools ; The Book of 
 the Poets ; House of Cloud ; Mother and Poet ; Aurora Leigh ; Wine 
 of Cyprus ; A Lament for Adonis. 
 
 Browning, Robert, b. Camberwell, London, 1812; Paulinea Frag- 
 menta, 1833. 
 
 1. A Face, 393. 
 
 2. Incident of the French Camp, 393. 
 
 3. My Last Duchess, 395. 
 
 Further References : One Word More ; Pied Piper of Hamelin ; A 
 Soul's Tragedy ; A Blot on the Scutcheon ; Cavalier Songs ; Ratisbon; 
 The Lost Leader; Herv^ Riel; Pippa Passes; Colombe's Birthday; 
 Dramatis Personse. 
 
 Burns, Robert, b. Ayr, Scotland, 1759; d. Dumfries, Scotland, 
 1796; Poems, 1786. 
 
 1. Auld Lang Syne, 232. 
 
 2. Bannockbum, 232. 
 
 3. Coming Through the Rye, 231. 
 i. For a' that and a' that, 235. 
 
 5. John Anderson, 229. 
 
 6. Tarn O'Shanter, 223. 
 
 7. To a Mouse, 229. i 
 S. Unco Guid, 231. 
 
 Further Beferences: The Jolly Beggars ; Lament for CuUoden; Ye 
 Banks and Braes of Bonie Doon; Highland Mary; To a Mountain 
 Daisy; Address to the Deil; Cotter's Saturday Night; To Mary in 
 JHeaven. 
 
Btron, Lord (George Gordon), b. Loudon, 1788; d. Missolonghl,. 
 Greece, 1824; Hours of Idleness, 1807. 
 
 1. Isles of Greece, 298. ' 
 
 2. Maid of Athens, 303. 
 
 3. Mazeppa, IX. Description of a Horse, 312. 
 
 4. The Giaour, 301. 
 
 5. The Prisoner of Chillon, 307. 
 
 6. The Shipwreck, 306. 
 
 7- Vision of Belshazzar, 304. 
 Further Seferences : Darkness ; Destruction of Sennacherib ; Greek 
 War Song; Lara, II., 8; Marino Faliero; ICnow Ye the Land (Bridu 
 of Abydos) ; The Corsair, II., 10 ; Siege of Corinth, XXI.-XXXIII. ; 
 Mazeppa, X., XI. ; CMlde Harold's Pilgrimage (C. I., st. 13, 35-43 ; C. 
 III., St. 21-28, 67, 69-75; C. IV., St. 1-26, 78-98, 140, 141, 175-184) ; 
 Childe Harold (The Ocean, Waterloo) ; Manfred (Song of the Spirits, 
 and Scene IV.) ; To Thomas Moore ; Ode on Venice. i 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, b. Glasgow^ "Scotland, 1777; d. Boulogne, France, 
 1844 ; The Pleasures of Hope, 1799. , 
 
 1. Song of the Greeks, 285. 
 
 2. The Last Man, 288. 
 
 3. Ye Mariners of England, 286. 
 
 4. The Evening Star, 290. 
 
 Further Beferenoes : Battle of the Baltic; Lord Ullin's Daughter; 
 'The Soldier's Dream; Lochiel's Warning ; Hohenlinden; Gertrude of 
 Wyoming ; Pleasures of Hope ; Hallowed Ground. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, b. Ecclefechan, Scotland, 1795; Translation, of 
 Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, 1824. 
 
 1. Labor, 332. 
 Further Beferences : Heroes and Hero Worship ; Burns ; Frederick 
 the Great ; Marie Antoinette ; The Reign of Terror. 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey, b. London, 1328 (1340?); d. London, 1400; 
 The Assembly of Fowls, 1358 (?) . 
 
 1. Chauoer's.ABC, 2. 
 
 2. Fie fro the Pros, 1. 
 
 3. Gentilnesse, 2. 
 
 4. Legende of Goode Women: Cleopatra, 5. 
 
 5. Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, 8. 
 
 Further Beferences: The Parliament of Fowles, 1. 172 to' end; The 
 Dethe of Blaunche the Duchesse; The House of Fame, B. I., c. 3, 11. 
 79-1080 ; Legende of Goode Women (Prologue and Lucretia of Rome, 
 Martyr, 11. 15-206) ; Balade sent to King Richard ; Good CoBnsel of 
 Chaucer; L'Envoy de Chaucer a Scogan; Canterbury Tales (The 
 
Chaucer, Geoffrey (continued'). 
 
 Knight's Tale, 11. 976-994, 1031-10i7, 1253-1274, 1911-2090; The 
 Clerk's Tale, 11. 8325-9088; The Doctor's Tale). 
 
 Chesterfield, Earl (Philip Stanhope), b. London, 1694; d. Lon- 
 don, 1773; Letters to his son, 1774. 
 
 1. Good Breeding, 218. 
 Further References : Letters addressed to his son. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, b. Devonshire, 1772; rt. Highgate, 1834; 
 Fall of Robespierre, 1794. 
 
 1. Chamouni, 267. 
 
 2. Lecture on Shakespeare, 259. 
 
 3. Ode to France, 264. 
 
 Further Seferences : Christabel ; Genevieve ; Truth ; Mont Blanc ; 
 The Great Good Man ; Zapoyla ; The Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Collins, William, b. Chichester, 1720; d. Chichester, 1756; Odes, 
 1746. 
 
 1. Ode — How Sleep the Brave, 174. 
 
 2. The Passions, 171. 
 
 Further Seferences : Ode to Fear ; To Evening ; To-morrow. 
 
 CowpBK, William, b. Herts, England, 1731 ; d. Norfolk, 1800 ; Poems, 
 1782. 
 
 1. Boadicea, 219. 
 
 2. Oaths, 219. 
 
 3. The Task, B. II., 11. 206-224 (England), 221. 
 
 4. The Task, B. V., 11. 738-778 (Patriotism), 221. 
 
 Further Eeferences : The Loss of the Royal George ; Winter ; 
 Letters; Heroism; Verses supposed to be written by Alexander 
 Selkirk; Hymns I., VI., XV., XVIII., LIX. ; Epitaph on Doctor 
 Johnson; To Mrs. Unwin. 
 
 Defoe, Daniel, b. London, 1661; d. London, 1731; Presbytery Rough 
 Drawn, 1683. 
 
 1. From Memoirs of a Cavalier, 118. 
 Further Seferences : Robinson Crusoe, and Essay on Projects. 
 
 De QumcEY, Thomas, b. Manchester, 1785; d. Edinburgh, Scotland, 
 1859 ; Confessions of an English Opium Eater, 1824. 
 
 1. Shakespeare, 326. 
 Further Seferences : English Poets and Writers. 
 
 Dickens, Charles, b. Portsmouth, England, 1812; d. Gadshill- Lon- 
 don, 1870; The Strange Gentleman, 1834. 
 1. Pickwick's Ride, 397. 
 
INDEX. XI 
 
 DiciCENS, Charles (eontinned). 
 
 Further Beferences : The World of Water ; Bleak House (Death of 
 Richard) ; David Copperaeld (The Tem;5cst) ; Baruaby Eudge (The 
 Gordon Riots) ; Pickwick Papers ; Dombey and Son (Death of Little 
 Paul) ; Martin Chuzzlewit ; Scrooge and Marley ; Tale of Two Cities ; 
 Oliver Tmst; Our Mutual Friend; Nicholas Mckleby; American 
 Sketch-Book; Christmas Carols. 
 
 Drtden, John. b. Northamptonshire, 1631; d. London, 1700; Heroic 
 Stanzas on the Lord Protector, 1658. 
 
 1. Absalom and Achitophel :' Achitophel, 113. 
 
 2. Absalom and Achitophel : Zunri, 114. 
 
 3. MacPlecknoe, 113. 
 i. MUton, 109. 
 
 5. Ode to St. Cecilia, 109. 
 
 6. ReUgio Laici, 114. 
 
 7. Shakespeare, 116. 
 
 Further References : Threnodia Augustalis ; Shakespeare, Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson. 
 
 Fielding, Henky. b. Somersetshire, 1707; d. Lisbon, Portugal, 1754; 
 Love in Several Masks, 1727. 
 
 1. Partridge at the Play (Tom Jones), 158. 
 
 GiBBOx, Edwaed. b. Putney, 1737; d. London, 1794; Sur I'Etude de 
 la LlttSrature, 1761. 
 
 1. Autobiography: Life at Lausanne, 212. 
 
 2. History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire : Ze- 
 nobia, 214. 
 
 Further Beferences : Character of Constantine, Vol. II., pp. 153- 
 155; Description of Jerusalem, Vol. II., pp. 432-435, 458 to end of 
 chapter; Mahomet, Vol. IV., pp. 119-123. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, b. PaUas, Ireland, 1728; d. London, 1774; 
 Inquiry into the State of Polite Literature, 1760. 
 
 1. The Deserted Village, 195. 
 
 2. The Vicar of Wakefield, 206. 
 
 Further Beferences : She Stoops to Conquer ; The Vicar of Wake- 
 field; The Traveller. 
 
 Gray, Thomas, b. London, 1716 ; d. Cambridge, 1771 ; Ode on a Dis- 
 tant Prospect of Eton College, 1747. 
 
 1. Elegy in a Country Churchyard, 186. ' 
 
 2. The Bard, 190. 
 
 Further Beferences: Ode on Spring; On the Death of a Favorite 
 Cat; On a Distant Prospect of Eton College; Vicissitudes; The 
 Progress of Poesy. 
 
XU INDEX. 
 
 Hood, Thomas, b. London, 17i)8; cl. London, 1845; Odes and Ad- 
 dresses to Great People, 1825. 
 
 1. Domestic Asides, 344. 
 
 2. I remember, I remember, 343. 
 
 3. Lady's Dream, 336. 
 
 4. Lament over the Decline of Chivalry, 339. 
 
 5. Song of the Shirt, 340. 
 
 6. The Death Bed, 345. 
 
 Further References : Faithless Sally Brown ; The Dream of Eugene 
 Aram; Morning Meditations; French and English; Lay Sermons; 
 Miss Kilmansegg ; Bridge of Sighs ; The Lay of the Labourer ; Fair 
 Ines ; Ruth. 
 
 Hume, David, b. Edinburgh, Scotland, 1711; d. Edinburgh, 1776; On 
 Human Nature, 1738. 
 
 1. Introduction to History of England, 169. 
 Further Meferences : Meeting of Henry VIII. and Francis ; Battle of 
 Crecy ; The Spanish Armada. 
 
 JoHNSOx, S.4.MUBL. b. Litchfield, England, 1709; d. London, 1784; 
 London, 1738. 
 
 1. Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield, 166. 
 
 2. Preface to the Dictionary, 165. 
 
 3. Right Improvement of Time (Rambler), 1C3. 
 i. The Versification of Milton, 167. 
 
 Further References : Parallel between Pope and Dryden ; The Insane 
 Astronomer ; Prodigality ; London ; General Observations on the Plays 
 of Shakespeare ; Conversations (in Boswell's Life of Johnson) . 
 
 JosrsON, Ben. b. Westminster, 1573; d. London, 1637; Every Mah in 
 his Humor, 1598. 
 
 1. Catiline, 62. 
 
 2. Celia, 63. 
 
 3. Countessof Bedford, 66. 
 
 4. Cupid, 65. 
 
 5. Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H., 64. 
 
 6. Hymn to God the Father, 67. 
 
 7. Margaret Ratcliffe, 68. 
 
 8. On the Portrait of Shakespeare, 64. 
 
 9. The Noble Nature, 69. 
 
 Further References : Shakespeare ; Hymn to Diana ; Song of Hes- 
 perus; Advice to a Reckless Youth; The Holy Trinity; Echo Mourn- 
 ing the Death of Narcissus ; Good Life, Long Life ; The Sad Shepherd. 
 
 Keats, John. b. London, 1796; d. Rome, Italy, 1820; Poems, 1817. 
 1. Endymion, I., 1-24 ; A thing of beauty is a joy forever, 322. 
 
INDEX. xiit 
 
 Keats, Johjj (continued). 
 
 2. Endymion, I., 671-687: Endymion, 323. 
 
 3. Faery Song, 323. 
 
 4. Ode on a Grecian Urn, 324. 
 
 Further Seferences : Hymn to Apollo; Imitation of Spenser; To 
 Autumn; Saturn andThea; Ode to a Nightingale ; Hyperion; Eve of 
 St. Agnes; Song (Hush, liush ! tread softly) ; Lamia; Sonnet III. 
 
 Lamb, Charles, b. London, 1775; d.. Edmonton, 1834; Three Sonnets, 
 1796. 
 
 1. The Two Races of Men, 273. 
 Further Heferences: Essays of Elia; Old Familiar Faces; Talas 
 from Shakespeare; Specimens of English Dramatic Poets. 
 
 Landoe, Walter Savage, b. Warwick, 1775; d. Florence, Italy, 1864; 
 Gebir, 1797. 
 
 1. Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, 270. 
 
 2. Pericles and Aspasia, 272. 
 
 3. To Robert Browning, 270. • 
 Further References : Imaginary Conversations (Essex and Spenser, 
 
 Citation of Shakespeare, Pentameron, Pericles and Aspasia) ; Gebir ; 
 Count Julian ; Hellenics ; The Hamadryad ; Rose Aylmer. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Bablngton. b. Leicestershire, 1800; d. London, 
 1859 ; Lays of Ancient Rome, 1842. 
 
 1. Battle of Ivry, 405. 
 
 2. Essays: Mr. Robert Montgomery, 409. 
 
 3. History of England : Introduction, 407. 
 
 Further References : Lays of Ancient Rome ; Essays (Warren Hast- 
 ings, Hallam, Southey, Byron, Johnson, Bunyan, Hampden, Marl- 
 borough) . 
 
 « 
 Maklowe, Cheistophbr. b. Canterbury, 1563 ; d. London, 1593 ; Tam- 
 burlane, 1590. 
 
 1. Edward II. ; Death of the King, 56. 
 Further Seferences : Doctor Faustus. 
 
 Massinger, Philip, b. Salisbury, 1584; d. London, 1640: The Virgin 
 Martyr, 1632. 
 
 1. New Way to Pay Old Debts (Act III., Scene I.), 74. 
 Further Meferences : New Way to Pay Old Debts (Act III., Scene 11., 
 and Act V., Scene I.) ; Duke of Milan (Act V., Scene II.) ; The City 
 Madam (Act IV., Scene III., and Act V., Scene III.). 
 
 Milton, John. b. London, 1608; d. London, 1674; Comus, 1634. 
 
 1. Comus (Song, 11. 230-243), 84. ' ' 
 
 2. Lycidas, 78. 
 
MiLTox, JOHN" (continued) . 
 
 3. Paradise Lost : B. I., 11. 587-669 (Satan's Size and Speech), 8i. 
 
 4. Paradise Lost : B. I.,ll. 769-707 (Gathering iu Pandemonium) , 
 
 86. 
 
 5. Paradise Lost: B. II., 11. 11-386 (Meeting of the Peers iu 
 
 Hell), 87. 
 G. Paradise Lost: B. III., 11. 1-55 (Invocation to Light), 07. 
 
 7. Paradise Lost: B. V., 11. 275-287 (Raphael), 99. 
 
 8. Paradise Lost: B. VI., 11. 207-353 (Battle in Heaven), 99. 
 
 9. Paradise Lost: B. VI., 11. 748-784 (Chariot of Deity), 108. 
 
 10. Paradise Lost: B. X.,11. 720-844 (Complaint of Adam), 104. 
 
 11. Sonnet on his Blindness, 78. 
 
 Further Beferences : Comus (11. 1-144, 419-477 ; Samson Agonistes) 
 (11. 1-109, 1268-1296) ; Paradise Lost (B. I., 11. 23-576, 670-730; B. II., 
 11. 666-722 ; B. III., 11. 253-338, 636-539 ; B. IV., 11. 248-311 ; B. V., 11. 
 153-208,276-287, 627-657; B. VI., 11. 824-849; B. VII., 11. 5G1-587; B. 
 X., 11. 350-384) ; Paradise Eegained (B. II., II. 279-297, 427-438, 466- 
 480, 504-521, 915-936 ; B. III., 11. 47-59 ; B. IV., 11. 6-24, 221-235) ; L'Al- 
 legro; II Penseroso; Prose (Truth vs. Osiris, Freedom of the Press). 
 
 Moore, Thomas, b. Dublin, Ireland, 1779; d. Sloperton, 1852; Trans- 
 lation from Anacreon, 1800. 
 
 1. Canadian Boat Song, 291. 
 
 2. Erin, 291. 
 
 3. Forget not the Field, 293. 
 
 4. Miriam's Song, 297. 
 
 5. Oh! Breathe not his Name, 292. 
 
 6. The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine, 295. 
 
 7. Those Evening Bells, 296. 
 
 8. 'Tis the Last Eose of Summer, 292. 
 
 9. Wreathe tjie Bowl, 294. 
 
 Further Beferences : All that's bright must fade ; Oft in the stilly 
 night; Ohl Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear; A Beam of Tran- 
 quillity (Stanzas) ; Trio and Who'll Buy (Summer F^te) ; The Bird let 
 Loose ; The Flying Fish ; The Harp that once through Tara's Halls ; 
 The time I've lost in wooing ; This world is all a fleeting show ; Weep 
 not for those ; Rich and rare were the gems she wore ; Lalla Eookh. 
 
 Pope, Alexander, b. London, 1688; d. Twickenham, 1744; Pastorals, 
 1709. 
 
 1. An Essay on Criticism : Criticism and Critics, 148. 
 
 2. An Essay on Criticism : Harmony of Versification, 150. 
 
 3. An Essay on Criticism : Pride, 149. 
 
 4. Eloisa to Abelard : Introduction, 144. 
 
 5. Eloisa to Abelard : Holiness, 145. 
 
INDEX. ST 
 
 Pope, Alexander (continued') . 
 
 6. Eloisa to Abelard : Immortalitj-, 140. 
 
 T. Essay on Man : Ep. II., II. 1-113 (Know Then Thyself), 186. 
 
 s. TheDunciad: B. TV., 11. Sl-118 (Gathering of the Dunces), 
 
 139. 
 9. The Rape of the Lock: C. I. (The ToUet), 111. 
 
 10. The Eape of the Lock: C. IL (The Sylphs), 112. 
 
 11. The Rape of the Lock: C. V. (Beauty), US. 
 
 12. Translation of Homer's Odyssey (B. VI., 11. lS7-i'12;, li7. 
 
 13. Windsor Forest, 140. 
 
 Further inferences : Translation of Homer's Iliad and of Homer's 
 Odyssey; Essay on Man (Ep. III., U. 49-72, 146-201); The Dying 
 Christian to liis Soul- Universal Prayer. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, b. Edinburgh, Scotland, 1771 ; d. Abbotsford, 
 Scotland, 1832; Translation of Biirger's Leonore, 1796. 
 
 1. Lay of the Last Minstrel: Introduction (The Bard), 275. 
 
 2. Lay of the Last Minstrel : C. II. (ilelrose Abbej'), 276. 
 
 3. Lay of the Last Minstrel: C. VI., st. 1, 2 (Breathes there a 
 man), 276. 
 
 4. Marmion: C. VI., St. 13-15 (Marmion and Douglas), 277. 
 
 5. Song — The Monks of Bangor's March, 280. 
 
 6. Hunting Song, 281. 
 
 7. Description of EUangowan (Guy Mannering), 282. 
 Further Seferences : Eokeby; Marmion (Introduction, C.I., st. 5-8; 
 
 C. III., Introduction and st. 1 ; C. V., Lochinvar) ; Lady of the Lake 
 (C. I., C. n., St. 19, 20, 22 ; C. III., St. 2, 29) ; The Bridal of Triermain 
 (C. I.) ; Harold the Dauntless (C. II., st. 1, 2) ; The ErI-King; The 
 Waverley Novels ; Lay of the Last Minstrel (C. V., st. 1,2); Marmion 
 (C. ni., St. 26-34) ; The San on Weirdlaw Hill. 
 
 Shakespeare, Wllliasi. b. Stratford-upon-Avon, 1564; d. Stratford- 
 upon-Avon, 1616 i Venus and Adonis, 1595. 
 
 1. A Sea-dirge (The Tempest), 48. 
 
 2. Defiance to Time (Sonnet cxxiii.), 55. 
 
 3. Fancy (Merchant of Venice), 48. 
 
 4. Inevitable Slander (Sonnet Ixx.), 52. 
 
 5. Nature and Man (As You Like It), 49. 
 
 6. Sunshine and Cloud (Sonnet xxiii.), SB-. 
 
 7. The Lost Love (HanUet), 49. 
 
 8. The Life According to Nature (As You Like It), 50. 
 
 9. The Poet's Immortality (Sonnet Ixxiv.), 51. 
 
 10. The True and the False (Sonnet liv.), 54. 
 
 11. The Unfading Picture (Sonnet xviii.), 52. 
 
 12. The World's Way (Hamlet), 50. 
 
Shakespeare, Willia:! (continued). 
 
 13. The World's "Way (Sonnet IxvL), 51. 
 
 14. Time and Love (Sonnet Ixiv.), 47. 
 
 15. Time and Love (Sonnet Ixv.), 54. 
 
 16. Harli, hark! the lark (Cymboline), 47. 
 
 Further References : The Tempest (Act III., Scene I., Ferdinand and 
 Jliranda ; Act IV., Scene I., Masque) ; Two Gentlemen of Verona (Act 
 II., Scene III., Launce's soliloquy) ; As You Like It (Act II., Scene 
 v., Amiens, Jaques, and others) ; Merchant of Venice (Act I., Scene 
 II., Portia and Nerissa; Scene III., Bassanio, Shylock, and Antonio; 
 Act II., Scene II., Launcelot's soliloquy; Scene I., Solanio, Salerino, 
 Shylock, and Tubal; Act III., Scene II., So may thee, etc., You see 
 rae, etc. ; Act IV., Scene I., The quality of mercy is not strained; Ac'; 
 V.,~ Scene I., How sweet the moonlight, etc.) ; A Winter's Tale (Act 
 III., Scene II., Hermione — Since what I am, etc.; Scene III., Come 
 poor babe); All's Well that Ends' Well. (Act II., Scene III., King — 
 'Tis only title, etc.) ; IQng John (Act I., Scene I., to enter Sheriff, 
 Bastard's soliloquy; Act II., Scene 11., You men of Anglers, etc.; Act 
 III., Scene I., Constance — Gone to be married! Act IV., Scene I., 
 Hubert and Arthur ; Scene II., King John; Scene III., Death oiE Arthur; 
 Act v., Scene VII., Prince Henry) ; Richard II. (Act I., Scene I., 
 Richard ; Act III., Scene II., Richard on the coast of Wales ; Scene III., 
 Before Flint Castle ; Act IV., Scene I., Bolingbroke in Westminster 
 Hall, Act v.. Scene II., Duke of York's Palace) ; Henry IV., Part I. 
 (Act I., Scene III., King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, and 
 others; Act II., Scene II., enter Bardolph at Gadshill; Scene III., 
 Hotspur and Lady Percy; Scene IV., Hal and Francis, Falstaff' s ex- 
 ploits; Act III., Scene I., Hotspur, Worcester, and others at Bangor; 
 Scene II., King Henry, Prince of Wales, and others at London; Scene 
 III., Falstaff at the Boar's Head Tavern) ; Part II. (Act III., Scene 
 I., Henry's soliloquy; Act IV., Scene IV., ICing Henry, Clarence, and 
 others at Westminster ; Act V., Scene I., Falstaft's soliloquy; Scenes 
 II. and III., King Henry and Lord Chief Justice) ; Henry V. (Act III., 
 Scene" I., King Henry before Harfleur; Scene IV., Katharine and 
 Alice) ; Henry VI., Part I. (Act I., Scene I., body of Henry V. in 
 Westminster Abbey) ; Richard III. (Act I., Scene I., Gloster's first 
 speech; Scene IV., Clarence's dream; Act V., Scene III., soliloquies 
 of Richard and Richmond) ; Henry VIII. (Act I., Scene I., Gloster 
 Clarence, and Hastings; Act II., Scene I., Buckingham; Scene IV.^ 
 Queen Katharine's trial; Act III., Scene II., Wolsey's soliloquies. Act 
 v.. Scene V., Cranmer's prophecy for Elizabeth) ; Julius Csesar (Act 
 I., Scene I., Cassius to Brutus; Act III., Scene II., Brutus' speech, 
 Antony's speech; Act IV., Scene III., quarrel between Brutus and 
 Cassius); Antony and Cleopatra (Act II., Scone II., Cleopatra's 
 barge) ; Romeo and Juliet (Act I., Scene I., Clowns ; Scene IV., Queen 
 
Shakespeabe, William {contijiited) . 
 Mab; Act II., Scene III., Frl.ir Laurence's soliloquy; Act II., Scene 
 II., Eomoo and Juliet) ; Micbummor Xijat's Dream (Act II., Scene 
 n.. The Players ; Act II., Scene I., Fairy; Act III., Scene I., Players in 
 the wood, Bottom and Titania; Act IV., Scene I., Bottom among 
 the Fairies, Bottom's soliloquies; Act V., Scene I., Theseus and the 
 Players) ; Hamlet (Act I., Scene II., Act 11.^ Scene I., from ente^ 
 Ophelia; Scene II., from enter Hamlet to enter Rosencrantz and 
 Guildenstem, and from exeunt Eosencrantz and Guildenstem to end 
 of scene; Act in., Scene I., from enter Hamlet; Act III., Scene IV., 
 to exit Polonius; Act IV., Scene V., from exeunt Rosencrantz and 
 Guildenstem; Scene Vil., from enter Queen; ActV.); Macbeth (Act 
 I., Scenes V., VI., and VII. ; ActV., Scenes I. and V.) ; Lear (Act I., 
 Scene I. ; Act HI., Scenes II. and IV. ; Act IV., Scenes III. and Vll. ; 
 Act v., Scene III., from enter Lear) ; CymbeUne (Act I., Scene I. 
 from enter Queen to enter Pisanlo, Scene III., Scene VI. ; Act III., 
 Scenes I. and VI.) ; Titus Andronicus (Act I., Scene II. ; Act II., Scene 
 n.) ; Corlolanus (Act 11., Scene HI., speech of Coriolanus ; Act IH., 
 Scene I., speech of Coriolanus; Act V., Scene III.) ; Timon of Athene 
 (Act III., Scene V., To you breathe in vain; Act IV., Scene III., enter 
 Flavius, to end); Pericles (Act HI., Scenes III. and IV.; Act IV., 
 Scene IH.) ; Measure for Measure (Act I., Scene IV. ; Act II., Sceno 
 n., fi'om enter Lucio and Isabella to exeunt the same) ; TroUus and 
 Cressida (Act H., Scene n. ; Act HI., Scene IH., from Ulysses' speech 
 to exit Ulysses) ; Othello (Act I., Scene III., from Othello's speech — 
 Most potent, etc., to end of Desdemona's — Let me go with him; Act 
 m., Scene III., Othello's Thou dost conspire, etc., to reenter Desde- 
 mona and Emilia) . 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. b. Horsham, England, 1792 ; drowned off the 
 coast of Tuscany, 1822 ; Queen Mab, 1813. 
 
 1. Adonais, 3-5, and 11-24, 316. 
 
 2. The Sensitive Plant, 313. 
 
 Further Beferences : Hymn of ApoUo; Autumn; The Cloud; Aie- 
 thusa ; Queen Mab (I., St. 1-12 ; II., st. 1-i ; III., St. 1-14 ; IV., st. 1-11 ; 
 v., St. 5-10, 13, 14) ; Revolt of Islam (Dedication, I., st. 1-15, 34-60; 
 II., St. 3-6, 9-12, 20^2 ; XI., st. 22-24) ; Prometheus Unbound (Act 
 II., Scene H., Song of the Spirits ; Scene V., My soul is an enchanted 
 boat, Here, oh! here; Act IV., Scene I., We come from the mind) ; 
 Hellas (as far as Mahmud starting from his sleep) ; To Wordsworth ; 
 Mt. Blanc; The Enganean HiUs; The Medusa of Leonardo da Vine. ; 
 Lines written in dejection near Naples; Lines to an Indian Air; T , 
 the Night ; Liberty ; The Fugitives ; Mutability ; Lines on the Death oi 
 Napoleon; Ginevra; Alastor; Hymn of Pan; To a Skylark; Adonais. 
 
SOUTHEY, Robert, b. Bristol, 1774; d. Greta Hall, England, 1843; Wat 
 Tyler, 1794. 
 
 1. God's Judgment on Bishop Hatto of Mentz, 253. 
 
 2. The Spanish Armada, 255. 
 
 Further References : Mary the Maid of the Inn ; Cataract of Lodore ; 
 The Old Man's Comforts; Love; The Scholar; The Inchcape Eock; 
 After Blenheim ; Bishop Bruno ; The Well of St. Keyne ; Eudiger ; The 
 Complaints of the Poor ; Thalaba ; Conspiracy of Essex. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund, b. London, 1553 ; d. London, 1599 ; The Shepherd's 
 Calendar, 1579. 
 
 1. Mother Hubberd's Tale, 11. 892-914 (The Suitor), 37. 
 
 2. The Fairy Queen: B. I., C. 1 (Cave of Morpheus), 21. 
 
 3. The Fairy Queen: B. I., C. 2 (The Eed-Cross Knight and 
 
 Sarazin), 23. 
 
 4. The Fairy Queen : B. I., C. 3 (Una), 25. ' 
 
 5. The Fairy Queen: B. II., C. 3 (Belphoebe), 33. 
 
 6. The Fairy Queen : B. II., C. 7 (Cave of Mammon), 36. 
 
 7. The Fairy Queen: B. IV., C. 1 (House of Pride), 26. 
 Further Beferences : Mother Hubberd's Tale ; The Ruins of Time 
 
 (C. 11., St. 7, 8, 29, 30, 51, 52, 68, 59) ; Tears of the Muses (Clio, 2-9 ; 
 Melpomene, 3-6 ; Calliope, 5, 6 ; Urania, 4-8; ; Ruins of Rome (III.,, 
 XIX.) ; Muiopotmos (27-29) ; Visions of the World's Vanity (I., IV.) ; 
 Visions of Bellay (I.) ; Daphnaida (I., st. 6, 7; II., st. 1-7; III., St. 
 1-7) ; Amoretti (V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., XXVI., XXVII., LIV., 
 LXXII., LXXIII., LXXIX.); Epithalamion ; Prothalamion ; Hymns 
 . (Love, 190-196 ; Beauty, 85-273) ; Fairy Queen (B. I., C. 7, St. 1 ; C. 8^ 
 St. 1, 2; C. 10, St. 6; C. 4, St. 1; C.'6, st. 1; C. 12, st. 13; C. 11, St. 1; 
 
 B. II., C. 12, St. 42-76; B. III., C. 1, st. 15, 16; C. 4, St. 27, 55, 59; C. 
 6, St. 29-45; C. 7, st. 38-43; C. 8, St. 37; C. 10, St. 10; C. 11, st. 40,, 
 41 ; C. 12, St. 5-26 ; B. IV., C. 1, St. 2, 27-30 ; ^C. 2., st. 1, 2, 33-58 ; Q.3, 
 St. 1 ; C. 4, St. 1, 38-37, 41, 42 ; B. V., Introduction, St. 1^ ; C. 2, st. 1 ; 
 
 C. 4, St. 1 ; C. 8, St. 1 ; C. 9, st. 10-19, 23-33 ; C. 10, st. 1,2; C. 11, st. 
 1; C.12, St. 1, 29-36; B.VL, C. 2, st. 1, 2; C. 3, St. 1, 2; C. 6, St. 1). 
 
 Sterne, Laurence, b. Clonmel, Ireland, 1713; d. London, 1769 j 
 Sermons for Charity Schools, 1747. 
 
 1. The Story of Le Fevre (Tristram Shandy), 175. 
 
 Swift, JoxATiLVN (Dean of St. Patrick's), b. Dublin, Ireland, 1667; d. 
 Dublin, 1745; Letters of Sir William Temple, 1700. 
 
 1. Pretended Philosophers (Gulliver's Travels), 121. 
 Further References : Gulliver's Travels ; Tale of a Tub ; Battle of 
 the Books ; The Spider and the Bee ; Morning ; Baucis and Philemon. 
 
INDEX. XIX 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, b. Somerby, England, 1810; Poems by Two 
 Brothers, 1827. 
 
 U CEnone, 381. 
 
 2. Charge of the Light Brigade, 360. 
 
 3. Idyls of the King : Dedication, 390 
 
 4. Idj'ls of the King : Guinevere, 391. 
 
 5. InMemoriam: Introduction, 377. 
 
 6. InMemoriam: I., 379. 
 
 7. InMemoriam: LIII., 379. 
 
 8. InMemoriam: CV., 380. 
 
 9. Lines from Loclssley Hall, 363. 
 
 10. Maud: I., 1-13,367. 
 
 11. Maud: IV., 1-10, 370. 
 
 12. Maud: v., 1-3, 372. 
 
 13. Maud: XL, 1,2, 373. 
 ■14. Maud: XII., 1-8, 873. 
 
 15. Maud: XXIL, 1-11, 375. 
 
 16. The Brook, 358. 
 
 17. The Lotos-Eaters : I.-LV., 364. 
 
 18. The, Princess : Home they brought her warrior dead, 361. 
 
 19. The Princess: The splendor falls, 362. 
 
 20. The Princess: Cradle SoUjg, 363. 
 
 21. The Sea Pairies, 365. 
 
 22. To the Queen, 389. 
 
 23. Vivien, 392. 
 
 Further References : The Poet ; Dream of Pair Women ; The Lady 
 of Shalott; Lady Clara Vere de Vere; The May-Queen; New Year's 
 Eve; Enid; Mariana; Break, break, break; The Death of the Old 
 Year; Dora; Sir Galahad; The Poet's Song. 
 
 Thackeray, William Makepeace, b. Calcutta, India, 1811 ; d. Lon- 
 don, 1863 ; Paris Sketch-Book, 1840. 
 
 1. The Newcomes, 403. 
 Further Seferences : The End of the Play ; The Pour Gteorges ; Vanity 
 Pair; TheNewcomes; Henry Esmond. 
 
 Thomson, James, b. Roxburghshire, 1700 ; d. Kew, 1748 ; The Seasons, 
 1726. 
 
 1. Castle of Indolence : C. I., st. 7-47, 153. 
 Further Seferences : The Seasons (Spring : " See where the winding 
 vale" — "All this Innumerable coloured," etc.; "Behold slow set- 
 ting," etc. — "Guilt hears appalled," etc; Autumn: " But the fading 
 many-coloured," etc. — "Or is this gloom too much," etc.; Winter: 
 " The keener tempest came," etc. — "Ah! little think the gay," etc. ; 
 "What art thou, frost," etc. — "But what is this," etc. ; " 'Tis done, 
 dead Winter," etc., to end of poem; Hymn to Winter) ; The Happy 
 Man. 
 
XX INDEX. 
 
 AVORDSWORTH, WiLLiAM. b. Cumberland, 1770; d. Eydal, 1850; De- 
 scriptive Sketches, 1793. 
 
 1. Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, 244. 
 
 2. Kesolution and Independence, 243. 
 
 3. She was a Phantom Of Delight, 241. 
 
 4. Sonnet XVI.. Freedom, 238. 
 
 5. Sonnet XV.: Great Men, 238. 
 G. Sonnet XIV. : Milton, 237. 
 
 7. Sonnet XVII. i My Country, 239. 
 
 8. Scorn not the Sonnet, 237. 
 
 9. The Green Linnet, 239. 
 
 10. The Excursion : Prelude, 250. 
 
 11. To the Small Celandine, 241. 
 
 Further Beferences : The world is too much with us ; The Poet ; To 
 a Sky-lark; My heart leaps up when I behold; Lines on the Death 
 of the Ettrick Shepherd; The Excursion; Daisy; Goody Blake and 
 Harry Gill; Duty; Sonnet XXVI. (Da Vinci) ; Tintem Abbey. 
 
XIV CENTURY. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 FLE FROM THE PRES. 
 
 Fie fro the pres and duelle with sothfastnesse ; 
 SuflSce the thy good, though hit be smale ; 
 
 For horde hath hate and clymtayng tikelnesse, 
 Pres hath envye and wele is blent over alle, 
 Savour no more then the behove shaUe ; b 
 
 Eeule wel thyself that other f olke canst rede, 
 
 And trouthe the shal deiyver, hit ys no drede. 
 
 Peyne the not eche croked to redresse 
 
 In trust of hire that turneth as a balle, 
 G-rete reste stant in lytil besynesse ; lo 
 
 Bewar also to spurn agein an nalle, 
 
 Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle ; 
 Daunte thyselfe that dauntest otheres dede. 
 And trouthe the shal deiyver, hit is no drede. 
 
 That the.ys sent receyve in buxumnesse, 15 
 
 The wrasteiing of this world asketh a fall ; 
 Her is no home,' her is but wyldyi-nesse. 
 
 Forth, pilgrime ! Forth, best, out of thy stalle ! 
 
 Loke up hye and thonke God of aUe ; 
 Weyve thy luste and let thy goste the lede, 20 
 
 And ^outhe the shall deiyver, hit is no drede ! 
 1 
 
GEOFFRET CHAUCER. 
 
 GENTILNESSE. 
 
 The firste fadir and fynder of gentilnesse, 
 What man desireth gentle for to be 
 
 Moste followe Ms trace and alle his wittes dresse 
 Vertu to shew and vicis for to flee ; 
 5 For unto vertu longeth dignitee, 
 
 And nought the revers, savely dare I deme, 
 
 Al were he mitre, corone, or diademe. 
 
 The firste stoke was ful of rightwisnesse, 
 Trewe of his word, soboure, pitoys and free, 
 10 Cleene of his gooste and lovid besyhesse, 
 
 Ageynste the vice of slowthe in honeste ; 
 And but his heire love vertu as did he, 
 He nis not gentille though him riche seme, 
 AI were he mitre, corone, or diademe. 
 
 15 Vice may wel bee heyre to olde richesse. 
 
 But there may no man, as ye may welle see, 
 Byquethe his sone his vertuous noblesse ; 
 That is approperid into noo degree, 
 But the firste Fadir in Magestee, 
 20 Which may his heires deeme hem that him queme, 
 
 Al were he mitre, corone, or diademe. 
 
 CHAUCER'S A B C; OR, THE PRATER OF OUR LADY. 
 
 Al myghty and al mercyable Queene, 
 To whom that al this world fleeth for socour 
 To have relees of sinne, of sorwe, and teene ! 
 Gloriouse Virgine, of alle floures flour, 
 To the I flee confounded in errour. 
 , Help, and releeve, thou nuhti debonayre. 
 Have mercy on my perilous langour ! 
 Venquisshed me hath my cruelle adversaire. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER. ii 
 
 Bountee so fts hath in thin herte his tente, 
 That wel I wot, thou wolt my socour bee ; 18 
 
 Thou canst not warne him that with good entente 
 Axath thin helpe, thin herte is ay so free ! 
 Thou art largesse, of pleyn feUcitee, 
 Havene of refute, of quiete, and of reste. 
 Loo ! how that theeves sevens chasen mee ! 15 
 
 Help ! Lady bryght, er that my ship to-breste ! 
 
 Comfort is noon, but in yow, Ladi deere ! 
 For loo,' my sinne and my eonfusioun. 
 Which ouhten not in thi presence appeere, 
 Han take on me a greevous accioiin 20 
 
 Of verrey riht and desperacioun ! 
 And as bi riht thei mihten wel susteene 
 That I were wurthi my dampnacioun, 
 Nere merci of you, bUsful hevene Queene ! 
 
 Doute is ther noon, thou Queen of misericorde, 35 
 
 That thou nart cause of grace and merci heere ; 
 God vouched saf thurgh thee with us to accorde, 
 For certes, Crystes bhsful mooder deere ! 
 Were now the bowe bent in swich maneere 
 As it was first, of justice and of ire, 30 
 
 The rihtful G-od nolde of no mercy heere ; 
 But thurgh thee han we grace as we desire. 
 
 Evere hath myn hope of refuit been in thee, ^ 
 For heer biforn ful ofte in many a wyse 
 Hast thou to misericorde resceyved me ; 35 
 
 But merci, Ladi ! at the grete assyse. 
 Whan we shule come bifore the hye justyse ! 
 So litel fruit shal thanne in me be founde 
 That, but thou er that daye me chastyse, 
 Of verrey right my werk me wole confounde. to 
 
 Fleeynge, I flee for socour to thi tente 
 Me for to hide from tempeste ful of dreede, 
 Biseeching yow that ye you not absente 
 Thouh I be 'wikke ; O help yit at this neede ! 
 Al have I ben a beste in wil and deede, is 
 
 Yit, Ladi, thou me clothe with thi grace. 
 
4; GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 Thin enemy and myn, Ladi, tak heede 
 Un-to my deth in poynt is me to chace ! 
 
 Glorious mayde and mooder wWcli that nevere 
 
 50 Were bitter, neither in eerth nor in see, 
 
 But ful of swetnesse and of merci evere. 
 Help, that my Fader be not wroth with me ! 
 Spek thou, for I ne dar not him ysee. 
 So have I doon, in eerthe, alias the whUe ! 
 
 55 That certes, but if thou my socour bee 
 
 To stynk eterne he wole my gost exile ! 
 
 He vouched saaf, tel him, as was his wille 
 Bicomen a man to have oure alliaunce. 
 And with his precious blood he wrot the bUle 
 
 iso Up-on the crois as general acquitaunce 
 
 To every penitent in ful creaunce. 
 And therfore, Ladi bryght, thou for us praye ! 
 Thanne shalt thou bothe stinte al his grevaunce. 
 And make oure f oo to failen of his praye. 
 
 65 I wot it wel thou wolt ben oure socour. 
 
 Thou art so ful of bountee in certeyn ; 
 For whan a soule falleth in errour 
 Thi pitee goth and haleth him agein ; 
 Thanne makest thou his pees with his sovereyn, 
 
 70 And bringest him out of the crooked strete. 
 
 Who-so thee loveth he shal not love in veyn. 
 That shal he fynde as he the lyt shal lete. 
 
 Kalendeeres enlumyned ben thei 
 That in this world ben lighted with thi name, 
 
 75 And who-so goth to yow the rihte wey. 
 
 Him thar not drede in soule to be lame. 
 Now, Queen of comfort ! sithe thou art that same 
 To whom I seeche for my medicyne, 
 Lat not my foo no more my wounde entame, 
 
 80 Myn hele in- to thin hand al I resyne. 
 
 Ladi, thi sorwe kan I not portreye 
 Under the cros, ne his greevous penaunce. 
 But for youre bothes peynes I yow preye, 
 Lat not oure alder foo make his bobaunce, 
 
GEOFFKET CHAUCER. 5 
 
 That he hath in hise Ij'stes of mischaunce 85 
 
 Convict that ye bothe have bouht so deere. 
 As I seide erst, thou ground of oure substaunce 
 Continue on us thi pitous eyen cleere. 
 
 Moises that saugh the bush with flawmes rede 
 Brenninge, of which ther never a stikke brende, 90 
 
 Was signe of thin unwemmed maidenhede ; 
 Thou art the bush on which ther gan descende 
 The Holi Goost, the which that Moyses wende 
 Had ben a fyir, and this was in figure. 
 Now, Lady, from the fyir thou us defende 95 
 
 Which that in helle eternally shal dure. 
 
 CLEOPATRA, THE MARTYR QUEEN OF EGYPT. 
 (From the Legende of Qoode Women.') 
 
 After the deth of Tholome the kyng, 
 That al Egipte hadde in his governyng, 
 Regned hys queene Cleopataras ; 
 Til on a tjmae befel ther swich a cas, 
 
 That, out of Rome was sent a senatour, 5 
 
 For to conqueren regnes and honour 
 Unto the toune of Rome, as was usance. 
 To have the worlde at hir obeysaunce, 
 And sooth to seye, Antonius was his name. 
 
 So fil yt, as Fortune hym oght a shame, 10 
 
 Whanne he was fallen in prosperitee, 
 Rebel unto the toune of Rome ys hee. 
 And over al this, the suster of Cesar 
 He lafte hir falsly, er that she was war, 
 And wold algates han another wyf ; 15 
 
 For which he took with Rome and Cesar strif . 
 
 Natheles, forsooth this ilke senatour 
 Was a full worthy gentil werreyour. 
 And of his deeth it was ful gret damage. 
 
6 GEOFFEET CHAUCEE. 
 
 20 But Love had brought this man in swich a rage, 
 
 And him so narwe bounded in his laas, 
 Alle for the love of Cleopataras, 
 That al the worlde he sette at noo value ; 
 Hjrm thoghte ther was nothing to him so due 
 
 26 As Cleopataras for to love and serve ; 
 
 Hym roghte nat in armies for to sterve 
 In the defence of hir and of hir ryght. 
 
 This noble queene ek lovede so this knyght, 
 Thurgh his desert and for his ehivalrye ; 
 
 30 As certeynly, but-yf that bookes lye, 
 
 He was of persone, and of gentilesse, 
 And of discrecion, and of hardynesse. 
 Worthy to any wight that liven may ; 
 And she was faire as is the rose in May. 
 
 85 And — to maken shortely is the beste • — 
 
 She was his wif , and hadde him as hir leste. 
 
 The' weddyng and the feste to devyse. 
 To me that have ytake swich emprise, 
 Of so many a storye for to make, 
 
 40 Yt were to longe, lest that I sholde slake 
 
 Of thing that berjrth more effecte and charge ; 
 For men may overlode a shippe or barge. 
 And forthy, to effect than wol I skyppe, 
 And al the remenaunt I wol let yt slyppe. 
 
 45 Octavyan, that woode was of this dede, 
 
 Shoop him an oost on Antony to lede, 
 Al outerly for his destructioun, 
 With stoute Eomajmes, crewel as lyoun ; 
 To shippe they wente, and thus I let hem sayle. 
 
 60 Antonius, that was war, and wol not fayle 
 
 To meeten with these Romaynes, yf he may, 
 Took eke his rede, and booth upon a day 
 His wyf and he and al hys oost forthe wente 
 To shippe anoon, no lenger they ne stente, 
 
 85 And in the see hit happed hem to mete. 
 
 Up gooth the trumpe, and for to shoute and shete, 
 And paynen hem to sette on with the sonne • 
 
GKOFFRET CHAUCER. 7 
 
 "With grisly soune out gooth the grete gonne, 
 
 And hertely they hurtelen al attones, 
 
 And fro the toppe donne cometh the grete stones. eo 
 
 In gooth the grapenel so f ul of crokes, 
 
 Amonge the ropes, and the sheryng hokes ; 
 
 In with the polax preseth he and he ; 
 
 Behynde the maste begynneth he to fle, 
 
 And out agayn, and dryveth hym over horde ; es 
 
 He styngeth hym upon his speres orde ; 
 
 He rent the sayle with hokes lyke a sithe ; 
 
 He bryngeth the cuppe, and biddeth hem be blithe ; 
 
 He poureth pesen upon the hacches slidre, 
 
 With pottes ful of lyme, they goon togidre. 7o 
 
 And thus the longe day in fight they spende 
 
 TU at the last, as every thing hath ende, 
 
 Antony is shent, and put hym to the flyghte. 
 
 And al hys folke to-goo, that best goo myghte. 
 
 Fleeth ek the queene with al Mr purpre sayle, 75 
 
 For strokes which that wente as thik as hayle ; 
 No wonder was she myght it nat endure. 
 And whan that Antony saugh that aventure, 
 ' 'Alias, ' ' quod he, ' ' the day that I was borne ! 
 My worshippe in this day thus have I lorne ! " so 
 
 And for dispeyre out of hys wytte he sterte, 
 And roof hymself anoon thurghoUt the herte, 
 Er that he ferther went put of the place. 
 Hys wyf , that koude of Cesar have no grace. 
 To Egipte is fled, for drede and for distresse. 85 
 
 But herkeneth ye that speken of kyndenesse. 
 
 Ye men that falsly sweren many an oothe, 
 That ye wol dye yf that your love be wroothe. 
 Here may ye seen of women which a trouthe. 
 This woful Cleopatre hath made swich routhe, 90 
 
 That ther nys tonge noon that may yt telle. 
 But on the morowe she wol no lenger dwelle. 
 But made hir subtil werkmen make a shryne 
 Of al the rubees and the stones fyne 
 
 In al Egipte that she koude espye ; 95 
 
 And put ful the shryne of spicerye, 
 
8 GEOlFFRET CHAUCER. 
 
 And let the corps embawme ; and forth she f ette 
 This dede corps, and in the shryne yt shette. 
 And next the shryne a pitte than dooth she grave, 
 
 100 And alle the serpentes that she myght have, 
 
 She put hem in that grave, and thus she seyde : 
 "Now, love, to whom my sorweful hert obeyde. 
 So ferforthely that fro that blysf ul houre 
 That I yow swor to ben al frely youre, — 
 
 105 I mene yow, Antonius, my knyght,: — 
 
 That never wakyng in the day or nyght 
 Ye nere out of myn hertes remembraunce. 
 For wele or woo, for carole, or for daunce ; 
 And in my self this covenaunt made Ithoo, 
 
 110 That ryght swich as ye felten wele or woo, 
 
 As ferforth as yt in my powere lay, 
 Unreprovable unto my wifhood ay. 
 The same wolde I felen, life or deethe ; 
 And thiike covenaunt while me lasteth breethe 
 
 115 I wol fulfiUe ; and that shal wel be seene, 
 
 Was never unto hir love a trewer queene." 
 
 And wyth that worde, naked, with ful good herte, 
 Amonge the serpents in the pit she sterte. 
 And there she chees to han hir buryinge. 
 
 120 Anoon the neddres gonne Mr for to stynge. 
 
 And she hir deeth receveth with good chere, 
 For love of Antony that was hir so dere. 
 And this is storial, sooth it ys no fable. 
 
 Now er I fynde a man thus ti-ewe and stable, 
 
 125 And wolde for love his deeth so frely take, 
 
 I prey God lat oure hedes nevere ake ! 
 
 THE CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 THE GENEKAL PROLOGUE. 
 
 Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote ' 
 The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,. 
 And bathed every veyne in swich licour 
 Of which vertu engendred is the flour ; 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER. \) 
 
 "Wlien Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 6 
 
 Inspu-ed hath in eveiy holt and heeth 
 The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
 Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, 
 And smale f oweles maken melodye 
 
 That slepen al the nyght with open eye, — lo 
 
 So priketh hem Nature in hir corages, — 
 Thanne longeth folk to goon on pilgrimages 
 And palmeres for to seken sti-aunge strondes 
 To feme halwes, kowthe in sondry londes ; 
 And specially, from every shires ende is 
 
 .Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende 
 The hooly bUsful martir for to seke 
 That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 
 
 Bifil that in that seson on a day. 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 20 
 
 Redy to wenden on my pUgrjrmage % 
 To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
 At nyght were come in-to that hostelrye 
 Wei nyne- and- twenty in a compaignye. 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure y-faUe 25 
 
 In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, 
 That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 
 The chambres and the stables weren wyde 
 And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
 
 And shortly whan the sonne was to-reste, so 
 
 So hadde I spoken with hem everychon 
 That I was of his felaweshipe anon, 
 And made forward erly for to ryse 
 To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse. 
 
 But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, * ss 
 
 Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 
 Me thjmketh it acordaunt to resoun 
 To telle yow al the condicioun 
 Of ech of hem, so as it semed me. 
 
 And whiche they weren and of what degree *o 
 
 And eek in what array that they were inne ; 
 And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne. 
 
10 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 A knyght ther was and that a worthy man, 
 That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
 
 « To riden out, he loved chivalrie, 
 
 Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 
 Ful worthy was he in liis lordes werre. 
 And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre. 
 As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse, 
 
 60 And evere honoured for his worthynesse. 
 
 At Alisaundre he was whan that it was wonne ; 
 Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 
 Above alle nacions in Pruce. 
 In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Euce, — 
 
 55 No cristen man so ofte of his degree. 
 
 In Grenade, at the seege eek hadde he be 
 
 Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. 
 
 At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 
 
 Whan they w^e wonne ;' and in the Grete See 
 
 60 At many a noble armee hadde he be. 
 
 At mortal bataiUes hadde he been flftene, 
 And ioughten for oure feith at Tramyssene 
 In lystes thries, and ay slain his foo. 
 This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 
 
 65 Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 
 
 Agayn another hethen in Turkye ; 
 And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 
 And though that he were worthy, he was wys. 
 And of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
 
 70 He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde 
 
 In al his lyf un-to no maner wight. 
 He was a verray parflt, gentil knyght. 
 
 But for to tellen you of his array, 
 His hors was goode but he was nat gay, 
 
 75 Of fustian he wered a gypoun 
 
 Al bismotered with his habergeoun. 
 For he was late ycome from his viage, 
 And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 
 
 With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squier, 
 
 80 A loyyere and a lusty bacheler. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 11 
 
 With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. 
 
 Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
 
 Of Ms stature he was of evene lengthe, 
 
 And wonderly delyvere and of greet strengthe, 
 
 And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie, 85 
 
 In Flaundres, in Artoys and Py cardie, 
 
 And born hym weel, as of so htel space. 
 
 In hope t<5 stonden in his lady grace. 
 
 Embrouded was he, as it were a meede 
 
 Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede ; 90 
 
 •Syngynge he was or ^oytynge, al the day ; 
 
 He was as fressh as in the monthe of May. 
 
 Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and wyde. 
 
 Wei koude he sitte on hors and f aire ryde ; 
 
 He koude songes make and wel endite, 95 
 
 Juste and eek daunce and weel purtreye and write. 
 
 So hoote he lovede that by nyghertale 
 
 He slepte namoore thaln dooth a nyghtyngale ; 
 
 Curteis he was, lowely and servysable. 
 
 And carf biforn his fader at the table. loo 
 
 A Yeman hadde he and servantz namo 
 At that tyme, for him^liste ride soo ; 
 And he was clad in cote and hood of grene. 
 A sheef of pecock arwes bright and^kene 
 Under his belt he bar ful thriftily. 105 
 
 Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly ; 
 ,His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe, 
 And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe ; 
 A not-heed hadde he with a broun visage ; 
 Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage ; no 
 
 Up-on his arm he baar a gay bracer, 
 And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler. 
 And on that oother-syde a gay daggere 
 Harneised wel and sharpe as point of spere ; 
 A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheene ; 115 
 
 An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene. 
 A forster was he, soothly as I gesse. 
 
 Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
 
12 GEOFFREY CHAUCEK. 
 
 That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy ; 
 
 130 Hire gi-etteste ooth was but by seint Loy, 
 
 And she was eleped madame Eglentyne. 
 Ful wel she soonge the service dyryne, 
 Entuned in hir nose ful semeely, 
 And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly 
 
 125 After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe, 
 
 For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
 At mete wel ytaught was she with aUe, 
 She leet no morsel from hir hppes falle, 
 Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 
 
 130 Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe, 
 
 That no drope ne fille up-on hire breste ; 
 Ih curteisie was set ful muchel hir leste. 
 Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene, 
 That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 
 
 136 Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 
 
 Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, 
 And sikeiiy she was of greet desport, 
 And ful'plesaunt and amyable of port, 
 And peyned hire to countrefete cheere 
 
 140 Of Court, and to been estathch of manere, 
 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence ; 
 But for to speken of hire conscience. 
 She was so charitable and so pitous 
 She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous 
 
 145 Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
 
 Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde 
 With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed ; 
 But soore wepte she if any of hem were deed, 
 Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte, 
 
 150 And al was conscience and tendre herte. 
 
 Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was ; 
 Hire nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, 
 Hir mouth ful smal and ther to softe and reed, 
 But sikerly she hadde a fair f orheed ; 
 
 155 It was almoost a spanne brood I trowe. 
 
 For hardily she was nat undergrowe. 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 13 
 
 Ful fetys was Mr cloke as I was war ; 
 
 Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 
 
 A peire of bedes gauded al 'with grene, 
 
 And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, iso 
 
 On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
 
 And after Amor vindt omnia. 
 
 Another Nonne also with hire hadde she 
 That was hire Chapeleyne^ and preestes thre. 
 
 A Monk ther was a fair for the maistrie, 165 
 
 An outridere that lovede venerie, 
 A manly man to been an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable, 
 And whan he rood men myghte his brydel heere 
 Gynglen in a whistlynge, wynd als cleere, 170 
 
 And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel beUe 
 Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle, 
 The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, 
 By-cause that it was old and som del streit, 
 This Uke Monk leet olde thynges.pace ' 175 
 
 And heeld after the newe world the space. 
 He gaf nat of that text a pulled hen 
 That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, 
 Ne that a Monk whan that he is recchelees 
 Is Ukned til a flssh that is Waterlees ; 180 
 
 That is to sayn, a Monk out of his cloystre ; 
 But thUke text heeld he nat worth an oystre ; 
 And I seyde his opinioun was good. 
 What, sholde he studie and make hym-selven wood 
 Upon a book in cloystre alwey: to poure, 185 
 
 Or swynken with his handes and laboure 
 As Austyn bit, how shal the world be served ? 
 Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved. 
 Therfore he was a prikasour aright. 
 
 Grehoundes he hadde as swift as fowel in flight. 19« 
 
 Of prikyng and of hunting for the hare 
 Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he si^are. 
 I.seigh his sieves ypurfiled at the hond 
 With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond ; 
 
14 GEOFFKET CHACCEB. 
 
 '^' And for to festne his hood under his chyn 
 
 He hadde of gold ywroght a ful curious pyn, — 
 A love knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
 His heed was balled that shoon as any glas, 
 And eek his face as it hadde been enoynt. 
 
 2<"' He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; 
 
 Hise eyen stepe and roUynge in his heed,' 
 That stemed as a forneys of a leed ; 
 His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. 
 Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat. 
 
 ^"5 He was nat pale, as a forpyned goost : 
 
 A fat swan loved he best of any roost : 
 His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 
 
 A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye, 
 A lymytour, a ful solempue man, 
 
 ^1" In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan 
 
 So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage ; 
 He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
 Of yonge wommen at his owene cost : 
 Un-to his ordre he was a noble post, 
 
 ^^® And wel biloved and famulier was he 
 
 With frankeleyns over al in his contree ; 
 And eek with worthy wommen of the toun, 
 For he hadde power of confessioun. 
 As seyde hym-selfe, moore than a curat, 
 
 220 poj. Qf ]jis ordre he was liceneiat. 
 
 Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 
 And plesaunt was his absolucioun. 
 He was an esy man to geve penaunce 
 Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce ; 
 
 ^^ For unto a povre ordre for to give 
 
 Is signe that a man is wel yshryve ; 
 For if he gaf he dorste make avaunt 
 He wiste that a man was repentaunt: 
 For many a man so harde is of his herte 
 
 ■no He may nat wepe al thogh hym soore smerte^ 
 
 Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyeres 
 Men moote geve silver to the povre freres. 
 
GEOFFREY CHACCER. 15 
 
 His typet was ay farsed full of knyves 
 
 And pynnes, for to geven yonge wyves ; 
 
 And eerteinly he hadde a murye note, 335 
 
 Wei koude he synge and pleyen on a rote : 
 
 Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris ; 
 
 His nekke whjt was as the flour delys, 
 
 Ther to he strong was as a ehampioun. 
 
 He knew the tavernes well in al the toun, 240 
 
 And everich hostiler and tappestere 
 
 Bet than a lazar or a beggestere ; 
 
 For un-to swich a worthy man as he 
 
 Acorded nat, as by his faeultee, 
 
 To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunee ; 245 
 
 It is nat honeste, it may not avaunce 
 
 For to deelen with no swiche poraille ; 
 
 But al with riche and seUeres of ^ataille. 
 
 And over al, ther as profit sholde arise, 
 
 Curteis he was and lowely of servyse, 259 
 
 Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. 
 
 He was the beste beggere in his hous, 
 
 For thogh a wydwe hadde noght "a sho, 
 
 So plesaunt was his In principio, 
 
 Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente. 255 
 
 His purehas was wel bettre than his rente, 
 
 And rage he koude as it were right a whelpe ; 
 
 In love dayes thei" koude he muchel helpe, 
 
 For there he was nat lyk a cloystrer 
 
 With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler, 260 
 
 But he was Uke a maister, or a pope ; 1 
 
 Of double worstede was his semycope, 
 
 That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 
 
 Somwhat he hpsed for his wafltownesse. 
 
 To make his Englissh sweet up-on his tonge, 265 
 
 And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, * 
 
 Hise eyen twynMed in his heed aryght 
 
 As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 
 
 This worthy lymytour was eleped Huberd. 
 
 A MTarchant was ther with a forked berd, 270 
 
16 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 In motlee, and hye on horse he sat ; 
 Up-on his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat ; 
 His bootes clasped f aire and f etisly ; 
 Hise resons he spak ful solempnely, 
 
 275 Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng. 
 
 He wolde the see wei^e kept for any thing 
 Bitwise Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
 Wei koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. 
 This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette, 
 
 280 Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 
 
 So estatly was he of his governaunce 
 With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce. 
 For sothe he was a worthy man with alle 
 But ^oth to seyn I noot how men hym caUe. 
 
 285 A clerk ther was of Oxenford also 
 
 That un-to logyk hadde longe ygo, 
 And leene was his hors as is a rake, 
 And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, 
 But looked holwe and ther to sobrely ; 
 
 290 • Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy 
 
 For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 
 Ne was so wordly to have office ; 
 For hym was levere have at his beddes heed 
 Twenty bookes clad in blak or reed 
 
 295 Of Aristotle and his philosopMe, 
 
 Than robes riche" or fithele or gay sautrie ; 
 But al be that he was a philosophre, 
 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre. 
 But al that he myghte of his freendes hente 
 
 300 On bookes and Ms lernynge he it spente, 
 
 And bisily gan for the Soules preye 
 Of hem that gaf hym wher with to scoleye. 
 Of studie took he moost cure and mooste heede, 
 Noght a word spak he moore than was neede, 
 
 305 And that was seyd 'in forme and reverence 
 
 And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence. 
 , Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche 
 And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 
 
GEOFFEET CHAUCER. 17 
 
 A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and -wys, 
 That often hadde been at the Parvys, 310 
 
 Ther was also ful riche of excellence. 
 Discreet he was and of greet reverence ; 
 He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise, 
 Justice he "was ful often in Assise, 
 By patente and by pleyn commissioun, sis 
 
 A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye. 
 Whit was his heed as is a dayesye, 
 Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 
 Wei loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn ; 
 To lyven in delit was evere his wone, 320 
 
 For he was Epicurus owene sone, 
 That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 
 Was verraily feUcitee parfit. 
 
 * » * « # 
 
 An Haberdasshere and a Carpenter, 
 A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer, 325 
 
 And they were clothed aUe in o lyveree 
 Of a solempne, and a greet fraternitee ; 
 
 ***** 
 
 A Coke they hadde with hem for the nones 
 To boiUe the chiknes with the marybones 
 
 A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste ; sso 
 
 For aught I woot he was of Dertemouthe. 
 ***** 
 
 With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik ; 
 In all this world pe was ther noon hym lik 
 To speke of phisik and of surgerye ; 
 
 For he was grounded in astronomye. 335 
 
 He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel 
 In houres by his magyk natureel. 
 
 ***** 
 Wei knew he the olde Esculapius 
 And Deyscorides, and eek Eisus, 
 
18 GEOFFREY CHAUCEE. 
 
 HO Of his cliete mesiu'able was he, 
 
 For it was of no superfluitee, 
 But of greet norissyng and digestible. 
 His studie was but litel on the Bible ; 
 
 « * « « » 
 
 A Good wif was ther of biside Bathe, 
 345 But she was som del deef and that was scathe. 
 
 Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt 
 She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
 In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon 
 That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon, 
 350 And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she, 
 
 That she was out of alle charitee. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A good man was ther of religioun 
 And was a Povre Persoun of a Toun ; 
 But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk ; 
 
 355 He was also a lerned man, a clerk. 
 
 That Cristes Gospel trewely wolde preche, 
 Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Benynge he was and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversitee ful paeient ; 
 
 360 And swich he was j'-preved ofte sithes. 
 
 Ful looth were hym to cursen for hise tithes, 
 But rather wolde he geven, out of doute, 
 Un-to his povre parisshens aboute. 
 Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce. 
 
 365 He koude in litel thyng have sufflsaunce. , 
 
 Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder, 
 
 But he ne lafte nat for reyn ne thonder. 
 
 In siknesse nor in meschief to ^'isite 
 
 The ferreste in his parisshe muehe and Ute 
 
 370 Up-on his feet and in his hand a staf . 
 
 This noble ensample to his sheepe he gaf 
 That flrste he wi-oghte and afterward he taughte. 
 Out of the gospel he the wordes caughte. 
 And this figure he added eek ther to, ■ . 
 
 375 That if gold ruste what shal iren doo ? 
 
GEOFFREY CHAUCEE. 19 
 
 For if a preest be foul on whom ,we truste, 
 No -wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 
 And shame it is, if that a prest take keepe, 
 A shiten shepherde and a clene sheepe 
 
 Wei oghte a preest ensample for to geve aso 
 
 By his clennesse how that his sheepe sholde lyve. 
 He sette nat his benefice to hjrre 
 And leet his sheepe encombred in the myre, 
 And ran to Londoun un-to Saint Poules 
 To seken hym a chauntrie for soules ; 385 
 
 Or with a bretherhed to been withholde, 
 But dwelleth at hoom and kepeth wel his folde, 
 So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie, — • 
 He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie ; 
 And though he hooly were and vertuous, 390 
 
 He was nat to synful man despitous, 
 Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 
 But in his techyng discreet and benynge, 
 To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, 
 
 5y good ensample, this was his bisynesse. 395 
 
 Bu^t it were any persone obstinat. 
 What so he were, of heigh or lough estat, 
 Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys. 
 A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys ; 
 Hi waiteth after no pompe and reverence, 400 
 
 Ne maked him a spiced conscience. 
 But Cristes loore, and his Apostle's twelve. 
 He taughte, but first he folwed it hym selve. 
 With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother, 
 ***** 
 A trewe swynkere and a good was he, ios 
 
 Lyvynge in pees and parflt charitee. 
 
 Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, 
 A Somnour and a Pardoner also, 
 A Maunciple and myself, — ther were namo. 
 « * * » « 
 
 Now have I toold you shortly in a clause 410 
 
20 GEOFFEET CHAUCER. 
 
 The staat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause 
 Why that assembled was this compaignye 
 In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrye, 
 That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
 
 416 But now is tyme to yow for to telle 
 
 How that we baren us that ilke nyght, 
 When we were in that hostelrie'alyght, 
 And after wol I telle of our viage 
 And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage. 
 
 420 But first, I pray yow of youre curteisye, 
 
 That ye narette it nat my vileynye, 
 Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere 
 To telle yow Mr wordes and hir cheere, 
 Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely, 
 
 425 For this ye knowen al so wel as I, 
 
 Who so shal telle a tale after a man, 
 He moote reheree as ny as evere he kan 
 Eyerich a word, if it be in his charge, 
 Al speke he never so rudeliche or large, 
 
 43Q Or ellis he moot teU his tale untrewe, 
 
 Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. 
 He may nat spare al thogh he were his brother. 
 He moot as wel seye o word as another. 
 Crist spak hym self ful brode in hooly writ 
 
 433 And wel ye woot no vileynye is it. 
 
 Eek Plato seith, who so kan hym rede, 
 "The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede." 
 
 Also I prey yow to forgeve it me 
 Al have I nat set folk in hir degree 
 
 440 Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde ; 
 
 My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 
 
EDIIUND SPENSEE. 21 
 
 XVI CENTUEY. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSEE. 
 
 THE CAVE OF MOKPHEUS. 
 
 (Fairy Queen, I., 1, 34-42.) 
 
 A litle lowly hermitage it was, 
 Downe in a dale, hard by a forests sidle, 
 Far from resort of people, that did pas 
 In traveill to and froe : a litle wyde 
 
 There was an holy chappeU edifyde, 5 
 
 Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say 
 His holy thinges each morne and eventyde : 
 Thereby a christaU streame did gently play, 
 Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. 
 
 Arrived there, the litle house they fill, lo 
 
 Ne looke for entertainement, where none was ; 
 Rest'is their feast, and aU thinges at their will ; 
 The noblest mind the best contentment has. 
 With f aire discourse the evening so they pas ; 
 For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store, ' 15 
 
 And well could file his tongue, as smooth as glas : 
 He told of saintes and popes, and evermore 
 He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. 
 
 The drouping night thus creepeth on them fast ; 
 
 And the sad humour loading their eye-liddes, 20 
 
 As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast 
 
 Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes. 
 
22 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes : 
 Where when all drOwnd in deadly sleepe he Andes, 
 25 He to his studie goes ; and there amiddes 
 
 His magick bookes, and artes of sundrie kindes, 
 He seekes out mighty charmes to trouble sleepy Tninds. 
 
 Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
 (Let none them read ! ) thereof did verses frame ; 
 
 30 With which, and other spelles like terrible. 
 
 He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly dame ; 
 And cursed heven ; and spake reprochf ul shame 
 Of highest God, the Lord of life and light. 
 A bold bad man ! that dar'd to call by name 
 
 35 Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead night ; 
 
 At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight. 
 
 And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd 
 Legions of sprights, the which, like Utle flyes, 
 Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd, 
 
 40 Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 
 
 To aide his friendes, or fray his enimies : 
 Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo. 
 And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes ; 
 The one of them he gave a message too, 
 
 45 The other by himselfe staide other worke to doo. 
 
 He, making speedy way through spersed ayre. 
 And through the world of waters wide and deepe. 
 To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 
 Am.id the bowels of the earth full steepe, 
 50 And low, where dawning day doth never peepe. 
 
 His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed 
 Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe 
 In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed. 
 Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. 
 
 55 Whose double gates he findeth locked fast ; 
 
 The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, 
 The other all with silver overcast ; 
 
EDMUND SPENSEK. 23 
 
 And wakeful dogges before them fatre doe lye, 
 Watching to banish- Care their enimy, 
 
 Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 60 
 
 By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly, 
 And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe 
 In drowsie fit he Andes ; of nothing he takes keepe. 
 
 And, more to luUe him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, 65 
 
 And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, 
 Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne 
 Of swarming bees, did caste him in a swowne. 
 No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, 
 As still are wont t' annoy the waUed towne, 70 
 
 Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet lyes. 
 Wrapt in eternaU silence farre from enimyes. 
 
 The messenger approching to him spake ; 
 But his waste wordes retournd to him in vaine : 
 So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake. 75 
 
 Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine. 
 Whereat he gan to stretch : but he againe 
 Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake. 
 As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine 
 Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, so 
 
 He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. 
 
 THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT AND SARAZEST. 
 (iFairy Queen, I., 2, 15-19.) 
 
 The Knight of the Eedcrosse, when him he spide 
 Spurring so hote with rage dispiteous, 
 ■Gan f airely couch his speare, and towards ride : 
 Soone meete they boti, both fell and furious, 
 That, daunted with theyr forces hideous. 
 Their steeds doe stagger, and amazed stand ; 
 
24 EDMUITD SPENSER. 
 
 And eke themselves, too rudely rigorous, 
 Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand, * 
 Doe backe rebutte, and ech to other yealdeth land. 
 
 10 As when two rams, stird with ambitious pride. 
 
 Fight for the rule of the rich-fleeced flocke. 
 Their horned fronts so fierce on either side 
 Doe meete, that, with the terror of the shocke 
 Astonied, both stand sencelesse as a blocke, 
 
 15 Forgetfull of the hanging victory : 
 
 So stood these twaine, unmoved as a rocke, 
 Both staring fierce, and holding idely 
 The broken reliques of their former cruelty. 
 
 The Sarazin, sore daunted with the buffe, 
 20 Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies ; 
 
 Who well it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff : 
 Each others equall puissance envies, 
 And through their iron sides with cruell spies 
 Does seeke to perce ; repining courage jdelds 
 25 No foote to foe ; the flashing fler flies. 
 
 As from a forge, out of their burning shields ; 
 And streams of purple bloud new die the verdant flelds. 
 
 "Curse on that Crosse," quoth then the Sarazin, 
 "That keepes thy body from the bitter fltt : 
 
 30 Dead long j^goe, I wote, thou haddest bin, 
 
 Had not that charme from thee f orwarned itt : 
 But yet I warne thee now assured sitt, 
 And hide thy head." Therewith upon his crest 
 With rigour so outrageous he smitt, 
 
 35 That a large share it hewd out of the rest. 
 
 And glauncing downe his shield from blame him fairely blest. 
 
 Who, thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping spark 
 Of native vertue gan eftsoones revive ; 
 And, at his haughty helmet making mark, 
 40 So hugely stroke, that it the Steele did rive. 
 
 And cleft his head : He, tumbling downe alive, 
 
EDMCUD SPENSER. 25 
 
 With bloudy mouth his mother earth did Ids, 
 Greeting his grave : his grudging ghost did strive 
 "With the fraile flesh ; at last it flitted is, 
 Whether the soules doe fly of men that live amis. 45 
 
 UNA. 
 
 {Fairy. Queen, I., 3, 1-6.) 
 
 •Nought is there under heav'n's wide hoUownesse, 
 That moves more deare compassion of mind, 
 Than heautie brought t' unworthie wretchednesse 
 Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes unkind. 
 I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd, 5 
 
 Or through alleageance, and fast fealty, 
 Which I do owe unto all womankynd, 
 Feele my hart perst with so great agony. 
 When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. 
 
 And now it is empassioned so deepe, lo 
 
 For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing. 
 That my frayle eies these lines with teares do steepe. 
 To thinke how she through guyleful handehng. 
 Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, 
 Though faire as ever living wight was fayre, 15 
 
 Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting. 
 Is from her Knight. divorced in despayre, 
 And her dew loves deryv'd to that vile Witches shayre. 
 
 Yet she, most faithfuU ladie, all this whUe 
 Forsaken, wofuU, soUtarie mayd, 30 
 
 Far from all peoples preace, as in exile. 
 In wildernesse and wastfuU deserts strayd. 
 To seek her Knight ; who, subtily betrayd 
 Through that late vision which th' Enchaunter wrought 
 Had her abandond. She, of nought affrayd, 25 
 
 Through woods and wastnes wide him daily sought ; 
 Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. 
 
26 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, 
 From her unhastie beast she did alight ; 
 
 30 And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay 
 
 In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight ; 
 From her f ayre head her fillet she undight, 
 And layd her stole aside. Her angels face. 
 As the gi-eat eye of heaven, shyned bright, 
 
 35 And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 
 
 Did never mortaU eye behold such heavenly grace. 
 
 It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
 A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, 
 Hunting f uU greedy after salvage blood : 
 
 40 Soone as the roj-all Virgin he did spy, 
 
 "With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 
 To have attonce devourd her tender corse : 
 But to the pray whenas he drew more ny, 
 His bloody rage aswaged with remorse, 
 
 45 And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. 
 
 Instead thereof he kist her wearie feet. 
 And hckt her liUy hands with fawning tohg ; 
 As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
 O how can beautie maister the most strong, 
 50 And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
 
 Whose yielded pryde and proud submission. 
 Still dreading death, when she had marked long. 
 Her hart gan melt in great compassion ; 
 And drizUng teares did shed for pure affection. 
 
 HOUSE OF PRIDE. 
 (Fairy Queen, I., 4, 2-34.) 
 
 — till at last they see 
 A goodly building, bravely garnished ; 
 The house of mightie prince it seemd to be ; 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 27 
 
 And towards it a broad high way that led, 
 All bare through peoples feet, which thether trafeiled. 6 
 
 Great troupes of people traveild thetherward 
 Both day and night, of each degree and place ; 
 But few returned, having scaped hard 
 With balef uU beggery, or foule disgrace ; 
 Which ever after in most wretched case, lo 
 
 Like loathsome lazars, by the hedges lay. 
 Thether Duessa badd him bend his pace ; 
 For she is wearie of the toilsom way ; 
 And also nigh consumed is the lingring day. 
 
 A stately pallace built of squared bricke, 15 
 
 Which cunningly was without morter laid. 
 Whose wals were high, but nothing stt-ong nor thick. 
 And golden foile all over them displaid. 
 That purest skye with brightnesse they dismaid ; 
 High lifted up were many loftie towres, 20 
 
 And goodly galleries far- over laid. 
 Full of faire windowes and delightful bowres ; 
 And on the top a diall told the timely howres. 
 
 It was a goodly heape for to behould. 
 
 And spake the praises of the workmans witt : 25 
 
 But fuU great pittie, that so faire a mould 
 Did on so weake foundation ever sitt : 
 For on a sandie hUl, that still did flitt 
 And fall away, it mounted was f uU hie : 
 That every ]breath of heaven shaked itt : 30 
 
 And all the hinder partes, that few could spie, 
 Were ruinous and old, but painted cunningly. 
 
 High above aU a cloth of state was spred, 
 
 And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day ; 
 
 On which there sate, most brave embelUshed 35 
 
 With royaU robes and gorgeous array. 
 
28 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 A mayden Queene that shone as Titans ray, 
 In glistring gold and perelesse pretious Stone ; 
 Yet hei' bright blazing beautie did assay 
 io To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne, 
 
 As envying her selfe, that too exceeding shone : 
 
 Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fayrest childe. 
 
 That did presume his fathers fyrie wayne. 
 
 And flaming mouthes of steedes unwonted wilde, 
 
 45 Through highest heaven with weaker hand to rayne ; 
 
 Proud of such glory and advancement vayne, 
 WhUe flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen, 
 He leaves the welkin way most beaten playne, 
 And, rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen 
 
 so With Are not made to burne, but f ayrely for to shyne. 
 
 So proud she shyned in her princely state, 
 Looking to heaven ; for earth she did disdayne : 
 And sitting high ; for lowly she did hate : 
 Lo, underneath her scornefuU feete was layne 
 55 A dreadful! dragon with an hideous trayne ; 
 
 And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright, 
 Wherein her face she often vewed fayne, 
 And in her selfe-lov'd semblance tooke delight ; 
 For she was wondrous faire, as any living wight. 
 
 60 Of griesly Pluto she the daughter was, 
 
 And sad Proserpina, the queene of hell ; 
 Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth to pas 
 That parentage, with pride so did she swell ; 
 And thundring Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell 
 
 65 And wield the world, she claymed for her syre ; 
 
 Or if that any else did Jove exceU : 
 For to the highest she did still aspyre ; 
 Or, if ought higher were then that, did it desyre. 
 
 And proud Lucifera men did her call ; 
 70 That made her selfe a queeiie, and crownd to be ; 
 
EDMUND SPESTSEE. 29 
 
 Yet rightfull kingdome she had none at all, 
 Ne heritage of native soveratatie ; 
 But did usurpe with wrong and tyrannie 
 Upon the scepter, which she now did hold : 
 Ne ruld her realme with lawes, but polUcie, 75 
 
 And strong advizement of sis wizards old, 
 That with their counsels bad her kingdome did uphold. 
 
 Suddein upriseth from her stately place 
 The roiaU Dame, and for her coche doth call : 
 All hurtlen forth ; and she, with princely pace, so 
 
 As faire Aurora, in her purple pall. 
 Out of the east the dawning day doth call. 
 So forth she comes ; her brightnes brode doth blaze. 
 The heapes of people, thronging in the haU, 
 Doe ride each other, upon her to gaze : , 85 
 
 Her glorious glitter and light doth all mens eies amaze. 
 
 So forth she comes, and to her coche does clyme, 
 Adorned all with gold and girlonds gay. 
 That seemd as fresh as Flora in her prime ; 
 And strove to match, in roiaU rich array, 90 
 
 Great Junoes golden chayre ; the which, they saj-, 
 The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride 
 To Joves high hous through heavens bras-paved way, 
 Drawne of fayre pecocks, that excell in pride. 
 And fuU of Argus eyes their tayles dispredden wide. 95 
 
 But this was drawne of six unequaU beasts. 
 On which her six sage counseUours did ryde, 
 Taught to obay their bestiaU beheasts. 
 With like conditions to their kyndes applyde : 
 Of which the first, that aU the rest did guydg, 100 
 
 Was sluggish Idlenesse, the nourse of sin ; 
 Upon a slouthfuU asse he chose to ryde, 
 Arayd in habit blacke, and amis thin ; • 
 Like to an holy monck, the service to begin. 
 
30 EDMUND SPENSEK. 
 
 los And in his hand his poitesse still he bare. 
 
 That much was worne, but therein little redd ; 
 For of devotion he had little care, 
 Still drownd in sleepe and most of his dales dedd : 
 Scarse could he once uphold his heavie hedd, 
 
 110 To looken whether it were night or day. ■ 
 
 May seeme the wayne was very evill ledd, 
 When such an one had guiding of the way, 
 That knew not whether right he went or else astray. 
 
 From worldly cares himselfe hiB did esloyne, 
 115 And greatly shunned manly exercise ; 
 
 From everie worke he chalenged essoyne. 
 
 For contemplation sake : yet otherwise 
 
 His life he led in lawlesse riotise ; 
 
 3y which he grew to grievous malady : 
 120 For in his lustlesse limbs, through evill guise, 
 
 A shaking fever raignd continually : 
 Such one was Idlenesse, first of this company. ' 
 
 And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony; ' 
 Deformed creature, on a filthy swyne ; 
 
 126 His belly was upblowne with luxury. 
 
 And eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne ; 
 And like a crane his necke was long- and fj^e, 
 With which he swallowd up excessive ffeast. 
 For want whereof poore. people oft did pyne : 
 
 130 And all the way, most hke a brutish beast. 
 
 He spued up his gorge, that all .did him- deteast. 
 
 In greenevine leaves he. was right fitly clad ; 
 For other clothes he could not wear© for heate ; 
 And on his head an y^ie girland had, 
 
 135 From under which fast trickled downe the sweat : 
 
 Still as^he rode, he somewhat still did eat, • 
 And in his hand did beat- a bouzing can. 
 Of which he supt so oft, that on his seat • 
 His dronken corse he scarse upholden can : 
 
 140 In shape and hfe more like a monster then a man. 
 
EDMUXD SPENSER. 31 
 
 Unflt he was for any worldly thing, 
 And eke unhable once to sth-re or go ; 
 Xot meet to be of counseU to a kino-, 
 ^Yhose mind in meat and drinke was di-owned so, 
 That from his f rend, he seldome knew his f o : 
 Full of diseases was his carcas blew, — : 
 And a dry dropsie through his flesh did flow, 
 Which by misdiet daily greater grew : 
 Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. 
 
 And greedy Avarice by him did ride, 150 
 
 Upon a cameU loaden aU with gold : 
 Two iron coffers hong on either side, 
 With precious metall full as they might hold ; 
 And in his lap an heap of coine he told ; 
 For of his wicked pelf his god he made, i»3 
 
 And unto hell him selfe for money sold ; 
 Accursed usury was aU his trade ; 
 And right and wrong ylike in equall baUaunce waide. 
 
 His life was nigh unto deaths dore yplaste ; 
 And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes, hee ware ; 160 
 
 Xe scacse good morsell aU his life did taste ; 
 But both from backe and belly stiU did spaie, 
 To fi^ his bags, and richesse to compare : 
 Yet childe ne kinsman living had he none 
 To leave them to ; but thorough daily care ifis 
 
 To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne. 
 He led a wi-etched life, unto himselfe unknowne. 
 
 Most wretched wight, whom nothing might sufflse ; 
 
 Whose greedy lust did,lacke in greatest store ; 
 
 Whose need had end, but no end covetise ; 170 
 
 Whose welth was want ; whose plenty made him pore ; 
 
 Who had enough, yett wished ever more ; 
 
 A Adle disease : and eke in f oote and hand 
 
32 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 A grievous gout tormented him full sore ; 
 175 That well he could not touch, nor goe, nor stand : 
 
 Such one was Avarice, the forth of this f aire band ! 
 
 And next to him malicious Envy rode 
 Upon a ravenous wolfe, and still did chaw 
 Betweene his cankred teeth a venemous tode, 
 
 180 That all the poison ran about his chaw ; 
 
 But inwardly he chawed Ms owne maw 
 At neibors welth, that made Mm ever sad ; 
 For death it was, when any good he saw ; 
 And wept that cause of weeping none he had ; 
 
 185 But when he heard of harme, he wexed wondrous glad. 
 
 AU in a Mrtle of discolourd say 
 He clothed was, ypaynted fuU of eies ; 
 And in Ms bosome secretly there lay 
 An hatefuU snake, the wMch his taile uptyes 
 190 In many folds, and mortaU sting implyes : 
 
 StiU as he rode, he gnasht Ms teeth to see 
 Those heapes of gold with griple Covetyse ; 
 And grudged at the great f eUcitee 
 Of proud Lucif era, and Ms owne companee. 
 
 195 He hated aU good workes and vertuous deeds, 
 
 And Mm no lesse, that any Uke did use ; 
 And who with gratious bread the hungry feeds. 
 His ahnes for want of faith he doth accuse ; 
 So every good to bad he doth abuse : 
 
 200 And eke the verse of famous poets witt 
 
 He does backebite, and spightfuU poison spues 
 From leprous mouth on aU that ever writt : 
 Such one vile Em-y was, that flfte in row did sitt. 
 
 And Mm beside "rides fierce revenging Wrath, 
 205 Upon a lion, loth for to be led ; 
 
 And in Ms hand a burmng brond he hath, 
 The wMch he brandisheth about Ms hed : 
 His eies did hurle forth sparcles fiery red. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 33 
 
 And stared sterne on all that him beheld ; 
 As ashes pale of hew, and seeming ded ; 21c 
 
 And on his dagger still his hand he held, 
 Trembling through hasty rage, when eholer in him sweld. 
 
 His rufiin raiment aU was staind with blood 
 Which he had spilt, and all to rags p-ent ; 
 Through unadvized rashnes woxen wood ; 21,, 
 
 For of hands he had no governement, 
 Ne car'd for blood in his avengement : 
 But when the furious fltt was overpast. 
 His cruell facts he often would repent ; 
 Yet, wilfuU man, he never would forecast, 220 
 
 How many mischieves should ensue his heedlesse hast. 
 
 BELPHOEBE. 
 
 {Fairy Queen, 11., 3, 22-31 .) 
 
 Her face so f aire, as flesh it seemed not, 
 But hevenly pourtraict of bright angels hew, 
 Cleare as the skye, withouten blame or blot, 
 Through goodly mixture of complexions dew ; 
 And in her cheekes the vermeill red did shew 5 
 
 Like roses in a bed of lillies shed. 
 The which ambrosial! odours from them threw, 
 And gazers sence with double pleasure fed, 
 Hable to heale the sicke and to revive the ded. 
 
 In her faire eyes two living lamps did flame, 10 
 
 Kindled above at th' Hevenly Makers Hght, 
 And darted fyrie beames out of the same, 
 So passing persant, and so wondrous bright, 
 That quite bereav'd the rash beholders sight: 
 In them the blinded god his lustfull fyre 15 
 
 To kindle oft assayd, but had no might ; 
 For, with dredd majestie and awfull yre. 
 Still broke his wanton darts, and quenched bace desyre. 
 
 3 
 
:U EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Her yvorie forhead, full of bountie brave, 
 20 Like a broad table did itselfe dispred, 
 
 For Love his loftie triumphes to engi-ave, 
 And write the battailes of his great godhed : 
 All good and honour might therein be red ; 
 For there their dweUing was. And, when she spake, 
 ;.-> Sweete wordes, like dropping honny, she did shed ; 
 
 And twixt the perles and rubins softly brake 
 A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemd to make. 
 
 Upon her eyelids many Graces sate, 
 Under the shadow of her even browes, 
 
 30 Working belgardes and amorous retrate. 
 
 And everie one her with a grace endowes. 
 And everie one with meekenesse to her bowes : 
 So glorious mirrhour of celestiall grace. 
 And soveraine moniment of mortall vowes, 
 
 35 How shall frayle pen descrive her heavenly face. 
 
 For fear, through want of skiU, her beauty to disgrace ! 
 
 So faire, and thousand thousand times more faire, 
 She seemd, when she presented was to sight ; 
 And was yclad, for heat of scorching aire, 
 
 40 All in a silken camus lilly whight, 
 
 Purfled upon with many a folded plight. 
 Which all above besprinckled was throughout 
 With golden aygulets, that glistred bright 
 Like twinckhng starres ; and all the sMrt about 
 
 45 Was hemd with golden fringe. 
 
 Below her ham her weed did somewhat trayne. 
 And her streight legs most bravely were embayld 
 In gilden buskins of costly cordwayne, 
 All bard with golden bendes, which were entayld 
 -,D With curious antickes, and full f ayne aumayld : 
 
 Before, they fastned were under her knee 
 In a rich jewell, and therein entrayld 
 The ends of all the knots, that none might see 
 How they within their fouldings close enwrapped bee : 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 35 
 
 Like two faire marble pillours they were seene, 
 Which doe the temple of the gods support, 
 Whom all the people decke with girlands greene, 
 And honour in their festivall resort : 
 Those same with stately grace and princely port 
 She taught to tread, when she herself e would grace ; 
 But with the woody n)rmphes when she did play. 
 Or when the flying libbard she did chace. 
 She could them nimbly move, and after fly apace. 
 
 And in her hand a sharps bore-speare she held. 
 
 And at her backe a bow and quiver gay, 
 
 Stuft with steele-headed dartes wherewith she queld 
 
 The salvage beastes in her victorious plaj'. 
 
 Knit with a golden bauldricke which forelay 
 
 Athwart her snowy brest, * * * 
 
 Her yellow lockes, crisped Uke golden wyre, 79 
 
 About her shoulders weren loosely shed. 
 And when the winde emongst them did inspyre, 
 They waved like a penon wyde dispred, 
 And low behinde her backe were scattered : 
 And whether art it were or heedelesse hap, 75 
 
 As through the flouring forrest rash she fled. 
 In her rude heares sweet flowres themselves did lap. 
 And flourishing fresh leaves and blossomes did enwrap. 
 
 Such as Diana by the sandy shore 
 
 Of swift Eurotas, or on Cynthus greene, so 
 
 Where all the nymphes have her unwares forlore, 
 
 Wandreth alone with bow and arrowes keene. 
 
 To seeke her game : or as that famous queene 
 
 Of Amazons, whom Pyrrhus did destroy. 
 
 The day that first of Priame she was seene, ea 
 
 Did shew herself e in great triumphant joy. 
 
 To succour the weake state of sad afflicted Troy. 
 
36 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 THE CAVE OF MAMMON. 
 (^Fainj Queen, II., 7, 3-9.) 
 
 At last he came unto a gloomy glade, 
 Cover' d with boughes and shrubs from heavens light. 
 Whereas he sitting found in secret shade 
 An uncouth, salvage, and'uncivile wight, 
 ." Of griesly hew and fowle ill-favour' d sight ; 
 
 His face with smoke was tand, and eies were bleard, 
 His head and beard with sout were ill bedight, 
 His cole-blacke hands did seeme to have been seard 
 In smythes fire-spitting forge, and nayles like clawes appeard. 
 
 10 His yron cote, all overgrowne with rust, 
 
 Was underneath enveloped with gold ; 
 
 Whose glistning glosse, darkned with filthy dust, 
 
 Well yet appeared to have beene of old 
 
 A work of rich entayle and curious mould 
 15 Woven with antickes and wyld ymagery : 
 
 And in his lap a masse of coyne he told, 
 
 And turned upside downe, to feede his eye 
 And covetous desire with his huge threasury. 
 
 And round about him lay on every side 
 20 ' Great heapes of gold that never could be spent ; 
 
 Of which some were rude owre, not puriflde. 
 
 Of Mulcibers devouring element ; 
 
 Some others were new driven, and distent 
 
 Into great ingowes and to wedges square ; 
 25 Some in round plates withouten monimeiit : 
 
 But most were stampt, and in their metal bare 
 The antique shapes of kings and kesars straung and rare. 
 
 Soone as he Guyon saw, in great affright 
 And haste he rose for to remove aside 
 so Those pretious hils from straungers envious sight. 
 
 And downe them poured through an hole full wide 
 Into the hollow earth, them there to hide : 
 
EDMUND SPKNSER. 37 
 
 But Guyon, lightly to him leaping, stayd 
 His hand that trembled as -one terrifyde ; 
 And though him self e were at the sight dismayd, ::» 
 
 Yet him perforce restraynd, and to him doubtfuU sayd : 
 
 " What art thou, Man (if man at all thou art)," 
 
 In great disdaine he answerd : ' ' Hardy Elf e, 
 That darest vew my direfuU countenance ! 
 I read thee rash and heedlesse of thyselfe, 40 
 
 To trouble my still seate and heapes of pretious pelfe. 
 
 ' ' God of the world and worldlings I me call. 
 Great Mammon, greatest god below the skye. 
 That of my plenty poure out unto aU, 
 
 And unto none my graces do envye : 45 
 
 Riches, renowme, and principality, 
 Honour, estate, and aU this worldes good. 
 For which men swinck, and sweat incessantly. 
 Fro me do flow into an ample flood, 
 And in the hollow earth have their eternall brood. so 
 
 Wherefore, if me thou deigne to serve and sew. 
 
 At thy command, lo ! all these mountaines bee ; 
 
 Or if to thy great mind, or greedy vew. 
 
 All these may not sufllse, there shall to thee 
 
 Ten times so much be nombred francke aijd free ! " 55 
 
 MOTHEE HUBBEED'S TALE. 
 (II. 892-914.) 
 
 THE SUITOK. 
 
 Most miserable man, whom wicked fate 
 Hath brought to court, to sue for had-ywist. 
 That few have found, and manie one hath mist ! 
 Full little knowest thou that hast not tride. 
 What hell it is in suing long to bide : 
 
38 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 To loose good dayes, that might be better spent ; 
 
 To wast long nights in pensive discontent ; 
 
 To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
 
 To feed on hope, to pine with f eare and sorrow ; 
 10 To have thy Princes grace, yet want her Peeres ; 
 
 To have thy asking, yet waite manie yeeres ; 
 
 To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
 
 To eat thy heart through comf ortlesse dispaires ; 
 
 To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne, 
 15 To spend, to' give, to want, to be undonne. 
 
 Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end, 
 
 That doth his life in so long tendance spend ! 
 
 Who ever leaves sweete home, where meane estate 
 
 In safe assurance, without strife or hate, 
 20 Findes all things needfull for contentment meeke. 
 
 And will to court for shadowes vaine to seeke, 
 
 Or hope to gaine, himselfe will a daw trie : 
 
 That curse God send unto mine enemie ! 
 
FRAXCIS BACON. 39 
 
 FEANCIS BACON. 
 
 DISCOURSE. 
 
 Some in their discourse desire rather commendation of wit in 
 being able to hold aU arguments, than of judgment in discerning 
 what is true ; as if it were a praise to know what might be said, 
 and not what should be thought. Some have certain common- 
 places and themes wherein they are good, and want variety ; 5 
 which kind of poverty is for the most part tedious, and when it 
 is once perceived, ridiculous. The honourablest part of talk is 
 to give the occasion, and again to moderate and to pass to some- 
 what else, for then a man leads the dance. It is good in dis- 
 course and speech of conversation, to vary and intermingle 10 
 speech of the present occasion with arguments, tales with rea- 
 sons, asking of questions with telling of opinions, and jest with 
 earnest ; for it is a dull thing to tire, and, as we say now, to jade 
 anything too far. As for jest, there be certain things which 
 ought to be privileged from it ; namely, religion, matters of 15 
 state, great persons, any man's present business of importance, 
 and any case that deserveth pity ; yet there be some that think 
 their wits have been asleep except they dart out somewhat that 
 is piquant and to the quick ; that is a vein which would be 
 bridled : 20 
 
 "Parce puer stimulis, et fortius utere loris" 
 
 and, generally, men ought to find the difference between saltness • 
 and bitterness. Certainly he that hath a satirical vein, as he 
 maketh others afraid of his wit, so he hath need to be afraid of 
 others' memory. He that questioneth much shall learn much 25 
 and content much, but especially if he apply his questions to the 
 skUl of the persons whom he asketh ; for he shall give them 
 
40 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 occasion to please themselves in speaking, and himself to gather 
 knowledge ; but let his questions be not troublesome, for that is 
 
 30 fit for a poser ; and let him be sure to leave other men their 
 turns to speak : nay, if there be any that would reign and take 
 up all the time, let him find means to take them off and bring 
 others on, as musicians use to do with those that dance too long 
 galliards. If you dissemble sometimes your knowledge of that 
 
 35 you are thought to know, you shaU be thought another time to 
 know that you know not. Speech of a/man's self ought to be 
 seldom and well chosen. I knew one was wont to say in scorn, 
 " He must needs be a wise man, he speaks so much of himself ;" 
 and there is but one case wherein a man may commend himself 
 
 40 with good grace, and that is in commending virtue in another, 
 especially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself pretendeth. 
 Speech of touch towards others should be sparingly used ; for 
 discourse ought to be as a field, without coming home to any 
 man. I knew two noblemen of the west part of England, 
 
 45 whereof the one was given to scoff, but kept ever royal cheer in 
 his house ; the other would ask of those that had been at the 
 other's table, "Tell truly, was there never a flout or dry blow 
 given ? " to which the guest would answer, ' ' Such and such a 
 thing passed:" the lord would say, " I thought he would mar a 
 
 60 good dinner. ' ' Discretion of speech is more than eloquence ; 
 and to speak agreeably to him with whom we deal, is more than 
 to speak in good words or in good order. A good continued 
 speech without a speech of interlocution, shows slowness ; and a 
 good reply or second speech without a good settled speech, 
 
 65 showeth shallowness and weakness : as we see in beasts that 
 those that are weakest in the course are yet nimblest in the 
 turn, as it is betwixt the grej'hound and the hare. To use too 
 many circumstances ere one comes to the matter, is wearisome ; 
 to use none at all is blunt. 
 
 OF TRAVEL. 
 
 Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the 
 elder, a part of exjDerience. He that travelleth into a country 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 41 
 
 before he hath some entrance into the language, goeth to school, 
 and not to travel. That young men travel under some tutor or 
 gi-ave servant I allow ■well, so that he be such a one that hath the 5 
 language, and hath been in the couutrj' before, whereby he may 
 be able to teU them what things are worthy to be seen in the 
 country where they go, what acquaintances they are to seek, 
 what exercises or discipline the place jieldeth ; for else young 
 men shall go hooded, and look abroad little. It is a strange 10 
 thing that, in sea-voyages, where there is nothing to be seen but 
 sea and sky, men should make diaries; but in land-travel, 
 wherein so much is to be observed, for the most part they omit 
 it ; as if chance were fitter to be registered than obsei-vation ; 
 let diaries, therefore, be brought in use. The things to be seen 15 
 and observed ai-e the courts of princes, especially when they give 
 audience to ambassadors ; the courts of justice, while they sit 
 and hear causes ; and so of consistories ecclesiastic ; the churches 
 and monasteries, with the monuments which are therein extant ; 
 the walls and fortifications of cities and towns ; and so the 20 
 havens and harbours, antiquities and ruins, libraries, colleges, 
 disputations, and lectures, where any are ; shippings and navies, 
 houses and gardens of state and pleasure near great cities ; 
 armories, arsenals, magazines, exchanges, burses, warehouses, 
 exercises of horsemanship, fencing, training of soldiers, and the 25 
 like: comedies, such whereunto the better sort of persons do 
 resort ; treasuries of jewels and robes ; cabinets and rarities ; 
 and, to conclude, whatsoever is memorable in the places where 
 they go ; after all which the tutors or sei-vants ought to make 
 diligent iiiquirj'. As for triumphs, masks, feasts, weddings, 30 
 funerals, capital executions, and such shows, men need not to be 
 put in mind of them ; yet they are not to be neglected. If you 
 wiU have a young man to put his travel into a little room, and 
 in short time to gather much, this you must do : first, as was 
 said, he must have some entrance into the language before he 35 
 goeth ; then he must have such a servant or tutor as kno-(^eth 
 the countr3", as was likewise said: let him carry with him also 
 some card or book describing the country where he traveUeth, 
 which wQl be a good key to his inquiry ; let him keep also a 
 diary ; let him not stay long in one city or town, more or less as 4o 
 
42 FRAXCIS BACON. 
 
 the place deserveth, but not long ; nay, when he stayeth in one 
 city or town, let him change his lodging from one end and part 
 of the town to another, which is a great adamant of acquaint- 
 ance ; let him sequester himself from the company of his coun- 
 
 45 trj-men, and diet in such places where there is good company of 
 the nation where he travelleth ; let him, upon his removes from 
 one place to another, procure recommendation to some person 
 of quality residing in the place whither he removeth, that he may 
 use his favour in those things he desireth to see or know ; thus 
 
 60 he may abridge his travel with much profit. 
 
 As for the acquaintance which is to be' sought in travel, that 
 which is most of all profitable is acquaintance with the secretaries 
 and employed men of embassadors : for so in travelling in one 
 country he shall suck the experience of many ; let him also see 
 
 65 and visit eminent persons in all kinds, which are of great name 
 abroad, that he may be able to ,teU how the hfe agreeth viith the 
 fame ; for quarrels, they are with care and discretion to be 
 avoided; for they are commonly for mistresses, healths, place, 
 and words : and let' a man beware how he keepeth company with 
 
 60 choleric and quarrelsome persons, for they will engage him into 
 their own quarrels. 
 
 When a traveller returneth home, let him not leave the coun- 
 tries where he hath travelled altogether behind him ; but main- 
 tain a correspondence by letters with those of his acquaintance 
 
 65 which are of most worth ; and let his travel appear rather in his 
 discourse than in his apparel or gesture ; and in his discourse let 
 him be rather advised in Ms answers than forward to tell stories : 
 and let it appear that he doth not change his country manners 
 for those of foreign parts ; but only prick in some flowers of 
 
 70 that he hath learned abroad into the customs of Ins own country. 
 
 OF STUDIES. 
 
 Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for abiUty. Their 
 chief use for dehght is in privateness and retiring ; for orna- 
 ment, is in discourse ; and for abihty is in the judgment and 
 disposition of business ; for expert men can execute, and per- 
 
FKA>-CIS BACOX. 43 
 
 haps judge of particulars, one by one ; but the general counsels, 5 
 and the plots and marshaUing of affairs come best from those 
 that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; 
 to use Ihem too much for ornament is affectation ; to make judg- 
 ment wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar: they 
 perfect nature and are perfected by experience : for natural lo 
 abilities are like natural plants, they need pruning by study ; 
 and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at 
 large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men 
 contemn studies, simple men admire them, and mse men use 
 them ; for they teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom 15 
 without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not 
 to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, 
 nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some 
 books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to 
 be chewed and digested ; that is some books are to be read only 20 
 in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to 
 be read wholly and with diligence and attention. Some books 
 also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by 
 others; but that would be only the less important arguments 
 and the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are like com- 25 
 mon distilled waters, flashy things. Eeading maketh a fuU man ; 
 conference a ready man ; and writing an exact man ; and, there- 
 fore if a man write Uttle, he had need have a great memory ; if 
 he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and if he read 
 Uttle, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he 30 
 doth not. Histories make men wise ; poets, witty ; the mathe- 
 matics, subtile ; natural philosophy, deep ; moral, grave ; logic 
 and rhetoric, able to contend. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE NOVUM OEGAXON. 
 
 They who have presumed to dogmatize on nature, as on some 
 well investigated subject, either from seK-conceit or arrogance, 
 and in the professional style, have inflicted the greatest injury 
 on philosophy and learning. For they have tended to stifle and 
 interrupt inqoiiy exactly in proportion as they have prevailed in 5 
 
41 PRAXCIS BACON. 
 
 bringing others to their opinion : and their own activity has not 
 counterbalanced the mischief they have occasioned by corrupting 
 and destroj-ing that of others. They again who have entered 
 upon a contrary course, and asserted that nothing whatever can 
 
 10 be known, whether they have fallen into this opinion from their 
 hatred of the ancient sophists, or from the hesitation of thek 
 minds,' or from an exuberance of learning, have certainly ad- 
 duced reasons for it which are by no means contemptible. They 
 have not, however, derived their opinion from true sources, and, 
 
 15 hurried on by their zeal and some affectation, have certainly 
 exceeded due moderation. But the more ancient Greeks (whose 
 writings have perished) held a more prudent mean, between the 
 arrogance of dogmatism, and the despair of scepticism; and 
 though too frequently interminghng complaints and indignation 
 
 20 at the difficulty of inquiry, and the obscurity of things, and 
 champing, as it were, the bit, have still persisted in pressing 
 their point, and pursuing theu* intercourse with nature ; think- 
 ing, as it seems, that the better method was not to dispute upon 
 the very point of the possibility of anything being known, but to 
 
 25 put it to the test of experience. Yet they themselves, by only 
 employing the power of the understanding, have not adopted a 
 fixed rule, but have laid their whole stress upon intense meditar 
 tion, and a continued exercise and perpetual agitation of the 
 mind. 
 
 30 Our method, though difficult in its operation, is easily ex- 
 plained. It consists in determining the degrees of certainty, 
 whilst we, as it were, restore the senses to their former rank, 
 but generally reject that operation of the mind which follows 
 close upon the senses, and open and establish a new and certain 
 
 35 course for the mind from the first actual perceptions of the 
 senses themselves. This, no doubt, was the view taken by those 
 who have assigned so much to logic ; showing clearly thereby 
 that they sought some support for the mind, and suspected its 
 natural, and spontaneous mode of action. But this is now em- 
 
 40 ployed too late as a remedy, when all is clearly lost, and after 
 the mind, by the daily habit and intercom'se of life, has come 
 prepossessed with corrupted doctrines, and filled with the vainest 
 idols. The art of logic therefore being (as we have mentioned), 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 45 
 
 too late a precaution, and in no way remedying the matter, has 
 tended more to eonlirm errors, than to disclose truth. Our only 4:1 
 remaining hope and salvation is to begin the whole laljour of the 
 mind again ; not leaving it to itself, but directing it perpetuall3' 
 from the very first, and attaining our end as it were by mechan- 
 ical aid. 
 
 ******* 
 
 We make no attempt to disturb the system of philosophy that 50 
 now prevails, or any other which may or wiU exist, either more 
 correct or more complete. For we deny not that the received 
 system of philosophy, and others of a similar nature, encourage 
 discussion, embellish harangues, are employed and ar^ of service 
 in the duties of the professor and the affairs of civil Uf e. Nay, 55 
 we openly express and declare that the philosophy we offer wiU 
 not be very useful in such respects. It is not obvious, nor to be 
 understood in a cursory view, nor does it flatter the mind in its 
 preconceived notions, nor will it descend to the level of the gen- 
 erality of mankind unless by its advantages and effects. 60 
 
 Let there exist then (and it may be of advantage to both) 
 two sources and two distributions of learning, and in hke 
 manner two tribes, and as it were Mndred families of con- 
 templators or philosophers, without any hostility or alienation 
 between them ; but rather allied and united by mutual assistance. 63 
 Lat there be in short one method of cultivating the sciences, and 
 another of discovering them. And as for those who prefer and 
 more readily receive the former, on account of their haste or 
 from motives arising from their ordinary Ufe, or because they 
 are unable from weakness of mind to comprehend and embrace 70 
 the other (which must necessarily be the case with by far the 
 greater number), let us wish that they may prosper as they desire 
 in their undertaking, and attain what they pursue. But if any 
 indi-iidual desire, and is anxious not merely to adhere to and 
 make use of present discoveries, but to peneti-ate stiU further, 75 
 aud not to overcome his adversaries in disputes, but nature by 
 labour, not in short to give elegant and specious opinions, but to 
 know to a certainty and demonstration, -let him, as a true son of 
 science (if such be his wish), join with us ; that when he has left 
 
46 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 80 the antechambers of nature trodden down liy the multitude, an 
 entrance maj- at last be discovered to her inner apartments. And 
 in order to be better understood, and to render our meaning 
 more familiar by assigning more determinate names, we have 
 accustomed ourseh-es to call the one method the anticipation of 
 
 85 the mind, and the other the interpretation of nature. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 47 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 SOXG — AWAKE ! ABISE ! 
 {Cymheline.') 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On ehaliced flowers that lies : 
 And winMng mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes : 
 With every thing that pretty bin, 
 
 My Lady sweet, arise : 
 Arise, arise ! 
 
 TIME AND LOVE. 
 {Sonnet Lxiv.') 
 
 When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
 The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; 
 
 When sometiine lofty towers I see down-razed. 
 And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 
 
 When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
 Advantage on the kingdom of the shore. 
 
 And the firm soil win of the watery main, 
 
 Increasing store with loss, and loss with store ; 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 When I have seen such interchange of state, 
 Or state itself confounded to decay, — 
 
 Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, 
 
 That Time will come and take my Love away : 
 
 This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
 But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 
 
 SONG — FANCY. 
 
 (Jlerchant of Venice.} 
 
 Tell me where is Fancy bred. 
 Or in the heart or in the head? 
 How begot, how nourished ? 
 
 Eeply, reply. 
 It is engender' d in the eyes, 
 With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies 
 In the cradle where it lies. 
 
 Let us all ring Fancy's knell: 
 I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell: 
 Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 A SEA-DIRGE. 
 {The Tempest.) 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies ; 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his kneU : 
 
 Ding-dong. 
 Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell. 
 
WILLIAJI SHAKESPEAKE. 49 
 
 SONG — THE LOST LOVE. 
 (JSamlet.) 
 
 How should I your true-Love know 
 
 From another one ? 
 By his cockle hat and staff, 
 
 And his sandal shoon. 
 
 He is dead and gone, lady, 
 
 He is dead and gone ; 
 At his head a grass-green turf, 
 
 At his heels a stone. 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snoWj 
 
 Larded with white flowers ; — 
 Which bewept to the grave did go 
 
 With true-love showers. 
 
 NATUEE AND MAN. 
 {As Ton Like It.) 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 6 
 
 Although thy breath be nide. 
 Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 
 
 Then, heigh-ho, the hoUy ! 
 
 This life is most jolly. lo 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 As benefits forgot : 
 4 
 
50 VrlLLIAM SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 Thy sting is not so shaqj 
 As friend remember' d not. 
 Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 
 Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 THE WOELD'S WAY. 
 (^Hamlet:) 
 
 Why, let the stricken deer go weep. 
 
 The hart ungaUed play ; 
 For some must watch, while some must sleep : 
 
 So runs the world away. 
 
 THE LIFE ACCORDING TO NATURE. 
 
 (^As You Like It.) 
 
 Under the greenwood tree 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Who doth ambition shun 
 And loves to live i' the sun. 
 Seeking the food he eats 
 And pleased with what he gets. 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
 Here shall he see 
 Xo enemy 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
WILLIAai SHAKESPEARE. 51 
 
 THE WORLD'S WAY. 
 
 (^Sonnet Lxvi.) 
 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, — 
 
 As, to behold desert a beggar born, 
 And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, 
 
 And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
 
 And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 
 
 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. 
 And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
 
 And strength by limping sway disabled. 
 
 And art made tongue-tied by authority. 
 
 And folly, doctor-hke, controlling sldll, 
 And simple truth miscall' d simplicity, 
 
 And captive Good attending captain HI : 
 
 Tired with aU these, from these would I be gone,— 
 Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. 
 
 THE POET'S IMMOETiXITT. 
 (^Sonnet Lxxiv.') 
 
 But be contented : when that fell arrest 
 
 Without all bail shall carry me away. 
 My Hf e hath in this line some interest. 
 
 Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. 
 
 When thou reviewest this, thou dost review 5 
 
 The very part was consecrate to thee : 
 The earth can have but earth, which is his due ; 
 
 Mr spirit is thine, the better part of me : 
 
 So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life. 
 
 The i^ej' of worms, my body being dead, 10, 
 
52 WILLIA3I SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, 
 Too base of thee to be remembered. 
 
 The worth of that is that which it contains, 
 And that is this, and this with thee remains. 
 
 INEVITABLE SLANDER. 
 (^Sonnet Lxx.) 
 
 That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect. 
 For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; 
 
 The ornament of beauty is suspect, 
 
 A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. 
 
 ') So thou be good, slander doth but approve 
 
 Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time ; 
 For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, 
 And thou present' st a pure unstained prime. 
 
 Thou bast pass'd by the ambush of young days 
 10 Either not assail' d, or victor being charged ; 
 
 Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise. 
 To tie up envy evermore enlarged : 
 
 If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, 
 Then thou alone kingdoms of heart shouldst owe. 
 
 THE UNFADING PICTURE. 
 {Sonnet Xviii.) 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
 
 Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
 Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May 
 
 And summer's lease hath all too short a date ! 
 
WILUAM SHAKESPEARE. 53 
 
 Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 5 
 
 And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; 
 And every fair from fair sometimes declines, 
 
 By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd j 
 
 But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
 
 Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 10 
 
 Xor shall Death brag thou wander' st in his shade 
 
 When in eternal lines to time thou growest ! 
 
 So long as men can breathe or eyes can see. 
 So long Uves this ; — and this gives life to thee. 
 
 SOfSHIXE AND CLOUD. 
 (^Sonnet Xxxiii.') 
 
 FuU many a glorious morning have I seen 
 Flatter the mountain-tops ■with sovereign eye. 
 
 Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 
 
 Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
 
 With ugly rack on his celestial face, 
 And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
 
 Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : 
 
 Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
 With all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; 
 
 But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ; 
 
 The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. 
 
 Tet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
 
 Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth. 
 
54 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 TIME AND LOVE. 
 {Sonnet Lxv.) 
 
 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, 
 But sad mortality o'er-sways their power. 
 
 How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea. 
 Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? 
 
 O, how shall summer's honey-breath hold out 
 Against the wreckful siege of battering days. 
 
 When rocks impregnable are not so stout, 
 
 Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? 
 
 O fearful meditation ! where, alack. 
 
 Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest he hid? 
 Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ? 
 
 Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 
 
 O, none, unless this miracle have might, 
 
 That in black ink my Love may still shine bright. 
 
 THE TRUE AND THE FALSE. 
 {Sonnet Liv.) 
 
 O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
 
 The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 For that sweet odour which doth in it live : 
 
 fi The canker-blooms have full as deep a dj^e 
 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses. 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
 
 When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: 
 
 But, for their virtue only is their show, 
 10 They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 55 
 
 Die to themselres. Sweet roses do not so ; 
 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : 
 
 And so of you. beauteous and lovely youth. 
 When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 
 
 DEFIANCE TO TTAfR. 
 QSonnet Cxxiii.) 
 
 No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change : 
 
 Thy pyramids buUt up with newer might 
 To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; 
 
 They are but dressings of a former sight. 
 
 Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire s 
 
 What thou dost foist upon us that is old. 
 And rather make them born to our desire 
 
 Than think that we before have heard them told. 
 
 Thy registers and thee I both defy, 
 
 Not wondering at the present nor the past, i» 
 
 For thy records and what we see do lie. 
 
 Made more or less by thy continual haste. 
 
 This I do vow and this shall ever be ; 
 
 I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. 
 
56 CHRISTOPHER JIARLOWE. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 EDWARD THE SECOND. 
 
 [TVie king being deposed, surrenders his crown into the hands of the bishop 
 of Winchester and the earl of Leicester.] 
 
 Leicester. Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament, 
 Imagine KiUingworth castle were your court, 
 And that you lay for pleasure here a space, 
 Not of compulsion or necessity. 
 
 6 Edward. Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me, 
 
 Thy speeches long ago had eased my sorrows ; 
 For kind and loving hast thou always been. 
 The griefs of private men are soon allay' d. 
 But not of kings. The forest deer being struck, 
 
 10 Runs to an herb that closeth ujd the wounds ; 
 
 But when the imperial Uon's flesh is gored. 
 He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw. 
 And highly scorning that the lowly earth 
 Should drink his blood, mounts up to the air. 
 
 15 And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind 
 
 The ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, 
 And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, 
 That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a prison : 
 For such outrageous passions claw my soul, 
 
 20 As with the wings of rancour and disdain 
 
 Full oft am I soaring up to high heaven, 
 To plain me to the gods against them both. 
 But when I call to mind I am a king, 
 Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs 
 
 25 That Mortimer and Isabel have done. 
 
CHKISTOPHER MARLOWE. 57 
 
 But what are kings when regiment is gone 
 
 But perfect shadow in a sunshine day? 
 
 My nobles rule, I bear the name of king ; 
 
 I wear the crown, but am controll'd by them, 
 
 By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, 30 
 
 Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy ; 
 
 Whilst I am lodged within this cave of care. 
 
 Where sorrow at my elbow still attends. 
 
 To company my heart with sad laments, 
 
 That bleeds within me for this sad exchange. 35 
 
 But tell me, must 1 now resign my crown. 
 
 To make usurping Mortimer a king? 
 
 Bishop. Tour grace mistakes ; it is for England's good. 
 And princely Edward's right, we claim the crown. 
 
 Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head ; w 
 
 For he's a lamb, encompassed by wolves. 
 Which in a moment will abridge his life. 
 But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown, 
 Heaven turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire. 
 Or like the snaky wrath of Tisiphon, « 
 
 Engirt the temples of his hateful head ; 
 So shall not England's vines be perished, 
 But Edward's name survive, though Edward dies. 
 
 Leic. My lord, why waste you thus the time away ? 
 They stay your answer : wUl you yield your crown ? 50 
 
 Edi'j. Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly I can brook 
 To lose my crown and kingdom without cause ; 
 To give ambitious Mortimer my right. 
 That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss, 
 In which extreme my mind here murder'd is. 55 
 
 But what the Heavens appoint, I must obey. 
 Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too ; 
 Two kings in England cannot reign at once — 
 But stay awhUe, let me be king till night, 
 That I may gaze upon this glittering crown ; eo 
 
 So shall my eyes receive their last content, 
 My head the latest honour due to it, 
 And jointly both yield up their wished rights. 
 
58 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Coutinue ever, thou celestial sun ; 
 65 Let never silent night possess this clime ; 
 
 Stand still, you -witches of the element ; 
 
 All times and seasons rest you at a stay. 
 
 That Edward may be still fair England's king. 
 
 But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, 
 70 And needs I must resign my -wished cro-vvn. 
 
 Tnhmnan creatures ! nursed -with tigers' milk ! 
 
 Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow? 
 
 My diadem, I mean, and guiltless life. 
 
 See, monsters, see, I'll wear my crown again. 
 75 Wliat, fear you not the fury of your king? 
 
 But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led ; 
 
 They pass not for thy frowns as late they did, 
 
 But to seek to make a new-elected king ; 
 
 Which fills my mind -with strange despairing thoughts, 
 80 Which thoughts are martyred -with endless torments. 
 
 And in this torment, comfort find I none. 
 
 But tlrat I feel the cro-wn upon my head : 
 
 And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. 
 Messenger. My lord, the parliament must have present 
 85 And therefore say, -will you resign or no ? [news, 
 
 Edw. I'll not resign ! but whilst I live, be king. 
 
 Traitors be gone and join -with Mortimer. 
 
 Elect, conspire, install, do what you -wiU ; 
 
 Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries. 
 90 Bishop. This answer we'll return, and so farewell. 
 
 Leic. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair ; 
 
 For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. 
 
 Edw. Call thou them back ; I have no power to speak. 
 Leic. My lord, the king is wiUing to resign. 
 95 Bishop. If he be not, let him choose. 
 
 Edw. O, would I might ! but heaven and earth conspire 
 
 To make me miserable ! here, receive my crown ; 
 
 Eeceive it? no, these innocent hands of mine 
 
 Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. 
 100 He of you all that most desires my blood, 
 
 And -will be caU'd the murderer of a king, 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 59 
 
 Take it. What, are you moved? pity you me? 
 
 Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, 
 
 And Isabel, whose eyes, being turned to steel, 
 
 Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. los 
 
 Yet stay, for rather than I will look on them 
 
 Here, here ! now sweet God of heaven, 
 
 Make me despise this transitory pomp, 
 
 And sit for ever enthronized in heaven ! 
 
 Come death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, iio 
 
 Or if I live, let me forget myself. 
 
 ^Berkley Castle. The king is left alone with Lighthom, a murderer.'] 
 
 Edw. Who's there? what light is that? wherefore comest 
 
 [thou? 
 
 Lighffjom. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 
 
 Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. 
 "Vfllain, I know thou comest to murder me. 115 
 
 Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord' 
 Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
 The queen sent me to see how you were used, 
 For she relents at this your misery : 
 
 And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, 120 
 
 To see a king in this most piteous state ? 
 
 Edw. Weep'st thou already? list awhile to me, 
 And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is. 
 Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Caucasus, 
 Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 125 
 
 This dungeon where they keep me is a sink 
 Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
 
 Light. O villains ! 
 
 Edw. And there in mire and puddle have I stood 
 This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep, lao 
 
 One plays continually upon a drum. 
 They give me bread and water being a king ; 
 So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, 
 My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd. 
 And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. 1S5 
 
 O, would my blood drop out from every vein. 
 
60 CHRISTOPHEK MARLOWE. 
 
 As doth this water from my tatter' d robes ! 
 Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus, 
 Wlien for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 
 140 And there unhorsed the duke of Cleremont. 
 
 Light. O, speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my heart. 
 Lie on this bed and rest yourself awhile. 
 
 Edw. These looks of thine can harbour naught but death ; 
 I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
 U5 Yet stay awhile ; forbear thy bloody hand, 
 
 And let me see the stroke before it comes, 
 That even then when I shall lose my life, 
 My mind may be more steadfast on my God. 
 
 Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus? 
 150 Edw. What mean' st thou to dissemble with me thus? 
 
 Light. These hands were never stain'd with innocent 
 Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. [blood, 
 
 Edio. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. 
 One jewel have I left, receive thou this. 
 155 StiU fear I, and I know not what's the cause. 
 
 But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
 O, if thou harbor' ^t murder in thy heart. 
 Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. 
 Know that I am a king : O, at that name 
 160 I feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown ? 
 
 Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive ? 
 
 Light. You're overwatched, my lord ; he down and rest. 
 
 Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; 
 For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. 
 165 Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear 
 
 Open again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here? 
 
 Light. If thou mistrust me, I'U be gone, my lord. 
 
 Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me. 
 Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. 
 170 Light. He sleeps. 
 
 Ediv. O, let me not die ; yet stay, O, stay awhile. 
 
 Light. How now, my lord ? 
 
 Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears. 
 And teUs me if I sleep I never wake ; 
 
CHKISTOPHEK MARLOWE. 61 
 
 This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. 
 And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 
 
 Light. To rid thee of thy life ; Matrevis, come. 
 
 Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist : 
 Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. 
 
 [" The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints 
 which Shakespeare scarce improved in his Richard the Second ; and the 
 death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene 
 ancient or modem with which I am acquainted." — Chakles Lamb.] 
 
62 BEK JONSON. 
 
 XVII CENTURY. 
 
 BEN J OX SON. 
 
 FROM CATILmE. 
 
 Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being such, 
 As he must fight -nith one of the two armies 
 That then had near inclosed him, it pleas' d fate 
 To make us the object of his desperate choice, 
 
 5 Wherein the danger almost pois'd the honour; 
 
 And, as he rose, the day grew black with him. 
 And fate descended nearer to the earth, 
 As if she meant to hide the name of things 
 Under her wings, and make the world her quarry. 
 
 10 At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay 
 
 Had left it to be inquired what Rome was ; 
 And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence 
 Of our great cause, in form of battle stood, 
 WhUst CatUine came on, not with the face 
 
 15 Of any man, but of a public ruin ; 
 
 His countenance was a civil war itself ; 
 And aU his host had, standing in their looks. 
 The paleness of the death that was to come ; 
 Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on, 
 
 20 As if they would precipitate our fates. 
 
 Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself 
 Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a Ufe, 
 Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land 
 Had broke between two mighty seas, and either 
 
 25 Flowed into other ; for so did the slaughter ; 
 
 And whirl' d about, as when two violent tides 
 Meet and not j^eld. Tie furies stood on hills, 
 Circling the place, and trembling to see men 
 
BEN JONJUX. 63 
 
 Do more than they ; whilst pity left the field, 
 
 Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a cause so 
 
 They knew not what a crime their valour was. 
 
 The sun stood stUl, and was, behind the cloud 
 
 The battle made, seen sweating, to di-ive up 
 
 His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward : 
 
 And now had fierce Enyo, like a fiame, 35 
 
 Consum'd all it could reach, and then itself. 
 
 Had not the fortune of th§ commonwealth. 
 
 Come, PaUas-like, to every Roman thought ; 
 
 Which CatUine seeing, and that now his troops 
 
 Covered the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks, 40 
 
 Ambitious of great fame, to crown his iU, 
 
 Collected aU his fury, and ran in 
 
 (Arm'd with a glory high as his despair) 
 
 Into our battle, like a Libyan Hon 
 
 Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons, 45 
 
 Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him, 
 
 TUl he had circled on himself with death : 
 
 Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay. 
 
 And as in that rebellion gainst the gods, 
 
 3Iinerva holding forth Medusa's head, 50 
 
 One of the giant brethren felt himself 
 
 Grow marble at the kUling sight ; and now, 
 
 Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint, 
 
 What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs ; 
 
 And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd : 53 
 
 So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us. 
 
 Became Ms tomb ; yet did his look retain 
 
 Some of his fierceness, and his hands stUl mov'd, 
 
 As if he labour' d yet to grasp the state 
 
 "With those rebellious parts. 60 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 
64 BEN JONSOX. 
 
 Or leave a Mss but in the eup, 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 
 The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, 
 Doth ask a drink divine : 
 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath. 
 
 Not so much honorijig thee. 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 
 It could not wither' d be. 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
 
 And sent'st it back to me : 
 Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. 
 
 Underneath this stone doth lie 
 As much beauty as could die : 
 Which in hf e did harbour give 
 To more virtue than doth live. 
 
 ON THE POETEAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 This figure that thou here seest put. 
 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut. 
 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 
 With nature, to outdo the life ; 
 
 O could he but have drawn his wit, 
 
 As well in brass, as he hath hit 
 
 His face ; the print would then surpass 
 
 All that was ever writ in brass : 
 
 But since he cannot, reader, look 
 
 Not on his picture but his book. 
 
BEN JOXSOK. 65 
 
 CUPID. 
 
 Beauties, have you seen this toy, 
 
 Called love, a little boy 
 
 Almost naked, ■wanton, blind ; 
 
 Cruel now, and then as kind ? 
 
 If he be amongst ye, say ; 6 
 
 He is Venus' runaway. 
 
 She that will but now discover 
 
 Where the winged wag doth hover. 
 
 Shall to-night receive a Mss, 
 
 How or where herself would wish ; lo 
 
 But who brings him to his mother. 
 
 Shall have that Mss, and another. 
 
 He hath marks about him plenty : 
 
 You shall know him among twenty. 
 
 All his body is a fire,. is 
 
 And his breath a flame entire, 
 
 That, being shot like lightning in, 
 
 Wounds the heart but not the sMn. 
 
 At his sight the sun hath turn'd, 
 
 Neptune in the waters burn'd ; 20 
 
 HeU hath felt a greater heat ; 
 
 Jove himself forsook his seat ; 
 
 From the centre to the sky 
 
 Are his trophies reared high. 
 
 "Wings he hath, which though ye cUp, as 
 
 He will leap from lip to lip. 
 
 Over liver, lights, and heart. 
 
 But not stay in any part ; 
 
 And if chance his arrow misses, 
 
 He will shoot himself in kisses. 30 
 
 He doth bear a golden bow. 
 And a quiver hanging low 
 5 
 
66 BEN JOXSON. 
 
 Full of ari-ows that outbrave 
 Dian's shafts ; where, if he have 
 Any head more sharp than other, 
 "With that first he strikes his mother. 
 
 Still the faii'est are his fuel. 
 When his clays ai-e to be cruel. 
 Lovers' hearts are all his food. 
 And his baths their warmest blood ; 
 Nothing bvit wounds his hand doth season. 
 And he hates none like to Reason. 
 
 Ti-ust him not ; his words though sweet, 
 
 Seldom with liis heart do meet. 
 
 AH his practice is deceit ; 
 
 Every gift it is a bait ; 
 
 Not a kiss but poison bears ; 
 
 And most treason to his tears. 
 
 Idle minutes are his reign ; 
 
 Then the straggler makes his gain, 
 
 By presenting maids with toj-s. 
 
 And would have ye think them joj's ; 
 
 'Tis the ambition of the elf 
 
 To have all childish as himself. 
 
 If by these ye please to know him. 
 Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 
 Though ye had a will to hide him. 
 Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him. 
 Since you hear his falser play, 
 I And that he's Venus' runaway. 
 
 ON LUCY, COITNTESS OF BEDFOED. 
 
 This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
 I thou.ght to form unto my zealous Muse, 
 
 What kind of creature I could most desire, 
 To honour, serve, and love ; as poets use 
 
BEN JONSOX. 67 
 
 I meant to make her fair, and free, and ■wise, : 
 
 Of greatest blood, and 3'^et more good than great ; 
 I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, 
 
 Xor lend like influence from his lucent seat, 
 I meant that she should be courteous, facile, sweet 
 
 Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; 
 I meant each softest virtue there should meet, 
 
 Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
 Only a learned and a manly soul 
 
 I purposed her ; that should, -with even powers, 
 The rock, the spindle, and the shears control j 
 
 Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
 Such wheii I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, 
 'My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she ! 
 
 A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER. 
 
 Hear me, O God ! 
 
 A broken heart 
 
 Is my best part ! 
 Use stiU Thy rod, 
 
 That I may prove s 
 
 Therein thy Ipve. 
 
 If Thou hadst not 
 
 Been stern tp me, 
 
 But left me free, 
 I had forgot lo 
 
 JkEyself and Thee. 
 
 -For sin's so sweet 
 As minds ill bent 
 Earely repent. 
 Until they meet is 
 
 Their punishment. 
 
 Who more can -cure 
 Than Thou iiast dope, 
 
68 BEN JONSON. 
 
 That giv'st a son 
 20 To free a slave ? 
 
 First made of nought 
 With all since bought. 
 
 Sin, Death, and Hell, 
 ' His glorious name 
 
 25 Quite overcame ; 
 
 Yet I rebel, 
 
 And slight the same. 
 
 But I'll come in, 
 Before my loss 
 30 Me farther toss ; 
 
 As sure to win 
 Under His Cross. 
 
 MARGARET RATCLIFFE. 
 
 Marble, weep, for thou dost cover 
 A dead beauty underneath thee. 
 Rich as nature could bequeath thee ! 
 Grant then, no rude hand remove her. 
 All the gazers on the skies 
 Read not in fair heaven's story, 
 Expresser truth, or truer glory, 
 Than they might in her bright eyes. 
 
 Rare as wonder was her wit ; 
 And, like nectar, ever flowing ! 
 Till time, strong by her bestowing. 
 Conquer' d hath both life and it ; 
 Life, whose grief was out of fashion 
 In these times. Few so have rued 
 Fate in a brother. To conclude, 
 For wit, feature, and true passion. 
 Earth, thou hast not such another. 
 
BEN JONSON. 69' 
 
 THE NOBLE NATURE. 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 
 
 In bulk, doth make Man better be ; 
 
 Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
 
 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
 A lily of a day 
 Is fairer far in" May, 
 Although it fall and die that night — 
 It was the plant and flower of Light. 
 
 In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
 
 And in short measures life may perfect be. 
 
70 ' BEAUMONT- AND FLETCHER. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Care-dliamihig' Sleep, thou easer of a)ll woes, 
 Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
 On this afflicted prince : fall like a cloud 
 In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud 
 
 6 Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet [light] , 
 
 And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, 
 Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain 
 Like hollow murmuring wind or gentle rain. 
 Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide, 
 
 10 ' And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 
 
 SONG TO PAN. 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bowers. 
 All ye virtues and ye powers 
 That inhabit in the lakes. 
 In the pleasant springs or brakes, 
 5 Move your feet 
 
 To our sound. 
 Whilst we greet 
 AU this ground 
 With his honour and his name 
 10 That defends our flocks from blame. 
 
 He is great, and he is just. 
 He is ever good, and must 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 71 
 
 Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, 
 Hoses, pinbs, and loved lilies. 
 
 Let us fling, 15 
 
 Whilst we sing, 
 
 Ever holy," 
 
 Ever holy. 
 Ever honoured, ever young ! 
 Thus great Pan is ever sung. sso 
 
 SONG TO PAN. 
 
 Sing his praises that doth keep 
 
 Our floeks from harm. 
 Pan, the father of our sheep ; 
 
 And arm in arm 
 Tread we softly in a round, 5 
 
 While the hollow neighb'ring ground 
 Pills the music with her sound. 
 
 Pan, O great god Pan, to thee 
 
 Thus do we sing : , 
 Thou that keep'st us chaste and free, id 
 
 As the young spring. 
 Ever be thy honour spoke. 
 Prom that place the morn is broke, 
 To that place day doth unyoke ! 
 
 FOLDING THE FLOCKS. 
 
 Shepherds all, and maidens fair. 
 Fold your flocks up ; for the air 
 Gins to thicken, and the sun 
 Already his great course hath run. 
 See the dew-drops, how they Mss 
 Every little flower that is ; 
 
72 BEAUMOST AST) FLETCHER. 
 
 Hanging on theii- velvet heads, 
 
 Like a string of crystal beads. 
 
 See the hea^-y clouds low falling 
 10 And bright Hesperus down calling 
 
 The dead night from under ground ; 
 
 At whose rising, mists unsound, 
 
 Damps and vajDors fly apace, 
 
 And hover o'er the smiling face 
 15 Of these pastures ; where they come, 
 
 StriMng dead both bud and bloom. 
 
 Therefore from such danger lock 
 
 Eveiy one his loved flock ; 
 
 And let j'our dogs he loose without, 
 20 Lest the wolf come as a scout 
 
 From the mountain, and ere day, 
 
 Bear a lamb or Md away ; 
 
 Or the crafty, thievish fox 
 
 Break upon your simple flocks. 
 25 To secure yourself from these. 
 
 Be not too secure in ease ; 
 
 So shall you good shepherds prove. 
 
 And deserve your master's love. 
 
 Now, good-night ! may sweetest slumbers 
 30 And soft silence fall in numbers 
 
 On your eyelids. So farewell : 
 
 Thus I end my evening kneU. 
 
J. FLETCHEE. 73 
 
 J. FLETCHEE. 
 
 ilELANCHOLT. 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights, 
 As short as are the nights 
 
 Wherein you spend your folly : 
 There's nought in this life sweet 
 If man were wise to see't, s 
 
 But only melancholy, 
 O sweetest Melancholy ! 
 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
 
 A look that's fasten'd to the ground, lo 
 
 A tongue chain' d up without a sound ! 
 Fountain heads and pathless groves. 
 Places which pale passion loves ! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 15 
 
 A midnight beU, a parting groan ! 
 These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
 Then stretch our bones in a stiU gloomy valley ; 
 Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Melancholy. 
 
7nt PHILIP 5IASSINOEK. 
 
 PHILIP MASSIXGER. 
 
 A NEW WAT TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 
 
 Act III. ScEJfE I. 
 
 \^Enter Lord LoveU,.Allioorth, Servants.'] 
 
 Lovell. Walk the horses down the hiU : something 
 .In private I must-impart to Allworth. [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Allworth. O, my lord, 
 What sacrifice of reverence, duty, watching, 
 5 Although I could put off the use of sleep, 
 
 And ever wait on your commands to serve them ; 
 What dangers, though in ne'er so horrid shapes. 
 Nay death itself, though I should run to meet it, 
 Can I, and with a thankful willingness, suffer ; 
 10 But stiU the retribution will fall short 
 
 Of your bounties shower' d upon me? 
 
 Lov. Loving youth ; 
 TiU what I purpose be put into act, 
 Do not o'erprize it ; since j'ou have trusted me 
 15 With your soul's nearest, nay, her dearest secret, 
 
 Eest confident 'tis in a cabinet lock'd 
 Treachery shall never open. I have found you 
 (For so much to your face I must profess, 
 Howe'er you guard your modesty with a blush for't) 
 20 More zealous in your love and service to me. 
 
 Than I have been in my rewards. 
 
 All. Still great ones. 
 Above my merit. 
 
 Lov. Such your gratitude calls them : 
 
PHILIP 1IA5SIXGEK. 75 
 
 Nor am I of that harsh arid rugged temper 25 
 
 As some great men are taxed -with, •who imagine 
 
 They part from the respect due to. their honours, 
 
 If they use not all such as f olio'W them, 
 
 Without distinction of tbar biiths, Uke slaves. 
 
 I am not so eotMEtioned ^ I can make 30 
 
 A fitting difference betw'een my foot-boy. 
 
 And a gentleman, by want compeil'd to. serve me. 
 
 AIL 'Tis thankfully acknowledged ; j'ou have been 
 More like a father to me than a master : 
 Pray you, paxdoQi the comparison. 35 
 
 ioB, I allow- it; 
 And to give you, assurance 1 am pleased in't. 
 My carriage and demeanour to your mistress. 
 Fair ilargaret, shall truly witness for me, 
 I can command my passions. « 
 
 AIL 'Tis a conquest 
 Few lords can boast of when they are tempted. — -Oh ! 
 
 iow, Why do ytju sigh? can you be doubtful of me ? 
 By that fair name I in the wars have purchased, 
 And all my actions, hitherto untainted, 45 
 
 I will not be more trae to mine own honour, 
 Than to my Allworth ! 
 
 AU, As you are the brave lord LoveU, 
 Tour bare word only given is an assurance 
 Of more validity and weight to me, 50 
 
 Than all the oaths, bound up with imprecations. 
 Which, when they would deceive, most coui-tiers practise : 
 Yet being a man (for, sure, to style you more 
 Would relish of gross flaittery), I am forced. 
 Against my confidence of your worth and virtues, 65 
 
 To doubt, nay more, to fear. 
 
 Lav. So" youngj and jealous ! 
 
 All. Were yoia to encounter with a single foe. 
 The victory were certain ; but to stand 
 
 The charge of two such potent enemies, eo 
 
 At once assaulting you, as wealth and beauty, 
 And those two seconded with poweij, is odds 
 Too great for Hercules. 
 
76 PHILIP 3IASSINGEE. 
 
 Lov. Speak your doubts and fears, 
 
 85 Since you will nourish them, in plainer language. 
 
 That I may understand them. 
 
 All. What's your will. 
 Though I lend arms against myself (provided 
 They may advantage you), must be obey'd. 
 
 70 My much loved lord, were Margaret only fair, 
 
 The cannon of her more than earthly form. 
 Though mounted high, commanding all beneath it. 
 And ramm'd Tsith bullets of her sparkling eyes. 
 Of all the bulwarks that defend your senses 
 
 "5 Could batter none, but that which guards your sight. 
 
 But when the well-tuned accents of her tongue 
 Make music to you, and with numerous sounds 
 Assault your hearing (such as Ulysses, if [he] 
 Now lived again, howe'er he stood the Syrens, 
 
 80 Could not resist), the combat must grow doubtful 
 
 Between your reason and rebellious passions. 
 Add this too ; when you feel her touch and breath, 
 Like a soft western wind, when it glides o'er 
 Arabia, creating gums and spices ; 
 
 85 And in the van, the nectar of her lips. 
 
 Which you must taste, bring the battalia on, 
 Well arm'd, and strongly lined with her discourse, 
 And knowing manners, to give entertainment ; — 
 Hippolytus himself would leave Diana, 
 
 90 To follow such a Venus. 
 
 Lov. Love hath made you 
 Poetical, AUworth. 
 
 All. Grant all these beat off. 
 Which if it be in man to do, you'll do it. 
 
 95 Mammon, in Sir Giles Overreach, steps in 
 
 With heaps of ill-got gold, and so much land. 
 To make her more remarkable, as would tire 
 A falcon's wings in one day to fly over. 
 O, my good lord ! these powerful aids, which would 
 100 Make a mis-shapen negro beautiful 
 
 (Yet are but ornaments to give her lustre, 
 That in herself is all perfection), must 
 
PHILIP JIASSIXGER. 77 
 
 Prevail for her : I here release your trust ; 
 
 "Tis happiness, enough, for me to sevxe you, 
 
 And sometimes, with chaste eyes, to look upon her. 105 
 
 Lov. WTiy, shall I swear ? 
 
 All. O, by no means, my lord ; 
 And wrong not so your judgment to the world, 
 As from your fond indulgence to a boy. 
 
 Tour page, your servant, to refuse a blessing 110 
 
 Divers great men are rivals for. 
 
 Lov. Suspend 
 Your judgment tiU the trial. How far is it 
 To Overreach's house? 
 
 All. At the most, some half hour's riding ; 115 
 
 Tou'U soon be there. 
 
 Lov. And you the sooner freed 
 From your jealous fears. 
 
 AU. O that I durst but hope it ! [Exeunt. 
 
78 JOHN HILTON. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is sirent 
 
 Ere half my clays, in this dark world and wide, 
 
 And that one talent which is death to hide, 
 Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 s To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 
 My true account, lest he returning chide ; 
 
 " Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? " 
 I fondly ask : But Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
 :o Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve hun best : his state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. ' ' 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
 And with forc'd fingers rude. 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. 
 Compels me to disturb your season due : 
 For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
 Young Lycidas ! and hath not left his peer. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 7a 
 
 TVTio would not sing for Lycidas ? He knew lo 
 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well, 15 
 
 That from beneath the seat of JoTe doth spring. 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 
 So may some gentle Muse 
 
 With lucky words favoui- my destin'd m-n, 20 
 
 And as he passes turn, 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
 
 For we were nurst upon the self-same hUl, 
 Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rUl ; 
 Together both, ere the high lawns apjjear'd 25 
 
 Under the opening eyelids of the morn. 
 We drove a-fleld, and both together heard 
 What time the gray-fly winds her sultiy horn, 
 Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
 Oft tiU the star that rose, at evening bright, 30 
 
 Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
 Temper'cl to th' oaten flute, 
 
 Rough Satyrs dane'd, and Fauns with cloven heel 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long, 35 
 
 And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. 
 
 But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
 Xow thou art gone, and never must return ! 
 Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'.e^grown, 4,0 
 
 And all their echoes mourn. 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
 Shall now no more be seen. 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 As killing as the canker to the rose, is 
 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
 Or frost to flowers, that their .gay wardrpbe wear. 
 
80 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 When first the white-thorn blows ; 
 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
 so Where were ye, Nj-mphs, when the remorseless deep 
 
 Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 
 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
 
 Where your old Bards, the famous Druids Ue, 
 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
 55 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 
 
 Ay me, I fondly dream ! 
 
 Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? 
 
 What could the Muse herself, that Orpheus bore, 
 
 The Muse herself, for her inchanting son, 
 60 Whom universal nature did lament, 
 
 When by the rout that made the hideous roar. 
 
 His gory ■\'isage down the stream was sent, 
 
 Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 
 Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care 
 65 To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, 
 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
 
 Were it not better done as others use, 
 
 To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
 
 Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 
 70 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
 
 (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 
 To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 75 Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears. 
 
 And sUts the thin-spun life. But not the praise, 
 
 Phoebus repUed, and touch' d my trembUng ears ; 
 
 Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 80 Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies ; 
 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, 
 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 
 As he pronounces lastty on each deed. 
 
 Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed. 
 S.5 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour' d flood. 
 
JOHN iULTOS. 81 
 
 Smooth-sliding Mineius, crown' d with vocal reeds, 
 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
 
 But now my oat proceeds, 
 
 And listens to the herald of the sea 
 
 That came in Neptune's plea ; 90 
 
 He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds. 
 
 What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? 
 
 And question' d every gust of rugged wings 
 
 That blows from off each beaked promontory : 
 
 They knew not of his story, 9a 
 
 And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon stray' d ; 
 
 The air was cahn, and on the level brine 
 
 Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 
 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 
 
 BuUt in th' ecUpse, and rigg'd with curses dark. 
 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 
 Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 
 
 Like to that sanguine flow'r inscrib'd with woe. 
 Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? 
 Last came, and last did go, 
 The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amaia) ; 
 He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
 How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain. 
 Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 115 
 
 Of other care they little reckoning make, 
 Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
 Bhnd mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have learn' d aught else the least 120 
 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
 What recks it them? What -need they? They are sped ; 
 
 6 
 
82 JOHN IIILTOS. 
 
 And when they list their lean and flashy songs 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, 
 
 125 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
 
 But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, 
 Eot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
 Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 
 
 130 But that two-handed engine at the door 
 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 
 Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 
 135 Their bells, and flow' rets of a thousand hues. 
 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
 On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks. 
 Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, 
 
 140 That on the green turf suck the honied showers. 
 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
 The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, 
 
 lis The glowing violet. 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine. 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
 And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; 
 Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
 
 150 And daffadillies fill their cups with tears. 
 
 To sti'ew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 
 For so to interpose a little ease. 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
 Ay me ! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
 
 155 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, 
 
 '\Vhether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
 Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
 Visit' st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
 Or whether thou, to our moiat vows denied, 
 
JOBK MILTON. 83 
 
 Sleep' St hy the fable of Bellerus old, i60 
 
 "Where the great Tisioii of the guarded mount 
 Looks toward Xamancos and Bayona's hold; 
 Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. 
 Anil. O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
 
 Weep no more, woful .Shepherds, weep no more, i ■,-, 
 
 For Lyeidas your sorrow is not dead. 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed. 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
 
 An:l tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 
 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. 
 So Lyeidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
 Through the dear might of him that walked the waves. 
 Where other groves, and other streams along. 
 With nectar pure his oo2y locks he laves. ns 
 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song. 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain bi'Tn all the saints above. 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
 
 That sing, and sing^g in their glory move, is« 
 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lyeidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
 Henceforth thou art the Grenius of the shore. 
 In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wander in that perilous flood. iss 
 
 Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaka and rills. 
 While the still mom went out with sandals gray 
 He touch'd the tender stops of various quills. 
 With eager thought warbling Ms Doric lay ; 
 And now the sun had stretch'd out aU the Mils, iM 
 
 And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
 At last he rose, and twitch' d his mantle blue. 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
84 JOHN' MILTOX. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Comus, II. 230-243. 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that Uv'st unseen 
 
 Within thy airy shell, 
 By slow Meander's margent green, 
 And in the violet-embroider' d vale, - 
 
 6 Where the love-lorn nightingale 
 
 Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ; 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
 That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
 O, if thou have 
 10 Hid them in some flow'ry cave, 
 
 Tell me but where, 
 Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere ! 
 So mayst thou be translated to the skies. 
 And give resounding grace to all heav'n's harmonies. 
 
 SATAN AND HIS SPEECH. 
 (Paradise Lost, Book I., II. 587-669.} 
 
 Thus far these beyond 
 Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd 
 Their dread commander : he, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 6 Stood Hke a tower ; his form had yet not lost 
 
 All her original brightness, nor appear' d 
 Less than arch-angel ruin'd, and th' excess 
 Of glory obscur'd ; as when the sun new-ris'n 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
 
 10 Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon. 
 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs : darken' d so, yet shone 
 Above them all th' arch-angel : but his face 
 
 15 Deep scars of thunder had intrench' d, and care 
 
JOHN MILTON. 80 
 
 Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
 
 Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride , 
 
 Waiting revenge : cruel his eye, but cast 
 
 Signs of remorse and passion to behold 
 
 The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 20 
 
 Far other once beheld in bliss, condemn'd 
 
 For ever now to have their lot in pain ; 
 
 trillions of spirits for his fault amerc'd 
 
 Of heaven, and from eternal splendours flung 
 
 For his revolt, yet faithful how they stood, 25 
 
 Their glory wither'd : as when heaven's fire 
 
 Hath scath'd the forest oaks or mountain pines, 
 
 With singed top their stately growth, though bare, 
 
 Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepar'd 
 
 To speak ; whereat their double ranks they bend 30 
 
 From wing to wing, and half inclose him round 
 
 With aU his peers : attention held them mute. 
 
 Thrice he assay' d, and thrice in spite of scorn 
 
 Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth ; at last 
 
 Words interwove with sighs found out their way. 35 
 
 O myriads of immortal spirits, O powers 
 Matchless, but with the Almighty, and that strife 
 Was not inglorious, though th' event was dire. 
 As this place testifies, and this dire change 
 Hateful to utter : but what power of mind, 40 
 
 Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
 Of knowledge past or present, could have fear'd. 
 How such united force of gods, how such 
 As stood like these, could ever know repulse? 
 For who can yet believe, though after loss, 45 
 
 That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
 Hath emptied heaven, shall fail to reascend 
 Self -raised, and repossess their native seat? 
 For me, be witness all the host of heaven, 
 If counsels different or danger shunn'd 50 
 
 By me have lost our hopes : but he, who reigns 
 Monarch in heaven, till then as one secure 
 Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute, 
 Consent, or custom, and his regal state 
 
86 JOHX MILTON. 
 
 55 Put forth at full, but still his strength conceal'd, 
 
 ^Yhich tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. 
 Henceforth, his might we know, and know our own,- 
 So as not either to provoke, or dread 
 New war, provok'd ; our better part remains 
 
 60 To work in close design, by fraud or guile, 
 
 WTiat force effected not ; that he no less 
 At length from us may find, who overcomes 
 By force, hath overcome but half his foe. 
 Space may produce new worlds, whereof so rife 
 
 65 There went a fame in heaven, that he ere long 
 
 Intended to create, and therein plant 
 A generation, whom his choice regard 
 Should favour equal to the sons of heaven : 
 Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 
 
 70 Our first eruption — thither or elsewhere ; 
 
 For this infernal pit shall never hold 
 Celestial spirits in bondage, nor th' abyss 
 Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 
 Full counsel must mature : peace is despair' d ; 
 
 75 For who can think submission? war then, war 
 
 Open or understood, must be resolved. 
 
 He spake : and to confirm his words outflew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
 
 80 Far round illumin'd hell: highly they rag' d, ^ 
 
 Against the highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
 Clash' d on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven. 
 
 GATHERING IN PANDEMONIUM. 
 (^Paradise Lost, Book I., II. 769-797 .) 
 
 As bees 
 In spring time, when the sun with Taurus rides, 
 Pour forth their populous youth about the hive 
 In clusters ; they among fresh dews and flowers 
 
JOHX MiLTOJf. 87 
 
 Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank, 5 
 
 The suburb of their straw-built citadel, 
 
 New rubb'd with balm, expatiate, and confer 
 
 Their state affairs : so thick the aery crowd 
 
 Swarm'd and were straiten'd ; tUl, the signal giv'n, 
 
 Behold a Wonder! they, but now who seem'd lo 
 
 In bigness to surpass earth's giant sons, 
 
 Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room 
 
 Throng numberless, like that Pygmean race 
 
 Beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves, 
 
 Whose midnight fevels, bj' a forest side, 15 
 
 Or fountain, some belated peasant sees, 
 
 Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon 
 
 Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth 
 
 Wheels her pale course ; they on their mirth and dance 
 
 Intent, witti jocund music charm his ear ; 20 
 
 At once with joy and fear his heart rebotmds. 
 
 Thus ineoiporeal spirits to smallest forms 
 
 Eeduc'd their shapes immense, and were at large, 
 
 Though without number still, amidst the haU 
 
 Of that inf ei'nal court: Bnt far within, 25 
 
 And in their dimensions like themselves. 
 
 The great seraphic lords and cherubim 
 
 In close recess and secret conclave sat, 
 
 A thousand demi-gods on golden seats, 
 
 Prequent and full. 30 
 
 MEETING OF THE PEERS IN HELL. 
 
 (Paradise Lost, Book II., II. 11^386.^ 
 
 Powers and Dominions, Deities of heaven -^ 
 Tor since no deep within her gulf can hold 
 Immortal vigour, though oppress' d and fall'n, 
 I give not heaven for lost : from this descent 
 Celestial virtues rising will appear 
 More glorious and more dread, than from no fall, 
 
60 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 And trust themselves to fear no second fate. 
 
 ^le though just right and the fix'd laws of heaven 
 
 Did first create your leader, next free choice, 
 
 10 With what besides, in council or in fight, 
 
 Hath been achiev'd of merit ; yet this loss, 
 Thus far at least recover' d, hath much more 
 Establish'd in a safe unen^'ied throne, 
 Yielded vrith full consent. The happier state 
 
 15 In heaven, which foUows dignity, might draw 
 
 Envy from each inferior ; but who here 
 "WiU emy whom the highest place exposes 
 Foremost to stand against the Thund'rer's aim, 
 Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share 
 
 20 Of endless pain ? Where there is then no good 
 
 For which to strive, no strife can grow up there 
 From faction ; for none sure will claim in hell 
 Precedence, none, whose portion is so small 
 Of present pain, that -nith ambitious mind 
 
 25 Will covet more. With this advantage then 
 
 To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, 
 More than can be in heaven, we now return 
 To claim our just inheritance of old, 
 Surer to prosper than prosperity 
 
 30 Could have assur'd us ; and by what best way, 
 
 Whether of open war or covert guile, 
 We now debate ; who can advise, may speak. 
 
 He ceas'd ; and next him Moloch, scepter'd king, 
 Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest spirit 
 
 35 That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair : 
 
 His trust was with th' Eternal to be deem'd 
 Equal in strength, and rather than be less 
 Car'd not to be at all ; -with that care lost 
 Went all his fear : of God, or heU, or worse, 
 
 40 He reck'd not ; and these words thereafter spake : 
 
 My sentence is for open war : of wiles, 
 More unexpert, I boast not : them let those 
 Contrive who need, or when they need, not now : 
 For while they sit contriving, shall the rest. 
 
JOHN MILTOX. 89 
 
 Millions that stand in anus and longing wait . 45 
 
 The signal to ascend, sit Ung'ring here 
 
 Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place 
 
 Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 
 
 The prison of his tyranny ■who reigns 
 
 By our delay? Xo, let us rather choose, 50 
 
 Arm'd with heU flames and fury, all at once 
 
 O'er heaven's high tow'rs to force resistless waj-. 
 
 Turning our tortures into horrid arms 
 
 Against the torturer ; when to meet the noise 
 
 Of his almighty engine he shall hear 53 
 
 Infernal thunder, and for lightning see 
 
 Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
 
 Among his angels ; and his thi-one itself 
 
 Mixt with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire. 
 
 His own invented torments. But perhaps so 
 
 The way seems difficult and steep to scale 
 
 With upright wing against a higher foe. 
 
 Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench 
 
 Of that forgetful lake benumb not still. 
 
 That in our proper motion we ascend 65 
 
 Up to our native seat : descent and fall 
 
 To us is adverse. Who but felt of late 
 
 When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear 
 
 Insulting, and pursu'd us through the deep. 
 
 With what compulsion and labourious fight ■ 70 
 
 We sunk thus low ? Th' ascent is easy then ; 
 
 Th' event is feared. Should we again j)rovoke 
 
 Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find 
 
 To our destruction, if there -be in heU 
 
 Fear to be worse destroy' d. What can be worse 75 
 
 Than to dwell here, driven out from bhss, condemn' d 
 
 In this abhorred deep to utter woe ; 
 
 Where pain of unestinguishable fire 
 
 Must exercise us without hope of end. 
 
 The vassals of his anger, when the scourge so 
 
 Inexorable, and the torturing hour 
 
 Calls to us penance ? More destroyed than thus 
 
90 JOHX MILTUX. 
 
 "V\^e should be quite abolish' cl and expire. 
 "Wliat fear we then ? what doubt we to incense 
 83 His utmost ire? which, to the hight enrag'd 
 
 Will either quite consume us, and reduce 
 To nothing this essential ; happier far, 
 Than miserable to have eternal being, 
 Or, if our substance be indeed divine, 
 90 And can not cease to be, we are at worst 
 
 On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel 
 Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven. 
 And with perpetual iuroads to alarm. 
 Though inaccessible, his fatal throne : 
 95 "Which, if not victorj', is yet revenge. 
 
 He ended frowning, and his look denoune'd 
 Desperate revenge and battle dangerous 
 To less than gods. On th' other side up rose 
 Belial, in act more graceful and humane ; 
 
 100 A fairer person lost not heaven ; he seem' d 
 
 For dignity compos' d and high exploit: 
 But all was false and hollow ; though his tongue 
 Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear 
 The better reason, to perplex and dash 
 
 105 Maturest counsels ; for his thoughts were low ; 
 
 To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds 
 Timorous and slothful: yet he pleas' d the ear. 
 And with persuasive accent thus began. 
 I should be much for open war, O Peers, 
 
 110 As not behind in hate, if what was urg'd, 
 
 Main reason to persuade immediate war. 
 Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast 
 Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 
 When he, who most excels in fact of arms, 
 
 115 In what he counsels and in what excels 
 
 Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair 
 
 And utter dissolution, as the scope 
 
 Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
 
 First, what revenge? the tow'rs of heaven are fill'd 
 
 120 With armed watch, that render all access 
 
JOHX MILTON. 91 
 
 Impregnable ; oft on the bordering deep 
 
 Encamp "their iegiaus, or with obscure ■wing 
 
 Scout far and Tvide into the realm of night, 
 
 Scorning sm-prise. Or could we break our -way 
 
 By force, and at our heels all heU should rise 125 
 
 With blackest insurrection to confound 
 
 Heaven's purest light, yet our great enemy 
 
 All incorruptible would on his throne 
 
 Sit unpolluted ; and, th' ethereal mould 
 
 Incapable of stain would soon expel 130 
 
 Her mischief, and purge o:ff the baser fire 
 
 Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope 
 
 Is flat despair : we must exasperate 
 
 Th' ahnighly Victor to spend all his rage, 
 
 And that must end us, that must be our cure, 135 
 
 To be no more : sad cure ! for who would lose. 
 
 Though full of pain, this intellectual being. 
 
 Those thoughts that wander through eternity. 
 
 To perish ralher, swaUow'd up and lost 
 
 In the wide womb of uncreated night, ■ uo 
 
 Devoid of sense and motion ? and who knows. 
 
 Let this be good, whether our angry foe 
 
 Can give it, or will ever? how he can. 
 
 Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. 
 
 Win he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, us 
 
 Belike through impotence or unaware. 
 
 To give his enemies their wish, and end 
 
 Them in his anger whom his anger saves 
 
 To punish endless? Wherefore cease we then? 
 
 Say they who counsel war ; — We are decreed, 150 
 
 Reserv'd, and destin'd to eternal woe ; 
 
 Whatever doing, what can we suffer more. 
 
 What can we suffer worsp? — Is this then worst. 
 
 Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in ai-ms? 
 
 What, when we fled amain, pursu'd and struck iso 
 
 With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 
 
 The deep to shelter us? this heU then seem'd 
 
 A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay 
 
92 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Chain' d on the burning lake? that sure was worse. 
 
 160 What if the breath that kindled those grim fires 
 
 Awak'd should blow them into sevenfold rage, 
 And plunge us in the flames ? or from above 
 Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
 His red right hand to plague us ? what, if all 
 
 165 Her stores were opeu'd and this firmament 
 
 Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 
 Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall 
 One day upon our heads ; while we perhaps 
 Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
 
 170 Caught in a fiery tempest shall be hurl'd 
 
 Each on his rock transfix' d, the sport and prey 
 Of racking whirlwinds ; or forever sunk 
 Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains ; 
 There to converse with everlasting groans, 
 
 175 Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev'd. 
 
 Ages of hopeless end ? this would be worse. 
 War therefore, open or conceal' d, alike 
 My voice dissuades ; for what can force or guile 
 With him, or who deceives his mind, whose eye 
 
 180 Views all things at one view ? He from heaven's hight 
 
 All these our motions vain sees and derides ; 
 Not more almighty to resist our might. 
 Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. 
 Shall we then Uve thus ^ile, the race of heaven, 
 
 185 Thus trampled, thus expell'd, to suffer here 
 
 Chains and these torments ? better these than worse. 
 By my advice ; since fate inevitable 
 Subdues us, and omnipotent decree, 
 The victor's will. To suffer, as to do, 
 
 190 Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust 
 
 That so ordains : this was at first resolv'd. 
 If we were wise, against so great a foe 
 Contending, and so doubtful what might fall. 
 I laugh, when those, who at the spear are bold 
 
 195 And vent'rous, if that fail them, shrink and fear 
 
 What yet they know must follow, to endure 
 
JOHX JIILTOS. 93 
 
 Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain. 
 
 The sentence of their conqueror : this is now 
 
 Our doom ; which if we can sustain and bear, 
 
 Our supreme foe in time may much remit 200 
 
 His anger, and perhaps thus far remov'd 
 
 Xot mind us not offending, satisfl'd 
 
 "With what is punish' d : whence these raging fires 
 
 Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames. 
 
 Our purer essence then will overcome 205 
 
 Their noxious vapor, or enur'd not feel ; 
 
 Or chang'd at length, and to the place conform' d 
 
 In temper and in nature, will receive 
 
 Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain ; 
 
 This horror will grow mild, this darkness light : 210 
 
 Besides what hope the never-ending flight 
 
 Of future days may bring, what chance, what change 
 
 Worth waiting, since our present lot appears 
 
 For happy though but ill, for ill not worst. 
 
 If we procure not to ourselves more woe. 215 
 
 Thus Belial with words cloth' d in reason's garb 
 Counsel'd ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, 
 Not peace ; and after him thus Mammon spake. 
 
 Either to disinthrone the King of heaven 
 We war, if war be best, or to regain 220 
 
 Our own right lost : him to unthrone we then 
 May hope when everlasting Fate shall yield 
 To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife: 
 The former vain to hope argues as vain 
 The latter : for what place can be for us 225 
 
 Within heaven's bound, unless heaven's Lord supreme 
 We overpower ? Suppose he should relent 
 And publish grace to all, on promise made 
 Of new subjection ; with what eyes could we 
 Stand in his presence humble and receive 230 
 
 Strict laws impos'd, to celebrate his throne 
 With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead sing 
 Forc'd halleluiahs ; while he lordly sits 
 Our envy'd Sov'reign, and his altar breathes 
 
94 JOHN JIILTOX. 
 
 235 Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers, 
 
 Our servile offerings ? This must be our task 
 In heaven, this our delight ; how wearisome 
 Eternity so spent in worship i:)aid 
 To whom we hate ! Let us not then pursue 
 
 2M By force impossible, by leave obtain'd 
 
 Unacceptable, though in heaven, our state 
 
 Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek 
 
 Our own good from ourselves, and from our own 
 
 Live to ourselves, though in this vast recess, 
 
 2i5 Free, and to none accountable, preferring 
 
 Hai'd liberty before the easy j'oke 
 Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear 
 Then most conspicuous, when great things of small,. 
 Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse 
 
 250 We can create ; and in what place so e'er 
 
 Thrive under evil, and work easQ out of pain 
 Through labour and endurance. This deep world 
 Of darkness do we dread ? how oft amidst 
 Thick clouds and dark doth heaven's all ruling Sire 
 
 255 Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd, 
 
 And with the majesty of darkness round 
 Covers his throne ; from whence deep thunders roar 
 Must' ring their rage, and heaven resembles heU' 
 As he our darkness, can not we his light 
 
 260 Imitate when we please ? this desert soil 
 
 Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold ; 
 Nor want we skill or art, from whence to raise 
 Magnificence ; and what can heaven shew more ? 
 Our torments also may in length of time 
 
 265 Become our elements, these piercing firea 
 
 As soft as now severe, our temper chang'd 
 Into their temper ; which must needs remove 
 The sensible of pain. All things invite 
 To peaceful counsels, and the settled state 
 
 270 Of order, how in safety best we may 
 
 Compose our present e^ils, with regard 
 
 Of what we are and where, dismissing quite 
 
JOHK MILTON. 95 
 
 All thoughts of war. Ye have what I ad-vise. 
 
 He scarce had finish' d, when such murmur fill'd 
 Th' assemblj-, as when hollow rocks retain 275 
 
 The sound of Must' ring winds, which all night long 
 Had roused the sea, now with hoarse cadence luU 
 Sea-fai-ing men o'er watch' d, whose bark by chance 
 Or pinnace anchors in a craggy bay 
 
 After the tempest : such applause was heard 290 
 
 As Mammon ended, and Ms sentence pleas'd, 
 Advising peace : for such another field 
 They dreaded worse than heU : so much the fear 
 Of thunder and the sword of Michael 
 
 "Wrought still within them ; and no less desire 28s 
 
 To found this nether empire, wMch might rise, 
 By policy and long process of time. 
 In emulation opposite to heaven. 
 WTiich when Beelzebub perceiv'd, than whom, 
 Satan except, none Mgher sat, with grave 290 
 
 Aspect he rose, and in Ms rising seem'd 
 A pillar of state : deep on Ms front engraven. 
 Deliberation sat and public care ; 
 And princely counsel in Ms face yet shone, 
 Majestic though in ruins : sage he stood, 295 
 
 "With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear 
 The weight of mightiest monarcMes ; Ms look 
 Drew audience and attention still as mght 
 Or summer's noon-tide air, wMle thus he spake. 
 
 TMones and imperial Powers, offspring of heaven, 300 
 
 Ethereal "Virtues ; or these titles now 
 Must we renounce, and changing style be call' d 
 Princes of hell ? for so the popular vote 
 Inclines, here to continue, and build up here 
 A growing empire, doubtless ; wMle we dream, 305 
 
 And know not that the King of heaven hath doom'd 
 TMs place our dungeon, not our safe retreat 
 Beyond Ms potent arm, to Uve exempt 
 From heaven's Mgh jurisdiction, in new league 
 Banded against Ms throne, but to remain aio 
 
 In strictest bondage, though thus far remov'd, 
 
96 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Under th' inevitable curb, reserv'd 
 His captive multitude : for he, be sure, 
 ■ In hight or depth, still first and last -will reign 
 
 315 Sole King, and of his kingdom lose no part 
 
 By our revolt, but over hell extend 
 His empire, and with iron sceptre rule 
 Us here, as with his golden, those of heaven. 
 What sit we then projecting peace and war? 
 
 a: J War hath determin'd us, and foiled with loss 
 
 Irreparable ; terms of peace yet none 
 Vouchsaf'd or sought ; for what peace will be giv'n 
 To us enslav'd, but custody severe. 
 And stripes, and arbitrary punishment 
 
 325 Inflicted? and what peace can we return, 
 
 But to our power hostility and hate, 
 Untam'd reluctance, and revenge, though slow. 
 Yet ever plotting how the conqueror least 
 May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice 
 
 330 I In doing what we most in suffering feel ? 
 
 Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need 
 With dangerous expedition to invade 
 Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault, or siege. 
 Or ambush from the deep. What if we find 
 
 336 Some easier enterprise? There is a place. 
 
 If ancient and prophetic fame in heaven 
 Err not, another world, the happy seat 
 Of some new race called Man, about this time 
 To be created like to us, though less 
 
 340 In power and excellence, but favour' d more 
 
 Of him who rules above ; so was his will 
 Pronounc'd among the gods, and by an oath 
 That shook heaven's whole circumference, confirm' d. 
 Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn 
 
 ■i:j What creatures there inhabit, of what mould. 
 
 Or substance, how endu'd, and what their power. 
 And where their weakness, how attempted best, 
 By force or subtilty. Though heaven be shut. 
 And heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure ' 
 
 zz) In his own strength, this place may lie expos' d, 
 
JOHN snLTOs. 97 
 
 The utmost border of his kingdom, left 
 
 To their defense who hold it : here perhaps 
 
 Some advant^eous act may be achiev'd 
 
 By sudden onset, either -with heU fire 
 
 To -n-aste his whole creation, or possess 35; 
 
 All as our own, and diive as we were driven 
 
 The puny habitants ; or if not drive, 
 
 Seduce them to our partj-, that their God 
 
 May prove their foe, and with repenting hand 
 
 Abolish his own works. This would surpass sec 
 
 Common revenge, and interrupt his joy 
 
 In our confusion, and our jov upraise 
 
 In his disturbance ; when his darling sons 
 
 Hurl'd headlong to partake with us, shall curse 
 
 Their frail original, and faded bHss 360 
 
 Faded so soon. Advise if this be worth 
 
 Attempting, or to sit in darkness here 
 
 Hatching vain empires. — Thus Beelzebub 
 
 Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devis'd 
 
 By Satan, and in part propos'd ; for whence, 370 
 
 But from the author of all iU, could spring 
 
 So deep a malice, to confound the race 
 
 Of mankind in one root, and earth with hell 
 
 To mingle and involve, done all to spite 
 
 The great Creator ? but their spite stiU. serves sts 
 
 His glory to augment. 
 
 EfVOCATIOX TO LIGHT. 
 
 (Paradise Lost, Book III., II. l-oo.} 
 
 Hail holy Ught ! offspring of heav'n first-born ; 
 
 Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam 
 
 May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, 
 
 And never but in unapproached light 
 
 Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee. 
 
 Bright effluence of bright essence increate 
 
98 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Or hear'st thou rathei- pure ethereal stream 
 Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun, 
 Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
 
 10 Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
 
 The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
 Won from the void and formless infinite. 
 Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 
 Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain' d 
 
 15 In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight 
 
 Through utter and through middle darlaiess Ijorne, 
 
 With other notes than to th' Orphean lyre, 
 
 I sung of Chaos and eternal Night 
 
 Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down 
 
 20 The dai'k descent, and up to reaseend. 
 
 Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe. 
 And feel thy sov' reign ^-ital lamp ; but thou 
 Re'S'isit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
 
 25 So thick a drop serene hath quench' d their orbs, 
 
 Or dim suffusion veUed ; yet not the more 
 Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hiU, 
 Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 
 
 30 Thee Sion, and the fiowery brooks beneath, 
 
 That wash thy hallow' d feet, and warbling flow. 
 Nightly I visit ; nor sometimes forget 
 Those other two equal' d with me in fate, 
 So were I equal' d with them in renown, 
 
 35 BUnd Thamyris and blind Maeonides, 
 
 And Tiresias and Phineus prophets old ; 
 Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird 
 Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid 
 
 w Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
 
JOHN snLTOS. 99 
 
 But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
 
 Surrounds me, fi-om the cheerful ■ways of men 
 
 Cut off, and for the book of Knowledge f air 
 
 Presented ^th a universal blank 
 
 Of nature's ■works to me exjjung'd and rais'd. 
 
 And ■wisdom at one entrance qilite shut out. 
 
 So much the rather thou celestial Light 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 
 Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 (Paradise Lost, Book V., II. 273-287.') 
 
 At once on th' eastern cliff of paradise 
 
 He lights, and to his proper shape returns 
 
 A seraph wing'd: six -wings he wore, to shade 
 
 TTis Uneaments divine ; the pair that clad 
 
 Each shoulder broad came Tnant ling o'er his breast 
 
 With regal ornament ; the middle pair 
 
 Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round 
 
 Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold 
 
 And colours dipp'd in heaven ; the third his feet 
 
 Shadow' d from either heel ■with feather' d mail, 
 
 Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood. 
 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance flU'd 
 
 The circuit wide. 
 
 BATTLE IN' HEAVEX. 
 
 (Paradise Lost, Book VJ., II. 207-353.') 
 
 Xow storming fury rose, 
 And clamour, such as heard in heaven till now 
 "Was never ; arms o?x armour clashing bray'd 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 
1(1 JOHH MILTON. 
 
 s Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the uoise 
 
 Of conflict ; over head the dismal hiss 
 Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew, 
 And flying A-aulted either host with fire. 
 So under fiery cope together rush'd 
 
 10 Both battles main, with ruinous assault 
 
 And inextinguishable rage ; all heaven 
 Resounded, and had earth been then, all earth 
 Had to her centre shook. What wonder ? when 
 INIiUions of fierce eneount'ring angels fought 
 
 15 On either side, the least of whom could wield 
 
 These elements, and arm him with the force 
 Of all their regions : how much more of power 
 Army against army numberless to raise 
 Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb, 
 
 20 Though not destroy, their happy native seat ; 
 
 Had not the eternal King omnipotent 
 From his strong hold of heaven high overrul'd 
 And Umited their might ; though number' d such, 
 As each divided legion might have seem'd 
 
 25 A numerous host ; in strength each anned hand 
 
 A legion ; led in fight, yet leader seem'd 
 Each warrior single as in chief, expert 
 When to advance, or stand,' or turn the swaj- 
 Of battle, open when, and when to close 
 
 30 The ridges of grim war ; no thought of flight. 
 
 None of retreat, no unbecoming deed 
 That argu'd fear ; each on himself rely'd 
 As onty in his arm the moment lay 
 Of victory ; de^ds of eternal fame 
 
 35 Were done, but infinite ; for wide was spread 
 
 That war and various ; sometimes on firm ground 
 A standing fight : then soaring on main wing 
 Toi-mented all the air ; all air seem'd then 
 Conflicting fire. Long time in even scale 
 
 40 The battle hung ; tiU Satan, who that daj- 
 
 Prodigious power had shown, and met in ai-ms 
 No equal, ranging thi-ough the dire attack 
 Of fighting seraphim confus'd, at length 
 
JOHN MILTON. 101 
 
 Saw -where the sword of Michael smote, and feU'd 
 
 Squadrons at once ; with huge two-handed sway 45 
 
 Brandish' d aloft the horrid edge came down 
 
 "Wide wasting : such destruction to withstand 
 
 He hasted, and oppos'd the rocky orb 
 
 Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield 
 
 A vast circumference. At his approach 50 
 
 The great arch-angel from his warlike toil 
 
 SuTceas'd ; and glad, as hoping here to end 
 
 Intestine war in heaven, th' arch-foe subdu'd 
 
 Or captiYe drag'd in chains, with hostile frown 
 
 And visage all inflam'd, first thus began. 55 
 
 Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt, 
 Unnam'd in heaven, now plenteous as thou seest 
 These acts of hateful strife, hateful to all. 
 Though heaviest by just measure on thyself 
 And thy adherents : how hast thou disturb' d eo 
 
 Heaven's blessed peace, and into nature brought 
 Misery, uncreated till the crime 
 Of thy rebellion? how hast thou instill' d 
 Thy malice into thousands, once upright 
 And faithful, now prov'd false? But think not here 65 
 
 To trouble holy rest ; heaven cast thee out 
 From all her confines : heaven, the seat of bUss, 
 Brooks not the works of violence and war. 
 Hence then, and evil go with thee along, 
 Thy offspring, to the place of evil, hell, 70 
 
 Thou and thy wicked crew ; there mingle broils. 
 Ere this avenging sword begin thy doom. 
 Or some more sudden vengeance wing'd from God 
 Precipitate thee with augmented pain. '■ 
 
 So spake the prince of angels ; to whom thus 75 
 
 The adversary. Xor think thou with wind 
 Of aery threats to awe whom yet with deeds 
 Thou canst not. Hast thou turn'd the least of these 
 To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise 
 Unvanquish'd, easier to transact with me so 
 
 That thou shouldst hope, imperious, and with threats 
 To chase me hence ? err not that so shall end 
 
102 JOHX MILTON. 
 
 The strife which thou call'st evil, but we style 
 The strife of glory : which we mean to win, 
 85 Or turn this heaven itself into the hell 
 
 Thou fablest ; here however to dwell free, 
 If not to reign ; meanwhile thy utmost force. 
 And join him nam'd Almightj' to thy aid, 
 I fly not but have sought thee far and nigh. 
 90 They ended parle, and both address'd for fight 
 
 Unspeakable ; for who, though with the tongue 
 Of angels, can relate, or to what things 
 Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift 
 Human imagination to such hight 
 95 Of godlike power? for Ukest gods they seem'd. 
 
 Stood they or mov'd, in stature, motion, arms. 
 Fit to decide the empire of great heaven. 
 Now wav'd their fiery swords, and in the air 
 Made horrid circles ; two broad suns their shields 
 
 100 Blaz'd opposite, while expectation stood 
 
 In horror ; from each hand with speed retir'd. 
 Where erst was thickest fight, th' angelic throng. 
 And left large field, unsafe within the wind 
 Of such commotion, such as, to set forth 
 
 105 Great things by small, if, nature's concord broke, 
 
 Among the constellations war were sprung. 
 Two planets, rushing from aspect malign 
 Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky 
 Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound. 
 
 110 Together both, with next to Almighty ami, 
 
 Uplifted imminent, one stroke they aim'd 
 That might determine, and not need repeat 
 As not of power, at once ; nor odds appear' d 
 In might, or swift jsrevention ; but the sword 
 
 115 Of Michael from the armoury of God 
 
 Was giv'n him temper'd so, that neither keen 
 Nor solid might resist that edge : it met 
 The sword of Satan with steep force to smite 
 Descending, and in Half cut sheer ; nor stay'd, 
 
 12 1 But with swift wheel reverse, deep ent'ring, shar'd 
 
 All his right side ; then Satan first knew pain. 
 
JOHN" 3nLT0X. 103 
 
 And writh'd him to and fro convolv'd ; so sore 
 
 The griding sword with discontinuous wound 
 
 Pass'd thro' him, but th' ethereal substance clos'd, 
 
 Not long divisible, and from the gash 125 
 
 A sti'eam of nectarous humour issuing flow'd 
 
 Sanguine, such as celestial spirits maj- bleed. 
 
 And aU. his armour stain' d ere while so bright. 
 
 Forthwith on all sides to his aid was run 
 
 B}^ angels many and strong, who interpos'd 130 
 
 Defence, while others bore him on their shields 
 
 Back to his chariot ; where it stood retir'd 
 
 From off the files of war : there they him laid 
 
 Onashing for anguish, and despite, and shame. 
 
 To find himself not matchless, and his pride 135 
 
 Humbled by such rebuke, so far beneath 
 
 His confidence to equal God in power. 
 
 Tet soon he heal'd ; for spirits that live throughout 
 
 Tital in every part, not as fraU. man 
 
 In entrails, heart or head, Uver or reins, 140 
 
 Cannot but by annihilating die ; 
 
 IN^or in their liquid texture mortal wound 
 
 Heceive, no more can the fluid air : 
 
 All heart they live, all head, all ere, aU ear. 
 
 All intellect, all sense, and as they please 145 
 
 They limb themselves, and colour, shape or size 
 
 Assume, as likes them best, condense or rare. 
 
 THE CHAKIOT OF DEITY. 
 
 (Paradise Lost, Book VI., II. 749-784.') 
 
 Forth rush'd with whirlwind sound 
 The chariot of paternal Deitj-, 
 
 Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel undrawn, 
 Itself instinct with spirit, but convoy' d 
 'By four cherubic shapes ; four faces each 
 Had wondrous, as with stars their bodies aU 
 And wings were set with eyes, with eyes the wheels 
 
104 JOHN MILTOX. 
 
 Of beryl, and careering fires between ; 
 Over their heads a crystal firmament, 
 
 10 Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure 
 
 Amber, and colours of the show'ry arch. 
 He, in celestial panojoly all arm'd 
 Of radiant Urim work divinely wrought. 
 Ascended ; at his right hand Victory 
 
 IB Sate eagle- wing' d, beside him hung his bow 
 
 And quiver with three-bolted thunder stor'd, 
 And from about him fierce effusion roU'd, 
 Of smoke, and bickering flame, and sparkles dire. 
 Attended with ten thousand thousand saints 
 
 20 He onward came ; far off his coming shone ; 
 
 And twenty thousand, I their number heard, 
 Chariots of God, half on each side were seen. 
 He on the wings of cherub rode sublime, 
 On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron'd. 
 
 25 Illustrious 'far and wide, but by his own 
 
 First seen ; them unexj^ected joy surpris'd, 
 When the great ensign of Messiah blaz'd, 
 Aloft by angels borne, his sign in heaven : 
 Under whose conduct Michael soon reduc'd 
 
 30 His army, circLunfus'd on either wing. 
 
 Under their head embodied all in one. 
 Before him power divine his way prepar'd ; 
 At his command the uprooted hiUs retir'd 
 Each to his place ; they heard his voice and went 
 
 35 Obsequious ; Heaven his wonted face renew' d, 
 
 And with fresh flow'rets hill and valley smil'd. 
 
 ADAM'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 (Paradise Lost, Book X., II. 720-845.'} 
 
 O miserable of happy ! is this the end 
 
 Of this new glorious world, and me so late 
 
 The glory of that glory, who now become 
 
JOHN MILTON. 105 
 
 Accni-s'cl of blessed? Hide me from the face 
 
 Of God, -whom to behold ■was then my hight 5 
 
 Of happiness : yet well, if here, would end 
 
 The misery, I deseir'd it, and wonld bear 
 
 My own deservings ; but this wiU not serve ; 
 
 All that I eat, or drink, or shall beget. 
 
 Is propagated curse. O voice once heard 10 
 
 DehghtfuUy, '• Increase and multiply," 
 
 Xow death to hear ! for what can I increase 
 
 Or multiply, but curses on my head? 
 
 Who of aU ages to succeed, but feeling 
 
 The evil on him brought by me, wiU curse 15 
 
 My head? HI fare our ancestor impure, 
 
 For this we may thank Adam ; but his thanks 
 
 Shall be the execration ; so besides 
 
 Mine own that bide upon me, all from me 
 
 Shall with a fierce reflux on me redound, . 20 
 
 On me, as on their natural centime, light ■ 
 
 Heavy, though in their place. O fleeting joys 
 
 Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes ! 
 
 Did I request thee. Maker, from my clay. 
 
 To mould me man ? Did I soUcit thee 25 
 
 From darkness to promote me, or here place 
 
 In this deUcious garden ? As my -will 
 
 Concurr'd not to my being, it were but right 
 
 And equal to reduce me to my dust. 
 
 Desirous to resign, and render back 30 
 
 All I receiv'd, unable to perform 
 
 Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold 
 
 The good I sought not. To the loss of that, 
 
 Sufficient penalty, why hast thou added 
 
 The sense of endless woes ? Inexplicable 35 
 
 Thj' justice seems ; yet, to say truth, too late 
 
 I thus contest : then should have been refus'd 
 
 Those terms, whatever, when they were propos'd. 
 
 Thou didst accept them ; wilt thou enjoy the good, 
 
 Then cavil the conditions ? and though God io 
 
 Made thee without thy leave, what if thy son 
 
106 JOHK 3IILT0X. 
 
 Prove /disobedient, and reprov'd retort, 
 Wherefore didst thou beget me ? I sought it not : 
 "Wouldst thou admit for his contempt of thee 
 
 45 That proud excuse ? j-et him not thy election. 
 
 But natural necessity begot. 
 God made thee of choice his own, and of his own 
 To serve him ; th}' reward was of his grace, 
 Thy punishment then justly is at his will. 
 
 50 Be it so, for I submit, his doom is fair, 
 
 That dust I am, and shall to dust return : 
 O welcome hour whenever ! why delaj's 
 His hand to execute what his decree 
 Fix'd on this day? why do I overlive? 
 
 55 Whj'^ am I mock'd with death, and lengthen' d out 
 
 To deathless pain? how gladly would I meet 
 Mortahty my sentence, and be earth 
 Insensible ! how gladly would I lay me down 
 As in my mother's lap ! there I should rest 
 
 60 And sleep secure ; his dreadful voice no more 
 
 Would thunder in my ears ; no fear of worse 
 To me and to my offspring would torment me 
 With cruel expectation. Yet one doubt 
 Pursues me still, lest all I cannot die ; 
 
 65 Lest that pure breath of life, the spirit of man 
 
 Which God inspu-'d, cannot together perish 
 With this corporeal clod ; then in the grave. 
 Or in some other dismal place, who knows 
 But I shall die a U^ing death ? O thought 
 
 70 Horrid, if true ! j-et vrhj ? it was but breath 
 
 Of life that sinn'd ; what dies but what had life 
 And sin ? the body properly hath neither. 
 AU of me then shall die ; let this appease 
 The doubt, since human reach no further knows. 
 
 75 For though the Lord of all be infinite, 
 
 Is his wrath also ? be it, man is not so. 
 But mortal doom'd. How can he exercise 
 Wrath without end on man whom death must end? 
 Can he make deathless death ? that were to make 
 
JOHN MILTON'. 107 
 
 Strange contradiction, which to God himself 80 
 
 Impossible is held, as argument 
 
 Of weakness, not of power. WiU he draw out 
 
 For anger's sake, finite to infinite 
 
 In punish' d man, to satisfy his rigour 
 
 Satisfy'd never? that were to extend 85 
 
 His sentence beyond dust and natui-e's law, 
 
 By which all causes else according still 
 
 To the reception of their matter act, 
 
 Not to th' extent of their own sphere. But say, 
 
 That death be not one stroke, as I suppos'd, 90 
 
 Bereaving sense, but endless misery 
 
 From this day .onward, which I feel begun 
 
 Both in me, and without me, and so last 
 
 To perpetuity. Ay me ! that fear 
 
 Comes thund'ring back with dreadful revolution 95 
 
 On my defenceless head ; both death and I 
 
 Am found eternal, and incorporate both ; 
 
 Nor I on my part single, in me all 
 
 Posterity stands curs' d. Fair patrimony 
 
 That I must leave j-e, sons ; O were I able 100 
 
 To waste it all myself, and leave ye none ! 
 
 So disinherited, how would ye bless 
 
 Me, now your curse ! Ah ! whj^ should all mankind 
 
 For one man's fault thhs guiltless be condemn' d. 
 
 If guiltless ? But from me what can proceed, 105 
 
 But all corrupt, both mind and wiU deprav'd. 
 
 Not to do only, but to will the same 
 
 "With me ? How can they then acquitted stand 
 
 In sight of God? Him after aU disputes 
 
 Forced I absolve : all my evasions vain 110 
 
 And reasonings, tho' thi'ough mazes, lead me snU 
 
 But to my own conviction : first and last 
 
 On me, me only, as the source and spring 
 
 Of all corruption, all the blame lights due ; 
 
 So might the wrath ! Fond wish ! couldst thou support 115 
 
 That burden heavier than the earth to bear, 
 
 Than all the world much heavier, though divided 
 
108 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 With that bad woman ? Thus what thou desir'st, 
 And what thou fear'st, alike destroys all hope 
 
 120 Of refuge, and concludes thee miserable 
 
 Beyond all past example and future, 
 To Satan only Uke both crime and doom. 
 O Conscience, into what abyss of fears 
 And horrors hast thou driv'n me, out of which 
 
 125 I find no way, from deep to deeper plung'd! 
 
JOHN DKrDEX. 109 
 
 JOHX DRYDEN, 
 
 illLTOX. 
 
 Three poets, in three distant ages born, 
 Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpassed ; 
 The next in majesty ; in both the last. 
 The force of nature could no further go ; 
 To make a third, she joined the other two. 
 
 ODE TO ST. CECILIA. 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son : 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The godlike hero sate 
 
 On his imperial throne : 5 
 
 His valiant peers were placed around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
 The lovely Thais by his side, 
 
 Sate, like a blooming Eastern bride, lo 
 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. is 
 
110 JOHN DEYDEN. 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 
 Amid the tuneful quire, 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 
 20 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 (Such is the power of mighty love.) 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
 
 25 Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung : 
 Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
 Sound the-trumpets ; beat the drums ; 
 30 Flushed with a purple grace. 
 
 He shows his honest face ; 
 Now give the hautboys breath : he comes ! he comes ! 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
 35 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
 Rich the treasure, 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 40 Sooth' d with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
 
 Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes ; and thrice he slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise ; 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 45 And, while he Heaven and Earth defied, 
 
 Chang' d his hand, and check' d his pride. 
 He chose a mournful Muse, 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He 6ung Darius great and good, 
 
JOHX DRTDEX. Ill 
 
 By too severe a fate, 50 
 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 Fallen from his high estate, 
 
 And -welt 'ring in his blood ; 
 Deserted at his utmost need, 
 
 By those his former bounty fed : 55 
 
 On the bare earth expos' d he Ues, 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 ReTolving in his alter' d soul 
 
 The Tarious turns of Chance below ; 60 
 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smil'd, to see 
 That love was in the next degree : 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 65 
 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
 Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. 
 "War. he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
 Honor, but an empty bubble ; 70 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying ; 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning. 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying ! 
 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 73 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee ! 
 The many rend the air with loud applause ; 
 So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 
 Gaz'd on the fair • so 
 
 • Who caus'd his care. 
 
 And sigh'd and look'd. sigh'd and look'd, 
 Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again ; 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
 The vanquish' d victor sunk upon her breast. 53 
 
112 JOHX DKYDEy. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 A louder j-et, and j-et a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has rais'd up his head ! 
 As awak'd from the dead. 
 And amaz' d he stares around. 
 Eevenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries, 
 See the Furies arise : 
 See the snakes that thej' rear, 
 How they hiss in their hair, 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes. 
 Behold a ghastly band, 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
 And unburied remain 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew ! 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high. 
 How thej' point to the Persian abodes. 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
 And the king seiz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 Thais led the way. 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 Thus, long ago. 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
 While organs yet were mute ; 
 Timotheus to his breathing flute. 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 
JOHS DRTDEX. 113 
 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlai'g'd the fonaer narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 "With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 He rais'd a mortal to the sMes, 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 ACHTTOPHEL. 
 
 (^Absalom and Achitophel.) 
 
 Of these the false Achitophel was first ; 
 A name to all succeeding ages curs' d : 
 For close designs, and crooked counsels fit ; 
 Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
 Restless, unfix'd in jDrinciples and place ; 5 
 
 In power unpleas'd, impatient of disgrace : 
 A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
 Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 
 And o'erinformed the tenement of clay. 
 A daring pUot in extremity ; 10 
 
 Pie as 'd with the danger, when the waves went high 
 He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, 
 Would steer too near the sands to boast his wit. 
 Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 15 
 
 Else why should he, with wealth and honour bless' d, 
 Eefuse his age the needful hours of rest ? 
 Punish a body which he could not please ; 
 Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? 
 And all to leave what with his toil he won, 20 
 
 To that nnfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son ; 
 ***** 
 
 In friendship false, implacable in hate ; 
 Eesolved to ruin or to nile the state. 
 
114 JOHX DRTDEN. 
 
 ZIMRI. 
 
 {Absalom and Achitopliel.') 
 
 Some of their chiefs were princes in the land ; 
 
 In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; 
 
 A man so various, that he seem'd to be 
 
 Not one, but all manldnd's epitome : 
 5 Stiff in opinions, alwajs in the wrong ; 
 
 Was everjrthing by starts, and nothing long : 
 
 But, in the course of one revolving moon, 
 
 Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; 
 * * » » * 
 
 Bless' d madman, who could every hour employ, 
 10 With something new to wish, or to enjoy! 
 
 Railing and praising were his usual themes ; 
 
 And both, to show his judgment, in extremes : 
 
 So over-violent, or over-civil. 
 
 That every man with him was God or Devil. 
 15 In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; 
 
 Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 
 
 Beggar' d by fools, whom stiU he found too late ; 
 
 He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
 
 He laugh' d himself from court, then sought relief 
 20 By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: 
 
 For, spite of him, the weight of business feU 
 
 On Absalom and wise Achitophel : 
 
 Thus, wicked but in wUl, of means bereft. 
 
 He left no faction, but of that was left. 
 
 EELIGIO LAICI; OR, A LAYMAN'S FAITH. 
 
 WTiat then remains, but, waiving each extreme, 
 The tides of ignorance and pride to stem ? 
 Neither so rich a treasure to forego, 
 Nor proudly seek beyond our power to know : 
 Faith is not built on disquisitions vain ; 
 
JOHN DEYDEX. Ho 
 
 The tMngs we must believe are few and plain : 
 
 But since men wiU believe more than they need, 
 
 And every man will make himself a creed, 
 
 In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way 
 
 To learn what unsuspected ancients say : 
 
 For 'tis not likely we should higher soar 
 
 In search of heaven, than all the Church before : 
 
 Xor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see 
 
 The Scripture and the Fathers disagree. 
 
 If after aU they stand suspected still, 
 
 (For no man's faith depends upon his will ;) 
 
 'Tis some reUef , that points not cleai-ly known, 
 
 "Without much hazard may 15e let alone : 
 
 And after hearing what our Church can say, 
 
 If still our reason runs another way, 
 
 That private reason 'tis more just to curb. 
 
 Than by disputes the pubhc peace disturb. 
 
 For points obscure are of smaU. use to learn : 
 
 But common quiet is mankind's concern. 
 
 JIacFLECKNOE. 
 (II. 1-30.') 
 
 All human tilings are subject to decay. 
 And when fate summons, monarchs must obey. 
 This Flecknoe-found, who, like Augustus, young 
 TTas call' d to empire, and had govern'd long ; 
 In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute, 
 Through all the realms of Xonsense, absolute. 
 This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, 
 And bless' d with issue of a large increase ; 
 1Vorn out with business, did at length debate 
 To settle the succession of the state : 
 And, pondering which of all his sons was fit 
 To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, 
 Cried, " 'Tis resolv'd ; for Xature pleads, that he 
 Should only rule, who most resembles me. 
 
116 JOHN DETDEX. 
 
 15 Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, 
 
 Mature in dullness from his tender j-ears : 
 Shadwell alone, of aU my sons, is he. 
 Who stands confii-m'd in full stupidity. 
 The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 
 
 ■20 But ShadveU never deviates into sense. 
 
 Some beams of wit on other souls may fall. 
 Strike through, and make a lucid inten'al ; 
 But ShadweU's genuine night admits no ray. 
 His rising fogs prevail upon the day. 
 
 25 Besides, his goodly fabric flUs the eye, 
 
 And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: 
 Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, 
 And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
 Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, 
 
 30 Thou last great prophet of tautology. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 To begin then with Shakespeare. He was the man, who of all 
 modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most 
 comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were stUl present 
 to him, and he drew them not recklessly but luckily : when he 
 
 5 describes anything you more than see it, you feel it too. Those 
 who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater 
 commendation : he was naturally learned ; he needed not the 
 spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked inwards and found 
 her there. I cannot say he is everywhere ahke ; were he so 
 
 10 1 should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of 
 mankind. He is many times flat, insipid ; his comic wit degen- 
 erates into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he 
 is always great when some great occasion is presented to him : 
 no man can saj' he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not 
 
 15 then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, 
 
 Quantum lenta solent inter vibuma cupressi. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 117 
 
 The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eton say, that 
 there ^^vas no subject of which any poet ever -writ, but he could 
 produce it much better done in Shakespeai-e ; and however othe:s 
 are now generaUj- preferred before him, 3'et the age wherein he 2(v 
 hved, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, 
 never equalled them to him in their esteem : and in the last . 
 king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest. Sir John 
 SuckUng, and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our 
 Shakespeare far above him. 25 
 
118 DANIEL DEFOE. 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE. 
 
 FEOJI MEMOIES OF A CAVAXIEE. 
 
 We encamped about Xuremburg, the middle of June. The 
 army, after so many detachments, was not above nineteen thou- 
 sand men. The imperial armj', joined ^th the Bavarian, were 
 not so numerous as was reported, but were really sixty thousand 
 
 5 men. The king, not strong enough to fight, j-et, as he used to 
 say, was strong enough not to be forced to fight, formed his 
 camp so under the cannon of Nuremburg, that there was no 
 besieging the town, but they must besiege him too ; and he 
 fortified his camjD in so formidable a manner that \\"allenstein 
 
 10 never durst attack him. On the 30th of June Wallenstein's 
 troops appeared, and on the 5th of Julj- encamjjed close by the 
 king, and posted themselves, not on the Bavarian side, but 
 between the king and his own friends of Schwaben and Frank- 
 endal, in order to intercept his provisions, and, as they thought, 
 
 15 to starve him out of his camp. 
 
 Here they lay to see, as it were, who could subsist longest. 
 The king was strong in horse, for we had full eight thousand 
 horse and dragoons in the army, and this gave us great advantage 
 in the several skirmishes we had with the enemy. The enemy 
 
 20 had possession of the whole country, and had taken effectual 
 care to furnish their army with pro\'isions ; they placed theu* 
 guards in such excellent order, to secure their convoys, that 
 their wagons went from stage to stage as quiet as in a time of 
 peace, and were reheved every five miles by parties constantly 
 
 25 posted on the road. And thus the imperial general sat down by 
 us, not doubting but he should force the king either to fight his 
 way through on very disadvantageous terms, or to rise, for want 
 
DAXIEL DEFOE. 119 
 
 of provisions, and leave the city of Nuremburg a prey to his 
 army ; for he had vowed the destruction of the citj-, and to make 
 it a second Magdeburg. 30 
 
 But the king, who was not to be easily deceived, had counter- 
 mined all Wallenstein's designs ; he had passed his honour to the 
 Nuremburgers that he would not leave them, and they had under- 
 taken to victual his army, and secure him from want, which they 
 did so effectually that he had no occasion to expose his troops to 35 
 any hazard or fatigues for convoys or forage on any account 
 whatever. 
 
 The city of Nuremburg is a verj- rich and populous city ; and 
 the king, being very sensible of their danger, had given his word 
 for their defence ; and when thej:, being terrified at the threats 40 
 of the imperialists, sent their deputies to beseech the king to take 
 care of them, he sent them word he would, and be besieged with 
 them. They, on the other hand, laid in such stores of all sorts 
 of provision, both for man and horse, that had TTallenstein lain 
 before it six months longer, there would have been no scarcitj^ is 
 Every private house was a magazine ; the camp was plentifully 
 supplied with all manner of provisions, and the market always 
 fuU, and as cheap as in times of peace. The magistrates were so 
 careful, and preserved so excellent an order in the disposal of all 
 sorts of provision, that no engrossing of corn could be prac- so 
 ticed, for the prices were every day directed at the town house ; 
 and if any man offered to demand more money for corn than the 
 stated price, he could not sell, because at the town store-house 
 you might buy cheaper. Here are two instances of good and 
 bad conduct : the city of Magdeburg had been entreated by the 55 
 king to settle funds and raise money for their provision and 
 security, and to have a sufficient garrison to defend them ; but 
 they made difficulties either to raise men for themselves, or to 
 admit the king's troops to assist them, for fear of the charge of 
 maintaining them ; and this was the cause of the citj^'s ruin. eo 
 
 The city of Nuremburg opened their arms to receive the assist- 
 ance proffered by the Swedes, and their purses to defend their 
 town and common cause ; and this was the saving them abso- 
 lutely from destruction. The rich bmghers and magistrates 
 kept open houses, where the officers of the army were always 65 
 
120 DANIEL DEFOE. 
 
 welcome ; and the council of the city took such care of the poor, 
 that there was no complaining nor disorders in the whole city. 
 There is no doubt but it cost the city a great deal of money ; 
 but I never saw a public charge borne with so much cheerfulness, 
 
 70 nor managed with so much prudence and conduct in my life. 
 The city fed above fifty thousand mouths every day, including 
 their own poor, besides themselves ; and 3-et, when the king had 
 lain thus three months, and finding his armies longer in coming 
 up than he expected, asked the burgrave how their magazines 
 
 75 held out? he answered: they desired his majesty not to hasten 
 things for them, for they could maintain themselves and him 
 twelve months longer, if there was occasion. This plenty kept 
 both the army and city in good health, as well as in good heart ; 
 whereas, nothing was to be had of us but blows ; for we fetched 
 
 80 nothing from without our works, nor had no business without 
 the line, but to interrupt the enemy. 
 
 The manner of the king's encampment deserves a particular 
 attention. He was a complete surveyor, and a master in fortifi- 
 cation, not to be outdone by any. 
 
 85 He had posted his army in the suburbs of the town, and drawn 
 lines round the whole circumference, so that he begirt the whole 
 city with his army ; Ms works were large, the ditch deep, flanked 
 with innumerable bastions, ravelins, hornworks, forts, redoubts, 
 batteries, and palisadoes, the incessant work of eight thousand 
 
 90 men for about fourteen days ; besides that, the king was adding 
 something or other to it every day ; and the very posture of his 
 camp was enough to tell a bigger army than Wallenstein's that 
 he was not to be assaulted in his trenches. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 121 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 SATIRE Oy PRETE^^)ED PHILOSOPHERS ANT) PEOJECTOES. 
 
 [7« the di'scription of his fancied Academy of Lagado, jn Gulliver's 
 Travels, Swift ridicules those quack pretenders to science, and knavish 
 projectors, xcho irere so common in Ms day, and whose schemes sometimes 
 led to ruinous and distressing consequences.'] 
 
 I was received very Mndly by the Tvardeu, and -svent for many 
 days to the academy. Eveiy room hath in it one or more pro- 
 jectors, and I believe I could not be in fewer than five hundred 
 rooms. 
 
 The first man I saw was of a meagre aspect, with sooty hands 5 
 and face, his hair and beard long, ragged, and singed in several 
 places. His clothes, shirt, and skin were all of the same colour. 
 He had been eight years upon a project for extracting sun-beams 
 out of cucumbers, which were to be put into vials hermetically 
 sealed, and let out to warm the air in raw, inclement summers, lo 
 He told me he did not doubt in eight years more he should be 
 able to supply the governor's gardens with sunshine at a reason- 
 able rate ; but he complained that his stock was low, and 
 entreated me to give him something as an encouragement to 
 ingenuity, especially since this had been a very dear season for 15 
 cucumbers. I made him a small present, for my lord had fur- 
 nished me with money on purpose, because he knew their practice 
 of begging from all who go to see them. 
 
 I saw another at work to calcine ice into gun-powder, who 
 hkewise showed me a treatise he had written concerning the 20 
 malleability of fire, which he intended to publish. 
 
 There was a most ingenious architect, who had contrived a 
 new method for building houses, by beginning at the roof and 
 
122 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 working downwards to the foundation ; wliich he justified to me 
 
 25 by the like practice of those two prudent insects, the bee and 
 the spider. 
 
 The first professor I saw was in a very large room, with forty 
 pupils around him. After salutation, observing me to look 
 earnestly upon a frame which toolj up the greatest part of both 
 
 so the length and breadth of the room, he said, perhaps I might 
 wonder to see him employed in a project for improving specula- 
 tive knowledge bj^ practical and mechanical operations. But the 
 world would soon be sensible of its usefulness, and he flattered 
 himself that a more noble, exalted thought never sprang up in 
 
 35 any other man's head. Every one knew how laborious the usual 
 method is of attaining to arts and sciences ; whereas, by his 
 contrivance, the most ignorant person, at a reasonable charge, 
 and with a little bodil}' labour, may write books in philosophy, 
 poetry, pohtics, law, mathematics and theology, without the least 
 
 40 assistance from genius or study. He then led me to the frame, 
 about the sides whereof all his pupils stood in ranks. It was 
 twenty feet square, placed in the middle of the room. The 
 spperficies was composed of several bits of wood, about the 
 bigness of a die, but some larger than others. They were all 
 
 45 Unked together by slender wires. These bits of wood were 
 covered on every square with paper jDasted on them ; and on 
 these papers were ^Titten all the words of their language in their 
 several moods, tenses, and declensions, but without any order. 
 The professor then desired me to observe, for he was going to 
 
 50 set his engine at work. The pupils, at his command, took each 
 of them hold of an iron handle, whereof there were forty fixed 
 round the edges of the frame, and gi^'ing them a sudden turn, 
 the whole disposition of the words was entirelj' changed. He 
 then commanded six-and-thirty of the lads to read the several 
 
 55 lines softly as they appeared upon the frame ; and where they 
 found three or four words together that might make'part of a 
 sentence, they dictated to the four remaining boj-s, who were 
 scribes. This work was repeated three or four times, and at 
 every turn the engine was so contrived that the words shifted 
 
 60 into new places, as the square bits of wood moved upside down. 
 Six hours a-day the young students were employed in this 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 123 
 
 labour; and the professor showed me several volumes in large 
 foUo, already coUeeted, of broken sentences, which he intended 
 to piece together, and out of those rich' materials to give the 
 world a complete body of all arts and sciences, which, however, so 
 might be still improved, and much expedited, if the i^ublic would 
 raise a fund for making and employing five hundred such frames 
 in Lagado, and oblige the managers to contribute in common 
 their several collections. 
 
 He assured me that this invention had employed all his -,» 
 thoughts from Ms youth ; that he had emptied the whole vocab- 
 ulary into his frame, and made the strictest computation of the 
 general proportion there is in books, between the numbers of 
 particles, nouns, and verbs, and other parts of speech. 
 
 I heard a very warm debate between two professors, about 75 
 the most commodious and effectual ways and means of raising 
 money without grieving the subject. The first affirmed, the 
 justest method would be to lay a certain tax upon vices and 
 foUy, and the sum fixed upon every man to be rated after the 
 fairest manner by a jury of his neighbours. The second was of so 
 an opinion directly contrary : to tax those quaUties of body and 
 mind for which men chiefly value themselves ; the rate to be 
 more or less, according to the degrees of excelling, the decision 
 whereof 'should be left entirely to their own breast. The highest 
 tax was upon men who are the greatest favourites of the other 80 
 sex, and the assessments according to the number and natures 
 of the favours they have received, for which they are allowed to 
 be their own vouchers. Wit, valour, and politeness, were Uke- 
 wise proposed to be largely taxed, and collected in the same 
 manner, by every person giving his own word for the quantum 90 
 of what he possessed. 
 
 But as to honour, justice, wisdom, and learning, thej'^ should 
 not be taxed at all, because they are qualifications of so singular 
 a kind, that no man will either allow them in his neighbour, or 
 value them in himseK. 95 
 
 The women were proposed to be taxed according to their 
 beauty and skiU in dressing, wherein they had the same privilege 
 with the men, to be determined by their own judgment. But 
 
12i JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 constancy, chastity, good sense, and good nature, were not rated, 
 100 because they would not bear the charge of collecting. 
 
 To keep senators in the interest of the crown, it was proposed 
 that the members should raffle for employments ; every man first 
 taking an oath, and giving security that he would vote for the 
 court, whether he won or no ; after which the losers had in their 
 
 105 turn the liberty of raffling upon the nest vacancy. Thus, hope 
 and expectation would be kept alive ; none would complain of 
 broken promises, but impute their disapp)ointments wholly to 
 fortune, whose shoulders are broader and stronger than those of 
 a ministry. 
 
 110 Another professor showed me a large paper of instructions for 
 discovering plots and conspiracies against the government. 
 
 I told him, that in the kingdom of Tribnia, by the natives 
 called Langden, where I had long sojourned, the bulk of the 
 people consisted wholly of discoverers, witnesses, informers, 
 
 115 accusers, prosecutors, evidences, swearers, together with their 
 several subservient and subaltern instruments, all under the 
 colours, the conduct, and pay of ministers and their deputies. 
 The plots in that kingdom are usually the workmanship of those 
 persons who desire to raise their own characters of profound 
 
 120 iDoliticians ; to restore new vigour to a crazy administration ; to 
 stifle or divert general discontents ; to fill their coffers with 
 forfeitures ; and raise or sink the opinion of public credit, as 
 either shall best answer their private advantage. It is first 
 agreed and settled among them what suspected persons shall be 
 
 125 accused of a plot ; then effectual care is taken to secure all their 
 
 . letters and other papers, and put the owners in chains. These 
 
 papers are delivered to a set of artists very dexterous in finding 
 
 out the mysterious meanings of words, syllables, and letters. 
 
 When this method fails, they have two others more effectual, 
 
 130 which the learned among them call acrostics and anagrams. 
 First, they can decipher all initial letters into political meanings ; 
 thus, N shall signify a plot, B a regiment of horse, L a fleet at 
 sea. Or, secondly, by transposing the letters of the alphabet, in 
 any suspected paper, they can lay open the deepest designs of a 
 
 135 discontented party. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 125 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 {The Spectator, No. 275.') 
 
 DISSECTIOX OF A BEAU'S HEAD. 
 
 Tribus Anticyris caput insanabile. 
 
 Hor. Afs Poet. 300. 
 A head no hellebore can cure. 
 
 I was yesterday engaged in an assembly of ■virtuosos, where 
 one of them produced many curious observations which he had 
 lately made in the anatomy of an human body. Another of the 
 company communicated to us several wonderful discoveries, 
 which he had also made on the same subject, by the help of very 5 
 fine glasses. This gave birth to a great variety of uncommon re- 
 marks, and furnished discourse for the remainuig part of the day. 
 
 The different opinions which were started on this occasion, 
 presented to my imagination so many new ideas, that by mixing lo 
 with those which were already there, they employed my fancy aU 
 the last night, and composed a very wild extravagant dream. 
 
 I was invited, methought, to the dissection of a beau's head 
 and of a coquette's heart, which were both of them laid on a 
 table before us. An imaginary operator opened the first with a 15 
 great .deal of nicety, which, upon a cursory and superficial view, 
 appeared like the head of another man ; but upon applying our 
 glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely, that what 
 we looked upon as brains, were not such in reality, but an heap 
 of strange materials wound up in that shape and textiire, and 20 
 packed together with wonderful art in the several cavities of the 
 skuQ. For, as Homer tells us, that the blood of the gods is not 
 real blood, but only something like it ; so we found that the 
 brain of a beau is not a real brain, but only something like it. 
 
 The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosophers 25 
 
126 JOi^EPH ADDISON. 
 
 suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very strong of essence 
 and orange-flower water, and was encompassed vrith. a Itind of 
 horny substance, cut into a thousand faces or mirrors, which 
 were imperceptible to the naked ej^e ; insomuch, that the soul, if 
 
 30 there had been any here, must have been always takei} up in 
 contemplating her own beauties. 
 
 We observed a large antrum or ca-^itj' in the sinciput, that was 
 filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery, wrought together in a 
 most curious piece of network, the parts of which were likewise 
 
 35 imperceptible to the naked eye. Another of these antrums or 
 cavities was stuffed with invisible billet-doux, loye-letters, pricked 
 dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In another we 
 found a kind of powder, which set the whole company a sneezing, 
 and by the scent discovered itself to be right Spanish. The 
 
 io several other cells were stored with commodities of the same 
 
 kind, of wMch it would be tedious to give the reader an exact 
 
 » 
 im'entory. 
 
 There was a large cavity on each side of the head, which I 
 
 must not omit. That on the right side was filled with fictions, 
 
 45 flatteries, and falsehoods, vows, promises, and protestations ; 
 that on the left with oaths and imprecations. These issued out 
 of a duct from each of these cells, which ran into the root of the 
 tongue, where both joined together, and passed forward in one 
 common duct to the tip of it. We discovered several little roads 
 
 50 or canals running from the ear into the brain, and took particulai- 
 care to trace them out through their several passages. One of 
 them extended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical 
 instruments. Others ended in several bladders, which were filled 
 with wind or froth. But the large canal entered into a great 
 
 55 cavity of the skull, from whence there went another canal into 
 the tongue. This great cavity was filled with a kind of spongy 
 substance, which the French anatomists call galimatias ; and the 
 English, nonsense. 
 
 The sldns of the forehead were extremely tough and thick, and 
 
 60 what very much surprised us, had not in them any single blood- 
 vessel that we were able to discover, either with or without our 
 glasses ; from whence we concluded, that the party, when alive, 
 must have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing. 
 
JOSEPH ADBI^iJX. 127 
 
 The OS cribiiforme was exceedinglj- stuffed, aud in some jjlaees 
 damaged with snuff. "We could not but take notice in particular 65 
 of that s^maU muscle, which is not often discovered in dissections, 
 and draws the nose upwards, when it expresses the contempt 
 which the owner of it has, upon seeing anj-thing he does not like, 
 or hearing anything he does not understand. I need not teU my 
 learned reader, this is that muscle which perfonns the motion so to 
 often mentioned hy the Latin poets, when they talk of a man's 
 cocking his nose, or plajiug the rhinoceros. 
 
 We did not find auji:hiug very remarkable in the eye, saving 
 only that the mnsculi amatorii, or, as we may translate it into 
 EngUsh, the ogling muscles, were very much worn and decayed 75 
 with use ; whereas, on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle 
 which turns the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been 
 used at aU. 
 
 I have only mentioned in this dissection such new discoveries 
 as we were able to make, and have not taken any notice of those 8» 
 parts which are to be met with in common heads. As for the 
 skull, the face, and indeed the whole outward shape and figure 
 of the head, we could not discover any difference from what we 
 observe in the heads of other men. VTe were informed that the 
 person to whom this head belonged, had passed for a man above 85 
 five-and-thirty ; during which time he eat and drank like other 
 people, dressed well, talked loud, laughed frequently, and on 
 particular occasions had acquitted himself tolerably at a ball or 
 an assemblj- ; to which one of the company added, that a certain 
 knot of ladies took him for a wit. * * * 90 
 
 When we had thoroughlj' examined this head with all its apai1> 
 ments and its several kinds of furniture, we put up the brain, 
 such as it was, into its proper place, and laid it aside under a 
 broad piece of scarlet cloth, in order to be prepared, and kept in 
 a great repository of dissections ; our operator telling us, that 95 
 the preparation would not be so difficult as that of another brain, 
 for that he had obser^'ed several of the little pipes and tubes 
 which run through the brain, were abeady filled with a kind of 
 mercurial substance, which he looked upon to be true quicksilver. 
 
 He applied himself in the next place to the coquette's heart, 10a 
 which he likewise laid open with great dexterity. There occurred 
 
128 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 to US manj- particularities in this dissection ; but being unwilling 
 to burden my reader's memorj' too much, I shall reseiTe this 
 subject for the speculation of another daj-. 
 
 (TAe Spectator, No. 470.) 
 
 CEITICISil. 
 
 Turpe est difflciles habere niigas, 
 Et stultus est labor Ineptiarum. 
 
 Mart. 2 Ep., Ixxxvi., 9. 
 'Tis folly only, and defect of sense, 
 Turns trifles into things of consequence. 
 
 I have been y&tj often disappointed of late jears, when upon 
 examining the new edition of a classic author, I have found 
 above half the volume taken up with various readings, "^hen I 
 have expected to meet with a learned note upon a doubtful 
 5 passage in a Latin poet, I have been onl}' informed, that such or 
 such manuscripts for an et write an ac, or of some other notable 
 discovery of the like importance. Indeed, when a different 
 reading gives us a different sense, or a new elegance in an 
 author, the editor does very well in taking notice of it ; but 
 
 10 when he only entertains us with the several ways of spelling the 
 same word, and gathers together the A'arious blunders and mis- 
 takes of twenty or thirty different transcribers, thej' only take 
 up the time of the learned reader, and puzzle the minds of the 
 ignorant. I have often fancied with myself how enraged an old 
 
 15 Latin author would be, should he see the several absurdities in 
 sense and grammar, which are imputed to him, by some or other 
 of these various readings. In one he speaks nonsense ; in 
 another makes use of a word that was never heard of: and 
 indeed there is scarce a solecism in writing which the best author 
 
 20 is not guilty of, if we may be at liberty to read him in the words ' 
 of some manuscript, which the laborious editor has thought fit to 
 
 . examine in the prosecution of his work. 
 
 I question not but the ladies and pretty fellows will be veiy 
 curious to understand what it is that I have been hitherto talking 
 
 25 of. I shall therefore give them a notion of this practice by 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 129 
 
 endeavoring to write after the manner of several persons who 
 make an eminent figure in the republic of letters. To this end 
 we will suppose, that the following song is an old ode which I 
 present to the public in a new edition, with the several various 
 readings which I find of it in former editions, and in ancient 30 
 manuscripts. Those who cannot relish the various readings, will 
 perhaps find their account in the song, which never before 
 appeared in print : 
 
 My love was fickle once and changing, 
 
 Nor e'er would settle in my heart ; S5 
 
 From beauty still to beauty ranging, ■ 
 
 In ev'ry face I found a dart. 
 
 'Twas first a charming shape enslav'd me, 
 
 An eye then gave the fatal stroke : 
 'TUl by her wit Corinna sav'd me, 40 
 
 And aU my former fetters broke. 
 
 But now a long and lasting anguish 
 
 For Belvidera I endure ; 
 Hourly I sigh and hourly languish, 
 
 Nor hope to find the wonted cure. 45 
 
 For here the false unconstant lover. 
 
 After a thousand beauties shown, 
 Does new surprising charms discover 
 
 And finds variety in one. 
 
 VARIOUS READINGS. 
 
 Stanza the first, verse the first. And changing.] The and in 50 
 some manuscripts is written thus, &, but that in the Cotton 
 Library writes it in three distinct letters. 
 
 Verse the second. Nor e'er would.] Aldus reads it ever 
 would; but as this would hurt the metre, we have restored it to 
 its genuine reading, by observing that synaeresis which had been 55 
 neglected by ignorant transcribers. 
 
 Ibid. In my heart.'] Scaliger and others, on my heart. 
 
 9 
 
130 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Verse the fourth. / found a dart.'\ The Vatican manuscript 
 
 for I reads it, but this must have been the hallucination of the 
 
 60 transcriber, who probably mistooli the dash of the I for a T. 
 
 Stanza the second, verse the second. Tlie fatal stroke.'] 
 
 Scioppus, Salmasius, and many others, for the read a, but I 
 
 have stuck to the usual reading. * 
 
 Verse the third. Till by her wit.] Some manuscripts have it 
 65 his ivit, others your, others their wit. But as I find Corinna to 
 be the name of a woman in other authors, I cannot doubt'but it 
 should be her. 
 
 Stanza the third, verse the first. A long and lasting anguish.} 
 The German manuscript reads a lasting passion, but the rhyme 
 70 wiU not admit it. 
 
 Verse the second. For Belvidera I endure.] Did not aU the 
 manuscripts reclaim, I should change Belvidera into Pelvidera; 
 Pelvis being used by several of the ancient comic writers for a 
 looking-glass, by which means the etymology of the word is very 
 75 visible, and Pelvidera wiU signify a lady who often looks in her 
 glass, as indeed she had very good reason, if she had all those 
 beauties which our poet here ascribes to her. 
 
 Verse the third. Hourly I sigh and hourly languish.] Some 
 for the word hourly read daily, and others nightly; the last has 
 80 the great authorities of its side. 
 
 Verse the fourth. The wonted cure.] The elder Stevens reads 
 ivanted cure. 
 
 Stanza the fourth, verse the second. After a thousand beau- 
 ties.] In several copies we meet with a hundred beauties, by the 
 85 usual error of the transcribers, who probably omitted a cypher, 
 and had not taste enough to know, that the word thousand was 
 ten times a greater compUment to the poet's mistress than an 
 hundred. 
 
 Verse the fourth. And finds variety in one.] Moat of the 
 90 ancient manuscripts have it in two. Indeed so many of them 
 concur in this last reading, that I am very much in doubt whether 
 it ought not to take place. There are but two reasons which 
 incline me to the reading, as I have published it ; first, becaua^^ 
 the rhj-me, and, secondly, because the sense is preserved by ilj^ 
 95 It might likewise proceed from the oscitancy of transcrp^^rs, 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 131 
 
 who, to dispatch their work the sooner, used to write all numbers 
 in cypher, and seeing the figure 1 followed by a little dash of the 
 pen, as is customaiy in old manuscripts, they perhaps mistook 
 the dash for a second figure, and by casting up both together 
 composed out of them the figure 2. But this I shall leave to the loo 
 learned, without determining anything in a matter of so great 
 uncertainty. 
 
 {The Spectator, No. 303.) 
 CEITICISil ON PAKADISE LOST. 
 
 His invocation to a work which turns in great measure upon 
 the creation of the world, is very properly made to the muse who 
 inspired Moses in those books from whence our author drew his 
 subject, and to the holy spirit who is therein represented as 
 operating after a particular manner in the first production of 5 
 nature. This whole exordium rises very happUy into noble lan- 
 guage and sentiment, as I think the transition to the fable is 
 exquisitely beautiful and natural. 
 
 The ni^e-days astonishment, in which the angels lay entranced 
 after their dreadful overthrow, and fall from heaven, before they lo 
 could recover either the use of thought or speech, is a noble cir- 
 cumstance, and very finely imagined. The division of heU into 
 seas of fire, and into firm ground impregnated with the same 
 furious element, with that particular circumstance of the exclu- 
 sion of Hope from those infernal regions, are instances of the is 
 same great and fruitful invention. 
 
 The thoughts in the first speech and description of Satan, who 
 is one of the principal actors in this poem, are wonderfully 
 proper to give us a fuU idea of him. His pride, envy, and 
 revenge, obstinacy, despair, and impenitence, are' aU of them 20 
 very artfully interwoven. In short, his first speech is a compU- 
 cation of aU those passions which discover themselves separately 
 in several other of his speeches in the poem. The whole part of 
 this great enemy of mankind is filled with such incidents as are 
 very apt to raise and terrify the reader's imagination. Of this 25 
 
132 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 nature, in the book now before us, is his being the first that 
 awakens out of the general trance, with his posture on the burn- 
 ing lake, his rising from it, and the description of his shield and 
 spear. * * « 'We may add Ms call to the fallen angels, that 
 
 30 lay plunged and stupefied in the sea of fire. * * * But there 
 is no single passage in the whole poem worked up to a greater 
 subUmity, than that wherein his person is described. * * * 
 His sentiments are every way answerable to his character, and 
 suitable to a created being of the most exalted and depra^-ed 
 
 35 nature. Such is that in which he takes possession of his place 
 of torments. * * * 
 
 Amidst those impieties which this enraged spirit utters in other 
 places of the poem, the author has taken care to introduce none 
 that is not big with absurdity, and incapable of shocking a rehg- 
 
 40 ious reader : his words, as the poet describes them, bearing only 
 ' ' a semblance of worth, not substance. ' ' He is likewise with 
 great art described as owning his adversary to be almighty. 
 Whatever perverse interpretation he puts on the justice, mercy, 
 and other attributes of the Supreme Being, he frequently con- 
 
 45 fesses his omnipotence, that being the perfection he was forced 
 to aUow him, and the only consideration which could support his 
 pride under the shame of his defeat. 
 
 Nor must I here omit that beautiful circumstance of his bursting 
 out in tears, upon his survey of those innumerable spirits whom he 
 
 60 had involved in the same guilt and ruin with himself. * « * 
 The passage in the catalogue, explaining how spirits transform 
 themselves by contraction, or enlargement of their dimensions, 
 is introduced with great judgment, to make way for several sur- 
 prising accidents in the sequel of the poem. There follows one, 
 
 65 at the very end of the first book, which is what the French 
 critics call marvellous, but at the same time probable, by reason 
 of the passage last mentioned. As soon as the infernal palace 
 is finished, we are told the multitude and rabble of spirits imme- 
 diately shrunk themselves into a small compass, that there might 
 
 60 be room for such a numberless assembly in this capacious hall. 
 But it is the poet's refinement upon this thought, which I most 
 admire, and which is, indeed, very noble in itself. For he tells 
 us, that, notwithstanding the vulgar among the fallen spirits had 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. , 13? 
 
 contracted their forms, those of the first rank and dignity still 
 preserved their natural dimensions. * * * The character of 65- 
 Mannnon and the description of Pandemonium are fuU of beauties. 
 
 There are several other strokes in the first book wonderfully 
 poetical, and instances of that sublime genius so pecuhar to the 
 author. Such is the description of Azazel's stature, and of the 70 
 infernal standard which he unfurls ; as also of that ghastly light, 
 by which the fiends appear to one another in their place of 
 torments. * * * The shout of the whole host of fallen 
 angels when drawn up in battle array i * * » The review 
 which the leader makes of his infernal army i * * * The 75 
 flash of light which appeared upon the drawing of their swords ! 
 The sudden production of the Pandemonium: * * * The 
 artificial illuminations made in it : * * * 
 
 There are also several noble similes and allusions in the first 
 book of Paradise Lost. And here I must observe, that when so 
 Jlilton alludes either to things or persons, he never quits his 
 simile till it rises to some very great idea, which is often foreign 
 to the occasion that gave birth to it. The resemblance does not, 
 perhaps, last above a Hue or two, but the poet runs on with the 
 hint, tiU he has raised out of it some glorious image or senti- 85 
 ment, proper to inflame the mind of the reader, and to give it 
 that sublime kind of entertainment, which is suitable to the 
 nature of an heroic poem. 
 
 If the reader considers the comparisons in the first book of 
 Milton, of the sunrise and eclipse, of the sleeping leviathan, of 90 
 the bees swarming about the hive, of the fairy dance, in the 
 view wherein I have placed them, he wUl easily discover the 
 great beauties that are in each of those passages. 
 
 CATO. 
 Act V. Scene I. 
 
 Cato. It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well! ■ 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. 
 This longing after immortality? 
 
134 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
 B Of f aUing into nought ? why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 
 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 
 
 'Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 10 Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
 
 Through what variety of untry'd being. 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 
 
 The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
 15 Here will I hold. If there's a power above us 
 
 (And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 
 Through all her works), he must delight in ^'irtue ; 
 
 And that which he delights in, must be happy. 
 
 But when ? or where ? This world was made for Caesar. 
 20 I'm weary of conjectures — this must end 'em. 
 
 \_Lays his hand on his sword. 
 
 Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death and life. 
 
 My bane and antidote are both before me : 
 
 This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 25 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years, 
 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 30 Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, 
 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ? 
 
 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? 
 
 Nature oppress' d, and harass' d out with care, 
 35 Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, 
 
 That my awaken' d soul may take her flight. 
 
 Renew' d in all her strength, and fresh with life. 
 
 An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
 
 Disturb man's rest ; Cato knows neither of 'em, — 
 40 Indifferent in his choice, to sleep or die. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 135 
 
 TEANSLATION OF PSALM XXIII. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me -(vith the shepherd's care ; 
 His presence shall my wants supplj^ 
 And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
 My noon-day walks He shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant, 
 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads, 
 
 My weary wand'ring steps he leads ; lo 
 
 Where peaceful rivers soft and slow. 
 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Though in thepaths of death I tread, 
 
 With gloomy horrors overspread. 
 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no iU, 15 
 
 For thou, O Lord, art with me stiU ; 
 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way, 
 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 20 
 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile : 
 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 
 With sudden greens and herbage crown' d. 
 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
136 AT.F. yAX DF.B. POPE. 
 
 ALEXANDEE POPE. 
 
 ESSAY ON MAN. 
 (Epistle II., II. 1-114.) 
 
 Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, 
 
 The proper study of Mankind is Man. 
 
 Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, 
 
 A being darkly wise, and rudely great : 
 s With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, 
 
 With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, 
 
 He hangs between ; in doubt to act, or rest ; 
 
 In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast ; 
 
 In doubt his mind or body to prefer ; 
 10 Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err ; 
 
 Alike in ignorance, his reason such. 
 
 Whether he thinks too little, or too much : 
 
 Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd ; 
 
 Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd ; 
 15 Created half to rise, and half to fall ; 
 
 Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all ; 
 
 Sole judge of Truth, in'endless Error hurl'd: 
 
 The glory, jest, and riddle of the world ! 
 
 Go wond'rous creature ! mount where Science guides, 
 ■20 Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides ; 
 
 Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, 
 
 Correct old Time, and regulate the Sun ; 
 
 Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere, 
 
 To the first good, first perfect, and first fair ; 
 25 Or tread the mazy rounds his follow' rs trod, 
 
 -And quitting sense call imitating God ; 
 
AT.F.XANDER POPE. 137 
 
 As Eastern priests in giddy circles run, 
 And turn their heads to imitate the Sun. 
 Gro, teach Eternal "Wisdom how to rule — 
 Then drop into thyself, and be a fool ! 
 
 Superior beings, Trhen of late they saw 
 A mortal man unfold all Nature's Law, 
 Admir'd such wisdom in an earthly shape, 
 And shew'd a Jsewton as we shew an Ape. 
 
 Could he, whose rules the rapid Comet bind, 
 Describe or fix one movement of his Mind? 
 Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend. 
 Explain his own beginning, or his end ? 
 Alas what wonder ! Man's superior part 
 TJneheck'd may rise, and climb fi-om art to art : 
 But when his own great work is but begun. 
 What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone. 
 
 Trace Science then, with Modesty thy guide ; 
 First strip off all her equipage of Pride ^ 
 Deduct what is but Vanity, or Dress, 
 Or Learning's Luxury, or Idleness ; 
 Or tricks to shew the stretch of human brain ; 
 Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain ; 
 Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts 
 Of all our Vices have created Arts ; 
 Then see how little the remaining sum, 
 Which serv'd the past, and most the times to come ! 
 
 Two Principles in human nature reign ; 
 Self-love to urge, and Reason, to restrain ; 
 Xor this a good, nor that a bad we call. 
 Each works its end, to move or govern aU : 
 And to their proper operation still, 
 Ascribe all Good ; to their improper, lU. 
 
 Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul ; 
 Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. 
 Man, but for that, no action could attend. 
 And, but for this, were active to no end : 
 Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot. 
 To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot ; 
 
138 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 66 Or, meteor-like, flame lawless thro' the void, 
 
 Destroying others, hy himself destroy' d. 
 
 Most strength the moving principle requires ; 
 
 Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. 
 
 Sedate and quiet, the comparing lies, 
 70 Form'd but to check, delib'rate, and advise. 
 
 Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh ; 
 
 Eeason's at a distance, and in prospect lie : 
 
 That sees immediate good by present sense ; 
 
 Reason, the future and the consequence. 
 76 Thicker than arguments, temptations throng, 
 
 At best more watchful this, but that more strong. 
 
 The action of the stronger to suspend 
 
 Reason still use, to Reason still attepd. 
 
 Attention, habit, and experience gains ; 
 80 Eacli strengthens Reason, and Self-love restrains. 
 
 Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, 
 
 More studious to divide than to unite ; 
 
 And Grace and Virtue, Sense and Reason split. 
 
 With all the rash dexterity of wit. 
 85 "Wits, just like Fools, at war about a name, 
 
 Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. 
 
 Self-love and Reason to one end aspire. 
 
 Pain their aversion. Pleasure their desire ; 
 
 But greedy That, its object would devour, 
 90 This taste the honey, and not wound the flow'r ; 
 
 Pleasure, or wrong, or rightly understood. 
 
 Our greatest evil, or our greatest good. 
 
 Modes of Self-love the Passions we may call ; 
 
 'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all: 
 95 But since not ev'ry good we can divide, 
 
 And Reason bids us for our own provide ; 
 
 Passions, tho' selfish, if their means be. fair, 
 
 List under Reason, and deserve her care ; 
 
 Those, that imparted, court a nobler aim, 
 100 Exalt their kind, and take some Virtue's name. 
 
 In lazy Apathy let Stoics boast 
 
 Their Virtue fix'd ; 'tis flx'd as in a frost ; 
 
ALEXASDEK POPE. 139 
 
 Contracted all, retiring to the breast ; 
 
 But strength of mind is Exercise, not Rest : 
 
 The rising tempest puts in act the soul, 
 
 Parts it may ravage, but preserves the "whole. 
 
 On hie's vast ocean diversely -we sail, 
 
 Reason the card, but Passion is the gale ; 
 
 Nor Grod alone in the stUl calm •we find. 
 
 He mounts the storm, and vralks upon the -wind. 
 
 Passions, like elements, tho' born to fight. 
 Yet, mix'd and soften' d, in his work unite : 
 These 'tis enough to temper and employ ; 
 But what composes Man, can Man desti'oy ? 
 
 DOfCIAD. 
 
 (Book IV., II. 81-114.) 
 
 The gath'ring number, as it moves along. 
 
 Involves a vast involuntary throng, 
 
 Who gently drawn, and struggling less and less. 
 
 Roll in her vortex, and her power confess. 
 
 Not those alone who passive own her laws, 5 
 
 But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause. 
 
 Whate'er of dunce in CoUege or in Town 
 
 Sneers at another, in toupee or gown ; 
 
 Whate'er of mungrel no one class admits, 
 
 A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits. 10 
 
 Nor absent they, no members of her state, 
 WTio pay her homage in her sons, the Great : 
 Who false to Phoebus, bow the knee to Baal, 
 Or impious, preach his word without a call ; 
 Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, 15 
 
 Withhold the pension, and set up the head : 
 Or vest dull Flatt'ry in the sacred Gown ; 
 Or give from^ol to fool the Laurel Crown. 
 And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit. 
 Without the soul the Muse's Hypocrit. 20 
 
140 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 There march' d the bard and blockhead side by side, 
 Who rhym'd for hire, and patroniz'd for pride. 
 Narcissus, j)rais'd with all a Parson's power, 
 Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a show'r. 
 
 25 There mov'd Montalto with superior air : 
 
 His stretch' d-out arm display' d a Volume fair ; 
 Courtiers and Patriots in two ranks divide, 
 Thro' both he pass'd and bow'd from side to side ; 
 But as in graceful act, with awful eye 
 
 30 Compos' d he stood, bold Benson thrust him by : 
 
 On two unequal crutches propt he came, 
 Milton's on this, on that one Johnston's name. 
 The decent Knight retired with sober rage, 
 Withdrew his hand, and clos'd the pompous page. 
 
 FROM WINDSOR FOREST. 
 
 The groves of Eden, vanish' d now so long, 
 Live in description, and look green in song : 
 These, were my breast inspir'd with equal flame, 
 Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. 
 5 Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain. 
 
 Here earth and water seem to strive again ; 
 Not chaos-like together crush' d and bruis'd, 
 But, as the world, harmoniously confus'd ; 
 Where order in variety we see, 
 
 10 And where, though all things differ, aU agree. 
 
 Here waving groves a chequer' d scene display. 
 And part admit, and part exclude the day : 
 As some coy nymph her lover's warm address 
 Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 
 
 15 There, interspers'd in lawns and open glades, 
 
 Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades. 
 Here in f uU light the russet plains extend : 
 There wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend. 
 E'en the wild heath displays her purple dyes, 
 
ALEXAKDER POPE. 141 
 
 And 'midst the desert fruitful trees arise, 20 
 
 That erown'd ■with tufted trees and springing corn, 
 
 Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn. 
 
 Let India boast her plants, nor envy we 
 
 The weeping amber on the balmy tree. 
 
 While by our oaks the precious loads are borne, 25 
 
 And realms commanded which those trees adorn. 
 
 Nor proud Olympus yields a nobler sight. 
 
 Though gods assembled grace his towering height. 
 
 Than what more humble mountains offer here, 
 
 Where, in their blessings, aU those gods appear. 30 
 
 See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona erown'd. 
 
 Here blushing Flora paints the enameU'd ground, 
 
 Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, 
 
 And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand ; 
 
 Rich Lidustry sits smiling on the plains, 35 
 
 And peace and plenty teU, a Stuart reigns. 
 
 THE TOILET. 
 
 {The Rape of the Lock, Canto I.) 
 
 And now, unveil' d, the toilet stands display' d, 
 Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
 First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, 
 With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. 
 A heavenly image in the glass appears, b 
 
 To that she bends, to that her eye she rears ; 
 Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
 Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
 Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here 
 The various offerings of the world appear ; 10 
 
 From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
 And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
 This casket India's glowing gems unlocks. 
 And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
 The tortoise here and elephant unite, 15 
 
 Transform'd to combs, the speckled, and the white. 
 
14:2 ALEXANDER POPE, 
 
 Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
 Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
 Xow awful beauty puts on aU its ai'ms ; 
 
 20 The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
 
 Eepairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
 And calls forth aU the wonders of her face ; 
 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
 And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
 
 25 The busy sj-lphs surround their darUng care, 
 
 These set the head, and those divide the hair. 
 Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown. 
 And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own. 
 
 THE SYLPHS. 
 {The Bape of the Lock, Canto II.) 
 
 Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear ! 
 Fays, fairies, gemi, elves, and demons, hear ! 
 Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign' d 
 By laws eternal to the aerial Mnd. 
 Some in the fields of purest ether play, 
 And bask and whiten in the blaze of day : 
 Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high,. 
 Or roll the planets through the boundless sky : 
 Some, less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light 
 Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
 Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
 Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
 Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
 Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
 Others, on earth, o'er human race preside, 
 "Watch aU their ways, and all their actions guide r 
 Of these the chief the care of nations own. 
 And guard with arms divine the British throne. 
 
 Our humbler province is tq. tend the fair, 
 Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ^ 
 To save the powder from too rude a, gale.. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 143 
 
 Nor let the imprison' d essences exhale ; 
 To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers ; 
 To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showers 
 A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, 
 Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
 Nay, oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 
 To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 QThe Bape of the Lock, Canto F.) 
 
 Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most, 
 The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 
 Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford. 
 Why angels caU'd, and angel-Uke ador'd? 
 Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux? 5 
 
 Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? 
 How vain are all these glories, all our pains. 
 Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 
 That men may say, when we the front-box grace. 
 Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 10 
 
 Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all day. 
 Charm' d the small-pox, or chas'd old age away; 
 Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce. 
 Or who woxild learn one earthly thing of use ? 
 To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, 15 
 
 Xor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 
 But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay, 
 Curl'd or uncurl' d, since locks will turn to gray ; 
 Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. 
 And she who scorns a man must die a maid ; 20 
 
 What then remains, but well our power to use, 
 And keep good humour stUl, whate'er we lose? 
 And trust me, dear, good humour can prevail, 
 When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. 
 Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; 25 
 
 Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. 
 
144 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 {Eloisa to Abelard.) 
 
 In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 Where heavenly-pensive contemplation dwells, 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns. 
 What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ? 
 Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? 
 Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? 
 Yet, yet I love ! — From Abelard it came, 
 And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 
 
 Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd. 
 Nor pass these Ups, in holy silence seal'd: 
 Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. 
 Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies ! 
 
 write it not, my hand — thie name appeaf s 
 Already written — wash it out, my tears ! 
 In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays. 
 
 Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. 
 
 Relentless walls ! whose darksome round contains 
 Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : 
 Ye rugged rocks ! which holy knees have worn ; 
 Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn ! 
 Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep 
 And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep ! 
 Though cold like you, unmov'd and silent grown, 
 
 1 have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
 
 AU is not Heaven's while Abelard has part, 
 StiU rebel nature holds out half my heart ; 
 Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn p.ulse restrain. 
 Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain. 
 Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose. 
 That well known name awakens all my woes. 
 Oh name forever sad ! forever dear ! 
 Still breath' d in sighs, still usher' d with a tear. 
 I tremble too, where'er my own I find, 
 Some dire misfortune follows close behind. 
 Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow. 
 
AiEXAXDEK POPE. 145 
 
 Led through a sad variety of woe : 
 
 Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom, 
 
 Lost in a convent's solitary gloom ! 
 
 There stern religion quench' d th' unwilling flame, 
 
 There died the best of passions, love and fame. « 
 
 Yet write, O write me all, that I may join 
 Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. 
 Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ; 
 And is my Abelard less Mnd than they? 
 Tears stiU are mine, and those I need not spare ; 45 
 
 Love but demands what else were shed in prayer ; 
 No happier task these faded eyes pursue : 
 To read and weep is all they now can do. 
 
 Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief ; 
 Ah, more than share it, give me aU thy grief. 50 
 
 Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid. 
 Some banish' d lover, or some captive maid ; 
 They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, 
 Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires ; 
 The virgiu's wish without her fears impart, ss 
 
 Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, 
 Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
 And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. 
 
 HOLIXESS. 
 
 {Eloisa to Abelard.) 
 
 How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! 
 The world forgetting, by the world forgot : 
 Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. 
 Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign' d ; 
 Labour and rest, that equal periods keep ; 
 Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep ; 
 Desires compos' d, affections ever even; 
 Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heaven. 
 
 10 
 
146 AXEXAIJDER POPE. 
 
 Grace shines around her with serenest beams, 
 10 And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams« 
 
 For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, 
 
 And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes ; 
 
 For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring ; 
 
 For her white virgins hymeneals sing ; 
 15 To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away, 
 
 And melts in visions of eternal day. 
 
 IMMORTAilTY. 
 (Uloisa to Abelard.) 
 
 May one kind grave unite each hapless name, 
 And graft my love immortal on thy fame ! 
 Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er. 
 When this rebellious heart shall beat no more ; 
 
 i If ever chance two wandering lovers brings. 
 
 To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, 
 O'er the pale marble shall they join theti- heads, 
 And di'ink the falling tears each other sheds ; 
 Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, 
 
 10 " O may we never love as these have lov'd ! " 
 
 From the fuU choir, when loud Hosannas rise, 
 And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, 
 Amid that scene if some relenting eye 
 Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, 
 
 15 Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven. 
 
 One human teair shall drop,, and be forgiven.. 
 And sure if fate some future bard shall joLn 
 In sad similitude of griefs, to mine,, 
 Condemn' d whole years in absence to deplore, 
 
 10 And image chaiios he must behold no more ; 
 
 Such if tkere be, who lov«s so long, so well, 
 Let him our sad, our teadier story teU ; 
 The- well sung woes will soothe my pensive ghiosst j 
 He best can paint thenji who shaU feel them most. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 147 
 
 ULYSSES' ADDRESS TO XAITSICAA. 
 
 {Odyssey, Book VI., U. 1 75-212. 
 
 If from the sMes a goddess, or if earth 
 
 (Imperial Airgin) boast thy glorious birth, 
 
 To thee I bend ! If in that bright disguise 
 
 Thou visit earth, a daughter of the skies, 
 
 HaU, Dian, hail ! the huntress of the gi-oves 5 
 
 So shines majestic, and so stately moves. 
 
 So breathes an air divine ! But if thy race 
 
 Be mortal, and this earth thy native place. 
 
 Blessed is the father from whose loins you sprung. 
 
 Blessed is the mother at whose breast you hung, lo 
 
 Blessed are the brethren who thy blood divide, 
 
 To such a miracle of charms aUied : 
 
 Joyful they see applauding princes gazfe, 
 
 When stately in the dance you swim the harmonious maze. 
 
 But bless'd o'er aU, the youth with heavenly charms, 15 
 
 Who clasps the bright perfection in his arms ! 
 
 Never, I never view'd till this bless'd hour 
 
 Such finish' d grace ! I gaze, and I adore ! 
 
 Thus seems the palm, with stately honoiu's crown' d 
 
 By Phoebus' altars, thus o'erlook the groimd : 20 
 
 The pride of Deles. (By the DeUan coast, 
 
 I voyaged, leader of a warrior-host, 
 
 But ah, how changed ! from thence my sorrow flows, 
 
 O fatal voyage, source of all my woes ! ) 
 
 Eaptured I stood, and as this hour amazed, • 25 
 
 With reverence at the lofty wonder gazed: 
 
 Raptured I stand ! for earth ne'er knew to bear 
 
 A plant so stately, or a njrmph so fair. 
 
 Awed from access, I lift my suppliant hands ; 
 
 For misery, oh queen, before thee stands ! sa 
 
 Twice ten tempestuous nights I roU'd, lesign'd 
 
 To roaring billows and the warring wind : 
 
 Heaven bade the deep to spare : but Heaven, my foe, 
 
 Spares only to io&ict some mi^tLex woe ! 
 
148 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 86 Inured to cares, to death in all its forms, 
 
 Outcast I rove, familiar with the storms ! 
 Once more I view the face of human kind : 
 Oh let soft pity touch thy generous mind ! 
 
 CRITICISM AI^D CRITICS. 
 (An Essay on Criticism, Ft. I., II. 1-45) 
 
 "Tis hard to say if greater want of skill 
 Appear in writing or in judging ill ; 
 But of the two less dangerous is th' offence 
 To tire our patience than mislead our sense : 
 » Some few in that, but numbers err in this ; 
 
 Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; 
 A fool might once himself alone expose ; 
 Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 
 
 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none 
 10 Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 
 
 In poets, as true genius is but rare, 
 True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; 
 Both must ahke from Heaven derive their light. 
 These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
 
 15 Let such teach others who themselves excel. 
 And censure freely who have written well ; 
 Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, 
 But are not critics to their judgment too? 
 
 Yet if '^e look more closely, we shall find 
 20 Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind ; 
 
 Nature affords at least a glimmering light ; 
 The lines, though touch' d.. but faintty, are drawn right: 
 But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd, 
 Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd, 
 
 16 So by false learning is good sense defac'd : 
 Some are bewilder' d in the maze of schools. 
 
 And sonie made coxcombs Nature meant but fools : 
 In search of wit these lose their common sense, 
 
ALEXAKDER POPE. 149 
 
 And then turn critics in their own defence : 
 
 Each burns alike, who can or cannot write, ja 
 
 Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite. 
 
 All fools have stiU an itching to deride. 
 
 And fain would he upon the laughing side. 
 
 If Maevius scribble in ApoUo's spite. 
 
 There are who judge still worse than he can write. 85 
 
 Some have at first for wits, then poets past ; 
 Tum'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last. 
 Some neither can for wits or critics pass. 
 As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. 
 These haJf-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle, 4« 
 
 As half-form'd insects on the bank of NUe ; 
 Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call. 
 Their generation's so equivocal ; 
 To teU them would a hundred tongues require, 
 Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. m 
 
 PRIDE. 
 
 (An Essay on Criticism, Pt. II., II. 1-32.) 
 
 Of aU the causes which conspire to bhnd 
 Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind. 
 What the weak head with strongest bias rules. 
 Is pride, the never failing vice of fools. 
 Whatever nature has in worth denied ( 
 
 She gives in large recruits of needful pride : 
 For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 
 What wants in blood and spirits swell' d with wind : 
 Pride, where wit faUs, steps in to our defence. 
 And flUs up aU the mighty void of sense : lo 
 
 If once right reason drives that cloud away. 
 Truth breaks upon us as resistless. day. 
 Trust not yourself ; but your defects to know. 
 Make use of every friend — and every foe. 
 
150 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 15 A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 
 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
 And drinking largely sobers us again. 
 Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts, 
 
 20 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts. 
 
 While from the bounded level of our mind 
 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind : 
 But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise 
 New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
 
 2S So pleas' d at first the towering Alps we try, 
 
 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 
 Th' eternal snows appear already past, 
 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 
 But those attain' d, we tremble to survey 
 
 so The growing labours of the lengthen' d way ; 
 
 Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 
 HUls peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 
 
 HAKMONT OF VERSIFICATION. 
 
 (^An EssatJ on Criticism, Ft. II., II. 137-224.) 
 
 But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
 And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong. 
 In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire. 
 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire : 
 
 a Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. 
 
 Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair. 
 Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
 These equal syllables alone require, 
 Though oft the ear the open vowels tire, 
 
 10 While 'expletives their feeble aid do join, 
 
 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : 
 WhUe they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
 With sure returns of stiU expected rhymes ; 
 
ALEXAXDEK POPE. 151 
 
 Where'er you find ''the cooKng western breeze," 
 
 In the next Uae it "whispers through the trees ; " 15 
 
 If crystal streams " with pleasing murmurs creep," 
 
 The reader's threaten' d (not in vain) with " sleep ; " 
 
 Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught 
 
 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 20 
 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know, 
 
 What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow ; 
 
 And praise the easy vigour of a line 
 
 When DenhAm's strength and Waller's sweetness join. 25 
 
 True ease in writiBg comes from art, not chance. 
 
 As those move easiest who have learn' d to dance. 
 
 'Tis not enoi^h no harshness gives offence ; 
 
 The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
 
 Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, 3« 
 
 And the smooth stream in smoother ntimbers flows ; 
 
 But when load surges lash the sounding shore, 
 
 The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 
 The line, too, labours, and the wOrds move slow : 35 
 
 Not so wheB swift Camilla scours the plain. 
 
 Plies o'er the unbending com, and skims along the main. 
 
 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, • 
 
 And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 
 
 While a% each change the son of Libyan Jove i» 
 
 IS'ow buFfis with glory, and then melts with love ; 
 
 Now his fierce eyes with sparkhng fury glow. 
 
 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : 
 
 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found. 
 
 And the world's victor stood subdued by sound ! a 
 
 The power of music aU our hearts allow, 
 
 And what Timotheus was is Diyden now. 
 
 Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such 
 Who stiU are pleas' d too little or too much. 
 At every trifle scorn to take offence ; 50 
 
152 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 That always shows great pride or little sense : 
 Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best 
 Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
 Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; 
 86 For fools admire, but men of sense approve : 
 
 As things seem large which we through mist descry, 
 Dullness is ever apt to magnify. 
 
 Some foreign writers, some our own despise ; 
 The ancients only, or the moderns prize. 
 
 •0 Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied 
 
 To one small sect, and aU are damn'd beside. 
 Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, 
 And force that sun but on a part to shine, 
 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 
 
 at But ripens spirits in cold northern cUmes ; 
 
 Which from the first has shone on ages past, 
 Enlights the present, and shall warm the last ; 
 Though each may feel increases and decays, 
 And see now clearer and now darker days. 
 
 70 Regard not then if wit be old or new. 
 
 But blame the false, and value still the true. 
 
 Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, 
 But catch the spreading notion of the town ; 
 • They reason and conclude by precedent, 
 
 78 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent,. 
 
 Some judge of authors' names, not works, and thei- 
 Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 
 Of all this servile herd, the worst is he , 
 That in proud dulness joins with quality ; 
 A constant critic at the great man's board, 
 
 To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. 
 What woful stuff this madrigal would be 
 In some starv'd hackney sonneteer or me.! 
 But let a lord once own the happy lines, 
 
 S5 How the wit brightens ! how the style refines . 
 
 Before his sacred name flies every fault. 
 And each exalted stanza teems with thought I 
 
JA3IE3 THOMSON. 153 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 {Canto I., Stanzas 33-i7.) 
 
 xxxm. 
 
 The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, 
 The cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, 
 Self-open'd into halls, where, who can teU 
 What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 
 The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? 5 
 
 Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, 
 And couches stretch around in seemly band ; 
 And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 
 So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed. 
 
 xxxrv. 
 
 And everywhere huge cover' d tables stood, 10 
 
 With wines high-flavour' d and rich viands crown' d : 
 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
 On the green bosom of this earth are found, 
 And all old ocean genders in his round : 
 Some have unseen these silently display'd. 
 Even undemanded by a sign or sound ; 
 You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd. 
 Fair rang'd the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play'd. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Here freedom reign' d without the least alloy ; 
 
 Xor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall, 20- 
 
154 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy, 
 And with envenom' d tongue our pleasures pall. 
 For why ? there was but one great rule for all ; 
 To wit, that each should work his own desire, 
 And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall. 
 Or melt the time ia love, or wake the lyre. 
 And carol what, unbid, the Muses might inspire. 
 
 The rooms with costly tapestry were hung. 
 
 Where was inwoven many a gentle tale ; 
 30 Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
 
 Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale : 
 
 RecUning lovers, in the lonely dale, 
 
 Pour'd forth at large the sweetly tortured heart ; 
 
 Or, sighing tender passion, swell' d the gale, 
 35 And taught charm' d echo to resound their smart ; 
 
 Whule flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart. 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, 
 
 Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 
 
 What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, 
 40 And pastured on from verdant stage to. stage. 
 
 Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. 
 
 Toil was not then : of nothing took they heed. 
 
 But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage. 
 
 And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: 
 45 Bless' d sons of nature they ! true golden age indeed ! 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls. 
 Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise. 
 Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls : 
 Now the black tempest strikes the astonish' d eyes ; 
 so Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies ; 
 
JAMES THOMSOK. 155 
 
 The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, 
 And now rude mountains from amid the skies ; 
 Whate'er Lorraine Ught-touch'd with softening hue, 
 Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined, 65 
 
 Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease : 
 Aerial music in the warbHng wind, 
 At distance rising oft, by small degrees, 
 Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 
 It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs, 6o 
 
 As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
 Entangled deep in its enchanting snares. 
 The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. 
 
 XI.. 
 
 A certain music, never known before. 
 
 Here lull'd the piensive, melancholy mind ; 65 
 
 Full easily- obtain'd. Behoves no more. 
 But sidtelong-, to the gently waving wind, 
 To lay the well-tun' d instrument reclined ; 
 From which, with airy flying fingers light. 
 Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, 70 
 
 The god of winds drew sounds; of deep delight : 
 Whence, with just cause^ the hasp ©f ^olus it hight. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
 Who up the lofty diapason roll 
 
 Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, 76 
 
 Then let tSiem down again into the soul? 
 Now rising love they fann'd : now pteasing dole 
 They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart ; 
 And now a graver sacred strain they stole, 
 As when seraphiehamds a hymn impart : so 
 
 With warbling nature ail, above the reach of art ! 
 
156 JAUES THOMSON. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, 
 Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore, 
 In mighty Bagdat, populous and great, 
 
 85 Held their bright court, where was of ladies store ; 
 
 And verse, love, music, still the garland wore : 
 When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, 
 Cheer'd the lone midnight with the muse's lore: 
 Composing music bade his dreams be fair, 
 
 90 And music lent new gladness to the morning air. 
 
 Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
 Soft tinHing streams, and dashing waters fell, 
 And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began 
 (So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
 95 As heaven and earth they would together meU : 
 
 At doors and windows, threatening, seem'd to call 
 The demons of the tempest, growKng fell. 
 Yet the least entrance found they none at all ; 
 Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 100 And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams. 
 
 Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; 
 O'er which were shadowy castelysian gleams. 
 That play'd, in waving Ughts, from place to place, 
 And shed a roseate smile on nature's face. 
 
 105 Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, 
 
 So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
 Nor could it e'er such melting forms display. 
 As loose on flowery beds aU languishingly lay. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 No fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
 110 My Muse will not attempt your fairy land : 
 
JAilES THOMSON. 157 
 
 She has no colours that like you can glow : 
 To catch your Tirid scenes too gross her hand. 
 But sure it is, ■was ne'er a subtler band 
 Than these same guileful angel-seeming spiights. 
 Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
 Pour'd aU the Arabian heaven upon our nights, 
 And bless'd them oft besides with more refined delights. 
 
 They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train. 
 Even feigning virtue ; skilful to unite 
 With eyil good, and strew with pleasure pain. 
 But for those fiends, whom blood and broils delight ; 120 
 
 Who hurl the wretch as if to heH outright, 
 Down, down black gulfs, where sullen waters sleep, 
 Or hold him clambering all the fearful night 
 On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep ; 
 They, tiU due time should serve, were bid far hence to keep. 125 
 
 Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear. 
 From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom : 
 Angels of fancy and of love, be near. 
 And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom : 
 Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome, iso 
 
 And let them virtue with a look impart : 
 But chief, awhile, oh ! lend us from the tomb 
 Those long lost friends for whom in love we smart, 
 And fill with pious awe and joy-mixed woe the heart. 
 
158 HENET FIELDING. 
 
 HENEY FIELDING. 
 
 P.IETRLDGE AT THE PLAY. 
 (^Tom Jones, Book XVI., Chap. V.) 
 
 Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the 
 aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, 
 from the last mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an 
 appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This 
 5 was, to attend Mrs. Miller, and her younger daughter, into the 
 gallery at the play-house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of 
 the company. For as Jones had really that taste for humour 
 which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertainment 
 in the criticisms of Partridge ; from whom he expected the 
 
 10 simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise 
 unadulterated by art. 
 
 In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. 
 MiUer, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. 
 Pai-tridge immediately declared it was the finest place Jie had 
 
 15 ever been in. When the first music was played, he said. It was 
 a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time without 
 putting one another out. While the fellow was lighting the 
 upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look. Madam, 
 the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer 
 
 20 book before the gunpowder treason service." Nor could he 
 help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were hghted, 
 ' ' That here were candles enough burnt in one night to keep an 
 honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth. ' ' 
 
 As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, 
 
 25 began. Partridge was aU attention, nor did he break silence till 
 the entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What 
 
HENKY FIELDING. 159 
 
 man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, "like 
 what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour-, is it ? " 
 Jones answered, "That is the ghost." To which Partridge 
 repUed with a smile, "Persuade me to that. Sir, if you can. so 
 Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my hie, yet I 
 am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than that 
 comes to. No, no. Sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as 
 that, neither." 
 
 In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighbor- 35 
 hood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene 
 between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit 
 to Mr. Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and feU into so 
 violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. 
 Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afi'aid 40 
 of the warrior upon the stage? "O la! Sir," said he, "I per- 
 ceive now it is what you told me. I am not afraid, of anything, 
 for I know it is but a play. And if it was really a ghost, it 
 could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so much com- 
 pany ; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person." 45 
 " Why, who," cried Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward 
 here besides thyself? " " Nay, you may call m.e coward if you 
 wiU ; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, 
 I never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay ; go along 
 with you! Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then? WiU you? 50 
 Lud have mercy upcm such f oolhardiness ! Whatever happens 
 it is good enough for you. FoUow you? I'd follaw the devil 
 as soon. Nay, periiaps, it is the devil— for they say he can put 
 on what likeness he pleases. Oh ! here he is again. No farther ! 
 No, you have gone fai- enough already; farther than I'd have 55 
 gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to speak, but 
 Partridge cried, "Hush, hush, dear Sir, don't you hear him?" 
 And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes 
 fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his 
 mouth open ; the same passions which succeeded each oifcher in eo 
 Hamlet, succeeding Ukewise in him. 
 
 When the scene was over.JoEtes said, "Why, Partridge, you 
 esceed my expectations. You enjioy the play more than I con- 
 ceived possible. ' ' ' 'Nay, Siir, " aniswered Partridge j " if yon are 
 
160 HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 65 not afraid of the devil, I can't help it ; but to be sure, it is natural 
 to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in 
 them ; not that it was the ghost that surprised me, neither ; for I 
 should have known that to have been only a man in a strange 
 dress ; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it 
 
 70 was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou imagine, 
 then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really frightened ? " 
 ' ' Nay, Sir, ' ' said Partridge, ' ' did not you yourself observe 
 afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and 
 how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him 
 
 75 by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, 
 just as I should have been, had it been my own case? But 
 hush! O la! what noise is that? There he comes again. 
 Well to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, 
 I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men are." Then 
 
 80 turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, ' 'Ay, you may draw your 
 
 sword ; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil ? ' ' 
 
 During the second act. Partridge made very few remarks. He 
 
 greatly admired the fineness of the dresses ; nor could he help 
 
 observing upon the king's countenance. ""Well," said he, "how 
 
 85 people may be deceived by faces. Nulla fides fronti is, I find, 
 a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, 
 that he had ever committed a murder? " He then inquired after 
 the ghost ; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave 
 him no further satisfaction, than " That he might possibly see 
 
 90 him again soon, and in a flash of fire." 
 
 Partridge sat in fearful exijectation of this ; and now, when 
 the ghost made his next appearance. Partridge cried out, " There, 
 Sir, now ; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As 
 much frightened as you tliink me ; and, to be sure, nobody can 
 
 95 help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what's 
 his name, Squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me ! 
 what's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought I 
 saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw right," 
 answered Jones. 
 100 , " Well, well," cries Partridge, " I know it is only a play: and 
 besides, if there was anything in all this. Madam MiUer would 
 not laugh so; for as to you. Sir, you would not be afraid, I 
 
HEXEY FIELDING. 161 
 
 beliere, if the deyil was here in person. — There, there — Aj-, no 
 wonder you are in such a passion ; shake the vile, wicked wretch 
 to pieces. If she was my own mother, I should serve her so. 105 
 To be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked 
 doings. — Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight of you." 
 
 Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet 
 introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, 
 till Jones explained it to him ; but he no sooner entered into the 110 
 spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never com- 
 mitted murder. Then turning to Sirs. Miller, he asked her if 
 she did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched. 
 "Though he is," said he, " a good actor, and doth all he can to 
 hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for, as that 115 
 wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he 
 sits upon. No wonder he runs away ; for your sake I'll never 
 trust an innocent face again." 
 
 The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Part- 
 ridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of skulls 12a 
 thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, ' ' that it 
 was one of the most famous burial places about town." "Xo 
 wonder, then," cries Partridge, "that the place is haunted. 
 But I never saw in my hf e a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton. 
 when I was a clerk, that should have dug three graves while he 125 
 is digging one. The feUow handles a spade as if it was the first 
 time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. 
 Tou had rather sing than work, I believe." Upon Hamlet's 
 taking up the skull, he cried out, ' ' Well ! it is strange to see 
 how fearless some men are : I never could bring myself to touch 130 
 anything belonging to a dead man, on any account. He seemed 
 frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus 
 horis sapit." 
 
 Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at 
 the end of which Jones asked Mm, which of the players he had 135 
 Hked best? To this he answered, with some appearance of 
 indignation at the question, "The king, without doubt." 
 "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are not of 
 the same opinion with the town ; for they are all agreed, that 
 Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." i4o 
 
 11 
 
162 HEXEY FIELDING. 
 
 "He the best i^layer! " cries Partridge, Tvith a contemptuous 
 sneer, ' ' why I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I 
 had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, 
 and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as 
 
 145 you call it, between him and his mother, where you told me he 
 acted so fine, why Lord help me, any man, that is, any good 
 man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. 
 I know you are only joking with me ; but, indeed. Madam, 
 though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting 
 
 150 before in the country ; and the king for my money ; he speaks 
 all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other, — any 
 body may see he is an actor." 
 
 While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with 
 Partridge, a lady came up to Mr. Jones, whom he immediately 
 
 155 knew to be Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She said she had seen him from 
 the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity of 
 siDeaking to him, as she had something to say which might he 
 of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with her 
 lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the 
 
 160 morning ; which, upon recollection, she changed to the after- 
 noon ; at which time Mr. Jones promised to attend her. 
 
 Thus ended the adventure at the play-house, where Partridge 
 had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. MiUer, but 
 to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what 
 
 165 he said, than to any thing that passed on the stage. 
 
 He durst not go to bed that night, for fear of the ghost ; and 
 for many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went 
 to sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked several times 
 in great horror, crying out, ' ' Lord have mercy upon us ! there 
 it is." 
 
SAMUEL JOHXSON. 165 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 THE EIGHT lilPROVEilENT OF TlilE. 
 {The Bambler, Xo. 108.) 
 
 It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any 
 new quaJiflcation, to look upon themselves as required to change 
 the general course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and 
 exclude pleasure, and to devote their days and nights to a par- 
 ticular attention. But aU common degrees of excellence are 5 
 attainable at a lower price ; he that should steadily and resolutely 
 assign to any science or language those interstitial vacancies 
 which intervene in the most crowded variety of diversion or 
 employment, would find every day new irradiations of knowledge, 
 and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and lo 
 perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires ; 
 efforts which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, 
 and desires which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off 
 the authority of reason, and range capriciously from one object 
 to another. is 
 
 The disposition to defer every important design to a time of 
 leisure, and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from 
 a false estimate of the human powers. If we except those gigantic 
 and stupendous intelligences who are said to grasp a system by 
 intuition, and bound forward from one series of conclusions to 20 
 another, without regular steps through intermediate propositions, 
 the most successful students make their advances in knowledge 
 by short flights, between each of which the mind may lie at rest. 
 For every single act of progression a short time is sufficient, and 
 it is only necessary, that, whenever that time is afforded, it be 25. 
 well employed. 
 
164 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious medi- 
 tation; and when a successful attack on knowledge has been 
 made, the student recreates himself with the contemplation of 
 
 30 his conquest, and forbears another incursion till the new-acquired 
 truth has become familiar, and his curiosity calls upon him for 
 fresh gratifications. Whether the time of intermission is spent 
 in company, or in solitude, in necessary business, or in voluntary 
 levities, the understanding is equally abstracted from the object 
 
 35 of inquiry ; but, perhaps, if it be detained by occupations less 
 pleasing, it returns ag^in to study with greater alacrity, than when 
 it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited with intemperance 
 of application. He that will not suffer himself to be discouraged 
 by fancied impossibiUties, may sometimes find his abilities invig- 
 
 40 orated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as 
 the force of a current is increased by the contraction of its 
 channel. 
 
 From some cause hke this it has probably proceeded, that, 
 among those who have contributed to the advancement of learn- 
 ing, many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles 
 
 45 which external circumstances could place in their way, amidst 
 the tumult of business, the distresses of poverty, or the dissipa- 
 tions of a wandering and unsettled state. A great part of the 
 life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination ; ill supphed 
 with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from 
 
 50 kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, 
 hopes which always flattered and always deceived him ; he yet 
 found means, by unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improve- 
 ment of those hours, which, in the midst of the most restless 
 activity, will remain unengaged, to write more than another in 
 
 55 the same condition would have hoped to read. Compelled by 
 want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in 
 common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect 
 delineation of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge 
 of the world such application to books, that he will stand forever 
 
 60 in the first rank of hterary heroes. How this proficiency was 
 obtained he sufficiently discovers, by informing us, that the 
 "Praise of FoUy," one of his most celebrated performances, 
 was composed by Mm on the road to Italy, " lest the hours, which 
 
SAMUEL JOHXSOX. 165 
 
 he -was obliged to spend on horseback should be tattled a^vay 
 mthout regard to hterature." 65 
 
 An Itahan philosopher expressed in his motto that Time was 
 his estate; an estate, indeed, which mU produce nothing without 
 cultivation, but mU. always abundantly repay the labors of 
 industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it 
 be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with noxious 70 
 plants, or laid out for show rather than for use. 
 
 FROM THE PREFACE TO DICTIONARY. 
 
 In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature 
 forbids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of 
 j-ears, to the honour of my country, that we may no longer yield 
 the palm of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the 
 continent. The chief glory of every people arises from its 5 
 authors : whether I shall add anything by my own writings to the 
 reputation of English literature, must be left to time : much of 
 my life has been lost under the pressures of disease ; much has 
 been trifled away ; and much has always been spent in pro-^ision 
 for the day that was passing over me ; but I shall not think my 10 
 employment useless or ignoble, if by my assistance foreign 
 nations, and distant ages, gain access to the propagators of 
 knowledge, and understand the teachers of truth ; if my labors 
 afford light to the repositories of science, and add celebrity to 
 Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and to Boyle. 15 
 
 When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my 
 book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the 
 spirit of a man that has endeavoured weU. That it wOl immedi- 
 ately become popular, I have not promised to myself; a few 
 wild blunders and risible absurdities, from which no work of 20 
 such multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with 
 laughter, and harden ignorance into contempt ; but useful dili- 
 gence will at last prevail, and there can never be wanting some 
 who distinguish desert, who wUl consider that no dictionary of a 
 hving tongue ever can be perfect, since, while it is hastening to 25 
 publication, some words are budding, and some faUing away; 
 
166 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etj-mology, 
 and that even a whole life would not be sufficient ; that he, whose 
 design includes whatever language can express, must often speak 
 
 30 of what he does not understand ; that a -wTiter will sometimes be 
 hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint ynth weari- 
 ness under a task which Scahger compares to the labours of the 
 auvH and the mine ; that what is obvious is not always known, 
 and what is known is not always present; that sudden fits of 
 
 35 inadvertency will surprise vigilance, slight avocations will seduce 
 attention, and casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning ; 
 and that the writer shall often in vain trace his memory at the 
 moment of need, for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive 
 readiness, and which wiU come uncalled into his thoughts 
 
 io to-morrow. 
 
 LETTER TO THE EAEL OF CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 My Lord — I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of 
 the "World," that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recom- 
 mended to the public, were written by your lordship. To be so 
 distinguished is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to 
 
 6 favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what 
 terms to acknowledge. 
 
 AVben upon some shght encouragement, I first visited your 
 lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the 
 enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to ■nish that 
 
 10 I might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre : 
 that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world con- 
 tending ; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that 
 neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When 
 I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted 
 
 15 all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can 
 possess. I had done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased 
 to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. 
 
 vSeven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your 
 outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which 
 
 20 time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of 
 
SAilUEL JOHXSOX. 167 
 
 which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to 
 the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word 
 of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did 
 not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in 
 Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native 23 
 of the rocks. Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with 
 unconcern on a man struggling for hfe in the water, and when he 
 has reached the ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice 
 which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been 
 early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, 30 
 and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it ; tiU 
 I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no veiy cynical 
 asperits- not to confess obligations where no benefit has been 
 received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me 
 as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to 35 
 do for myself. 
 
 Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to 
 any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed, though I 
 should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have long 
 been wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted 40 
 myself with so much exultation. 
 
 My Lord, your Lordship's most humble, 
 
 Most obedient servant, 
 
 Sajitel Johxsox. 
 
 VEESEFICATION OF IIILTOX. 
 
 {Essay on Milton.') 
 
 After his diction, something must be said of his versification. 
 The measure, he says, is the English heroic verse without rhyme. 
 Of this mode he had many examples among the ItaUans and 
 some in Ms own country. The Earl of Surrey is said to have 
 translated one of Virgil's books without rhyme ; and, beside our 5 
 tragedies, a few short poems had appeared in blank verse, pai-tic- 
 ularly one tending to reconcile the nation to Raleigh's wild 
 attempt upon Guiana, and probably written by Raleigh himself. 
 
168 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 These petty performances cannot be supposed to have much 
 
 10 influenced Milton, who more probably took his hint from Tris- 
 siuo's "Italia Liberata; " and, finding blank verse easier than 
 rhjrme, was desh'ous of persuading himself that it is better. 
 
 RhjTne, he says, and says truly, is no necessary adjunct of 
 true poetry. But, perhaps, of poetry, as a mental operation, 
 
 15 metre or music is no necessary adjunct: it is, however, by the 
 music of metre that poetry has been discriminated in all lan- 
 guages ; and, in languages melodiously constructed with a due 
 proportion of long and short syllables, metre is sufficient. But 
 one language cannot communicate its rules to another: where 
 
 20 metre is scanty and imperfect, some help is necessary. 
 
 The music of the EngUsh heroic line strikes the ear so faintly 
 that it is easily lost, unless all the sjilables of every line co-oper- 
 ate together; this co-operation can be only obtained by the 
 preservation of every verse umningled with another as a distinct 
 
 25 system of sounds ; and this distinctness is obtained and preserved 
 by the artifice of rhyme. The variety of pauses, so much boasted 
 by the lovers of blank verse, changes the measures of an English 
 poet to the periods of a declaimer ; and there are only a few 
 ha]3py readers of Milton, who enable their audience to perceive 
 
 so where the hues end or begin. Blank verse, said an ingenious 
 critic, seems to be verse only to the ej^e. 
 
 Poetry may subsist without rhyme, but English poetry will not 
 often j^lease ; nor can rhjone ever be safely spared but where the 
 subject is able to support itself. Blank verse makes some 
 
 35 approach to that which is called the lapidary style ; has neither 
 the easiness of prose, nor the melody of numbers, and therefore 
 tires by long continuance. Of the Italian writers without rhyme, 
 whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one is popular; what 
 reason could urge in its defence has been confuted by the ear. 
 
 40 But, whatever be the advantage of rhyme, I cannot prevail on 
 myself to wish that Milton had been a rhjrmer ; for I cannot wish 
 his work to be other than it is ; yet, like other heroes, he is to 
 be admired rather than imitated. He that thinks himself capable 
 of astonishing may write blank verse ; but those that hope only 
 
 45 to please must condescend to rhyme. 
 
DAVID nunE. 169 
 
 DAVID HUME. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 {Chap. I.) 
 
 The curiosity, entertained by all civilized nations, of inquiring 
 into the exploits and adventures of their ancestors, conunonly 
 excites a regret that the history of remote ages should alwaj-s 
 be so much involved in obscurity, imcertainty, and contradic- 
 tion. Ingenious men, possessed of leisure, are apt to push their 5 
 researches beyond the period in which literary monuments are 
 framed or preserved ; without reflecting that the history of past 
 events is immediately lost or disfigured when intrusted to memoiy 
 and oral tradition, and that the adventures of barbarous nations, 
 even if they were recorded, could afford httle or no entertain- 10 
 ment to men born in a more cultivated age. The convulsions 
 of a civilized state usually compose the most instructive and 
 most interesting part of its history; but the sudden, violent, 
 and unprepared revolutions incident to barbarians, are so much 
 guided by caprice, and terminate so often in cruelty, that they 15 
 disgust us by the uniformity of their appearance ; and it is 
 rather fortunate for letters that they are buried in silence and 
 oblivion. The only certain means by which nations can indulge 
 their curiosity in researches concerning their remote origin, is to 
 consider the language, manners, and customs of their ancestors, 20 
 and to compare them with those of the neighbouring nations. 
 The fables, which are commonly employed to supply the place of 
 true history, ought entirely to be disregarded ; or if any excep- 
 tion be admitted to this general rule, it can only be in favor of 
 the ancient Grecian fictions, which are so celebrated and so 25 
 agreeable, that they will ever be the objects of the attention of 
 
170 DAVID HUME. 
 
 mankind. Neglecting, therefore, all traditions or rather tales, 
 concerning the more early historj^ of Britain, we shall only con- 
 sider the state of the inhabitants as it appeared to the Romans 
 
 30 on their invasion of this country : -sve shall briefly run over the 
 evcr.ts which attended the conquest made by that empire, as 
 belonging more to Roman than British story: we shall hasten 
 through the obscure and uninteresting period of Saxon annals : 
 and shall reserve a more full narration for those tunes, when the 
 
 35 truth is both so well ascertained, and so complete, as to promise 
 entertainment and instruction to the reader. 
 
WILLIAM COLLIXS. 171 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 THE PASSIOXS. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 
 "Wldle yet in early Greece she sung, 
 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
 
 Throng' d around her magic cell, 
 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 6 
 
 Possest beyond the Muse's painting : 
 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 
 Disturb' d, delighted, rais'd, refin'd: 
 
 Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, 
 
 FUl'd with fury, rapt, inspu-'d, lo 
 
 From the supporting myrtles round 
 
 They snatch' d her instruments of sound ; 
 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
 
 Each (for madness ruled the hour) la 
 
 "Would prove his own expressive power. 
 
 First Fear his hand, its sMU to try, 
 
 Amid the chords bewilder' d laid, 
 And back recoil' d, he knew not why, 
 
 E'en at the sound himself had made. 20 
 
 Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire, 
 
 In lightnings own'd Ms secret stings : 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woful measures wan Despair, £5 
 
 Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd, — 
 
172 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 A solemn, strange, and mingl'd air ; 
 'Ttvrs sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
 
 80 What was thy delighted measiu-e ? 
 
 Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
 35 She call'd on Echo still, through all the song ; 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
 And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. 
 And longer had she sung : — but, with a frown, 
 40 Revenge impatient rose : 
 
 He threw his blood-stain' d sword, in thunder, down ; 
 And, with a withering look, 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 45 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 
 And ever and anon he beat 
 The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
 And though sometimes, each dreary pause between. 
 Dejected Pity, at Ms side, 
 50 Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
 
 Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien. 
 While each strain' d ball of sight- seem'd bursting from his head. 
 
 Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were flx'd, — 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
 55 Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ; 
 
 And now,it courted Love, now, raving, call'd on Hate. 
 
 With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd. 
 Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 
 And from her wild sequester' d seat, 
 60 In notes by distance made more sweet, 
 
 Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive stral ; 
 And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
 
WILLIAM COLLINS. 173 
 
 Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; 
 Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, es 
 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 
 Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
 Di hoUow murmurs died away. 
 
 But O ! how alter' d was its sprightUer tone 
 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, :d 
 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
 
 Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew. 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, — 
 
 The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! 
 The oak-crown' d Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 75 
 
 Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen 
 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 
 
 And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: sd 
 
 He, with viny crown advancing. 
 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening ■siol, 
 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best s 
 They would have thought, who heard the strain, ss 
 
 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
 
 Amidst the festal-sounding shades. 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
 Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : so 
 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
 
 And he, amidst his frolic play. 
 
 As if he would the charming air repay. 
 Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 
 
 O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 95 
 
 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! 
 Why, goddess ! why to us denied, 
 Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
 
174 WILUA3I COLLINS. 
 
 As, ia that lov'd Athenian bower, 
 
 100 You learn' d an all-commanding power, 
 
 Thy mimic soul, O X3-mph endear' d! • 
 Can well recall what then it heard ; 
 Where is thy native simple heart 
 Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 
 
 105 Arise, as in that elder time, 
 
 Wai-m, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders, in that god-like age. 
 Fill thy recording Sister's page-^ 
 'Tis said, and I bcUeve the tale, 
 
 110 Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
 
 Had more of strength, di-^-iner rage, 
 Than all which charms this laggard age ; 
 E'en aU at once together found, 
 Cecilia's mingled word of sound: — 
 
 115 O bid our vain endeavours cease ; 
 
 Revive the just designs of Greece : 
 Return in all thy simple state ! 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 
 
 ODE — HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE. 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
 By all their country's wishes blest! 
 TThen Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallow' d mould, 
 5 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
 There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
 10 To bless the tm-f that wraps their clay ; 
 
 And Freedom shall a while repair. 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
 
iALTlEXCE STEKSE. 175 
 
 LAUEEXCE STERNE. 
 
 THE STOEY OF LE FEVRE. 
 (^Tristram Shandy, Book VI., Chap. FT.) 
 
 It was some time in the summer of that year in which Den- 
 dermond was taken by the allies, when my uncle Toby was one 
 evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting behind him at 
 a small sideboard, I say sitting, for, in consideration of the 
 coi-poral's lame knee, which sometimes gave bim exquisite pain, 5 
 when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone, he would never 
 suffer the corporal to stand ; — and the poor feUow's veneration, 
 was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could 
 have taken Dendermond itself, with less trouble than he was 
 able to gain this point over him ; for many a time, when my 10 
 uncle Toby supposed the corporal's leg was at rest, he would 
 look back, and detect him standing behind bim with the most 
 dutiful respect: this bred more little squabbles betwixt them 
 than all other causes for five and twenty years together. But 
 this is neither here nor there, — why do I mention it? Ask my 15 
 pen ; it governs me, I govern not it. He was one evening 
 sitting thus at supper, when the landlord of a little inn in the 
 village came into the parlour with an empty phial in his hand, to 
 beg a glass or two of sack. '• 'Tis for a poor gentleman, — 
 I think of the army," — said the landlord, — "who has been 20 
 taken iU at my house four days ago, and has never held up his 
 head since, or had a desii-e to taste anything, tUl just now, that he 
 has a fancy for a glass of sack, and a thin toast ; ' I think,' says 
 he, taking his hand from his forehead, ' it would comfort me.' " 
 " If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing," added 25 
 the landlord, "I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, 
 
176 LACEENCE STERNE. 
 
 he is so ill. I hope in G-od he will still mend," continued he, 
 " we are all of us concerned for him." 
 
 "Thou art a good-natured soul ; I tpIU answer for thee," cried 
 
 30 my uncle Toby; "and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's 
 health in a glass of sack thyself, and take a couple of bottles 
 witli my service, and teU him he is heartily welcome to them, and 
 to a dozen more if they will do him good." "Though I am 
 persuaded," said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, 
 
 35 " he is a very compassionate f eUow, Trim, yet I cannot help 
 entertaining a high opinion of his guest, too ; there must be 
 something more than common in him, that in so short a time 
 should win so much upon the affection of his host." "And of 
 his whole family," added the corporal, "for they are all con- 
 
 40 cerned for him." " Step after him," said my uncle Toby, "do, 
 Trim, and ask if he knows his name." " I have quite forgot it, 
 truly," said the landlord, coming back into the parlour with the 
 corporal, ' ' but I can ask his son again. " " He has a son with 
 him, then?" said my uncle Toby. "A boy," repUed the land- 
 
 45 lord, "of about eleven or twelve years of age; but the poor 
 creature has tasted almost as little as his father ; he does noth- 
 ing but mourn and lament for him night and day: he has not 
 stirred from the bedside these two days." My uncle Toby laid 
 down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, 
 
 60 as the landlord gave him the account ; and Trim, without being 
 ordered, took them awaj^, without saying one word; and in a 
 few minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco. 
 
 "Trim!" said my uncle Toby, "Ihave a project in my head, 
 as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my roque- 
 
 55 laure, and pajang a %'isit to this poor gentleman." "Your 
 honour's roquelaure," replied the corporal, "has not once been 
 had on, since the night before your honour received your wound 
 when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. 
 Nicholas ; and, besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what 
 
 60 with the roquelaure, and what with the weather, 'twill be enough 
 to give your honour your death, and bring on your honour's tor- 
 ment in your groin." "I fear so," replied my uncle Toby; 
 " but I am not at rest in my mind. Trim, since the account the 
 landlord has given me. I wish I had not known so much of this 
 
LAURENCE STERNE. 177 
 
 affair," added my uncle Toby, or that I had known more of it. G5 
 How shall we manage it? " •• Leave it, an' please your honoui-, 
 to me," quoth the corporal. " I'll take my hat and stick, and go 
 to the house and reconnoitre, and act accordingly; and I wiU 
 bring your honour a full account in an hour. " '• Thou shalt go. 
 Trim," said my uncle Toby, •• and here's a s hilli ng for thee to to 
 drink with his servant." "I shall get it all out of him," said 
 the corporal, shutting the door. 
 
 It was not tiU my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of 
 his third pipe, that coiporal Trim returned from the inn, and 
 gave the following account: ''I despau-ed. at fii-st." said the 75 
 corporal, ' ' of being able to bring back your honour any intelli- 
 gence concerning the poor sick lieutenant. " ■• Is he in the 
 army, then?" said my uncle Toby. "He is," said the cor- 
 poral. "And in what regiment? " said my uncle Toby. '-I'll 
 tell your honoui-," rephed the coi-poral, ••everything straight- so 
 forwards, as I learnt it. " " Then, Trim, I will fill another pipe . " ' 
 said my uncle Toby, • • and not interrupt thee, till thou hast done : 
 so sit down at thy ease. Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy 
 story again." The corporal made his old bow. which generally 
 spoke as plain as a bow could speak it. Tour honour is good ; ss 
 and having done that, he sat down as he was ordered, and began 
 the story to my uncle Toby over again, in pretty near the same 
 words. "'I despaired at first," said the corporal, "of being 
 able to bring back any intelligence to your honour about the lieu- 
 tenant and his son : for when I asked where his servant was, 90 
 from whom I made myself sure of knowing everything which 
 was proper to be asked " — •■ That's a right distinction. Trim," 
 said my uncle Toby, — "I was answered, an' please yoiu" hon- 
 our, that he had no servant with him ; that he had come to the 
 inn with hired horses, which, finding himself unable to proceed 95 
 (to join, I suppose, the regiment), he had dismissed the morn- 
 ing after he came. 'If I get better, my dear,' said he. as he 
 gave his purse to his son, to pay the man, ' we can hire horses 
 from hence.' 'But, alas! the poor gentleman wiU never go 
 from hence,' said the landlady to me, * for I heard the death- 100 
 watch all night long : and, when he dies, the j'outh, his son, will 
 certainly die with him ; for he is broken-hearted already.' " 
 
 12 
 
178 LAURENCE STBEXE. 
 
 "I was hearing this account," continued the coiporal, when 
 the 3'outh came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the land- 
 
 103 lord spoke of. 'But I will do it for my father myself,' said 
 the youth. 'Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentle- 
 man,' said I, taldns up a fork for the purpose, and offering 
 him my chair to sit down ujpou by the fire, whilst I did it. ' I 
 believe, sir,' said he, very modestly, ' I can please him best my- 
 
 :io self.' ' I am sm-e,' said I, ' his honour will not like the toast the 
 worse for being toasted by an old soldier.' The youth took hold 
 of my hand, and instantly burst into tears." " Poor youth! " 
 said my uncle Toby, ' ' he has been bred up from an infant in the 
 army, and the name of a soldier. Trim, sounded in his ears like 
 
 lis the name of a friend ; I wish I had him here." 
 
 "I never, in the longest march," said the corporal, "had 
 so great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for 
 company : what could be the matter with me, an' please your 
 honour? " " Nothing in the world. Trim," said my uncle Toby, 
 
 120 blowing his nose, "but that thou art a good-natured fellow." 
 "When I gave him the toast," continued the corporal, "I 
 thought it was proper to teU him I was Captain Shandy's ser- 
 vant, and that your honour (though a stranger) was extremely 
 concerned for Ms father ; and that if there was anything in youf 
 
 125 house or cellar," — (" and thou mightst have added my purse^ 
 too," said my uncle Toby,) — "he was heartily welcome to it. 
 He made a very low bow (which was meant to your honour), but 
 no answer, for his heart was full ; so he went up stairs with the 
 toast. I warrant you, my dear," said I, as I opened the kitchen 
 
 130 door, " your father will be well again. Mr. Yorick's curate was 
 smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not a word, good nor 
 bad, to comfort the youth. I thought it wrong," added the cor- 
 poral. " I think so, too," said my uncle Toby. 
 
 " When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he 
 
 135 felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen, to let 
 me know that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I would 
 step up stairs. ' I believe,' said the landlord, ' he is going to say 
 his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bed- 
 side, and, as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a cushion.' 
 
 140 ' I thought,' said the curate, ' that you gentlemen of the army, Mf. 
 
LAVBEXCE STERN—. 179^ 
 
 Trim, never said your praj-ers at all.' 'I heard the poor gentle- 
 man say his prayers last night,' said the landlady, ' very devoutly, 
 and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it.' 'Are 
 you siu-e of it ? ' replied the curate. ' A soldier, an' please your 
 reverence, ' said I, ' prays as often, of his own accord, as a parson ; 145 
 and when he is fighting for his Mng, and for his own Ufe, and for 
 his honour, too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one 
 in the whole world. ' " " ' Twas well said of thee , Trim, ' ' said my 
 uncle Toby. '• 'But when a soldier,' said I, 'an' please your 
 reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the 150 
 trenches, up to his knees in cold water, or engaged,' said I, 
 ' for months together in long and dangerous marches ; harassed, 
 perhaps, in his rear to-day, harassing others to-morrow ; detached 
 here, countermanded there ; resting this night out upon his arms, 
 heat up in Ms shirt the next; benumbed in his joints ; perhaps 155 
 without straw in his tent to kneel on ; he must say his prayers 
 how and when he can. I beheve,' said I (for I was piqued," 
 quoth the corporal, "for the reputation of the army), 'I 
 believe, an' please your reverence,' said I, 'that when a soldier 
 gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a parson, though not 160 
 with all his fuss and hypocrisy. ' " " Thou shouldst not have said 
 that, Trim," said my uncle Toby, "for God only knows who is 
 a hypocrite and who is not. At the great and general review of 
 us all, corporal, at the day of judgment (and not till then), it 
 will be seen who have done their duties in this world, and who i65 
 have not; and we shaU be advanced. Trim, accordingly." "I 
 hope we shall," said Trim. ■• It is in the Scripture," said my 
 uncle Toby, " and I wUl show it thee to-morrow. In the mean- 
 tkiie we may depend upon it. Trim, for our comfort," said my 
 uncle Toby, " that God Almighty is so good and just a governor 170 
 of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it, it wiU 
 never be inquired into, whether we have done, them in a red coat 
 or a black one." " I hope not," said the corporal. "But go 
 on, Tiim," said my uncle Toby, " with the story." 
 
 "When I went up," continued the corporal, "into the lieu- 175 
 tenant's room, which I did not do tOl the expiration of the ten 
 minutes, he was lying in his bed, with his head raised upon his 
 hand, with his elbow upon the pUlow, and a clean white cambric 
 
180 LAUREXCE STERXE. 
 
 handkerchief beside it. The youth was just stooping down, to 
 
 180 take up the cushion, upon which, I supposed, he had been kneel- 
 ing ; the book was laid upon the bed ; and as he rose, in talcing 
 up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take it 
 away at the same time. ' Let it remain there, mj' dear, said the 
 lieutenant. ' 
 
 185 " He did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close 
 to his bed-side. ' If you are Captain Shandy's sen-ant,' said he, 
 ' you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boj-'s 
 thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me. ' ' If he was of 
 Levens's,' said the heutenant — I told him your honour was — 
 
 190 ' Then,' said he, ' I served three campaigns ^yith him in Flanders, 
 and remember him, but 'tis, most Ukely (as I had not the honour 
 of any acquaintance with him) that he knows nothing of me. You 
 will tell him, however, that the person his, good nature has laid 
 under obUgations to him, is one Le Fevre, a heutenant in An- 
 
 195 gus's ; but he knows me not,' said he, a second time, musing ; — 
 ' possibly he may my story,' added he. ' Praj^ tell the captain, 
 I was the ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortunately 
 killed with a musket shot, as she lay in my arms in my tent. ' ' I 
 remember the story, an't please your honour,' said I, ' very weU.' 
 
 200 ' Do j'ou so ? ' said he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, 
 ' then well may I. ' In saying this, he drew a little ring out of 
 his bosom, which seemed tied with a black riband about his neck, 
 and kissed it twice. ' Here, BUly,' said he. The boy flew across 
 the room to the bed-side, and, faUing down upon his knee, took 
 
 205 the ring in his hand, and kissed it too, then kissed his father, 
 and sat down upon the bed and wept. ' ' ' 
 
 "I wish," said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, "I wish. 
 Trim, I was asleep." 
 
 " Your honour," replied the corporal, "is too much concerned. 
 
 210 Shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe?" 
 " Do, Triml," said my uncle Toby. 
 
 " I remember," said my uncle Toby, sighing again, " the story 
 of the ensign and his wife, — and particularly well, that he, as 
 well as she, upon some account or other (I forget what), was 
 
 215 universally pitied by the whole regiment ; but, — finish the story 
 thou art upon." " 'Tis finished already," said the corporal, — 
 
LAURENCE STERXE. 181 
 
 "for I could stay no longer, — so, -wished Ms honour a good 
 night: Young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to 
 the bottom of the stairs : and, as we went down together, told me, 
 they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join their 220 
 regiment in Flanders. " " But alas ! ' ' said the coi-poral, — ' ' the 
 lieutenant's last day's march is over. " " Then what is to become 
 of his poor boy ? ' ' cried mj- uncle Toby. 
 
 It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honoiu-, that he set aside 
 every other concern, and only considered how he himself should 225 
 relieve the poor lieutenant and his son. 
 
 That liind Being, who is a friend to the friendless, shall recom- 
 pense thee for this. 
 
 ■ ■ Thou hast left this matter short, ' ' said my uncle Toby to the 
 corporal, as he was putting him to bed, — ' ' and I will tell thee 230 
 in what. Trim. In the fli'st place, when thou madest an offer of 
 my services to Le Fevre, — as sickness and travelling are both 
 expensive, and thou knowest he was but a poor lieutenant, with 
 a son to subsist as weU as himseK out of his pay, — that thou 
 didst not make an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he 235 
 stood in need, thou knowest. Trim, he had been as welcome to it 
 as myself." " Your honour knows," said the corporal, " I had 
 no orders." "True," quoth my uncle Toby, — "thou didst 
 very right, Trim, as a soldier, — but certainly very wrong as a 
 man." 240 
 
 "In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same 
 excuse," continued my uncle Toby, — " when thou offeredst him 
 whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my 
 house too : — A sick brother officer should have the best quar- 
 ters. Trim ; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look 245 
 to Mm. Thou art an excellent nurse, thysett. Trim ; and what 
 with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and Ms boy's and 
 mine together, we might recruit Mm again at once, and set him 
 upon Ms legs." 
 
 "In a fortnight or three weeks," added my uncle Toby, 250 
 smiling , ' ' he might march. " "He will never march, an't please 
 yovu- honour, in tMs world," said the corj^oral. "He will 
 inarch," said my uncle Toby, rising up fi-om the side of the bed, 
 with one shoe off: "An't please your honour," said the cor- 
 
182 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 255 poral, "he will never march but ,to his grave:" "He shall 
 march," cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a 
 shoe on, though without advancing an inch — "he shall march 
 to his regiment." "He cannot stand it," said the corporal. 
 "He shall be supported," said my uncle Toby: "He'll di-op 
 
 260 at last," said the corporal, " and what will become of his boy? " 
 "He shall not drop," said my uncle Toby, firmly. "A-well- 
 a'day, do what we can for him," said Trim, maintaining his 
 point ; "the poor soul will die." " He shall not die, by G — ," 
 cried my uncle Toby. 
 
 265 The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with 
 the oath, blushed as he gave it in, and the Recording Angel, as 
 he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it 
 out forever. 
 
 My uncle Toby went to his bureau, put his purse into his 
 
 270 breeches pocket, and, having ordered the corporal to go early in 
 the morning for a physician, he went to bed, and feU asleep. 
 
 The sun looked bright, the morning after, to every eye in the 
 village but Le Fe^Tc's and his afflicted son's ; the hand of death 
 pressed heavy on his eye-Hds ; and, hardly could the wheel at the 
 
 275 cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had 
 rose up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieuten- 
 ant's room, and, without preface or apology, sat himself down 
 upon the chair by the bed-side, and, independently of aU modes 
 and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend 
 
 280 and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he 
 did, — how he had rested in the night, — what was his com- 
 plaint, — where was his pain, — and what he could do to help him? 
 And, without giving him time to answer any one of the inquiries, 
 went on and told him of the httle plan which he had been con- 
 
 285 certing with the corporal the night before for him. 
 
 "You shall go home directly, Le Fevre," said my uncle Toby, 
 "to my house, and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the 
 matter, and we'U have an apothecary, and the corporal shall 
 be your nurse ; and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre." 
 
 290 There was a frankness in my uncle Toby, not the effect of 
 familiarity, but the cause of it, which let you at once into his 
 soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature : to this there 
 
LAUEESCE STERXE. 183 
 
 ■was something in his looks and voice, and manner, superadded, 
 which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and to take 
 shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half 295 
 finished the kind offers he waa making to the father, had the son 
 insensiblj' pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of 
 the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The 
 blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold, and were 
 retreating to their last citadel, the heart, raUied back ; the film 300 
 forsook his eyes for a moment ; he looked up wishfully in my 
 uncle Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy, — and that 
 ligament, fine as it was, was never broken. 
 
 Nature instantly ebbed again, — the film returned to its place — 
 the pulse fluttered — stopped — went on — -throbbed — stopped 305 
 again — moved — stopped — shall I go on ? No. 
 
 All that is necessary to be added is as follows : — 
 
 That my uncle Toby, with young Le Fe^-re in his hand, 
 attended the poor heutenant, as chief mourners, to his grave. 
 I When my uncle Toby had turned everything into money, and 310 
 settled all accounts betwixt the agent of the regiment and Le 
 Fevre, and betwixt Le Fevre and all mankind, there remained 
 Tiothing more in my uncle Toby's hands than an old regimental 
 coat, and a sword ; so that my uncle Toby found little opposition 
 irom the world, in taking administration. The coat, my uncle 315 
 Toby gave the corporal. "Wear it, Trim," said my uncle 
 Toby, ^' as long as it will hold together, for the sake of the poor 
 lieutenant. And this," said my uncle Toby, taking up the 
 sword in his hand, and drawing it out of the scabbard as he 
 spoke — "and this, Le Fevre, I'U. save for thee — 'tis all the 320 
 fortune, my dear Le Fevre, which God has left thee ; but if He 
 has given thee a heart to fight thy way with it in the world, — 
 and thou doest it like a man of honour, — 'tis enough for us." 
 
 As soon as my uncle Toby had laid a foundation, he sent 
 him to a public school, where, except Whitsuntide and Christ- 325 
 mas, — at which time the corporal was punctually despatched 
 for him, — he remained to the spring of the year seventeen ; 
 when, the stories of the Emperor's sending his army into Hun- 
 gary, against the Turks, kindled a spark of fire in his bosom, he 
 left his Greek and Latin -nithout leave, and throwing himself 330 
 
184 LAURENCE STEEXE. 
 
 upon his knees before my uncle Toby, begged his father's sword, 
 and my uncle Toby's leave along -nith it, to go and try his for- 
 tune under Eugene. Twice did my uncle Toby forget his wound, 
 and cry out, "Le Fevre! I will go with thee, and thou shalt 
 
 333 fight beside me." And twice he laid his hand uijon his groin, 
 and hung down his head in sorrow and disconsolation. 
 
 My uncle Toby took down the sword from the crook, where 
 it had hung untouched ever since the Ueutenant's death, and 
 delivered it to the corporal to brighten up ; and having detained 
 
 340 Le Fevre a single fortnight to equip him, and contract for his 
 passage to Leghorn, he put the sword into his hand. " If thou 
 art brave, Le Fevre," said my uncle Toby, "this will not fail 
 thee; — -but Fortune," said he, musing a little — "Fortune 
 may : ^ and if she does, ' ' added my uncle Toby, embracing him, 
 
 345 " come back again to me, Le Fevre, and we shall shape thee 
 another course." 
 
 The greatest injury could not have oppressed the heart of 
 Le Fevre more than my uncle Toby's paternal kindness. He 
 parted from mj^ uncle Toby as the best of sons from the best of 
 
 350 fathers — both dropped tears — and as my uncle Toby gave him 
 his last kiss, he slipped sixty guineas, tied up in an old purse of 
 his father's, in which was his mother's ring, into his hand, and 
 bid God bless Mm. 
 
 Le Fevre got up to the imperial army just time enough to try 
 
 355 what metal his sword was made of, at the defeat of the Turks 
 before Belgrade ; but a series of unmerited mischances had pur- 
 sued him from that moment, and trod close upon his heels for 
 four years together after : he had withstood these buffetings to 
 the last, till sickness overtook him at Marseilles, from whence 
 
 360 he wrote to my uncle Toby word, he had lost his time; his 
 services, his health, and, in short, everything but his sword ; — 
 and was waiting for the first ship, to return back to him. 
 
 Le Fevre was hourly expected, and was uppermost in my uncle 
 Toby's mind all the time my father was giving him and Yorick 
 
 365 a description of what kind of a person he would choose for a 
 preceptor to me ; but as my uncle Toby thought my father at 
 first somewhat fanciful in the accomplishments he required, he 
 forbore mentioning Le Fevre' s name, — till the character, by 
 
LAUKENCE STEKSE. 185 
 
 Yorick's interposition, ending unexpectedly in one "who should 
 be gentle-tempered, and generous, and good, it impressed the sto 
 image of Le Fevre, and his interest upon my uncle Toby so 
 forcibly, he rose instantly off his chair ; and, laying down his 
 pipe, in order to take hold of both my father's hands — "I beg, 
 brother Shandy," said my uncle Toby, " I may recommend poor 
 Le Fevre's son to you." " I beseech you, do," added Yorick. 375 
 "He has a good heart," said my uncle Toby. "And a brave 
 one, too, an't please your honour," said the corporal. "The 
 best hearts. Trim, are ever the bravest," replied my uncle Toby. 
 "And the greatest cowards, an' please j-our honour, in our 
 regiment, were the greatest rascals in it : — there was Serjeant 380 
 Kumbler and Ensign — " " We'll talk of them," said my father, 
 " another time." 
 
186 TH03IAS GRAY. 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IX A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 
 
 The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 • And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 T^Tiere heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 
 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, • 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 
 The swaUow twittering from the straw-built shed. 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 Xo more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 
 No chikken run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or cUmb his knees the emaed kiss to share. 
 
THOMAS GRAY. 187 
 
 Oft did the harvest to thek sickle yield, 25 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocund did thej- drive their team afield ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy sti'oke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 And all that beauty, aU that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike th' inevitable hoxu-. 33 
 
 The paths of glorj- lead but to the grave. 
 
 !Xor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
 If Jlemory o'er their tomb no trophies raise ; 
 
 Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault. 
 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 4u 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust? 
 
 Or Flattery soothe the duU cold ear of Death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fli-e ; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
 Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre : 
 
 But BJiowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 
 Eich with the spoils of time, did ne'er um-oU ; 50 
 
 Chill Penury repress 'd their noble rage. 
 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 FuU many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark unfathom'd eaves of ocean bear ; 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 
 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
188 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 
 The little tyrant of Ms fields withstood, 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 
 30 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 Th' applause of Ustening senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 35 Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 
 
 Their growing wtues, but their crimes confln'd ; 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 
 
 The strugghng pangs of conscious truth to hide 
 7c To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 "With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learn' d to stray ; 
 75 Along the cool sequester' d vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 
 
 Some frail memorial stUl erected nigh, 
 "With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
 80 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 
 And many a holy text around she strews. 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 85 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign' d, 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing ling' ring look behind? 
 
THOMAS GRAY. 189 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 90 
 
 Even from the tomb the voice of Xature cries, 
 
 Even in our ashes live their wonted &-es. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate. 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 9; 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 
 
 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, los 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
 
 Xow drooping, woeful-wan, Uke one forlorn. 
 Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 
 
 One morn I miss'd him on the custom' d hUl, 
 
 Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; 110 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the riU, 
 
 Xor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 
 
 The next, with dirges due in sad an-ay. 
 
 Slow through the church- way path we saw him borne. 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115 
 
 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
 A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 
 
190 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Fair Science frown' d not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere. 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
 
 He gave to Misery all he had, a tear ; 
 
 He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they ahke in trembling hope reiDose) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 ' I. 1. 
 
 "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 
 
 Confusion on thy banners wait ; 
 Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing. 
 
 They mock the air with idle state, 
 s Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
 
 Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 
 
 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
 
 From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears. "^ 
 Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride, 
 10 Of the iirst Edward scatter' d wild dismay. 
 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
 
 He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
 Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : pance, 
 "To arms! " cried Mortimer, and couch' d his quivering 
 
 On a rock, whose haughty brow 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 
 Robed in the sable garb of woe. 
 With haggard eyes the poet stood ; 
 
THOJIAS (>RAT. 19] 
 
 (Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
 
 Stream' d like a meteor, to the troubled air) 20 
 
 And -with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, 
 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
 
 '•Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 
 
 Sighs to the ton-ent's awful Toice beneath! 
 
 O'er thee, O King ! their hundred a:-ms they wave, 2.3 
 
 Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 
 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
 To high-born Hoel's harj), or soft Llewellyn's lay. 
 
 I. 3. 
 
 " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
 
 That hush'd the stormy main ; so 
 
 Brave XJrien sleeps upon his craggy bed ; 
 
 Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 
 Modred, whose magic song 
 Made huge Plinhmmon bow his cloud-topt head. 
 
 On dreary Arvon's shores they lie, 35 
 
 Smear' d with gore, and ghastly pale : 
 Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 
 
 The famish' d eagle screams, and passes by. 
 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 
 
 Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40 
 
 Dear as the ruddy drops that wai-m my heart, 
 
 Te died amidst your dying country's cries — 
 Xo more I weep. They do not sleep. 
 
 On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
 I see them sit, they linger yet, « 
 
 Avengers of their native land : 
 With me in dreadful harmony they join. 
 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy hue. 
 
 n. 1. 
 
 " Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
 The winding-sheet of Edward's race. " 50 
 
 Give ample room and verge enough 
 The characters <Jf hell to trace. 
 
192 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Mark the year, and mark the night, 
 
 "\Mien Severn shall re-echo with affright 
 
 The shrieks of death, thro' Berkeley's roofs that ring. 
 
 Shrieks of an agonizing King ! 
 
 She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 
 That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 
 
 From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
 The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait ! 
 Amazement in Ms van, with Flight combin'd, 
 And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 
 
 ' ' Mighty victor, mighty lord ! 
 Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
 65 No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
 
 A tear to grace his obsequies. 
 
 Is the sable warrior fled ? 
 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
 The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born ? 
 70 Gone to salute the rising morn. 
 
 Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows. 
 
 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
 In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 
 
 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
 75 Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. 
 
 That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his ev'ning prey. 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 ' ' Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
 The rich repast prepare ; 
 
 Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
 80 . Close by the regal chair 
 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
 Heard ye the din of battle bray, 
 Lance tO lance, and horse to horse ? 
 85 Long years of havoc urge their destined course. 
 
 And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. 
 
THOJULS GRAY. 193 
 
 Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
 "With many a foul and midnight murther fed, 
 
 Eevere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
 And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 90 
 
 Above, below, the rose of snow, 
 
 Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread : 
 The bristled boar in infant gore 
 
 "Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
 Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 95 
 
 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 "Edward, lo! to sudden fate 
 ("Weave we the woof. The thread is spun. ) 
 
 Half of thy heart we consecrate, 
 (The web is wove. The work is done. ) 100 
 
 Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
 Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: 
 In yon bright track, that fires the eastern skies, 
 They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
 But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height los 
 
 Descending slow their glittering skirts unroU ? 
 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 
 
 Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
 No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
 AU hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! no 
 
 III. 2. 
 
 " Girt with many a baron bold 
 Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 
 
 And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
 In bearded majesty appear. 
 
 In the midst a form divine ! lis 
 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton hne ; 
 Her lion-port, her awe- commanding face, 
 Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
 "What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 
 
 "What strains of vocal transport round her play. 120 
 
 13 
 
194 THOMAS 'gray. 
 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 
 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 Bright Eapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 
 Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour' d wings. 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 125 " The verse adorn again 
 
 Fierce Wax, and faithful Love, 
 And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. 
 
 In buskin' d measures move 
 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
 130 With Horror, tj-rant of the throbbing breast. 
 
 A voice, as of the cherub-choii'. 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
 And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
 That lost in long futurity expire. 
 135 Fond, imx)ious man, 'think' st thou yon sanguine cloud, 
 
 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench' d the orb of day? 
 To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
 
 And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
 Enough for me ; with joy I see 
 140 The different doom our fates assign. 
 
 Be thine despair, and sceptred care ; 
 
 To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
 He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 195 
 
 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest ^-illage of the plain, 
 
 Where health and plenty cheer' d the labouring swain, 
 
 "Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delay' d ; 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 
 How often have I loiter' d o'er thy green. 
 
 Where humble happiness endear' d each scene. 
 
 How often have I paus'd on every charm. 
 
 The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, 10 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy miU, 
 
 The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade. 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! . 
 
 How often have I blest the coming day 15 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
 
 And all the village train from labour free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
 
 The young contending as the old survey' d, 20 
 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ! 
 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd ; 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25 
 
 By holding out to tire each other down. 
 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face 
 
196 OLIVEK GOLDSMITH. 
 
 While secret laughter titter' d round the place, 
 The bashful -s-irgin's sidelong looks of love, 
 
 so The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
 With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 
 
 35 Sweet smiUng village, loveUest of the lawn, 
 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 
 40 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But chok'd with sedges works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a sohtary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 
 45 Amidst thy desert walks the lajjwing flies. 
 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembUng, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 
 50 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates and men decay ; 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made — 
 
 65 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 
 When once destroy' d, can never be suppUed. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain' d its man : 
 For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
 
 60 Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more ; 
 
 His best companions, innocence and health. 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter' d ; trade's unfeeUng train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
 
 65 Along the lawn where scatter' d hamlets rose, 
 
OLIVEK GOLDSinTH. 19T 
 
 Umyieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
 
 And every want to opulence allied, 
 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 
 Those cahn desires that ask'd but httle room, 70 
 
 Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, 
 
 Liv'd in each look and brighten' d all the green — 
 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 75 
 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tjTaut's power. 
 Here, as I take my sohtaiy rounds 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds. 
 And, many a j-ear elaps'd, return to "siew 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, so 
 
 Eemembranee wakes with all her busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 85 
 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close. 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose. 
 I stiU had hopes, for pride attends us stiU, 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn' d sMll, 90 
 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And teU of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95 
 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
 How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 100 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
 
198 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 
 105 No surly porter stands, in guilty state. 
 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on he moves, to meet his latter end. 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend. 
 Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
 
 110 While resignation gently slopes the way. 
 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
 
 115 There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow. 
 
 The mingling notes came soften' d from below : 
 The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young. 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 
 120 The playful children just let loose from school, 
 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind. 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — 
 These aU in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And flll'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 
 125 But now the sounds of population fail. 
 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 For all the bloomy flush of life is fled — 
 All but j'on widow' d, solitary thing, 
 
 130 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 
 She, wretched matron — forc'd in age, for bread. 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep tiU morn — 
 
 135 She only left of aU the harmless train, 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows wild. 
 There where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 
 140 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 199 
 
 And passing rich vrith forty pounds a year. 
 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 
 Nor e'er had chang'd, nor -wish'd to change his place ; 
 
 Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power 145 
 
 By doctrines fashion' d to the varying hour ; 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learn' d to prize, 
 
 More skUl'd to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 
 He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain ; 150 
 
 The long-remember' d beggar was his guest, 
 
 "Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
 
 Claim' d kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 
 
 Sat by his flre, and talk'd the night away, 
 
 "Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done. 
 
 Shoulder' d his crutch and show'd how fields were won. 
 
 Pleas' d with his guests, the good man learn' d to glow, 
 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; leJh 
 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, les 
 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all! 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the sMes, 
 He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismaj-'d. 
 The reverend champion stood : at his conti-ol 
 Despair and anguish fled the strugghng soul ; 
 Comfort came down the ti-embling wretch to raise, 1-5 
 
 And his last faltering accents whisper' d praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn' d the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his Ups prevail' d with double sway. 
 
200 OLIVER GOLDSIIITH. 
 
 180 And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. 
 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children follow' d, with endearing wile. 
 And pluck' d his gown, to share the good man's smile ! 
 
 185 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest. 
 
 Their welfare pleas 'd him, and their cares distrest. 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given ; 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 
 190 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 
 Though round its breast the rolhng clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossom' d furze unprofitably gay, 
 
 195 There, in his noisy mansion, sldll'd to rule, 
 
 The village master taught his httle school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn' d to trace 
 
 200 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 
 Full well they laugh' d with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
 Convey' d the dismal tidings when he frown' d. 
 
 205 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declar'd how much he knew : 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too. 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 
 210 And even the story ran that he could gauge. 
 
 In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, 
 For even though vanquish'd he could ar^e still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around ; 
 
 215 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 
 That one small head cotild carry all he knew. 
 But past is all his fame : the very spot. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSjnXH. 201 
 
 Where manj- a time he triumph' d, is forgot. 
 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 
 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
 
 Where gray-beai-d mirth and s mili ng toil retir'd. 
 
 Where village statesman talk'd with looks profound 
 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 
 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
 
 The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
 
 The varnish'd clock that click' d behind the door. 
 
 The chest contriv'd a double debt to j^ay, 
 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230 
 
 The pictures plac'd for ornament and use. 
 
 The twelve good rules, the roj'al game of goose ; 
 
 The hearth, except when winter chill' d the day. 
 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, 
 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 235 
 
 Eang'd o'er the chimney, ghsten'd in a row. 
 
 Vain, transitory splendours ! could not aU 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 240 
 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
 To sweet obhvion of his daily care ; 
 No more "the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245 
 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and learn to hear • 
 The host himself no longer shaU be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bhss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half wilUng to be prest. 
 Shall kiss- the cup to pass it to the rest. 25a 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 255 
 
202 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
 Lightly they frohc o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfln'd. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 
 260 '.nth all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 
 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. 
 
 265 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and an hajDpy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 
 270 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 
 Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around ; 
 Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 
 27.1 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
 The robe that wraps his Umbs in silken sloth 
 
 2SII Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 
 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around the world each needful product flies. 
 For all the luxuries the world sui^plies. 
 
 2s.-, While thus the land adorn' d for pleasure, all 
 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain. 
 Secure to please while youth coniirms her reign, 
 ■Shghts every borrow' d charm that dress suiDplies, 
 
 2 ) i Xor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
 Wlien time advances, and when lovers fail. 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 203 
 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray' d ; 295 
 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array' d, 
 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 
 "While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land. 
 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble baud ; 300 
 
 And -while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
 
 The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
 To scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray' d 305 
 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — what waits Hm there ? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 310 
 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 To see those joys the sons of pleasure know, 
 Extorted from his feUow-creatures' woe. 
 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, sis 
 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn j)omps display, 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where pleasui'e holds her midnight reign. 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 320 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
 The rattUng chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes Uke these no ti'oubles e'er annojM 
 Sm-e these denote one universal joy ! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn thine eyes 32s 
 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 330 
 
 Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled — 
 
204 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
 
 And, pinch' d with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 
 
 "With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
 
 335 When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
 
 She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 
 340 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 
 
 Ah no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 
 345 Far different there from aU that charm' d before. 
 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
 
 330 But sUent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 
 Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown' d, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 the rattling terrours of the vengeful snake ; 
 
 355 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 
 And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
 WMle oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
 Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
 Far different these from every former scene ; 
 
 360 The coohng brook, the grassy-vested green, 
 
 The breezy covert of the warbUng grove, 
 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven! what sorrow gloom' d that parting day 
 That caU'd them from their native walks away ; 
 
 365 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 And shuddering stiU to face the distant deep. 
 
OLIVEK GOLDSMITH. 205 
 
 Eeturn'd and wept, and still returned to Treep. 
 
 The good old sire the first prepar'd to go 
 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for othei-s' woe ; 
 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
 
 The fond companion of his helpless yeai-s. 
 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 
 And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 
 And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 
 And Mss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 
 And clasp' d them close, in sorrow doubly dear : 
 
 While her fond husband strove to lend reUef 
 
 In all the silent manliness of giiet 
 
 O Luxury! thou curst by. Heaven's decree, 
 How iU exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 Even now the devastation is begun. 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural Virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
 That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale, 
 Downward they move, a melancboly band. 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented Toil and hospitable Cai-e, 
 And kind connubial Tenderness are there ; 
 And Piety with wishes plac'd above. 
 And steady Loyalty and faithful Love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveUest maid, 
 
206 OLIVEK GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, 
 
 iio To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ! 
 
 Dear, charming njnnph, neglected and decried. 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
 That found' st me poor at first, and keep'st me so, 
 
 41S Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 
 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell! and O, where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Tomo's chffs or Pambamarca's side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 
 420 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
 
 Still let thy voice, prevaiUng over time, 
 Eedress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain.; 
 
 425 Teach him, that states of native strength possest. 
 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
 As ocean sweeps the labor' d mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 
 43U As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 THE VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. 
 (Chap. III.) 
 
 The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our 
 misfortunes might be malicious or premature ; but a letter from 
 my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every paitic- 
 ular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been 
 5 trifling : the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were 
 to be humbled, without an education to render them callous to 
 contempt. 
 
 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain 
 their affiction; for premature consolation is but the remem- 
 
IJLIVER liilLDSlIITH. 207 
 
 brance of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts -were lo 
 employed on some future means of supporting them ; and at last • 
 a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant 
 neighbourhood, where I could stiU enjoy my principles without 
 molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, haTing deter- 
 mined to increase my salary by managing a little farm. 15 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together 
 the wrecks of my fortune : and, aU debts collected and paid, out 
 of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. 
 My chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down the pride 
 of my family to their circumstances ; for I weU knew that aspir- 20 
 ing beggary is wretchedness itself. " Tou cannot be ignorant, 
 my children," cried I, "that no prudence of ours could have 
 prevented our late misfortune ; but prudence may do much in 
 disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and 
 wisdom bids us to conform to our humble situation. Let us 25 
 then, without repining, give up those splendours with which 
 numbers are wretched, and seek, in humble circumstances, that 
 peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly 
 without our help ; why then should we not learn to live without 
 theirs ? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all 30 
 pretensions to gentility ; we have stiU enough left for happiness, 
 if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies 
 of fortune." 
 
 As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him 
 to town, where his abOities might contribute to our support and 33 
 his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one 
 of the most distressful circtmistances attendant on penury. The 
 day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first time. 
 My son, after taJdng leave of his mother and the rest, who 
 mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from 40 
 me. This I gave from my heart, and which, added to five 
 guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. ' ' Tou ai"e 
 going, my boy," cried I, "to London on foot, in the manner 
 Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take 
 from me the samie horse that was given him by the good Bishop 45 
 Jewel, this staff ; and take this book, too, it wiU be your comfort 
 on the way: these two lines in it are worth a nullion, — / have 
 
208 OLIVER GOLDSJIITK. 
 
 been young and noiu am old; yet never suiv I the righteous man 
 • forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread. Let this be j'our 
 
 50 consolation as you travel on. Go, my boj- ; whatever be thy 
 fortune, let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, and 
 farewell. ' ' 
 
 As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no 
 apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of 
 
 65 life ; for I knew he would act a good part, whether vanquished 
 or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the waj' for our own, which 
 arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in 
 which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity was not 
 
 60 without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress. 
 Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto 
 never been above ten, miles from home, filled us with apprehen- 
 sion ; and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, 
 contributed to increase it. The first day's journey brought us 
 
 65 within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the 
 night at an obscure inn, in a callage by the way. Wben we were 
 shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us 
 have his company, with which he complied, as "^hat he drank 
 would increase the biU the nest morning. He knew, however, 
 
 70 the whole neighbourhood, to which I was removing, particularly 
 Squire ThornhiU, who was to be my landlord, and who lived 
 within a few miles of the place. » * * 'While our thoughts 
 were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform her 
 husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in 
 
 75 the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his 
 reckoning. "Want money! " replied the host, "that must be 
 impossible; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three 
 guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to 
 be whipped through the town for dog-stealing." The hostess, 
 
 80 however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing 
 to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way 
 or another, when I begged'the landlord would introduce me to a 
 stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he com- 
 pUed, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, 
 
 85 dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person was well 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 209 
 
 formed, and Ms face marked with the lines of thinking. He had 
 something short and dry in his address, and seemed not to under- 
 stand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving 
 the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to the 
 stranger, at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and 90 
 offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. "I take 
 it with all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am glad that a late 
 oversight, in giving what money I had about me, has shown me 
 that there are stiU some men Uke you. I must, however, previ- 
 ously entreat being informed- of the name, and residence of my 95 
 benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as possible." In this 
 I satisfied him f uUy, not only mentioning my name, and late mis- 
 fortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. ' ' This, ' ' 
 cried he, "happens stiU more luckily than I had hoped for, 
 as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here 100 
 two days by the floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow wiU be 
 found passable." I testified the pleasure I should have in his 
 company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was 
 prevailed upon to stay to supper. The stranger's conversation, 
 which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish 105 
 for a continuance of it ; but it was now high time to retire, and 
 take refreshment against the fatigues of ^he following day. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together : my family on 
 horseback, while Mr. BurcheU, our new companion, walked along 
 the foot-path by the roadside, observing with a smile, that as we 110 
 were ill-mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving 
 us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obUged * 
 to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I briiig- 
 ing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with 
 philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. 115 
 But what surprised me most was, that though he was a money- 
 borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if 
 he had been my patron. He now and then also, informed me to 
 whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we 
 travelled the road. "That," cried he, pointing to a very mag- 120 
 nificent house which stood at some distance, "belongs to Mr. 
 Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though 
 entirely dependent on the will of his uncle. Sir WiUiam Thornhill, 
 
 H 
 
210 OLIVEU GOLDSMITH. 
 
 a gentleman who, content vrith a little himself, permits his nephew 
 
 125 to eujoj'the rest, and chiefly resides in town." " What! " cried 
 I, "is my young landlord, then, the nephew of a man whose 
 virtues, generositj-, and singularities, are so universally known ? 
 I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the 
 most generous, yet whimsical, men in the kingdom ; a man of 
 
 130 consummate benevolence." "Something, perhaps, too much 
 so," replied Mr. Burchell ; "at least, be carried benevolence to 
 an excess when young ; for his passions were then strong, and as 
 they all were upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic 
 extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the 
 
 135 soldier and the scholar ; was soon distinguished in the army, and 
 had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever 
 foUows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from 
 flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only 
 one side of their character ; so that he began to lose a regard for 
 
 140 private interest in uniA-ersal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; 
 for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. 
 Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so 
 exquisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain ; what 
 some have thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in. 
 
 ii5 his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, 
 touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly 
 sensibOity of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it 
 will be easily conjectured he found numbers disposed to solicit: 
 his profusion began to impair his fortune, but not his good- 
 
 150 nature ; that, indeed, was seen to increase as the other seemed 
 to decay ; he grew improvident as he gi-ew poor ; and though he 
 talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. 
 StiU, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer 
 able to satisfy every request that was made of him, instead of 
 
 155 money he gave promises. They were aU he had to bestow, and 
 he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. 
 By this he drew round him crowds of dependents, whoin he was 
 'sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him 
 for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. 
 
 160 But in proportion as he became Contemptible to oth^g, he became 
 dBs^icable to himself. His mind had leaned upon theif adilla:- 
 
OLn-ER GOLDSMITH. 211 
 
 tion, and that support taken awa}-, he could find no pleasure in 
 the applause of his heart, which he had never learned to rever- 
 ence. The Tvorld now began to -wear a different aspect ; the 
 flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation. 165 
 Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice ; and 
 advice, when rejected, produced their reproaches. He now, 
 therefore, found that such friends as benefits had gathered round 
 him were little estimable ; he now found that a man's own heart 
 must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found, that — 170 
 that — I forgot what I was going to observe ; in short, Sir, he 
 resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his 
 fallen fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, 
 he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has 
 scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more 175 
 affluent than ever. At present his bounties are more rational 
 and moderate than before ; but he stiU preserves the character 
 of a humorist, and finds most pleasm-e in eccentric virtues." 
 
 M3' attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's account, 
 that I scai'cely looked forward as he went along, till we were iso 
 alarmed by the cries of my f anuly, when turning, I perceived my 
 youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her 
 horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had sunk twice, nor 
 was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring her 
 relief. My sensations were even too "s-iolent to permit my las 
 attempting her rescue ; she must have certainlj' perished had not 
 my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to 
 her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the 
 opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the 
 rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity i9a 
 of joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be 
 more readily imagined than described ; she thanked her deliverer 
 more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, 
 as if still willing to receive assistance. 
 
212 EDWARD GIBBON. 
 
 EDWAED GIBBON. 
 
 LIFE AT LAUSANNE. 
 
 (Autobiography .) 
 
 From my early acquaintance with Lausanne I had always 
 cherished a secret wish that the school of my j'outh might become 
 the retreat of my declining age. A moderate fortune would 
 secure the blessings of ease, leisure and independence. The 
 
 5 country, the people, the manners, the language, were congenial 
 to my taste ; and I might indulge the hope of passing some years 
 in the domestic society of a friend. After travelling with several 
 English, Mr. Deyrerdun was now settled at home, in a pleasant 
 habitation, the gift of his deceased aunt: we had long been 
 
 10 separated, we had long been silent ; yet in my first letter I 
 exposed, with the most perfect confidence, my situations, my 
 sentiments, and my designs. His immediate answer was a warm 
 and joyful acceptance : the picture of our future life provoked 
 my impatience ; and the terms of arrangement were short and 
 
 15 simple, as he possessed the property, and I undertook the 
 expense of our common house. Before I could break my 
 English chain, it was incumbent on me to struggle with the 
 feelings of my heart, the indolence of my temper, and the opinion 
 of the world, which unanimously condemned this voluntary ban- 
 
 20 ishment. In the disposal of my effects, the library, a secret 
 deposit, was alone excepted. As my post chaise moved over 
 "Westminster bridge I bid a long farewell to the "/Mmwrn et 
 opes strepitumque Bomae." My journey by the direct road 
 through France was not attended with any accident, and I 
 
 25 arrived at Lausanne nearly twenty years after my second depar- 
 
EDWARD GIBBON. 213^ 
 
 ture. "Within less than three months the coalition struck on 
 some hidden rocks: had I remained on hoard, I should have 
 perished in the general shipwreck. 
 
 Since my establishment at Lausanne more than seven years 
 have elapsed ; and if every day has not been equaUy soft and so 
 serene, not a day, not a moment, has occurred in which I have 
 repented of my choice. During my absence, a long portion of 
 human life, many changes had happened : my elder acquaintance 
 had left the stage ; virgins were ripened into matrons, and chil- 
 dren were grown to the age of manhood. But the same manners 35 
 were transmitted from one generation to another: my friend 
 alone was an inestimable treasure ; my name was not totally 
 forgotten, and all were ambitious to welcome the arrival of a 
 stranger and the return of a fellow-citizen. The first winter was 
 given to a general embrace, without any nice discrimination of io 
 persons and characters. After a more regular settlement, a 
 more accurate survey, I discovered three solid and permanent 
 benefits of my new situation. 1. My personal freedom had been 
 somewhat impaired by the House of Commons and the board of 
 ti-ade ; but I was now deUvered from the chain of duty and 45 
 dependence, from the hopes and fears of political adventure: 
 my sober mind was no longer intoxicated by the fumes of party, 
 and I rejoiced in my escape, as often as I read of the midnight 
 debates which preceded the dissolution of parliament. 2. My 
 English economy had been that of a solitary bachelor, who might so 
 afford some occasional dinners. In Switzerland I enjoyed at 
 every meal, at every hour, the free and pleasant conversation of 
 the friend of my youth ; and my daily table was always provided 
 for the reception of one or two extraordinary guests. Our 
 importance in society is less a positive than a relative weight : in 53 
 London I was lost in the crowd ; I ranked with the first families 
 of Lausanne ; and my style of prudent expense enabled me to 
 maintain a fair balance of reciprocal civilities. 3. Instead of 
 a small house between a street and a stable-yard, I began to 
 occupy a spacious and convenient mansion, connected on the co 
 north side T\-ith the city, and open on the south to a beautiful 
 and boundless horizon. A garden of four acres had been laid 
 out by the taste of Mr. DejTerdun: from the garden a rich 
 
214 KDWAliD GibLi,:.. 
 
 scenery of meadows and vineyards descends to the Leman Lake, 
 65 and the prospect far beyond the lake is crowned by the stupen- 
 dous mountains of Savoy. My books and my acquaintance had 
 been first united in Loudon; but the happy position of my 
 library in town and country was finally reserved for Lausanne. 
 Possessed of every comfort in this triple alliance, I could not be 
 70 tempted to change my habitation with the changes of the seasons. 
 
 ZEXOBIA. 
 
 {Decline and Fall of the Boman Emx)ire.) 
 
 [A. D. 272. j Aurelian had no sooner secured the person and 
 the provinces of Tetricus, than he turned his arms against Zeuo- 
 bia, the celebrated queen of Palmyra and the East. Modern 
 Europe has produced several illustrious women who bave sus- 
 6 tained with glory the weight of empire ; nor is our own age 
 destitute of such distinguished characters. But if we except 
 the doubtful achievements of Semiramis, Zenobia is perhaps the 
 only female whose superior genius broke through the servile 
 indolence imposed on her sex by the climate and manners of 
 
 10 Asia. She claimed her descent from the Macedonian kings 
 
 of Egypt, equalled in beauty her ancestor Cleopatra, and far 
 
 surpassed that princess in chastity and valour. Zenobia was 
 
 . esteemed the most lovely as well as the most heroic of her sex. 
 
 She was of dark complexion (for in speaking of a lady, these 
 
 15 trifles become important). Her teeth were of a pearly whiteness, 
 and her large black ej'es sparlded with uncommon fire, tempered 
 with the most attractive sweetness. Her voice was strong and 
 harmonious. Her manly understanding was strengthened and 
 adorned by studying Greek, the SjTiac, and the Egy]^)tian lau- 
 
 20 guages. She had drawn up for her own use an epitome of 
 oriental histoiy, and familiarly compared the beauties of Homer 
 and Plato under the tuition of the sublime Longinus. 
 
 This accomplished woman gave her hand to Odenathus, who 
 from a private station rdised himself to the dominion of the East. 
 
 25 She soon became the friend and companion of a hero. In the 
 
EDWARD GIBBON. 215 
 
 intervals of war, Odenathus passionately delighted in the exercise 
 of hunting ; he piu-sued -with ardour the wild beasts of the desert, 
 lions, panthers, and beai's ; and the ardour of Zenobia in that 
 dangerous amusement was not inferior to his own. She had 
 inured her constitution to fatigue, disdained the use of a covered so 
 carriage, generally appeared on horseback in a military habit, 
 and sometimes marched several mUes on foot at the head of the 
 troops. The success of Odenathus was in a gi-eat measure 
 ascribed to her incomparable prudence and fortitude. Their 
 splendid victories over the Great King, -whom they twice pur- 35 
 sued as far as the gates of Ctesiphon, laid the foundations of 
 their united fame and power. The armies which they commanded, 
 and the provinces which they had saved, acknowledged not any 
 other sovereigns than their invincible chiefs. The senate and the 
 people of Eome revered a stranger who had avenged their cap- 40 
 five emperor, and even the insensible son of Valerian accepted 
 Odenathus for his legitimate colleague. After a successful expcr 
 dition against the Gothic plunderers of Asia, the Palmyriau 
 prince returned to the city of Emesa in Sjaia. Invincible in 
 war, he was there cut off by domestic treason, and his favourite 45 
 amusement of hunting was the cause, or at least the occasion, of 
 his death. His nephew Mseonius, presumed to dart his javeUn 
 before that of hi? uncle ; and though admonished of his error, 
 repeated the same insolence. * * * As a monarch, and as 
 a sportsman, Odenathus was provoked, took away his horse, a 50 
 mark of ignominy among the barbarians, and chastised the rash 
 youth by a short confinement. The offense was soon forgotten, 
 but the punishment was remembered ; and Mseonius, with a few 
 daring associates assassinated his uncle in the midst of a great 
 entertainment. Herod, the son of Odenathus, though not of S5 
 Zenobia, a young man of a soft and effeminate temper, was 
 killed with his father. But M^onius obtained only the pleasure 
 of revenge by this bloody deed. He had scarcely time to assume 
 the title of Augustus, before he was sacrificed by Zenobia to the 
 memory of her husband. so 
 
 "With the assistance of his most faithful friends, she imme- 
 diately filled the vacant throne, and governed with manly counsels 
 Palmyra, Syria, and the East, above five years. By the death of 
 
216 EDWAED GIBBON. 
 
 Odenathus, that authority was at an end which the senate had 
 65 granted him only as a personal distinction ; but his martial 
 ■widow, disdaining both the senate and GaUienus, obliged cine of 
 the Roman generals, who was sent against her, to retreat into 
 Europe, with tlie loss of his army and his reputation. Instead 
 of the little passions which so frequently perplex a female reign, 
 70 the steady administration of Zenobia was guided by the most 
 judicious maxims of policy. If it was expedient to pardon, she 
 could calm her resentment: if it was necessary to punish, she 
 could impose silence on the voice of pity. Her strict economy 
 was accused of avarice ; yet on every proper occasion she ap- 
 is peared magnificent and hberal. The neighbouring states of 
 Arabia, Armenia, and Persia, dreaded her enmity, and sohcited 
 her alUance. To the dominions of Odenathus, which extended 
 from the Euphrates to the frontiers of Bithynia, his widow 
 added the inheritance of her ancestors, the populous and fertile 
 80 kingdom of Egypt. The emperor Claudius acknowledged her 
 mierit, and was content that while he pursued the Gothic war, 
 slie should assert the dignity of the empire in the East. The 
 conduct, however, of Zenobia, was attended with some ambi- 
 guity ; nor is it unlikely that she had conceived the design of 
 85 erecting an independent and hostile monarchy. She blended 
 with the popular manners of Roman princes the stately pomp 
 of the courts of Asia, and exacted from her subjects the same 
 adoration that was paid to the successors of Cyrus. She 
 bestowed on her three sons a Latin education, and often 
 90 showed them to the troops adorned with the imperial purple. 
 For herself she reserved the diadem, with the splendid but 
 doubtful title of Queen of the East. When Aurelian passed 
 over into Asia, against an adversary whose sex alone could 
 render her an object of contempt, his presence restored obedi- 
 95 ence to the pro's'ince of Bithynia, already shaken by the arms 
 and intrigues of Zenobia. Advancing at the head of his legions, 
 he accepted the submission of Ancyra, and was admitted into 
 Tyana after an obstinate siege, by the help of a perfidious 
 citizen. The generous though fierce temper of Aurelian aban- 
 100 doned the traitor to the rage of the soldiers : a superstitious 
 reverence induced him to treat with lenity the countrymen of 
 
EDWARD GIBBON. 217 
 
 ApoUonius. the philosopher. Antioch was deserted on his 
 approach, till the emperor, l\v his salutaiy edicts, recalled the 
 fugitives, and granted a genersil pardon to all who, from neces- 
 sity rather than choice, had been engaged in the sei-vice of the 10.5 
 Palmyrenian qiieen. The unexpected mildness of such a conduct 
 reconciled the minds of the Syrians, and, as far as the gates of 
 Ernes a. the wishes of the people seconded the terror of his anus. 
 Zenobia would have ill deserved her reputation, had she indolently 
 permitted the emperor of the ^est to approach within a hundred 110 
 miles of her capital. The fate of the East was decided in two 
 great battles, so similar in almost every circumstance, that 
 we can scarcely distinguish them from each other, except by 
 knowing that the first was fought near Antioch and the second 
 near Emesa. In both the queen of Palmyra animated the armies 113 
 by her presence, and devolved the execution of her orders on 
 Zabdas, who had already signalized his military talents by the 
 conquest of Egypt. The numerous forces of Zenobia consisted 
 for the most part of light ai-chers, and of heavy cavah-y clothed 
 in complete steel. The Moorish and Ulyrian horse of Am-eHan 120 
 were unable to sustain the ponderous charge of their antagonists. 
 They fled in real or affected disorder, engaged the Pabnyrenians 
 in a laborious pursuit, harassed thenj by a desultory combat, and 
 at length discomfited this impenetrable but tmwieldy body of 
 cavalry. The light infantry, in the meantime, when they had 125 
 exhausted their quivers, remaining without protection against 
 a closer onset, exposed their naked sides to the swords of the 
 legions. Aurelian had chosen these veteran troops, who were 
 usually stationed on the Upper Danube, and whose valour had 
 been severely tried in the Alemannic war. After the defeat of 130 
 Emesa, Zenobia found it impossible to collect a third army. As 
 far as the frontier of Egypt, the nations subject to her empu'e 
 had joined the standard of the conquerour. who detached Probus, 
 the bravest of his generals, to possess himself of the Egyptian 
 provinces. Palmyra was the last resoiu-ce of the widow of 135 
 Odenathus. She retired within the walls of her capital, made 
 every preparation for a vigorous resistance, and declared with 
 the intrepidity of a heroine, that the last moment of her reign 
 and of her life should be the same. 
 
218 EAEL OF CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 EARL OF CHESTEEFIELD. 
 
 GOOD BREEDING. 
 
 A friend of yours and mine has very justly defined good-breed- 
 ing to be, J'the result of much good-sense, some good-nature, 
 and a little self-denial for the sake of others, and with a view 
 to obtain the same indulgence from them." Taking this for 
 5 granted — as I tiiink it cannpt be disputed — it is astonishing to 
 me that anybody, who has good-sense and good-nature, can 
 essentially fail in good-breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, 
 they vary according to persons, places, and circumstances, and 
 are only to be acquired by observation and experience ; but the 
 
 10 substance of it is everywhere and eternally the same. Good- 
 manners are to particular societies what good-morals are to 
 society in general — their cement and their security. And 
 as laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at least to pre- 
 vent the ill effects of bad ones, so there are certain rules of 
 
 15 civility, universally implied and received, to enforce good 
 manners and punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to me 
 to be less difference both between the crimes and punishments, 
 than at first one would imagine. The immoral man, who invades 
 another's property, is justly hanged for it ; and the ill-bred man, 
 
 20 who by his ill-manners invades and disturbs the quiet and com- 
 forts of private life, is by common consent as justly banished 
 societj^ Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of 
 little conveniences, are as natural an implied compact between 
 civiUsed people, as protection and obedience are between kings 
 
 25 and subjects ; whoever, in either case, violates that compact, 
 justly forfeits all advantages arising from it; next to the con- 
 sciousness of doing a good action, that of doing a civil one is 
 the most pleasing; and the epithet which I should covet the 
 most, next to that of Aristides, would be that of well-bred. 
 
WILLIAM COWPER. 219 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 OATHS. 
 
 Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife, — 
 
 Some men have surely then a peaceful life. 
 
 Whatever subjects occupy discourse, 
 
 The feats of Testris, or the naval force, 
 
 Asseveration blustering in your face 6 
 
 Makes contradiction such a hopeless case ; 
 
 In every tale they teU, or false or true, 
 
 WeU known, or such as no man ever knew. 
 
 They jSx attention, heedless of your pain, 
 
 "With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ; lo 
 
 And even when sober truth prevails throughout, 
 
 They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt. 
 
 A Persian, humble servant of the sun. 
 
 Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none. 
 
 Hearing a lawyer, grave in his addi-ess, is 
 
 With adjurations every word impress. 
 
 Supposed the man a bishop, or, at least, 
 
 God's name so much upon his Hps, a priest ; 
 
 Bowed at the close with all his gi-aceful airs, 
 
 And begged an interest in his frequent prayers. 20 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 When the British warrior queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods. 
 
 Sought, with an indignant mien. 
 Counsel of her country's gods, 
 
 Sage beneath the spreading oak 
 Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; 
 
220 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Every burning word he spoke 
 Full of rage, and full of grief. 
 
 ' ' Princess ! if our aged eyes 
 10 "Weep upon tliy matchless wrongs, 
 
 'Tis because resentment ties 
 All the terrors of our tongues. 
 
 "Rome shall perish — write that word 
 In the blood that she has spilt ; 
 15 Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, 
 
 Deep in ruin as in guUt. 
 
 " Rome, for empire far renown'd. 
 Tramples on a thousand states ; 
 Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — 
 20 Hark, the Gaul is at her gates ! 
 
 " Other Romans shall arise. 
 Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize ; 
 Harmony the path to fame. 
 
 25 " Then the progeny that spripgs 
 
 From the forests of our land, 
 Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, 
 Shall a wider world command. 
 
 " Regions Caesar never knew 
 30 Thy jDosterity shall sway ; 
 
 Where his eagles never flew 
 None invincible as they." 
 
 Such the bard's prophetic words, 
 Pregnant with celestial fire, 
 35 Bending as he swept the chords 
 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre. 
 
 She, with all the monarch's pride. 
 
 Felt them in her bosom glow, 
 Rush'd to battle, fought and died; 
 10 Dying, hurled them at the foe. 
 
WILLI a:; cowper. - 221 
 
 EuflBans, pitiless as proud, 
 
 Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
 Empire is on us bestow' d, 
 
 Shame and ruin wait for you. 
 
 ENGLAXD. 
 (^The Task, Book II., U. 206-224.) 
 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee stiU, 
 My country ! and wMle yet a nook is left 
 "Wliere English minds and manners may be found. 
 Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clinie 
 Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed 6 
 
 "With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, 
 I would not exchange thy sullen sMes, 
 And fields without a flower, for wanner France 
 "With aU her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. lo 
 
 To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime, 
 Of patriot eloquence to flash down flre 
 Upon thy foes, was never meant thy task : 
 But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
 Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 15 
 
 As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
 Thy f oUies too ; and with a just disdain 
 Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
 Eeflect dishonor on the land I love. 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 (The Task, Book V., II. 733-778.) 
 
 Patriots have toU'd, and in their country's cause 
 Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve. 
 Receive proud recompense. "We give in charge 
 Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, 
 Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
 
222 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 To latest times ; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
 Gives bond in stone and ever during brass 
 To guard them, and to immortalize her trust ! 
 But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, 
 
 10 To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth, 
 
 Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood. 
 Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, 
 And for a time ensure, to his loved land 
 The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; 
 
 15 But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, 
 
 And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed 
 In confirmation of the noblest claim — ' 
 Our claim to feed upon immortal truth. 
 To walk with God, to be divinely free, 
 
 20 To soar, and to anticipate the skies. 
 
 Yet few remember them. They lived unknown 
 Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame, 
 And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew- 
 No marble tells us whither. With their names 
 
 25 No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : 
 
 And history, so warm on meaner themes. 
 Is cold in this. She execrates indeed 
 The tjTanny that doom'd them to the fire, 
 But gives the glorious sufferers little praise. 
 
 30 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
 
 And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
 That heUish foes, confederate for his harm, 
 Can wind about him, but he casts it off 
 With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
 
 35 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 
 Of nature, and though poor perhaps compared 
 With those whose mansions glitter in his sight. 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the Valleys his, 
 
 40 And the resplendeat rivers. His to enjoy 
 
 With a propriety that none can feel, 
 But who, with filial confideece inspired, 
 Can lift to heaven an iinpresamptuous eye, 
 And smiling say-" " My Father made them all." 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 223 
 
 KOBERT BURNS. 
 
 TAJI O'SHAXTER. 
 
 Of Brownies and of Bogilis full in this Buke. 
 
 Gawin Douglas. 
 
 "WTien chapman billies leave the street, 
 
 And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
 
 As market-days are wearing late, 
 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy, 5 
 
 An' getting f ou and uncou happy, 
 
 "We thinkna on the lang Scots miles, 
 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
 
 That lie between us and our hame, 
 
 Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 10 
 
 Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 This truth fand honest Tarn O'Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, la 
 
 For honest men and bonie lasses. ) 
 
 O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
 -As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skelluin^ 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blelluto ; 20 
 
 That frae Novernber till October, 
 Ae market-day thou was na sobet ; 
 That ilka meldet, wi' the itiiHer, 
 
224 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
 25 That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
 
 The smith and thee gat roaring f ou on ; 
 
 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 
 Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean tiU Monday. 
 
 She prophesy' d that, late or soon, 
 30 Thou would be found deep droun'd in Doon; 
 
 Or catch' d wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
 
 By Alloway's auld haunted Mrk. 
 
 Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
 
 To think how monie counsels sweet, 
 35 How mony lengthen' d, sage advices. 
 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 But to our tale : Ae market night, 
 
 TaiQ had got planted unco right ; 
 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 40 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
 
 And at his elbow, Souter Johnnj-, 
 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
 
 Tam lo'ed him hke a vera brither ; 
 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 48 The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
 
 And ay the ale was growing better ; 
 
 I'he landlady and Tam grew gracious 
 
 Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and ]Drecious : 
 
 The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
 60 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
 
 The storm without might rair and rustle, 
 
 Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
 
 E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy: 
 55 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
 
 O'er all the ills o' life victorious ! 
 
 But pleasures are Uke poppies spread, 
 (0 You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
 
 Or Uke the snow-falls in the river, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 225 
 
 A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
 
 Or like the borealis race, 
 
 That flit ere you can point their place ; 
 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form es 
 
 Evanishing amid the storm. 
 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 
 
 The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
 
 That drearji' hour he mounts his beast in ; to 
 
 And sic a night he takes the road in. 
 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
 The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow' d ; 75 
 
 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow' d: 
 That night, a cMld might understand, 
 The DeO had business on his hand. 
 
 Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
 A better never lifted leg, so 
 
 Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
 Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
 WhUes crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
 Whiles glow' ring round wi' prudent cares, ss 
 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
 Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
 Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford, 
 Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd ; 90 
 
 And past the birks and meikle stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
 Whare hunters fand the murder' d bairn ; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95 
 
 Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
 Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
 The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
 The lightnings flash; from pole to pole ; 
 15 
 
226 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 100 Near and more near the thunders roll : 
 
 When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze : 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing : 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 105 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' tippenny, we fear nae e^il ; 
 Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! — 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,, 
 
 no Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonish' d. 
 She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
 And vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
 
 115 Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
 
 Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 A winnock-bunker in the east, 
 
 120 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
 
 A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 
 To gie them music was his charge : 
 He screw' d the pipes and gart them skirl. 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
 
 125 Coffins stood round like open presses. 
 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
 By which heroic Tam was able 
 
 130 To note upon the holy table, 
 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ;, 
 A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
 
 135 Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
 
 Five Bcymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 A garter, which a babe had strangled ]: 
 
HOBEKT BUENS. 227 
 
 A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
 
 Whom his ain son o' hf e bereft, 
 
 The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 140 
 
 TVi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
 
 Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
 The mirth and fun gi-ew fast and furious : 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; us 
 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekit. 
 Till Oka carlin swat and reekit. 
 And coost her duddies to the wark. 
 And Unket at it in her sark ! isa 
 
 Now Tam, O Tarn ! had they been queans, 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
 Been snow-white seventeen hunder Unnen ! 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 
 
 That once were plush, o' gude blue hau", 
 I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles. 
 For ae bUnk o' the bonie burdies ! 
 
 But wither' d beldams, auld and droU, 
 Rigwoddie hags wad spean a foal, leo 
 
 Lowing and flinging on a crummock, 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kend what was what fu' brawhe, 
 There was ae winsome wench and walie. 
 That night enlisted in the core, 165 
 
 (Lang after kend on Carrick shore ; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
 And perish' d mony a bonie boat. 
 And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
 And kept the country-side in fear) i7o 
 
 Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham. 
 That while a lassie she had worn, 
 In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie. 
 Ah ! Uttle kend thy reverend grannie, 175. 
 
,228 ROBERT BURNS . 
 
 That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance of mtches ! 
 But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
 
 180 Sic flights are far .beyond her pow'r ; 
 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
 (A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
 And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch' d. 
 And thought his very een enrich' d ; 
 
 185 Even Satan glowr'd, and fldg'd fu' fain. 
 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
 
 Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
 
 And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark! " 
 
 190 And in an instant all was dark : 
 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
 When out the helhsh legion saUied 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
 When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
 
 196 As open pussie's mortal foes, 
 
 When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
 As eager runs the market-crowd. 
 When, "Catch the thief! " resounds aloud; 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 
 200 Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 
 
 Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'Il get thy fairin ! 
 In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
 Kate soon will be a woefn' woman ! 
 
 205 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 
 And win the key-stane of the brig : 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they darena cross. 
 But ere the key-stane she could make, 
 210 The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
 
 For Nannie, far before the rest, 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 229- 
 
 But little -svist she Maggie's mettle — 
 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale 215 
 
 But left behind her ain gray tail : 
 
 The carlin claught her by the rump, 
 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
 nk man and mother's son tak heed ; 220 
 
 TVhene'er to drink you are inchn'd, 
 Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
 Remember Tarn O'Shanter's mare. 
 
 JOHN AXDEESON MY JO. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 When •we -were first acquent, 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 6 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 10 
 
 And monie a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither : 
 Xow we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 15 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 TO A MOUSE, ON TCKNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH. 
 
 Wee, sleeMt, cow'rin, tun'rous beastie, 
 O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
 
230 ROBEET BUEXS. 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 5 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
 
 Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken Nature's social union, 
 An' justifies that ill opinion, 
 10 Which makes thee startle 
 
 At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 
 An' fellow-mortal ! 
 
 I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; 
 What then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
 15 A daimen-icker in a thrave 
 
 'S a sma' request: 
 I'll get a blessing wi' the lave. 
 And never miss't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 20 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
 
 An' naething, now, to big a- new ane, 
 
 O' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
 Baith snell an' keen ! 
 
 25 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
 
 An' weary winter comin fast, 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 
 
 30 Out thi-o' thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 Now thou's turned out, for a' th}- trouble, 
 
 But house or hald, 
 35 To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld ! 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
 In proving foresight may be vain : 
 
ROBERT BXTRXS. 231 
 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 
 
 Gang aft a-gley. 40 
 
 An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 
 
 Fot promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thon art blest, compar'd -wi' me ! 
 
 The present only toucheth thee : 
 
 But, Och! I backward cast my e'e 4S 
 
 On prospects drear ! 
 An ' forward, tho' I canna see. 
 
 I guess an' fear ! 
 
 COinXG THROUGH THE RYE. 
 
 Coming through the rye, poor body, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 5 
 
 Jenny's seldom dry ; 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body — 
 
 Coming through the rye ; 10 
 
 Gin a body Mss a body — 
 
 Need a body cry ? 
 
 Oin a body meet a body 
 
 Coming through the glen, 
 Gin a body Mss a body — 15 
 
 Need the world ken? 
 Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; 
 
 Jenny's seldom dry ; 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 2c 
 
232 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 BAJTOOCKBURN. 
 (Bobert Bnice's Address to his Army.} 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed. 
 Or to glorious vlctorie. 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
 See the front o' battle lower ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha wiU be a traitor knave ? 
 • Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 
 Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 
 
 .Wha for Scotland's King and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw 
 Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ? 
 Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By j'our sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 But they shall — they shaU be free ! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 TjTants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow! 
 Forward ! let us do or die ! 
 
 AULD 1,S:>IG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 And days of o' lang syne ? 
 
robert burns. 233 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 5 
 
 .For auld lang syne, 
 "We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 VTe twa hae run about the braes, 
 
 And pu'd the gowans fine ; la 
 
 But we've wander' d mony a -weaiy foot 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 VTe twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
 
 Prom mornin sun till dine ; - 15 
 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ; 20 
 
 And we'll tak a right guid wilhe-waiight, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And surely ye'U be your pint-stowp, 
 
 And surely I'U be mine : 25 
 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For aidd lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE UXCO GIJID; OK THE RIGIDLT RIGHTEOL's. 
 
 O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 
 
 Sa« pious and sae holy, 
 Ye've nought to do but mark and teU 
 
 Tour neebour's fauts and foUy ! 
 Whose life is Kke a weel gaun mill. 
 
 Supply' d wi' store o' water. 
 
234 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The heapet tapper's ebbing still, 
 And still the clap plays clatter. 
 
 Hear me, ye venerable Core, 
 10 As counsel for poor mortals. 
 
 That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door. 
 
 For glaUdt Folly's portals ; 
 I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 
 "Would here propone defences, 
 15 Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 
 
 Their failings and mischances. 
 
 Ye see your state wi' their' s compar'd, 
 And shudder at the niffer, 
 
 But cast a moment's fair regard, 
 20 What makes the mighty differ ; 
 
 Discount what scant occasion gave 
 That puritj' j-e pride in. 
 
 And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 
 Your better art o' hiding. 
 
 *2o Think, when your castigated pulse 
 
 Gies now and then a wallop, 
 What raging must his veins convulse, 
 
 That still eternal gallop : 
 Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 
 80 Right on ye send your sea-way ; 
 
 But in the teeth o' baith to saU, 
 It makes an unco leeway. 
 
 See Social Life and Glee sit down, 
 All joyous and unthinking, 
 35 Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 
 
 Debauchery and Drinking : 
 O would they stay to calculate 
 
 The eternal consequences ; 
 Or your more dreaded hell to state, 
 40 Damnation of expenses ! 
 
ROBERT BURXS. 235 
 
 Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 
 
 Ty-d up in godly laces, 
 Before ye gie poor Frailty names, 
 
 Suppose a change o' cases -, 
 A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, is 
 
 A treacherous inclination — - 
 But, let me whisper i' your lug, 
 
 Te're aibHns nae temptation. 
 
 Then gently scan your brother Man, 
 
 Still gentUer sister Woman ; bo 
 
 Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang. 
 
 To step aside is human : 
 One point must stiU be greatly dark. 
 
 The moving WJiy they do it ; 
 And just as lamely can ye mark, es 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 
 
 Decidedly can try us. 
 He knows each chord — its various tone, 
 
 Each spring — its various bias, 60 
 
 Then at the balance let's be mute. 
 
 We never can adjust it ; 
 What's do7ie we partly may compute, 
 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 FOK A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty, 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp ; 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
236 KOBEBT BURNS. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine, 
 10 "Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; 
 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man's a man for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
 15 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor. 
 
 Is king of men for a' that ! 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 20 He's but a coof for a' that : 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 His riband, star, and a' thast, 
 The man of independent mind, 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 25 A prince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
 But an honest man's above his might, 
 Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 30 Their dignities, and a' that, 
 
 The pith of sense, and pride of worth, 
 Are higher rank than a' that ! 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, 
 As come it wiU for a' that ; 
 :!o That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 It's coming yet for a' that. 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 40 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
WILLIAM WOKDSWORTH. 237 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 
 
 (^Sonnet /.) 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 
 
 Mindless of its just honours ; with this Key 
 
 Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melodj- 
 
 Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 
 A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound ; 6 
 
 Camoens soothed with it an Exile's grief ; 
 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myi-tle Leaf 
 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 
 His visionary brow : a glowworm Lamp, 
 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land lo 
 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 
 FeU round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 
 The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 
 
 Soul-animating strains -^ alas, too few! 
 
 MILTOX. 
 (Sonnet XIV.) 
 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of haU and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 O, raise us up, return to us a^ain ; 
 
238 WILLIAJI WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And give us manners, wtue, freedom, power ! 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 10 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; 
 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on Hfe's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness ; and j-et thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 GKEAT MEN. 
 (Sonnet XV. ) 
 
 Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 
 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom, — better none : 
 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
 
 Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 
 
 These moralists could act and comprehend : 
 
 They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 
 In splendour : what strength was, that would not bend 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, 
 
 Had brought forth no such souls as we had then. 
 
 Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change! 
 
 No single volume paramount, no code, 
 
 No master spirit, no determined road ; 
 
 But equally a want of books and men ! 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 {Sonnet XVI.) 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 
 Of British freedom, which to the open Sea 
 
 Of the world's praise from dark antiquity 
 
 Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters, unwithstood," 
 
 Roused though it be full often to a mood 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWOKTH. 239 
 
 "WTuch spurns the check of salutary bands, — 
 That this most famous Stream in Bogs and Sands 
 Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
 Be lost forever. In our Halls is h,ung 
 Armory of the invincible Knights of old : 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
 "Which Milton held. — In everjiihing we are sprung 
 Of Eai-th's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
 MY COtJNTRY. 
 (^Sonnet XTII.) 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great Nations, how ennobUng thoughts depart 
 
 When men change Swords for Ledgers, and desert 
 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 
 
 But when I think of Thee, and what Thou art, 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
 
 Of those unfihal fears I am ashamed. 
 
 But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled : 
 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 
 THE GREEN LIXNET. 
 
 iBeneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on mj^ head, 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
 In this sequestered nook how sweet 
 
240 WILLIA3I WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 To sit upon my Orchard-seat ! 
 And Birds and Flowers once more to greet, 
 My last year's Friends together. 
 
 One hare I marked, the happiest Guest 
 1,1 In aU this covert of the blest : 
 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array. 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
 15 Dost lead the revels of the Maj-, 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers, 
 Make all one Band of Paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 *i Art sole in thy employment ; 
 
 A Life, a Presence hke the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care. 
 Too blest with any one to pau- ; 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 25 Upon yon tuft of hazel-trees, 
 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze. 
 Behold him perched in ecstacies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 30 Upon his back and body flings 
 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight the Bird deceives, 
 A Brother of the dancing Leaves ; 
 
 «5 Then flits and from the Cottage eaves 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feien, 
 
 AT While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
WILLIAM WOHDSWORTH. 
 
 SHE WAS A PHAXTOM OF DELIGHT. 
 
 iii 
 
 She was a Phantom of deUght 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of Twihght fail- ; 6 
 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. lo 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 15 
 
 Sweet-records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and snules. 20 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A Traveller between life and death ; 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and sMll ; 
 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 
 And yet a Spirit stUl, and bright 
 
 With something of an angel Ught. zo 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, DaisieSj 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 16 
 
242 WILLIAM WOKDSWOKTH. 
 
 Long as there's a sun that sets, 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 5 Long as there are violets, 
 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There's a flower that shall be mine, 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 10 For the finding of a star ; 
 
 Up and down the heavens they go. 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 I'm as great as they, I trow. 
 Since the day I found thee out, 
 15 Little flower ! — I'LL make a stir. 
 
 Like a great Astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
 Since we needs must first have met, 
 20 I have seen thee, high and low. 
 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 'Twas a face I did not know ; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may. 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 25 Ere a leaf is on a bush. 
 
 In the time before the Thrush 
 Has a thought about her nest. 
 Thou wilt come with half a caU, 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 
 30 Like a careless Prodigal ; 
 
 TeUing tales about the sun. 
 When we've little warmth, or none. 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 35 Never heed them ; I aver 
 
 That they aU are wanton "Wooers ; 
 But the thrifty Cottager, 
 Who stirs little out of doors. 
 
^VILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 24? 
 
 Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
 
 Spring is coming, Thou art come ! 40 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 
 Kindlv. unassuming Spirit ! 
 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 
 On the moor, and in the wood, « 
 
 In the lane ; — there's not a place, 
 
 Howsoever mean it be, 
 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 lU befall the yellow flowers, 
 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 50 
 
 Buttercups, that will be seen. 
 
 Whether we wiU see or no ; 
 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 55 
 
 Little, humble Celandine. 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth. 
 
 Scorned and slighted upon earth ; 
 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 60 
 
 Serving at my heart's command, 
 
 In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 
 
 I wlU sing, as doth behove. 
 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 EESOLmON AXD EsDEPEXDEXCE.. 
 
 vn. 
 
 I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; 
 
 Of him who walked in glory and in joy. 
 
 Following his plough, along the mountain-side ; 
 
 By our own spirits we are deified : 
 
 "We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 
 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 
 
2:4-4 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OE IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 (Ode.) 
 
 I. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 10 The Eainbow comes and goes. 
 
 And lovely is the Rose ; 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare 
 Waters on a starry night 
 15 Ar& beautiful and fair ; 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 III. ' 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 so And while the young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound. 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 
 And I again am strong : 
 25 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 
■WILLIAM WORDSWOKTH. 2& 
 
 And all the eairth is gay ; 
 
 Land and sea 30 
 
 Give themselves up to joUity, 
 And "with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou chUd of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou Shepherd boy ! 35 
 
 rv. 
 
 Te blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh ■with you in your jubilee ; 
 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 40 
 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
 
 e-nl day ! if I -svere suUen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 This s^weet May-morning, 
 
 And the children are culling 45 
 
 On every side. 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flo^wers ; ■while the sun shines ■warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother' s arm : — 
 
 1 hear, I hear, ■with joy I hear ! — so 
 But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
 
 A single field -which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 
 The pansy at my feet 
 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 55 
 
 "Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
 The Soul that rises -with us, our hfe's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 
 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire f orgetfulness, 
 
246 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
 65 From God, who is our home : 
 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy. 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 70 He sees it in his joy ; 
 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the East 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 75 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
 80 And no unworthy aim, 
 
 The homely nurse does all she can 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 85 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 
 A six years' DarUng of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 90 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 95 And this hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 247 
 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, loo 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous sts^e " 
 "With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 105 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior Semblance doth beUe 
 
 Thy soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep no 
 
 Thy heritage ; thou Eye among the blind. 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, lis 
 
 "Which we are toDihg all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 120 
 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-bom freedom on thy being's height, 
 "Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 125 
 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 O joy Y that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, iso 
 
248 WILLLAJI WCMIDSWOIITH, 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 135 For that which is most worthy ,to be blept ; 
 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 
 Not for these I raise 
 uo The song of thanks and praise ; 
 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 U5 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 150 Which, be they what they may. 
 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to ma^e 
 Our noisy j'ears seem moments in the being 
 155 Of the eternal Silence : truths th^t wake. 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither hstlessness, nor mad endea^Pir, 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor aU that is at enmity with joy, 
 160 Can utterly aboUsh or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immc^rtail sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 165 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
■WTLLIAM WOEDSWOBTH. 249 
 
 X. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 170 
 
 "We in thought will join your throng, 
 
 ITe that pipe, and ye that play, 
 
 Te that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance -which once was so bright 175 
 
 Be now forever taken -from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower • 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind ; iso 
 
 In the piimal sympathy 
 
 Which, having been, must ever be : 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 185 
 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 xi. 
 
 And.O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Grroves, 
 
 Forbode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have reUnquished one delight 190 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripped as lightly as they ; 
 
 llje' innocent brightness of a newj-born Day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 195 
 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take % sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other pahns are won. 
 Thanks tp the human heart by which we live, 200 
 
250 WILLIAJI WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 PRELUDE TO "THE EXCURSION." 
 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life 
 Musing in Solitude, I oft perceive 
 Fair trains of imager}^ before me rise. 
 Accompanied by f eehngs of delight — 
 
 5 Pure or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 And dear remembrances whose presence soothes 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 The good and evU of our mortal state. 
 
 10 To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come. 
 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance. 
 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself, 
 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope — 
 
 15 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
 
 Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual Power ; 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
 Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
 
 20 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 
 To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
 
 Of mat InteUigence which governs aU ; 
 
 I sing : — 'fit audience let me find though few ! ' 
 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard, 
 
 25 Hohest of men. — Urania, I shall need 
 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to earth, or dwell in highest heaven ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
 Deep, — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 
 30 To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
 
 All strength, all terror, single or in bands, 
 
WILLIA.M WORDSWORTH. 251 
 
 That ever was put forth in personal form, 
 
 Jehovah with his thunder, and the choir 
 
 Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones, — 
 
 I pass them by unalai-med. Not Chaos, not 35 
 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 
 Nor aught of bhnder vacancy — scooped out 
 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, 40 
 
 My haunt, and the main region of my Song. 
 
 Beauty, — a living Presence of the earth, 
 
 Siu^assing the most fair ideal Forms 
 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
 
 From earth's materials, — waits upon my steps ; 45 
 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
 
 An hourly neighbour. Paradise and groves 
 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields like those of old 
 
 Sought in the Atlantic Main, why should they be 
 
 A history only of departed things, so 
 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
 
 For the jdisceming intellect of Man, 
 
 "When wedded to this goodly universe 
 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 
 A simple produce of the common day. 55 
 
 I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 
 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
 
 Of this great consummation : — and, by words 
 
 Which speak of nothing more than what we are. 
 
 Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 60 
 
 Of death, and win the vacant and the vain 
 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
 
 How exquisitely the individual Mind 
 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 
 Of the whole species) to the external World 65 
 
 Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too. 
 
 Theme this but little heard of among Men, 
 
 The external World is fitted to the Mipd ; 
 
 And the creation, (by no lower name 
 
252 WILLIAM WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 70 Can it be called,) which they with blended migbt 
 
 Accomplish :.T— this is our high argument. 
 Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 Must turn elsewhere, to travel near the tribes 
 And fellowships of men, and see iU sights 
 
 75 Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 
 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
 
 80 Within the walls of Cities ; may these sounds 
 
 Have their authentic comment, — that even these 
 Heairing, I be not downcast or forlorn. 
 Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspirest 
 The human Soul of universal earth, 
 
 85 Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess 
 
 A metropoUtan Temple in the hearts 
 Of mighty Poets ; upon me bestow 
 A gift of genuine insight ; that my Song 
 With star-Uke virtue in its place may shine ; 
 
 90 Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 
 
 Itself, from all malevolent effect 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! And if with this 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 
 95 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 
 Contemplating, and who, and what he was, 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 This Vision,-^— when and where, and how he lived ;- 
 Be not this labor useless. If such theme 
 100 May sort with highest objects, then, dread Powe^r, 
 
 Whose gracious favor is the primal source 
 Of all iUumination, may my Life 
 Express the image of a better time, 
 • More wise desires, and simpler manners ; nurse 
 105 My Heart in genuine freedom : all pure thoughts 
 
 Be with me ; so shall thy unfaiUng love 
 Gxiide and support and cheer me to the end! 
 
EOKEBT SOTITHET. 2Sf8 
 
 EOBEET SOUTHEt. 
 
 GOD'S JUDGMENT ON BISHOP HATTO OF MENTZ. 
 
 The summer and autumn-had been so wet, 
 That in winter the corn was growing yet. 
 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around 
 The grain lie rotting on the ground. 
 
 Every day the starving poor S 
 
 They crowded, around Bishop Hatto's door; 
 For he had a plentiful last-year's store, 
 And all the neighbourhood could tell 
 His granaries were furnished well. 
 
 At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day lo 
 
 To quiet the poor without delay ; 
 
 He bade them to his great barn repair, 
 
 And they should have food for the winter there. 
 
 Eejoiced the tidings good to hear, 
 
 The poor folks flocked from far and near ; 15 
 
 The great barn was full as it could hold 
 
 Of women and children, and yotmg and old. 
 
 Then, when he saw it could hold no more, 
 
 Bishop Hatto he made fast the door ; 
 
 And whilst for mercy on Christ they caU, 20 
 
 He set fixe to the barn, and burnt them aU. 
 
 " r faith 'tis an excellent bonfire ! " quoth he, 
 
 *' And the country is greatly obhged to me 
 
 For ridding it, in these times forlorn, 
 
 Of rats that only consume the corn." 25 
 
254 EOBEKT SOUTHET. 
 
 So then to his palace returned he, 
 
 And he sate down to supper merrily, 
 
 And he slept that night Uke an innocent man ; 
 
 But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 
 
 30 In the morning, as he entered the haU, 
 
 Where his picture hung against the wall, 
 A sweat like death all over him came, 
 For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 
 
 As he looked, there came a man from his farm, — ■ 
 35 He had a countenance white with alarm : 
 
 " My lord, I opened your granaries this morn. 
 And the rats had eaten all your corn." 
 
 Another came running presently. 
 And he was pale as pale could be. 
 io ' ' Fly, my lord bishop, fly ! " quoth he, 
 
 "Ten thousand rats are coming this way, — 
 The Lord forgive you for yesterday ! ' ' 
 
 " I'U go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he ; 
 " 'Tis the safest place in Germany, — 
 15 The walls are high, and the shores are steep. 
 
 And the tide is strong, and the water deep." 
 
 Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away ; 
 And he crossed the Rhine without delay, 
 And reached his tower in the island, and barred 
 BO All the gates secure and hard. 
 
 He laid him down and closed his eyes. 
 
 But soon a scream made him arise ; 
 
 He started, and saw two eyes of flame 
 
 On his piUow, from whence the screaming came. 
 
 55 He listened and looked, — it was only the cat ; 
 
 But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, 
 For she sate screaming, mad with fear 
 At the army of rats that were drawing near. 
 
ROBERT SOrTHET. 255 
 
 For they have swum over the river so deep, 
 
 And they have dimbed the shores so steep, 60 
 
 And now liy thousands up they crawl 
 
 To the holes and windows in the wall. 
 
 Down on his knees the bishop fell, 
 
 And faster and faster his beads did teU, 
 
 As louder and louder, drawing near, 65 
 
 The saw of their teeth without he could hear. 
 
 And in at the windows, and in at the door. 
 And through the walls by thousands they pour ; 
 And down from the ceiUng and up through the floor. 
 From the right and the left, from behind and before, 70 
 
 From within and without, from above and below, — 
 And aU at once to the bishop they go. 
 
 They have whetted their teeth against the stones. 
 
 And now they pick the bishop's bones ; 
 
 They gnawed the flesh from every limb, 75 
 
 For they were sent to do judgment on him ! 
 
 THE SPANISH ARMADA. 
 
 ■'^ (Lives of the British Admirals.) 
 
 Fair as the hopes of the English were at this time, and admir- 
 able as their conduct had been from the hour that the Armada 
 came in sight, it has been justly obsei-ved that the Spanish duke 
 had thus far conducted his great expedition with as little evil 
 and annoyance as could have been reasonably expected. The 5 
 dano^er to England was still undiminished. The Aiinada had 
 arrived unbroken at the point intended for its junction with the 
 force from Flanders : it still appeared invincible to aU except the 
 English and the Dutch, and except those also who, in the confi- 
 dence of its invincibility, had embarked in it. While it lay off 10 
 Calais, in this anxious interval of expectation, " Flemings, "Wal- 
 loons, and French came thick and threefold to behold it, admiring 
 
256 KOBERT SOUTHET. 
 
 the exceeding greatness of the ships, and their -warlike order. 
 The greatest kept the outside next the enemy, like strong castles, 
 
 15 fearing no assault ; the lesser placed in the middle ward." At 
 this time the English might regret the loss of Calais ; but never 
 were the councils of England more wisely directed. The Spanish 
 ships, " as castles pitched in the sea, had their bulks so planked 
 with great beams, that bullets might strike and stick, but never 
 
 20 pass through, so that little availed the English cannon, except 
 only in playing on their masts and tackling." In this respect 
 they seemed as invulnerable as the floating batteries employed 
 against Gibraltar. And their height was such, that our bravest 
 seamen were against any attempt at boarding them. These things 
 
 25 had been well perpended by Elizabeth's ministers, and the lord 
 admiral was instructed to convert eight of his worst vessels into 
 fire ships. The orders arrived in such good time, and were 
 obeyed with such alacrity, that within thirty hours after the 
 enemy had cast anchor off Calais these ships were disburdened 
 
 80 of all that was worth saving, filled with combustibles, and all 
 their ordnance charged ; and their sides being smeared with 
 pitch, rosin, and wildfire, they were sent, in the dead of the 
 night, with wind and tide, against the Spanish fleet; "which 
 when the Spaniards saw, the whole sea glittering and shining 
 
 35 with the flames thereof, they remembered those terrible fire-ships 
 which had been used in the Scheldt, and the fearful cry of ' The 
 fire of Antwerp! ' " ran through the fleet. They apprehended 
 not the danger of flre alone, but all the evils that "deadly 
 engines and murderous inventions ' ' could inflict : some cut their 
 
 40 cables ; others let their hawsers slip, and in haste, fear, and con- 
 fusion, put to sea, ' ' happiest they who could first be gone, 
 though few or none could tell which course to take." 
 
 In this confusion, the largest of the galleasses, commanded by 
 Don Hugo de Moncada, ran foul of another ship, lost her rudder, 
 
 45 floated about at the mercy of the tide, and, making the next 
 morning for Calais, as weU as she could, ran upon the sands. 
 There she was presently assailed by the English small craft, who 
 lay battering her with their guns, but dared not attempt to board, 
 till the admiral sent an hundred men in his boats, under Sir 
 
 60 Amias Preston. The Spaniards made a brave resistance, hoping 
 
KOiuERT souT:pEr. 257 
 
 presently tp Ije succoured by the Prince of Parma, aud the actio.?i 
 ■n-a$ for a long time doubtful. At length Moncada -svas shot 
 through the head, the galleas was carried by boai-ding, and most 
 o;f the Spaniards, leaping into the sea, were drowned. The 
 Veeder of the fleet, Don Antonio de Manrique, was one of those 55 
 who reached the shore ; and he was the first person that carried 
 certain news to Spain of their " now "vincible navy." This huge 
 bottom, manned with 400 soldiers and 300 galley-slaves, had also 
 50^000 ducats on board; "a booty," says Speed, "well fitting 
 the English soldiers' affections." Having ransacked all, and eo 
 freed the slaves from their miserable fetters, they were about to 
 ^t that vessel of emptiness on fire ; but the governor of Calais * 
 would not permit this, fearing, it is said, the damage that might 
 thereupon ensue tp the town and haven. He fired, therefore, 
 upon the captors, and the ship and ordnance became his prize. 65 
 
 The duke, when the fire-ships were first perceived, had ordered 
 the whole fleet to weigh anchor and stand off to sea, and when 
 the .dangM- was over, return every ship to its former station. 
 The first part of this order they were too much alarmed to wait 
 for or tp lieed ; and when he returned himself, and fired a signal 70 
 fpr others tP fpUpw his example, the gun was heard by few, 
 *' because they were scattered aU about, and driven by fear, 
 some of them into the wide sea, and some among the shoals of 
 Handers." Little broken yet in strength, though now losing 
 fast the hope and the cpnfidence with which they had set forth, 75 
 Ihey ranged themsetees again in order off GraveUnes ; and there 
 they Kere bravehr attacked. Drake and Fenner were the first 
 who assailed them: Fenton, Southwell, Beeston, Cross, and 
 Eeyman followed ; and then the lord admiral came up, with lord 
 Thomas Howard and lord Sheffield. They got the wind of the so 
 enemy, who were now cut off from Calais roads, and preferred 
 any inconvenience rather than change their array or separate 
 their force, standing only upon their defence. "And albeit 
 there were many excellent and warlike ships in the English fleet, 
 yet scarce were there two or three and twenty among them aU 85 
 which matched ninety of the Spanish ships in bigness, or could 
 conveniently assault them. Wherefore, using their prerogative 
 of nimble steerage, whereby they could turn and wield themselves 
 
 17 
 
253 KOBEET SOUTHET. 
 
 with the wincl which way they listed, they came often-times very 
 90 near upon the Spaniards, and charged them so sore, that now 
 and then they were but a pike's length asunder ; and so contin- 
 ually giving them one broadside after another, they discharged 
 all their shot, both great and small, upon them, spending a whole 
 day, from morning till night, in that violent kind of conflict. ' ' 
 95 " We had such advantage," says Lord Monmouth, " both of 
 wind and tide, that we had a glorious day of them, continuing 
 fight from four o'clock in the morning till five or six at night." 
 During the action, the Spaniards, " l3dng close under their fight- 
 , ing sails," past Dunkirk with a south-west wind, close followed 
 
 100 by their enemies. Their gi-eat ships were found vulnerable in 
 the close action of that day ; many of them were pierced through 
 and through between wind and water : one was sunk by Captain 
 Cross, in the Hope : from a few of her people who were saved, 
 it was learnt that one of her officers, having proposed to strike, 
 
 105 was put to death by another ; a brother of the slain instantly 
 avenged his death, and then the ship went down. Two others 
 are beheved to havB sunk. The Saint Philip and the Saint Mat- 
 thew, both Portuguese galleons, were much shattered. Don 
 Diego de Pimentel, in the latter, endeavored to assist the former, 
 
 110 but in vain ; for being ' ' sore battered with many great shot by 
 Sejrmour and Winter," and the mast shot away, the Saint 
 PhiUp was driven oti Ostend ! As a last chance, the officers en- 
 deavored to make for a Flemish port ; but finding it impossible 
 to bring the ship into any friendly harbor, they got to Ostend in 
 
 115 the boats, and the galleon was taken possession of from Flushing. 
 
SASrUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 25£r 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 (Prose Works.') 
 
 It seems to me that his plajs are distinguished from those of 
 all other dramatic poets by the following chai-acteristics : 
 
 1. Expectation in preference to sui-prise. It is Hke the true 
 reading of the passage, ' • God said, Let there be hght, and there 
 was light; " not there was light. As the feeling with which we 5 
 startle at a shooting star compared with that of watching the 
 sunrise at the preestablished moment, such and so low is surjDrise 
 compared with expectation. 
 
 2. Signal adherence to the general law of nature, that all 
 opposites tend to attract and temper each other. Passion in lo 
 Shakespeare generally displays libertinism, but involves moral- 
 ity ; and if there are exceptions to this, they are independently 
 of their intrinsic value, all of them indicative of individual char- 
 acter, and, like the farewell admonitions of the parent, have an 
 end beyond the parental relation. Thus the countess's beautiful 15 
 precepts to Bertram, by elevating her character, raise that of 
 Helena her favorite, and soften down the points in her which 
 Shakespeare does not mean us not to see, but to see and to for- 
 give, and at length to justify. And so it is in Polonius, which 
 
 is the personified memory of wisdom no longer possessed. This 20 
 admirable character is always misrepresented on the stage. 
 Shakespeare never intended to exhibit him as a buffoon ; for 
 although it was natural for Hamlet, — a young man of fire and 
 genius, detesting formality, and disliking Polonius on political 
 grounds, as imagining that he had assisted his uncle in his 25 
 usurpation, — should express himself satirically, — yet this must 
 
260 SAHl-EX TATLOR COiERIDGE. 
 
 not be taken as exactly the poet's conception of him. In Polo- 
 nius a certain induration of character had arisen from long habits 
 of business ; but take his advice to Laertes, and Ophelia's rever- 
 
 30 ence for his memory, and we shall see that he was meant to be 
 represented as a statesman somewhat past his faculties — his 
 recollections of life aU f uU of wisdom, and showing a knowledge 
 of human nature, whilst what immediately takes place before 
 him, and escapes from him, is indicative of weakness. 
 
 35 But as in Homer all the deities are in armour, even Venus ; so 
 in Shakespeare aU the characters are strong. Hence real foUy 
 and dullness are made by him the vehicles of wisdom. There is 
 no difficulty for one being a fool to imitate a fool ; but to be, 
 jemain, and speak like a wise man and a great wit, and yet so as 
 
 40 to give a vivid representation of a veritable fool, — hie labor, hoc 
 opus est. A drunken constable is not uncommon, nor hard to 
 draw ; but see and examine what goes to make up a Dogberry. 
 
 3. Keeping at all times in the high road of Ufe. Shakespeare 
 has no innocent adulteries, no interesting incests, no virtuous 
 
 is vice ; — he never renders that amiable which religion and reason 
 alike teach us to detest, or clothes impurity in the garb of ■virtue, 
 like Beaumont and Fletcher, the Kotzebues of the day. Shake- 
 speare's fathers are roused by ingratitude, his husbands stung 
 by unfaithfulness ; in him, in short, the affections are wounded 
 
 fio in those points in which all may, nay, must, feel. Let the 
 morality of Shakespeare be contrasted with that of the writers 
 of his own or the succeeding age, or of those of the present day, 
 who boast their superiority in that respect. No one can dispute' 
 that the result of such a comparison is altogether in favor of 
 
 55 Shakespeare ; — even the letters of women of high rank in his 
 age were often coarser than his writings. If he occasionally 
 disgusts a keen sense of delicacy he never injures the mind ; he 
 jieither excites or flatters passion, in order to degrade the sub- 
 ject of it ; he does not use the faulty thing for a faulty purpose, 
 
 60 nor carries on warfare against virtue, by causing wickedness to 
 appear as no wickedness, through a medium of a morbid sym- 
 pathy with the unfortunate. In Shakespeare vice never walks 
 as in twilight ; nothing is purposely out of place ; — he inverts 
 Jiot the 'Order of nature and pxopriety, — does not make every 
 
SAMTEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 261 
 
 niflgistrate a drunkard or glutton, nor every poor man meek, 65 
 humane, and temperate; he has no benevolent butchers, nor 
 any sentimental rat-catchers. 
 
 i. Independence of the dramatic interest on the plot. The 
 interest in the plot is always in fact on account of the charac- 
 ters, not vice versa, as in almost all other writers ; the plot is a 70 
 mere canvass and no more. Hence arises the true justification 
 of the same stratagems being used in regard to Benedict and 
 Beatrice, — the variety in each being alike. Take away from 
 the Much Ado About Nothing all that which is not indispensable 
 to the plot, either as having little to do with it, or, at best like is 
 Dogberry and his comrades, forced into the service, when any 
 other less ingenuously absurd watchman and night- constable 
 would have answered the mere necessities of the action ; take 
 away Benedict, Beatrice, Dogberry, and the reaction of the 
 former on the character of Hero, —and what will remain? In so 
 other writers the main agent of the plot is always the prominent 
 character; in Shakespeare it is so, or is not so, as the char- 
 acter is in itself calculated, or not calculated, to form the plot. 
 Don John is the main spring of the plot of this play ; but he is 
 merely shown and then withdrawn. 85 
 
 5. Independence of the interest on the story as the ground- 
 work of the plot. Hence Shakespeare never took the trouble of 
 inventing stories. It was enough for him to select from those 
 that had been already invented or recorded such as had one or 
 other, or both, of two recommendations, namely, suitableness to 90 
 his particular purpose, and their being parts of popular tradi- 
 tion, — names of which we had often heard, and of their for- 
 tunes, and as to which aU we wanted was, to see' the man him- 
 self. So it is just the man himself, the Lear, the Shylock, the 
 Eichard, that Shakespeare makes us for the first time acquainted 95 
 ■wifti. Omit the first scene in Lear, and j-et every thing wiU 
 remain ; so the first and second scenes in the Merchant of 
 Venice. Indeed it is universally true. 
 
 6. Interfusion of the lyrical — that which in its very essence 
 
 is poetical — not only with the dramatic, as in the plays of 100 
 Metastasio, when at the end of the scene comes the aria as the 
 exit; speech of the character, — but also in and through the 
 
262 SAJIUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 dramatic. Songs in Shakespeare are introduced as songs only, 
 just as songs are in real Kfe, beautifully as some of them are 
 
 105 characteristic of the person who has sung or called for them, 
 as Desdemona's ""Willow," and Ophelia's wild snatches, and 
 the sweet caroUings in As You Like It. But the whole of the 
 Midsummer Night's Dream is one continued spectacle of the 
 dramatized lyrical. And observe how exquisitely the dramatic 
 
 110 of Hotspur ; — 
 
 Marry, and I'm glad on't with all my heart; 
 I'd rather be a kitten and cry — mew, etc., 
 
 melts awaj' into the lyric of Mortimer ; — 
 
 I understand thy looks : that pretty Welsh 
 115 Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavems, 
 
 I am too perfect in, etc. 
 
 Henry IV., Part I., Act III., Scene I. 
 
 7. The characters of the dramatis personce, like those in real 
 life, are to be inferred by the reader ; — they are not told to him. 
 And it is well worth remarking that Shakespeare's characters, 
 
 120 like those in real life, are very commonly misunderstood, and 
 almost always understood by different persons in different ways. 
 The causes are the same in either case. If you take only what 
 the friends of the character say, you may be deceived, and stUl 
 more so, if that which his enemies say ; • nay, even the character 
 
 125 himself sees himself through the medium of his character, and 
 not exactly as he is. Take all together, not omitting a shrewd 
 hint from the clown or the fool, and perhaps your impression 
 will be right ; and you may know whether you have in fact dis- 
 covered the poet's own idea, by all the speeches receiving light 
 
 130 from it, and attesting its reality by reflecting it. 
 
 Lastly, in Shakespeare the heterogeneous is united, as it is in 
 nature. You must not suppose a pressure or passion always 
 acting on it or in the character ! — passion in Shakespeare is that 
 by which the individual is distinguished from others, not that 
 
 135 which makes a different kind of him. Shakespeare followed the 
 main march of the human affections. He entered into no 
 analysis of the passions or faiths of men, but assured himself 
 that such and such passions and faiths were grounded in om- 
 
SAirUEL TATLOR COLERIDGE. 263 
 
 common nature, and not in the mere ignorance of disease. This 
 is an important consideration, and constitutes our Shakespeare uo 
 the morning star, the gviide and pioneer, of true philosophy. 
 
 Shakespeare, possessed of wit, humor, fancy, and imagination, 
 tuilt up an outward world fi-om the stores within his mind, as 
 the bee finds a hive from a thousand sweets gathered from a 
 thousand flowers. He was not only a great poet but a great us 
 philosopher. Richard m., lago, and Falstaff are men who 
 reverse the order of things, who place intellect at the head, 
 whereas, it ought to follow, like Greometry, to prove and to con- 
 firm. Xo man, either hero or saint, ever acted from an unmixed 
 motive ; for let him do what he will rightly, stUl Conscience 150 
 whispers "it is your duty." Richard, laughing at conscience, 
 and sneering at religion, felt a confidence in his intellect, which 
 urged him to conmait the most horrid crimes, because he felt 
 himself, although inferior in form and shape, superior to those 
 aroimd him ; he felt he possessed a power which they had not. 155 
 lago on the same principle, conscious of superior intellect, gave 
 scope to his envy, and hesitated not to ruin a gallant, open, 
 and generous friend in the moment of fehcity, because he was 
 not promoted as he expected. Othello was superior in place, 
 but lago felt him to be inferior in intellect, and um-estrained by I60 
 conscience, trampled upon him. — Falstaff, not a degraded man 
 of genius, like Burns, but a man of degraded genius, with the 
 same consciousness of superiority to his companions, fastened 
 himself on a young Prince, to prove how much his influence on 
 an heir-apparent would exceed that of a statesman. With this les 
 view he hesitated not to adopt the most contemptible of aU 
 characters, that of an open and professed Uar : even his sensuality 
 was subservient to his intellect ; for he appeared to drink sack, ■ 
 that he might have occasion to show his wit. One thing, 
 however, worthy of observation, is the perpetual contrast of 170 
 labor in Falstaff to produce wit, with the ease with which Prince 
 Henry parries his shafts ; and the final contempt which such a 
 character deserves and receives from the young King, when 
 Falstaff exhibits the struggle of inward detei-mination with an 
 outward show of humility. 175 
 
26J: SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 FEA^'CE. AN ODE. 
 
 Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 
 Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roU, 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 5 Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds singing, 
 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclining, 
 Save when your own imperious branches swinging, 
 
 Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
 Where, like a man beloved of God, 
 10 Through glooms, which never woodman trod. 
 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 
 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
 By each rude shape and wUd unconquerable sound. 
 15 O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 
 
 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared ! 
 Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! 
 Yea every thing that is and wiU be free ! 
 Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 
 20 With what deep worship I have still adored 
 
 The spirit of divinest Libertj-. 
 
 Wben France in wrath her giant limbs upreared, 
 And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, 
 Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, 
 25 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared I 
 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Uhawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
 And wten to whelm the disenchanted nation 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
 30 The jMonarchs marched in evil day, 
 
 And Britain joined the dire array- 
 Though dea^ her shores and circtihg ocean, 
 "Thougti many friendships, many youthful loves 
 Had swoU'n the patriot emotion 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR- COLERIBGE. 265 
 
 And Mng a magic light o'er all lier hills and gi?6Ves ; 35 
 
 Yet stiU my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lanCe, 
 And shame too long delayed and vain retreat ! 
 For ne'er, O Liberty ! vrith pai-tial aim 
 I dimmed thy hghtor damped thy holy flame ; 40 
 
 But blessed the paeans of deUvered France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 "And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream 
 
 With that sweet m:ua<5 of dehverance strove ! 
 
 Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 43 
 
 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! 
 
 Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled, 
 The Sun was rising, though ye hid his hght! " 
 
 And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, 
 The dissonance ceased, and all seemed cahn and bright ; 50 
 
 When Ffance her front deep^scarr'd and gory' 
 
 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
 When, insupportftbly advancing, 
 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp ; 
 
 While timid looks Of fury glailcing, ss 
 
 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her' fatal stanip. 
 Writhed Uke a wounded dragon in his gore. 
 
 Then I reproached my fears that would not flee ; 
 "And soon," I saSd, " shall Wisdom teach het \oi6 
 In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 60 
 
 And, conquering by hef happiness alone, 
 
 Shall France compel the nations to be frig© 
 TUS Love and Jdy looK round, afid call the Eartfc tteif otvn. ' ' 
 
 Forgive aie, Freedom ! 6 fCrgive thfese d*6am« I 
 
 I hear thy voice, I hea* iky lotid- lam^t^ 63 
 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy eAvetrfi sent^-- 
 I hear thy grostas upon h€T.bl60d-s?ldined stfefttriS P 
 
 Heroes, that for fOVr pe^etdl 6&ant^ Tp&i^^&df 
 And ye that, fleeing^ Spot yoW moufitain-snows 
 
266 SAjrUEL TAYLOR COLERIDSE. 
 
 70 With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherished 
 
 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 
 To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, 
 Wbere Peace her jealous home had built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 75 Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 
 And with inexpiable spirit 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
 O France, that mocked Heaven, adulterous, bUnd, 
 And patript only in pernicious toils, 
 «(i Are these thy boasts. Champion of human Mnd? 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, 
 Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; 
 To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
 From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? 
 
 85 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain. 
 
 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
 O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
 90 Have I pursued thee,, many a weary hour ; 
 
 But thou nor swell' st the victor's strain, nor ever 
 Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
 Ahke from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 
 95 Ahke from Priestcraft's happy minions. 
 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ! 
 And there I felt thee ! — on that searcUff' s verge, 
 100 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above. 
 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge I 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
 And shot my being *rough earth, sea, and air, 
 Possessing all things with intensest love, 
 105 O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR dXiailDGE. 267 
 
 HYilN. 
 
 (Before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni.^ 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morniag-star 
 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 
 On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 
 Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! b 
 
 Eisest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
 
 An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, 
 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, lo 
 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and sHent Mount ! I gazed upon thee. 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 13 
 
 1 worshiped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
 So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought. 
 Tea, with my life and Mfe's own secret joy 20 
 
 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing there 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these sweUing^ars, 25 
 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
 O strugghng with the darkness aU the night, 30 
 
 And visited all night by troops of stars. 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 
268' SAM0EL TATLOK COLEKIDGE. 
 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 35 Co-herald : wake, O, wake, and utter praise ! 
 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 
 10 Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 
 45 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came), 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 50- Adowa enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who m,ade you glorious as the gates- of Heaven 
 55 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
 
 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands atyoui* feet? 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 60 God ! sing ye meaxibw-streams with gladsome voice ! 
 
 Ye pine-groves^, with your soft and soul-like sounds I 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snotv, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
 65 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nestf 
 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm f 
 Ye lightnings, the dfead' arrows of the dduds t 
 Ye signs and wondefs of the elements ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill' the hills With praise I 
 
S4MUEL TAYJLOK COLEKIDGE. 269 
 
 Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, 70 
 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75 
 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud. 
 To rise before me, — Rise, O ever rise, 
 
 Else like a cloud of incense from the earth ! so 
 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
 Thou dread embassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
 And teU the stars and tell yon rising sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises Grod. ss 
 
270 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOE. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 There is delight in singing, though none hear 
 
 Beside the singer : and there is delight 
 
 In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
 
 And see the praised far off him, far above. 
 
 Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's. 
 
 Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, 
 
 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale. 
 
 No man hath walkt along our roads with step 
 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer chmes 
 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze 
 
 Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 
 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfl, where 
 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 
 
 IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON. 
 
 Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
 At Auhs, and when all beside the king 
 Had gone away, took his right hand, and said : 
 ' ' O father ! I am j'ouhg and very happy. 
 I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
 Distinctly what the goddess spake ; old age 
 Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
 My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, 
 While I was resting on her knee both arms, 
 
WAITER SAVAGE LAXDOR. 271 
 
 And hitting it to make her mind my words, lo 
 
 And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
 
 Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, 
 
 Spoken from so far off, even from Oljonpus? " 
 
 The father placed his cheek upon her head, 
 
 And tears dropt down it ; but the king of men 15 
 
 RepUed not. Then the maiden spake once more : 
 
 "O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not 
 
 Me, whom thou ever hast, until this horn-. 
 
 Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
 
 To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 20 
 
 When it was inarticulate as theirs. 
 
 And the down deadened it within the nest? " 
 
 He moved her gently from him, silent stOl ; 
 
 And this, and this alone, brought tears from her. 
 
 Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs : 25 
 
 ' ' I thought to have laid down my hair before 
 
 Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed 
 
 Her polished altar with my ^Trgin blood ; 
 
 I thought to have selected the white flowers 
 
 To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each 30 
 
 By name, and with no sorrowful regret, 
 
 Whether, since both iny parents willed the change, 
 
 I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow ; 
 
 And (after these who mind us girls the most) 
 
 Adore our own Athene, that she would 35 
 
 Regard me mildly with her azure eyes, — - 
 
 But, father, to see you no more, and see 
 
 Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone ! " 
 
 Gently he moved her off, and drew her back. 
 
 Bending his lofty head far over hers ; 40 
 
 And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 
 
 He turned awaj-, — not far, but silent stiU. 
 
 She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh. 
 
 So long a silence seemed the approach of death. 
 
 And like it. Once again she raised her voice : a 
 
 "O father! if the ships are now detained. 
 
 And aU your vows move not the gods above, 
 
272 WALTER SAVAGE LANPOK. 
 
 When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 
 The less to them : and purer can there be 
 
 50 -A-iiy; or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer 
 
 For her dear father's safety and success? " 
 A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
 An aged man now entered, and without 
 One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist 
 
 55 Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 
 
 The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes. 
 Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried : 
 "O father! grieve no more : the ships can sail. " 
 
 LINES FROM PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 {Imaginary Conversations,') 
 
 We mind not how the sun in the mid-sky 
 Is hastening on : but when the golden orb 
 Strikes the extreme of earth, and when the gulfs 
 Of air and ocean open to receive him, 
 
 5 Dampness and gloom invade us ; then we think, 
 
 Ah ! thus it is with Youth. Too fast his feet 
 •Run on for sight ; hour follows hour ; fair maid 
 Succeeds fair maid ; bright eyes bestar his couch ; 
 The cheerful horn awakens him ; the feast, 
 
 10 The revel, the entangling dance, allure. 
 
 And voices .mellower than the Muse's own 
 
 Heave up his buoyant bosom on their wave. 
 
 A little while, and then : . . . Ah Youth ! dear Youth ! 
 
 Listen not to my words . . . but stay with me ! 
 
 15 AMien thou art gone. Life may go too ; the sigh 
 
 Tliat f ollpws is for thee, and not for Life. 
 
 The thorns that pierce most deep are prest 
 Only the closer to the breast : 
 To dwelLon them is now relief, 
 
 a ' 
 
 And tea«s ^alone are balm to grief ! 
 
CHAKLES LAMB. 273 
 
 CHAKLES LAMB. 
 
 THE TWO RACES OF MEN. 
 (Essays of Elia.) 
 
 The human species, according to the^ best theory I can form of 
 it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and 
 the men who lend. To these two original diversities may be 
 reduced all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic 
 tribes, white men, black men, red men. All the dweUers upon 5 
 earth, "Parthians, and Medes, and Etemites," flock hither, and 
 do naturally fall in with one or other of these primary distinc- 
 tions. The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose 
 to designate as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, 
 and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born de- 10 
 graded. "He shall serve his brethren." There is something 
 in the air of one of this caste, lean and conspicuous ; contrasting 
 with the open, trusting, generous manners of the other. 
 
 Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages — 
 Alcibiades — Falstaff — Sir Richard Steele — our late incompar- 15 
 able Brinsley — what a family likeness in all four ! 
 
 What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower ! what 
 a rosy gill! what a beautiful reliance pn Providence doth he 
 manifest, — taking no more thought than lilies ! What contempt 
 for money, — accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better 20 
 than dross ! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic dis- 
 tinctions of meum and tuum ! or rather what a noble simplification 
 of language (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed opposites 
 into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective ! — What near 
 approaches doth he make to the primitive community, — to the 25 
 extent of one-half of the principle at least. 
 
 18 
 
274 CHAKLES LAMB. 
 
 He is the true taxer who " calleth all the world up to be 
 taxed ; " and the distance is as vast between him. and one of us, 
 as subsisted between the Augustan Majesty and the poorest 
 
 30 obolary Jew that paid his tribute-pittance at Jerusalem! — His 
 exactions, too, have such a cheerful, voluntary air! So far 
 removed from your sour i^arochial or state-gatherers, — those 
 inkhorn varlets, who carry their want of welcome in their faces ! 
 He Cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no 
 
 35 receipt ; confining himself to no set season. Every day is his 
 Candlemas, or his feast of Holy Michael. He appheth the lene 
 tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse, — which to that 
 gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally as the 
 cloak of the traveller, for which the sun and wind contended! 
 
 40 He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth ! The sea which 
 taketh handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the victim, 
 whom he dehghted to honor, struggles with destiny ; he is in the 
 net. Lend therefore cheerfully, Q man ordained to lend — that 
 thou lose not in the end, •with thy worldly penny, the reversion 
 
 45 promised. Combine not preposterously in thine- own person the 
 penalties of Lazarus and of Dives ! — but, when thou seest the 
 proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way. 
 Come, a handsome sacrifice! See how light he makes of it. 
 Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy. 
 
 50 Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by 
 the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq. , who parted this 
 life on Wednesday evening ; dying, as he had lived, without 
 much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty 
 ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in 
 
 65 this reahn. In his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock 
 to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself invested 
 with ample revenues ; which, with that noble disinterestedness 
 which I have noticed as inherent in men of the gi'eat race, he 
 took almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring 
 
 60 to nothing ; for there is something revolting in the idea of a king 
 holding a private purse, and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. 
 
■WALTEE SCOTT. 27&. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 THE BAED. 
 
 (The Lay of the Last Minstrel — Introduction.) 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold, 
 
 The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 
 
 His withered cheek and tresses gray, 
 
 Seemed to have known a better day ; 
 
 The harp, his sole remaining joy, 5 
 
 Was carried by an orphan boy. 
 
 The last of all the Bards was he. 
 
 Who sung of Border chivalry ; 
 
 For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, 
 
 His tuneful brethren all were dead ; 10 
 
 And he, neglected and oppressed. 
 
 Wished to be with them, and at rest. 
 
 No more on prancing palfrey borne, 
 
 He caroUed, light as lark at morn ; 
 
 No longer courted and caressed, 15 
 
 High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
 
 He poured to lord and lady gay, 
 
 The unpremeditated lay : 
 
 Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 
 
 A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 20 
 
 The bigots of the iron time 
 
 Had called his harmless art a crime. 
 
 A wandering Harper, scorned and poor, 
 
 He begged his bread from door to door, 
 
 And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 25 
 
 The harp a Mng had loved to hear. 
 
276 WALTEB SCOTT. 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY. 
 {Canto II.) 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 
 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 5 When the broken arches are black in night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel gUmmers white ; 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 
 Streams on the ruined central tower ; 
 
 When buttress and buttress, alternately, 
 10 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 
 When stiver edges the imagery. 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, 
 15 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then -^iew St. David's ruined pile ; 
 
 And, home returning, soothly sware, 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 BREATHES THERE A MA:s' WITH SOUL SO DEAD. 
 {Canto VI.) 
 
 Breathes there a man, with soul so dead. 
 Who never to himself hath said. 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne*er within him burned. 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned. 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 If such there breathe, go, mark hiin well ; 
 For him no Minstrel raptures swell ; 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 277 
 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 
 Boundless his ■wealth as wish can claim ; lo 
 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 
 The wretch, concentred all in self. 
 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 
 To the vUe dust, from whence he sprung, 15 
 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 11. 
 
 O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 
 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, 20 
 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the filial band, , 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 
 Still as I view each well-known scene. 
 
 Think what is now, and what hath been, 25 
 
 Seenis as, to me, of all bereft. 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; 
 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 
 By Yarrow's streams stUl let me stray, so 
 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break. 
 
 Although it chiU my withered cheek ; 
 
 Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 35 
 
 The Bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 PAETING OF MAEMION AKD DOUGLAS. 
 (^Marmion, Canto VI.) 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Not far advanced was morning day, 
 When Marmion did his troop array 
 
278 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
 He had safe conduct for his band, 
 5 Beneath the royal seal and hand, 
 
 And Douglas gave a guide : 
 The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
 "Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
 And whispered in an undertone, 
 
 10 "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 
 
 The train from out the castle drew, 
 But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : — 
 ' ' Though something I might plain, ' ' he said, 
 " Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
 
 15 Sent hither by your King's behest. 
 
 While in TantaUon's towers I staid ; 
 Part we in friendship from your land. 
 And, noble Earl, receive my hand." 
 But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
 
 20 Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 
 
 "My manors, haUs, and bowers, shall still 
 Be open at my Sovereign's wiU, 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
 
 25 ■■ My castles are my King's alone. 
 
 From turret to foundation-stone — 
 The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
 And never shall in friendly grasp 
 The hand of such as Marmion clasp. ' ' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 30 Burned Marmion' s swarthy cheek like fire, 
 
 And shook his frame for very ire. 
 And — "This to me ! " he said, 
 "An 'twere not for thy hoarj^ beard 
 Such hand as Marmion' s had not spared 
 
 35 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 
 And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
 He, who does England's message here, 
 Although the meanest in her state. 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
 
■WALTER SCOTT. 279 
 
 And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 40 
 
 Even in thy pitch of pride. 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
 (Nay, never look upon your lord. 
 And lay your hands upon your sword, ) 
 
 I tell thee thou'rt defied ! 45 
 
 And if thou said'st I am not peer 
 To any lord in Scotland here. 
 Lowland, or Highland, far or near. 
 
 Lord Angus, thou hast Hed! " 
 On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 50 
 
 O'ereame the ashen hue of age : 
 Pierce he broke forth, — "And darest thou then 
 To beard the lion in his den, 
 
 The Douglas in his hall? 
 And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — B5 
 
 No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
 Up drawbridge, grooms — what, "Warder, ho! 
 
 Let the portcuUis fall." — 
 Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, 
 And dashed the rowels in his steed, eo 
 
 Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
 The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
 To pass there was such scanty room. 
 The bars descending, razed his plume. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies, 65 
 
 Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
 
 Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
 
 And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
 
 He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 70 
 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 
 "Horse! horse! " the Douglas cried, " and chase! " 
 
 But soon he reinfed his fury's pace : 
 
 " A royal messenger he came, 75 
 
280 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Though most unworthy of the name. — 
 A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! 
 Did ever knight so foul a deed ! 
 At first in heart it liked me ill, 
 
 80 When the King praised his clerkly skill. 
 
 Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 
 Save Gawain, ne'er could ]>en a line : 
 So swore I, and I swear it stDl, 
 Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
 
 85 Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 
 
 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
 I thought to slay him where he stood. 
 'Tis pity of him, too," he cried : 
 "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, 
 
 90 I warrant him a warrior tried. ' ' 
 
 With this his mandate he recalls. 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 THE MONKS OF BANGOE'S MABCH. 
 
 When the heathen trumpet's clang 
 Round beleaguer' d Chester rang. 
 Veiled nun and friar gray 
 Marched from Bangor's fair Abbaye ; 
 3 High their holy anthem sounds, 
 
 Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, 
 Floating down the sylvan Dee, 
 
 O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 On the long procession goes, 
 10 Glory round their crosses glows. 
 
 And the Virgin-mother mild 
 In their peaceful banner smiled ; 
 Who could think such saintly band 
 Doomed to feel unhallowed hand? 
 15 Such was the Divine decree, 
 
 O miserere^ Domine ! 
 
■WALTEK SCOTT. 281 
 
 Bands that masses only sung, 
 
 Hands that censers only swung, 
 
 Met the northern bow and bill. 
 
 Heard the war-cry wild and shriU : 20 
 
 Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand. 
 
 Woe to Olfrid's bloody band, 
 
 Woe to Saxon cruelty, 
 
 O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 Weltering amid warriors slain, 25 
 
 Spurned by steeds with bloody mane, 
 
 Slaughtered down by heathen blade, 
 
 Bangor's peaceful monks are laid : 
 
 Word of parting rest unspoke. 
 
 Mass unsung and bread unbroke ; 30 
 
 For their souls for charity, 
 
 Sing, O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 Bangor! o'er the murder wail! 
 
 Long thy ruins told the tale. 
 
 Shattered towers and broken arch 35 
 
 Long recalled the woeful march : 
 
 On thy shrine no tapers burn. 
 
 Never shall thy priests return, 
 
 The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, 
 
 O miserere, Domine ! io 
 
 HTUSTTING SONG. 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 On the mountain dawns the day. 
 All the jolly chase is here. 
 With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ! 
 Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
 Hawks are whisthng, horns are knelling, 
 Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 
 "Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
282 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 10 The mist has left the mountain gray. 
 
 Springlets in the dawfa are steaming, 
 Diamonds on the brakd'are gleaming : 
 And foresters have busy been. 
 To track the buck in thickest green : 
 
 IS Now come we to chant our lay, 
 
 ' ' Waken, lords and ladies gaj'. ' ' 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 To the green-wood haste away : 
 We can show you where he lies, 
 20 Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 
 
 We can show the marks he made. 
 When gainst the oak his antlers frayed ; 
 You shall see him brought to bay. 
 ' ' Waken, lords and ladies gay. ' ' 
 
 25 Louder, louder chant the lay, 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
 Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee. 
 Run a course as well as we ; 
 Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 
 
 30 Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day, 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF ELLjUSTGOWAlf. 
 {(}uy Manhiring.) 
 
 The schoolmaster, without further answer, rose and threw open 
 a door half-sashed with glass, which led to an old-fashioned 
 terrace- walk, behind the modern house, communicating with the 
 platform on which the ruins of the ancient castle were situated. 
 6 The wind had arisen and swept before it the clouds which had 
 formerly obscured the sky. The moon was high, and at the full, 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 283 
 
 and an the lesser satellites of heaven shone forth in cloudless 
 effulgence. The scene which their light presented to Mannering 
 was in the highest degree unespected and striking. 
 
 It was one hour after midnight, and the prospect around was lo 
 lovely. The grey old towers of the ruin, partly entire, partly 
 hroken, here bearing the rusty weather-stains of ages, and there 
 partially mantled with ivy, stretched along the verge of the 
 dark rock which rose on Mannering' s right hand. In his front 
 was the quiet bay, whose little waves, crisping, and Sparkling to 15 
 the moonbeams, roUed successively along its surface, and dashed 
 with a soft murmuring ripple against the silvery beach. To 
 the left the woods advanced far into the ocean, waving in the 
 moonlight along ground of an undulating and varied form, and 
 presenting those varieties of light and shadow ; and that inter- 20 
 esting combination of glade and thicket upon which the eye 
 delights to rest, charmed with what it sees, yet curious to pierce 
 stUl deeper into the intricacies of the woodland scenery. Above 
 roUed the planets, each by its own liquid orb of light, distin- 
 guished from the inferior or more distant stars. So strangely 25 
 can imagination affect even those by whose volition it has been 
 excited, that Mannering was half inclined to believe in the 
 influence ascribed to them, by superstition, over human events. 
 If the view of the scene around EUangowan had been pleasing 
 by moonlight, it lost none of its beauty by the Ught of the 30 
 morning sun. The land, even in the month of November, 
 smiled under its influence. A steep but regular ascent led from 
 the terrace to the neighbouring eminence, and conducted Manner- 
 ing to the front of the old castle. It consisted of two massive 
 round towers, projecting deeply and darkly, at the extreme 35 
 angles of a curtain, or flat wall, which united them and thus 
 projecting the main entrance, that opened through a lofty arch 
 in the centre of the curtain into the inner court of the castle. 
 The arms of the family, carved in free-stone, frowned over the 
 gateway, and the portal showed the spaces arranged by the 40 
 architect for lowering the portcullis and raising the draw-bridge. 
 A rude farm-gate, made of young fir trees nailed together, now 
 formed the only safe-guard of this once formidable entrance. 
 The esplanade in front of the castle commanded a noble prospect. 
 
284 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 45 The dreary scene of desolation, through which Mannering's 
 road had lain on the preceding evening, was excluded from the 
 view by some rising ground, and the landscape showed a pleasing 
 alternation of hill and dale, intersected by a river, which was in 
 some places visible and hidden in others, where it rolled betivixt 
 
 50 deep and wooded banks. The spire of the church and the 
 appearance of some houses, indicated the situation of a village 
 at the place where the stream had its junction with the ocean. 
 The vales seemed well cultivated, the little inclosures into which 
 they were divided, skirting the bottom of the hills and sometimes 
 
 55 caiTying their stragghng hedgerows a little way up the ascent. 
 Above these were green pastures tenanted chiefly by herds of 
 black cattle, then the staple cojnmodity of the country, whose 
 distant low- gave no unpleasing animation to the landscape. The 
 remote hiUs were of a sterner character ; and at stiU greater 
 
 60 distance, swelled into mountains of dark heath, bordering the 
 horizon with a screen which gave a defined and limited boundary 
 to the cultivated country, and added, at the same time, the 
 pleasing idea that it was sequestered and solitary. The sea 
 coast which Mannering now saw in its extent corresponded in 
 
 65 variety and beauty with the inland view. In some places it rose 
 in taU rocks frequently crowned with the ruins of old buildings, 
 towers, and beacons, which, according to tradition were placed 
 within sight of each other, that, in times of invasion or civil war, 
 they might communicate by signal for mutual defence and pro- 
 
 70 tection. EUangowan castle was by far the most extensive and 
 important of these ruins, and asserted, from size and situation, 
 the superiority which its founders were said once to have possessed 
 among the chiefs and nobles of the district. In other places the 
 shore was of a more gentle description, indented with small bays', 
 
 75 where the land sloped smoothly down or sent into the sea prom- 
 ontories covered with wood. 
 
THOMAS CATiIPBELL. 285 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL 
 
 SONG OF THE GREEKS. 
 
 Again to the battle, Achaians ! 
 
 Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 
 Our land, — the first garden of Liberty's tree, — 
 It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : 
 
 For the cross of our faith is replanted, 5 
 
 The pale dying crescent is daunted, 
 And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves 
 May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. 
 
 Their spirits are hovering o'er us 
 
 And the sword shall to glory restore us. 10 
 
 Ah ! what though no succour advances. 
 
 Nor Christendom's chivalrous lajices 
 Are stretch' d in our aid — Be the combat our own ! 
 And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 
 
 For we've swore by our country's assaulters, 15 
 
 By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars. 
 By our massacred patriots, our children in chains. 
 By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins. 
 
 That, living, we shall be victorious, 
 
 Or that, dying, our death shaU be glorious. so 
 
 A breath of submission we breathe not : 
 
 The sword we've drawn we wiU sheathe not ! 
 Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
 And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
 
 Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us, 26 
 
 But they shall not to slavery doom us : 
 
286 TH05IAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves : — 
 But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, 
 And new triumphs on land are before us ; — 
 30 To the charge! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 
 
 This day shall ye blush for its story, 
 Or brighten your Uves with its glory. 
 Our women, — O, say, shall they shriek in despair, 
 Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? 
 36 Accursed may his memory blacken. 
 
 If a coward there be that would slacken 
 Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth 
 Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth ! 
 Strike home ! and the world shall revere us 
 40 As heroes descended from heroes. 
 
 Old Greece hghtens up with emotion 
 Her inlandsi, her isles of the ocean ; 
 Fanes rebuilt and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring. 
 And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring: 
 45 Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness. 
 
 That were cold, and extinguished in sadness ; 
 Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, 
 Singing joy to the brave that deliver' d their charms. 
 When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
 50 Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens ! 
 
 YE MAEmEES OF ENGLA3SX). 
 
 Ye mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard oiu" native seas ; 
 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand years, 
 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe ! 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 287 
 
 And sweep through the deep 
 
 While the stormy •winds do blow ; 
 
 "While the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy ■winds do blow. lo 
 
 The spirit of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave I 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And ocean was their grave ; 
 
 "Where Blake and mighty Nelson feU, 15 
 
 Tour manly hearts shall glow, 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 
 "While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 "WMle the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 20 
 
 Biitanuia needs no bulwark, 
 
 Xo towers along the steep ; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 "With thunders from her native oak, 25 
 
 She quells the floods below. 
 
 As they roar on the shore 
 
 "When the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 "When the battle rages loud and long. 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 30 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn ; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart. 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 35 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name, 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more. 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow ! « 
 
288 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 All worldly shapes sljall melt in gloom, 
 The Sun himself must die, 
 
 Before thjs mortal shall assume 
 Its Immortality ! 
 s I saw a vision in my sleep. 
 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 Adown the gulf of Time ! 
 
 I saw the last of human mould, 
 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 10 As Adam saw her prime ! 
 
 The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 The earth with age was wan, 
 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 Around that lonely man ! 
 15 Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
 
 StiU rusted in their bony hands ; 
 In plague and famine some ! 
 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 20 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. 
 With dauntless words and high. 
 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood 
 As if a storm pass'd by — 
 25 Saj-ing, We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
 
 For thou ten thousand thousand years 
 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 30 That shaU no longer flow. 
 
 What though beneath thee man put forth 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 289 
 
 And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 
 
 The vassals of his mil ? — 
 Yet mom-n I not thy parted sway, 85 
 
 Thou dim discroM-ned king of day ; 
 
 For all those trophied arts 
 And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
 Heal'd not a passion or a pang 
 
 Entail' d on human hearts. 40 
 
 Go, let obliTion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon the stage of men, 
 Nor -with thy rising beams recall 
 
 Life's tragedy again. 
 In piteous pageants bring not back, 45 
 
 Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writhe ; 
 Stretch'.d in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
 Or mown in battle by the sword. 
 
 Like grass beneath the scythe. 50 
 
 Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire j 
 Test of all sumless agonies. 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 55 
 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 
 
 To see thou shalt not boast. 
 The eclipse of nature spreads my paU, — 
 The majesty of Darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost ! 60 
 
 This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No ! it shall live again, and shine es 
 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine. 
 
 By Him recall' d to breath, 
 19 
 
290 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Who captive led captivity, 
 Who robbed the grave of Victory, — 
 70 And took the sting from Death ! 
 
 Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
 On Nature's awful waste, 
 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 Of grief that man shaU taste — 
 75 Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
 
 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 
 On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
 
 The darkening universe defy 
 
 To quench his ImmortaUty, 
 80 Or shake his trust in God ! 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Star that bringeth home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 
 If any star shed j)eace, 'tis thou, 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 5 Appearing when heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies. 
 Whilst the landscape's odors rise. 
 Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, 
 10 And songs, when toil is done. 
 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirred 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews. 
 Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
 la Their remembrancer in heaven — 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art. 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
THOMAS SIOOKE. 291 
 
 THOMAS MOOEE. 
 
 A CAXADIA^ BOAT-SONG. 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
 
 Oar voices keep tune and our oars keep trme. 
 
 Soon as the woods on the shore look dim, 
 
 TTe'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
 
 EoTT, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 6 
 
 The rapids are near and the daylight's past. 
 
 Why should "we yet oiu- sail unfurl ? 
 
 There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
 
 But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
 
 O, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. lo 
 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
 
 The rapids are near and the daylight's past. 
 
 TTtawa's tide ! this trembling moon 
 
 Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
 
 Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, is 
 
 Oh grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! 
 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
 
 The rapids are near and the daylight's past. 
 
 EKmi THE TEAK AND THE SMILE IN^ THINE EYES. 
 
 Erin, the tear and the snule in thine eyes. 
 Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy sMes ! 
 Shining through sorrow's stream. 
 
292 THOMAS MOOEE. 
 
 Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
 5 Thy suns with doubtful gleam, 
 
 Weep while they rise. 
 
 Erin, thy silent tear shall never cease, 
 Erin, thy languid smile shall ue'er increase. 
 Till like the rainbow's light, 
 10 Thy various tints unite. 
 
 And form in heaven's sight 
 One arch of peace. 
 
 OH! BEEATHE NOT HIS NAME. 
 
 Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, 
 Where cold and unhonor' d his rehcs are laid : 
 Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed 
 As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er Ms head. 
 
 But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, 
 Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; 
 And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls. 
 Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 
 
 'TIS THE LAST EOSE OE STJMMEE. 
 
 'Tis the last rose of summer 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone ; 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 
 No rosebud is nigh. 
 To reflect back her blushes, 
 
 Or give sigii for sigh. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 293 
 
 I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 
 
 To pine on the stem ; lo 
 
 Since the lovely are sleeping, 
 
 Go, sleep thou with them. 
 Thus kindly I scattei- 
 
 Thj' leaves o'er the hed, 
 Where thj- mates of the garden 15 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may I foUow, 
 
 "WTien friendships decay, 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 
 The gems drop away. 20 
 
 When true hearts he wither' d. 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone ? 
 
 FOEGET XOT THE FIELD. 
 
 Forget not the field where they perish' d, 
 
 The truest, the last of the brave, 
 All gone — and the bright hope we cherish' d 
 
 Gone with them, and quench' d in their grave I 
 
 Oh ! could we from death but recover s 
 
 Those hearts as they bounded before, 
 In the face of high heav'n to fight over 
 
 That combat for freedom once more ; — 
 
 Could the chain for an instant be riven 
 
 Which Tyranny flung round us then, 10 
 
 No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, 
 
 To let Tyranny bind it again ! 
 
 But 'tis past — and tho' blazoned in story 
 The name of our victor may be. 
 
294 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 15 Accursed is the march of that glory 
 
 Which treads o'er the hearts of the free I 
 
 Far dearer the grave or the prison, 
 
 lUuined by one patriot name, 
 Than the trophies of all who have risen 
 20 On Liberty's ruins to fame. 
 
 WREATHE THE BOWL. 
 
 Wreathe the bowl ! 
 
 With flowers of soul, 
 The brightest wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 5 Tow'rds heaven to-night. 
 
 And leave dull earth behind us. 
 
 Should Love amid 
 
 The wreaths be hid. 
 That Joy, th' enchanter, brings us, 
 10 No danger fear, 
 
 "WTule wine is near. 
 We'll drown him if he stings us. 
 
 Then, wreathe the bowl 
 
 With flowers of soul, 
 15 The brightest wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Tow'rds heaven to-night. 
 And leave dull earth behind us. 
 
 'Twas nectar fed 
 20 Of old, 'tis said, 
 
 Their Junos, Joves, ApoUos ; 
 And man may brew 
 His nectar too, 
 The rich receipt's as follows : 
 25 Take wine like this, 
 
 Let looks of bUss 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 295 
 
 Around it well be blended, 
 
 Then bring -wit's beam 
 
 To warm the stream, 
 And there's your nectar splendid ! so 
 
 So wreathe the bowl 
 
 "With flowers of soul, 
 The brightest wit can find us ; 
 
 TTe'll take a flight 
 
 Tow'rds heaven to-night, 85 
 
 And leave dull earth behind us. 
 
 Say, why did Time, 
 
 His glass sublime, 
 Fni up with sands unsightly. 
 
 When wine he knew lo 
 
 Runs brisker through 
 And sparkles far more brightly? 
 
 Oh, lend it us. 
 
 And, smiling ■yjius. 
 The glass in two we'll sever, is 
 
 Make pleasure glide 
 
 In double tide, 
 And flU both ends forever ! 
 
 Then wreathe the bowl 
 
 "With flowers of soul, bo 
 
 The brightest wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Tow'rds heaven to-night. 
 And leave dull earth behind us. 
 
 THE TURF SHALL BE. 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine, 
 My temple. Lord ! that Arch of thine ; 
 My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
 And silent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
296 THOMAS MOOKE. 
 
 My choir shall be the moonlight -n-aves, 
 When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
 Or -when the stillness of the sea, 
 Even more than music, breathes of Thee. 
 
 I'll seek by day some glade unknown, 
 All light and silence, like thy Throne ; 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night, 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
 Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
 Shall be my piu-e and shining book. 
 Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
 The glories of thy wondrous name. 
 
 I'U read thy anger in the rack 
 
 That clouds awhile the daybeam's track ; 
 
 Thy mercy in the azure hue 
 
 Of sunny brightness, breaking through. 
 
 There's nothing bright above, below. 
 From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
 But in its Ught my soul can see 
 Some feature of thy Deity ; 
 
 There's nothing dark, below, above, 
 But in its gloom I trace thy Love, 
 And meekly wait that moment, when 
 Thy touch shall turn all bright again ! 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
 How many a tale their music tells. 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, 
 When last I heard their soothing chime. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 297 
 
 Those joyous hours are past away, 5 
 
 And many a heart, that then was gay, 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
 And hears no more those evening beUs. 
 
 And so 'twill be when I am gone ; 
 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on, 10 
 
 While other bards shall walk the dells, 
 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! 
 
 MIEIAM'S SONG. 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph'd — his people are free. 
 Sing — for the pride of the Tyrant is broken, 
 
 His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave — 
 How vain was their boast, for the Lord hath but spoken. 
 
 And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 
 Jehovah has triumph'd — his people are free ! 
 
 Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! 
 
 His word was our an-ow, his breath was our sword. 
 
 Who shall return to teU Egypt the story 
 
 Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
 For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, 
 
 And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 
 Jehovah has triumph'd — his people are free ! 
 
298 LOED BTRON. 
 
 GEOKGE GORDON (LOED BYRON). 
 
 ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 6 Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 10 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo farther west 
 Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 15 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream' d that Greece might still be free ; 
 For standing on the Persian's grave 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 20 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 And when the sun set where were they ? 
 
LOKD BTEOS. - 299 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 25 
 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
 Degenerate into hands hke mine ? 30 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 
 Though link'd among a fetter' d race. 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 
 Even as I sing, si^ffuse my face ; 
 For what is left the poet here ? 3S 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 I 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 
 
 Must we but blush? ' — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth, render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 40 
 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 "What, sUent still? and sUent all? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 4S 
 
 And answer, ' ' Let one living head 
 But one, arise, — we come, wje come ! " 
 Tis but the Jiving who are dumb. 
 
 50 
 
 In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 65 
 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 
300 ■ LOKD BTEON. 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 40 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of things like these t 
 It was Anacreon's song di-viae : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 65 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
 That tjTant was Miltiades. 
 70 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 FLU high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 75 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 80 They have a King who buys and sells • 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 The only-hope of courage dwells. 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 35 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine f 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade - 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid. 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves 
 90 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
IXJED BTBON. 301 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep 
 Where notMng, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down jon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 FROM "THE GIAOTJE." 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 
 Ere the first day of death Is fled, 
 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers). 
 
 And mark'd the mild angeUc air, 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there. 
 
 And fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart. 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Tes, but for these and these alone. 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour. 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd 
 The first, last look by death reveal' d! 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 
302 LORD BTKON. 
 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
 
 so That hue that haunts it to the tomb, 
 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
 The farewell beam of Feeling past away I 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
 
 35 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish' d earth t 
 
 CUme of the unforgotten brave ! 
 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 
 Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! 
 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be 
 10 That this is all remains of thee ? 
 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave ; 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
 
 These waters blue that round you lave. 
 Oh servile offspring of the free — 
 45 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
 
 These scenes, their story not unknown, 
 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 50 The embers of their former fires ; 
 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 
 Win add to theirs a name of fear 
 
 That Tjrranny shall quake to hear, 
 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
 65 They too will rather die than shame : 
 
 For Freedom's battle once begun. 
 
 Bequeath' d by bleeding Sire to Son, 
 
 Though baffled oft is ever won. 
 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
 60 Attest it many a deathless age ! 
 
 While Kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
 
 Have left a nameless pyramid. 
 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 
LORD BTKOX. 303 
 
 A mightier monument command, 65 
 
 The mountains of their native land ! 
 
 There points thy Muse to sti-anger's eye 
 
 The graves of those that cannot die ! 
 
 'Twere long to teU, and sad to trace, 
 
 Each step from splendour to disgrace ; to 
 
 Enough — no foreign foe could queU 
 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
 
 Yes ! seK-abasement paved the -way 
 
 To viUain-bonds and despot sway. 
 
 Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 75 
 
 Tet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. 
 
 Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
 
 Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag. 
 
 The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
 
 May strike to those vrhose red right hands have bought so 
 
 Eights cheaply eam'd Trith blood. — StiU, still, forever 
 
 Better, though each man' s life-blood were a river, 
 
 That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
 
 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
 
 Damm'd Uke the dull canal with locks and chains, ss 
 
 And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
 
 Three paces, and then faltering: — better be 
 
 Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free 
 
 In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
 
 Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 90 
 
 Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
 
 One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
 
 One freeman more, America, to thee ! 
 
 MATT) OF ATHENS 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 
304 LORD BTEON. 
 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 5 Hear my vow before I go, 
 
 ZwTj fiou aaz aya-m. 
 
 By those tresses unconfln'd, 
 Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 10 Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge ; 
 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 Zmfj /luu adg ayaTzm. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 B}' that zone-encircled waist ; 
 15 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 
 Zwr) fiou aiq dyaizai. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
 20 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? 'No ! 
 
 ZaiTj [100 adi; dyaTzm. 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 The King was on his throne, 
 
 The Satraps throng' d the haU ; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 5 A thousand cups of gold, 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless Heathen's wine! 
 
 In that same hour and hall 
 10 The fingers of a hand 
 
LORD BTKOS. 305 
 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 15 
 
 And traced them hke a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw and shook. 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 20 
 
 *'Let the men of lore appear. 
 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 And expound the words of fear 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good, 25 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood. 
 
 Untold and awful stiU. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 30 
 
 But now they were not sage, 
 
 They saw — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth. 
 He heard the King's command, 35 
 
 He saw the writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright. 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 40 
 
 "Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away. 
 He in the balance weigh' d 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 20 
 
306 LOKD BTKON. 
 
 45 The shroud, his robe of state, 
 
 His canopy, the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne ! " 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghostly crew. 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view ; 
 But he died early : and when he was gone, 
 5 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 
 One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's wiU be done I 
 
 I can do nothing ;" and he saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child, 
 10 Of a soft cheek, and aspect deUcate ; 
 
 But the boy bore up long and with a mild 
 
 And patient spirit held aloof his fate : 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled 
 As if to win a part from off the weight 
 15 He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
 
 From his pale Ups, and ever on him gazed : 
 20 And when the wished-for shower at length was 'come, 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the duU film half glazed. 
 Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam. 
 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
 
 Into his dying child's mouth, but in vain! 
 
 2s The boy expired : the father held the dS.y, 
 
 And looked upon it long ; and when at last 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead basrdfen lay 
 
LORD BTROK. 307 
 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 
 He watdhed it TvistfuHy until away 
 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast ; jo 
 
 Then he himself sank down, all dumb and shivering, 
 And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 
 
 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down 
 
 Over the waste of waters ; Hke a veil 
 "Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the f^own 35 
 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
 
 And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
 And the dim, desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 40 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, . — 
 
 Then shriek' d the timid and stood still the brave, — 
 
 Then some leap'd over board with dreadful yeU' 
 As eager to anticipate their grave. 
 
 And the sea yawn'd around her, like a hell, 45 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rushed, 
 
 LouSer than the loud ocean, — like a crash 50 
 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd. 
 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 Of biUows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
 
 Accompanied by a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 55 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 THE PRISONEE OP CHILLON; A FABLE. 
 J. 
 
 My .hair is gray, but not with years. 
 Nor grew it white 
 
308 LORD BYKON. 
 
 In a single night, 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose. 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffer' d chains and courted death ; 
 That father perish' d at the stake 
 Por tenets he. would not forsake ; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 We were seven — who now are one, 
 
 Six in youth and one in age, 
 •Finish' d as they had begun. 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
 One in fire and two in field, 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd: 
 Djdng as their father died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast, 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
 In ChiUon's dungeons deep and old. 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
 
 30 Dim with a dull imprison' d ray, 
 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 
 35 Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
 
 And in each pUlar there is a ring. 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing. 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain. 
 
LORD BYRON. 309" 
 
 With marks that will not weax away, w 
 
 Tin I have done with this new day, 
 
 Which now is painful to these eyes, 
 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
 
 I lost their long and heavy score 45 
 
 When my last hrotlier droop' d and died, 
 
 And I lay Uving by his side. 
 
 They ehain'd us each to a column stone, 
 
 And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
 
 We could not move a single pace, so 
 
 We could not see each other's face. 
 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 
 That made us strangers in our sight : 
 
 And thus together — yet apart. 
 
 Fetter' d in hand, but pined in heart ; 55 
 
 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
 
 Of the pure elements of earth. 
 
 To hearken to each other's speech. 
 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 
 With some new hope, or legend old, so 
 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 
 Our voices took a dreary tone. 
 
 An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
 
 A grating sound — not f uU and free 65 
 
 As'they of yore were wont to be ; 
 
 It might be fancy — but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 
 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father loved, 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 
310 LOBD BTRON. 
 
 75 To him — with eye» as blue as heaven, 
 
 For him. mjr soul -was sorely moved ; 
 And truly mightdt be distress'd 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 ao (When; day was beautiful to me 
 
 As! to, young, eagles being free) — 
 A polar day which will not see 
 A sunset till its summer's gone, 
 Its sleepless summer of long light, 
 85 Thfi. snow-clad offspring of the sun ; 
 
 And thus he was as pure and bright,. 
 And in his natural spirit gay. 
 With tears for nought but others' ills. 
 And then they flowed like mountain riUs, 
 90 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 
 Which he abkonr'd taview below. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 
 But form'd to. combat with his kind; 
 
 Strong ini his; frame, and of a mood 
 95 Whiek gainst the world in war had stood. 
 
 And perish' d in the foremost; rajnk 
 
 With joy : —but not in chains to piae : 
 
 His spirit wither' d with their clank, 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 loe.- And so perchance in sooth did Inine(^ 
 
 But yet I forc'd it on to cheer « 
 
 Those relies of a home so dear. 
 
 He was a hunter of the hills^ 
 
 Had follow' d there the deer and wolf ; 
 105 To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
 
 And fetter' d feet, the worst of iils. 
 
 So tearless^, yet so tender — Mnd, 
 
 And griey/'d for those he left behind : 
 
 With all the. while a cheek whose bloom, 
 110 Was- as a mockery of the tomb^ 
 
 Whose tintsi as- gently sunk, aw aj' 
 
LOKJ) BTKON. 311 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray— ^ 
 
 An eye of most transparent lightj 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur — t- not 115 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, -r- 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise. 
 
 For I was sunk in silence, lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 130 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fidnting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 I listen'd but J could not hear — 
 
 I call'di for I was wild with fear ; 125 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 "Would not, be thus adrnonished ; 
 
 I caU'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rush' d to him; — I found him not, 130 
 
 I only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 J only lived — I only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew : 
 
 Th^. last -^ the sole — the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 135 
 
 "Which bound me to my failing race, 
 
 "Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count— r I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, wo 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
 It was at length the same to me. 
 Fetter' d or fetterless to be, 1*5 
 
 I learn' d to love' despair. 
 And thus when they appear' d at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast. 
 
312 LORD BTHON. 
 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 150 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch' d them in their sullen trade, 
 155 Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
 
 And why should I feel less than they? 
 "We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 Had power to kill — yet strange to tell I 
 160 In quiet we had learn' d to dwell- — 
 
 My very chains and I grew friends', 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain' d my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A HORSE. 
 (Mazeppa, JX.) 
 
 ' ' ' Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brought ; 
 
 In truth he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 Who looked as though the speed of thought 
 5 Were in his Umbs ; but he was wild, 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane, . 
 :o And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 They bound me on, that menial throng. 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 15 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash." 
 
PEKCT BYSSHE SHELLEY. 313 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 THE SEXSITm; PLiNT. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 A sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
 And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
 And it opened its fan-Kbe leaves to the light, 
 And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 
 
 And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 5 
 
 And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere ; 
 
 And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast 
 
 Hose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
 
 But none ever trembled and panted with bUss 
 
 In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 10 
 
 Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
 
 As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 
 
 The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
 
 Arose from the ground with warm rain wet. 
 
 And their breath was mixed with sweet odour, sent 15 
 
 From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 
 
 Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tail. 
 
 And narcissi, the fairest among them aU, 
 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
 
 Till they die of their own dear loveliness. 20 
 
 And the Naiad-Hke lily of the vale. 
 
 Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
 
%\-k EBSeT BYSSHE SHELLET. 
 
 That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
 Through their pavilions of tender green ; 
 
 S5 And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
 Of music so delicate, soft and intense. 
 It was felt like an odour within the sense ; 
 
 And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
 30 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
 
 TiU, fold after fold, to the fainting air. 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 
 
 And the wand-Uke Uly, which lifted up. 
 As a Maenad, its moonUght-colored cup, 
 35 Till the fieiy star, which is its eye. 
 
 Gazed thrqugh the clear dew on the tender sky ; 
 
 And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
 The sweetest flower f o? scent that blows ; 
 And all rare blossoms from every clime 
 40 Grew in that ga,rde,n in perfect, priqje. 
 
 And on the s^tjeam whos^ iaconstaxit bosQta 
 Was prankt, UB,d,eP boughs o( embowering blossQip, 
 With golderi and green light) slanting tbrougb 
 Their heaven qS, many a tangled bHe., 
 
 45 Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
 
 And starry river-buds glimmered by, 
 
 And abound them the soft stream did glide and dance 
 
 With a motJQn of sweet sound and radiance. 
 
 And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, 
 BO Which led through the garden along and across, 
 
 Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
 Some lost acaong bowers of blossQuung trees., 
 
 Were all paved with daisies and delicate beUs, 
 As fabj a? the fabulous aspbodels. 
 
PEECr BTSSHE SHELLEY. 315 
 
 And flowerda wMeh drooping, as day drooped too, 55 
 
 Fell into pasoUons, white, purple, and blue, 
 To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 
 
 And from 1i|is undefiled Paradise,, 
 
 The flowers~(sasaii, infant's awakening eyes 
 
 Smile on its motkei:, whose singing sweet eo 
 
 Can first lull, and at last must awaken it). 
 
 When Heaven' s~ blithe winds had unfolded them, 
 
 As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
 
 Some smiling to Heaven, and every one 
 
 Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 65 
 
 For each one was interpenetrated 
 With the l^ht: and the odour its neighbour shed, 
 Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear^ 
 Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 
 
 But the Sensitive Plant, which could ^ve small fruit 70 
 
 Of \jis- love which it felt from the, leaf tO'the. root. 
 Received more thmt all, it loved more than ever. 
 Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver. 
 
 For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ; 
 
 Radiance and odour are, not. its dower ; 75 
 
 It k)ves».even like I^ove, its deep heart is full. 
 
 It desires what it has not, ' the beautiful ! 
 
 The light winds, which from unsustaining win^ 
 
 Shed the music of many murmuiings ; 
 
 The beams which dart from many a star so 
 
 Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 
 
 The plumed insects swift and free, 
 
 Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
 
 Laden with light and. odour,, which pass 
 
 Over the gloom of the living grass ; 85 
 
 The unseen clouds, of the dew, which lie 
 Like fire io the flowers tiU the sun rides hig^ 
 
316 PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Then wander like spirits among the spheres, 
 Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears : 
 
 90 The quivering vapours of dim noontide, 
 
 Which, like a sea, over the warm earth glide, 
 
 In which every sound, and odour, and beam, 
 
 Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 
 
 Each and aU like ministering angels were 
 95 For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, 
 Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
 Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 
 
 And when evening descended from heaven above. 
 And the Earth was aU rest, and the air was all love, 
 100 And delight, though less bright, was far more deep. 
 And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep, 
 
 And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned 
 In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; 
 Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress 
 icj The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 
 
 (Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
 
 Ever sang more sweet as the day might faU, 
 
 And snatches of its Elysian chant 
 
 Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant. ) 
 
 110 The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
 Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
 A sweet child weary of its delight. 
 The feeblest and yet the favourite. 
 Cradled within the embrace of night. 
 
 ADONAIS. 
 III. 
 
 O, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
 
 Wake melancholy mother, wake and weep ! 
 
PEKCT BTSSHE SHELLEY. 317 
 
 Yet wherefore ? Quench ivithin thy bui-ning bed 
 Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, 
 Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 5 
 
 For he is gone where aU things wise and f air 
 Descend : — oh dream not that the amorous deep 
 Will vet restore him to the vital air ; 
 Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep again ! lo 
 
 Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, 
 Who was the sire of an immortal strain, 
 BUnd, old, and lonely, when his country's pride 
 The priest, the slave, and the Hberticide, 
 
 Trampled and mocked with many a loathing rite 15 
 
 Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrifled. 
 Into the gulf of death ; but his clear Sprite 
 Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sons of light. 
 
 V. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! * 
 
 Not all to, that bright station dared to climb ; ao 
 
 And happier they their happiness who knew, 
 Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 
 In which suns perished ; others more sublime. 
 Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 
 Have simk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; 35 
 
 And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 
 Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. 
 
 XI. 
 
 One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
 Washed his light Umbs, as if embalming them ; 
 Another cUpt her profuse locks, and threw 
 The wreath upon him, Uke an anadem. 
 Which frozen tears instead of tears begem ; 
 
318 PERCY BTSSHE SHELLET. 
 
 Another in her wilful giief wauld break 
 Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
 3s A greater loss with one which was more weak ; 
 
 And duU the barbed fire against his cheek. 
 
 Another Splendour on his mouth alit, 
 That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath 
 Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, 
 And pass into the panting heart beneath 
 With lightning and with music : the damp death 
 Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 
 And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
 Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips. 
 It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse. 
 
 And others came, — Desires and Adorations, 
 Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 
 Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations 
 Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies ; 
 And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, ♦ 
 
 And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam 
 Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
 Came in slow pomp ; the moving pomp might seem 
 Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 
 
 All he had loved, and moulded into thought 
 From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound. 
 Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
 Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound. 
 Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, 
 Dunmed .the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
 Afar the melancholy thunder moaned. 
 Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay. 
 And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. 
 
PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 31& 
 
 Lost Echo sits amid tbe voiceless mountains, 
 And feeds her giief with his remembered lay, 65 
 
 And ■niU no more reply to ■winds or fountains, 
 Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, 
 Or herdsman's hoi-n, or beU at closing day ; 
 Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
 Than those for whose disdain they pined away to 
 
 Into a shadow of all sounds : a drear 
 Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. 
 
 Grief made the young Spring wUd, and she threw down 
 Her Mndling buds, as if she Autumn were, 
 Or they dead leaves ; since her dehght is flown 75 
 
 For whom should she have waked the sullen year ? 
 To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 
 Xor to himself jSTarcissus, as to both 
 Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and sere 
 
 Amid the faint companions of their youth, so 
 
 With dew all turned to tears ; odour, to sighing ruth. 
 
 The spiiit's sister, the lorn nightingale, 
 Mourns not her mate -nith such melodious pain ; 
 Xot so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
 Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 
 Her mighty youth with morning doth complain, 
 Soaring and screaming round her empty nest. 
 As Albion waUs for thee : the curse of Cain 
 Light on his head who pierced thj' innocent breast, 
 And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest ! 
 
 XV 111. 
 
 Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
 But grief returns with the revolving year ; 
 The airs and streams renew their joj-ous tone ; 
 
320 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 The aats, the bees, the swallows reappear ; 
 95 Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier ; 
 
 The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
 And build their mossy homes in field and brere, 
 And the green lizard, and the golden snake, 
 Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. 
 
 100 Through wood and stream and field and hiU and Ocean, 
 
 A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst. 
 As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
 From the great morning of the world when first 
 God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream immersed, 
 
 105 The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer hght ; 
 
 All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst ; 
 Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's deUght, 
 The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 
 
 The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender, 
 110 Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
 
 Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour 
 Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death, 
 And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ; 
 Naught we know dies. Shall that alone which knows 
 115 Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
 
 By sightless lightning? — th' intense atom glows 
 A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
 But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
 120 And grief itself is mortal ! "Woe is me ! 
 
 TVTienee are we and why are we ? of what scene 
 
 The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
 
 Meet massed in death, who lends what Uf e must borrow. 
 
 As long as skies are blue, and fields are green. 
 
PERCY BrSSHE SHELLEY. 821 
 
 Evening must usher uiglit, night urge the morrow, 125 
 
 Mouth follow mouth with woe, and j-ear wake year to sorrow. 
 
 He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
 ••Wake thou," cried Miserj-, '• childless Mother, risi 
 Out of thy sleep, and slake, in t\\\ heart's core, 
 A wound more fierce than his -n-ith tears and sighs." 
 And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes, 
 And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
 Had held in holy silence cried : ' ' Ai-ise ! ' ' 
 Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung. 
 From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung. 
 
 She rose like an autumnal Xight, that springs 
 Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
 The golden Day, which, on eternal wings. 
 Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
 
 Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear uo 
 
 So struck, so roused, so rapt, Urania ; 
 So saddened round her like an atmosphere 
 Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way. 
 Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 
 
 Out of her secret Paradise she sped, 145 
 
 Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel. 
 And human hearts, which to her aery tread 
 Yielding not, wounded the in^'isible 
 Pahns of her tender feet where'er they fell ; 
 And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they 150 
 Eent the soft Form they never could repel, 
 Whose sacred blood, like the j-oung tears of May, 
 Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. 
 
 21 
 
322 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 (Endymion, I., U. 1-24.') 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever ; 
 
 Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing 
 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
 
 A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 
 
 Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
 
 Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways 
 
 Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all. 
 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
 
 Trees old and j'oung, sprouting a shady boon 
 
 For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
 
 With the green world thej- live in ; and clear rills 
 
 That for themselves a coohng covert make 
 
 Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 
 
 Eich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms ; 
 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
 
 We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
 
 And endless fountain of immortal drink, 
 
 Pouring into us from the heaven's brink. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 323 
 
 EXDYMION. 
 
 (Endymion, II., II. 671-687.) 
 
 It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 
 
 "With golden moss. His every sense had grown 
 
 Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head 
 
 Flew a deUght half-graspable ; his tread 
 
 Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears 5 
 
 Silence was music to the holy spheres ; 
 
 A dewy lusurj- was in his eyes ; 
 
 The httle flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
 
 And stuT'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell 
 
 He wander' d through, oft wondering at such sweU. 10 
 
 Of sudden exaltation : but ' ' Alas ! ' ' 
 
 Said he, " wiU all this gush of feeling pass 
 
 Away in soUtude ? And must they wane, 
 
 Like melodies on a sandy plain, 
 
 "Without an echo ? Then shall I be left 15 
 
 So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! ' ' 
 
 FAERY SONG. 
 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 "Weep no more ! O weep no more ! 
 Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
 Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes ! 
 For I was taught in Paradise 
 To ease my breast of melodies — 
 Shed no tear. 
 
 Overhead ! look overhead ! 
 'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
 Look up, look up. I flutter now 
 On this fresh pomegranate bough. 
 See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
 
324 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Ever cures the good man's ill. 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 Adieu, adieu — I flj', adieu, 
 I vanish in the heaven's blue — 
 
 Adieu, adieu! 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN UEX. 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness! 
 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rh^Tne : 
 s What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 
 What men or gods are these ? what maidens loath ? 
 What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
 10 What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 Are sweeter ; therefore, j-e soft pipes, play on ; 
 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear' d, 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
 15 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 Thj' song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
 
 Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
 
 She can not fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
 20 Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 
 
 Ah happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 Forever piping songs forever new ; 
 25 More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
 
 Forever warm and still to be enjoj^'d, 
 
JOHN KEATS. 325 
 
 Forever panting and forever 3'oung ; 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 
 That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
 
 AMio are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 
 To -what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
 "What little town by river or sea-shore, ; 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 
 Why thou art desolate can e'er return. 
 
 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
 "With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
 
 Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth Eternity : Cold Pastoral ! '. 
 
 "When old age shall this generation waste. 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other wo 
 
 Than ours, a friend to Man, to whom thou say'st, 
 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and aUiye need to know. 
 
326 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 THOMAS DeQUINCEY. 
 
 SHAKSPEAEE. 
 
 After this review of Shakspeare's life, it becomes our duty to 
 take a summary survey of his works, of his intellectual powers, 
 and of his station in literature, a station whieli is now irrevocably 
 settled, not so much (which happens in other cases) by a vast 
 
 5 overbalance of favorable suffrages as by acclamation ; not so 
 much by the voices of those who admire him up to the verge of 
 idolatry, as by the acts of those who everjT\here seek for his 
 works among the primal necessities of hfe, demand them, and 
 crave them as they do their daily bread ; not s6 much by eulogy 
 
 10 openly proclaiming itself, as by the silent homage recorded in 
 the endless multiplication of what he has bequeathed us ; not so 
 much by his own compatriots, who, with regard to almost everj^ 
 other author, compose the total amount of his effective audience, 
 as by the unanimous ' ' all hail ! " of intellectual Christendom ; 
 
 15 finally, not by the hastj* partisanship of his own generation, nor 
 by the biased judgment of an age trained in the same modes of 
 feeling and of thinking with himself, — but by the solemn award 
 of generation succeeding to generation, of one age correcting the 
 obliquities or peculiarities of another ; by the verdict of two 
 
 20 hundred and thirty years which have now elapsed since the very 
 latest of his creations, or of two hundred and forty-seven years 
 if we date from the earliest ; a verdict which has been contin- 
 ually revived and re-opened, probed, searched, vexed by criticism 
 in every spirit, from the most genial and intelligent, down to the 
 
 25 most malignant and scurrilously hostile which feeble heads and 
 great ignorance could suggest when cooperating with impure 
 hearts and narrow sensibilities ; a verdict, in short, sustained 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY, '327 
 
 and countersigned by a longer series of writers, many of them 
 eminent for wit or learning, than were ever before congi-egated 
 upon an inquest relating to any author, be he who he might, 30 
 ancient or modern, Pagan or Chi-istian. It was a most witty 
 saying with respect to a piratical and kna%'ish publisher, who 
 made a trade of insulting the memories of deceased authors by 
 forged writings, that he was "among the new terrors of death." 
 But in the gravest sense it may be affirmed of Shakspeare, that 35 
 he is among the modern luxuries of life ; that life, in fact, is a 
 new thing, and one more to be coveted, since Shakspeare has 
 extended the domains of human consciousness, and pushed its 
 dark frontiers into regions not so much as dimly descried or 
 even suspected before his time, far less illuminated (as they now 40 
 are) by beauty and tropical luxm-iance of life. For instance, — 
 a single instance, indeed one which in itself is a world of new 
 revelation, — the possible beauty of the female character had not 
 been seen in a dream before Shakspeare called into perfect life 
 the radiant shapes of Desdemona, of Imogene, of Hermione, of 45 
 Perdita, of Ophelia, of Miranda, and many others. The Una of 
 Spenser, earlier by ten or fifteen years than most of these, was an 
 idealized portrait of female innocence and virgin -puritj-, but too 
 shadowy and unreal for a dramatic reality. And as to the 
 Grecian classics, let not the reader imagine for an instant that so 
 any prototype in this field of Shakspearian power can be looked 
 for there. The Antigone and the Electra of the tragic poets are 
 the two leading female characters that classical antiquity offers 
 to our respect, but assuredly not to our impassioned love, as 
 disciplined and exalted in the school of Shakspeare. They chal- 55 
 lenge our admiration, severe, and even stern, as impersonations 
 of filial duty, cleaving to the steps of a desolate and afflicted old 
 man ; or of sisterly affection maintaining the rights of a brother 
 under circumstances of peril, of desertion, and consequently of 
 perfect self-reliance. Iphigenia, again, though not dramatically eo 
 coming before us in her own' person, but according to the beau- 
 tiful report of a spectator, presents us with a fine statuesque 
 model of heroic fortitude, and of one whose young heart, even 
 in the very agonies of her cruel immolation, refused to forget, by 
 a single indecorous gesture, or so much as a moment's neglect of 65 
 
y2y THU.MAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 her own princely descent, that she herself was " a lady in the 
 land." These are fine marble groups, but they are not the warm 
 lireatliing realities of Shakspeare; there is "no speculation" in 
 their cold marble eyes ; the breath of life is not in their nostrils ; 
 
 70 the fine pulses of womanly. sensibilities are not throbliing in their 
 bosoms. And besides this immeasurable difference between the 
 cold moony reflexes of life, as exhibited by the power of Grecian 
 art, and the true sunny life of Shakspeare, it must be observed 
 that the Antigones, etc., of the antique put forward but one 
 
 75 single trait of character, like the aloe with its single blossom. 
 This solitary feature is presented to us as an abstraction, and as 
 an insulated quahty ; whereas in vShakspeare all is presented in 
 the concrete; that is to say, not brought forward in relief, as by 
 some effort of an anatomical artist ; but embodied and imbedded, 
 
 80 so to speak, as by the force of a creative nature, in the complex 
 sj^stem of a human life ; a life in which all the elements move 
 and play simultaneously, and with something more than mere 
 simultaneity or co-existence, acting and re-acting each upon the 
 other, nay, even acting by each other and through each other. 
 
 85 In Shakspeare' s characters is felt forever a real organic life, 
 where each is for the whole and in the whole, and where the 
 whole is for each and in each. They only are real incarnations. 
 
 A second reason, which lends an emphasis of novelty and 
 effective power to Shakspeare 's female world, is a peculiar fact 
 
 90 of contrast 'which exists between that and his corresponding 
 world of men. Let us explain. The purpose and intention of 
 the Grecian stage was not primarily to develop human character, 
 whether in men or in women : human fates were its object ; great 
 tragic situations under the mighty control of a vast cloudy des- 
 
 95 tiny, dimly descried at intervals, and brooding over human life by 
 mysterious agencies, and for mysterious ends. * * * Milton's 
 angels are slightly touched, superficially touched, with differences 
 of character ; but they are such differences, so simple and general, 
 as are just sufficient to rescue them from the reproach applied 
 100 to Virgil's '■'■ forlemque Gyan, fortemque Gloanthum ;" just suffi- 
 cient to make them knowable apart. 
 
THOMAS DE QOXCET. 329 
 
 In the great world, therefore, of woman, as the interpreter of" 
 the shifting phases and the lunar varieties of that mighty change- 
 able planet, that lovely sateUite of man. Shakspeare stands not the 
 fij-st only, not the original only, but is yet the sole authentic oracle los 
 of truth. Woman, therefore, the beauty of the female mind, this 
 is one great field of his power. The supernatural world, the 
 world of apparitions, that is another. For reasons which it 
 would be easy to give, reasons emanating from the gross mji:h- 
 ology of the ancients, no Grecian, no Roman, could have con- no 
 ceived a ghost. That shadowy conception, the protesting appa- 
 rition, the awful projection of the human conscience, belongs to 
 the Christian mind. And in all Christendom, who, let us ask, 
 who, who but Shakspeare has found the power for effectually 
 working this mysterious mode of being? In summoning back 115 
 to eai'th •■ the majesty of buried Denmark," how hke an awful 
 necromancer does Shakspeai'e appear ! All the pomps and gran- 
 deurs which religion, which the grave, which the popular super- 
 stition had gathered about the subject of apparitions, are here 
 converted to his purpose, and bend to one awful effect. The 12a 
 wormy grave brought into antagonism with the scenting of the 
 early dawn ; the trumpet of resurrection suggested, and again as 
 an antagonist idea to the crowing of the cock (a bird ennobled 
 in the Christian mythus hj the part he is made to play at the 
 crucifixion); its starting " as a guilty thing" placed in oppo- 125 
 sition to its majestic expression of offended dignity when struck 
 at by the paiHsans of the sentinels ; its awful allusions to the 
 secrets of its prison-house ; its ubiquity, contrasted with its 
 local presence ; its aerial substance, yet clothed in palpable ar- 
 mor ; the heart-shaking solemnity of its language, and the ap- 130 
 propriate scenery of its haunt, viz., the ramparts of a capital 
 fortress, with no witnesses but a few gentlemen mounting guard 
 at the dead of night, — what a mist, what a mirage of vapor, is 
 here accumulated, through which the dreadful being in the 
 centre looms upon us in far larger proportions, than could have 135 
 happened had it been insulated and left naked of this circum- 
 stantial pomp ! In the Tempest, again, what new modes of life, 
 preternatural, yet far as the poles from the spiritualities of reli- 
 gion ! Ariel in antithesis to Caliban ! What is most etherial to 
 
330 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 140 ~vrhat is most animal ! A phantom of air, an abstraction of tlie 
 dawn and of vesper sun-lights, a bodiless sylph on the one hand ; 
 on the other a gross carnal monster, like the Miltouic Asmodai, 
 "the fleshliest incubus" among the fiends, and 3'et so far en- 
 nobled into interest by his intellectual powers, and l)y the gran- 
 
 145 deur of misanthropy ! In the Midsummer Night's Dream, again, 
 we have the old traditional fairj-, a loveh- mode of preternatural 
 life, remodified by Shakspeare's eternal talisman. Oberon and 
 Titania remind us at first glance of Ariel. They approach, but 
 how far do they recede. Thej- are like — "like, but oh, how 
 
 153 different ! ' ' And in no other exhibition of this dreamy popu- 
 lation of the moonlight forests and forest-lawns, are the cir- 
 cumstantial proprieties of fairy life so exquisitely imagined, 
 sustained, or exjDressed. The dialogue between Oberon and 
 Titania is, of itself and taken separately from its connection, 
 
 155 one of the most delightful poetic scenes that literature affords. 
 The witches in Macbeth are another variety of supernatural life, 
 in which Shakspeare's powers to enchant and to disenchant are 
 alike portentous. The circumstance of the blasted heath, the 
 army at a distance, the withered attire of the mysterious hags, 
 
 160 and the choral litanies of their fiendish Sabbath, are as finely 
 imagined in their kind as those which herald and which surround 
 the ghost in Hamlet. There we see the ■positive of Shakspeare's 
 superior power. But now turn and look to the negative. At a 
 time when the trials of witches, the royal book on demonology, 
 
 165 and popular superstition (all so far useful, as they prepared a 
 basis of undoubting faith for the poet's serious use of such agen- 
 cies) had degraded and polluted the ideas of these mysterious 
 beings by many mean associations, Shakspeare does not fear to 
 employ them in high tragedy, (a tragedy moreover which, though 
 
 170 not the very greatest of his efforts as an intellectual whole, nor 
 as a struggle of passion, is among the greatest in any view, and 
 positively the greatest for scenical grandeur, and in that respect 
 makes the nearest approach of all English tragedies to the Gre- 
 cian model) ; he does not fear to introduce, for the same appalling 
 
 175 effect as that for which ^schylus introduced the Eumenides, a 
 triad of old women, concerning whom an English wit has remarked 
 this grotesque peculiarity in the popular creed of that day, — that 
 
THOMAS. DB QriNCEY. 331 
 
 although potent over winds and storms, in league with powers of 
 darkness, they stood in awe of the constable, — j-et relj-ing on 
 his own supreme power to disenchant as well as to enchant, to iso 
 create and to uncreate, he mixes these women and their dark 
 machineries with the power of armies, with the agencies of kings, 
 and the fortunes of martial kingdoms. Such was the sovereignty 
 of this poet, so mighty its compass! * * * Among the 
 many defects and infirmities of the French and Italian drama, iss 
 indeed, we may say of the Greek, the dialogue proceeds always 
 by independent speeches, replying indeed to each other, but 
 never modified in its several openings by the momentary effect 
 of its several terminal forms immediately preceding. Now,» in 
 Shakspeare, who first set an example of that most important i9o 
 innovation, in all his impassioned dialogues, each reply or rejoin- 
 der seems the mere rebound of the previous speech. Every 
 form of natural interruption, breaking through the restraints of 
 ceremony under the impulses of tempestuous passion ; every 
 form of hasty interrogation, ardent reiteration, when a question 195 
 has been evaded ; every form of scornful repetition of the hostile 
 words ; every impatient continuation of the hostile statement ; 
 in short, all modes and formulas by which anger, hurry, forget- 
 fulness, scorn, impatience, or excitement under any movement 
 whatever, can disturb or modify or dislocate the formal bookish 200 
 style of comrhencement, — these are as rife in Shakspeare's 
 dialogue as in life itself ; and how much vivacity, how profound 
 a verisimilitude, they add to the scenic effect as an imitation of 
 human passion and real life, we need not say. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 LABOUR. 
 
 For there is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in 
 ■work. "Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, 
 there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works : 
 in Idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so 
 
 5 Mammonish, mean, is in communication with Nature ; the real 
 
 desire to get work done will itself lead one more and more to 
 
 truth, to Nature's appointments and regulations, which are truth. 
 
 The latest Gospel in this world is. Know thy work and do it. 
 
 " Know thyself : " long enough has that poor "self" of thine 
 
 10 tormented thee ; thou wilt never get to "know" it, I believe! 
 Think it not thy business, this of knovdng thyself ; thou art an 
 unknowable individual ; know what thou canst work at ; and 
 work at it, like a Hercules ! That will be thy better plan. 
 
 It has been written, " an endless significance lies in Work; " 
 
 15 a man perfects himself by working. Foul jungles are cleared 
 away, fair seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities ; and withal 
 the man himself first ceases to be jungle and foul unwholesome 
 desert therebj'. Consider how, even in the meanest sort of 
 Labour, the whole soul of man is composed into a kind of real 
 
 20 harmony, the instant he sets himself to work ! Doubt, Desire, 
 Sorrow, Eemorse, Indignation, Despair itself, all these like heU- 
 dogs lie beleaguering the soul of the poor dayworker, as of 
 every man : but he bends himself with free valour against his task, 
 and all these are stilled, all these shrink murmuring far off into 
 
 25 their caves. The man is now a man. The blessed glow of Labour 
 in him, is it not as purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up, 
 and of sour smoke itself there is made bright blessed flame ! 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 333 
 
 Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. A 
 formless Chaos, once set it revolving, grows round and even 
 rounder; ranges ItseK, by mere force of gravitj-, into strata, so 
 spherical courses ; is no longer a Chaos, but a round compacted 
 AVorld. What would become of the Earth, did she cease to 
 revolve? In the poor old Earth, so long as she revolves, all 
 inequaUties, irregularities disperse themselves ; all u-regularities 
 are incessantly becoming regular. Hast thou looked on the 35 
 Potter's wheel, — one of the venerablest objects; old as the 
 Prophet Ezekiel and far older ? Eude lumps of claj-, how thev 
 spin themselves up by mere quick whirling, into beautiful circu- 
 lar dishes. And fancy the most assiduous Potter, but without 
 his wheel, reduced to make dishes, or rather amorphous botches 10 
 by mere kneading and baking ! Even such a Potter were Des- 
 tiny, with a human soul that would rest and lie at ease, that 
 would not work and spin ! Of an idle unrevohing man the 
 kindest Destiny, hke the most assiduous Potter without wheel, 
 can bake and knead nothing other than a botch ; let her spend 45 
 on him what expensive colouring, what gilding and enamelling 
 she wiU, he is but a botch. Xot a dish ; no, a bulging, kneaded, 
 eroobed, shambling, squint-cornered, amorphous botch, — a mere 
 enamelled vessel of dishonour ! Let the idle think of this. 
 
 Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other 50 
 blessedness. He has a work, a hfe-puqDOse ; he has found it, 
 and wiH follow it ! How, as a free-flo\\-ing channel dug and torn 
 by noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence, 
 like an ever-deepening river there, it runs and flows ; — di-aining 
 off the sour festering water gradually from the root of the 55 
 remotest grass-blade ; making, instead of pestilential swamp, a 
 gi-een fruitful meadow with its clear-flowing stream. How blesSed 
 for the meadow itself, let the stream and its value be great or 
 small ! Labour is Life : from the inmost heart of the Worker 
 rises his god-given Force, the sacred celestial Life-essence a< 
 breathed into him by Almighty God; from his inmost heart 
 awakens him to all nobleness, — to all knowledge, " self-knowl- 
 edge ' ' and much else, so soon as Work fltly begins. .Knowledge ? 
 The knowledge that will hold good in working, cleave thou to 
 that; for Xature herself accredits that, says yea to that. Prop- 63 
 
334 THOMAS CARLTLE. 
 
 erly thou hast no other knowledge but what thou hast got by 
 worldng : the rest is yet all a hjiiothesis of knowledge ; a thing 
 to be argued of in schools, a thing floating iu the clouds, in end- 
 k-ss logic- vortices, tUl we try it and fix it. " Doulit, of ^Yhatever 
 
 70 kind, can be ended by Action alone." 
 
 And again, hast thou valued Patience, Courage, Perseverance. 
 Openness to light ; readiness to own thj-self mistaken, to do 
 better next time? All these, all virtues, in wix'Stling with the 
 dim brute Powers of Fact, in ordering of thy fellows in such 
 
 75 wrestle, there and elsewhere not at all, thou wilt continually 
 learn. Set down a brave Sir Christopher in the middle of black 
 ruined Stone heaps, of fooHsh unarchitectural Bishops, red-tape 
 Officials, idle NeU-Gwyn Defenders of the Faith ; and see 
 whether he will ever raise a Paul's Cathedral oitt of all that, yea 
 
 80 or no ! Rough, rude, contradictory are aU things and persons, 
 from the mutinous masons and Irish hodmen, up to the idle 
 Xell-G«ya Defenders, to blustering red-tape Officials, foohsh 
 unarchitectural Bishops. All these things and persons are there 
 not for Christopher's sake and his Cathedral's; they are there 
 
 85 not for their own sake mainly ! Christopher wiU. have to con- 
 quer and constrain all these, — if he be able. All these are 
 against him. Equitable Xature herself, who carries her mathe- 
 matics and architectonics not on the face of her, but deep in the 
 hidden heart of her, — Xature herself is but partially for him ; 
 
 90 will be whoUy against him if he constrain her not ! His very 
 money, where is it to come from? The pious muniflceuce of 
 England far-scattered, distant, unable to speak, and say, •'! am 
 here ; " — must be spoken to before it can speak. Pious munifi- 
 cence, and all help, is so silent, invisible like the gods ; impedi- 
 
 95 ment, contradictions manifold are so loud and near ! O brave 
 Sir Christopher, trust tliou in these, .notwithstanding, and front 
 aU these ; understand all these ; by vaUant patience, noble effort, 
 insight, by man's strength, vanquish and compel all these, — 
 and on the whole, strike down victoriously the last topstone of 
 100 that Paul's Edifice ; thy monument for certain centuries, the 
 stamp "Great Man" impressed verj^ legibly on Portland-stone 
 there ! 
 
 Yes. all manner of help, and pious response from^ Men of 
 
THOMAS CAELVLE. 335 
 
 Nature, is always what we ctlU silent ; cannot speak or come to 
 light, till it be scon, till it be spoken to. Every noble work is at 105 
 fast "impossible." In very truth, for every noble work the 
 possibilities will be diffused through Immensitj' ; inarticulate, 
 undiscoverable except to faith. Like Gideon, thou shalt spread 
 out thy fleece at the door of thy tent ; see whether under the 
 wide arch of Heaven there be any liounteous moisture, or none. 110 
 Thy heart and life-purpose shall be as a miraculous Gideon's 
 fleece, spread out in silent appeal to Heaven ; and from the kind 
 Immensities, what from the poor unkind Localities and town and 
 country Parishes, there never could, blessed dew-moisture to 
 suffice thee shall have fallen ! 115 
 
 "Work is of a religious nature : — work is of a brave nature ; 
 which it is the aim. of all religion to be. All work of man is as 
 the swimmer's; a waste ocean threatens to devour him; if he 
 front it not bravely, it will keep its word. Bj' incessant wise 
 defiance of it, lusty rebuke and buffet of it, behold how it loy- 120 
 ally supports him, bears him as its conqueror along. "It is 
 so," says Goethe, "with aU things that man undertakes in this 
 world. ' ' 
 
 Brave Sea-captain, Xorse Sea-ldng, — Columbus, my hero, 
 royalest Sea-king of aU ! it is Ho friendly emironment this of 125 
 thine, in the waste deep waters ; round thee mutinous discour- 
 aged souls, behind thee disgrace and ruin, before thee the un- 
 penetrated veil of Night. Brother, these -^N-ild water-mountains, 
 hounding from their deep basis (ten mUes deep, I am told), are 
 not entirely there on thy behalf ! Meseems tJiey have other wo;-k 130 
 than floating thee forward : — and the huge winds, that sweep 
 from Ursa Major to the Tropics and Equators, dancing their 
 giant-waltz through the Idngdoms of Chaos and Immensity, they 
 care little about filling rightly or fiUing wrongly the small 
 shoulder-of -mutton sails in this cockle-sldff of thine ! Thou art 135 
 not among the articulate-speaking friends, my brother ; thou art 
 among immeasurable dumb monsters, tumbling, howling wide as 
 the world here. Secret, far off, invisible to all hearts but thine, 
 there lies a help in them : see how thou wilt get at that. 
 
536 THOJIAS HOOD. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 THE LADY'S DREAM. 
 
 The lady lay in her liei.l, 
 
 Her couch so frarm and soft, 
 But her sleep Tvas restless and broken still t 
 
 For turning often and oft 
 From side to side, she mutter' d and moan'd, 
 
 And toss'd her arms aloft. 
 
 At last she started up, 
 
 And gazed on the vacant air, 
 
 ^Tith a look of awe, as if she saw- 
 Some dreadful phantom there — 
 
 ^iud then in the pillow she buried her face 
 From visions ill to bear. 
 
 The very curtain shook, 
 
 Her terror "was so extreme ; 
 And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt 
 
 Kept a tremulous gleam ; 
 And her voice -nas hollow, and shook as she cried, 
 
 " O, me ! that awful dream ! 
 
 " That wearj-, weary walk, 
 In the church- j-ard's dismal ground! 
 
 And those homble things, with shady wincrs 
 That came and flitted round, — 
 
 Death, death, and nothing but death. 
 In every sight and sound 1 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 337 
 
 * ' And oh ! those maidens young, 25 
 
 Who wrought in that dreary room, 
 With figures drooping and spectres thin, 
 
 And cheeks without a bloom ; — 
 And the Voice that cried, ' For the pomp of pride 
 
 We haste to an early tomb ! 30 
 
 " 'For the pomp and pleasure of Pride, 
 
 We toil like Afric slaves. 
 And only to earn a home at last. 
 
 Where yonder cypress waves ; ' 
 And then they pointed — I never saw 35 
 
 A ground so full of graves ! 
 
 "And still the coffins came. 
 
 With their sorrowful trains and slow ; 
 Coffin after coffin stiU, 
 
 A sad and sickening show ; 40 
 
 From grief exempt, I never had dreamt 
 
 Of such a World of Woe ! 
 
 " Of the hearts that daily break. 
 
 Of the tears that hourly fall. 
 Of the many, many troubles of life, is 
 
 That grieve this eartfily ball — 
 Disease, and Hunger, and Pain, and Want, 
 
 But now I dreamt of them all ; 
 
 "For the bhnd and the cripple were there. 
 
 And the babe that pin'd for bread, so 
 
 And the houseless man, and the widow poor 
 
 Who begg'd — to bury the dead ; 
 The naked, alas ! that I might have clad, 
 
 The famish' d I might have fed ! 
 
 "The sorrow I might have sooth' d, 65 
 
 And the unregarded tears ; 
 For many a thronging shape was there. 
 
 From long-forgotten years, — 
 
 22 
 
338 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, 
 60 Who rais'd my childish fears ! 
 
 ' ' Each pleading look, that long ago 
 I scann'd with a heedless ej-e, 
 
 Each face was gazing as plainly there. 
 As when I pass'd it by : 
 65 Woe, woe for me if the past should be 
 
 Thus present when I die ! 
 
 "No need of sulphureous lake. 
 
 No need of fiery coal, 
 But only that crowd of human kind 
 70 Who wanted pity and dole — 
 
 In everlasting retrospect — 
 
 WiU wring my sinful soul ! 
 
 "Alas ! I have walk'd through life 
 Too Ijeedless where I trod ; 
 75 Nay, helping to trample my f eUow-worm, 
 
 And fill the burial sod — 
 Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
 Not unmarked of God ! 
 
 ' ' I drank the richest draughts ; 
 80 And ate whatever is good — 
 
 Fish, and fiesh, and fowl, and fruit. 
 
 Supplied my hungry mood ; 
 But I never remember' d the wretched ones 
 That starve for want of food ! 
 
 85 "I dress'd as the noble dress. 
 
 In cloth of silver and gold. 
 With sUk, and satin, and costly furs. 
 
 In many an ample fold ; 
 But I never remember' d the naked limbs 
 90 That froze with winter's cold. 
 
 "The wounds I might have heal'd! 
 The human sorrow and smart ! 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 339 
 
 And yet it never was in my soul 
 
 To plaj' so ill a part : 
 But evil is -wrought by want of Thought, 95. 
 
 As well as want of Heart." 
 
 She clasp' d her fer\'ent hands, 
 
 And the tears began to stream : 
 Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, 
 
 Remorse was so extreme ; 100 
 
 And yet, oh j'et, that many a Dame 
 
 Would dream the Lady's Dream. 
 
 LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALET. 
 
 Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, 
 All chivalrous romantic work 
 
 Is ended now and past ! 
 That iron age, which some have thought 
 Of mettle rather overwrought, 
 
 Is now all over-cast. 
 
 Ay ! where are those heroic knights 
 Of old — those armadillo wights 
 
 Who wore the jplated vest ? 
 Great Charlemagne and aU his peers 
 Are cold — enjoying with their spears 
 
 An everlasting rest. 
 
 The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound ; 
 So sleep his knights who gave that Round 
 
 Old Table such eclat! 
 Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow ! 
 And none engage at turneys now 
 
 But those that go to law ! 
 
 Where are those old and feudal clans. 
 Their pikes, and bills, and partisans ; 
 
340 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs? 
 A battle was a battle then, 
 A breathing piece of work ; but men 
 
 Fight now — with powder puffs ! 
 
 25 The curtal axe is out of date ! 
 
 The good old cross-bow bends to Fate ; 
 
 'Tis gone the archer's craft! 
 No tough arm bends the springing yew, 
 And jolly drajTnen ride, in lieu 
 
 30 Of death, upon the shaft. 
 
 In cavUs when will cavaliers 
 Set ringing helmets by the ears, 
 
 And scatter plumes about ? 
 Or blood — if they are in the vein ? 
 35 That tap will never run again — 
 
 Alas, the casque is out ! 
 
 No iron-crackUng now is scored 
 By dint of battle-axe or sword, 
 
 To find a vital place ; 
 Though certain doctors still pretend, 
 40 Awhile, before they kill a friend, 
 
 To labor through his case ! 
 
 Farewell then, ancient men of might ! 
 Crusader, errant-squire, and knight ! 
 45 Our coats and customs soften ; 
 
 To rise would only make you weep. 
 Sleep on in rusty iron sleep, 
 As in a safety-cofHn ! 
 
 THE SOXG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 "With eyeUds heavy and red, 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 341 
 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! s 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt." 
 
 ' ' Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 WTule the cock is crowing aloof ! lo 
 
 And work — work — work. 
 Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
 It's, 0,.to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where a woman has never a soul to save, 15 
 
 If this is Christian work ! 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work ! 
 TUl the brain begins to swim ! 
 
 Work — work — work 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 20 
 
 Seam and gusset and band, 
 
 Band and gusset and seam, — 
 TiU over the buttons I fall asleep. 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
 " O men with sisters dear! 25 
 
 O men with mothers and wives ! 
 It is not Unen you're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch. 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, — 30 
 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a shirt ! 
 
 "But why do I talk of death, — 
 
 That phantom of gi'isly bone ? 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, 35 
 
 It seems so like my own — 
 
 It seems so like my own. 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep ; 
 O God ! that bread should be so dear. 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! io 
 
342 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread — and rags, 
 4j That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work ! 
 c ' From weary chime to chime. 
 
 Work — work — work — 
 As prisoners work for crime ! 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 
 55 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work. 
 In the dull December light, 
 
 And work — ■ work — work, 
 When the weather is warm and bright — 
 60 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cUng, 
 As if to show me their sunny backs 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 ' ' Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
 6.5 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
 
 With the sky above my head, 
 And the grass beneath my feet. 
 For only one short hour 
 To feel as I used to feel, 
 T.I Before I knew the woes of want. 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 " Oh ! but for one short hour ! 
 
 A respite however brief ! 
 No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 
 75 But only time for Grief ! 
 
 A little weeping would ease my heart. 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 
THOSIAS HOOD. 343 
 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 Hinders needle and thread! " 
 
 80 
 
 With f ingers weary and worn, 
 
 "With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman Bat in unwomanly rags. 
 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 85 
 
 And stUl with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
 "Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! 
 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt! " 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The house where I was born, 
 
 The little window where the sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn. 
 
 He never came a wink too soon, b 
 
 Xor brought too long a day ; 
 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white, lo 
 
 The violets and the lily-cups. 
 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 
 The lUacs where the robin buUt, 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 The laburnum on his birthday — 16 
 
 The tree is lining yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 "Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 20 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
344 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 DOJIESTIC ASIDES. 
 
 ' ' I really take it very kind. 
 This visit, Mrs. Skinner ! 
 I have not seen you such an age — 
 (The wretch has come to dinner ! ) 
 
 "Your daughters, too, what loves of girls - 
 What heads for painters' easels ! 
 Come here and kiss the infant, dears, — 
 (And give it, p'r'aps, the measles ! ) 
 
 ' ' Your charming boys I see are home 
 From Eeverend Mr. Russell's ; 
 'Twas very kind to bring them both, — 
 (What boots for my new Brussels ! ) 
 
 "What! Uttle Clara left at home? 
 Well now I eaU that shabby : 
 I should have loved to kiss her so, — 
 (A flabby, dabby babby ! ) 
 
 "And Mr. S., I hope he's well. 
 Ah ! though he Uves so handy, 
 He never now drops in to sup, — 
 (The better for our brandy ! ) 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 345 
 
 "Come, take a seat — I long to hear 
 About Matilda's marriage ; 
 You're come of course to spend the day ! — 
 (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage ! ) 
 
 ' ' What ! must you go ? next time I hope 25 
 
 You'U give me longer measure ; 
 
 Nay — I shaU see you down the stairs — 
 
 (With most uncommon pleasure ! ) 
 
 "Good-bye! good-bye! remember aU, 
 
 Next time you'll take your dinners ! 30 
 
 (Now, David, mind I'm not at home 
 
 In future to the Skinners ! ) " 
 
 THE DEATH BED. 
 
 We watched her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low. 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak. 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her hving out. 
 
 Our very hopes beUed our fears. 
 
 Our fears our hopes beUed, — 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad, 
 And chill with early showers, 
 * Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 Another mom than ours. 
 
346 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWXIXG. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 riKST KEWS FROM VILLAEEANCA. 
 
 Peace, peace, peace, do you say? 
 
 What ! — with the enemy's guns in our ears ? 
 With the country's wrong not rendered back? 
 What ! — while Austria stands at bay 
 5 In Mantua, and our Venice bears 
 
 The cursed flag of the yellow and black? 
 
 II. 
 
 Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 
 And this the Mincio? Where's the fleet. 
 And Where's the sea? Are we all blind 
 10 Or mad with the blood shed yesterday, 
 
 Ignoring Italy under our feet, 
 And seeing things before, behind? 
 
 Peace, peace, peace, do you say? 
 
 What! — uncontested, undenied? 
 
 Because we triumph, we succumb? 
 A pair of Emperors stand in the way, 
 
 (One of whom is a man, beside) 
 
 To sign and seal our cannons dumb ? 
 
 No, not Napoleon ! — he who mused 
 20 At Paris, and at MUan spake, 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 347 
 
 And at Solferino led the fight ; 
 Not he we trusted, honored, used 
 
 Om- hopes and hearts for . . . tiU they break — 
 Even so, you tell us ... in his sight. 
 
 Peace, peace, is stiU yOw: word? 
 
 We say you lie then ! — that is plain. 
 
 There is no peace, and shall be none. 
 Our very Dead would ciy ' ' Absurd ! ' ' 
 
 And clamor that they died in vain, 
 
 And whine to come back to the sun. 
 
 Hush ! more reverence for the Dead ! 
 They've done the most for Italy 
 Evermore since the earth was fair. 
 
 Now would that we had died instead, 
 Still dreaming peace meant liberty, 
 And did not, could not mean despair. 
 
 Peace, you say? — yes, peace, in truth! 
 
 But such a peace as the ear can achieve 
 
 'Twixt the rifle's cUek and the rush of the ball, 
 'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch of the tooth, 
 
 'Twixt the dying atheist's negative 
 
 And God's Face — waiting, after aU! 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 COWPEE'S GRAVE. 
 
 It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying. 
 It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying. 
 Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish. 
 Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her 
 anguish. 
 
348 ELIZABETH BAKRETT BRO'WNING. 
 
 5 O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless 
 
 singing ! 
 O Christians, at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was cUng- 
 
 ing! 
 O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling. 
 Groaned inly whUe he taught you peace, and died while ye were 
 
 smiling ! 
 
 And now, what time 3'e all may read through dimming tears his 
 •story, 
 10 How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, 
 
 And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering hghts 
 
 departed, 
 He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted. 
 
 He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, 
 And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration ; 
 15 Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken. 
 Named softly as the household name of one whom Grod hath 
 taken. 
 
 With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, — 
 With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath 
 
 won Mm, 
 Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind 
 
 him, 
 20 But gently led the bUnd along where breath and bird could find 
 
 him, 
 
 VI. 
 
 And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses 
 As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences. 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass, kept his within its number, 
 And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. 
 
ELIZABETH BAEEETT BROWNING. 349 
 
 VII. 
 
 "Wild timid liares were drawn from woods to share Ms home- 25 
 
 caresses, 
 Up looking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses. 
 The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's way re- 
 
 • moving, 
 Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guid- 
 ing, 
 And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, 30 
 He testified this solemn truth, while phrensy desolated, — 
 Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only God created. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses 
 And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses, • — ■ 
 That turns his fevered eyes around — "My mother ! where's my 35 
 
 mother ? ' ' 
 As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other ! — 
 
 The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him. 
 Her face all pale from watchful love, the unwearv love she bore 
 
 him! — 
 Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave 
 
 him. 
 Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in death to save 40 
 
 him. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thus ? oh, not thus ! no type of earth can image that awaking, 
 Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him break- 
 ing, 
 Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted. 
 But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — "My Saviour! not de- 
 serted! " 
 
350 ELIZABETH BAREETT BROWNING. 
 
 45 Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness 
 
 rested, 
 Upon the A-ictim's hidden face, ho love was manifested? 
 What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops 
 
 averted ? 
 "What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should he 
 
 deserted? 
 
 Deserted ! God could separate from His own essence rather ; 
 50 And Adam's sins Jiave swept between the righteous Son and 
 Father. 
 Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken — 
 It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken! " 
 
 It went up from the Holy's hps amid his lost creation. 
 That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation ! 
 ^55 That earth's worst phrensies, marring hope, should mar not 
 hope's fruition. 
 And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. 
 
 THE CEY OF THE CHILDEEX. 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 
 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
 They are leaning their young heads against their mothers. 
 And that cannot stop their tears. 
 5 The j'oung lambs are bleating in the meadows, 
 The young birds are chirping in the nest. 
 The young fawns are playing with the shadows, 
 
 The young flowers are blowing toward the west — 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 10 They are weeping bitterij- ! 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 351 
 
 They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 
 In the country of the free. 
 
 Do j-ou question the young children in the sorrow, 
 
 Why their tears are falling so ? 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow, 
 
 Which is lost in Long Ago. 
 The old tree is leafless in the forest, 
 
 The old year is ending in the frost. 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 
 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost. 
 But the young, j'oung children, O my brothers. 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers. 
 In our happy Fatherland ? 
 
 They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 25 
 
 And their looks are sad to see, 
 For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 
 
 Down the cheeks of infancy. 
 ' ' Tour old earth," they say, " is very dreary ; 
 
 Our young feet," they say, " are very weak ! 30 
 
 Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 
 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
 Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children ; 
 
 For the outside earth is cold ; 
 And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, 35 
 
 And the graves are for the old. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " True," say the children, "it may happen 
 
 That we die before our time. 
 Little Alice died last j-ear — her grave is shapen 
 
 Like a snow ball in the rime. u 
 
 We looked into the pit prepared to take her. 
 Was no room for any work in the close clay ! 
 
352 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, 
 Crjdng, ' Get up, little Alice ! it is daj'. ' 
 
 If you listen by that grave in sun and shower. 
 With your ear down, little Alice never cries. 
 
 Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her. 
 For the smile has time for growing in her eyes. 
 
 And merry go her moments, luUed and stilled in 
 The shroud by the kirk-chime ! 
 
 It is good when it happens," say the children, 
 ' ' That we die before our time. ' ' 
 
 Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 
 
 Death in life, as best to have. 
 They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, 
 
 "With a cerement from the grave. 
 Go out, children, from the mine and from the citj-. 
 
 Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do. 
 Pluck your handf uls of the meadow-cowslips pretty. 
 
 Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! 
 But they answer, ' 'Are your cowslips of the meadows 
 
 Like our weeds anear the mine ? 
 Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, 
 
 From your pleasures fair and fine ! 
 
 " For oh," say the children, " we are weary 
 
 And we cannot run or leap. 
 If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 
 
 To drop down in them and sleep. 
 Our knees tremble sorelj' in the stooping, 
 
 We fall upon our faces, trjing to go ; 
 And, underneath our heavy eyehds drooping. 
 
 The reddest flower would look as pale as snow, 
 For, all day, we drag our burden tiring 
 
 Through the coal-dark, underground — 
 Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
 
 In the factories, round and round. 
 
ELIZABETH BA,RRETT BROWNING. 353 
 
 Til. 
 
 " For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, — 
 
 Their wind comes in our faces, — 
 Till our heai-ts turn, — our head, with pulses burning, 
 
 And the walls turn in their places. so 
 
 Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, 
 
 Turns the long Ught that drops adown the wall, 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceDing, 
 
 All are turning, all the day, and we with aU. 
 And aU day the iron wheels are droning, m 
 
 And sometimes we could pray, 
 ' Oh ye wheels ' (break out in a mad moaning), 
 
 ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! " ' 
 
 Tin. 
 
 Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing 
 
 For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 90 
 
 Let them touch each other's hands in a fresh wreathing 
 
 Of their tender human youth ! 
 Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
 Is not all the Uf e God fashions or reveals. 
 Let them prove their Uving souls against the notion 95 
 
 That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! — 
 Still, aU day, the iron wheels go onward, 
 
 Grinding hf e down from its mark ; 
 And the children's souls, which God is caLhng sunward, 
 
 Spin on blindly in the dark. 100 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. 
 
 To look up to Him and pray ; 
 So the blessed One who blesseth all the others. 
 
 Will bless them another day. 
 They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us los 
 
 While the rushing of the iron wheel is stirred? 
 When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us, 
 Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. 
 
 23 
 
354 ELIZABETH BARRETT BEOVraiNG. 
 
 And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) 
 110 Strangers speaking at the door. 
 
 Is it hkely God, with angels singing round Him, 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 ' ' Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 
 
 And at midnight's hour of harm, 
 ' Our Father, ' looking upward in the chamber. 
 
 We say softly for a charm. 
 We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' 
 
 And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, 
 God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, 
 
 And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 
 ' Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would surely 
 
 (For they call Him good and mild) 
 Answer, smiUng down the steep world very purely, 
 
 ' Come and rest with me, my child.' 
 
 125 " But no ! " say the children, weeping faster, 
 " He is speechless as a stone. 
 And they tell us, of His image is the master 
 
 Who commands us to work on. 
 Go to ! " say the children, — " up in Heaven, 
 130 Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. 
 
 Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving — 
 
 We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." 
 Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, 
 O my brothers, what ye preach? 
 135 For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, 
 And the children doubt of each. 
 
 And well may the children weep before you ! 
 
 They are weary ere they run. 
 They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory, 
 140 Which is brighter than the sun. 
 
ELIZABETH BAERETT BHOWNING. 355 
 
 They know the grief of man, without his wisdom ; 
 
 They sink in man's despair, without its cahn ; 
 Are slaves, without the liberty of Christdom, 
 
 Are martyrs, by the pang ■without the palm, — 
 Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly 145 
 
 The haa-vest of its memories cannot reap, — 
 Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. 
 Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
 
 They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, 
 
 And their look is dread to see, 150 
 
 For they mind you of their angels in high places, 
 
 With eyes turned on Deity ! — 
 " How long," they say, '• how long, O cruel nation, 
 
 "Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — 
 Stifle down with mailed heel its palpitation, 135 
 
 And ti-ead onward to your throne amid the mart? 
 Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper. 
 
 And your purple shows your path ! 
 But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper 
 
 Than the strong man in his wrath. leo 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 Of aU the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar. 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
 Now tell me if that any is. 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this — 
 "He giveth His beloved, sleep ! " 
 
 What would we give to our beloved? 
 The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 
 
356 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 The poet's star- tuned harp, to sweep, 
 10 The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, 
 
 The monarch's crown, to light the brows? 
 He giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
 ^What do we give our beloved ? 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 15 A little dust to overweep. 
 
 And bitter memories to make * 
 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake. 
 He giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Sleep soft, beloved! " we sometimes say, 
 20 But have no tune to charm away 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 He giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
 26 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 
 O delved gold, the wallers' heap ! 
 
 O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 
 God strikes a silence through you all, 
 30 And giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill ; 
 His cloud above it saileth still. 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
 More softly than the dew is shed 
 35 Or cloud is floated overhead. 
 
 He giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
ELIZABETH BAKRETT BROWNING. 357 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ay, men may wonder -while they scan 
 A living, thinMng, feeling man 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
 But angels say, and through the word 
 I think their happy smile is heard — 
 "He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show. 
 That sees through tears the mummers leap, 
 Would now its wearied vision close, 
 "Would childlike on His love repose. 
 Who giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And, friends, dear friends, — when it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 And round my bier ye come to weep, 
 Let One, most loving of you all. 
 Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall ; 
 He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
358 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 {An Idyl.) 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hem, 
 I make a sudden sally, 
 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 To bicker down a vaUey. 
 
 8 By thirty hills I hurry down, 
 
 Or slip between the ridges. 
 By twenty thorps, a little town. 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 10 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In Uttle sharps and trebles, 
 15 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 20 With wUlow-weed and maUow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSOX. 359 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I -wind about, and in and out, 25 
 
 With here a hlossom sailing, 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 
 And here .and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel, so 
 
 With many a silvery "waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel, 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river. 
 For men may come and men may go, 35 
 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I sUde by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 40 
 
 I shp, I shde, I gloom, I glance, 
 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 45 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I hnger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, so 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 
 But I go on forever. 
 
360 ALFRED TEXXTSON. 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BBIGADE. 
 I. 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 
 Half a league onward. 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 ' ' Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
 Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 II., 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
 Was there a man dismayed? 
 Not tho' the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blundered : 
 Theirs not to make reply, 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do or die ; 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Eode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 VoUeyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well, 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of HeU 
 
 Eode the six hundred. 
 
 Flashed all their sabres bare. 
 Flashed as they turned in air, 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 361 
 
 Charging an army, while 30 
 
 AU the world wondered : 
 Plung'd in the battery-smoke 
 Eight thro' the line they broke ; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the sabre-stroke 35 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back, but not, 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 V. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 
 Cannon to left of them, 10 
 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 VoUeyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell. 
 While horse and hero fell. 
 
 They that had fought so weU u 
 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Back from the mouth of HeU, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When can their glory fade ? so 
 
 O the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! :;o 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 (From " The JPrincess."') 
 
 I. 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead : 
 She nor swooned, nor uttered cry : 
 
362 ALFRED TEJTNYSON. 
 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 " She must weep or she wiU die." 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low. 
 Called him worthy to be loved. 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place. 
 Lightly to the warrior stept. 
 
 Took the face-cloth from the face : 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 
 Like summer tempest came her tears - 
 " Sweet my child, I live for thee." 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story ; 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ; 
 O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, djdng, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hUl or field or river : 
 Our echoes roU from soul to soul, 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 363 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low, 35 
 
 Wind of the western sea, 
 Low, low, breathe and blow. 
 
 Wind of the western sea ! 
 Over the roUing waters go, 
 Come from the dying moon, and blow, 40 
 
 Blow Kim again to me ; 
 While my Uttle one, whUe my pretty one, sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, jj- 
 
 Father will come to thee ^ooii : 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 45 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 Father wiU come to his babe in the nest, 
 Silver sails all out of the west, 
 
 Under the silver moon ; 
 Sleep, my httle one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. so 
 
 LINES FROM LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 » * * » • * # 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with 
 
 might; 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of 
 
 sight. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated with a clown. 
 And the grossness of his nature wiU have weight to drag thee 
 down. 
 
 Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something 5 
 
 new: 
 That which they have done but earnest of the things that they 
 
 shall do : 
 
364 ALFRED TEXjnrSON. 
 
 Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
 And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the 
 suns. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom Ungers, and I linger on the shore, 
 10 And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom Ungers, and he bears a laden 
 
 breast. 
 Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness of his rest. 
 
 THE LOTOS-EATEES. 
 
 " Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land ; 
 " This mounting wave will roU us shoreward soon." 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
 In which it seemed always afternoon. 
 All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 
 Breathing hke one that hath a weary dream. 
 Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
 And Kke a downward smoke, the slender stream 
 Along the cliff to f aU and pause and fall did seem. 
 
 10 A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke. 
 
 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
 And some through wavering lights and shadows broke 
 Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
 They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
 
 15 From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops. 
 
 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 
 Stood sunset-flushed : and, dewed with showery drops, 
 Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 
 
AXFRED TENNYSON. 365 
 
 III. 
 
 The charmed sunset Ungered low adown 
 
 In the red "West : through mountain clefts the dale 
 
 Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
 
 Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 
 
 And meadow, set with slender gaJingale ; 
 
 A land where all things always seemed the same ! 
 
 And round about the keel with faces pale, 
 
 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 
 
 The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 
 
 Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 
 Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
 To each, but whoso did receive of them. 
 And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
 Far, far away did seem .to mourn and rave 
 On aUen shores ; and if his fellow spake. 
 His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
 And deep-asleep he seemed, yet aU awake. 
 And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 
 
 They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
 Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
 And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, 
 Of child and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
 Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, 
 Weary the wandering flelds of barren foam. 
 Then some one said, "We will return no more ; " 
 And all at once they sang, ' ' Our island home 
 Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 
 
 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 
 
 Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw. 
 Betwixt the green brink and the running foam. 
 
36G ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
 To little harps of gold ; and, while they mused, 
 5 Whispering to each other half in fear, 
 
 Shrill music reached them on the middle sea. 
 
 Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. 
 A^Tiither away from the high green field, and the happy blossom- 
 ing shore ? 
 
 Day and night to the billow the fountain calls ; 
 10 Down shower the gamboling waterfalls 
 
 From wandering over the lea : 
 
 Out of the live-green heart of the deUs 
 
 They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
 
 And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
 15 High over the full-toned sea : 
 
 O hither, come hither, and furl your sails, 
 
 Come hither to me and to me ! 
 
 Hither, come hither, and frolic and play ; 
 
 Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
 20 We will sing to you all the day : 
 
 Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
 
 For here are the blissful downs and dales. 
 
 And merrily, merrily, carol the gales. 
 
 And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 
 25 And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
 
 Over the islands free ; 
 
 And the rainbow Uves in the curve of the sand ; 
 
 Hither, come hither and see ; 
 
 And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
 30 And sweet is the color of cove and cave. 
 
 And sweet shall your welcome be ; 
 
 O hither, come hither, and be our lords. 
 
 For merry brides are we ! 
 
 We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : 
 35 O listen, listen, your eyes shall gUsten 
 
 With pleasure and love and jubilee ! 
 
 O listen, listen, j^our eyes shall glisten 
 
 When the sharp, clear twang of the golden chords 
 
 Euns up the ridged sea ! 
 
ALFKED TEXXTSON. 367 
 
 \Mio can light ou as happy a shore 
 All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
 Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more. 
 
 MAUD. 
 I. 
 
 1. 
 
 I hate the dreadful hollow behind the httle wood, 
 Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
 The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent hoiTor of blood. 
 And Echo there, whatever is asked her, answers ' ' Death. ' ' 
 
 2. 
 
 For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 5 
 
 His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well ? — 
 Mangled, and flattened, and crushed, and dinted into the ground : 
 There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 
 
 3. 
 
 Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast speculation 
 
 had failed. 
 And ever he muttered and maddened, and ever wanned with 10 
 
 despair, 
 And out he walked when the wind like a broken worldling wailed, 
 And the flying gold of the ruined woodlands drove through the 
 
 air. 
 
 ■i. 
 
 I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirred 
 
 By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trailed, by a whispered 
 
 fright, 
 And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as 1 15 
 
 heard 
 The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 
 
368 ALFRED TENKYSON. 
 
 Villainy somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
 Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained : 
 But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
 20 Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and 
 drained. 
 
 Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made 
 them a curse. 
 
 Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 
 
 And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 
 
 Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearth- 
 stone ? 
 
 7. 
 
 25 But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of 
 
 mind. 
 When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or 
 
 his word ? 
 Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
 The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 
 
 Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 
 30 Ox the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; 
 May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint. 
 Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and 
 dust. 
 
 9. 
 
 Peace sitting under her oUve, and slurring the days gone by, 
 AVhen the poor are hovelled and hustled together, each sex, Uke 
 swine, 
 35 When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
 Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 
 
ALFKED TENXTSOS. 369 
 
 10. 
 
 And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
 Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yelLof the trampled wife, 
 While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
 And the spirit of murder -works in the very means of life. 
 
 40 
 
 11. 
 
 And Sleep must he down armed, for the viUainous centre-bits 
 Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights. 
 While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
 To pestle a poisoned poison behind his crimson lights. 
 
 12. 
 
 When a Mammonite mother Mils her babe for a burial fee, « 
 
 And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
 Is it peace or war? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea : 
 War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 
 
 13. 
 
 For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
 And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of so 
 
 the foam, 
 That the smooth-faced, snub-nosed rogue would leap from his 
 
 counter and till, 
 And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand 
 
 home. 
 
 14. 
 
 What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in. his mood ? 
 Must / too creep to the hoUow and dash myself down and die 
 Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 55 
 On a horror of shattered limbs, and a wretched swindler's lie? 
 
 15. 
 
 Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in the passionate 
 
 shriek. 
 Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
 
 24 
 
370 ALFRED TENTSTSON. 
 
 Wrapt in a cloali, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and 
 speak, 
 60 And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 1. 
 
 A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded hme 
 In the Kttle grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
 Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
 When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer cKme, 
 65 Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea. 
 The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land? 
 
 Below me, there, is the vOlage, and looks how quiet and small! 
 And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
 And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
 70 And here on the landward side, by a red rock, gUmmers the Hall ; 
 And up in the high Hall garden I see her pass like a light ; 
 But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 
 
 3. 
 
 When have I bowed to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 
 I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bowed ; 
 75 I bowed to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
 But the fire of a f ooHsh pride flashed over her beautiful face. 
 O child, you wrong your beauty, beUeve it, in being so proud ; 
 Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 
 
 I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 
 so I know it, and smile a hard-set smUe, like a stoic, or like 
 A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its waj' : 
 For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 
 
ALFRED TESNTSOX. 371 
 
 The mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the 
 
 shrike, 
 And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and 
 
 prey. 
 
 "We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fail- in her flower ; 85 
 Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a 
 
 game 
 That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed? 
 Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
 "We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and gi-in at a brother's 
 
 shame ; 
 However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 90 
 
 The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain. 
 An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
 The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice. 
 I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
 For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
 Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice, 
 
 For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veO.. 
 "Who knows the ways of the world, how God wiU bring them 
 
 about ? 
 Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 
 Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ? 100 
 Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 
 I have not made the world, and He that made it wiU guide. 
 
 Be mine the philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 
 "Whence if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot. 
 Far off from the clamor of Uars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 
 
372 
 
 AlFRED TKXXYSOX. 
 
 From the long-necked geese of the world that are ever hissing 
 
 dispraise 
 Because their natures are little, and whether he heed it or not, 
 Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 
 
 10. 
 
 And most of aU would I flee from the .cruel madness of love, 
 110 The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
 
 Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
 Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; 
 Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will. 
 You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 
 
 V. 
 
 A voice by the cedar tree, 
 
 In the meadow under the HaU ! 
 
 She is singing an air that is known to me, 
 
 A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, 
 
 A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
 
 Singing alone in the morning of life. 
 
 In the haf)py morning of life and of Maj-, 
 
 Singing of men that in battle arra}-, 
 
 Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
 
 March with banner and bugle and fife 
 
 To the death, for their native land. 
 
 Maud with her exquisite face. 
 And wild voice pealing up to the sunnj- skj-. 
 And feet like sunny gems on an English green ; 
 Maud in the light of her youth and her grace. 
 Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die. 
 Till I weU could weep for a time so sordid and mean. 
 And myself so languid and base. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 373 
 
 3. 
 
 Silence, beautiful voice ! 
 
 Be stiU, for you only trouble the mind 
 
 "With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 135 
 
 A glory I shaU not find. 
 
 Still ! I will hear you no more, 
 
 For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 
 
 But to move to the meadow and f aU before 
 
 Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, uu 
 
 Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind. 
 
 Not her, not her, but a voice. 
 
 XI. 
 
 1. 
 
 let the solid ground 
 Not fail beneath my feet 
 
 Before my life has found ws 
 
 What some have found so sweet. 
 Then let come what come may, 
 What matter if I go mad, 
 
 1 shall have had my day. 
 
 2. 
 
 Let the sweet heavens endure, iso 
 
 Not close and darken above me 
 Before I am quite quite sure 
 
 That there is one to love me ; 
 Then let come what come may 
 
 To a life that has been so sad, 155 
 
 I shall have had my day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 1. 
 "Birds in the high HaU-garden 
 When twihght was falling, 
 
37-i ALFRED TENT»T^SON. 
 
 Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 160 They were crying and calling. 
 
 2. 
 
 Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 
 
 And I, who else, was with her. 
 Gathering woodland lilies, 
 
 Myriads blow together. 
 
 Birds in our wood sang 
 Einging thro' the valleys, 
 
 Maud is here, here, here. 
 In among the lilies. 
 
 I kissed her slender hand, 
 She took the kiss sedately ; 
 
 Maud is not seventeen, 
 But she is tall and stately. 
 
 I to cry out on pride 
 
 Who have won her favor ! 
 175 O Maud were sure of Heaven 
 
 If lowliness could save her. 
 
 6. 
 
 I know the way she went 
 
 Home with her maiden posy. 
 For her feet have touched the meadows 
 180 And left the daisies rosy. 
 
 Birds in the high HaU-garden 
 Were crying and calUng to her, 
 
 Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 One is come to woo her. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 375 
 
 8. 
 
 Look, a horse at the door, iss 
 
 And little King Charles is snarUng, 
 Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
 
 You are not her darling. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 1. 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For the hlack hat, night, has flown. 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone ; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
 And the musk of the roses blown. 
 
 2. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves. 
 And the planet of Love is on high, 
 
 Beginning to faint in the light that she loves. 
 On a bed of daffodil sky. 
 
 To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
 To faint in his light and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
 All night has the casement-jessamine stirred 
 
 To the dancers dancing in tune : • 
 
 TiU a silence fell with the waking bird, 205 
 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
 4. 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 
37C ALFRED TEXNYSOX. 
 
 When Trill the dancers leave her alone ? 
 210 She is weary of dance and play. ' ' 
 
 Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
 
 And half to the rising day ; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 215 I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
 
 In babble and revel and wine. 
 O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 
 
 For one that will never be thine ? 
 But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
 220 "Forever and ever mine." 
 
 6. 
 
 And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 
 As the music clashed in the hall ; 
 
 And long by the garden lake I stood, 
 For I heard your rivulet fall 
 225 From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood^ 
 
 Our wood that is dearer than all ; 
 
 7. 
 
 From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
 That whenever a March- wind sighs. 
 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 230 In violets blue as your eyes. 
 
 To the woody hollow in which we meet 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 One long mUk-bloom on the tree ; 
 235 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 
 
 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
 But the rose was awake all night for your sake. 
 
ALFRED TEjnrrsos. 377 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 The lilies and roses were all awake, 
 
 They sighed for the dawn and thee. 240 
 
 9. 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
 
 Come hither, the dances are done, 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
 
 Queen hly and rose in one ; 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 215 
 
 To the flowers, and be their sun. 
 
 10. 
 There has fallen a splendid tear 
 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
 
 She is coming, my life, my fate ; 250 
 
 The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ; " 
 
 And the white rose weeps, " She is late ;" 
 The larkspur hstens, " I hear, I hear ;" 
 
 And the Hly whispers, ' ' I wait. ' ' 
 
 11. 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 255 
 
 "Were it ever so airy a tread. 
 My heart would hear her and beat, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
 My dust would hear her and beat. 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead ; 260 
 
 "Would start and tremble under her feet. 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 m MEMOEIAM. 
 
 Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
 "Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 
 By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 
 
 Believing where we cannot prove ! 
 
378 ALFEED TEX>TSOX. 
 
 5 Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 
 
 Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 
 Thou madest Death ; and lo ! th}- foot 
 Is on the skull which thou hast made. 
 
 Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
 10 Thou madest man, he knows not whj- ; 
 
 He thinks he was not made to die ; 
 And thou hast made him : thou art just. 
 
 Thou seemest human and divine, 
 The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
 15 Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 
 
 Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 
 
 Our little systems have their day ; 
 They have their day and cease to be ; 
 They are but broken lights of thee, 
 20 And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 
 
 We have but faith : we cannot know ; 
 
 For knowledge is of things we see ; 
 
 And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
 A beam in darkness : let it grow. 
 
 25 Let knowledge grow from more to more. 
 
 But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
 That mind and soul, according weU, 
 May make one music as 1>efore, 
 
 But vaster. "We are fools and slight ; 
 30 We mock thee when we do not fear -. 
 
 But help thj' foolish ones to bear ; 
 Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 
 
 Forgive what seemed m}- sin in me ; 
 What seemed my worth since I began ; 
 35 For merit lives from man to man, 
 
 And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 379 
 
 Forgive mj^ grief for one removed, 
 
 Thy creature, -whom I found so fair, 
 
 I trust he lives in thee, and there 
 I find him worthier to be loved. 
 
 Forgive these wild and wandering cries. 
 
 Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
 
 Forgive them where they fail in truth, 
 And in thy wisdom make me wise. 
 
 I held it truth, with him who sings 45 
 
 To one clear harp in divers tones, 
 
 That men may rise oh stepping-stones 
 Of their dead selves to higher things. 
 
 But who shall so forecast the years. 
 
 And find in loss a gain to match ? 50 
 
 Or reach a hand through time to catch 
 The far-off interest of tears ? 
 
 Let Love clasp Grief, lest both be drowned. 
 
 Let darkness keep her raven gloss ; 
 
 Ah ! sweeter to be drunk with loss, 55 
 
 To dance with death, to beat the ground, 
 
 Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
 
 The long result of love, and boast : 
 
 " Behold the man that loved and lost, 
 But aU he was is overworn. " 60 
 
 LIII. 
 
 O, yet we trust that somehow good 
 "Will be the final goal of iU, 
 To pangs of nature, sins of wUl, 
 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 
 
380 
 
 ALFRED TENXYSON. 
 
 65 That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
 
 That not one life shall be destroyed, 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
 When God hath made the pile complete ; 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
 70 That not a moth with vain desire 
 
 Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 Behold, we know not any thing ; 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 75 At last — far off — at last, to all, 
 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
 An infant crj-ing in the night : 
 An infant crying for the light : 
 80 And with no language but a cry. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Eing out wUd bells, to the wild sky. 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
 The year is dying in the night ; 
 
 Eing out wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Eing out the old, ring in the new, 
 Eing, happy bells, across the snow : 
 The year is going, let him go ; 
 
 Eing out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Eing out the grief that saps the mind, 
 For those that here we see no more ; 
 Eing out the feud of rich and poor, 
 
 Eing in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Eing out a slowly djring cause. 
 And ancient forms of party strife ; 
 
ALFRED TEXSTSOX. 381 
 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 "With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Eing out the want, the care, the sin. 
 
 The faithless coldness of the times ; 
 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Eing out false pride in place and blood. 
 
 The civic slander and the spite ; 
 
 Eing in the love of truth and right, 
 Eing in the common love of good. 
 
 Eing out old shapes of foul disease, 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
 Ring in the thousand Vears of peace. 
 
 Eing in the valiant man and free. 
 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
 
 Eing out the darkness of the land, 
 Eing in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 GENOXE. 
 
 There lies a vale in Ida, loveUer 
 
 Than aU the valleys of Ionian hUls. 
 
 The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, 
 
 Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 
 
 And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
 
 The lawns and meadow ledges, midway down 
 
 Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
 
 The long brook falling through the cloven ravine 
 
 In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
 
 Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
 
 Stands up and takes the morning ; but in front 
 
382 ALFEED TENXYSON. 
 
 The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
 
 Troas and Ilion's columned citadel. 
 
 The crown of Troas. 
 15 Hither came at noon. 
 
 Mournful Qilnone, wandering forlorn 
 
 Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
 
 Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
 
 Floated her hair, or seemed to float in rest. 
 20 She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. 
 
 Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
 
 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 
 
 ' ' O mother Ida, many-f ountained Ida, 
 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 25 For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
 
 The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
 
 The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, 
 
 Eests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
 
 The purple flowers droop ; the golden bee 
 30 Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
 
 My eyes are fuU of tears, my heart of love. 
 
 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
 
 And I am all aweary of my life. 
 
 ' ' O mother Ida, many-f ountained Ida, 
 
 35 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
 Hear me O Earth, hear me O HiUs, O Caves 
 
 That house the cold crowned snake ! O mountain brooks, 
 
 I am the daughter of a River-God ; 
 
 Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
 
 40 My sorrow with my song, as. yonder walls 
 
 Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
 A cloud that gathered shape : for it may be 
 That, while I speak of it, a little while 
 Mj^ heart may wander from its deeper woe. 
 
 45 " O mother Ida, many-f ountained Ida, 
 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 I waited underneath the dawning hills. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 383 
 
 Aloft the mountain lawn was clewj--dark, 
 
 And dewj-dark aloft the mountain-pine : 
 
 Beautiful Paris, e^•il-heal■ted Paris, so 
 
 Leading a jet-black goat white-horned, white-hooved. 
 
 Came up from reedy Simois all alone, 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
 Far off the torrent called me from the cleft :■ 
 
 Far up the solitary mountain smote S5 
 
 The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
 
 I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
 
 Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
 
 Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hau- 
 
 Clustered about his temples like a God's ; eo 
 
 And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens 
 
 WTien the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
 
 Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 
 
 "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
 He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm es 
 
 Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
 
 That smelt ambrosiaUj-, and while I looked 
 
 And listened, the full-flowing river of speech 
 
 Came down upon my heart. 
 
 " Mj' own CEuone, 70 
 
 Beautiful^browed CEnone, my own soul, 
 Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind engraven 
 ' For the most fair,' would seem to award it thine 
 As loveUer than whatever Oread haunt 
 
 The knoUs of Ida, loveUest in all grace 75 
 
 Of movement, and the chai-m of married brows." 
 
 "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 ■ He prest the blossom of his Hps to mine. 
 And added, ' This was cast upon the board, 
 When all the full-faced presence of the Gods so 
 
 Eanged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
 Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : 
 But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. 
 
384 ALFRED TEXJiTSON. 
 
 Delivering that to me, by coimaon voice 
 
 85 Elected umpLi-e, Here comes to-day 
 
 Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
 This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
 Behind j'on whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
 Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
 
 90 Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods. ' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 It was the deep mid-noon : one silvery cloud 
 Had lost his way between the piney sides 
 Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came. 
 95 Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
 
 And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
 Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
 Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
 And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
 100 This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 With bunch and berry and flower through and through. 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
 
 103 And o'er him flowed a golden cloud, and leaned 
 
 ■Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
 Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
 Coming through Heaven, like a light that grows 
 Larger and clearer, with one mind the G-ods 
 
 110 Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
 
 Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
 Unquestioned, overflowing revenue 
 Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
 And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, 
 
 115 Or labored mines, undrainable of ore. 
 
 Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll. 
 From manj- an inland town and haven large, 
 Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing citadel 
 In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 385 
 
 ■" O mother Ida, harkeu ere I die. 120 
 
 Still she spake on, and still she spake of power, 
 
 ' Which in all action is the end of all ; 
 
 Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bre,d 
 
 And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns 
 
 Alhance and allegiance, till thy hand 125 
 
 Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, . 
 
 From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 
 
 A shepherd all thy life, but yet king-born. 
 
 Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 
 
 Only, are likest Gods who have attained 130 
 
 Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
 
 Above the thunder, with undying bUss, 
 
 In knowledge of their own supremacy. ' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
 She ceased, and Paris held the coatty fruit 135 
 
 Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 
 
 Flattered his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 
 
 Somewhat apart, her clear and bared Umbs 
 
 O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
 
 Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 140 
 
 The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
 
 Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
 
 Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply : 
 
 " ' Self -reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 145 
 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 
 Would come uncalled for), but to hve by law, 
 
 Actidg the law we live by without fear ; 
 
 And because right is right, to follow right 
 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' iso 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 
 Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
 To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
 
 26 
 
38G ALFRED TEXNTSON. 
 
 155 So shalt thou find me fairest. 
 
 ' Yet, indeed 
 If gazing on di^-inity disrobed, 
 Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
 Unbiased by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
 
 160 That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee. 
 
 So, that nij- vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
 Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
 To push thee forward through a life of shocks, 
 Dangers and deeds, until endurance grow 
 
 165 Sinewed with action, and the full-grown will. 
 
 Circled through all experiences, pure law, 
 Commeasure perfect freedom.' 
 
 ' ' Here she ceased, 
 And Paris pondered, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
 
 170 Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not. 
 
 Or healing would not hear me, woe is me ! 
 
 " O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
 IdaUan Aphrodite beautiful, 
 
 175 Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, 
 
 With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
 From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
 Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
 And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
 
 180 Shone rosy- white, and o'er her rounded form 
 
 Between the shadows of the vine bunches 
 Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 
 
 "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
 
 185 The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh. 
 
 Half -whispered in his ear, ' I promise thee 
 The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
 She spoke and laughed : I shut my sight for fear : 
 But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm, 
 
 190 And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
 
ALFRED TEKNYSOX. 387 
 
 As she -svithdrew into the golden cloud, 
 And I was left alone within the bower ; 
 And from that time to this I am alone, 
 And I shall be alone until I die. 
 
 "Yet mother Ida, barken ere I die. 195 
 
 Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
 
 My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
 
 Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
 
 When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 
 
 Eyed like the evening star, with plaj'f ul tail, 200 
 
 Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? 
 
 Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
 
 Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
 
 Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
 
 Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 205 
 
 Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 
 They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
 
 My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
 
 High over the blue gorge, and all between 210 
 
 The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
 
 Fostered the callow eaglet — from beneath 
 
 Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
 
 The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
 
 Low in the valley. Never, never more 215 
 
 Shall lone OEnone see the morning mist 
 
 Sweep through them ; never see them overlaid 
 
 With narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud. 
 
 Between the loud stream and the trembUng stars. 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 220 
 
 I wish that somewhere in the ruined folds. 
 
 Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 
 
 Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her. 
 
 The Abominable, that uninvited came 
 
 Into the fair Peieian banquet-hall, 225 
 
388 ALFRED TEKNTSOX. 
 
 And cast the golden fruit upon the boai'd, 
 
 And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, 
 
 And tell her to her face how much I hate 
 
 Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 
 
 230 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 
 Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 
 In this green valley, under this green hill, 
 Even on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
 Sealed it with kisses ? watered it with tears ? 
 
 235 O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
 
 O happy heaven ! how canst thou see my face ? 
 O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 
 
 death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
 There are enough unhappy on this earth ; 
 
 240 Pass by the happy souls that love to live : 
 
 1 pray thee pass before my light of life. 
 And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
 Thou weighest heavy on the heart within. 
 Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 
 
 246 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 
 I wiU not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
 Do shape themselves within me more and more. 
 Whereof I catch the issue as I hear 
 Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hiUs 
 
 250 Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
 
 My far-off doubtful purjDOse, as a mother 
 Conjectures of the features of her child 
 Ere it is Ijorn : her cMld ! — a shudder comes 
 Across me : never child be born of me, 
 
 255 Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 
 
 O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
 Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
 Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
 260 Uncomforted, lea^•ing my ancient love 
 
ALFRED te>-nt:sox. 389" 
 
 With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
 
 Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
 
 Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
 
 A fire dances before her, and a sound 
 
 Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 265 
 
 What this may be I know not, but I know 
 
 That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day. 
 
 All earth and air seem only burning fire." 
 
 TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 Eevered, beloved, — O you that hold 
 
 A nobler office upon earth 
 
 Than arms, or power of brain, or birth. 
 Could give the warrior kings of old, 
 
 Victoria, — since your Royal grace S 
 
 To one of less desert allows 
 
 This laurel greener from the brows 
 Of him that uttered nothing base ; 
 
 And should your greatness, and the care 
 
 That yokes with empire, yield you time lo 
 
 To make demand of modern rhyme, 
 If aught of ancient worth be there ; 
 
 Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
 
 And through wild March the throstle calls, 
 
 Where, all about your palace-walls, 15 
 
 The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 
 
 Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
 
 For, though the faults were thick as dust 
 
 In vacant chambers, I could trust 
 Your kindness. May you rule as long, 20 
 
 And leave us rulers of your blood 
 
 As noble till the latest day ! 
 
 May children of our childi'en say, 
 " She wrought her people lasting good." 
 
390 ALFRED TEN^TSOX. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 (Idyls of the King.) 
 
 These to his memory — since he held them dear, 
 Perchance as tinding there unconsciously 
 Some image of himself — I dedicate 
 These Idyls. 
 5 And indeed he seems to me 
 
 Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
 " Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; 
 Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; 
 Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it ; 
 
 10 Who loved one only and who clave to her ' ' — 
 
 Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 
 Commingled with the gloom of imminent war 
 The shadow of his loss moved like eclipse, 
 Darkening the world. We have lost him ; he is gone ; 
 
 15 We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
 
 Are silent ; and we see him as he moved. 
 How modest, kindly, all accomplished, wise. 
 With what sublime repression of himself, 
 And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
 
 ^0 Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 
 
 Not making his high place the lawless perch 
 Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage ground 
 For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years 
 Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, 
 
 25 Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 
 
 In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. 
 And blackens every blot : for where is he, 
 Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
 A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his ? 
 
 30 Or how should England, dreaming of his sons, 
 
 Hope more for these than some inheritance 
 Of such a Ufe, a heart, a mind as thine. 
 Thou noble Father of her Kings to be. 
 Laborious for her people and her poor — 
 
 35 Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
 
ALFKED TENNYSON. 391 
 
 Far-sighted summoner of war and waste 
 
 To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
 
 Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
 
 Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
 
 Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, 40 
 
 Beyond all titles, and a household name. 
 
 Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good. 
 
 Break not, O woman's heart, but still endure ; 
 
 Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, 
 
 Eemembering aU the beauty of that star 45 
 
 "Which shone so close beside thee, that ye made 
 
 One light together, but has past and left 
 
 The Crown a lonely splendor. 
 
 May aU love, 
 His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee, 50 
 
 The love of all thy sons encompass thee. 
 The love of all thy daughters cherish thee, 
 The love of all thy people comfort thee, 
 TiU. God's love set thee at his side again! 
 
 GUINEVERE. 
 {II. 459-481.) 
 
 But I was first of aU the kings who drew 
 
 The knighthood-errant of this realm and all 
 
 The realms together under me, their Head 
 
 In that fair order of my Table Round, 
 
 A glorious company, the flower of men, 
 
 To serve as model for the mighty world. 
 
 And be the fair beginning of a time. 
 
 I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 
 
 To reverence the King, as if he were 
 
 Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 
 
 To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
 
392 ALFRED TEXXYSOX. 
 
 To ride abroad redressing liuman -wrongs, 
 To spealc no slander, no, nor to listen to it, 
 To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
 
 15 To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 
 
 And worship her by j-ears of noble deeds, 
 Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
 Of no more subtle master under heaven 
 Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
 
 20 Not only to keep down the base in man. 
 
 But teach high thought, and amiable words 
 And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
 And love of truth, and aU that makes a man. 
 
 LINES PROM VIVIEN. 
 
 In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, 
 Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers : 
 Unfaith in aught is want of faith in aU. 
 
 It is the little rift within the lute. 
 
 That by and by will make the music mute. 
 
 And ever widening slowly silence all. 
 
 The little rift within the lover's lute. 
 Or Uttle pitted speck in garner' d fruit. 
 That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 
 
 It is not worth the keeping : let it go : 
 But shall it? answer, darhng, answer, no. 
 And trust me not at all or all in all. 
 
 My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine. 
 For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine. 
 And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. 
 So trust me not at all or aU in all. 
 
KOBEKT BEOWNIXG. 393 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 A FACE. 
 
 If one could have that little head of hers 
 
 Painted upon a background of pui'e gold, 
 
 Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers ! 
 
 Xo shade encroaching on the matchless mould 
 
 Of those two lips, which should be opening soft s 
 
 In the pure profile ; not as whea she laughs. 
 
 For that spoils aU : but rather as if aloft 
 
 Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's 
 
 Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss 
 
 And capture 'twixt the Hps apart for this. lo 
 
 Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround. 
 
 How it should waver on the pale gold ground 
 
 Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts ! 
 
 I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 
 
 Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb, 15 
 
 Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb : 
 
 But these are only massed there, I should think, 
 
 Waiting to see some wonder momently 
 
 Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky 
 
 (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), 20 
 
 All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye. 
 
 Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. 
 
 INCrDENT OF THE FEENCH CAMP. 
 
 I. 
 
 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : 
 A mile or so away 
 
394 ROBERT BROWXIXG. 
 
 On a little mound Napoleon 
 Stood on our storming-day ; 
 
 AVitk neck outthrust, you fancy how, 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
 
 As if to balance the prone brow 
 Oppressive with its mind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused, ' ' My plans 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall. 
 Let once my army-leader, Lannes, 
 
 Waver at yonder wall," — 
 Out 'tvs-ixt the battery-smokes there flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 FuU galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy. 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy: 
 20 You hardly could suspect — 
 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed. 
 
 Scarce any blood came through) 
 You looked twice ere j-ou saw his breast 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 IV. 
 
 25 " WeU," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 
 
 We've got you Ratisbon ! 
 The Marshal's in the market-place. 
 
 And you'll be there anon 
 To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
 30 Where I, to heart's desire, 
 
 Perched him ! " The Chief's eye flashed ; his plans 
 Soared up again like fire. 
 
 The Chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
 Softened itself, as sheathes 
 
ROBERT BROWXIXG. 395 
 
 A film the motlier eagle's eye 35 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
 ' ' You ' re wounded ! " " Xar, ' ' his soldier' s pride 
 
 Touched to the quick, he said, 
 " I'm kUled, Sire ! " And, his Chief beside, 
 
 Smiling, the bo}- fell dead. 
 
 MY LAST DUCHESS. 
 (FerraraS) 
 
 That's my last Duchess painted on the wall. 
 
 Looking as if she were alive ; I eaU 
 
 That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf 's hands, 
 
 Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
 
 Will't please you sit and look at her? I said 5 
 
 Fra Pandolf by design, for never read 
 
 Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 
 
 The depth and passion of its earnest glance. 
 
 But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
 
 The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10 
 
 And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 
 
 How such a glance came there ; so, not the first 
 
 Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
 
 Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
 
 Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 15 
 
 Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps 
 
 Over my Lady's wrist too much," or, "Paint 
 
 Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
 
 Half flush that dies along her throat ; ' ' such stuff 
 
 Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 
 
 For caUing up that spot of joj-. She had 
 
 A heart, . . . how shall I say ? . . . too soon made glad, 
 
 Too easily impressed ; she Hked whate'er 
 
 She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
 
 Sir, 'twas all one ! My favor at her breast, 25 
 
 The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
 
396 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 The bough of cherries some oflBcious fool 
 Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 
 She rode with round the terrace — all and each 
 
 30 Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 
 
 Or blush at least. She thanked men, — good ; but thanked 
 Somehow ... I know not how ... as if she ranked 
 My gift of a nine hundred years' old name 
 With anybodj^'s gift. Who'd stoop to blame 
 
 35 This sort of trifling ? Even had yOu skill 
 
 In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 
 Quite clear to such an one, and say, ' ' Just this 
 Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss. 
 Or there exceed the mark ' ' — and if she let 
 
 40 Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 
 
 Her wits to yours, forsooth, and ma,de excuse, 
 — E'en then there would be some stooping, and I choose 
 Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt. 
 Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 
 
 45 Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 
 Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 
 As if alive. Will' t please you rise? We 'U meet 
 The company below, then. I repeat, 
 The Count your master's known munificence 
 
 60 Is ample warrant that no just pretence 
 Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 
 Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
 At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
 Together down. Sir ! Notice Neptune, tho', 
 
 55 Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 
 
 Which Glaus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. 
 
CHAKLES DICKENS. 397 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 MR. PICKWICK'S RIDE. 
 {Pickwick Papers.) 
 
 Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and 
 "Were waiting his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready 
 laid in tempting display. They sat down to the meal ; and 
 hroUed ham, eggs, tea, coffee, and sundiies, began to disappear 
 with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the g^eellence of 5 
 the fare and the appetites of its consumers. 
 
 " Now, about Manor Fai-m," said Mr. Pickwick. " How shall 
 we go ? " 
 
 "We had better consult the waiter, perhaps," said Mr. Tup- 
 man, and the waiter was summoned accordingly. 10 
 
 "DingleyDeU, gentlemen — fifteen miles, gentlemen — cross- 
 road — post chaise, sir?" 
 
 "Post chaise won't hold more than two," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 "True, sir — beg your pardon, sir. Very nice four-wheeled 
 chaise, sir — seat for two behind — one in front for the gentle- 15 
 man that drives. Oh 1 beg your pardon, sir — that'll only hold 
 three." 
 
 " What's to be done? " said Mr. Snodgrass. 
 
 "Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?" 
 suggested the waiter, looking toward Mr. Winkle; "very good 20 
 saddle horses, sir — -any of Mr.^Wardle's men coming to Eoch- 
 ester bring 'em back, sir." 
 
 " The very thing," said Mr. Pickwick. " Winkle, will you go 
 on horseback ? ' ' 
 
 Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very 2: 
 lowest recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill ; 
 
398 CHAELES DICKENS. 
 
 but, as he would not have them even suspected on any account, 
 he at once repUed with great hardihood, ' ' Certainly. I should 
 enjoy it, of all things." , 
 
 30 Mr. Winkle had rushed ujoou his fate ; there was no resource. 
 " Let them be at the door b^' eleven," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " Very well, sir," repUed the waiter. 
 
 The waiter retired, the breakfast concluded, and the travelers 
 ascended to their respective bed rooms, to prepare a change of 
 35 clothing, to take with them on their approaching expedition. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminar}^ arrangements, and 
 was looking over the coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the 
 street, when the waiter entered, and announced that the chaise 
 was ready — an announcement which the vehicle itself con- 
 40 firmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee-room bUnds 
 aforesaid. 
 
 It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low' 
 place Uke a wine bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for 
 one in front, drawn by an immense brown horse displaying great 
 45 sj'mmetry of bone. A hostler stood near, holding by the bridle 
 another immense horse — apparently a near relative of the 
 animal in the chaise — ready saddled for Mr. Winkle. 
 
 "Bless my soul! " said Mr. Pickwick, as thej' stood upon 
 the pavement while the coats were being put in. "Bless my 
 50 soul! who's to drive? I never thought of that." 
 
 "•Oh j'ou, of course," said Mr. Tupman. 
 
 "Of course," said Mr. Snodgrass. 
 
 " I ! " exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 "Not the slightest fear, sir," interposed the waiter. " War- 
 55 rant him quiet, sir ; a hinfant in arms might drive him." 
 
 "He don't shy, does he? " inquired Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " Shy, sir. He wouldn't shy if he was to meet a waggon-load 
 of monkeys with their tails burnt off. ' ' 
 
 The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and 
 60 3Ir. Snodgrass got into the bin ; Mr. 'Pickwick ascended to his 
 perch, and deposited his feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected 
 beneath it for that purpose. 
 
 " Xow, Shiny VLUiam," said the hostler to the deputy hostler, 
 give the gen'lm' n the ribbons. " " Shiny Vilham " — so called,. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 399 
 
 protably, from his sleek hair and oily countenance — placed the 65 
 reins in Mr. PickTviek's left hand; and the upper hostler thrust 
 a Ts-hip into his right. 
 
 " "^^"o— o ! " cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced 
 a decided inclination to back into the coffee room window. 
 
 "'^'o — o!" echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from 70 
 the bin. 
 
 "Only his playfulness, gen'lm'n," said the head hostler en- 
 couragingly ; " jist kitch hold on him, Villiam." 
 
 The deputy restrained the animal's impetuosity, and the prin- 
 cipal ran to assist Mr. "Winkle in mounting. 75 
 
 "T'other side, sir, if you please." 
 
 "Bio wed if the gen'lm'n worn't a gettin' up on the wrong 
 side ! " whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly grati- 
 fied waiter. 
 
 Mr. Winlde, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with so 
 about as much difficulty as he would have experienced in getting 
 up the side of a first-rate man-of-war. 
 
 ' • All right ? ' ' inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presenti- 
 ment that it was all wrong. 
 
 •'All right," replied Mr. Winkle faintly. ss 
 
 " Let 'em go," cried the hostler, — "Hold him in, sir," and 
 away went the chaise and the saddle horse, with Mr. Pickwick 
 on the box of the one and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, 
 to the delight and gratification of the whole inn-yard. 
 
 "What makes him go sideways? " said Mr. Snodgrass in the 90 
 bin, to Mr. Winkle in the saddle. 
 
 " I can't imagine," rephed Mr. Winkle. His horse was drift- 
 . ing up the street in the most mysterious manner — side first, with 
 his head toward one side of the way and his tail toward the 
 other. 95 
 
 Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other 
 particular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the 
 management of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed 
 various peculiarities highly interesting to a bj'stander, but by no 
 means equally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides 100 
 constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncom- 
 fortable manner, and tugging at the reins to an extent which 
 
400 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 rendered it a matter of great difficulty for IMr. Pickwick to hold 
 tliem, he had a singular propensity for darting suddenly every 
 
 105 now and then to the side of the road, then stopping short, and 
 then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it was 
 wholly impossible to control. 
 
 "What can he mean by this?" said Mr. Snodgrass, when the 
 horse had executed this manoeuvre for the twentieth time. 
 
 110 "I don't know," replied Mr. Tupman ; it looks verj- like shj'- 
 ing, don't it?" Mr. Snodgrass was about to replj-, when he was 
 interrupted by a shout from Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 "Wo — o!" said that gentleman; "I have dropped my 
 whip." 
 
 115 "Winkle," said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trot- 
 ting up on the tall horse, with his hat over his ej-es, and shaking 
 all over, as if he would shake to pieces, with the violence of the 
 exercise, "pick up the whip, there's a good fellow." ]\Ir. 
 Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in 
 
 120 the face ; and having at length succeeded in stopping him, dis- 
 mounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the 
 reins prepared to rempunt. Xow whether the tall horse, in the 
 natural playfulness of his disposition, was desirpus of ha\-ing a 
 little innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred 
 
 125 to him that he could perform the journey as much to his own 
 satisfaction without a rider as with one, are points upon which, 
 of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinct conclusion. 
 By whatever motive the animal was actuated, certain it is that 
 Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped 
 
 130 them over his head, and darted backward to their full length. 
 
 "Poor fellow," said Mr. Winkle, soothingly ; " poor fellow — 
 good old horse." The "poor fellow" was proof against flat- 
 tery : the more Mr. Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he 
 sidled away ; and, notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and 
 
 135 wheedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round 
 and round each other for ten minutes, at the end of which time 
 each was at precisely the same distance from each other as when 
 they first commenced — an unsatisfactory sort of thing under 
 any circumstances, but particularly so on a lonely road, where 
 
 140 no assistance can be procured. 
 
CHAKLES DICKEXS. 401 
 
 "What am I to do? " shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging 
 had been prolonged for a considerable time. ' ' "What am I to do ? 
 I can't get on him." 
 
 "You had better lead him, till we come to a turn-pike," 
 replied Mr. Pickwick from the chaise. 145 
 
 " But he won't come ! " roared Mr. Winkle. " Do come, and 
 hold him." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick was the verj' personification of kindness and 
 humanitj'- he threw the reins on the horse's back, and having 
 • descended from his seat, caref ulty drew the chaise into the hedge, 150 
 lest anything should come along the road, and stepped back to 
 the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tupman 
 and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle. 
 
 The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing toward 
 hinn -with the chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the 155 
 rotary movement, in which he had previously indulged, for a 
 retrograde of so very determined a character, that it at once 
 drew INIi-. Winkle, who was stiU at the end of the bridle, at a 
 rather quicker rate than fast walking, in the direction from which 
 they fiad just come. Mr. Piclcwick ran to his assistance, but the leo 
 faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran back- 
 ward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking up of the 
 dust, and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly puUed out of 
 their sockets, fairly l6t go his hold. The horse paused, stared, 
 shook his head, turned around, and quietly trotted home to lea 
 Eochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each 
 other with countenances of blank dismay. A rattUng noise at a 
 little distance attracted their attention. Thej' looked up. 
 
 "JBless my soul!" exclaimed the agonized Mr. Pickwick, 
 " there's the other horse running away ! " 170 
 
 It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, 
 and the reins were on his back. The result may be guessed. 
 He tore off with the four-wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. 
 Tupman and ]Mi-. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chaise. The 
 heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the its 
 hedge, Mr. Sri)dgrass followed his example, the horse dashed 
 the four-wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the 
 wheels from the body, and the bin from the perch ; and finally 
 
 2G 
 
403 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Stood Stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made. The 
 180 first care of the two unspilled friends was to extricate their 
 unfortunate comjjanions from their bed of quickset — a process 
 which gave them the unspeakal )le satisfaction of discovering that 
 they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their gar- 
 ments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next 
 185 thing to be done was, to unharness the horse. This complicated 
 process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward, 
 leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its 
 fate. 
 
 An hour's walking brought the travelers to a little road-side 
 
 190 public house. * * * "We want to put this horse up here," 
 
 said Mr. Pickwick; " I suppose we can, can't we?" * » * 
 
 " Missus," — roared the man with the red head, emerging from 
 
 the garden, and looking very hard at the horse ^ — " Missus." 
 
 " Can we put this horse up here, my good woman? " said Mr. 
 
 195 Tupman advancing and speaking in his most seductive tones. 
 
 "Xo," replied the woman, after a little consideration, "I'm 
 
 afeerd on it." 
 
 "I — I — really believe, " whispered Mr. Winkle as his friends 
 gathered round him, " that they think that we have come by this 
 200 horse in some dishonest manner." 
 
 " Hallo, j'ou fellow ! " said the angry Mr. Pickwick, " do you 
 think we stole this horse? " 
 
 " I'm sure ye did," replied the red-headed man. 
 •'It's like a dream," ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, " a hideous 
 205 dream. The idea of a man's walking about, aU day, with a 
 dreadful horse he can't get rid of." 
 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 403^ 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKEEAY 
 
 THE NEWCOMES. 
 
 The household from above and from below: the maids and 
 footmen from the basement ; the nurses, children, and govern- 
 esses from the attics, — all poured into the room at the sound 
 of a certain beU. 
 
 I do not sneer at the purpose for which, at that chiming eight- 5 
 o'clock bell, the household is called together. The urns are 
 hissing, the plate is shining; the father of the house, standing 
 up, reads from a gilt book for three or four minutes in a meas- 
 ured cadence. The members of the family are around the table 
 in an attitude of decent reverence ; the younger children whisper 10 
 responses at their mother's knees ; the governess worships a little 
 apart ; the maids and the large footmen are in a cluster before 
 their chairs, the upper servants performing their devotions on 
 the other side of the sideboard ; the nurse whisks about the 
 unconscious last-born, and tosses it up and down during the 15 
 ceremony. I do not sneer at that — at the act at which all these 
 people are assembled — it is at the rest of the day I marvel ; at 
 the rest of the day, and what it brings. At the very instant 
 when the voice has ceased speaking, and the gilded book is shut, 
 the world begins again, and for the next twenty-three hours and 20 
 fifty-seven minutes all that household is given up to it. The 
 servile squad rises up and marches away to its basement, whence, 
 should it happen to be a gala-day, those tall gentlemen, at present 
 attired in Oxford mixture, will issue forth with flour plastered on 
 their heads, yellow coats, pink breeches, sky-blue waistcoats, 25 
 silver lace, buckles in their shoes, black silk bags on their backs, 
 and I don't know what insane emblems of servility and absurd 
 
404 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAT. 
 
 bedizenments of folly. Their very manner of speaking to what 
 we call their masters and mistresses will be a like monstrous 
 
 30 masquerade. You know no more of that race which inhabits the 
 basement floor than of the men and brethren of Timbuctoo, to 
 whom some among us send missionaries. If you meet some of 
 your servants in the streets (I respectfully suppose for a moment 
 that the yeader is a person of high fashion and a great establish- 
 
 35 ment) you would not know their faces. You might sleep under 
 the same roof for half a century and know nothing about them. 
 If they were ill, you would not visit them, though yon would 
 send them an apothecary and, of course, order that they lacked 
 for nothing. You are not unkind, yon are not worse than your 
 
 40 neighbors. Nay, perhaps, if you did go into the kitchen, or take 
 tea in the seiwants' hall, you would do little good, and only bore 
 the folks assembled there. But so it is. "U'ith those fellow- 
 Christians who have been just saying " Amen " to your praj-ers, 
 you have scarcely the community of Charity. They come, you 
 
 43 don't know whence ; they think and talk, you don't know what ; 
 they die, and you don't care, or -vice versa. They answer the 
 bell for prayers as they answer the bell for coals ; for exactly 
 three minutes in the da}' you all kneel together on one carpet — 
 and, the desires and petitions of the servants and masters over, 
 
 so the rite called familj- worship is ended. 
 
 Exeunt servants, save those two who warm the newspaper, 
 administer the muffins, and serve out the tea. Sir Brian reads 
 his letters, and chumps his dry toast. Ethel whispers to her 
 mother, she thinks Eliza is looking very iU. Lady Ann asks, 
 
 55 " which is Eliza? Is it the woman that was ill before they left 
 town? If she is ill, j\Irs. Trotter had better send her away. 
 Mrs. Trotter is only a great deal too good-natured. She is 
 always keeping people who are ill." Then her Ladyship begins 
 to read the Morning Post, and glances over the names of the 
 ^0 persons who were present at Baroness Bosco's ball, and IMrs. 
 Toddle Tompkyns's soiree dansante in Belgrave Square. 
 
THOJIAS BABINGTON MACAULAT. 405 
 
 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, 
 Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land 
 
 of France ! 
 And thou Rochelie, our own Eochelle, proud city of the waters, 5 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters ; 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 
 For cold and stiff and stiU are they who wrought tRy wall's annoy. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field has turned the chance of war, 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre. lo 
 
 Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day 
 
 TVe saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 
 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. 
 
 And Appenzel's stout infantry and Egmont's Flemish spears. 
 
 There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ! 15 
 
 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; 
 
 And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled 
 
 flood, 
 And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 
 And we cried unto the li^■ing God, who rules the fate of war. 
 To fight for His own holy name and Henry of Navarre. 
 
 The king has come to marshal us, in all his ai-mor drest, 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. 
 He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
 He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 
 
 20 
 
406 THOMAS BABINGTOX MACAULAY. 
 
 33 Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 
 Down all our line in deafening shout, " God save our Lord, the 
 
 King." 
 " And if mj' standard-bearer fajl, as fall full well he may. 
 For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, — 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of 
 war, 
 30 And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Xavarre." 
 
 Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! 
 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 
 With all the hirehng chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
 
 35 Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
 Charge for the golden lilies now, — upon them with the lance ! 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white 
 
 crest ; 
 And in they burst, and on they rushed, wliile, like a guiding star, 
 
 40 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne has turned his 
 rein, 
 
 D' Aumale hath cried for quarter — the Flemish Count is slain, 
 
 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; 
 
 The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven 
 mail. 
 45 And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 
 
 " Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man ; 
 
 But out spake gentle Henry then, " No Frenchman is my foe ; 
 
 Down, down with every foreigner ; but let your brethren go." 
 
 Oh ! was there ever such a Knight, in friendship or in war, 
 6u As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! 
 
 Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ! 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return ; 
 Ho ! Philip, send for charitj-, thy Mexican pistoles, 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's 
 souls ! 
 
THOMAS BABIXGTOX IIACAULAT. 407 
 
 Ho I gallant nobles of the League, look that your anus be bright ! 55 
 Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep vratch and -wavcl to-night ! 
 For our Gofl hath crushed the tjTant. our God hath raised the 
 
 slave. 
 And mocked the counsel of the ivise and the valour of the brave. 
 Then glorj' to His holy name, from whom aU glories are ; 
 And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of Xavarre. eo 
 
 ESTBODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I purpose to Tvrite the history of England from the accession 
 of King James the Second down to a time which is within the 
 memory of men stOl living. I shall recount the errors which, in 
 a few months, alienated a loyal gentry and priesthood from the 
 House of Stuart. I shall trace the course of that revolution 5 
 which terminated the long struggle between our sovereigns and 
 their pai-liaments, and bound up together the rights of the people 
 and the title of the reigning dynasty. I shall relate how the new 
 settlement was, during manj' troubled years, successfuUj' defended 
 against foreign and .domestic enemies ; how, under that settle- 10 
 ment, the authority of law and the security of property were 
 found to be compatible with a liberty of discussion and of indi- 
 vidual action never before known; how, from the auspicious 
 union of order and freedom, sprang a prosperitj^ of which the 
 annals of human affairs had f ui-nished no example ; how our 15 
 country, from a state of ignominious vassalage, rapidly rose to 
 the place of umpire among European powers ; how her opulence 
 and her martial glorj^ grew together ; how, by wise and resolute 
 good faith, was gradually established a public credit fruitful of 
 mar\-els which, to the statesman of any former age, would have 20 
 seemed incredible; how a gigantic commerce gave birth to a 
 maritime power, compared with which every other maritime 
 power, ancient or modern, sinks into insignificance; how Scot- 
 land, after ages of enmity, was at length united to England, not 
 merely by legal bonds, but by indissoluble ties of interest and 25 
 affection ; how, in America, the British colonies rapidly became 
 
408 THOMAS BABIXGTON" 5IACAULAY. 
 
 far mightier and wealthier than the realms which Cortes and 
 Pizarro had added to the dominions of Charles the Fifth ; how, 
 in Asia, British adventurers founded an empii'e not less splendid, 
 
 30 and more durable, than that of Alexander. 
 
 Xor will it be less my duty faithfully to record disasters 
 mingled with triumphs, and great national crimes and follies far 
 more humiliating than any disaster. It will be seen that even 
 what we justly account our chief blessings were not without 
 
 35 alloy. It will be seen that the system which effectually secured 
 our Uberties against the encroachments of kingly power gave 
 birth to a new class of abuses, from which absolute monarchies 
 are exempt. It will be seen that, in consequence partly of unwise 
 interference, and partly of unwise neglect, the increase of wealth 
 
 40 and the extension of trade produced, together with immense 
 good, some e^•ils from which pOor and rude societies are free. 
 It will be seen how, in two important dependencies of the crown, 
 wrong was followed by just retribution ; how imprudence and 
 obstinacy broke the ties which bound the North American colo- 
 
 45 nies to the parent state ; how Ireland, cursed by the domination 
 of race over race, and of religion over reUgion, remained indeed 
 a member of the empire, but a withered and distorted member, 
 adding no strength to the bodj' poUtic, and reproachfully pointed 
 at by all who feared or envied the greatness of England. 
 
 30 Yet, unless I greatly deceive myself, the general effect of this 
 checkered narrative will be to excite thankfulness in all reUgious 
 minds, and hope in the breasts of all patriots. For the history 
 of our country during the last hundred and sixty years is emi- 
 nently the history of physical, of moral, and of intellectual 
 
 55 improvement. Those who compare the age upon which their lot 
 has fallen with a golden age which exists only in their imagina- 
 tion, may talk of degeneracy and decay; but no man who is 
 correctly informed as to the past will be disposed to take a 
 morose or desponding view of the present. 
 
 60 I should very imperfecta execute the task which I have under- 
 taken, if I were merely to treat of battles and sieges, of the rise 
 and fall of administrations, of intrigues in the palace, and of 
 debates in the parliament. It will be my endeavor to relate the 
 history of the people as well as the history of the government ;. 
 
THOJIAS BABIXGTOX MACAILAT. 409 
 
 to trace the progress of useful and ornamental arts ; to describe 65^ 
 the rise of religiouS sects and the changes of hterary taste ; to 
 portray the manners of successive generations ; and not to pass 
 by Trith neglect even the revolutions which have taken place in 
 dress, furniture, repasts, and j)ublie amusements. I shall cheer- 
 fully beai" the reproach of having descended below the dignity of 70 
 history, if I can succeed in placing before the English of the 
 nineteenth century a true picture of the life of their ancestors. 
 
 ME. ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 (From the Essrnjs.) 
 
 The poem on the Omnipresence of the Deity commences with a 
 description of the creation, in which we can find only one thought 
 which has the least pretension to ingenuity, and that one thought 
 is stolen from Dryden, and marred in the stealing: 
 
 '• Last, softly beautiful as music's close, 5 
 
 Angehe woman into being rose. ' ' 
 
 The all-pervading influence of the Supreme Being is then 
 described in a few tolerable hues borrowed from Pope, and a 
 great many intolerable lines of Mr. Robert Montgomery's own. 
 The following may stand as a specimen : 1 
 
 • ' But who could trace Thine um-estricted course. 
 Though Fancy follow' d with immortal force? 
 There's not a blossom fondled by the breeze. 
 There's not a fruit that beautifies the trees, 
 There's not a particle in sea or aii-, i 
 
 But nature owns Thy plastic influence there ! 
 With fearful gaze, still be it mine to see 
 How all is filled and wdfled by Thee ; 
 Upon Thy min-or, earth's majestic view, 
 To paint ,Thy Presence, and to feel it too." 
 
 The last two lines contain an excellent specimen of Mr. Eobert 
 Montgomerj-'s Turkey-carpet style of writing. The majestic 
 view of earth is the mirror of God's presence ; and on this mirror 
 
410 THOMAS BABINIiT(JN' JIACAULAY. 
 
 Mr. Eobert Montgomerj' paints God's presence. The use of a 
 
 25 mirror, we submit, is not to be painted upon. ^ 
 
 A few more lines, as bad as those which we ha^'e quoted, 
 bring us to one of the most amusing instances of literary pilfer- 
 ing which we remember. It might be of use to plagiarists to 
 Ivnow as a general rule, that what they steal is, to employ' a 
 
 30 phrase common in advertisements, of no use to any but the right 
 owner. We never fell in, however, with anj' plunderer who so 
 little understood how to turn his booty to good account as Mr. 
 Montgomery. Lord Byron, in a i^assage which everj'bodj' knows 
 by heart, has said, addressing the sea : 
 
 35 " Time writes no wrinkle o:i thine azure brow." 
 
 Mr. Eobert Montgomery very coolly appropriates the image and 
 reproduces the stolen goods in the following form : 
 
 " And thou, vast ocean, on whose awful face 
 Time's iron feet can print no ruin- trace." 
 
 40 So may such ill-got gains ever prosper ! 
 
 The effect which the ocean produces on atheists is then de- 
 scribed in the following lofty lines : 
 
 " Oh ! never did the dark-souled atheist stand, 
 And watch the breakers boiling on the strand, 
 
 45 And, while creation staggered at his nod. 
 
 Mock the dread presence of the mighty God ! 
 We hear him in the wind-heaved ocean's roar, 
 Hurling her billowy crags upon the shore ; 
 We hear him in the riot of the blast, 
 
 50 And shake, while rush the raving whirlwinds past! " 
 
 If Mr. Robert ^lontgomerj ' s genius were not far too free and 
 aspiring to be shackled by the rules of syntax, we should suppose 
 that it is at the nod of the atheist that creation shudders, and 
 that it is this same dark-souled atheist who hurls billowy crags 
 65 upon the shore. 
 
 A few more lines bring us to another instance of unprontable 
 theft. Sir Walter Scott has these lines in the Lord of the Isles : 
 
 " The dew that on the violet lies 
 Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes." 
 
THOMAS BABIXGTOX MACAULAT. 411 
 
 This is pi-etty, taken separately, and, as is alwaj-s the case ynth 6o 
 good things of good writers, much prettier in its place tlian can 
 ever be conceived hy those who see it only detached from the 
 context. Now for Mr. Montgomerj- ■ 
 
 " And the bright dew-bead on the bramble lies, 
 Like liquid rapture upon beauty's eyes." 65 
 
 The comparison of a violet, bright vrith the dew, to a woman's 
 eyes, is as perfect a comparison as can be. Sir "Walter's lines 
 are part of a song addressed to a woman, and the comparison is 
 therefore peculiarly natural and graceful. Dew on a bramble is 
 no more like a woman's eyes than dew anywhere else. There is 70 
 a very pretty Eastern tale, of which the fate of plagiarists often 
 reminds us. The slave of a magician saw his master wave his 
 wand, and heard him give orders to the magicians who appeared 
 at the summons. He accordingly stole the wand, and waved it 
 himself in the air ; but he had not observed that his master used ts 
 the left hand for that purpose. The spirits thus irregularly sum- 
 moned, tore him to pieces instead of obeying his orders. There 
 are very few who can safely venture to conjure with the rod of 
 Sir Walter, and we are sure that Mr. Robert Montgomery is not 
 one of them. so 
 
 Mr. Campbell, in one of his most pleasing pieces, has this line : 
 
 " The sentinel stars set their watch in the sky." 
 
 The thought is good, and has a very striking propriety where 
 Mr. Campbell has placed it, in the mouth of a soldier telling his 
 dream. But, though Shakspeare assures us that " every true 85 
 man's apparel fits your thief," it is by no means the case, as we 
 have already seen, that every true poet's similitude fits your plag- 
 iarist. Let us see how Mr. Robert Montgomery uses the image : 
 
 ' ' Ye quenchless stars ! so eloquently bright. 
 Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, 90 
 
 While half the world is lapp'd in downy dreams. 
 And round the lattice creep your midnight beams, 
 How sweet to ga,ze upon your placid eyes. 
 In lambent beauty looking from the skies." 
 
412 THOMAS BABIXGTOS MACAt'LAY. 
 
 95 Certainly the ideas of eloquence, of untroubled repose, of 
 
 placid eyes, of the lambent beauty on which it is sweet to gaze, 
 
 harmonize admirably with the idea of a sentry. 
 
 "We would not be understood, however, to say, that Mr. Kobert 
 
 Montgomery cannot make similitudes for himself. A very few 
 100 lines further on, we find one which has everj' mark of originality, 
 
 and on which, we will be bound, none of the poets whom he has 
 
 j)lundered ■nill ever think of making reprisals : 
 
 ' ' The soul, aspiring, i^ants its source to mount. 
 As streams meander level with their fount. ' ' 
 
 105 "We take this to be, on the whole, the worst similitude in the- 
 world. In the first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly 
 meander, level with its fount. In the next place, if streams did 
 meander level with their founts, no two motions can be less like 
 each other than that of meandering level and that of mounting 
 
 110 upwards. 
 
 AVe have then an apostrophe to the Deity, couched in terms 
 which, in an}^ writer who dealt in meanings, we should caU pro- 
 fane, but to which we suppose Mr. Robert Montgomery attaches 
 no idea whatever : 
 
 115 ' • Yes ! pause and think, within one fleeting hour. 
 
 How vast a universe obeys Thy power ; 
 Unseen, but felt, Thine interfused control 
 Works in each atom, and pervades the whole ; 
 Expands the blossom, and erects the tree, 
 
 120 Conducts each vapor, and commands each sea. 
 
 Beams in each ray, bids whirlwinds be unfurled 
 Unrolls the thunder, and upheaves a world." 
 * « » * * 
 
 Here we conclude. If our remarks give pain to Mr. Robert 
 ^Montgomery, we are sorry for it. But at whatever cost of pain 
 
 125 to individuals, literature must be purified of this taint. And, to 
 show that we are not actuated by any feelings of personal enmity 
 towards him, we hereby give notice, that as soon as any book 
 shall, by means of putfing, reach a second edition, our intention 
 is, to do unto the writer of it as we have done unto Mr. Robert 
 
 130 Montgomery. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 XIV CENTUKY. 
 
 I. Chaucer found rhyme established, although uot to the exclusion of 
 the Anglo-Saxon system of alliteration. Of metres he found in use the 
 Long Iambic, the Alexandrine, the Octosyllabic, and the stanza of Six 
 Verses : of these he himself employed the Alexandrine and Octosyllabic, 
 and added the Heroic measure. With Chaucer, if we allow for the 
 pronunciation of his time, we begin to find the metrical change to 
 syllabic regularity. — ((?. L. Craik.) 
 
 II. In regard to language, it may be said that as spelling did not 
 become settled before 1755, many of the irregularities of Chaucer are 
 superficial, and a few readings will remove all difficulty for the student. 
 The labor which fell to Chaucer, from his priority among writers of 
 English, was to select and authorize idiomatic, forcible, and expressive 
 terms and phrases from the native stock ; and to embody universal as 
 well as distinctively national ideas and sentiments in new and happy 
 combinations of familiar words. Such was Chaucer's success, that only 
 one hundred of the Eomance words have since become obsolete. Of the 
 words, employed first by Chaucer, these may serve to illustrate his suc- 
 cess : — 
 
 Abstain, Abundant, Ambassador, Anoint, Appeal, Appear, Appraise, 
 Array, Assembly, Attendance, Because, Benefice, Benignly, Bestial, 
 Calculation, Cause, Certain, Chaplet, Cherish, Claim, Command (to), 
 Comparison, Comprehend, Conquer, Continually, Contrary, Convenient, 
 Convert, Corner, Cover, Cruelty, Cubit, Curiously, Date, Degree, Deny, 
 Deprive, Desert (n.). Devoutly, Discordant, Discover, Disfigured, Dis- 
 sever, Diversity, Duchy, Enemy, Enforce, Engender, Environ, Estate, 
 Estimation, Examine, Excellent, Faithfully, Fiercely, Former, Foun- 
 dation, Frailty, Glorious, Glory, Governance, Gum, Idol, Immortal, 
 Imprint, Incline, Inflame, Inspiration, Join, Letter (A, B, and C), 
 Lineage, Marquis, Menace, Minstrelsy, Moisten, Money, Monster, Mor- 
 tal, Multitude, Nation, Necessary, Obedient, Obstacle, Office, Opinion, 
 Ordinance, Orient, Ostrich, Outrageously, Paper, Pastime, Pearl, 
 Perfectly, People, PMlosopher, Plainly, Proclaim, Profitable, Promise 
 
 (413) 
 
414 NOTES. 
 
 Pronounce, Province, Publish, Purple, Quantity, Rebellion, Receive, 
 Reconcile, Redress, Regfon, Relation, Return, Reverend, Royally, Roy- 
 alty, Rudely, Sacrament, Science, Search, Scripture, Signification, 
 Soldier, Solemn, Specialty, Spiritual, Stranger, Subject, Subjection, 
 Superscription, Table, Temporal, Testament, Tissue, Title, Translate, 
 Trespasser, Value, Vary, Vaulted, Vessel, Vicar, Victor, Visit, Vul- 
 ture. — (Marsh.) English vocabulary supposed to contain only eight 
 thousand words. 
 III. Peculiarities of grammar. 
 
 1. Elision marked simply by omission of vowel. 
 
 2. Possessive retains the old genitive termination of ex. 
 
 3. It retains the old form of hit. 
 
 i. English selected the Midland dialect as its substance, and 
 appropriated forms alike from the Xorthern and Southern 
 dialects. In plurals of verbs the Northern used s and the 
 Southern th. 
 
 5. Inflnitive continued to employ en or n. 
 
 6. Inflnitive used without the sign. 
 
 7. Participial noun represented by a gerundive: for ing — and 
 
 (glitter-and) . 
 rV. Chaucer introduces description of natvire and character. 
 V. The strongest literar}' influence is Italian : the Saxon and Xorman- 
 !French undergo fusion during this period. 
 
 XVI CENTURY. 
 
 Plural ending of verbs (en) disappears during reign of Elizabeth. 
 
 Plural ending of verbs (th) found as late as Shakespeare. 
 
 Its Introduced in 1598, and used only ten times by Shakespeare. — 
 (Lounsbury.) 
 
 Possessive immarked or ending (es) retained. 
 
 Spenser altered the Heroic measure by the addition of an Alexandrine, 
 and thus formed the Spenserian stanza, which has been so frequently 
 used by English poets. He also adds to poetry rich imagery. 
 
 Shakespeare was the first to successfully use the dramatic blank 
 verse: in his hands also the sonnet became more sententious. Vocab- 
 ulaiy increased to thirty thousand words, of which Shakespeare uses 
 fifteen thousand. 
 
 During this period language and the forms of writing become settled, 
 and the learning of the world is wrought into its literature. The Italian 
 again becomes the strong influence during the reign of Henry VIII. 
 
 Erom Shakespeare to ililton the most marked preference is for 
 alliteration and verbal antithesis (called euphuism, and occasioned by 
 the recovery of classical learning) . The study of Latin, scientific dis- 
 covery, and participation in continental life operated as strong influences. 
 
415 
 
 XVII CEXTUEY. 
 
 JousoQ continues the use of such forms as V«i (had) and ''em (them). 
 He, like Shakespeare, enriches English with many beautiful songs. 
 
 Milton emiDhasizes the element of grandeur, and from the nature of 
 his work as well as from the influence of classical learning, uses largely 
 the Latin part of our vocabulary. Milton was the first to use success- 
 fully blank verse not dramatic. During Milton's time there occurred 
 the French and Italian renascence. 
 
 Dryden exhibits increased vigor and artistic skill: he founds the 
 school of poetry which emphasizes cai-eful execution. Dryden' s prose 
 is the earliest that exhibits any attention to style : it has strength, 
 variety, animation, and grace. Dryden opposed with success the pref- 
 erence for French terms. 
 
 XVIII CENTURY. 
 
 Swift's prose displays masculine vigor and jierspicuity ; is homely, 
 but rich in variety of words and phrases, and is i)eculiarly idiomatic. 
 
 Addison : Orthography continu^es unsettled ; he retains k in public, u 
 in color, but drops the u in superior ; uses both en-qulry and im-quiry, is 
 uncertam about the choice of s, c, or z (as expence, practise, surprize), 
 and does not syllabicate regularly. He uses an before h, the gerund as 
 a participle, and to be where we prefer the auxiliary have. With Addison 
 we first attain the ease and naturalness which mark the style of Queen 
 Anne's time. 
 
 Pope marks the possessive by the apostrophe, but omits this in the 
 plural; uses possessive pronoun to denote object of governing noun 
 (e. g., "Who thy protection claim — protection from thee), and bxit for 
 than. Metrically he preferred the iambic pentameter, but substituted a 
 trochee or a pyrrhic in first or fifth foot. With Pope we first find versi- 
 fication commensurate with the thought, and a pause after each pair of 
 rhjTnes: this becomes at once the cause and the effect of a love for 
 antithesis. 
 
 Thomson returns to more natural themes. 
 
 Johnson indulges his fondness for antithetic clauses and the melody 
 of long words. 
 
 Gray marks the infiuence of a love for the classics, and has to a re- 
 markable degree the " energj', splendor, and perfect finish of a poetical 
 style." His poetry is, perhaps, "the earliest which occupies itself with 
 reflection upon the feelings and interests of ordinary life." 
 
 Gibbon is noticeable for extent and variety of learning, but " his style 
 is wanting in simplicity and purity ; it has an excess of pomp and or- 
 nateness, and the writer never touches the heart." He cultivated the 
 French epigrammatic style. 
 
41C NOTES. 
 
 Cowper no longer balanced the verse and the thought as did Pope, but 
 allowed the thought to flow over from one line to the next. With the 
 poctrj' of Cowper, naturalness in the choice of themes and simplicity in 
 the use of language became established. 
 
 Wordsworth's peculiarities, both in the selection and treatment of his 
 themes and in his use of language, are too striking to need more than 
 mere remark. 
 
 Scott revi-i'cs the use of the ballad measure and of the legends of 
 chivaUy. " Subjects, treatment, versification, and language, forcible 
 and transparent." 
 
 XIX CENTURY. 
 
 This is the language and structure of our own time, aud requires no 
 comment. 
 
 (These statements are in substance taken from Ellis's Early English 
 Pronunciation, Abbott's Shakespearian Grammar, Day's English Liter- 
 ature, Craik, and Marsh.) 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Abelard (or Abailard) . A French priest, celebrated for his learning, his 
 Influence, and for the persecutions to which he was subjected, inas- 
 much as his love for Eloise was made the occasion of these perse- 
 cutions. 
 
 Absalom. The favorite son of King David (II. Samuel). 
 
 Accioun. Action. 
 
 Achaians. One of the many names for the Greeks or Hellenes. 
 
 Acquent. Past tense of acquaint. 
 
 Adverse. Used by Milton with its Latin meaning, and equivalent to 
 indifferent. 
 
 Ae. One. 
 
 ^schylus (Aischulos') . Earliest one of the three great tragic poets of 
 Greece. 
 
 Aft. Oft. 
 
 Agley. Amiss or astray. 
 
 Aiblins. Perhaps. 
 
 Ain. Own. • 
 
 Aims. Irons. 
 
 Ajax. The bravest of the Greeks. 
 
 Al. Although. 
 
 Alcibiades. An Athenian celebrated for his beauty, intelligence, and 
 ability, as well as for his dissipated character and extravagance. 
 
 Alder. Ancient genitive case of all. 
 
 Alemanni. A name given to a German confederation. 
 
 Alemannic. Pertaining to the Alemanni. 
 
 Algezir. Mesopotamia (?). 
 
 Misaundre. Alexandria. 
 
 Alphens. The god of a river of Greece, between Arcadia and Elis. 
 
 Al so well. As well. 
 
 Altama. Altamaha. 
 
 Amalfi. A seaport of Naples. 
 
 Amang. Among. 
 
 An. And. 
 
 Anacreon. An erotic poet of Teos. 
 
 27 (417) 
 
418 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Anither. Another. 
 
 Antigone and, Eleetra. Characters of the Greek drama. 
 
 Aphrodite. Venus. 
 
 Apollo. Sou of Jupiter, and god of archery, and prophecy, and music. 
 
 Apollunius {of Pamphylia) . One of the four founders of mathematical 
 
 science. 
 Appenzel. A Swiss canton. 
 Approperid. Appropriated. 
 Arcady. A pastoral country in Greece. 
 Aretlmse. A fountain in Syracuse, fabled as the form taken by Arethusa 
 
 ivhen pursued by Alpheus. 
 Aria. An ancient province in Persia. 
 Aristotle. A Greek philosopher. 
 Artemis. Diana. 
 Artois. A province of France. 
 
 Arvon. A name for Caernarvonshire, opposite Anglesey. 
 As Eastern priests in giddy circles run. Allusion to religious ceremonies. 
 Athene. Minerva. 
 
 Atlantean. Like those of Atlas, who supported the world. 
 Atte. For at the. 
 
 Augustus. The first Roman Emperor. 
 Auld. Old. 
 
 Aulis. A town of Boeotia, from which the Grecian fleet sailed for Troy. 
 Aurelian. The thirteenth Roman Emperor. 
 Aurora. Goddess of the dawn. 
 Ausonia. Italy. 
 Austen. Saint Augustine, one of "The Fathers." 
 
 Bacchus. God of wine. 
 
 Bagdat {or Bagdad) . A province in Asiatic Turkey. 
 
 Bairn. Child. 
 
 Baith. Both. 
 
 Balled. Bald. 
 
 Banes. Bones. 
 
 Battle of Ivry. Between Henry rV. and Mayenne, in 1590. 
 
 Bawdryk {or hauldricke) . Baldric. 
 
 Bayona. An ancient seaport in Spain. 
 
 Bear. Barley. 
 
 Beg g ester e. A female beggar. 
 
 Beld. Bald. 
 
 Beldam. Beldame. ' 
 
 Belmarye. Palmyra. 
 
 Ben. Ben Jonson. 
 
 Benson. An English editor of VirgU. 
 
 Beryth. Beareth. 
 
GLOssAiri. 419 
 
 Berkeley. Castle in -n-hicli Edward II. was murdered. 
 
 Bet. Better. 
 
 Beth. Are. 
 
 Bifom. Before. 
 
 Big. To build. 
 
 Billies. Good fellows. 
 
 Birkie. A spirited young man. 
 
 Birks. Birch trees. 
 
 Biscay gale. The Bay of Biscay was noted for the severity of its storms. 
 
 Bisette. Beset. 
 
 Bishop Jewel (or Jewell) . An English bishop, eminent for learning and 
 
 piety. 1522-1571. 
 Biside. Beside. 
 Bismotred. Smutted or soiled. 
 Bit. Past tense of bid. 
 Bizz. To buzz. 
 
 Blake (Admiral Boberf) . Founder of the English naval supremacy. 
 Blawn. Blown. 
 Bleeze. Blaze. 
 Bleezing. Blazing. 
 Blellum. An idly-talking fellow. 
 Blent. Deceived. 
 
 Blest. Sacred from harm; figure drawn from the church. 
 Blethering. Nonsensical. 
 Blinded god. Cupid, god of love. 
 Blind Fury. L'sed apparently for the Pates. 
 Blink. Look. 
 Blude. Blood. 
 Boddle. A small coin. 
 Bogilis. Ghosts. 
 Bonie. Beautiful. 
 Bore. Hole. 
 
 Bathes. Old genitive of both. 
 Bousing. Drinldng. 
 Boyte (Robert). A celebrated chemist and experimental philosopher. 
 
 1626-1679. 
 Bracer. Protection for the arm. 
 Braes. Slopes of hills. 
 Braid. Broad. 
 BraVs. Broke his. 
 Brattle. A short race. 
 Brawlie. Perfectly. 
 Breeks. Breeches. 
 Brende. Burned (German, hrennen). 
 Brent. Straight. 
 
420 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Brent new. Brand-new. 
 
 Brig. Bridge. 
 
 Brinsley. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, an English orator, author, and 
 
 humorist. 1751-1816. 
 Brither. Brother. 
 
 Brockmael. The British prince who contended against Olfrid. 
 Buke. Book. 
 Burdies. Damsels. 
 
 Burke (^Edmund). One of England's greatest orators. 1730-1797. 
 Byke. A multitude. 
 By patente and bypleyn commissioner. A l«gal phrase referring to various 
 
 methods of appointment. 
 
 Ca'd. Named. (In the phrase " ca'd a shoe," it means put.) 
 Cadmus. A Phoenician, who is said to have introduced the alphabet 
 
 into Greece. 
 Cadwallo. A Welsh prince, defeated in 622 by Edwin. 
 Ccesar. Julius Ctesar, who first conquered Britain. 
 Calchas. The seer or prophet of the Greeks at Troy. 
 Caledonia. Latin name for Scotland. 
 
 Camilla. Queen of the Volscians, and celebrated for swiftness. 
 Camoens. The most celebrated of the Portuguese poets. 1517-1579. 
 Camus. The river Cam. 
 Can. ICnow how to (German, fcoranen) . 
 Canna. Cannot. 
 Cantrip. Charm. 
 Canty. In high spirits. 
 Carf. Past tense of carve. 
 Carlin. An old woman. 
 Cassandra. A daughter of Priam, and gifted by Apollo with the power 
 
 of foreseeing the future, coupled with an inability to excite belief 
 
 in her warnings. 
 Catiline. A celebrated Eoman conspirator. 
 Cato. Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis, who, after the defeat of Brutus 
 
 at Pharsalia, put himself to death at Utica. 
 Caucasus. Mountains in Asia, supposed by the poets to be always 
 
 frozen. 
 Cauld. Cold. 
 
 Ceres. Goddess of the harvest. 
 
 Cestria. A name given to Chester in Drayton's Polyolbion. 
 Chapman. A peddler. 
 Charge of the Light Brigade. This took place during the Crimean war 
 
 (1854). 
 'Charlemagne. The founder of the Germanic Empire. 
 €hatterton (JThomus). An English poet, who committed suicide when 
 
GLOSSAET. 42 1 
 
 but eighteen years of age, and wlio is remembered for his genius,. 
 
 and for his literary impostures. 1 752-1 770. 
 Chauntrie. Chantry. 
 Chayre. Chair, or chariot. 
 Chees. Past tense of choose. 
 Chersonese. A peninsula of Greece. 
 Cherubim. The plural was also written cherubs and cherubims; the 
 
 singular sometimes cherubim. 
 Chevy ssaunce. Agreement for borrowing. 
 Chyii. Chui. 
 
 ChyvacMe. Military expedition or training. 
 Clamb. Past tense of climb. 
 Clap. Clapper. 
 
 Claudius (^Marcus Aurelius') . Roman Emperor In 268. 
 Claught. Caught. 
 Clans of Innsbruck. An engraver. 
 Cleekit. Linked themselves. 
 Cleopataras. Cleopatra. 
 Clootn. Cloth. 
 Cocytns. One of the five rivers supposed by the Greeks to be in the 
 
 lower world. 
 Coft. Bought (German, kaufen"). 
 Coligni. Leader of the Huguenots, and killed by the Duke of Guise 
 
 during the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. 
 Comin. Coming. 
 Convict. Conquered. 
 Conioay. A river of North Wales. 
 Coof. Pool. 
 
 Coost. Past tense of cast. 
 Corages. Hearts (Latin, cor'). 
 Corone. Coronal. 
 
 Correggio. An illustrious Italian painter. 1494-1530. 
 Cour. Stoop, or cower. 
 Courtepy. Coat. 
 Coiorin. Cowering. 
 Cranreueh. Hoar-frost. 
 Oreaunce. Credit, or faith. 
 Creeshie. Greasy. 
 
 CristopJiere. Medal used as an amulet. 
 Crois and Cros. Cross. 
 Croke. Crock. 
 Cromwell {Oliver) . Alluded to as one of the tribunal which condemned 
 
 to death King Charles L 
 Cronie. Companion. 
 Crooning. Crouing. 
 
422 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Cross. Across. 
 
 CruUe. Curled. 
 
 CrummocTc. A staff. 
 
 Ctesiphon. The modem Modaln in Asiatic Turkey. 
 
 Cure. Care (Latin, cura). 
 
 " Curse on that Cros." The cross served as an anlulet 
 
 Curteis. Courteous. 
 
 Cutty. Short. 
 
 Cynthia. Diana, or the moon. 
 
 Cynthus. A mountain in Delos, upon which Apollo and Diana were 
 
 bom. 
 Cyprus. Easternmost island of the Mediterranean. 
 
 Daimen-icker. An occasional ear of corn. 
 
 Damned. Condemned (Latin, Damno) . 
 
 Damcetas. A character in Virgil's Eclogues. 
 
 Dante. The greatest of Italian poets. 1265-1321. 
 
 Darena. Dare not. 
 
 Darius. King of Persia. 
 
 Daunte. Control. 
 
 Dee. A river running through the town of Chester. 
 
 Deil. Devil. 
 
 Delian. Pertaining to Delos. 
 
 Delos. Natal place of Apollo and Diana, and the principal shrine of 
 
 these deities. 
 Delys. De luce. 
 Denham {Sir John). An English author, best known bj' his poem of 
 
 Cooper's Hill. 1615-1CG8. 
 Deryv^d. Transferred. 
 Desport. Disport. 
 
 Deva. An ancient name for Chester. 
 Devyse. Speak of. 
 
 Deyscorides. A writer upon the subject of medicine. 
 Dian. Diana. 
 
 Diana. Goddess of the chase. 
 Differ. Difference. 
 Digne. Worthy (Latin, dignus") 
 Dirl. Resound. 
 Dispiteous. Unpitying. 
 Donsie. Unlucky. 
 Doon. A river in Scotland. 
 Doric lay. So called because the Doric poets Theocritus and Moschus 
 
 wrote elegies. 
 Dorste. Durst. 
 
GLOSSARY. 423 
 
 Douce. Sweet, or gentle. 
 
 Draiglet. Draggled. 
 
 Dramatis personce. Characters of the drama. 
 
 Draie. Past tense of drove. 
 
 Dress. Address. (See Longeth.) 
 
 Droghte. Drought. 
 
 Dround. Drowned. 
 
 Drouthy. Thirsty. 
 
 Duddies. Garments. 
 
 Dimciad. Epic of the dunces. 
 
 Earl of Surrey. An English author, said to have introduced the sonnet 
 into English. 1516-154:7. 
 
 Echo. Fabled by the Greeks to have pined away to mere voice through 
 love for ^JJarcissus. 
 
 E'e. Eye. 
 
 Een. Eyes. 
 
 Egmont. Sent by Philip 11. to fight for the League. 
 
 Eldritch. Erightful. 
 
 EUis. Else. 
 
 Eloise {Heloise'). A French abbess, celebrated for her beauty, her at- 
 tainments, and her unfortunate love for Abelard. 
 
 Emhaicme. Embalm. 
 
 Embayld. Encased, or bound. 
 
 Endymion. The supposed husband of Selene, or the moon. 
 
 Enoyni. Anointed. 
 
 Ensuin. Ensuing. 
 
 Entame. To open, or cut open 
 
 Entayld. Engraved (intaglio). 
 
 Enyo. A war goddess, and companion of Mars. 
 
 Epicurus. A Greek philosopher, vulgarly supposed to teach enjoyment 
 of the present hour. 
 
 Erasmus. A celebrated scholar of Holland, and one of the restorers of 
 learning. 1465-1536. 
 
 Erebus. A dark passage from the lower world to the upper. 
 
 Escliaunge. Exchange. 
 
 Esculapius. The god of medicine. 
 
 Estatlich. Stately. 
 
 Ettle. Design. 
 
 Ettrick, A parish in Scotland. 
 
 Eumenides. The Greek name for the Furies. 
 
 Eurotas. The principal river of the Greek Laconia. 
 Evene lengthe. Average height. 
 Everich. Every. 
 Every chon. Each one. 
 
424 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Eyen. Eyes. 
 
 Fa\ Tall. 
 
 Fact of arms. Feat, or deed of arms (Latin, /actom; French, /ait) . 
 
 Fairin. Reward. 
 
 Fand. Found. 
 
 Farsed. Stuffed. 
 
 Fatal throne. Fated. 
 
 Fate. Human destiny represented by the three sisters Clotho, Lachesis, 
 
 and Atropos. 
 Fauns. Latin name for the younger and frolicsome satyrs. 
 Fauts. Faults. 
 
 used tropically for morsel. 
 
 Fer. Far. 
 
 Feme. 
 
 Far. 
 
 Ferrest 
 
 . Farthest. 
 
 Ferre. 
 
 Farther. 
 
 Ferthyr 
 
 ig. Farthing; used f 
 
 Festne. 
 
 Fasten. 
 
 FeUsly. 
 
 . Finically. 
 
 Fette. 
 
 Past tense of fetch. 
 
 Fetys. 
 
 Nice. 
 
 Fidge. 
 
 To fidget. 
 
 Fient. 
 
 Fiend. 
 
 Fiere. 
 
 Friend, or comrade. 
 
 Fille. 
 
 Past tense of fall. 
 
 Fithele. 
 
 , Fiddle, or violin. 
 
 Flannen. Flannel. 
 
 Flaunders. Flanders (a country now absorbed in Holland, Belgium, 
 
 and France). 
 Flawmes. Flames. 
 Flinging. Dancing, or capering. 
 Flang. Past tense of fling. 
 Flora. The goddess of flowers. 
 Floyting. Playing on the flute. 
 Foggage. Forage. 
 Forgetful. "Adjectives ending in ful, ble, less, and ive, had both an 
 
 active and a passive meaning." — {E. A. Abbott.) 
 Forneys. Furnace. 
 Forster. Forester. 
 Fortemque 6yan, Fortemque Cloanthum. Two characters in Virgil's 
 
 .ffineid, whose individuality is entirely unmarked. 
 Fortunate Fields. Supposed resting-place of those whom Jove loved; 
 
 probably the Canary Islands. 
 Fou. Full, or tipsy. 
 Fowelea. Fowls, or birds. 
 
GLOSSARY. 425 
 
 Frd. Italian word for friar, or "father." 
 
 Fme. From. 
 
 Frankehjns. Same as franklin. 
 
 Frankendal. Frankenthal, in Rhenish Bavaria. 
 
 Fu\ Full. 
 
 Full. Altogether. 
 
 Fumum et opes strepitumque Bomce. The smoke, and wealth, and noise 
 of Eome. 
 
 Furies. Three sisters (Alecto, Megsera, and Tisiphone) who took ven- 
 geance for human crime. 
 
 Fyke. Fussing about trifles. 
 
 Gab. Mouth. 
 
 Gallienus. Son of Valerian, and co-emperor of Rome, 253. i 
 
 Gang. Go. 
 
 Gargai-us. In poetical geography, the highest peak of Ida. 
 
 Gars. Slakes. 
 
 Gart. Made. 
 
 Gat. Got. 
 
 Gate. Gate, or road. 
 
 Gauded. Ornamented. 
 
 Gaun. Going. 
 
 Gaunt. Ghent. 
 
 Gawain. Translator of Virgil's ^neid. 1474-1522. 
 
 Gentilnesse. Bearing becoming one of noble birth. 
 
 Ghaists. Ghosts. 
 
 Gibraltar. A strongly fortified rock at the southern extremity of Spain. 
 
 Gie. Give. 
 
 GVeii. Given. 
 
 Gie's. Give us. 
 
 Gin. If. 
 
 Glaikit. Thoughtless. 
 
 Gloster. (As used in the Bard) Gilbert de Clare. 
 
 Gloster (or Gloucester'). 
 
 Glow'rin. Staring. 
 
 Goethe. The great German poet. 1749-1832. 
 
 Gonne. Past tense of begin. 
 
 Gowans. Daisies. 
 
 Gowd. Gold. 
 
 Graces (Charites). Aglaia, Fuphrosyne, and Thalia; they were the be- 
 
 stowers of grace and beauty. 
 Grannie. Grandmother. 
 Great Gorgon. Supposed to dwell in darkness and keep watch over 
 
 Hades. 
 Gree. Prize. 
 
420 
 
 GLOSSART. 
 
 G-ref:k woman. Helen. 
 
 6-reet. To weep. 
 
 Grenade. Granada. 
 
 Grete See. The Mediterranean. 
 
 Gretter. Greater, or larger. 
 
 Gretteste. Greatest. 
 
 Griding. Cutting Arith a harsh noise. 
 
 Grieshj. Same as grisly. 
 
 Groves Elysian. The abode of the blessed. 
 
 Grys. Squirrel fur. 
 
 Gude. Good. 
 
 Gueldres (Geldem) . A town of Ehenisb. Prussia. 
 
 Guid. Good. 
 
 Guinevere. The wife of King Arthur. 
 
 Gurney. One of the king's keepers. 
 
 Gynglen. Jingling. 
 
 Gypoun. A short cloak. 
 
 JIae. Have. 
 
 Maid. An abiding-place. 
 
 Sale. Whole. 
 
 Malwes. Saints. 
 
 Hame. Home. 
 
 Samely. Homely. 
 
 Mampden (John). An English, statesman, first called into prominence 
 
 by his resistance to a forced loan of Charles I. 
 Han. X. as the termination of the Infinitive persisted even so late as 
 
 the time of Shakespeare. 
 Mapper. Hopper. 
 Mam. Yarn. 
 
 Marneised v:d. "With suitable hangings. 
 Marrinrjton (James). Author of a political allegory called the Oceana. 
 
 1611-1677. 
 Math in the Ram. A way of denoting the latter part of April. 
 Meapet. Heaped. 
 Mebrus. A river of Thrace, represented by the poets as being swift of 
 
 current. 
 Meft. Haft. 
 Mele. Health. 
 Melen. The most beautiful woman of Greece, whose abduction by Paris 
 
 caused the Trojan war. 
 Helicon. A mountain in Bceotia, sacred to Apollo and the Muses. 
 Hem. Them (N. they. Gen. here, D. hem) . 
 Hente. To seize, or get. 
 Her. Here. 
 
GLOSSARY. 427 
 
 Meracleidan. Descendants of Hercules. 
 
 Hercules (JSerahleos) . Used as a symbol of strength. 
 
 Here. Juno. 
 
 Herrin. Herring. 
 
 Hesperean. Like that of Hesperus, who was noted for manly beauty. 
 
 Eespems. The evening star. 
 
 Heywood (Eliza) . An inferior novelist. 1G95-1756. 
 
 Hio labor, hoc opus est. This is the labor, this the [trying] work. 
 
 Hippolytus would leave Diana, Hlppolytus was saved from death and 
 
 protected by Diana. 
 Hippotades. ^olus, god of the winds (Homer, Od. X.) . 
 Hire that turns the wheel. Fortune. 
 Hit. It (h discarded about end of fifteenth century) . 
 Hodden-grey. Country home-spun. 
 Hoel. A famous Welsh prince and bard. 
 Hollow. Halloa. 
 Holwe. Hollow. i 
 
 Homer. The earliest and greatest of Greek poets. 
 Hooker (Sichard) . A learned bishop and author. 1533-1600. 
 Hostiler. Ostler. 
 Hotch'd. Fidgeted. 
 Houlets. Owls. 
 Housie. House. 
 Hunder. Hundred. 
 Hurdies. Hips. 
 Hyacinth. A beautiful youth, beloved by Apollo, and accidentally killed 
 
 by him. 
 Hymen. God of marriage. 
 
 Ida. A mountain in Troas. 
 
 Idalia. A name for Venus. 
 
 Bion. A name for Troy. 
 
 Hk. Each. 
 
 nka. Every. 
 
 Indian mount. The Himalayas. 
 
 Ingle. Fireside. 
 
 In memoriam. In memory of Arthur Henry Hallam. 
 
 In principio. In the beginning (the first word of a phrase used ia church 
 
 services) . 
 Ionian Hills. Mountains of Greece. 
 Iphigeneia, or IpUgenia. Daughter of Agamemnon, offered as a sacrifice 
 
 to propitiate Diana. 
 Iren. Iron. 
 
 Iris. Goddess of the rainbow and messenger of the gods. 
 Islands of the Blest. Same as Fortunate Fields. 
 Istamhol (Istambovi, Stamhoul). Turkish name for Constantinople. 
 
428 GLOSSAKT. 
 
 I 
 
 Jo. Friend, or sweetheart. 
 
 Johnson (Smnuel) . The learned Doctor. 
 
 Julius. Julius Caesar, commonly supposed to have built the oldest part 
 
 of the Tower of London. 
 Juno. Queen of heaven and wife of Jupiter. 
 
 Kalendeeres. Metonomy for days. 
 
 Kan. Can (in the sense of "knowing how; " German, kSnnen'). 
 
 Ken. To know. 
 
 Kend. Past tense of ken. 
 
 Kennin. A little bit. 
 
 Key-stane. Key-stone. 
 
 KilUngworth Castle. Celebrated for the entertainment given to Queen 
 
 Elizabeth by the Earl of Leicester. 
 Kirk. Church (German, kirche). 
 Knight. A London bankrupt, who fled to Paris, where he continued to 
 
 live in regal style. 
 Kotzebue {A. F. F.). A German melodramatist. 1761-1819. 
 Kowthe. Known. 
 
 Laas. Snare. 
 
 Lades. Loads. 
 
 Laith. Loth. 
 
 Lane. Lone. 
 
 Lang. Long. 
 
 Langden. London. 
 
 Lap. Past tense of leap. 
 
 Largesse. Liberal. 
 
 Lave. Leave. 
 
 Lea'e. Leave. 
 
 Leed. Left. 
 
 Leet. Let. 
 
 Lene tormentum. Gentle irritant. 
 
 Lesbian shore. The remains of Orpheus were carried by the waves to- 
 the shores of Lesbos. 
 
 Leste. Pleasure. 
 
 Zete. Lose, or forsake. 
 
 Lettoio. Lithuania. 
 
 Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre. The one who overcame the con- 
 queror of the world. 
 
 Libyan Jove. So called because he had a shrine in Libya. 
 
 Linket. Danced. 
 
 Linnen. Linen. 
 
 Llewellyn. A Welsh prince and bard. 
 
 Lo^ed. Loved. 
 
 Longeth. Belongs. Many words through the time of Shakespeare and 
 
GLOSSARY. 429 
 
 the King James translation of the Bible, exist in the same sense 
 ^th and without the prefix; e.g., havior and behavior, came and 
 became, gan and began, scape and escape, present and represent. 
 
 Longinus. A Greek critic of the time of Aurelian, and author of a treatise 
 on the Sublime. 
 
 Lootli. Loth. 
 
 Lorraine. Brother-in-law of ICing Henry IV. of France. 
 
 Lorraine. Claude Gel6e, a French landscape-painter. 1600-1682. 
 
 Lotos-Eaters. Homer tells about the Lotophagi, whose food of the lotus 
 deprived mortals of all desire for anything but revery. 
 
 Lovedays. Days during which the exercise of enmities was forbidden. 
 
 Loicing. Flaming. 
 
 Lug. Ear. 
 
 Lyeidas. Edw. King, a college friend of Milton. 
 
 Lydian measures. Lydia was celebrated for the softness and voluptu- 
 ousness of its music. 
 
 Lyes. Armenia. 
 
 Lymytour. A " begging friar." 
 
 Maia^s son. Mercury, as described by Homer in his Iliad. 
 
 Maenad. A priestess of Bacchus. 
 
 Maeonides. Homer. 
 
 Mcevius. An inferior poet at the time of Augustus. 
 
 Magdeburg . A fortified town of Prussia. 
 
 Magestee. Majesty. 
 
 Mahomet (Mohammed, Mohamed, Muhammed). The founder of the re- 
 ligion known by his name. 
 
 Maidenhede. Maidenhood. 
 
 Mair. More. 
 
 Malvenu. The unwelcome. 
 
 Marathon. Town in Attica, memorable for tl^e defeat of the Persians by 
 the Greeks. 
 
 Marrybones. Marrowbones. 
 
 Marvel (Marvell, Andreud) . An English satirical writer. 1620-1678. 
 
 Matrevis. One of the king's keepers. 
 
 Maun. Must. 
 
 Mayenne. Commander of the Catholic League against the Huguenots. 
 
 Mazeppa. A Polish adventurer, punished in the manner described, by 
 the king of Poland. 
 
 Meander. A river in Phrygia, celebrated for its winding course. 
 
 Medusa's head. Medusa was the mortal one of the three Gorgons ; she 
 was slain by Perseus, and her head had the power of changing ob- 
 jects into stone. . 
 
 Meikle. Much. i 
 
 Melder. Grain sent to the mill for grinding. 
 
 Melrose Abbey. The ruins of the finest abbey in Scotland. 
 
430 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Mcnalus. A shepherd in Virgil's Eclogues. 
 
 Metastasio. An eminent Italian poet. 1698-1782 
 
 JSIeum, and tuum. Mine and yours. 
 
 Mddlehurgh. A seaport of England. 
 
 Miltiades. The leader of the Greeks at Marathon. 
 
 DintiiH. John Milton, the poet. 
 
 Mill'. Mind. 
 
 jflincio. A river of Xorthern Italy. . ' 
 
 Jlinciiiti. Same as Mincio. 
 
 JIinf:rva. The goddess of wisdom. 
 
 Mirk. Dark. 
 
 Moche. Great. 
 
 Modred. Supposed to be Merlin, a Welsh bard. 
 
 Moises and Jloijses. Moses. 
 
 Mona. Anglesea. 
 
 Monip. Many. 
 
 Jlonks of Bangor. At Bangor, Ireland, as the legend goes, the monas- 
 tery was destroyed by the Danes. 
 
 Montalto. An Italian painter named Danedi. 1608-1689. 
 
 Mony. Many. 
 
 Moote. Must. 
 
 Morpheus. God of dreams and sleep. 
 
 Mortimer. Lord of Wigmore and military companion of the king. 
 
 Mosses. Morasses. 
 
 3Iuse that Orpheus bore. Calliope. 
 
 2Iuses. Usually said to be nine in number. They presided over the 
 fine arts. 
 
 Ml/ Muse. Homer invoked the aid of the Muse, and modern poets have 
 continued to personify their inspiration. 
 
 JVo. Not. 
 
 JVae. No. 
 
 Naething. Nothing. 
 
 Xaifj. Nag. 
 
 Nalle. Awl. 
 
 Xamancos. A seaport of Spain, according to the ancient maps. 
 
 Namoore. No more. 
 
 Nappy. Ale. 
 
 Narcissus. A youth of rare beauty, who, seeing his features reflected 
 
 in a stream, and imagining them to belong to some fair woman, 
 
 pined away through unrequited love. 
 Narette. Ascribe. 
 Nas not. [Ne] was not. 
 Nat. Not. 
 Nausicaa. Daughter of the king of the Phaeacians. 
 
GLOSSARY. 431 
 
 JVcoA-^.vi!,;. Neck-bone. 
 
 Xell-G-iriin defemiers. Defenders witliout principle. 
 
 Ifelson {Lord Soratio) . A distinguislied Englisli admiral, who defeated 
 
 the French and Spanish fleets at Trafalgar. 
 Xemo omnibus horis sapit. Xo one is wise at all hours. 
 Xeptune. God of the ocean. 
 Xere. Were not. 
 Xewton {Sir luff ac). The discoverer of the laws of universal giavita- 
 
 tion. 1642-17i'7. 
 Xeehors. Neighbors. 
 Xiffer. Exchange. 
 Xine. The Musies. 
 
 _Vi's not. [Xe] is not (Latin, ne-qiiidem) . 
 XoJde. [Ne] would not. 
 Xo7iys. Nonce. 
 Xoon. None. 
 Xoot. EJiow not. 
 Xorissing. Nourishing. 
 ^ot-heed. Head round as a nut. 
 Xulla fides fronti. Trust not appearances. 
 Xuremburg {Xuremberg, Nilmberg). An old city of Bavaria. 
 Nyghertale. Right time. 
 
 0'. Of. 
 
 0. One, or a. 
 
 Oath that shook Heaven. Homer, in Iliad, I., speaks of the nod of 
 Jupiter as shaking heaven. 
 
 Och. Oh. 
 
 Odenathus. Of Palmyra, the husband of Zenobia. 
 
 CEnoiie. The wife of Paris. 
 
 Offryng. Offering, or offertory. 
 
 Of happy. Of, from. Prepositions are still used without close discrim- 
 ination by many of our most successful authors: in Milton's time 
 the differentiation was still more incomplete. Happy is used figur- 
 atively for a state of happiness. 
 
 OgM. Owed. 
 
 Olfrid. Ethelind, king of Northumberland. 
 
 Olympia. Olympias, mother of Alexander. 
 
 Olympus. A mountain in Thessaly, supposed to be the home of the gods. 
 
 miserere, Domine. Pity us, O God. 
 
 Oost. Host. 
 
 Orde. Point. 
 
 Orewell. A seaport of England. 
 
 Orphean. Belonging to Orpheus. 
 
 Orpheus. Represented as the most enchanting of musicians. 
 
432 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Oiihten. Ought. 
 0>:ereste. Upper. 
 
 PaidVt. Paddled. 
 
 FaUittje. Anatolia. 
 
 Pallas. Minerva. 
 
 Pallas-like. Pallas, the goddess of wisdom, always interposed to save 
 Achilles from rashness. 
 
 Pamhamarca. A mountaui in Ecuador. 
 
 Pan. God of shepherds and patron of pastoral poets. 
 
 Panope. One of the Nereids mentioned by Virgil. 
 
 Parce stimulis, puer, etc. Spare the goad, O boy, and use rather the 
 reins. 
 
 Parfit. Perfect (French, par/ort) . 
 
 Parga. A fortified to^ni of European Turkey. 
 
 Paris. The abductor of Helen. 
 
 Parisshens. Parishioners. 
 
 Parnassus. In Phocis, sacred to the Muses. 
 
 Paraclete. Monastery founded by Abelard. 
 
 Parvys. A place of rendezvous for lawyers 
 
 Pattle. A plowshare. 
 
 Paul. St. Paul. 
 
 Paynen. To take pains, or to endeavor. 
 
 Peleus. Husband of Thetis and father of Achilles. 
 
 Pelion. A mountain range in Thessaly, the home of the Centaurs. 
 
 Peneus. A river flowing through the vale of Tempe. 
 
 Persoun. Person (Latin, persona') . 
 
 Pesen. Peas. 
 
 Petrarch (Francescrj) . A celebrated Italian poet. 1304—1374. 
 
 Petreius (Marcus). The Eoman general who defeated the army of Cati- 
 line. 
 
 Philip^s warlike son. Alexander the Great. 
 
 Phineus. A Thracian king, punished for putting to death his children 
 because their step-mother misrepresented their conduct. 
 
 Pierian Spring. A region in Macedonia, celebrated as a dwelling of the 
 Muses and as the birthplace of Orpheus. 
 
 Pilot of the Galilean Sea. St. Peter. 
 
 Pined. Written joi'wed in Hales and Dana; authority not stated ; mean- 
 ing of word not given by commentators. 
 
 Pint-stowp. Pint-jug. 
 
 Plato. A Greek philosopher. 
 
 Pleyn. PuU, or perfect (liaXia, plenus) . 
 
 Plinlimmon. One of the loftiest mountains in Wales. 
 
 Plutoes griesly Dame. Proserpina, queen of the lower world. 
 
 Polycrates. Tyrant of Samos. 
 
GLOSSAET. 433 
 
 Pomona. Goddess of gardens. 
 
 PoraiUe. Poor people. 
 
 Poitssin (^N^icolas) . A French landscape-painter. 1594-1635, 
 
 Povre. Foot (French, pauvre). 
 
 Paw. Head. 
 
 Preace. Press 
 
 Priam. King of Troy. 
 
 Prikasour. Hard rider. 
 
 Pris. Prize. 
 
 Prisoner of Chillon. Although Bonnivard was confined In this Swiss 
 fortress, Byron was Ignorant of the fact, and drew upon his imagi- 
 nation for the three brothers. 
 
 Propone. Propose (Latin, propono). 
 
 Pruce. Prussia. 
 
 Pu'd. Pulled. 
 
 Pulled. Moulting. 
 
 Pimd. Pound. 
 
 Puny habitants. Small (French, putsnS), 
 
 Purpre. Purple. 
 
 Purtreye. Portray. 
 
 Pycardie. Picardy, a province of France. 
 
 Pygmaam race, etc. Homer teUs of a race called Pigmies, which was 
 waired upon by cranes. 
 
 Pynehed. Drawn together, or plaited. 
 
 Pynnes. Pins. 
 
 Pyrrhic. So named from King Pyrrhus, in war with whom the use of 
 the phalanx and of the war-dance was learned. 
 
 Pyrrhus. 1. King of Eplrus. 2. Neoptolemus, who slew Priam. 
 
 Quantum lenta solent mberna cupressi. Just as the cypresses are wont to 
 
 tower above the humble viburnums. 
 Quean. Human being. 
 Queme. Please. 
 Quyteth. Requites. (See Longeth). 
 
 Pair. Eoar. 
 
 Bais^d. Bazed. 
 
 Balelgh (Sir Walter) . A famous English author, commander, courtier, 
 and navigator. Having been confined in the Tower by King James 
 I., he was released at the end of thirteen years upon promise of 
 discovering a gold mine in Guiana. He faUed to redeem his prom- 
 ise, and was put to death. 
 
 Jtape. Eope. 
 
 Patisbon. A Bavarian town where, in 1809, Napoleon fought the Aus- 
 trians. 
 
 28 
 
434 GLOSSAEY. 
 
 Maughte. Past tense of reach 
 
 Reaming. Creaming. 
 
 Boghte. Past tense of reck. 
 
 Beekit. Reeks. 
 
 Befute. Refuge. 
 
 Begnes. Realms (Latin, regnuni) 
 
 Beligues. Relics. 
 
 Bibond. Ribbon. 
 
 Biddes. Dismisses. 
 
 Bin. Run. 
 
 Bingwoddie. Withered. 
 
 Bisus (or Bufus) . An ancient ■writer. 
 
 Bock, spindle, and shears. Referring to the emblems of the Pates, of 
 
 whom Clotho spun the thread of life, Lachesis determined the woof, 
 
 and Atropos cut off the thread. 
 Boof. Rived. 
 
 Bosa (Salvator) . An Italian painter. 1615-1673. 
 Bosy star. Explained by some as referring merely to the effect of the 
 
 rising sun upon snow-clad peaks. 
 Buce. Russia. 
 Budelich. Rudely (the termination lich changing in modem English to 
 
 ly and like") . 
 
 Sacred well that from beneath the seat of Jove. Helicon. 
 
 8ae. So. 
 
 Saint Beneit. St. Benedict, the founder of the monastic system in the 
 
 West. 
 Saint Cecilia. A Roman martyr, regarded as the patroness of music. 
 Saint David 's Pile. Saint David was the patron saint of Wales. 
 Saint Maure {de Dupre Nicholas Francois) . A Prench writer, who called 
 
 the attention of his countrymen to English writers and their works. 
 Saint Poules. Saint Paul's Cathedral. 
 Sair. Sore. 
 
 Salamis. Where Xerxes was defeated. 
 Samian (of Samos') . An island on the coast of Asia Minor, and noted 
 
 for its wine. 
 Sangs. Songs. 
 Sappho. A Greek female poet, reputed as the most graceful of all 
 
 writers. 
 JSarazin. Saracen. 
 Sark. Clothing. 
 Satalye. Attalia. 
 
 Satyrs. Demi-gods, part man and part goat. 
 jSaugh. Past tense of see. 
 JSauntie. Saints- 
 
GIOSSART. 435 
 
 Satitrie. Psaltery. 
 
 Savely. Safely. 
 
 Savi. Sawst. 
 
 Scaliger (J. J.). The most eminent scholar of the sixteenth century. 
 
 1540-1609. 
 Sceptic. The philosophy of the Sceptics has made their name the usual 
 
 term for disbeliever. 
 Scheldt. A river flowing by Antwerp into the North Sea. 
 Scholeye. To pursue one's work as a scholar. 
 
 Schwaben {SuaMa, Suabia). One of the ancient divisionsof Germany. 
 Scian Muse. Homer. 
 Sdo. One of the seven cities claiming to have been the birthplace of 
 
 Homer. 
 Scole. School (Latin, schola). 
 Scots. Scotch. 
 Seeke. Sick. 
 Seigh. Past tense of see. 
 
 Semiramis. Queen of Assyria, wife of Ninus, and founder of Babylon, 
 Semycope. Half -cope. 
 
 Seventeen Hunder Linen. A brand named from the number of threads. 
 Severn. One of the chief rivers of Wales and England. 
 Shadwell {Thomas). The successor of Dryden as poet-laureate. 1640- 
 
 1692. 
 /Stoic'5. Showed. 
 Shent. Euiaed, or destroyed. 
 Shepherd in Virgil. In the Eclogues, 
 Shete. Past tense of shoot. 
 Shette. Past tense of shut. 
 
 Shirley (James). An English dramatist. 1594-1666. 
 Shiten shepherde. One who does not practice what he preaches. 
 Sho. Shoe. 
 
 Shoop. Past tense of shape ; (to raise or collect.) 
 Shule. Shall. 
 Sic. Such. 
 
 Sicilian Muse. Arethusa. 
 Sidney {Algernon), Distinguished for his patriotism, and prominent 
 
 among those who convicted and beheaded Charles I. 1622-1683. 
 Sikerly. Surely. 
 
 Silent. Devotees of Silenus, the preceptor of Bacchus. 
 Siller. Silver. 
 
 Sir Christopher. Wren, the architect of St. Paul's Cathedral. 
 Sir Siehard Steele. Steele, like many of the early English authors, was 
 
 improvident, and frequently called upon his friends for assistance. 
 
 1675-1729. 
 Sisters of the sacred well. The Muses. 
 
436 GLOSSAET. 
 
 Sithe. Since. 
 
 Skellum. A worthless fellow 
 Skelpit. Dashed along. 
 Skirl. To shriek. 
 Slaps. Gates. 
 Sleekit. Sleek. 
 Slidre. Slippery. 
 Sm,a\ Small. 
 Smoor''d. Smothered. 
 Snaw. Snow. 
 • Snell. Bitter, or biting. 
 Snowdon. The loftiest mountain of Wales. 
 Snybben. To snub, or to rebuke. 
 Soiree dansante. A dancing party. 
 Solempne. Solemn. 
 Somnour. Summoner. 
 Soote. Sweet. 
 
 Sorrento. A town of Naples and the birthplace of Tasso. 
 Sorwe. Sorrow. 
 Souple. Supple. 
 Souter. Shoemaker. 
 Sownynge. Relating to, or tending to. 
 Spanish Duke. Duke de Medina. 
 Spean. Wean. 
 Spersed. Dispersed. 
 Stack. Past tense of stick. 
 Stane. Stone. 
 Stepe. Bright or fiery. 
 Sterte. Past tense of start. 
 Stibble. Stubble. 
 Stoic. The Stoics were disciples of the Greek philosopher Zeno, whose 
 
 doctrines were distinguished by the severity of their morals. 
 Stonden. Stand. 
 Stood. Withstood. 
 
 Stormy Hebrides. These islands were noted for their stormy coasts. 
 Strang. Strong. 
 Strathspeys. Name for a dance. 
 Strevnn\ Strewing. 
 Styx. A river of the lower world. 
 
 Suli. A fortress in Epirus made famous by the Greek revolution. 
 Sunium (Gape) . Cape Colonna. 
 Swats. Ale. 
 Svnch. Such. 
 Swirl. Curve. 
 Swynken. To toil or labor 
 
&LOSSART. 437 
 
 ■Syne. Since, and then. 
 
 Syrens (sirens) . Two maidens who by their singing so charmed travel- 
 lers that, forgetful of all else, they perished of hunger. 
 
 Table. Tablet. 
 
 Tak. Take. 
 
 Taliessin. A fabulous British poet of the sixth century. 
 
 Tantallon. Principal castle of the Douglas family. 
 
 Tappestere. A bar-maid. 
 
 Tapycer. Maker of tapestry (Trench, tapissier). 
 
 Tartarean. Pertaining to Tartarus, the place of confinement for the 
 
 wicked. 
 Tasso (Torqitato). A celebrated Italian epic poet, 1S44-1595.. 
 Tauld. Told. 
 Taurus. A sign of the zodiac ; the time thus Indicated would be the 
 
 latter part of April to the latter part of May. 
 Teene. Grief. 
 
 Teian. Of Teos, alluding to Anacreon. 
 
 T&npe's vale. A Thessalian valley noted for Its peacefulness and beauty. 
 Tethys. Wife of Oceanus. 
 
 Tetricus. A Eoman oflScer, called " one of the thirty tyrants." 
 Teviot. A river of Scotland. 
 Thais. A female companion of Alexander's. 
 Thamyris. A Thracian poet. 
 T%anne. Then. 
 
 Tharray. Synaloepha for the array. 
 The Abominable. The goddess Discord. 
 Theeves seven. The seven deadly sins. 
 Thegither. Together. 
 Thencrees. Synaloepha for the increase. 
 Thermopyloe. Where Leonidas contended with the Persians. 
 ThilJee. SynalcBpha for the ilke. 
 Thir. These. 
 
 Thole. To suffer, or endure. 
 Tholome. Ptolemy, king of Egypt 
 Thoo. Then. 
 Thorn. Blackthorn tree. 
 Thouh. Though. 
 Thrave. Two shocks of com. 
 
 Thund'rer. A title given by the poet to God the Pather. 
 Thurgh. Through. 
 Timotheus. A musician of Miletus. 
 T^nt. Lost. 
 Tuppenny. Twopence. 
 Tiresias. A Theban seer. 
 
438 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Tisiphon. One of the Furies, called the Blood-Avenger. 
 
 Titan's ray. Titan, a name applied to the sun. 
 
 Titian. The greatest of the Venetian painters. 1477-1676. 
 
 Tmolus. A mountain in Lydia, celebrated for its wine. 
 
 To-breste. To burst. 
 
 To dead. To death. 
 
 Tooke (John Home). One of the' earliest and most distinguished of 
 
 English philologists. 1736-1812. 
 Torno. Probably mountains in Sweden. 
 Towzie. Rough. 
 
 Tramyssene. An ancient name for the East. 
 Transmugnfy'd. Metamorphosed, or changed. 
 Tretys. Well-proportioned. 
 Trihnia. Britain. 
 
 Trissino ((?. (?.) . An Italian author. 1478-1550. 
 Troas. The country whose capital was Troy. 
 
 Troy. A ruined city in Asia Minor, and the scene of the Trojan war. 
 Tuscan. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries gold back-grounds 
 
 were used. 
 ' Twad. It would. 
 Tweed. A river of Scotland. 
 Tyke. A vagrant dog. 
 Typet. A cowl. 
 
 Ukraine. An ancient division of Kussla and South-east Poland. 
 
 Ulysses. Hero of Homer's Odyssey. 
 
 Unco. Strange. 
 
 Uncou. Very, or uncommonly. 
 
 Unwemmed. Pure, or unspotted. 
 
 Urania. The Muse of Astronomy. 
 
 Urien. A Welsh bard. 
 
 Urim. A breast ornament of the High Priest. 
 
 Usquebx. Usquebaugh. 
 
 Utawa. Ottawa, a river flowing mto the St. Lawrence 
 
 Valerian. Roman Emperor. 253. 
 
 Vane {Sir Henry, Jr.). A friend of Milton's and a prominent states- 
 man during the English Commonwealth. 1612-1662 
 Veeder. Commander. 
 
 Venerie. Hunting. ■ 
 
 Venus. Goddess of beauty and mother of Cupid 
 Vera. Very. 
 Verrey. Very. 
 
 Vestris. A famous Italian dancer. 
 ViJ.e.iinj',. Rusticitv. 
 
GLOSSARY. 4S9 
 
 Villafranca. A town belonging to the Sardinian States. 
 Virgil (Vergil). The most Illustrious of Latin poets. 
 Virtues. Spirits. 
 
 Wad. Would. 
 Walie. Large. 
 Wallenstein. A famous Bohemian general in the service of the Austrian 
 
 Archduke Ferdinand. 
 Waller (Edmund) . An English poet (1605-1687), whose writings are 
 
 noticeable for their grace. 
 Wallop. Quick pulsation. 
 War. Ware, or aware, or wary. 
 Wark. Work. 
 Warlodks. Wizards. 
 Wa's. Walls. 
 Wat. Wet. 
 Wehbe. A weaver. 
 Wee. Small. 
 Weel. Well. 
 
 Wende. Thought, or (from another verb) went. 
 Wha. Who. 
 WJiam. Whom. 
 Whare. Where. 
 What sit we then. What, for a long time, was regarded as the neuter of 
 
 who, and hence was used interrogatively where now we employ why. 
 Whiles. Whilst. 
 Whins. Furze-bushes. 
 Wi\ With. 
 Wikke. Wicked. 
 
 Willie-waught. A hearty draught. 
 Winnock-bunker. A seat in a window. 
 Wole. Will. 
 Wolt. Wilt. 
 
 Wonynge. Dwelling (German, wohnen). 
 Wympul. Wimple. 
 
 Yarrow. A parish of Scotland. 
 
 Teddynges. Romantic songs. 
 
 Teman. Yeoman. 
 
 Terde. Stick or rod. 
 
 T-falle. Past participle of fall, retaining (as yclept) the obsolete pre£ x 
 
 y (German, ge) . 
 Y-go. Past participle of go. 
 Yoursel. Yourself. 
 Y-plaste. Past participle of place. 
 
440 GLOSSAEY, 
 
 Ypres. A town of Belgium. 
 Y-preved. Past participle of prove. 
 T-schryve. Past participle of shrive. 
 
 Zabdas. A general in Zenobia's army. 
 Zephirus (Zephyr) . The west wind. 
 Zimri. King of Israel (I. Kings, XVI.). 
 Zdrj /xov <ra? d.ya-Km. Life of me, I love you.