3tliara, Nmb fork BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE Cornell University Library PR1143.W89 English poetry and prose of the romantic 3 1924 013 285 261 'jyi H\ Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013285261 A LITERARY MAP OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND 10 20 30 10 60 , 00 ' LoDgilude - West from Greenwich ^ LoDglLude £ut English Poetry and Prose OF THE Romantic Movement SELECTED AND EDITED WITH NOTES, BIBLIOGRAPHIES, AND A GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES GEORGE BENJAMIN WOODS, Ph.D. Prqfessor qf English in Carleton College SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY CHICAGO ATLANTA NEW YORK Copyright 1916 By Scott, Foresman ANjf Company To iHg Wife Who has shared the pleasure and the labor qf preparing this book PEEFACE The purpose of this volume is to supply in convenient form a tody of reading material suitable for use In a course of study dealing with the Romantic Move- ment in ij^nglish literature. The selections included have been chosen with a. two-fold intention : first, to provide in one book all the material, with tjie single exception of the novel, necessary to acquamt the student with the best and most characteristic work of the men who made the years 1798 to 1832 one of the notable epochs of English literature ; secondly, to add to this body of prose and verse on which critical appreciation has set the, seal of final approval, and which not to know "is to argue oneself unknown, enough of what preceded and accompanied the triumph of the .Romantic temper to showj the inception of the Movement, its, growth, its contrasts, its failings. Selections from Percy's Reliques of Ancient, English Poetry and from Scott 's The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border are included because of the recognized influence of both of these collections upon the Romantic Movement; Percy and Scott were the most conspicuous of the group of antiquarians who were consciously concerned with the revival of interest in medieval ballads and romances. It seemed advisable also that the Gothic revival, another important phase of Romanticism, should be given representation, and therefore selections have been included from Walpole's The Castle of Otranto and from Beckford's The History of the Caliph Vafhek. "With these exceptions, the novelists have been excluded, inasmuch as a novel does not readily lend itself to selection, and had best be studied, in its entirety. It has been the aim to include, whenever possible, literary, wholes ; but in some cases the desire adequately to illustrate all the Romantic interests of a given writer has made it necessary to include only extracts frojn the lon,ger works.. But as a rule these extracts are distinctly characteristic in themselves as well as self-explanatory ; where needed, summaries of omitted portions have been supplied in the notes. In the case of such works as Don Juan and. The PrMude, enough is given to make the use of other books practically unnecessary. As it was impossible to give space to all of any one of Scott's longer poems, two cantos of The Lady of the Lake have been included as representative of this side of Scott's work. The complete poem, as well as Marmion, which is represented in the text only by songs, may easily be procured in cheap editions, if it is so desired. The selections under each author are arranged in the order of writing, so far as this could be determined, except that in the case of writers from whom both poetry and prose are included, the selections of poetry are placed first. Dates of writing and publication, when known, are given at the beginning of y y{ PBEFACB each selection ; dates of writing are printed in italics. Lines of verse are num- bered as in the complete poems ; dots are used to indicate editor 's omissions ; asterisks are used as the authors used them and usually denote that the selection in which they occur was left incomplete. Unless the original spelling is dis- tinctly important, as it is in the case of Chatterton's poems, modern spelling is employed. In the references to pages in this volume, the letter a is used to indicate the first column on the page ; the letter b, to indicate the second column. Brief glossarial notes are given at the foot of the page; additional notes, both explanatory and critical in character, are given in the Appendix, where are also to be found bibliographies and reference lists, selections from the writings of Pope, Johnson, and Burke, a table of important historical events and a list of English, German, and Prendh writers of the period, a glossary of proper names occurring in the text, and an index of authors, titles, first lines of poems, and first lines of lyrics found in the dramas and other long works printed in this volume. I wish to express my thanks to the Houghton Mifflin Company, to Ginn and Company, to the Macmillan Company, to the John Lane Company, and to E. P. Button and Company for the privilege of quoting extracts from their publica- tions; to the Librarian of the Harvard University Library for the use of a number of books which otherwise would have been inaccessible to me; to Pro- fessor Arthur W. Craver, of Miami University, and to Professor George Benedict, of Brown University, for suggestions regarding individual writers and selections ; to Miss Iva Firkins, of the Library of the University of Minnesota, and to Mr. R. L. "Walkley, of the Minneapolis Public Library, for help in preparing the bibliographies ; to several of my colleagues and students who have been generous of their time in supplying necessary information or other help ; and especially to Professor Lindsay Todd Damon, of Brown University, whose careful supervision and keen critical judgment have made for countless improvements throughout the book. In a book of this size and nature, it is extremely difficult to preserve com- plete consistency of treatment, and no doubt inaccuracies have resulted. I shall appreciate notification of any corrections which may occur to students or instructors using the volume. G. B. W. Carleton College, September 1, 1916. CONTENTS PAOB •^Edward Young (1681-1765) V Night Thoughts Vrom Night I 33 From Night III .' 34 From Night V'...; 35 From Night 'Vl 35 From Night IX 35 From Conjectures on Original Compo- sition . !. . . . . I. . ..:..... . . i 36 1. EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORE- EtTNNEES 'PAGE Anne, Countess of Wincbil^ea (1661: 1720) The Tree . . ' 1 From The Petition for, an Abisplute Re- treat , . . ••••/• • ■ r- •• 1 To The Nigh|;in,gale. .i /••••(■ 2 A Nocturnal Reverie. •••;■: 2i^0bert Blair (1699-1746) Thomas PameU (1679-1718) ; " /rom The Grave 87 A Fairy Tale .... .... ,.. . . 3^ 'Wimam Shenstone (1714-1763) A Night-Piece on Death 5 ^js^^^^ The Schoolmistress 40 A Hymn to Contentment o ,--" i ., ■ „„o»-,,«x ' ' *'lilark Akenslde (1721-1770) Allan Ramsay (1686-1758) ^ ^^^ p^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ Imagination The Highland Laddie 7 Jrom Part I 44 My Pe^y ...... ^^..._ 7 por a Grotto /... 46 Sweet William's Ghost Through the Wood, Laddie . . An Thou Were My Ain Thing .^[f'rom The Gentle Shepherd i , : " Patie and Peggy 9 Preface to The Evergreen 11 William Hamilton of Bangour (1704- 1754) The Braes of Yarrow 13 David MaUet (1705-1765) William arid Margaret. ..'............. 15 The Birks of Endermay. 15 to the Evening Star 47 WilUam Collins (1721-1759) John Dyer (1700-1758) (Srongar Hill .;.; 16 The Fleece ♦ ,, , From Book I. 17 ^James Thomson (17004748) The Seasons , < ; i\ . From Winter 18 ' ' ; From Summer 19 From Autumn 21 A Hymn on The Seasons 23 ' The Castle of Indolence From Canto I 24 Tell Me, Thou Soul of Her I I^csve 32 To Amanda -, 32 Preface to Winter , .....1348 ' .1-^^ vii A Song from Shakespear's Cymbelyne. . 48 Ode to Simplicity. .../........ 48 Ode on the Poetical Character 49 ^^ Ode Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746 50 •'Ode to Evening 50 ^ The Passions 51 ^Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. 52 An Ode on the Popular Superstitions of . the Highlands of Scotland 53 J^om&s Gray (l'716-1771) Ode on the Spring. 57 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- lege 57 Hymn to Adversity 58 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 59 The Progress of Poesy 61 The Bard . « ...i 63 Ode on the Pleasure Arising from Vicis- situde . . . ; ; . .' 65 Song (Thyrsis, when we parted; swore) 66 The Fatal Sisters 66 The Descent of Odin ■. 67 The Triumphs of Owen i 68 The Death of Hoel. .'iV. . . ; . , . . ' 7. ; : . . 68 Caradoe , 68 Conan 68 VUl CONTENTS PAGE PAOE 69 Thomas Oray (Continued) From Journal in France From Gray's Letters To Mrs. Dorothy Gray 69 To Richard West 70 To Horace Walpole 71 To Richard Stonehewer 71 To Thomas Wharton 71 To the Reverend William Mason 72 To the Reverend William Mason , 72 To Thomas Wharton 1244 Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770) Bristowe Tragedie ; or, The Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin 125 The Accounte of W. Canynges Feast. . . 130 From .ffiUa: A Tragycal Enterlude Mynstrelles Song (The boddynge flour- ettes bloshes atte the lyghte) 130 Mynstrelles Song (01 synge untoe mie roundelaie) 131 Ati fixcelente Balade of Charitie 132 Epftaph on Robert Canynge 134 To RkCd S'"" ::::::::::::::: [llfM^u^ Beckford (1759-1844) To Horace Walpole 1265 From The History of the Caliph Vftthek 134 From Journal in the Lakes ^^/wiUlam Cowper (1731-1800) ^ A Whirl-Blast from behind the Hill 232 • Expostulation and Reply 232 The Tables Turned 232 ► Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tin- tern Abbey 233 "■' The Old Cumberland Beggar 234 ISTutting 237 Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known. . 238 She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways. 238 I Travelled among Unknown Men 238 \ Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower 238 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 239 A Poet 's Epitaph 239 Matthew 239 The Two April Mornings 240 The Fountain 240 Lucy Gray 241 ) The Prelude From Book I. Introduction — rOhildhood and Sehool-Tirae 242 From Book II. School-Time , 245 xu CONTENTS PAGE y PAGE Sir Walter Scott (Continued) fAllan Cunningham (1784-1842) From The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Bor- The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill 475 der Gane Were But the Winter Cauld 476 Kinmont Willie 441 jtA Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 476 Lord Eattdal 444 1 The Lay of the Last Minstrel From Canto VI 444 Harold (The Lay of EosabelleJ ... 445 Tlje Maid of Neidpafh 446 Hunting Song 446 1 1 From Mara ijon \\ Where "Shall the Lover Best 446 Lochinvar 447 From The Lady of the Lake Canto I. The Chase 448 From Canto II. Boat Song 455 From Canto III. Coronach .' 456 Canto VI. The Guard-Koom 456 From Eokeby Brignall Banks 464 AUen-a-Dale 465 From Waverley Hie Away, Hie Away 465 From Qtiy Mannering Twist Ye, Twine Ye 465 Wasted, Weary, Wherefore Stay 466 Lines on the Lifting of the Banner of the House of Buecleuch 466 Jock of Hazeldean 467 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 467 From The Antiquary Why Sitt 'st Thou by That Euin 'd Hall ? 467 From Old Mortality And What Though Winter Will Pinch Severe 468 Clarion 468 The Dreary Change 468 From Eob Boy Farewell to the Land 468 From The Heart of Midlothian Proud Maisie 468 From Ivanhoe The Barefooted Friar 468 Bebecca 's Hymn 469 From The Monastery Border March 469 From The Pirate The Song of the Eeim-^ennar 470 Farewell to the Muse 471 From Quentin Durward County Guy 471 From The Talisman What Brave Chief 471 From The Doom of Devergoil Eobin Hood 471 Bonny Dundee 471 When Friends Are Met 473 From Woodstock Glee for King Charles 473 ' The Foray 473 Joanna Baillie (1762-1851) From The Beacon Fisherman 's Song 474 Woo'd and Married and A' 474 A Scotch Song ; 474 James Hogg (1772-1835) When the Kye Comes Ham« 476 The Skylark 477 When Maggy Gangs Away 477 From The Queen's Wake Kilmeny 477 The Witch, o' Fife i . .-l 481 A Boy's Song 482 M'Kimman 482 Lock the Door, Lariston 483 The Maid of the Sea 483 Isabelle 1238 George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron (1788- 1824) Lachin y Gair 484 Farewell I If Ever Fondest Prayer 484 Bright Be the Place of Thy Soul! 485 When We Two Parted 485 From English Bards and Scotch Eeview- ers 485 ■ Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 496 ->The Bride of Abydos 496 Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 510 She Walks in Beauty 511 Oh! Snatch 'd Away in Beauty's Bloom. 512 My Soul Is Dark 512 Song of Saul before His Last Battle. . . 512 Herod's Lament for Mariamne 512 The Destruction of Sennacherib 513 Stanzas for Music (There's not a joy the world can give) 513 Fare Thee Well 513 Stanzas for Music (There be none of Beauty's daughters) 514 Sonnet on Chillon 514 —The Prisoner of Chillon 515 Stanzas to Augusta 518 Epistle to Augusta 519 Darkness 521 Prometheus 522 '^'Sonnet to Lake Leman 522 Stanzas for Music (They say that Hope is happiness) 523 From ChUde Harold's Pilgrimage Canto III 523 From Canto IV 541 — That common theme for every fop, • ' 15 From the statesman to the shop. In those coverts ne'er be spread. Of who's deceas'd, or who's to wed. Be no tidings thither brought, ' But silent, as a midnight thought, 20 Where the world may ne'er invade. Be those windings, and that shade! Courteous Fate! afford me there A table spread without my care With -ssthat the neighb 'ring, fields impart, 25 Whose cleanliness be all its art. When of old the calf was drest — Tho' to make, an angel's feast — In tl^e plain, unstudied sauce Nor truffle,^ nor moriiliai. was; 3" Nor could the mighty patriarch's board One far-fetch 'd ortolane^ afford. Courteous Fate, then give me there Only plain and wholesome fare. Fruit,s indeed, would Heaven bestow, 35 All, that did in Eden grow,-r- All, Jjut.the forbidden tree. Would be coveted by me: ,■ Grapes, with juice so crowded up , ; As breaking^ thro' the native cup; ** Figs, yet .growing, candied o 'er By the sun's attracting power; ; Ciherries, with the downy peach, , All within my easy reach; Whilst, creepingnear the humble ground, ■*5 Should the strawberry be found, Spriagjng wheresoe'er I strayed. Thro' ;those windings and thatrshadej Ing, often served as a delicacy. °as if about ito brcalc 'A kind of edible fungus. ' A small bird, the com- mon European bunt- EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEEK0NNERS For my garments, let them be What may with the time agree; 50 Warm, when Phcebus does retire, And is ill-supplied by fire; But when he renews the year And verdant all the fields appear, Beauty every thing resumes, ^5 Birds have dropt their winter-plumes; When the lily full display 'd Stands in purer white array 'd Than that vest which heretofore The luxurious monarch^ wore 6" When from Salem's gates he drove To the soft retreat of love, Lebanon's all burnish 'd house, And the dear Egyptian spouse, — Clothe me. Fate, tho' not so gay, ^^ Clothe me light, and fresh as May. In the fountains let me view All my habit cheap and new, Such as, when sweet zephyrs fly, With their motions may comply, '''• Gently waving, to express Unaffected carelessness. No perfumes have there a part, Borrow 'd from the chemist's art; But such as rise from flow'ry beds, ^5 Or the falling jasmine sheds! 'Twas the odor of the field Esau's rural coat did yield That inspir'd his father's prayer For blessings of the earth and air. 80 Of gums or powders had it smelt, The supplanter, then unfelt, Easily had been descry 'd For one that did in tents abide. For some beauteous handmaid 's joy 85 And his mother's darling boy.^ Let me then no fragrance wear But what the winds from gardens bear In such kind, surprising gales As gather 'd from Fidentia's vales 8* All the flowers that in them grew; Which intermixing, as they flew. In wreathen garlands dropt again On LucuUus, and his men. Who, cheer 'd by the victorious sight 95 Trebl'd numbers put to flight. Let me, when I must be flne, In such natural colors shine; Wove, and painted by the sun, Whose resplendent rays to shun, 100 'When they do too fiercely beat. Let me find some close retreat Where they have no passage made Thro' those windings, and that shade. 1 Solomon. / Kings, 7 :1-12. > Genesis, 25-27. TO THE NIGHTINGALE 1713 Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring ! This moment is thy time to sing, This moment I attend to praise, And set my numbers to thy lays. ^ Free as thine shall be my song; As thy music, short, or long. Poets, wild as thee, were bom, Pleasing best when unconfln'd, When to please is least design 'd, ^' Soothing but their cares to rest; Cares do still their thoughts molest, And still th' unhappy poet's breast, Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a thom.^ She begins; let all be still! ^5 Muse, thy promise now fulfil! Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! Can thy words such accents fit? Canst thou syllables , refine, Melt a sense that shall retain 20 Still some spirit of the brain, Till with sounds like these it join? 'Twill not be ! then change thy note ; Let division^ shake thy throat. Hark! division now she tries; 25 Yet as far the muse outflies. Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune; Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? Till thy bus'ness all lies waste. And the time of building's past! 3* Thus we poets that have speech. Unlike what thy forests teach, If a fluent vein be shown That's transcendent to our own, Criticise, reform, or preach, '5 Or censure what we cannot reach. A NOCTUENAL REVBEIE 1713 '. '■ In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confln'd. And only gentle zephyr fans his wings. And lonely j'hilomel, still waking, sings ; 5 Or from some tree,' fam'd for the owl's delight. She, hollowing clear, directs the wand 'rer right; In such a night, when passing clouds • give place. Or thinly veil the Heav'ns mysterious face ; When in some river, overhung with green, 1 A popular snperstitlon. See Toung's Nioht Thoughts, 1, 439 ff. ''A series of notes to be sung in one breatti to eacb syllable. THOMAS PARNELL 3 ^'^ The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; When freshen 'd grass now bears itself upright, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, When sparing the woodbine and the bramble-rose, An,d. where the sleepy cowslip shelter 'd growsj i. 15 Whilst now a paler hwe the foxglove takes, Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes; ' When scatter 'd glow-worms, but in twi- light fine. Show trivial beautifes watch their hour to shine. Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light •' '- r 20 In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright ; When odors which declin'd repelling day Thro' temp 'rate air uninterrupted stray; When darken 'd groves their softest shadows wear, And f a,lling waters we distinctly hear ; 25 When thro' the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric, awful in repose. While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal And swelling hayeock^jthicken up the vale ; , "' When the loos'd horse now, as his pas- ture leads, 30 Comes slowly grazing thro' th' adjoining meads. Whose stealing pace, and lengthen 'd shade we fear. Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food. And unmdlested kine' re-chew the cud ; 35 When curlews cry beneath the village- walls, 'V^4 .^..M'^-^.u^.., i.^-. And to her straggling brood the part- ridge calls; Their' shortliv'd jubilee the creatures keep. Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does sleep; When a sedate content the spirit feels, *" And no fierce light disturb, whilst it reveals; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something too> high for syllables to speak; Till the free soul to a compos 'dness charm 'd. Finding the elements of rage disarm 'd, ^5 O'er all below a solemn qttiefc 'grown, Joys in th' inferior world and thinks it like' her own : ' , Tn such a night let me abroad remain Till morning breaks and all's confus'd ; again; Our cares, our .toHs, our clamors are , renew 'd, 50 Or pleasures, seldom reach 'd, again pur- su'd. ■ ; THOMAS PARNELL (1679-1718) A FAIEY TALE IN THE ANCIENT , ENGLISH STYLE 1721 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days. When midnight faeries daunc'd the maze, Liv 'd Edwin of the green ; Edwin, I wis,^ a gentle youth, 5 Endow 'd with courage, sense, and truth Though badly shap'd he been. His mountain back mote well be said To measure heighth against his head, And lift itself above: 1" Yet spite of all that nature did To make his uncouth form forbid. This creature dar'd to love. He felt the charms of Edith's eyes. Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 15 Could ladies look within; But one Sir Topaz dress 'd with art. And, if a shape could win a heart. He had a shape to win. Edwin, if right I read my song, 20 With- slighted passion pac'd along All in the moony light: 'Twas near an old enchaunted court, Where sportive faeries made resort To revel out the night. 25 His heart was drear, his hope was cross 'd, 'Twas late, 'twg,s f arr, the path was lost Tha* reach 'd the neighbor-town; With weary steps he quits the shades, Eesolv'd, the darkling dome he treads, 30 And drops his. limbs adown. But scant he lays him on the floor, When hollow winds remove the door, 'fenow - - EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEfiUNNEES A trembling rocks the ground : And, well I ween^ to count aright, 25 At once an hundred tapers light On all the walls around. Now sounding tongues assail his ear, Now sounding feet approaehen near, And now the sounds encrease; *<* And from the corner where he lay He sees a train profusely gay Come pranckling o'er the place. But, trust me, gentles, never yet Was dight^ a masking half so neat, <5 Or half so rich before ; The country lent the sweet perfumes. The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes. The town its silken store. Now whilst he gaz'd, a gallant drest 5" In flaunting robes above the rest. With awfuU accent cried. What mortal of a wretched mind, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind. Has here presumed to hide? ss At this the swain, whose venturous soul No fears of magic art controul, Advanc'd in open, sight; "Nor have I cause of^reed," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, ^0 Your revels of the night. ' ' 'Twas grief for scorn of faithful love. Which made my steps unweeting' rove Amid the nightly dew." 'Tis well, the gallant cries again, 65 'WTe faeries never injure men Who dare to tell us true. Exalt thy love-dejected heart. Be mine the task, or ere we part. To make thee grief resign; '!'> Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce. Be little Mable thine. He spoke, and all a sudden there Light musiek floats in wanton air; 75 The monarch leads the queen; The rest their faerie partners found, And Mable trimly tript the ground With Edwin of the green. The dauncing past, the board was laid, 80 And siker* such a feast was made As heart and lip desire; Withouten hands the dishes fly. The glasses with a wish come nigh, And with a wish retire, *5 But now to please the faerie king, Full every deal^ they laugh and sing, And antick feats devise; Some wind and tumble like an ape, And other-some transmute their shape 90 In Edwin's wondering eyes. Till one at last that Robin hight,^ Renown 'd for pinching maids by night, Has hent' him up aloof; And full against the beam he flung, 95 Where by the back the youth he hung To spraul unneath the roof. From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries, "And let it fairly now suflSce The gambol has been shown." 100 gut Oberon answers with a smile, Content thee, Edwin, for a while. The vantage is thine own. Here ended all the phantome play; They smelt the fresh approach of day, 105 ^ii,j heard a cock to crow; The whirling wind that bore the crowd Mas clapp 'd the door, and whistled loud. To warn them all to go. Then screaming all at once they fly 110 And all at once the tapers die; Poor Edwin falls to floor; Forlorn his state, and dark the place, Was never wight in sike* a ease Through all the land before. 115 But soon as Dan" Apollo rose. Full jolly creature home he goes, He feels his back the i less; His honest tongue and steady mind Han rid him of the lump behind 120 Which made him want success. With lusty livelyhed' he talks He seems a dauncing as be. walks; His story soon took wind; And beauteous Edith sees the youth, 125 Endow 'd with courage, sense, and truth. Without a bunch behind. The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd. The youth of Edith erst approv 'd,^ 1 think > dressed ' unknowing • certainly lall the time (or, pos- sibly, all the com- „ pany). ' was called ' seized 'such ' Lord ; master (from Latin domiwus, master) " liveliness ■ * ' the youth .formerly approved by Edith THOMAS PAENELL To see the revel scene: ^'<* At close of eve he leaves his home, And wends tp find the ^ruin 'd dome All on the gloomy plain. As there he bides, it so 'befell, . The -wind came rustling down a dell, 135 \ shaking seiz'd the wall: Up spring the tapers as before, The faeries bragly'^ foot the floor, And musick fills the hall. But eertes* sorely sunk with woe 140 Sir Topaz sees the elfin show^ ; His spirits in him die: When Oberon cries, "A man is near, A mortall passion, cleeped' fear. Hangs flagging in the sky." 145 With that Sir Topaz, haples^ youth ! In accents faultering ay fox ruth Intreats them pity graunt; For als he been a mister wight* Betray 'd by wandering in the- night 150 To tread the circled haunt. "Ah loselP vile!" at once they roar, "And little skill 'd of faerie lore. Thy cause to come we know; Now has thy kestrell* courage fell; 155 And faeries, since a lie you tell, Are free to work thee woe." . Then Will,'' "who bears the wispy fire To trail the swains among the inire. The eaitive upward flung;' 160 There like a tortoise in a shop He dangled from the chamber-top, Where whilome Edwin hiing; The revel now proceeds apace,' Deffly^ they frisk it o'er the place, 1*5 They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolick mirth beguile. And poor Sii- Topaz hangs the while Till all the rout retreat. By .this the starrs began to wink, I'^O They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, And down ydrpps, the Knight : Fox, never spell by faerie laid With strong enchantment bound a glade Beyond the length of night. ■ i'i^5 Chill, dark, alone, ddreed,* he lay, TilL up the welkin^ rose the day, '' Then deem'd the dole was o'er: But wot ye well his harder lot ? His seely^ back the bunch, has got < 180 Which Edwin lost afore. This tale a Sibyl-nutse* ared;^ She isof tly strok 'd my youngling head. And when the tale was done, ' ' Thus some are ' born, my son, ' ' she cries, , . • 185 "With base impediments to rise, ■ And some are born with none. But virtue can itself advance To what the favorite fools of chance By fortune seem'd design 'd; 190 Virtue can gain the odds of fate, And from itself shake off the weight Upon th' unworthy mind." * proudly ; finely * certainly ' called * because he. is a, poor feaiow ^ worthless person * A term oft^ta used in contempt, as of a mean kind of hawk. A ; kestrel is a com- mon European fal- con; ' WlU-o' -the- wisp. * deftly ;■ A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH 1 1721 . By'the blue taper's treinbling light. No more I waste the wakeful night. Intent with endless view to pore The sehoolinen and the sages o'er: 5 Their books from wisdom widely stray. Or point at best the longest way. I'll Seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below. How "deep yon azure dyes the sky, 1,0 Where. orbs, of gold unnumber'd lie. While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide ! The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake, is smoqth and clear beneath, 15 Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The g'rounds which on the right aspire. In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, 20 Whose wall' the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass, with melancholy state. By all the solemn heaps of fate, 25 And think, as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable d^ad, "Time was, like thee they life possest. And time shall be that thou shalt rest. ' ' ' afraid 2 sky ' poor * An old woman pro- fessing to have the gift of prophecy, like that ascwPd to the ahclerit Sibyls. » told ■ 6 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBT FOREKUNNEES Those graves, with bending osier^ bound, 30 That nameless heave the crumbled ground. Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose. The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, '5 (Which ere our set of friends decay Their frequent steps may wear away,) A middle race of mortals own. Men, half ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high, *0 Whose dead in vaulted arches lie. Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones. Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones. These, all the poor remains of state. Adorn the rich, or praise the great; ■*5 Who while on earth in fame they live. Are senseless of the fame they give. Hah! while I gaze, pale GjTithia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades! All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, 50 They rise in visionary crowds. And all with sober accent cry, "Think, mortal, what it is to die." Now from yon black. and funeral yew,^ That bathes the charnel-house with dew, 55 Methinks I hear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din. Ye tolling clocks, no time resound 'er the long lake and midnight ground !) It sends a peal of hollow groans, *0 Thus speaking from among the bones: "When men my scythe and darts supply, How great a king of fears am I! They view me like the last of things: They make, and then they dread, my stings. 85 Fools! if you less provok'd your fears. No more my spectre-form appears. Death's but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God; A port of calms, a state of ease 70 From the rough rage of swelling seas. "Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendant cypress,* mourning r poles,* Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, • willow ' The yew Is a common tree In graveyards. . 'A' kind of thin cloth, often used for mourning. *A pole (pile) is a fabric with a heavy nap. Long palls, drawn hearses, cover 'd steeds, ''B And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead? "Nor can the parted body know. Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe, As men who long in prison dwell, 80 With lamps that glimmer round the cell. Whene'er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to greet tlie glittering sun : Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious souls at parting hence. ^5 On earth, and in the body plae'd, A few, and evil years they waste; But when their chains are cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide. Clap the glad wing, and tower away, 00 And mingle with the blaze of day." A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT 1721 Lovely, lasting peace of mind I Sweet delight of human-kind! Heavenly-born, and bred on high, To crown the favorites of the sky 5 With more of happiness below, ; Than victors in a triumph know ! Whither, whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek, contented head? What happy region dost thou please 10 To make the seat of calms and ease? Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Encreasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd. 15 The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks amidst the foaming sea. To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, 20 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales. Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks, as I have vainly done. Amusing thought, but learns to know That solitude's the nurse of woe. 25 No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground;^ Or in a soul exalted higli, To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know 30 All Nature in its forms below; The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. Lovely, lasting peace, appear! This world itself, if thou art here, ' in wearing the purple robes of royalty ALLAN EAMSAT *5 Is once again with JE^den blest, And man contains it in his breast. 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood. And,, lost, in thought,; no more pereeiv 'd *0 The branches ■yrhisper as they, wav'd; It se.em'd as all the quiet place , Confess 'd the presence of the Grace. When thus she spoke: "Go rule thy will; . Bid thy yrild passions all be, still, • . 45 EJiow God, and bring thy heart to knew The joys which from religion fl(>w: Then every. Grace shall prove its guest. And I'll be there to crown the rest." Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, :- • ■ ' < 50 In my hours of sweet retreat,. ' Might I thus my soul employ: "With sense of gratitude and joy! Sais'd as ancient prophets were. In heavenly vision, praise, and prsiyer; 5B Pleasing aU men, hurting none, ■Pleas 'd and bless 'd with God alone: Then while the (gardens take'^ my sight. With all the colors of delight. While silver waters glide along, *" To please my ear, and court my"song, I'll lift my voice, and tune my string. And Thee, great Source of Nature, sing. The sun, that walks his airy way, Ti^/light the.iyorld, and give the day;, 65 The moon, that shines with borrow 'd light;.. ; The stars,, that gild the. gloomy night; The seas, that roll unnumber 'd waves ; The wood, that spreads its shady lea,ves ; The "field, whose" iear's conceal the; gr£^in, ■^o The yellow^' treasure of the plain; All of these, and all I see, Should be 'sung, and sung by me : They speak their Maker as they can, But want; and ask the tongue of man. '5 Go search ampng your idle dreams. Your busy or your yain extremes, And find a life of equal bliss. Or own the next begun in this. ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758) THE HIGHLAND LADDIE 1721 The Lawland.lads think they. are fine. But they're vain and idly gaudy; How much utilike that gracefu' mien And manly looks of my Highland laddie ! 1 charm ; bewitch Ghofus , 5 my bonny, bonny Highland laddie! My handsome, charming Highland lad- die! May Heaven still guard and love reward Our Lawland lass and her Highland laddie ! If I were free at will to ehiise ^O To be the wealthiest Lawland lady, I'd take young Donald without trews,^ With bonnet blew and belted' plaidy. The brawest^ beau in borrows town,' In a' his airs, with art made ready, 15 Compared to him, he 's but a clown; He's iner iar in 's tartan* plaidy. 'er benty^ hill yriiM him I 'llrun,, - ■ . And leave my Lawland kin and dady; Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun 20 He'll screen me with has ..Highland plaidy. , ; A painted room and silken bed May please a Lawland_ laird and lady, ' But I can kiss and be as jglad Behind a bush in 's Highland plaidy. 25 Few compliments, between us pass: I ca' him my dear Highland laddie; And he ca's me his Lawland lass, Syne rows' me in his Highland plaidy. Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend SO Than that his love prove , true and steady, ' Like rbine to him, which ne'ei: shall end While Heaven preserve my Highland laddie. MY PEGGY 1721 My Peggy is a. young thing Just enter 'd, in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay. 5 My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm na very auld. Yet weel I like to meet her at The waukirig o ' the f auld.'' My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 10 Whene 'er we meet alane, » trousers "covered with coarse 'finest grass ' royal borough ' then rolls •woolen cloth check- 'watching of the ered with narrow sheep-fold bands of various colors EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY F0BEEUNNEE8 16 I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish, nae mair o' a' that's rare, My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave' I'm cauld, But she gars^ a ' my spirits glow At w'auking o' the fauld. My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look doun on a' the toun, 20 That I look doun upon a eroun. My Peggy smiles sae kindly. It maks me biythe an' bauld, An' naething gies me sic^ delight As wauking o' the fauld. 25 My Peggy sings sae saftly When on my pipe I play. By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest that she sings best. My Peggy' sings sae saftly, 2* And in her sangs are tauld Wi' innocence, the wale o' sense,* At wauking o' the fauld. SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST 1724 There came a ghost to Margret's door, With many a grievous grone. And ay he tirled at the pin,^ But answer made she none. 5 Is this my father Philip? Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willie, Prom Scotland new come home? 'Tis not thy father Philip, 1* Nor yet thy brother John: But 'tis thy .true love Willie From Scotland new come home. sweet Market! dear Margret! I; pray thee speak to mee: . 15 Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee. Thy faith and troth thou'se nevirget, Of me shalt nevir win. Till that thou come within my bower, 20 And kiss my cheek and chin. 'rest ' makes' •such * soul of sense ' A tirling was former- ly used Instead of a knocker ; It consist- ed of a notched metal bar (the pin) with a loose • metal ring, which was drawn over it to make a sound. If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lipp. Thy days will not be lang. 25 sweet Margret! dear Mai'gret! I pray thee speak to mee : Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee. Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 80 Of me shalt nevir win, Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, And wed me with a ring. My bones are buried in a kirk. yard Afar beyond the sea, 35 And it is but my sprite, Margret, That 's speaking now to thee. She stretched out her lily-white hand,, As for to do her best: Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, ^0 God send your soul good rest. Now she has kilted' her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the Uve-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee. *5 Is there any room at your head, Willie? Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie? Wherein that I may creep? There's nae room at my head, Margret, 50 There 's nae room , at ,■ my feet, There's nae_ room at my side, Margret, My cofSn is made so meet.^ Then up and crew the red red cock, And. up then crew the gr^y: 55 'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret, That I were gane away. No more the ghost to Margret said. But, with a grievous grone,. Evanish 'd in a cloud of mist, 60 And left her all alone.. stay, my only true love, stay. The constant Margret cried: Wan grew her bheekSj she clos 'd her een. Stretch 'd her saf t limbs, and died. 'tucked up » close-fitting ALLAN RAMSAY THROUGH THE WOOD, LADDIE 1724 Sandy, why leaves thou thy Nelly to mourn 1 Thy presence would ease me When naething' could please me, Now dowie^ I sigh on the bank of the burn,^ 5 Ere through the wood, laddie,— until thou return. Though woods now are bonny, and morn- ings are clear, While lavrocks* are singing And primroses springing, Yet nane of them pleases my eye or my 1" When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear. That I am |prsakei| some spare rip to tell ; I'm fashed* wi' their scorning Baith evening and morning; ^ Their jeering aft gaes to my heart wi' a knell, 15 When through the wood, laddie, I wan- der mysel'. Then stay, my dear San die, nae langer away. But quick as an arrow, Haste here to thy marrow,^ Wha's living in languor till that happy 20 When through the wood, laddie, we '11 dance, sing, and play. AN6 THOU WEEE MY AIN THING 1T24 Chorus An thou were my ain thing, ' I would love thee, I would love thee; An thou were my ain thing How dearly I would love thee. 5 Like bees tha); suck the morning dew, Ti-ae flowers of sweetest scent and hue, Sae wad I dwell upon thy mow'' And gar' the gods envy me. Sae lang's T had the use of light 10 I'd on thy beauties feast my sight. Syne in saft whispers through the night I'd tell how much I loved, thee. I gloomy • mate • brook "If > larks ' mouth. * bothered ' make How fair and ruddy is my Jean! She moves a goddess o'er the g'reien. 15 Were I a king thou should be queen — Nane but myself aboon. thee, I 'Id grasp thee to this breast of mine, Whilst thoii like ivy on the vine Around my strongeir limbs should twine, 20 Formed handy to defend theel Time's on the wing and willnpt stay, In shining youth let 's make our hay ; Since love admits of 'np delay, let na scorn undo thee. 25 While love does at his altar stand, Hae,^ here's my heart, gie me thy hand, And with ilk^ smile thou shalt eoinmand The will of him \yho loves thee. Chorus •, An thou were my ain thin^ ^0 I would love thee, I would love thee; An thou were my ain thing, How dearly I would love thee. From THE' GENTLE SHEPHERD 1725 ■ Scene IV. Behind a tree upon the plain, Pate and Ms Peggy meet ; In love, without a vicious stain, The bonny lass and cheerfu' swain Change vows an' kisses sweet, Patie and Peggy Peggy. Patie, let me gang, I maunna stay; We're baith ery'd hanie, an' J^nny she's away. Patie. I 'm laith to part sae soon, now we're alane, An ' Roger he 's awa ' wi ' Jenny gane ; 5 They're as content, fctr aught I hear or see, ■"' . To be alane themsells, I judge, as we. Here, where primrpses thickest paint the green. Hard by this little burnie* let us lean. Hark, how the lay 'rocks* ehartt aboon our heads, ' '' • 10 How saft the westlin winds sough ;f hro ' 'the reeds !-■■ '' ' Peggy. The scented meadows,— bi^rds, —an' healthy breeze, ■'" ' For aught T ken, may mair than Peggy please. , ; Patie. Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind; •have 'each » brook < larks 10 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY F0EERUNNEE8 In speaking sae, ye ea' me dull an' blind; *'^ Or lisp out words, I choos'd ye frae the -^ Gif I eou'd fancy aught 's sae sweet or thrang fair ' a the bairns, an ' led thee by the As my dear Meg, or worthy o' my care. hand, Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest Aft to the tansy knowe,' or rashy^ strand, brier. Thou smiling by my side:— I took delyte Thy cheek an' breast the finest flow'rs To pou the rashes green, wi' roots sae appear. white ; Thy words excel the maist delightfu' ^^ Q' which, as weel as my young fancy notes, cou 'd, 2* That warble thro' the merl or mavis '^ For thee I plet^ the flow'ry belt an' throats. snood.* Wi' thee I tent^ nae flow'rs that busk' Peggy. When first thou gade wi' the field, shepherds to the hill, Or riper berries that our mountains An' I to milk the ewes first try'd my yield. skill. The sweetest fruits tiat hing upon the ^ To bear a leglen^ was nae toil to me, tree ^' When at the bught" at e'en I met wi' Are far inferior to a kiss o' thee. thee. 25 Peggy. But, Patrick, for some wicked Patie. When corn grew yellow, an' the end, may fleetch,* heather-bells An ' lambs shou 'd tremble when the foxes Bloom 'd bonny on the muir'' an ' rising preach. fells, I daurna stay; ye joker, let me gang: Nae bims,* or briers, or whins," e'er Anither lass may gar^ you change your troubl'd me sang; Gif I cou'd find blae-berries ripe for thee. Tour thoughts may flit, and I may thole" ^^ Peggy. When thou didst wrestle, run, the wrang. or putt the stane, 2" Patie. Sooner a mother shall her An' wan the day, my heart was flight- fondness drap, , 'rin fain;^"' An' wrang the bairn sits smiling on her At a' these sports thou still gie joy to lap : me ; The sun shall change, the moon to change For nane can wrestle, run, or putt wi ' shall cease, thee. The gaits to dim,''— the sheep to yield Patie. Jenny sings saft the Broom a' their fleece, C owdenknowes, Ere aught by me be either said or done, ^^ An' Rosie lilts^^ the Milking o' the 35 Shall skaith' our love, I swear by a ' aboon. Ewes; Peggy. Then keep your aith. — But There.'s nane like Nancy Jenny Nettles mony lads will swear, sings; An' be mansworn to twa in hauf-a-year. At turns^^ in Maggy Lauder, Marion Now I believe ye like me wonder weel ; dings :^^ But if a fairer face your heart shou'd But when my Peggy sings, wi' sweeter steal, skill, *" Your Meg, forsaken, bootless might The Boatman^ or the Lass o' Patie's Mill, relate, '"' It is a thousand times mair sweet to How she was dawted" anes by faithless me; Pate. Tho' they sing weel, they canna sing like Patie. I'm sure I canna change; ye thee. needna fear; Peggy. How eith'* can lasses trow Tho' we're but young, I've looed you what they desire ! mony a year. ,■,.■, ,, iknoll overgrown' 'charred stems of I mind it weel, when thou cou 'dst hardly with tansies heather „„„„io ^overgrown with » spiny e v e rg re e n = =' rashes,-^, e., rushes shrubs « plaited ; wove ." fluttering with glad- i blackbird or thrush's ' goats to climb 'headband ness ' tend ; watch ' harm » mllk-pall " sings with spirit ■ adorn ^mademuch of; « the pen in which the " A turn is an orna- * flatter caressed ewes were milked ment in music. ' make "• walk ' heath " excels • endure " easily , ALLAN RAMSAY 11 An', roos'd by them we love, blaws up that fireji But wha looes best, let time an' carriage^ try; ^5 Be constant, an' my love shall time defy. Be still as now; an' a' my care shall be How to contrive what pleasant is for thee. Patie. Were thou a giglet gawky* like the lave,* That little better than our nowt^ be- have; ^^ At naught they'll ferly;' senseless tales believe ; Be blythe for silly heghts,'' for trifles grieve:— Sic ne'er eou'd win my heart, that kenna how Either to keep a prize, or yet prove true; But thou, in better sense without a flaw, ^^ As in thy beauty, far excels them a': Continue kind, . an ' a ' my care shall be, How to contrivCi what pleasing is for thee. Peggy. Agreed.— But hearken! yon's auld aunty's cry, I ken they'll wonder what can mak us stay. '" Patie. An' let them ferly. — Now a kindly kiss. Or five-score guid anes wa;dna be amiss; An' S3me we'll sing the sang, wi' tunefn' glee, That I made up last owk^ on you and me. Peggy. Sing first, syne claim your hire. 85 Patie. Weel, I agree. Patie sings. By the delicious warmness of thy mouth. An ' rowing een* that smiling tell the truth, I guess, my lassie, that, as weel as I, You're made for love, an' why should ye deny. Peggy sings. 190 But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o 'er soon. Ye think us cheap, an' syne the wooing 's done: The maiden that o'er quickly tinesi' her power, Like unripe fruit, will taste but hard an ' sour. Patie sings. But gin they hiiig o'er lang lipon the tree, 105 Their sweetness they may tine; an' sac may ye. Eed-checked ye completely ripe appear, An' I hae thol'd^ and woo'd a lang half- year. P^99y> singing, fa's into Patie' s arms. Then dinna pu' me, gently thus I fa' Into my Patie 's arms, for good an' a', ^1" But stint your wishes to this kind em- brace, An' mint* nae farer till we've got the grace. Patie, wi' his left hand about her waist. charming armfu'! hence, ye cares, away, 1 '11 kiss my treasure a ' the live-lang day : A ' night I '11 dream my kisses o 'er again, 115 Till that day come that ye '11 be a' my ain. Sung by both. Sun, gallop down the westlin skies, Gang soon to bed, an ' quickly rise ; lash your steeds, post time away, ■ And haste about our bridal day!. 120 An ' if ye 're wearied, honest light, Sleep, gin ye like, a week that, night. ithe fire of love, kin- dled by those we love, burns up ' actions 'frivolous simpleton 'rest ^ cattle ° wonder ' promises 'week » rolling eyes PEEFACE TO THE EVEEGEEEN 1724 I have observed that readers of the best and most exquisite discernment frequently 'complain of our modern writings as filled with affected delicacies and studied re- 6 flnements, which they would gladly ex- change for that natural strength of thought and simplicity of style our fore- fathers practiced. To such, I hope, the following collection of poems will not be 10 displeasing. ; When these good old bardi wrote, we had not yet made use of imported trim- ming upon our clothes, nor of foreign embroidery in our writings. Their poetry ^5 is the product of their own country, not ' loses ' have suffered ' attempt 12 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS pilfered and spoiled in the transportation from abroad. Their images are native, and their landscapes domestic; copied from those fields and meadows we every day behold. B The morning rises (in the poet's de- scription) as she does in the Scottish horizon. We are not carried to Greece or Italy for a shade, a stream, or a breeze. The groves rise in our own valleys; the lo rivers flow from our own fountains; and the winds blow upon our own hills. I find not fault with those things as they are in Greece or Italy ; but with a Northern poet for fetching his materials from these IB places in a poem of which his own country is the scene, as our hymners to the spring and makers of pastorals frequently do. This miscellany will likewise recommend itself by the diversity of subjects and 20 humor it contains. The grave description and the wanton story, the moral saying and the mirthful jest, will illustrate and alternately relieve each other. The reader whose temper is spleened 25 with the vices and follies now in fashion, may gratify his humor with the satires he will here find upon the follies and vices that were uppermost two or three hundred years ago. The man whose inclinations so are turned to mirth will be pleased to know how the good fellow of a former age told his jovial tale; and the lover may divert himself with the old fashioned sonnet of an amorous poet in Queen Mar- as garet and Queen Mary 's days.^ In a word, the following collection will be such an- other prospect to the eye Of the mind as to the outward eye is the various meadow, where flowers of different hue and smell 40 are mingled together in a beautiful irregu- larity. ^ "~~^- I hope also the reader, when he dips into these poems, will not be displeased with this reflection, that he is stepping back 45 into the times that are past and that exist no more. Thus, the manners and customs > The sixteenth century. then in vogue, as he will find them here described, will have all the air and charm of novelty; and that seldom fails of ex- citing attention and pleasing the mind. Besides, the numbers in which these images are conveyed, as they are not now commonly practiced, will appear new and amusing. The different stanza and varied cadence will likewise much soothe and engage the ear, which in poetry especially must be always flattered. However, I do not ex- pect that these poems should please every- body; nay, the critical reader must needs find several faults, for I own that there will be found in these volumes two or three pieces whose antiquity is their great- est value. Yet still I am persuaded there are many more that shall merit approba- tion and applause than censure and blame. The best works are but a kind of miscel- lany, and the cleanest corn is not without some chaff; no, not after often winnow- ing. Besides, dispraise is the easiest part of learning, and but at best the offspring of uncharitable wit. Every clown can see that the furrow is crooked; but where is the man that will plow me one straight? There is nothing can be heard more silly than one 's expressing his ignorance of his native language; yet, such there are who can vaunt of acquiring a tolerable perfec- tion in the French or Italian tongues if they have been a fortnight in Paris, or a month in Rome. But show them the most elegant thoughts in a Scots dress, they as disdainfully as stupidly condemn it as bar- barous. But the true reason is obvious: every one that is born never so little superior to the vulgar would fain distin- guish themselves from them by some man- ner or other, and such, it would appear, cannot arrive at a better method. But this affected class of fops give no uneasiness,^ not being numerous; for the most part of our gentlemen, who are generally masters of the most useful and politest languages, can take pleasure (for a change) to speak and read their own. WILLIAM HAMILTON 11 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR (1704-1754) THE BEAESi OF TAEEOW IN IMITATION OP THE ANCIENT SCOTS MANNER 1724 A. Busk^ ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome mar- row,* Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. 5 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride 1 Where gat ye that winsome mar- row? A. I gat her where 1 dare na weil be seen, Puing the birks* on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, 10 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ; Nor let thy heart lament to leive Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 15 And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, ^ Lang maun she weep with dule° and sorrow; , _' And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen 20 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint* iter luver, 'luver dear. Her luver dear, the cause of sor- row; And I hae slain the eomliest swain That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. * banks 2 array ; aflorn 'mate * pnlUng the birches "grief • lost 25 Why rins thy stream, Yiarrow, Yarrow, reid ? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholibUs weids Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? What's yonder floats, on the rueful rueful flude? 30 What's yonder floats'? dule and sorrow ! 'tis he the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears. His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow ; 35 And wrap his limbs in mourning wields. And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad. Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; And weep around in waeful wise *o His . hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. i Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,. My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast. His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow. *5 Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve? And warn from fight? but' to my sorrow Too rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou mett'st, and, fell'st on the Braes of Yarrow. C. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, ; 50 Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,^ Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.^ A. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass,, its gowan as ypUow, * the daisy ' flowing 14 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEERUNNEKS 55 As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae its rock as mellow. Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; 90 The' he was fair, and weil beluv'd again 60 Than me he never luv 'd thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, 95 Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. 65 C. How can I busk, a bonny bonny bride? How can I busk, a winsome marrow? How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, '"> That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow ? Yarrow fields, may never, never rain '0 Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve, My luve, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of 105 green, His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing : "5 - Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn 'd He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white, milk- white steed, J Unheedful of my dule and sorrow: But ere the to-f all' of the night ^0 He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow. Much I rejoyc'd that waeful, waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods return- ing : 115 But lang ere night the spear was flown, That slew my luve, and left me mourning. 85 What can my barbarous, barbarous father do. But' with his cruel rage pursue me? 1 close My luver's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me? My happy sisters may be, may be proud With cruel and ungentle seoffin', May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, up- braid. And strive with threatning words to muve me: My luver's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou ever bid me luve thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve. With bridal sheets my body cover. Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. Let in the expected husband lover. But who the expected husband, hus- band is? His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter : Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon Comes in his pale shroifd, bleeding after? Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff, take aff, these bridal Veids, And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv 'd, could my warmth to life restore thee! Yet lye all night between my breists. No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale, pale indeed, luvely, luvely youth ! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter : And lye all night between my breists ; No youth shall ever lye there after. A. Return, return, mournful, mourn- ful bride. Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs. He lyes a corps on the Braes of Yarrow. DAVID MALLET 15 DAVID MALLET (1705-1765) "WILLIAM AND MAEGARET 'Twas at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning- meet; In glided Margaret 's grimly ghost, * And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand 8 That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear, AVhen youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, ^2 Wheii death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, ^8 Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime ; The rose grew pale, and left her cheekj 20 She died before her time. "Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave : Now let thy pity hear the maid 2* Thy love refused to save. "This- is the dark and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain ; When yawning graves give up their . dead, 28 To haunt the faithless swain. "Bethink thee, William, of thy fault. Thy pledge and broken oath ! And give me back my maiden vow, 32 And give me back my troth. "Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did yoii swear my eyes were bright, 3* Yet leave those eyes to weep ? "How could you say my face was fair. And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, *<* Yet leave that heart to break? ' ' Why did you say my lip was sweet, And make the scarlet pale ? And why did I, young, witless maid! ** Believe the flattering tale? "That face, alas! no more is fair, • Those lips no longer red : Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, ^8 And every charm is fled. "The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, 52 Till that last morn appear. "But hark! the cock has warned me hence ; A long and last adieu ! Come' see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." 56 The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red : Pale William quaked in every limb, "O And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret 's body lay ; And stretched him on the green-grass turf- ^* That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret 's name, And thriee he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, ^s And word spake never more ! THE BIRKSi OF ENDERMAT The smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing: And while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay. 5 Let us, Amanda, timely wise. Like them improve the hour that flies ; And, in soft raptures, waste the day. Among the shades of Endermay. For soon the winter of the year, 1" And age, life's winter, will appear: At this, thy living bloom must fade ; As that will strip the verdant shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o 'er ; The feather 'd songsters love no more: 1^' And when they droop, and we decay, Adieu the shades of Endermay ! ' birches 16 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOKEEUNNEES JOHN DYER (1700-1758) GEONGAE HILL 1726 Silent njnmph^ with curious eye, Who, the purple ev'ning, lie On the mountain 's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man, 5 Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings, Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale, Come, with all thy various hues, ^0 Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now while Phoebus, riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky, Grongar Hill invites my song; Draw the landskip bright and strong; 1^ Grongar, in whose mossy cells. Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made. So oft I have, the ev'ning still, 2" Mt the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flow'ry bed. With my hand beneath my head, (2- " ' While stray 'd my eyes o 'er Towy 's flood, Over mead and over wood, I . >,■'-- 25 From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill. About his chequer 'd sides I wind. And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottoes where I lay, 30 And vistoes^ shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale. As circles on a smooth canal : The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, 35 Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise : Still the prospect wider spreads. Adds a thousand woods and meads ; Still it widens, widens still, ^0 And sinks the newly-risen hill. Now I gain the mountain's brow. What a landskip lies below ! No clouds, no vapors intervene; But the gay, the open scene 45 Does the face of Nature show In all the hues of heaven 's bow, And, swelling to embrace the light. Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the cliffs arise, 50 Proudly tow 'ring in the skies ; Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires ; Half his beams Apollo sheds 1 The muse of paint- ' vistas ; prospects ' grassy field On the yellow mountain-heads, 56 Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. And glitters on the broken rocks. Below me trees unnumber'd rise, Beautiful in various dyes ; The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 80 The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir, that taper grows. The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs, And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phillis, queen of love I 85 Gaudy as the op'ning dawn. Lies a long and level lawn,^ On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wand 'ring eye: Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, V a - ''O His sides are cloth 'd with waving wood. And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an awful look below; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. And with her arms from falling keeps ; ■^5 So both a safety from the wind On mutual dependence find. 'Tis now the raven 's bleak abode ; 'Tis now th ' apartment of the toad ; And there the fox securely feeds, ^0 And there the pois 'nous adder breeds, Conceal 'd in ruins, moss, and weeds; While, ever and anon, there falls Huge heaps of hoary moulder 'd walls. Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low, ^5 And level lays the lofty brow, Has seen this broken pile compleat,^ Big with the vanity of state : But transient is the smile of Fate ! A little rule, a little sway, ^0 A sunbeam in a winter's day, Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave. '" And see the rivers how they run Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun ! 55 Sometimes swift and sometimes slow. Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep. Like human life to endless sleeps Thus is Nature 's vesture 'Wrought, ^00 To instruct our wand 'ring thought; Thus she dresses green, and gay. To disperse our cares away. Ever charming, ever new. When will the landskip tire the view ! 105 The fountain's fall, the river's flow. The woody valleys warm and low; The windy summit, wild and high. Roughly rushing on the sky! The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r, 2 Compleat rimes with state. JOHN DYEB 17 ^^0 The naked rock, the shady bow'r; The town and village, dome and farm, Each give each a double charm, As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. See on the mountain 's southern side, 115 "Where the prospect opens wide. Where the ev 'ning gilds the tide, How close and small the hedges lie ! What streaks of meadows cross the eye! A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 120 So little distant dangers seem ; So we mistake the Future 's, face, Ey'd thro' lEope's deluding glass; As yon summits soft and fair. Clad in colors of the air, 125 Which, to those who journey near, Barren, brown, and rough appear; Still we tread the same coarse way ; The present 's still a cloudy day. may I with myself agree, ^30 And never covet what I see ; Content me with an humble shade^ My passions tam 'd, my wishes laid ; For while our wishes wildly roll. We banish quiet from the soul ; 135 'Tis thus the busy beat the air. And misers gather wealth and care. Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, As on the mountain-turf I lie ; While the wanton Zephyr sings,; 1*0 And in the vale perfumes his wings ; While the waters murmur deep ; ■ While the shepherd charms^ his sheep ; While the birds unbounded fly. And with music fill the sky, ' 1*5 Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. , _ Be full, ye courts! be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door. Seek her on the marble floor ; 150 In vain ye search, she is not there; In vain ye search the domes of Caye ! Grass and flowers Quiet treads. On the meads and mountain-heads, Along with Pleasure close ally'd, 155 Ever by each other's side. And often, by the murm'ring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still, Within the groves of Grongar. Hill. THE FLEECE 1757 From Book I Ah, gentle shepherd, thine the lot to tend ^oo Of all, that feel distress, the most as- sail 'd, 1 controls or calms by playing npon his pipe Feeble, defenceless : lenient be thy care : But spread around thy. tenderest dili- gence In flow'ry spring-time, when the, new- dropt lamb, j,, Tottering with weakness by his inother 's side, ^OS Feels the fresh world about him; and each thorn, Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet: Oh, guard his meek sWeet innocence from all Th' innumerous ills, that rush around his life; Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone, '*' •■■.>U.< ^i • • ^lO Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain; Observe the lurking crows; beware the brake. There ' the sly fox the careless minute waits; Nor trust thy neighbor's dog, nor earth, nor sky : Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide. *15 Enrus oft sings his hail; the tardy fields Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam O'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns. Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey 'Alights, and hops in many turns around, ■*20 And tires her also turning: to her aid Be nimble) and the weakest in thine arms Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft. Between the lark's note and the nightin- gale 's, His hungry bleating still with tepid milk : *25 In this soft office may thy children join, And charitable habits learn in spott : i Nor yield him to himself, ere vfernal airs Sprinkle thy little cmft with daisy flowers: - -kv^-^ Nor yet forget him : life has rising ills : *^0 Various as ether^ is the pastoral care : Through slow experience,, by a patient 'r' breast, '■"■' ' -■'-> '•-■ The whole long lesson gradual is at- tained, ^ , . ' By precept after precept, oft received ., With deep attention: such as Nuceus sings *35 To the full vale near Soare's enamor'd brook, \' . v- • While all is silence: sweet Hincklean swain ! ^The substance snpposed to fill the upper regions of space. • 18 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS Whom rude obscurity severely clasps: The muse, howe'er, will deck thy simple cell With purple violets and primrose flowers, 440 Well-pleased thy faithful lessons to re- pay. JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) THE SEASONS From Winter 17M5 1726 See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train- Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme; These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought 5 And heavenly musing. Welcome, kin- dred glooms ! Cogenial^ horrors, hail! With frequent foot. Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life. When nursed by careless solitude I lived And sung of Nature with unceasing ,ioy, 10 Pleased have I wandered through your rough domain; Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big tor- rent burst ; Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brewed In the grim evening-sky. Thus passed the time, 15 Till through the lucid chambers of the south Looked out the joyous Spring— looked out and smiled. Then comes the father of the tempest forth, Wrapt in black glooms. First, joyless rains obscure Drive through the mingling skies with vapor foul, ''S Dash on the mountain 's brow, and shake th6 woods That grumbling wave below. The un- sightly plain Lies a brown deluge ; as the low-bent " clouds Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still Combine, and, deepening into night, shut up I congenial • 8* The day's fair face. The wanderers of heaven. Each to his home, retire; save those that love To take their pastime in the troubled air, Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. The cattle from the untasted fields return 85 And ask, with meaning low, their wonted stalls, Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. Thither the household feathery people crowd, ' The crested cock, with all his female train, Pensive and dripping; while the cottage- hind 9" Hangs o'er the enlivening blaze, and taleful there Recounts his simple frolic: much he talks. And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows Without, and rattles on his humble roof. Wide o'er the brim, with many a tor- rent swelled, 95 Arid the mixed ruin of its banks o'er- spread, At last the roused-up river pours alongi Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes, — From the rude mountain and the mossy wild, . Tumbling through rocks abriipt, and sounding far; lO" Then o 'ef the sanded valley floating spreads, Calm, sluggish, silent; till again, con- strained Between two meeting hills, it bursts a . way Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream; There, gathering triple- force, rkpid and deep, It's It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders through. Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround— They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, *25 And wanton, often cruel, riot, waste— Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very: moment, death And all the sad variety of pain; JAMES THOMSON 19 How many sink in the devouring flood, Unpitied and unheard where misery *30 Or more devouring flame; how many moans, bleed, Where sickness pines, where thirst and By shameful variance betwixt man and hunger burn, man; And poor misfortune feels the lash of How many pine in want, and dungeon- vice; glooms, 385 While in the land of liberty— the land Shut from the common air and common Whose every street and public meeting use glow Of their own limbs; how many drink the With open freedom— little tyrants raged, cup Snatched the lean morsel from the starv- '35 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread ing mouth. Of misery ; sore pierced by wintry winds. Tore from cold wintry limbs the tattered How many shrink into the sordid hut weed, ' Of cheerless poverty ; how many shake *''* Even robbed them of the last of com- With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, forts, sleep, 340 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, re- The free-born Briton to the dungeon morse — chained Whence, tumbled headlong from the Or, as the lust of cruelty prevailed, height of life, At pleasure marked him with inglorious They furnish matter for the tragic muse ; stripes. Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to And crushed out lives, by secret bar- dwell, barous ways, With friendship, peace, and contempla- 375 That for their country would have toiled tion joined, or bled. 3*5 How many, racked with honest passions, O great design! if executed well, droop With patient care and wisdom-tempered In deep retired distress ; how many stand zeal. Around the death-bed 'of their dearest Ye sons of mercy ! yet resume the search ; friends, ' prag^fOTtlT the legal monsters into light. And point the parting anguish ! Thought 380 (■^Vrench from their hands Oppression's fond man ' ■' iron rod. Of these, and all the thousand nameless And bi^nhe cruel feel the pains they ills give. 350 That one incessant struggle render life, Much still untouched remains; in this One scene of toil, of suffering, and of rank age, fate, Much is the patriot's weeding hand re- ^~Vice in his high career would stand quired. appalled, The toils of law— what dark insidious And heedless rambling Impulse learn to men think ; 385 Have cumbrous added - to perplex the The conscious heart of Charity would truth ' warm. And lengthen simple justice into trade— 355 And her wide wish Benevolence dilate ; How glorious were the day that saw The social tear would rise, the social these "broke, sigFj And every man within the reach of right I And, into clear perfection, gradual bliss. Refining still, the social passions work. And here can I forget the generous Fj^™ ^^^^f^„. band ^^^^ ^^^^ 360 Who, touched with human woe, redressive 516 Still let me pierce into the midnight searched depth Into the horrors of the gloomy jail?^ Of yonder grove, of wildest largest growth, 1 A committee appointed In 1729 to .investigate That, forming high in air a Woodland the conditions of Jails and prisons, t wbo dls- ' . a b "■ "•I'uu"*"^ covered that the wardenships of prisons were quire, bought by men who were accnatomed to exact Nods o'er the mount beneath. At every heavy fees from prisoners on the penalty of j^'""'= " cj. kud iuuuiiu ucu■ ■ their note. • ' Oh, let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, - ' The gun the music of the coming y^ar 985 Destroy, and harmless, unsuspecting harm, ' ' Lay' the Weak tribes, a miserable prey, In mingled muirder fluttering on the ground! ' '■ The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A 'gentler mood inspires; for now the -' ' leaf ' 990 Incessant rustles from the ' mournful grove; . Oft startling such as studious walk be- ' '■ low, ■'''''■:- '•' •''''- ' ' /'"'■'■'' ' And slowly circles through the -W-aving air. But, should a quicker breeze ami^ the ' boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge ■ ' Streams; 995 Till, choked and matted with the djreary shower, ' ■ ' ■ The forest-walks, at every rising, gale. Roll wide the wither'd waste, and ivfaistle bleak. ' yellowish' brown ■ '■ ' ! 22 EIGHTEENTH CENTUET FOBEBUNNEES Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields ; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery Meanwhile the moon, race Full-orbed and breaking through the 1000 Their sunny robes resign. Even what scattered clouds, remained ^'*^'' Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned Of bolder fruits falls from the naked east. tree; Turned to the sun direct, her spotted And— woods, fields, gardens, orchards, disk all around— (Where mountains rise, umbrageous The desolated prospect thrills the soul. dales descend, He comes! he comes! in every breeze And caverns deep, as optic tube descries) the Power A smaller earth, gives all his blaze 1005 Of Philosophic Melancholy comes ! again, His near approach the sudden-starting i^^s Void of its flame, and sheds a softer tear, day. The glowing cheek, the mild dejected air, Now througjj the passing cloud she seems The softened feature, and the beating to stoop, heart, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Pierced deep with many a virtuous pang, Wide the pale deluge floats, and stream- declare, ing mild 1010 O'er all the soul his sacred influence O'er the skied mountain to the shad- breathes; owy vale, Inflames imagination ; through the breast ll"" While rocks and floods reflect the quiv- Infuses every tenderness; and far ering gleam, Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling The whole air whitens with a boundless thought. tide Ten thousand thousand fleet ideas, such Of silver radiance trembling round the 1015 ^s never mingled with the vulgar dream, world. Crowd fast into the mind's creative eye. As fast the correspondent passions rise, Nature! all-sufficient! over all As varied, and as high — devotion raised Enrich, me with the knowledge of thy To rapture, and divine astonishment ; works ; 1020 The love of nature unconfined, and, chief, Snatch me to heaven ; thy rolling won- Of human race ; the large ambitious wish ders there, To make them blest; the sigh, for suffer- 1^55 World beyond world, in infinite extent ing worth Profusely scattered o 'er the blue im- Lost in obscurity; the noble scorn mense, , Of tyrant pride; the fearless great re- Show me; their motions, periods, and solve; their laws 1025 The wonder which the dying patriot Give me to scan; through the disclosing draws, deep Inspiring glory through remotest time; Light my blind way: the mineral strata The awakened throb for virtue and for there; fame ; ^^®*' Thrust blooming thence the vegetable The sympathies of love and friendship world; dear, O'er that the rising system, more com- With all the social offspring of the heart. plex, 1030 Oh ! bear me then to vast embowering Of animals ; and, higher still, the mind, shades, The varied scene of quick-compounded To twilight groves, and visionary vales, thought. To weeping grottoes, and prophetic And where the mixing passions endless glooms ; shift ; Where angel forms athwart the solemn 1^65 These ever open to my ravished eye- dusk, A search, the flight of time can ne'er Tremendous, sweep, or seem to sweep exhaust ! along; But, if to that unequal— if the blood 1035^^ voices more than human, through In sluggish streams about my heart forbid the void That best ambition — under closing shades Deep-sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear. i^''* Inglorious lay me by the lowly brook, JAMES THOMSON 23 And whisper to my dreams. Prom thee That, as thpy still succeed, they ravish begin, still. Dwell all on thee, with thee conclude But, wandering oft with hrute uncon- my song; scious gaze, And let me never, never stray from thee ! Man marks not thee, ma.rks not the mighty hand A HYMN ON THE SEASONS 30 That, ever busy, wheels the silept spheres, 1730 Works in the secret deep, shoots steam- -'These,as^they ehange. Almighty Father! ^^^ Sir pi^^sion that o'erspreads the Are but the varied God. The rolling year ■^. ^P^'^SSj - i- j. i. ^ _• NTs full of thee. Forth in the plLsing FlmgS^from the sun direct the flaming Thy 'beauty walks, thy tenderness and ^''^|„X'^ cveB-tuve, hurls the tempest 5 WideTush the fields; the softening air '' '^"'^'revolves,^^'*'' *^'' ^'^^'^"^ "^''"°' Echo' the^ mountains round; the forest With^tran^p'ort touches aU the springs smiles; Affd every sense, and every heart,' is joy. ^t , ij. j , • • t • i Then comes thy glory in the summer- ^ Nature, attend! join, every Imng soul months ' '' Beneath the spacious temple , of the With light and heat refulgent.^ Then thy j^ ^fj^^^^^^ .^.^ . ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^.^^ 10 ShootTfull perfection through th6 swell- *' ^''^^^^^^^^ song!.. To him, ye vocal And'oft^thy 'voice in dreadful thunder "^^^^^^^ \^^' "^^^^^ ^W'^ ^n ^^^"^ ^^^^^- Arid 'oft at dawn, deep noon, br falling ^ talk. of .him in. solitary glooms, ' ' t f ', o Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely- wav- eve, By brooks and groves, ip hbllow-whis- • Fiiis'^tlJ'wn' shade with a religious pering gales. " Thy bounty shines in autumn uncon- 45* And ye, whose bolder not^ is heard afar, 15 And spreads a common feast for all ^^"higS heaven'*""'' ''^"^ world,., lift In wS*er 'Iwful thou ! with clouds and ^he impetuous song, and say f;;om whom . '■ ^ . .,.:■. you rage. Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tem- His praise, ye brooksy attune, ye trem- Dest rolled Diing rius; Maj|«c^datkr4ss! on ^the whirlwind's . ^f £Sr WiS,'^S td^ ^'^^SIt^^™'' *^°" ^''^'* *^' ^""^^ Ye fofter' floods, that .lead -the humid 20 And humblest, nature with thy northern ™^?® j xi, '■'''.■ 1 ] i • Along the vale ; and thou, majestic mam, A secret world of wonders iu; thyself. Mysterious round! what skill, what ^""P*^ ^}^ stupendous praise, whose force divine, -- „ greater voice Deep-felt in these appear! a simple train, ^^ ^r bids: you roar or bids your roarings , Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind _ „, ,; . , , ■, n -. ^ " Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fr,uits, Such beauty and beneficence combined, -^ and flowers, 25 Shade nnpcrceived so softening into ^^ i»'»f]«'i ^1°^'^^ to him, whose sui; shade lexalts, rAnd all 'so forming an harmonious Whose breath perfumes .you, and whose ( ^jj^jg ^ pencil paints. ^ Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to I brilliant; radiant him- 24 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS ^' Breathe your still song into the reaper's The prompting seraph, and the poet's heart lyre As home he goes beneath the joyous Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. moon. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth ^^ Whether the blossom blows, the summer- asleep ray Unconscious lies, effuse^ your mildest Russets the plain, inspiring autumn beams, gleams, Ye constellations! while your angels /Or winter rises in the blackening east, strike ' Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no ^5 Amid the spangled sky the silver lyre. more, Great source of day! best image here And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide "" Should fate command me to the far- From world to world the vital ocean ^„ thest verge round! ^'^ ''^^ green earth, to distant barbarous On nature write with every beam his elunes, praise. Itivers unknown to song, where first the '''' The thunder rolls: be hushed the pros- ,t, ,®"? ,. trate world Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting While cloud to cloud returns the solemn beam hymn. Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy mc/CT- to me;^ Poeljs ^"y Since God is ever present, ever felt, Retain the sound; the broad responsive ( ^.^ ^^^ "^"''i ^»ste as in the city full, low V And where he vital spreads there must Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shep- "® 3'^y- herd reigns When even at last the solemn hour shall "^^ And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come, come. -'^°° ^i°S ™y mystic flight to future Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless nn _ ,^°^i ,' .„ , . gong -•■ cheertul will obey; there, with new Burst from the groves; and, when the ._.-ii^'?^^^^' restless day. Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Where universal love not smiles around, Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela! Sustaining all yon orbs and all their charm / sons; 80 The listening shades, and teach the night „( ^^om seeming evil still educmg good, bis praise ! \ ^^^ better thence again, and better still, Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation Xj^ ™?°ite progression. But I lose smiles, Jw^yself in him, in light ineffable! At once the head, the heart, the tongue Come then, expressive Silence, muse his of all, PJ-aise. ^'""cUies'vaft"* '''""' ^' '"""""^ ™E CASTLE QF mDOLENCB Assembled men, to the deep organ .,, « _ join From Canto I 85 The long-resounding voice, oft breaking ^'An'^^fts'^faif^iuxur"?"^^"'^*' clear Where tor a little time' alas ! At solemn pauses through the swelling We lived right jollily. bass ; mortal man, who livest here by toil, And, as each mingling flame increases Do not complain of this thy hard , each, estate; ( Tri one united ardor rise to heaven. That like an emmet^ thou must ever Or, if you rather choose the rural shade. moil 90 And find a fane in every sacred grove. Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:' There let the shepherd's flute, the vir- » called; named gin's lay, '.?,?* ,^ ,„,„A„,.h .1° tb« sweat of thy face shalt thou eat •send forth bread." — Ocnenis, S :10. JAMES THOMSON 25 And, eertes, there is for it reason That drowsy rustled to th^ sighing great; gale; For, though sometimes it makes thee 35 ^nd still a coil the grasshopper did 10 40 15 20 25 weep and wail, And curse thy stars, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come an heavier bale. Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In lowly dale, fast by a river 's side. With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is no- where found. It was, I ween,^ a lovely spot of ground ; And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say. No living wight! could work, ne cared ' even for play. C Was nought around but images of rest : \ Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns S* between; And flowery beds that slumbrous in- fluence kest,^ From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature . seen. Meantime unnuinbered'glittering stream- lets played. And hurled ■ feverywhere their waters sheen ; That, as they bickered- through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. keep; Yet all these sounds yblent^ inclined all to sleep. , Full in the passage. of the yale, above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move, As Idless fancied in her dreaming mopd. And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro. Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; And where this valley winded out, below, *^ The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was: Of dreams that wave before tbe half- , shut eye; i And of gay castles in , the c^louds that pass, , ! For ever flushing round a summer sky : There eke the soft delights, tl^at /witeh- ingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And .the calm pleasures , always hov- ered nigh ; But whate'er smacked of noyanee, or unrest. Was far far off expelled from this deli- cious nest. 30 Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, Were heard the lowing hferds along the vale, , ^ And flocks loud-bleating from the dis- tant hills, And vacant' shepherds piping in the dale: ' And now and ' then sweet Philomel would wail, Or- stock-doves plaiuj amid the forest deep, itbink •cast , .'carp-free 55 The landskip such, inspiring perfect , ease; , , , ' '• / Where~Tndolence (for so the wizard '^ ,, hight)2 Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, - ,; That half shut out the beanis of Phoe- bus bright, And made a kind of checkered day and night. . Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, , . Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight Was placed; and, to his lute, of cruel ,,.., , .fatp, .- , . ■..; And labor liarsh complained, lamenting man's estate. 60 ' blended ' was called 26 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS 65 70 Thither continual pilgrims crowded still From all the roads of earth that pass there by: For, as thej' ehaunced to breathe on neighboring hill, The freshness of this valley smote their eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh, Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, Ymolten^ with hissyren melody ; While o'er th' enfeebling' lute his hand he flung. And to the trembling chord these tempt- ing verses sung: 95 c 75 80 ]00 ' ' Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold'! See all but man with unearned pleas- ure gay. See her bright robes the butterfly un- fold. Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May. What youthful bride can equal her 105 array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly. - . Is all she has to do beiieath the radiant sky. 110 "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn. The swarming songsters of the care- less grove, ' Ten thousand throats that, from the flowering thorn, Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 315 Such grateful kindly raptures them emove!^ They neither plough nor sow; ne,^ fit for flail. E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 99 Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 1 melted ' nor •move (cp. emotion) 85 ' ' Outcast of Nature, man ! the wretched thrall Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, And of the vices, an inhuman train, That all proceed from savage thirst of gain : For when hard-hearted Interest first began To poison earth, Astraea left the plain ; Guile, Violence, and Murder seized on man, And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran. "Come, ye, who still the cumbrous load of life Push hard up hill; but, as the farthest steep You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And hurls your labors to the valley deep, Forever vain : come, and withou,ten fee I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, Your cares, your toils; will steep you in a sea Of full delight: come, ye weary wights, to me! "With me, you need not rise at early dawn. To pass the joyless day in various stounds;^ Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn. And sell fair honor for some paltry pounds ; Or through the city take your dirty rounds To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay. Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds ; Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. "No cocks, with me, to rustic labor call. From village on to village sounding clear ; 1 aches ; sorrows JAMES THOMSON 27 *20 To tardy swain no shrill-voieed ma- trons squall; ' No dogs, no babes, no wives to stun your ear; No hammers thump; no horrid black- i^** smith sear, Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slum- bers start ' With sounds that are a misery to hear : 125 But all is calm as would delight the heart Of Sybarite^ of old, all nature, and all art. 155 "Here nought but candor reigns, in- dulgent ease, Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down: They who are pleased themselves ^ must always please; 130 On others' ways they never squint a frown. Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town. "0 Thus, from the source of tender Indo- lence, With milky blood the heart is over- ' flown, Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense ; I35v For interest, envy, pride, and strife are > banished hence. ( "What, what is virtue but repose of i^^ V mind? - • '■ A pure ethereal calm that knows no storm, Above the reach of wild ambition's '' ' wind, ' ' Above those passions that this world deform, l''" And torture man, a proud malignant worm! But here, instead, soft gales of passion i'^" play, ^ ; And gently stir the heart, thereby to form ' A quicker sense of jby; as -breezes stray ■Across the enlivened skies, and make them still more gay. 145 "The best of men have ever loved re- pose: I ^^^ They hate to mingle in the filthy fray ; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor grows, •An Inhabitant of Sybarls, .Italy, a dty noted for luxurlons living. Imbittered more from peevish day to day. Even those whom fame has lent her fairest ray. The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So S<3ipio, to the soft Cumaean shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew be- fore. "But if a little exercise ybu ehuse. Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the muse, Or tend the blooms, and deck the ver- nal year; Or softly stealing, with your watery gear. Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry You may delude: the whilst, amused, you hear Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh. Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. "O grievous folly! to heaj) up estate, Losing^ the days you see beneath the sun; '■'■ When, sudden, comes blind unrelent-. ing fate, And gives the untasted portion you have won With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone. To those who mock you gone to Pluto 's reign. There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun: But sure it is of vanities most vain. To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." ' He ceased. But still their trembling ears retained The deep vibrations of his witching sbiig; That, by a kind of magic power, con- strained To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng. Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipt along In silent ease: as when, beneath the beam 28 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBERUNNERS Of summer moons, the distant woods Through which his half-waked soul- among, would faintly peep. Or ,by some flood all silvered with the 2iB Then, taking his , black staff, he called gleam, 180 The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. 185 his man, And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can. The lad leaped lightly at his master's call. He was, to weet,^ a little roguish page, Sa\'e sleep and play who minded nought at all, ' Like most the untaught striplings of his age. This boy he kept each band to disen- gage. Garters and , buckles, task for him unfit. But ill-becoming his grave personage. And which his portly paunch would not permit. But often each way look, and ■ of ten 225 Qq this same limber page to all per- By the smooth demon so it ordered was. And here his baneful bounty first began : Though some there were who would not further pass. And his alluring baits suspected han.^ 220 The wise distrust the too fair-spoken man. Yet through the gate they east a wish- ful eye: , , Not to move on, perdie,^ is i all they can ; For', do their very best, they cannot fly, 190 195 sorely sigh When this the watchful wicked wizard saw, , , ,1 With sudden spring, he leaped upon them, strait; And, soon as touched by his unhal- lowed paw, ,;They , found themselves within- the , . .cursed gate, . , - . .- ' Full hard to be repassed, like that of 230 Fate. ,. ■ Not stronger were of old the giant- , crew, Who sought to pull high Jove from , , regal state,*. > , Though feeble wretch he seemed, of ■ . sallow hue : , . ■ Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter rue. 210 formed it. "Meantime the master-porter wide dis- played Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns. Wherewith he those who entered in arrayed, Loose as the breeze that plays along the downs, i And waves the summer woods when evening frowns. fair undress, best dress ! it checks no vein, :' But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns. And heightens ease with grace. This done, right- fain , Sir Porter sat him down, and turned to sleep again. Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped, . . . That 'in the naiddle of thej court up- threw A stream, high-spouting from its liquid bed. And falling back again in drizzly dfew : There each deep draughts, as deep he r dqep, ; -. I thirsted, drew; Ne could himself f rom .peaaeless yawn- 240 it was a fountain of Nepenthe^ rare- . ing keep,; ^; I Whence, as Dan^ Homer sines * hue^e While o 'er his eyes the drowsy liquor pleasaunce grew, ' ran, 1 have ' The Titans, who re- * as far as one could. and sorrow. « An oath from the belled against Ju- „ tell ' Lord ; master French, par Dim, by piter. 'A d;!ug which causes « Odysseu, 4, 220 ff. God (orgetfulnessof pain ' Waked by the, crowd, slow from his bench arose ,, ,, A comely full-spread porter, swoln .,.,. , with,;sle6p: m ■• .,., ,, His calm, broafl, thoughtless aspect I breathed repose ; And in sweet torpor he was plunged 235 JAMES THOMSON 29^ 245 250 And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care, , Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams moro 'fair. This rite performed, all ' inly pleased and still, Withouten trump^ was proclamation 275 made:— "Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will; ■ / . And wander where you list, through haiil or glade: Be no man'si pleasure for another's staid: Let each as likes him best his. hours employ. And curst be he who minds his neigh- bor's trade! 2^" Here dwells kind ease, and unreproy- ing joy: He little merits bliss who others can annoy."' Strait of these endless ' ■nunibers, swarming round As thick as idle motes in sunny ray Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep pro- found. Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways. And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me, if my trembling pen dis- plays ■ .'■'"'■ What never yet was sting in mortal ' lays. , But how shall I attempt such arduous string? I who have spent my nights and nightly 'days In this soul-deadening place, loose- loitering-^ ' ! Ah ! how shall I fot this uprear my moulted wing? ■ Come on, my musC) nor stoop to low despair, Thou imp of Jove, touched by celestikl fire! . Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair. Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire ; ' Of ancient bards thou yet shalt .^isweep the lyre; 255 Not one eftsqpns^ in view was .to be 285 Thou yet shalt toead in tragic pSll the 260 265 found. But every man, strolled off : Jiis own glad "way. Wide o 'er this ample court 's blank area, ,,,... With all the lodges that .thereto per- tained, , , No living creature could be seen to stray ; While solitude and perfect silence rpigned: So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrained. As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles, Placed far amid, the me],a,ncholy main, (Whether it be lone fancy him be- guiles, , , , Or that aerial beings sometimesi deign stage, Paint love's' enchanting: woe:s,TAtKe'' hero's ire, .■ : .. The sage's, calm, the patriot's noble rage, . i ' . . ■../ - ■• ^ulT Dashing corruption down .■fehroiigh every worthless age. - r ■: ' ',*<" The doors, that knew no shrill aJarm- ing bell, ,, .^ ^ 290 • Ne cursed knocker plied by villainjV , hand, ; Self -opened into halls, where, who can tell . , What elegance and grandeur wide ex- ' , , pand . - The pride of Turkey and of Persia : .Jand? . r ; Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets car- pets spread, To stand emljpdied to our senses plain) 295 ...AfldcQuches stretched around in seemly Sees on the naked hill, or valley low. The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,^ A vast assembly moving to and fro ; 270 Then all at once in air dissolves the , . wondrous show. itruiBipet, 1- ' ' immediately ' wMle the sun-goa dips Ms wagon,- the sun Is setting . e.. while band; And endll^ss pillows rise, to prop the head;". So that each spacious room was one full- swelling bed. And . everywhere huge covered tables stood. With wines Hgh-flavoted and rich ' viands crowned ^^ 1:1 .'■ ;, ^ 30 EIGHTEENTH CENTURy FOEEEUNNEES 300 305 310 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful ^^^ food On the green bosom of this Earth are found, And all old Ocean genders in his round — Some hand unseen these silently dis- played, Even undemanded by a sign or sound; You need but wish, and, instantly obeyed. Fair-ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses played. Here freedom reigned without the least alloy; Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maid- en's gall. Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy. 335 tongue our 340 And with envenomed 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 in love, or wake the lyre, 315 And carol what, unbid, the Muses might 345 inspire. Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed. But with wild beasts the silvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Blest sons of nature they! true golden age indeed^ — ~ Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls. Bade the gay bloom of vernal land- skips rise, Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls : Now the black tempest strikes the astonished eyes; Now down the steep the flashing tor- rent flies; "The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; Whate'er Lorrain light-touched with softening hue. Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew. The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, - Where was inwoven many a gentle tale. Such as of old the rural ^oets sung Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale: 320 Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale. Poured forth at large the sweetly tor- tured heart; Or, looking tender passion, swelled the gale. And taught charmed echo to resound their smart; While flocks, woods, streams around, re- pose and peace impart. 325 Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, Depeinten^ was the patriarchal age; What time Dan Abraham left the Chal- dee land, And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage." » depicted ; painted ' Genesis, 11 :31. 350 Each sound too here to lang^ishment inclined, Lulled the weak bosom, and induced ease. Aerial music in the warbling wind. At distance rising oft, by small de- grees, Nearer and nearer came, till o 'er the trees It hung, and breathed such soul-dis- solving airs As did, alas! with soft perdition please : Entangled deep in its enchanting y. snares, /'The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. 355 A certain music, never known before. Here soothed the pensive melancholy mind; Full easily obtained. Behoves no more, But sidelong to the gently-waving wind To lay the well-tuned instrument re- clined ; From which, with airy flying fingers light. Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight : 360 Whence, with just cause, the Harp of ^olus it hight. JAMES THOMSON 31 365 370 375 380 Ah me! what hand can touch the strings so fine? Who up thelofty di^papan' roll Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,, .390 Then let them down again into the SQig,? Now rising love they fanned; now pleasing dole They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart; And now a graver sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands an hymn im- pai;t : 395 Wild warbling Nature iall, ' above the f csadb of Art ! Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state, ,, ^Of Caliphs^ old, who on the Tygris' shore. In mighty Bagdat, populous .and great, ^^^ Held their bright court, where was of ladies store; And verse, love, music still the gar- land wore : When sleep was coy, the bard in wait- ing there , Che.ered the lone midpight with the muse's lore; Composing music bade his dreams be **" fair, And music lent new gladness to the ' morning air. ' ■' ' Near the pavilions where we sliept, still ran Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began " ; (So worked the wizard) wintry 'storms to swell, As heaven and earth they would to- gether mell:' At doors and windows, threatening, seemed to call 445 And .hither iMprpheus sent his kindest dreams, , ; Raising a world of gayer tinct and gi-aee; , O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams. That played in waving lights ;£rom place to place, , ; And shed a roseate smile on nature's , , , face. ,, . Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, , ~ ■ .. So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space; ; Ne could it e'er such .flaelting forms display, ^ As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay- One great amusement of our house- hold was— , In a huge crystal magic globe to spy. Still as you'tufhed it, all things that do pass Upon this an t-hill earth; ,whej:e con- stantly Of idly-busy men the restless fry Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste In search of pleasures, vain, that from them fly. Or which, obtained, the caitiffs dare not taste: , When nothing is enjoyed, can there be greater wgste? Of Vanity the Mirror this was called. Here. .y.ou__a_mijclEworm of the ■ town might see At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stalled, Eat up with carking care and penurie. Most like to carcase parched , on gal- low-tree. "A penny saved is a penny got" — Firm to this scoundrel , maxim keepeth be, , , Ne of its rigor will he bate a jot, 385 The demons of the tempest, growling *^" Till it has quenched his fire, and ban fell; Yet the least entrance found ithey none at all; Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. 1 entire compass of tones , ;' Callpb Is the title of the successors of Mobam- mei, now claimed by the Sultan of Turkey. 9 mingle 455 ished his pot. Strait from the filth of this low grub, behold! ; Cornes fluttering forth a gaudy spend- thrift heir. All glossy gay, enamelled' all with gold. The silly; tenant of the summerrair. In folly lost, of nothing takes he care; 32 EIGHTEENTH CBNTUEY FOBERUNNEES Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flat- And shone all glittering with ungodly terers vile, dew, And thieving tradesmen him among If a tight^ damsel chanced to trippen them share: by; His father's ghost from Limbo-lake ^^o Which when observed, he shrunk into the while his mew,^ Sees this, which more damnation doth And straight would recollect his piety upon him pile. anew.* 460 465 605 610 615 This globe portrayed the race of learned men, Still at their books, and turning o'er the page. Backwards and forwards: oft they snatch the pen As if inspired, and in a Thespian^ rage; .Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage. Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore? To lose the present, gain ihe future age, ■ ' . Praisfed to be when you can hear no more, And much enriched with fame when use- less worldly store! A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of ' gain. On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes. Poured forth his unpremeditated strain, The world forsaking with a calm dis- dain: ' Here laughed he careless in his easy seat ; Here quaffed, encircled with the joy- ous train; Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.^ Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod ; Of clerks' good plenty here you mote espy. A little, round, fat, oily man of God Was one I chiefly marked among the fry: He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, 1 tragic (Thespls was the reputed founder of tragedy. ) •Lines 604-12 contain a portrait of Thomson himself ; with the exception of 1. 604, the stanza Is ascribed to Lord Lyttleton, an Eng- lish author and politician. •clergyman ; priests TELL ME, THOU SOUL OF HER I LOVE Tell me, thou soul of her I love. Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled? Tp what delightful world above, Appointeii for the happy dead? ^ Or dost thou free at pleasure roam, And sometimes share thy lover's woe Where, void of thee, his cheerless home Can now, alas ! no comfort know ? Oh! if thou hoverest round my walk, '^^ While, under every well-known tree, I to thy fancied shadow talk, And every tear is full of thee— Should then the weary eye of grief Beside some sympathetic stream IS In slumber find a short relief. Oh, visit thou my soothing dream! TO AMANDA Come, dear Amandg,, quit, the town, And to the rural hamlets fly; Behold ! the wintry storms are gone, A gentle radiance glads the sky. 5 The birds awake, the flowers appear, Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee ; 'Tis joy and music all we hear, 'Tis love and beauty all we see. Come, let us mark the gradual spring, 1" How peeps the bud, the blossom blows ; Till Philomel begins to sing. And perfect May to swell the rose. Even so thy rising charms improve. As life's warm season grows more bright ; 15 And, opening to the sighs of love, Thy beauties glow with full delight. ' comely ; neat 2 gtudy ' Lines 613-21 contain a portrait of the Rev. Patrick Murdock, Thomson's friend and biog- rapher. EDWARD YOUNG 38 EDWARD, YOUNG (1681-1765) NIGHT THOUGHTS 1742 From Night I. On L^jn, Death, and Immortality Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! " He, like the world, his ready visit pays ■ Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes, ' Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 5 And lights on lids . unsullied with a tear. From short (as usual) and disturbed repose, I wake: how happy they who wake no more ! ' " Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. ■ I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 10 Tumultuous, where my wrecked, despond- ing thought From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost; ■ 'Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, A bitter change! severer for severe. 15 The day too short for my distress; and Night, Even in the zenith of her dark domain. Is sunshine- to the color of my fate. ■Nightr~sabte~goddessT froin her ebon "thirofiSJ" " *'* In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 20 Her leaden scepter o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead! and darkness how profound ! Nor'eye nor list'ning ear an object finds: Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause, 25 An awful pause, prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled ! Fate, drop the curtain ! I can lose no more. Silence a,nd Darkness, solemn sisters, twins From ancient Night, who nurse the ten- der thought 30 To reason, and on reason build resolve (That column of true majesty in man). Assist me ! I will thank you in the grave. The grave your kingdom ; there this frame ■ ^ shall 'mi '■ ' ■ ■ ■ A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. The bell strikes one; we take no note of time, 55 But from its loss. To give it, then^ a tongue. Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright. It is the knell of my departed hours : Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 80 It is the signal that demands despatch ; How much is to be done I my hopes and fears Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down — on what? a fathomless A dread eternity; how surely mine! *5 And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how richj how abject, how '^^ august, ) How complicate, how wonderful, is ( man ! ', How passing wonder He who made him such I ''O Who centred in our make such strange extremes. From different natures marvellously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! • " "~~" MidwSy^rom nothing to the Deity ! ■^5 A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt ! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 80 A worm! a god!— I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost! At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, sur- prised, aghast, ; ' And wondering at her own. How reason reels ! O, what a miracle to man is man ! 85 Triumphantly distressed! What joy! what dread ! Alternately transported and alarmed! What can preserve my life? or what destroy? An. angel 's arm can 't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can 't confine me there, The spritply lark's, shrill matin wakes the 34 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOREEUNNEES Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on Our day of dissolution !*-naine it right; my breast, 'Tis our great pay-day ; 'tis our harvest, 4*0 I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer rich The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like And ripe: What the' the sickle, some- thee, times keen, ' " And call the stars to listen : every star Just scars us as we reap the golden Is deaf to mine, enamor 'd of thy lay. grain ? Yet be not vain; there are, who thine ^"5 More than thy balm, Gilead!"^ heals excel, the wound. ^^^ And charm thro' distant ages: wrapt in Birth's feeble cry, and death 's, deep' dis- shade, mal groan, Pris'ner of darkness ! to the silent hours, Are slender tributes low-taxt nature pays How of ten I repeat their rage divine. For mighty gain: the gain of each, a To lull my griefs, and steal my heart life ! from woe ! But ! the last the former so transcends, I roll their raptures, but not catch their ^i" Life dies, compar 'd : life lives beyond fire. the grave. *50 Dark, tho ' not blind, like thee, Mseonides ! And feel I, death ! no joy from thought Or, Milton ! thee ; ah could I reach your of thee, strain Death, the great counsellor, who man Or his, who made Mfeonides our own,'^ inspires Man too he sung: immortal man I sing; With ev'ry nobler thought and fairer Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds deed ! of life Death, the deliverer, who rescues man ! 465 What, now, but immortality can please? ^^,^ Death, the rewarder, who the rescu'd had he press 'd his theme, pursu'd the crowns! track. Death, that absolves my, birth; a curse Which opens out of darkness into day ! without it ! had he, mounted on his wing of fire. Rich death, that realizes all my cares, Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal ToilSj virtues, hopes; without it. a chi- man ! mera ! *60 How had it blest mankind, and rescu'd Death, of all pain the period, not of joy; me! 520 Joy's source, and subject, still subsist unhurt ; From Night III. Nabcissa One, in my soul; and one, in her great sire ; Then welcome, death ! thy dread har- Tho ' the four winds . were warring for bingers, my dust. Age and disease;- disease, tho' long my Yes, and from winds, and waves, and guest; central night. That, plucks my nerves, those tender Tho' prison 'd there, my dust too I re- strings of life ; claim, 490 Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the ^^^ (To dust when drop proud nature's bell, proudest spheres,) That calls my few friends to my funeral ; And live entire. Death is the crown of Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a life: tear, Were death denied, poor man would live While reason and religion, better taught, in vain ; Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb Were death denied, to live would not be 495 With wreath triumphant. Death is vie- life; tory ; Were death denied, ev'n fools would wish It binds in chains the raging ills of life : to die. Lust and ambition, wrath and avarice, ^^^ Death wounds to cure: we fall; we rise; Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his we reign! power. Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the That ills corrosive, cares importunat:e, skies; - 600 Are not immortal too,- death ! is thine. Where blooming Eden withers in our sight :,'.,■ 1 Pope, who translated the Odyasvy and the Iliad of Homer. i Oenesis, 37 :25 ; Numbers, 32 :l-30. EDWAED YOUNG 35 Death gives us mare thagi was in Eden Jogt. Speaks wisdom ; is his oracle supreme ; This king of terrors is the prince of ^^^ And he who most consults her, is most peace. wise. 535 'W'lien shall I die to vanity, pain, death 1 Lorenzo, to this heavenly Delphos haste ; When shall I die?— When shall I live for And come back all-immortal ; all: divine: ever? Look nature through, 'tis revolution all; All change; no death. Day follows From Night V . The Relapse night ; and night 12B Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, "'° '^^^ ^P^'S day; stars rise, and set, and ■pATi t\ TISB f Of feather'd fopperies, the sun adore: ^^^^l^ ^^^^^ t^' example. , See, the sum- Darkness has more divinity for me; ■ar-i.T^^ ^^^' t. 1 i. J i_ -1 It Strikes thought inward ; it drives back ^'^\ ^^"^ S^««° «^^Pl«t' *°d ambrosial the soul flowers. To settle on herself, our point supreme! ^""""P? i***?, pallid autumn: winter gray, 130 There lies our theatre! there sits our Horrid with frost, and turbulent with iude'e storm, : Darkness "the curtain drops o'er life's '^"^ Blows autumn, and his golden fruits dull scene ; ™, ^^^Vj .... . „, "Tis the kind hand of Providence stretcht ^^^^ ^^"^ 1^*° t^e spring-: soft sprmg, , ' . with breath 'Twiri^ man and vanity; 'tis reason's "^^^^j^fj;' ^''°™ ^""^ chambers of the And^'Se's too; these tutelary shades ,^«''?"^ **>« ^^-f • .fh *« re-flourish, fades; 135 Are man's asylum from the ' tainted .^o^' k? * "^^/'^ I ''*^' '"^"T^'"'^- throne ' '^"Jilimblemsoi man, who passes, not expires. Ni^ht is the good man's friend, and guardian too p, j^ j^ Consolation It no less rescues virtue, than inspires. oju v^ui-.oui.Aiiui.N As when a traveller, a Iqng day past, From NiOHT VI . The Infidel Reclaimed ' , ^, P^.'°^"} ^^^''"^ °f 7*?^* ^« «a°ii.°t And, At night's approach, content with the Our senses, as our reason, are divine. next cot, But for the magic organ's powerful There ruminates awhile, his labor lost ; charm, ^ Then cheers his heart with what his fate *30 Earth were a rude, uncolor'd chaos still. affords, - Objects are but th' occasion; ours th' And chants his sonnet to deceive the exploit; time. Ours is the cloth, the pencil, and the Till the due season calls him to repose: paint. Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of Which nature 's admirable picture draws ; men, And beautifies creation's ample dome. And dancing, with the rest, the giddy <35 Like Milton 's Eve, when gazing on the maze, lake,^ 1" Where disappointment smiles at hope'^ Man makes the matchless imag^, man career; a,dinires: , Warn 'd by the languor of life's evening Say then, shall man, his thought? all sent " ray, abroad. At length have hous'd me in an humble Superior wonders in himself forgot, shed ; His admiration waste on objects round. Where, future wand 'ring banish 'd from 440 "vyhen heaven makes him the soul of all my thought, he sees And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of Absurd; not rare! so great, so mean, is rest, man. f ^/'^ chase the moments with a serious song. ■ ' f Song soothes our pains; and age has Nature, thy daughter, ever changing birth \ pains to soothe. Of thee the Gfreat Immutable, to man " • " " I Paradise Lost, 4, 456 11. i gentle, like FaTonlus, the west wind 36 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY F0EEEUNNEE8 From GONJECTUEES ON OEIGINAL COMPOSITION n59 1759 But there are who write with vigor and success, to the world's delight and their own renown. These are the glorious fruits where genius prevails. The mind of a man of genius is a fertile and pleasant field, pleasant as Elysium, and fertile as Tempe ; it enjoys a perpetual spring. Of that spring, originals are the fairest ' flowers ; imitations are of quicker growth but fainter bloom. Imitations are of two kinds •. one of nature, one of authors. The first we call originals, and confine the term imitation to the second. I shall not enter into the curious enquiry of what is Or is not, strictly speaking, original, content with what all must allow, that some com- positions are more so than others; and the more they are so, I say, thebettw. Originals are and ought to be great favor- ites, for they are great benefactors ; they extend the republic of letters, and add a new province to its dominion. Imitators only give us a sort of duplicates of what we had, possibly much better, before, in- creasing the mere drug of books, while all that makes them valuable, knowledge and genius, are af a stand. The pen of an original writer, like Armida's wand, out of a barren waste calls ajblogming spring. Out of that blooming spring, an imitator is a transplanter ' of laurels, which some- times" die on removal, always la,nguish in a foreign soil. ... ' - We read imitation with somewhat of his languor who listens to a twice-told tale. Our spirits rouse at an original that is a perfect stranger, and all throng to learn what news from a foreign land. And though it comes like an I ndian prin ce, adorned with feathers only, "baving little of weight, yet of our attention it will rob the more solid, if not equal ly new . Thus every telescope is lifted at a new-discov- ered star ; it makes a hundred astronomers in a nloment, and denies equal notice to the sun. But if an original, by being as excellent as new, adds admiration to sur- prise, then are we at the writer's mercy; on f he strong wind of his imagination, we are snatched from Britain to Italy, from climate to climate, from pleasure to pleas- ure; we have no home, no thought, of our own till the magician drops his pen. And then falling down into ourselves, we awake to flat realities, lamenting the change. like the beggar who dreampt himself a prince. . . . But why are originals so few? Not because the writer's harvest is over, the 6 great reapers of antiquity having left nothing to be gleaned after them; nor because the human mind's teeming time is past, or because it is incapjable of put- ting forth unprecedented births; but be- 10 cause illustrious examples engross, preju- dice, and intimidate. They engross our attentionj' and so prevent a due inspection of ourselves ; they prejudice our judg- ment in favor of their abilities,, and so IB lessen the sense , of our oyin ; and they intimidate us with the splendor of their rMiown, and thus under diffidence bury our strength. Nature's impossibilities and those of diffidence lie wide asunder. . . . 20 Had Milton never wrote. Pope had been less to blame. But when in Milton's geinius, Homer, as it were, personally rose to forbid Britons doing him that ignoble wrong,^ it is less pardonable, . by that 25 effeminate decoration, to put Achilles in petticoats a second time. How much nobler Lad it been, if .his numbers had ifiolled on in full flow, through the various modula- tions of masculine melody, into those gran- 30 deurs of solemn sound which are indis- pensably demanded by the native dignity of' heroic song! How much nobler; if he had resisted .the temptation of that Gothic demon,^ which modem poesy tasting,, be- 85 came mortal ! how unlike the deathless, divine harmony of three great names (how justly joined!) of Milton, Greece, and Rome! His versie, but for this little speck of mortality in its extreme parts, as his 40 liero had in his heel, like him, had been invulnerable and immortal.' But unfor- tunately, that was undipt in Helicon, as this in Styx. Harmony as well as eloquence is essential to poesy; and a murder of his 45 /music is putting half .Homer to death. /Blank is a term of diminution; -yehat we j mean by .blank verse is verse unfajlen, uncurst; verse reclaimed, reenthroned in I the true language of the gods, who never 50i thundered, nor suffered their Homer to \ thunder, in rhyme. ... When such an ample area for renowned adventure in original attempts lies Jpefore 65 1 Pope's offence in translating Homer was doubled by the use of riming couplets. 'riine ' According to popular legend, Achijles, the hero of the Iliad, was plunged by his mother into the waters of Styx, and his whole body made Invul- nerable, except the heel by which he was held EOBEBT BLAIB 37 us, shall we be as mere leaden pipes, con- veying to the present age small streams of excellence from ? its grand reservoir of antiquity, and those too, perhaps, mudded 6 in the pass ? Originals shine like comets ; have no peer in their' path; are rivaled by none, and the gaze of all. All other compositions (if they shine at all) shine in clusters, like the stars in the galiaxy, 10 where, like bad neighbors, all suffer from all, each particular being diminished and almost lost in the throng. ■ If thoughts of this nature prevailed, if -ancients and moderns were no longer con- 15 sidered as masters and pupils, but as hard- matched rivals for renown, then modertis, by the longevity of their labors, might one =daiyi become ancients themselves. And old time, that best weigher of merits, to keep 20 his balance even,j might have the golden weight of an Augustan age^ in both his scales; or rather our soal& might descend, and that of antiquity (as a modern match for it strongly speaks) might kick 'the beam. ■' ROBERT BLAIR(1699-1746) From THE GEAVEi; While some affect^ the sun,' and some the shade, Some flee the cityj some the hermitage, Their iaims as various as the roads they ■ijii '- take ■ ' ■ ■■;'■ ' ■■■- In journeying through life; the 'task be ■ ■'■ mine ■ ' , ''' >'<; '^ ■■•"■ ' 5 To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb; Th ' appointed place of rendezvous, where all ' These ' travellers ' meet. Thy succors I implore. Eternal King!' whose "potent arm sus- tains > ; i'' ' The keys of hell and death.— The Grave, ' dread 'thing! ' ■•■' 1' Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd: nature, • appall'd, ■ ' ' ' ' ■■"■■''■ '■ Shakes off her wonted firmness.— Ah, '" how dark ' ' " ' Thy long-extended realms, ftnd rueful "' wastes! • i''-' >A period when/ -literature is at the height of purity and reflnement, so culled because the reign of Augustus Cajsar (31 If. 0.-14 A. D.) was 'theJjgolidpn^ age of Latin iiteriiturc. The term is commonly applied in English litera- ture to, the time of Queeu Anne (1702-14) be- cause the winter's oCthafriperiDd modeled their work upon that of the aucieut". » choose ; prefer Where nought but silence reigns, ind night, dark night, ' Dark as was chdos, ere the infant sun 15 Was roll'd together, or- had tried his i.j -'-■ beams ' ■■■ •! ■• ''■■■ '■ '■•'■'> Athwart the gloom profound.— The sickly -■ -'. taper ''"'■ 'i( '■ ' > :■ ' By glimmering through thy low-brow 'd " ■ misty vaults, - - ■■^'' ■ (Furr'd round with mouldy damps and ropy slime) ' - Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 20 And only serves to make thy night more irksome. '• Well- do' I know thee by thy ■ trusty Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell Midst Skulls and 'coffins;' epit^|)hs and worms : , , ' : Where light-hefel 'd ghosts and visionary shades, 25 Beneath the wan cold moon (aS' fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their" iiaVstie rounds. No other merriment, dull tree! is.thinfe. See yonder hallow 'd fkne;— the pious work • '■•: ' Of names once fam'd, now dubious, or '>--'> '•''■forgot, •' ■' ''<■ -■' '■ '' ^O And buried midst the wreck of things '''•'' - which were; ■'"'■,•'" . ■' There lie interr'd the more illustrious ■ dead. ■ ■ , '' '' The wind is up: hark!' how it howls! ' Methinks -.i: ■ ' . ' Till now 1 never heard a Sound so •"■ ' dreary: ■ ' ■ ■ ■' ' ''■■'■• Doors creak, and windows clap, and -' ' '" night's foul bird, '■•■•'' 35 Rook'd in the spire, screams loud: the : gloomy aisles, ' > Black-plaster 'd, and hung round with -' shreds of 'scutcheons '■'■'■' And tatterM coats of arms, send back the sound ■ -" '"''' '< '■' ' ' '■' Laden with heavier airs, froui the low '' '- vaults, ''' " ■ ■■ • ■ ■ •■■•■''■'■) The mansions of the dead.— Rous'd from their slumbers, *" In grim array the'grisly spectres rise, Grin horrible, and,' obstinately sullen. Pass and repass, hush 'd as the foot of - night.' ■ ■ • ' Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungra- '■' ^ cious sound ! ' ■ ■ ' The yew is a common tree in graveyards'. ' ■ 38 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY EOBEBUNNEBS I '11 hear no more ; it makes one 's blood Ldstless, she crawls along in doleful run chill. black, ^s Quite round the pile, a row of rever- T5 Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either end elms, eye, (Coeval near with that) all ragged Fast falling down her now untasted show, cheek : Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some Prone on the lowly grave of the dear rift half down man Their branchless trunks; others so thin She drops; whilst busy, meddling mem- a-top, ory, That scarce two crows could lodge in the In barbarous succession musters up same tree. 8" The past endearments of their softer ^O Strange things, the neighbors say, have hours, happen 'd here: Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow thinks tombs: She sees him, and, indulging the fond Dead men have come again, and walk'd thought, about; _ Clings yet more closely to the senseless And the great bell has toU'd, unrung, turf, untouch 'd. Nor heeds the passenger who looks that (Such tales their cheer,, at wake or way. gossiping,^ . . . *^ Invidious grave!— how dost thou rend 56 When it draws near the witching time in sunder of night.) Whom love has knit, and sympathy Oft in the lone church yard at night made one ! I've seen, A tie more stubborn far than nature's By glimpse of moonshine chequering band. through the trees, Friendship ! mysterious cement' of the The school-boy, with his satchel in his soul; hand. Sweetener of life, and solder of society ! Whistling aloud to bear his . courage 9" I owe thee much : thou hast deserved up, from me, *" And lightly tripping o'er the long flat Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. stones. Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, (With nettles skirted, and with moss And the warm efforts of the gentle o'ergrown,) heart. That tell in homely phrase who lie be- Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend low. and I Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks 95 Jq gome thick wood have wander 'd heed- he hears, less on. The sound of something purring at his Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us heels ; down 65 Full fast he flies, and dares not look Upon the sloping cowslip-cover 'd bank, behind him. Where the pure limpid stream has slid Till out of breath he overtakes his along fellows; In grateful errors^^ through the under- Who gather round, and wonder at the wood, tale ^'"* Sweet murmuring,— meth ought the shrill- Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, tongued thrush That walks at dead of night, or takes his Mended his song of love ; the sooty stand blackbird TO O'er some new-open 'd grave; and Mellow 'd his pipe, and soften 'd every (strange to tell!) note; Evanishes at crowing of the cock. The eglantine smelt sweeter, and the The new-made widow, too, I've some- rose times 'spied, Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every Sad sight! slow moving o'er the pros- flower trate dead: ^"5 Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury •christening " wandprtngs ■■"■ EGBERT BLAIR 39.1 Of dress.— Oh! 'then the longest sum- A life well spent, whose early care it was mer's day His riper years should not upbraid liis Seem 'd too, too much in haste:' still the green ' ' full heart .'•.•-• By unpereeiv'd degrees he wears away; ' Had not 'imparted half ! 'twas happiness '20 Yet like the sun seems larger at-'his Too exquisite to last. Of joys (departed, setting! 1^* Not to return, how'painfuLthe remem- High in his'faith and hopes, look! how branee! he reaches ■ ■' ■ . " After the prize in view ! and, like a bird Poor man!— how happy once in thy That's hamper 'd, struggles hard to get first state! away! When yet but warm from thy great Whilst the 'glad gates of S'ight are wide ■ Maker's hand, • > ' ■ ■ ' expanded ' "•> He stampi'dUhee with his iiiiage/ and, "^^ Tolet new glories in, the first fair, fruits' well pleased, , . ; ', Of the fast-coming harvest! Then! Smiled on 'his last fair worki — Then all ' 'then! ''•■ ' '■■was wellv '' > ' Each earth-born joy grows vile, or dis- 5*5 Sound was the body, and the soul serene ; "' appea*^. ;: Like two 'Sweet instrumentfe, ne'er out of Shrunk to a thing of nought;" 'how he tune, ' longs ' ■■ ' ■ ■ '• '■ That play their several'partsj— Nor tead. To have his passport sign''d, and be dis- nor heart, "i '' " miss'd!- ■ ' ■ ■■ >'■ ■ -J ■■ ■■ '■'' ■ Offer'd to ache: nor was there cause 'i'^" 'Tis done, and now he's ha'ppy! The they should]' '' "- ' glad'softl ■'>' ' . ^ For all was ' pure within: no fell re- Has not a wish uncrown 'd. Even the lag morse, • ■ ' ■ flesh "■■■ > 550, jf or anxious casting-up of What might be, . Rests too in hope of meeting on<3e again "Alarm 'd his peaceful bosom.'-^ Summer ■■ Its better half, never to sunder" moreT seas Nor shall it hope in' vaiiKi' the time ■Show" not tnore' smooth, Vbenkissed by draws on southern winds ' • '^^i^- rM^hen; not a; single spot -^off burial-earth, JilSt ready 'to' ekpii'e.— Scarce iinpor- Whellj,q^,.on.}a]n4j or in the spacious sea, tuned, '' But must give ba6k 'its' long^-coinmitted '■The generous soil, with a Mxuriani; faandi dust - • - i'^ 555 Offer 'd the various produCS- of the year, Inviolate :' and faithfully shall these '^'And everytWng' most'perf ec% in its tind. JJIake up the full' account ; not the' least Blessed! thrice-blessed days!— But ah', atom '•■''■' how fehort!' ■•■■'• ■ ■ '' '^*'' Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whoje'tale.^ Blest as the pleasing dreams of holy Each soul shall have a body ready- ''■■ ■ men;'i"'' • ' ; furnished;:. ,:> > •; ,: , .turns! ' •' ' Ask not how this can be. Swe the same What Strange vicissitudes in ■-the 'first ■. -,, power .(.,,;... ' ■: leaf That reared the piece at first, and took it Of man's sad history ! — Today most .' down,.,f, .. • • ' happy, ' , . . . • .,: ., < 745 Can reassemble the loose scatter 'd parts, And ere tomorrow's sun has set, most ;; Aaid putrthem as,- they were;,; Almighty ■ abject!' •'; s :.-.'' Go^ ' '" How scant the space between "these vast Has .done much mo*e: Nor. is his arm ' ;■' extremes!' : ' ' cio luimpair'd • . .,. :., ! . -. ' . Through length of days; and what he ■• •' '•"''■ Sure the last end ' can he will: Of the good man is peace; How calm His faithfulness, stands bound to see it his exit! ' i • ■ done. , Night-dews fall not more'geatly to the '^5,0 '^hen. th,e dread trumpet, sounds, the ground, , .. .^f slumbering dust, 715 Nor weary -prprn-out -winds expire so soft. Not.unattefttiye to the call, shall wake; Beliold him 1 1 in the evening tide of life, 1 number ; count 40 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEEUNNEES And every joint possess its proper place, With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first state. Nor shall the con- scious soul "^^^ Mistake its partner; but amidst the crowd, Singling its other half, into its arms Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, who having long been absent, With haste runs over every different room, 760 In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night ; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird. 765 Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of Then claps- his well fledg'd wings and bears away. WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763) From THE SCHOOLMISTRESS IN IMITATION OP SPENSEK 17S6 1737 Ah me! full sorely is my heart for- lorn, To think how modest worth negteeted lies; While partial fame doth with her ' blasts adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise ; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous em- prize: Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies; Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull ob- scurity. 10 In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed, and' mean attire. A matron old, whom we school- mistress name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; 16 They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. For unkempt hair, or talk unconn 'd, are sorely shent.^ And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 20 Which learning near her little dome did stowe; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow.; , , And work the simple vassals mickle" woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 25 But their limbs shudder 'd, and their pulse beat low; And as they look'd they found their borrow grew. And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view. So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) A lifeless phantom near a garden placed, 3" So doth it wanton birds of peace be- reave Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of re- They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ; Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy May no bold Briton's riper age e'er tast6 ! 35 Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. Near to this dome is found a patch so green, ; On which the tribe their gambols do display. And at the door imprisoning board is seen, *" Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray; i Eager, perdie,^ to bask in sunny day I The noises intermixed, which thence resound, f . , ; . ' 'punished ' 'certainly (originally 2 much an oath) ' WILLIAM 8HEN8TONE 41 Do learning's little tenement betray; Where sits the dame, disguised in look ■1 profound, 46 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. 75 50 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield: Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, As is the harebell that adorns the field; And in her hand, for scepter, she does ** wield Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repent- ance filled; And steadfast hate, and sharp afflic- tion joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. Albeit ne' flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, Ne'^ pompous title did debauch her ear ; Gocidy, g(iod-woman,' gossip;^ n 'aunt, forsooth. Or dame, the sole additions' she did hear; Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear : Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, Who should not honor 'd eld vfith. these revere : Tor never title yet' ' so mean could prove. But there was eke a mind which did that title lov«'. 55 60 65 70 Few have but kenn'd, in semblance 85 meet portray 'd. The childish faces, of old Aeol's train, Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array 'd, How then would fare on earth, or sky, or main. Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein? ; • ■ ■ - And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, ' And were not she her statutes to main- tain^ The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell ' Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders ' thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; ■ ■ 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre- •r pare; And, sooth to say, her pupils ratiged around, Through pious awe, did term it pass- ing rare ; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the great- est wight on ground. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, , The ploddiiig pattern , of. the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impelled by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favor did, her past deportment claim; And, if neglect had lavished on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, 90 What sin it were tp waste the smallest crumb she found. 95 Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak, ., ; That in her garden sipped the silvery dew; - - I Where no vain, , flower , disclosed a gaudy streak^ /, But herbs for use and physic, not a few. Of gray renown, wjthin those borders grew : The tufted, basil, pun-provoking ;thyme, Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue: The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I :f ain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. ' neither — nor "titles; descriptive 2 sponsor at a baptism terms added 42 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEKS Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's de- cent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete; 120 If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave. But in her garden found a summer- seat : Sweet melody ! to hear her then re- peat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foemien did a song en- treat,'^ 125 All, for the nonee,^ untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres— small heart had they to sing. For she was just, and friend to vir- tuous lore. And passed much time in truly vir- tuous deed ; And in those elfins* ears would oft deplore' 1^" The times, when .tru,th by popish rage did bleed, And tortuous death was true devo- tion's meed; And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould^ ,on wooden image place her creed ; And. lawny saints* . in smouldering flames did 'burn : 135 Ah! dearest Lord! forfend' thilk^days shoiild e 'er retui-n. In elbow chair, like that of Spottish stem'^ By the sharp tootli of cank'ring eld defac'd, In which, whpn he receives his diadem, Ottr sov 'reign prince and liefest^ liege is plac'd, 140 ■ The miatrori sate ; aind some with rank she grac'd, (The source of children's and of cour- tier's pride!) Redress 'd affronts, for vile alffronts there pass 'd ; 1 Psalm», 137. ' ' for the occasion ' would not ' saints clad in lawn ■> forbid ' those same ' The Scottish corona- tion chair at Scone rested upon a large stone of Supposed miraculous power. It was taken to Bngland in .1297 by Edward 'I. and since that time It has been a part of the chair in which English sovereigns are crowne^. , 8 most loved .. , , And warn'd them not the fretful to deride. But love each other dear, whatever them betide. i^S Right well she knew each temper to descry : , To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; Some with vile copper prize exalt on high. And some entice with pittance small of praise; And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays. ^ 150 Ey'n absent, she the reins of pow'r doth hold, While with quamt^ arts the giddy , crowd she sways, Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,. •• 'Twill whisper in :her ear and all the scene unfold. Lo, now with state she utters the com- mand ! 155 Eftsoons' the urchins to their tasks repair: ,. Their books of stature small they take in hand,* Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair; , The work so gay, that on their back is seen, ■ ., ISO St. George's high atchieyements does declare, On which thilk= wight that, has y-gaz- ing been Kens the forth-coming rod— unpleasing sight, I ween! . Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam ; Of evil star ! it irks me /s^hilst I write ; 165 As erst the bard^, by Mulla's silver stream, Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, ... Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite : " ^ 1 frightens tected with a thin ' clever , transparent, piece of ' at once horn ; the back was •The book was a decorated with a piece of board on sketch of St; George which were printed and the dragon the alphabet, the ' that same nine digits, and . « Spenser, whoSe home sometimes the at Kileolman Castle Lord's Prayer. The in Ireland, was near front side was pro^ the riiver Mulla. WILLIAM SHENSTONE 43 For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues;^ the strip- ling's late delight, 170 ^nd down they drop; appears his dlainty. skin, Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermelin.^ Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain. Or when from high she levels well her aim. And through the thatch his cries each falling stroke proclaim? The other tribe, aghast, with sore dis- ■ , : may ;,,- , , ,' - ■ . O ruthful scene! when from a nook 2"" Attend, and conn their tasks with 175 obscure His little sister doth his peril see, All playful as she sate she grows de- mure; She finds full' soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a pray 'r to set him free: Nor gentle pardon could this dame ^"^ ' I deny- (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, - 180 J^ni wrings her so that all for pity she could die. mickle^ care; By turns, astonied, ev'ry twig survey, And from their fellow's hateful wounds beware, Knowing, I wist,^ how each the same may share; Till fear has taught them a; perform- ance meet, ,' And to the well-known chest the dame repair, Whence oft with sugared cates* she doth 'em greet, And ginger-bread y-rare — now, certes, doubly sweet! No longer can she now her shrieks command ; And hardly she forbear^, through aweful fear, To rushen forth and with presump- ^^^ tuous hand To stay harsh justice in its mid career. 185 On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! (Ah, too remote to ward the shameful : blow!) She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow. And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But now Dan* PhoBbus gains the middle sky, And liberty unbars her prison door ; And like a rushing torrent out they , fly; And now the grassy cirque^ han° covered o'er; With boisterous revel rout and wild uproar ; A thousand ways in wanton rings thej' run. Heaven shield their short-lived pas- times I implore; For well may freedom erst so dearly won 27? Appear to British elf m9re gladsome than the sun. 1^" But ah, what pen his piteous plight may trace. Or what device, his loud laments ex- plain— Thie form uncouth* of his disguised face, The pallid hue^ that dyes his looks amain,* ^''^ The plenteous show'r ihat does his cheek distain,^ 195 When he, in abject wise, implores the dame. Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the; fair- est flowers ; For when my, bones in grass-green sods are laid, never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles or, in ladies' bowers. vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! imnch * Lord ; master 1 trousers » unusual ' know * circle » ermine * completely " dainties "have 44 EIGHTEENTH CENTUKT FOEEEUNNERS But most in courts, where proud am- The active powers of man, with wisest bition towers; care Deluded wight! who weens fair peace ^^^ Hath Nature on the multitude ofi minds can spring Impress 'd a various bias; and to each Beneath the pompous dome of kesar"^ or Decreed its province in the common toil, of king. To some she taught the fabric of the sphere, The changeful moon, the circuit of the MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770) ,,„ stars, ' 2" The golden zones of heaven : to soine she THE PLEASURES OF THE |ave i7S8^i3'*'^^^"^'^^rr44-70 '^° search the story of eternal thought; Of space and time; of fate's Unbroken Prom Part I chain, ^'^^^ And will 's quick , movement : others by From Heaven my strains begin ; from the hand Heaven deseendfe ^^^ l^d o'er vales and mountains, to 100 The flame of genius to the chosen breast, explore And beauty *ith poetic wonder join'd, ''"" What healing virtue dwells in every vein And inspiration. Ere the rising sun Of herbs or trees. But some to nobler Shone o'er the deep, or 'mid the T^^ault of ' hopes - ■ jiig]jt Were destin 'd : some within a finer The moon her silver lamp suspended ; mould gj.g She wrought, and temper 'd with a purer 105 The vales with springs were water 'd, flame: or with eroves '^'^ these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds, Of oak or pine the ancient hills were "° In fuller aspects and with fairer lights, crown 'd- '^'^i® picture of the world. Through Then the Great Spirit, whom his works „, every part ^(jore They trace the lofty sketches 'of his Within his own deep essence view'd the ^ hand: •: forms ■ .In earth or air, the meadow's flowery The forms eternal of created things: store. The radiant sun; th6 moon's nocturnal l^e moon s mild radiance, or the vir- lamp- gin's mien "0 The mountains and' the streams; the "^ l^ress 'd in attractive smiles, they see por- ample stores ' ■ *™y ^ ■ ' Of earth, of heaven, of nature. From (As far as mortal eyes the portrait scan) the first ' Those lineaments of beauty which de- On that full scene his love divine he ^3^\ c ,m, , \o ». ,, ■ gjj)j[ ■ ■ The Mind Supreme. They also feel their His admiration; till, in time c'bmplete, force, ^ ,, ,, What he admir'd and lov'd, his vital ;.„ Enamor 'd : tthey partake the eternal joy. PQ^gj. loo For as old Memnon's image long re- us Unfolded into being. Hence the breath ^, '^°T''^1'^,_,. -r, . . x. Of life informing each organic frame ; Through fabling Egypt, at the genial Hence the green earth, and wild-Tesound- ^„ touch ino- waves- . Of morning, from its inmost frame sent Hence light ' and shade, alternate; , ^°^^ . , ^, „..^ warmth and cold; -Spontaneous music; so doth Nature's And bright autumnal' Skies, and vernal hand, ,, ., , ,. , showers certain attributes which matter 120 And all the 'fair variety of things. ^^J^i^\ n ^r. ■ ,■ But not alike to every mortal eye ^^^ ^dapt the finer organs of the mind: Is this great Scene unveil 'd. For while So the glad impulse- of those kindred the claims powers • " Of social life to different labors urge (Of form, of color's cheerful pomp, of ' '- ■ sound ..,.,, 1 kaiser ; emperor Melodious, or of motion aptly sped) MARK AKENSIDE 45, Detains the enliven 'd sense ;. till : soon ' Which murmureth at his feet ? Where the soul does the soul ■ - Feels the deep concord^ and assents i Consent her soaring fancy to restrain^ through all '- ^■**' Which bears her up, as on an eagle 's 160 Her functions. Then the charm, by fate wingsj , i' prepar'd « Destin'd for highest heaven.; or which Diffuseth its enchantment. Fancy drealms, ,: of fate's 'i , . : Rapt into high discourse with prophets Tremendous barriers shall- confine her old, .j< ■: flight ., ,■ .-, i: And wandering through Elysium, Fancy To any humbler quarry?^ ;, The rich dreams ■ > ■' earth Of sacred fountains, of o'ershadowing Cannot detain her; ijor the^ ambient^ groves, ' ' air ; - ■ 165 Whose walks, with godlike harmony re- 245. With all its changes. For a. while with sound : ■ . • i ' joy Fountains, which Homer ; visits ;. happy She hovers o'er the sun, and views the .'■■'groves,"'"''' ' ■ , : ■ '■■<■''. "■ small Where Milton dwells: the intellectual Attendant orbs, beneath his sacred beam, power, ■ •■ ;■ ' I ' '■■■ •' Emerging from .thg deepj'ilike eluster'd On the mind'^s throne, suspends his isles, , i,..i,', rj , ,; i graver cares, Whose rocky shores to the glad sailor's And smiles: '^the passions, to divine re- . . eye , ;,,,, .:.,■■. • ' pose, " • /■ ^^^ Reflect the gleams of morning: for a 1™ Persuaded yield: and love and joy alone . .,,, while,, .. ;; , ,,, , Are ■*'aking; love and joy, such as await With pride she sees his tirm; paternal An angel's meditation. 0! attend, .sway !,.,.,, t,: Whoe'er thou art whom these delights Bend the reluctant planets to move each can touch; ' Round its perpetual year. But soon slie Whom Nature's aspect,' Nature's simple . ^ quits, ., _ ,,,:,, , ,; , ,^ , garb. That prospect : meditating loftier, views, i''5 Can thus 'command; 0! listen -toi my ^55 ghe darts adventurous up the long career song; " Of comets; through the. constellations 'And I 'will guide : thee to her blissful' holds ' .,,,.. ■vvalks. Her course, and now looks back on lall 'And teach thy solitude her voice to hear^ . the stars . , ; ,, (j 178 And point her gracious features to thy Whose blended flames as with a, milky "' view. ' .stream , ,.;, i ' , , Part tlie blue region. Empyrean tiracts,* 260 Where happy souls beyond this concave ■ . ' ' For, amid heaven The various forms,' which this full world -Abide, she then explores, whence purer presents light , - Like rivals to his*^ choice, what human For countless ages .tra-vels, , througfi the breast ■ - -" abyss, :. ; 230 E'er doubts, before the transient and Nor ihatji in sight of mortals yet arriv'd. , . minute i > ': , .o , - '" Upon the wide creation 's utmost shore To prize the vast, the stable, the sub- 265. At length she stands, and ithe dread I. lime'? ■ ' space beyond Who that from heights aerial sends his . Contemplates, half -recoiling : nathless* , 4ye i down Around a wild horizon, and surveys The gloomy void,, astonish 'd, yet, un- ■ Indus or Ganges roUing ibis broad wave quell 'd, 235 Through mountains, plains, thro' spa- She plungeth; down the unfathomable cious cities old, I . i ■■■ ' ' gulf, ' _, And regions dark with woods, will turn Where God alone hath being. There her away '- hopes To mark the path of some penjirious^ 'lobject pur su ed or rill • - '■'■'■ ■ ' T h ,e higlxest heaven, hunted far above the sky. '^ surrounding on a ^ 1 ' nevertheless lean's = scanty sides i . 46 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNEES 270 Rest at the fated goal. For, from the birth Of human kind, the Sovereign Maker said That not in humble, nor in brief delight. Not in the fleeting echoes of renown. Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, 275 The soul should find contentment; but, from these Turning disdainful to an equal good. Through Nature's opening walks enlarge her aim. Till every bound at length should dis- appear, And infinite perfection fill the scene. Then tell me (for ye know) Doth Beauty ever deign to dwell where use And aptitude are strangers? is her praise ^"5 Confess 'd in aught whose most peculiar ends y' Are lame and fruitless? or did Nature \ mean This pleasing call the herald of a lie. To hide the shame of discord and dis- ease, And win each fond admirer into snares, 410 Foil'd, baffled? No; with better provi- dence J^he general mother, conscious how infirm Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, ' Thus, to the choice of credulous desire. Doth objects the completest of their tribe 415 Distinguish and commend. Yon flowery bank, Cloth 'd in the soft magnificence of Spring, Will not the flocks approve it ? will they ask The reedy fen for pasture? That clear rill Which trickleth murmuring from the mossy rock, 420 Yields it less wholesome beverage to the worn And thirsty traveller, than the standing pool With muddy weeds o'ergrown? Yon ragged vine. Whose lean and sullen clusters mourn the rage Of Eurus, will the wine-press or the bowl 426 Eeport of her, as of the swelling grape Which glitters through the tendrils, like a gem When first it meets the sun? Or what are all The various charms to life and sense adjoin 'd? Are they not pledges of a state entire, 430 Where native order reigns, with every part In health, and every function well per- form 'd? Thus then at first was Beauty sent from Heaven, The lovely ministress of Truth and Good In this dark world; for Truth and Good are one; 435 ^d Beauty dwells in them, and they in her. With like participation. All her works Well-pleas 'd thou didst behold: the gloomy fires Of storm or earthquake, and the purest light Of summer; soft Campania's new-born rose, 580 And the slow weed which pines on Rus- sian hills. Comely alike to thy full vision stand: To thy surrounding vision, which unites All essences and powers of the great world In one sole order, fair alike they stand, 58^ As features well consenting, and alike Requir'd by Nature ere she could attain Her just resemblance to the perfect shape Of universal Beauty, which with thee Dwelt from the first. FOB A GBOTTO 1758 To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call Actaea, daughter of the neighboring stream, This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine. Which o'er the rocky entrance down- ward shoot, 5 Were placed by Glycon. He, with cow- slips pale, Primrose, and purple lychnis, decked the green Before my threshold, and my shelving walls MABK AKBNSIDE 47 'With' 'horiiey suckle covered. Here, at noon, Lulled by the murmur of my rising fount, 10 I slumber; here my clustering fruits I tend; Or from the humid flowers, at break of day, ■' ■ ■ ■■■ ••'■ ■'■■ Fresh garlands veavfe, and ehase from ^aUmy'bounds i '■:'•' Each thing impure or noxious. Enter in, stranger, undismayed.- " Nor bat nor toad ■^5 Here lurks : and if thy breast of blame- less thoughts • i: ' Approve^ thee, hot unwelcome shalt thou tread My quiet, mansion; chiefly, if thy name . ..Wise' Pallas and the, immortal Muses own. ODE TO THE EVENING STAB Tonight retired; the queen of heaven^ With young Endymion stays; And now to Hesper it is given Awhile to rule the vacant sky, ' 5" Till she shall to her lamp supply A stream of, brighter rays. Hesper, while the starry throng With awe thy path surrounds. Oh, listen to my suppliant .song, . 1" If haply now the vocal' sphere ' Can suffer' thy delighted ear ' ' '''■' To stoop to ihortal sounds. So may the bridegroom's genial strain • Thee, still invoke to shine ; ' , 15 So may the bride's unmarried train ' To Hymen chaunt their flattering vow, Still that his lucky torch may glow With lustre pure as thine. ■'' Far other vows must I prefer 2* To thy indulgent power.' Alas ! but now I paid my tear On fair Olympia's^ virgin tomb; And lo, from' thence, in qUest I roam Of Philomela's bower. 25 Propitious send thy golden ray, Thou purest light above! Let no false flame seduce to stray Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; But lead where music's healing charm 30 May Boothie, afiBicted' love. 35 To them, by many a grateful song - In happier seasons vow'd,-. • These lawns,? Olympia's haunts, belong: Qft by yon silver stream we walk'd. Or fl.x'd,2 wlii.le Philouiela talk'd. Beneath yon copses stood. Nor seldom, where the beecben boughs That i'oofless tower invade. We came, while her enchanting Muse ^0 The radiant moon above ns held : , ' Till, by a claiiiorous owl compell'd She fled the solemn shade. But hark! I hear' her liquid tone! Now Hesper guide my feet ! *5 Down the red marl^ with tnoss o 'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain. Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane Which leads to her retreat. See the green spaCe: on either 'hand ^0 Enlarged it spreads around : See,' in the midst she takes hev stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level meadj Enclosed in woods profound. 55 Hark! how through many a melting note She- now prolongs her lays^' '''' ' How sweetly down the void they float ! The breeze their magic path 'attends';' The' stars shine out; the forest bends; 60 The wakeful heifers graze. Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring To this sequester 'd spot, If then the plaintive Sireti ' sing,' Oh Softly tread beneath her bower 65 And think of Heaven's disposing power, Of man's uncertain, lot. Oh th ink ; o 'er all this ,mortal stage What mournful scenes atise:' 'W^hat ruin waits on kingly rage ; ■^0 How often Vir'tiie dwells -with w6e; How many griefs from knowledge flow ; ' How ST\fiftly pleasure flies ! , On sacred bird! let me at eve. Thus wandering all alone, 75 Thy tender counsel oft receive. Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity Nature's common cares, jTjll I forget my own. , 1 prove ; conflrm ■ * Diana, the moon. » Olympia Is tlie poet's belo'^ed. ' ? green fields ' ' attehtlvfe ; motion- less ' A Itind of ?Qft earthy deposit., ^48 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEKUNNEES WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-17S9) A SONG FROM SHAKESPEAR'S CYMBELYNE SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOS'D TO BE DEADl 1744 To fair Fidele 's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds" shall bring Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. 5 No wailing ghost shall dare appear, To vex with shrieks this quiet grove: But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither 'd witch shall here be seen, 1* No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green. And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at ev'ning hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, ^^ With hoary moss, and gather 'd flow'rs, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or midst the ehace on ev 'ry plain, 20 The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee" the tear he duly shed: Belov'd, till life could charm no more; And mourn 'd, till Pity's self be dead. 10 20 And gauds,^ and pageant weeds, and trailing pall, But com'st a decent^ maid In Attic robe array 'd, chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call! By all the honey 'd store On Hybla's thymy' shore. By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear, By her* whose lovelorn woe In ev'ning musings slow Sooth 'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's" ear: By old Cephisus deep. Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wand 'rings round thy green retreat," On whose enamell'd side When holy Freedom died,^ No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet: 25 sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth Thy sober aid and native charms infuse ! The flow 'rs that sweetest breathe, Tho' Beauty cull 'd the wreath, ^o Still ask thy hand to range their, order 'd hues; While Eome could none esteem But virtue's^ patriot theme, You lov 'd her hills, and led her laureate band : But staid to sing alone To one distinguish 'd throne,* And turned thy face,, and fled her alter 'd land. 35 ODE TO SIMPLICITY 1746 thou by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought. In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong : Who first, on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child. Thy babe or Pleasure's, nurs'd the pow'rs of song! Thou who -with hermit heart Disdain 'st the wealth of art, ^Ct/mlfJine. IV, 2. 215-229, furnished the in- spiration for this song. The brothers there mourn for their sister Imogen, who is dis- guised as Fidele, and who they think is dead. ' rustics ; peasants 40 No more, in hall or bow 'r. The passions own thy pow'r; Love, only love, her f orqeless numbers mean :!" For thou hast left her shrine ; Nor oUve more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. 1 ornaments of dress ' decorous ; proper 'overgrown with thyme • "The night ingale, for whom Sophocles seems to have enter- tained a peculiar fondness." — JColllns. " Sophocles, the au- thor of- the Greek tragedy Eleetra. ' Athens. 'When Greece was conquered by Alex- ander, in 335 B. C. ' heroic m'anliOod'B "Th e ' t.hTjone of Augustug Cffisar, the patron of Virgil and! Horace.. "An allusion to the artificial love of medieval I' ^' WILLIAM. COLLINS 49 Tho' taste, tho' genius bless To some divine excess, *5 Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply. May court, may charm our eye, Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul ! 50 Of these let others ask, To aid some mighty task; I only seek to find my temp 'rate vale : ' Where oft my reed^ might sound To maids and shepherds round. And all thy sons, Nature, learn my tale. ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER 1746 Strophe As once, if not with light regard^ I read aright that gifted bard^ (Him whose school above the rest His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest), 5 ' One, only one,' unrivall 'd fair* Might hope the magic girdle wear. At solemn tiirney hung on high, The wish of each Idve-darting eyej Lo ! to each other nymph' in turn applied, ^' As if, in air unseen, some hov'ring hand, ■Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame. With whisper 'd spell had burst the starting band. It left unblest her loath 'd, dishonor 'd side; Happier hopeless fair, if never ■ 15 Her baflSed hand with vain endeavor Had touch'd that fatal zone to her de- nied! Young Fancy^ thus, to me divinest name, . , To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heav'n,-- .■ ''■ -' ' -■ The cest° of amplest pow'r is giv'n. To few the godlike gift assigns. To gird their blest, prophetic loins. And gaze her visions wild, and feel un- mix 'd her flame ! Epode The band, as fairy legends say. Was wove on that ereiating day ' 20 25 When He who call 'd with thought to birth Yon tented i^ky, this laughing earth, And drest with springs and forests tall, I And pbiir'd the main engirting all. Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd, 20 Himself in some diviner mood. Retiring, sate with her alone, ' And plac'd her on his sapphire throne,^ The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, Seraphic wires were heard to sound, 35 Now sublimest triumph swelling. Now on love and mercy dwelling ; And she, from out the veiling cloud, Breath 'd her magic notes aloud : And thou, thou rich-hair 'd Youth of Morn,'' ■*" And all thy subject life, was born ! The dang'rous Passions kept aloof. Far from the sainted growing woof: But near it sate ecstatic Wonder, List'ning the deep applauding thunder; ^5 And Truth, in sunny vest array 'd. By whose* the tarsel's* eyes were made; All the shad'wy trijies of mind In braided^ dance their murmurs join 'd, And all the bright uncounted Pow'rs 50 Who feed on heav'n's ambrosial flow'rs. Where is the bard whose soul can now Its high presuming hopes avow? Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, This hallow 'd work for him design 'd 1 Antisteophe 55 High on some cliff, to heav'n up-pil'd, Of rude access, of prospect wild. Where, tangled round the jealous* steep. Strange shades o'er-brow the valleys deep, , . , And holy, genii guard the rock, ^0 Its gloorhs embrown, its springs unlock. While on its rich ambitious head An Eden, like his own, lies spread, I view that pak, the fancied glades among. By which as Milton lay, his ev'ning ear, ^5 From many a cloud tiat dropp 'd ethereal dew. Nigh spher'd'' in heav'n its native strains could hear, , On which that ancient trump he reach 'd was hung: Thither oft, his glory greeting, 'The symbol of pas- toral poetry. ' attention ' Spenser. « Amoret, not Flori- mel, as Collins sug- gested. See The Faerie Queene, IV, 5, St. 16-19. s Imagination " cestus ; girdle ' The blue or upper heavens, above the sky. ^'The sun. s That Is, by w h o .3 e eyes. * male falcon's » intricate ' difficult. of approach ' In one of the spheres in which the heav- enly bodies were supposed to be fixed 50 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOREEUNNBES From Waller's myrtle shades retreat- ing,^ "0 With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ; In vain — such bliss to one alone Of all the sons of soul was known,^ And Heav'n and Fancy, kindred pow 'rs, ^^ Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bow 'rs. Or curtaiin'd close such scene from ev'ry future view. ODE WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746 17^6 1746 How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country 's wishes blest I , When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow 'd mold, ^ 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 Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, r 1" To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair. To dwell a weeping herOiit there ! ODE TO EVENING 1746 If ought of oaten stop,f or pastoral ?6ng, May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, . Thy springs and dying gales, 5 nymph reserv'd, while now the bright- hair 'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede* ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush 'd, save where the weak- ey'd bat, 10 With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, 1 An allusion to t h e ' Milton. love poems of Bd- = anything played upon mund Waller. The the shepherd's oaten myrtle was sacred pipe to Venus. * braid ; embroidery As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: '■ 15 Now teach me, maid compos 'dj To breathe some soften 'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing thro' thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit. As, musing slow, I hail 20 Thy genial lov 'd return ! For when thy folding-star arising shews His paly' circlet, at his warning lanip The fragrant Hours, and elves Who slept in flow'rs the day, 25 And many a nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge. And sheds the fresh 'ning dew, and, lovelier still. The pensive Pleasures sweet, ' Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake ^f* Cheers the lone heath, or some time- hallow 'd pile Or upland fallows gray Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blust 'ring winds, or driv- ing rain, . Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut 25 That from the mountain's side yiews wilds, and swelling floods. And hamlets brown, and dim-discover 'd spires. And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy, fingers draw *4 The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as , oft he wont,^ And bathe thy brea,thing tresses, meek- est Eve ; While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy ling 'ring light; ^5 While sallow Aiitumn fills thy lap with leaves ; Or Winter,- yelling thro' the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking. train, And rudely rends thy robes; ^pale ' is accustomed to do WILLIAM COLLINS 51 So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, 5" Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose- lipp'd Health, Thy gentlest influence own. And hymn thy fav'rite name! THE PASSIONS AN ODE FOR MUSIC 1746 When Music, heav'nly maid, was young. While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell,^ , Throng 'd around her magic cell, 5 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse 's pa'inting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb 'd, delighted, rais'd, refln'd:; ■ Till once, 'tis said, when all were flr'd, ^'^ Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd. 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, 15 Each, for madness rul'd the hour. Would prove his own expressive pow 'r. First Fear his hand, its skill to try. Amid the chgrds bewilder 'd laid, And ba(;k recoil 'd, he knew not why, 2" Ev'n at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'cj; hi^, eyes, on fife, In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with 'hurried hand the strings. 25 With wof ul measures wan Despair Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad' by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair, 2" What was thy delightful measure ? Still it whisper 'd promis'd pleasure, And bad 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 thro' all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, ilyre (The first lyre Is said to have been made from a tortoise shell.) A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close. And- Hope enchanted smil'd, and'wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung,— but with a frown ■*" Revenge impatient rose; H^ threw his blood-stain 'd sword in thunder down And with a with 'ring 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; Andtho' sometimes, each dreary pause between. Dejected Pity, at his side, 50 Her soill-subduing voice apply 'd, 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 fix'd. Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 55 Of diflf'ring themes the veering song was mix 'd. And now it courted Love, now raving ' call'd on Hate. With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd. Pale Melancholy sate retir'd, And from her wild sequester 'd seat, 8" In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pen- sive soul: And, dashing soft from' rocks around. Bubbling runnels join 'd the sound ; Thro ' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; 65 Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But how alter 'd was its sprightlier tone, 70 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of health- iest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, ' annouoclng ' 52 EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY I'ORERUNNERiS Blew an inspiring air, tliat dale and thicket rung, The hunter's cajl to faun and dryad known I ''5 The oak-erown'd sisters,^ and their chaste-ey'd queen,^ Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen. Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up, and se^z'd his beeehen spear. ^* Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing, . •' First to the lively pipe his hand ad- drest; But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. 85 They would have thought, who heard the strain, ^ • ' 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,, ■ ' , 90 Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fan- tastic round; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone^ unbound. And he, amidst his frolic play, , As if he would the charming; air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. , , :. " 8S O Music, sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid. Why, goddess, why, to us deny'd. Lay 'st thou thy ancient lyre aside 1 As in that lov'd Athenian bpw'r 100 You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r. Thy mimic soul, nymph 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, Warm,i energic, chaste, sublime J Thy wonders; in thatgodlike age. Fill thy recording sister's page— ' 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 110 Thy humblest reed could more prevail. Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age, Ev'n all at once together found, ■ Cecilia's mingled world of iSound. 115 bid our vain endeavors cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simpla state, - Confirm the tales her sons relate! '■ wood nymphs 2 Diana. ' girdle ODE ON THE DEATH OF ME. THOMSON 1748 1749 In yonder grave a druid lies. Where slowly winds the stealing wave. The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its pOet's sylvan grave. 5 In yon deep bed of whisp 'ring reeds His airy harp^ shall now be laid; That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds May love thro' life^ the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here ; 1" And while its sounds at distance swell. Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear To hear the Woodland Pilgrim 's knell. Remembrance oft shajl ifiunt the sfeore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, 15 And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest. And oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or, forest deep, The friend shall view yon whit'ning spirej 2" And mid the varied landscape weep. But thou who own'st that earthy bed, Ah, what will ev'ry dirgp , avail. Or tears which Love and Pity shed. That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? 25 Yet live^ there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn jthy pale shrine glimm 'ring near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die. And Joy desert the blooming year ! But thou, Iprn stream, whose sullen tide 3" No sedge-crown 'd sisters now attend. Now waft me from the green hill 's; side Whose cold turf hides the buried friend. And see, the fairy valleys. fade; Dun night has veil'd the solemn. view. 1 The Harp of iEolus. See Thomson's The Oaetle of Indolence, I,,; 360 ; also his 0(Je to bolus's Barp. i . . WILLIAM COLLINS 53 SB Yet once again; dear patted shades; Meek Nature's child, again adieu! The genial meads, assign 'd to" bless Thy life; shall mourn thy early doorii; Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress "With simple hands thy rural tomb.- 40 ' Ijoig; long, thy stone and pointed elay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes; vales and wild woods,' shall he say. In yonder grave your driiid lies ! AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPER- STITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY nJ,9 1788 H— — ,^ thou , return 'st from .Thames, whose naiads long Have seen thee ling 'ring, with a fond delay, . , , ;; 'Mid those soft friei^ds, whose hearts, some future day, . Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. 5 Go, not unmindful of that, cordial youth^ 1 ( "Vyhom, long-endear 'd, thou lejav'st by Lavant's side; , ! Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted, with his destined bride., , , - Go ! nor regai-dless, while these numbers boast ,/ 1" My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social , , ; name; , , • But think far off how, on the Southern coast, ,,,, ,■ , , ,• - i I met thy friendship , with an equal flame! , , ; '.,;,, Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose ev'ry vale- ; i . ' " Shall prompt the poet, and his song - , demand,:, , ,, ..,,-,. ^,.:_ ,, , ; 15 To thee thy copious subjeqts ne 'er shall fail;,;,- ..; : , • ■ ! r Thou need 'st but take the pencil to ,1. , thy hand, ,,; ,, , : And paint what all believes who own thy genial land.' ly. brought to him In London In 1749. ijchn Hoflie (1722- 1808), & Stottfsh _ clergyman and = John Barrow, who dramatist, whose had introduced Col- tragedy of Agis .was 11ns and Home, i-efuseg by, Garrick, 'acknowledge It as the' n tf t e d English their country actor, when it was There must thou wake pferf brce thy Doric^ quill; ' ' ■ ' I ■ 'Tis Fancy's land to which thoU sett'st thy feet, 20 'Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet Beneath each birken shade on m6ad or hill. There each trim ' lasS that, skims ' the milky store To the swart tribes^ their ereatoiy bowl allots ; ' By night they sip it round the cottage door, 2J "While airy minstrels warble Jocund notes, ' ' There ev'ry' h'erd, by sad experiWnce, knows ' ' How, wing'd with fate, their elf -shot' arrows fly; ' ' ' "When the sick ewe her summer food ' foregoes, Or, stretch 'd on earth, the heart-smit ■■ ' ' heifers lie. , - '^ • - . i 2" Such airy beings awe th ' ' untutor 'd ' ' ' ' swain: ' •' ' '' ' ■' ■'' ' Nor thou, though learn 'd, his homelier ' ' thdughts neglect ; Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sus- ■tairi: •- ■ '' ' " 'I These are the themes of simple, sure ''effect) " ' ' ' •'■ That add new conquests to her boundless ■ ■' reign, ■' '* 3S And fill, with double force, her heart- /'" commanding strai-n. ' '' Ev'n yet preserv'd,, how, often may 'st ithoa.hear, :;;■ .- . . , "Where to the pole the boreaP moun- :. tains run,., , Taught by th^, father to his list'ning son, i Strange lays,, whose pow'r had'charin'd a Spenser's ear. *" At ev'ry. pause, before thy, mind, pfissest, Old Runic bards* shall seem to rise around,, . > '- , , , "With uncouth" lyres, in many-color 'd vest," . Their matted.bair with bouglis fantas- tic crown 'd: ,: 1 simple ; natural * poets of fhe northern (Doric was the old- countries who wrote est and' §lijipl4st , poems in ; runes, style of architecture their early alpha- used by the Greeks.) bet 2 Brownies. , ' strange ; of unusual ' northern ' shape " garment J54 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOBEEUNNERS Whether thou bid'st the well-taught When headless Charles' warm on the hind repeat scaffold lay! *S The choral dirge that mourns some As Boreas threw his young Aurora chieftain brave, forth, When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom ''^ In the first year of the first George's beat, reign. And strew 'd with choicest herbs his And battles rag'd in welkin* of the scented grave; North, Or, whether, sitting in the shepherd's They mourn 'd in air, fell, fell Rebel- shiel,'^ lion slain! Thou hear'st some sounding tale of And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's war's alarms, fight, 50 When, at the bugle 's call, with fire and Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes steel, near crown 'd, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their ^O They rav'd, divining, thro' their second bony swarms, sight. And hostile brothers met to prove each Pale, red Cullodeh, where these hopes other 's arms. were drown 'd ! Illustrious William!' Britain's guardian 'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous name! spells. One William sav'd us from a tyrant's In Sky's lone isle the gifted wizard stroke; seer. He, for a sceptre, gain 'd heroic fame ; 55 Lodg'd in the wintry cave with [Fate's ^5 g^t thou, more glorious, Slavery's fell spear] chain hast broke. Or in the depth of Uist 's dark forests To reign a private man, and bow to dwells : Freedorti 's yoke ! How they whose sight such dreary dreams engross, , These, too, thou 'It sing ! for well thy With their own visions oft astonish 'd magic Muse droop, Caii to the topmost heav 'n of grandeur When o'er the wat'ry strath^ or quaggy soar! moss Or stoop to wail the swain that is no 6" They see the gliding ghosts unbodied more! troop; ^O Ah, homely swains! your homeward Or if in sports, or on the festive green, steps ne'er lose; Their [destined] glance some fated Let not dank Will* mislead you to the youth descry, heath : Who, now perhaps in lusty vigor seen Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and And rosy health, shall soon lamented lake, die. He glows, to draw you downward to *5 For them the viewless forms of air obey, -ycfur death. Their bidding hieed, and at their beck In his bewitch 'd, low, marshy willow repair. brake!] They know what spirit brews the storm- ^5 "vVhat tho' far off, from some dark dell ful day, espied. And, heartless,' oft like moody mad- His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' ex- ness stare cursive sight; To see the phantom train their secret Yet turn, ye wand'rers, turn your steps work prepare. aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faith- ■?<> [To monarchs dear, some hundred miles less light; astray. For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrus- 0ft have they seen Fate give the fatal tling reed, blow! ^'"' At those mirk° hours the wily monster The seer, in Sky, shriek 'd as the blood lies, did flow, 1 Charles I. < Will-o'-tbe-wlsp. 1 summer hut ' dismayed " the sky = murky ; dark » valley cut by a river » William of Orange. WILLIAM COLLINS 55 And listens oft to hear the passing: steed, ^^^ Shall, fondly seem to press her shud- And frequent round him rolls his d'ring cheek, sullen eyes, , And with his blue-swoln face before her If chance his savage wrath may some stand, weak wretch surprise. And, shiv'riug cold, these piteous ac- , cents speak:. Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest in- "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils deed! pursue 105 Whom, late bewilder 'd in the dank, At dawn or dusk, industrious as be- dark fen, fore; Far from his flocks and smoking ham- ^^^ Nor e'er of me one hapless thought let then, . renew, To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy While I lie welt 'ring on the ozier'd'^ weed] On him, enrag'd, the flend, in angry moc»d, , i j , Shall never look with Pity's kind con- cern, 11' But instant, furious, raise the whelming . flood O'er its drown 'd bank, forbidding all return. , Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape To. some dim hill that seems uprising near, , To his Jfaint eye the grim and grisly; slbape, 115 In all its terrors clad, shall ; wild appear. Meantirne, the wat 'ry surge . shall round him rise. shore, Drown 'd by the kselpie's^ wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more ! " Unbounded is thy rabge; with varied style Thy MuSe may, like those feath'ry tribes which spring UO From their' rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows :^ In whose small vaults a pigmy -folk is found. Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, Pour '4 sudden forth from.ev.'ry ?well- 145 j^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^ wond'ring, from the ing source. What now remains but ' Ben Jonson -visited the poet WlUIam Druiiimond, at'Haw- thomden. Dear Edln- bbrgh, In 1619. «WlUlani Drummond. 8 Dmminond. ' open : expand 'awaiting, ( ;■• 'Purple la here used in Its classical sense of irlght^ 'The .nightingale, common In Attica, and often Referred io in Greek litera- ture. And float amid the liquid noon ; Some lightly o'er the current skim. Some show their gayly -gilded trim ^^ Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man: And they that creep, and they that fly. Shall end where they began. 35 Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro 'life's little day. In Fortune 's varying colors drest : Brush 'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill 'd by Age, their airy dance *" They leave, in dust to rest., Methinks I hear, in accents low. The sportive kind reply : i Poor moralist ! and what art thou? . A solitary fly! ■'S Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast.thou of hoarded sweets. No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— 5* We frolic while 'tis May.- ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE 174^ 1747 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. That crown the wat'ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade ;^ 5 Anct ye,' that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose tuj-f, whose shade, whose flowers among Wander^; the hoary Thames along 1" His silver-winding Way: Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! Ah, fields' belov'd in vain! , Where once my careless ; childhood , stray 'd, , ' A stranger yet to pain ! 15 I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh thdiir gladsome wing. My weary soul they seem to soothe. And, redolent of joy and youth, 20 To breathe a second spring. Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, iBton College was founded by Henry VI . ' iB 1440. 1 58- EIGHTEENTH CENTURY F0EEEUNNEE8 Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace ; 26 Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, 'thy glassy wave ? The captive linnet which enthral ? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, 30 Or urge the flying ball 1 While some, on earnest business bent, Their murm'ring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring con- straint To sweeten liberty, 36 Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions- dare descry; Still as they run they look behind. They hear a voice in every wind, *<• Aid snatch a fearful joy. Gray hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest ; The tear forgot as soon as shed'; The sunshine of the breast; *6 Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue. Wild wit, invention ever-new, And lively cheer, of vigor born; , , , The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 60 That fly th ' approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their. doom The little victims, play ; No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today : 65 Yet see, how all around 'em wait The ministers of human Fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand. To seize their prey, the murth 'rous band ! 60 Ah, tell them they are men ! These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind : Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that sculks behind; 66 -Or pining Love shall waste their youth. Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth. That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, ''O And Sorrow 's piercing daft. Ambition this shall tempt to ;rise. Then whirl the wretch from high. To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. And grinning Infamy. 76 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter 'd eye. That mocks the tear it fore 'd to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil 'd, And moody Madness laughing wild ^0 Amid severest woe. Lo ! in the vale of years beneath A griesly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their que6n: ^6 This racks the joints; this fires the ' veins; ' ■ That every laboring sinew strains; Those in the deeper vitals rage; Lo ! Poverty to fill the band. That numbs the soul with icy 'hand, 00 ' And slow-consuming Age. • To each his suil 'rings: all are men, Condemn 'd alike to groan j- The tender for another's pain, Th'unfpeling for his own. 06 Yet, ah I why should they know their fate? -'- ■' ; ■ Since sorrow never comes too late. And happiness too swiftly flies, - Thought would destrby their paradise. No more;— where ignorance is bliss, 100 'Tis folly to be wise. ' HYMN TO ADVERSITY 17J,2 1748 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, "' Thoii tamer of the human breast. Whose iron scourge and tort 'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best !, 6 Bound in thy adamantine chain, ' The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan ' With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth 10 Virtue, his darling child, de^gn 'd. To thee he gave the heav 'nly birth, And bade to form her infant mind. Stem, fugged nurse ! thy rigid lore With patience many a! year she bore; 15 What sorrow wafe, thou bad 'st her know,* And from her own she learn 'd= to melt at others' woe. Sear'd at thvfrown terrific, fly Self-pltjasmg Folly 's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, _ , 20 And leave us leisure to be good. THOMAS GRAY 59 Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe ; By vain Proapeyity reeeiv 'd, > ' To her they vow their truth, and are : algain believ'd. ■ ' . i 25 Wisdom in sable garb arrSty'd, Immers'd in rapt'rous thought pro- ' found. And Melancholy, silent maid, ' With leaden eye that loves the ground, , ' Still on thy stflemri' steps' attend; 30 Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend. With Justice, to herself severe. And Pity, dropping soft the sadly- pleasing tear. Oh! gently, on thy suppliant 'sh^ad. Dread goddess, lay thy ehast'ning band! ■35 Not in thy Gorgon^ terrors cliad. Not circled with the vengeful band^ (As by the impious thou art seen), With thund'ring voice, and threat 'ning mien, With screaming Horror's fun'ral cry, 40 Despair, and fell Disease, and, ghastly Poverty: Thy form benigii, 0. goddess, wear; Thy milder influence impart; Thy philosophic train be there ., To soften, not to wound, my heart. 45 The gen 'rous spark extinct revive;; Teach me to love, and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, ; What others are to feel, and know my- self a man. ELEaT WBITTBN IN A COITNTEY CHUECH YARD 17J,Z-S0-. 1751 The curfew tolls the knell of parting, day; The lowing hetd winds slowly p'er the lea; The ploughman homeward iplods. his weary way, ' ' And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 6 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, » death-dealing (See Glossary.) » iPne Furies. Save where the beetle wheels his droning ■ flight. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that f roin yonder ivy-mantled tow 'r, 10 ! The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such ,as, wand 'ring near her : secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- , tree's shade, WHere' heaves 'the turf in many a ''' ' ' mould 'ring Keap, , 15 Each in his narrow cell forever laid. The rude^ forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt 'ring from the straw- - built shed; The cock's shrill clari&n, or the echoing - ' horn, ' ' ' ■ 20 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed> For them no more the blazing htearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her -fevening care ; ; No children run to lisp their sire's re- turn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 25 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe^ has broke: 'How; jocund -^id they drive their team afield! ,,;,Hpw,,bow'd the woods bgneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful, toil, 30 Their homely joys,, and destiny ob- scure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful ' smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry,' the pomp of pow 'r, -. . , , And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, - ' simple-living a sod 'high descent 60 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEERUNNERS 35 Awaits alike th ' inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o 'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault ^^ The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied^ urn, or animated^ bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke^ the silent dust. Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of i Death? ^ Perhaps in this neglected' spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celes- ,,: tial fire;, -i Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak 'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their' eyes her ample page, 50 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne 'er unroll ; Chill Penury repress 'd their noble rage,* And froze the- geaiaP current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 55 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden that with daunt- less breast, The little tyrant , of his fields with- stood, Some, mute inglorious Milton, hers may rest, so Some Cromwell guiltless of his coun- try's blood." Th' applause of list'nifig senates to command^ The threats of pain and ruin to de- spise, • To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, ,/ S5 Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib 'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes ;, , ,-...i confined, ,., ,| ,; , Forbad to wade thro ' slaughter to a throne, • And shut the gates of mercy on man- kind, ,, , The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, ''" 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 ; . . , , y5 Alpng the cool sequester 'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to pro- tect, ,„ Some ' frail memorial ' still^ erected high. With uncouth^ rhymes and shapeless • sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a. sigh. 80 Their name, their years, spelt by th' un- letter'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 re- ^ , sign'd, , ; Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, ., ,, , Nor cast one longing, ling 'ring look behind ? 1 Inscribed with a story ^lifelike ^ - ; ' arouse ; call forth * enthusiasm f warming ; giving life ° In the -, eighteenth century, Cromwell was i regarded as one who had sacrificed his country to h 1 s ambition. See 1. 67. 90 Oh some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye re- quires ; • always ; habitually ' strange; odd THOMAS GRAY 61 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature Fair Science frown'd' not on his'huinble cries, , • i birth, ' ' ' E'en in our ashes live their ' ■fronted ^^o. ^^^ Melancholy mark'd him for, her fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhontor'd .dead, ■ -i, ^ " ■''' Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, ; '5 If dianee,^ by lonely. Contemplation led. Some, kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,— Large was his bounty, a:hd his soul' sin- cere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: I • , , '" He gave to Mis 'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas eiII he wish'd) a friend. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 125 vr f„rther seek his Tnprl+'« to rli«,.lnsp .'fOft have we seen him atthe .peei> of • ''•'o^dli^^'slraiLrftmVtfdrld ,abpde, .i' ., ! ' -: ' dawn Brushing with tasty steps the' dews : away, ; 100 To me^t; the sun upon the upland lawn. "There, at, tie foot of yonder nodding b.eech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so, high, : ; Sis listless length at noontide would he I stretch, . ,- ,, '; And pore upon the brook- that babbles 105 < 'Hard by 'y6n wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt 'ring 'his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one for- lorn, Or eraz'd with care, or cross 'd in hopeless love. "One morn I- miss 'd him on the ens- lO.j^ow rolling' down the steep amain, 11(1 A I *°^-i, k J u- f ' > -^ Headlong, impetuous, see, it pour; 110 Along the heath, and near his fav'rite Thejroeks. and: nodding groves rebfe'llow tree; , ., . to the roar. r . Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, inor at the wood was 1.2 lie; , .,; . Oh! sov 'reign of the willing soul, ' "The next, with dirges due, in sad arrav ■ -^""''^airs '""""* ^""^ solemn-breathing ^^*"^.*i'?"£\-^L*'''_!'''^"'^^^ P^*^ ^^ '^ Enchanting shell !,= the. sullen Cares ,rv. «™a ^^^^ frantic, Passions hear thy soft (There they alike in trembling hope repose), , : : The bosom of his Father and his God. THE PROGRESS OF POESY 17 5J, 1757 Awake, ^olian lyre,'^^ awake, ,1 And give to rapture all thy trembling strings ! From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress ..,. . . take; ' .;. < ' " 5 The laughing flowers tha* round them ,i.i'i,:,,_ i.iblow, ,. I ■■> :■ iw? Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along. Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden saw hiin borne :— 11^ Approach and i'ead (for thp.u can'st read) the" lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."!' THE EPITAPH Her& rests his head upon the lap of Earth , , i A youth, to Fortune and to Fame un- known: ; !, 1 perchance ^ hawthorn tree control. On Thraeia 's hills the Lord of War^ Has curb'd the fury of his car. And dropt his thirsty lance at thy com- mand. , , , ,., ..! 1 Invoked here as the-eqMvalent of poetry in the lighter and softer moods, like that of Pindar the farrjous Greek lyric poet, of iEoIia, Asia Minor.. ■ ■ 1 ' ■ : - ' . f . 2 The first lyre is said to have been made from a tortoise shell. , "Mnrs, whose "favorite haunt was said to be Thrace. 62 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY I'OBEEUNNEKS 2" Perching on the scept'red hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather 'd king^ With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; Quench 'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. I. 3 25 Thee, the voice, the dance, obey. Temper 'd to thy warbled lay. 'er Idalia 's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day; 3" With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleas- ures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating. Now in circling troops they meet; To brisk notes in cadence beating, 35 Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's ap- proach declare : Where'er she turns, the Graces hom- age pay. With arms sublime,^ that float upon the air. In gliding state she wins her easy way; 40 O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. II. 1 Man's feeble race what ills await! Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, 45 And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond' complaint, my song, disprove. And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night and all her sickly dews, 50 Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to* range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion 's march they spy, and glitt 'ring shafts of war. II. 2 In climes beyond the solar road, 65 Where shaggy forms o 'er ice-built moun- tains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom '^JoTe's eagle. » uplifted ' foolish * allows to To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, *o She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet. Their f eather-cinctur 'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves. Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame, ^5 Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. II. 3 Woods, that wave o 'er Delphi 's steep. Isles, that crown th' Mgean deep. Fields, that cool Ilissus laves. Or where Maeander's amber waves ^O In lingering lab'rinths creep. How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish ? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath 'd around; ■^5 Ev'ry shade and hallow 'd fountain . Murmur 'd deep a solemn sound; Till the sad Nine, in Greece 's evil hour,^ Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, ^0 And cowar^ Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost. They sought, Albion, next, thy sea- encircled coast. III. 1 Far from the sun and summer-gale. In thy green lap was Nature's darling^ laid, 85 What time, where lucid Avon stray 'd. To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch 'd forth his little arms and smil 'd, "This pencil take," she said, "whose colors clear '0 Richly paint the vernal year. Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy ! This can unlock the gates of Joy ; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. ' ' III. 2 85 Nor second he,' that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, •When Grecian ciyll- the second century Izatlon declined be- B.' C. fore the rising pow- - ' Shakspere. er of Rome, during ' Milton. THOMAS GEAY 63 The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He , ,pass 'd the ;Qaming bounds of . Place and Time: The living, throne, tie sapphire blaze, 100 Where angels tremble .while they gaze, He saw ; but, Ijlasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night.! ,: Behold, where Dryden's less presump- tuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear . ^"5 /Two coursers of. ethereal raee,^ r With necks in thunder cloth 'd, and long- resounding pace! HI. 3 Hark ! his hands the lyre explore : , Bright-eyed Fancy, hov 'ring o'er. Scatters if roni her pietur 'd urn ; i ; 110 Thoughts that breathe, and words that .burn. But ah ! 'tis heard no more ! Oh,!; Ijrre jiivine, what daring spirit^ Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pri^e, nor ample pinion, 115 That the Theban Eagle^ bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro ' the azure deep of air : Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such, , forms as .glitter in the Muse's ray, 120 With Oi^ient* hues, unbprrow!d, ofi-'the sun : ; i Yet shall he mount, and keep his dis- tant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. Beneath the good' how f ar-^but far above the great. THE BARD nsJt-sy 1757 I. 1 "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!^ , (^Oja:f usion' on thy banners wait ; Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, :,,;,, ;•, They mock the. air with' idle state. 5 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. Nor e 'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail • ■ iTo 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 1 "Meant to express the stately ta a r c h and soQndlng en- ergy o f Dryden'? rhymes." — Gray. 'Gray himself. 'Pindar, who com- pares himself to an , eagle In Olympian Odea, 2, 159. * bright, like tho East 'Edward I. • destruction 10 Of the first Edward scatter "d wild dismay, ' As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long ari'ay. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speech- less trance; • ' ' ' To arms ! ' 'cried Mortimer, and couch 'd his quiv'ring lance. I. 2 15 On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming fiood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair 20 Stream 'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) ,' And with a master's: hand, and proph- et's fire. Struck the deep sorrows of his lyrei: "Hark, how each giant-oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice be- 1 ■■- neath! 25 'er thee, oh King ! their hundred arms they wave,, Revpnge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, ' Vocal n6 more, since Cambria's fatal ' -day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llew- ellyn's lay. I. 3 "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 30 That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed ; ' Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his clotid-topt head. *5 On dreary Arvon's shore they lie. 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, *0 Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heai;t, , Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— INo more I weep. They do not sleep ! On yonder, cliffs," a griesly band, *5 I see them sit ;• they linger yet. 64 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOKEEUNNEES 50 60 Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. II. 1 "Weave the warp,^ and weave the woof, The winding-sbeet of Edward's race; Give ample room, and verge^ enough The characters of bell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright 55 The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley'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 coun- try hangs The scourge of Heav'n.' What Terrors round him wait ! Amazement" in his van, with Flight combin'd. And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. II. 2 "Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 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? '"' Gone to salute the rising mom.' 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. 65 II. 3 "Fill high the sparkling bowl; The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : ^o 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? ^5 Long years of havoc urge their des- tined course. And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. YiB towers of Julius,^ London's lasting shame. With many a foul and midnight murther fed. Revere his consort's^ faith, his father's* fame, ^^ And spare the meek usurper's® holy head! Above, below," the rose of snow, Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread -J The bristled Boar* in infant-gore ' Wallows beneath the 'thorny shade. 85 Now, brothers, bending o 'er th ' accursed loom, ■ 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.' 100 (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn I In yon bright track, that fires the west- ern skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 105 But oh! what solemn scenes on Snow- don's height, 1 The warp is the threads extended lengthwise in the loom in weaving ; the woof is the threads that cross the warp. ' space 2 Edward II, who was murdered in Berk- ley Castle. * Isabel of France, the adulterous queen of Edward II. 'Edward III, who scourged France. " confusion ' The Black Prince, who did not live to succeed his father. 8 Richard II. 1 The Wars of the Roses. "The Tower of Lon- don, part of which was said to have been built by Julius Caesar. " Margaret of Anjou. 'Henry V. « Henry VI, who was deposed in 1461. ' That is, in the loom. ' The white and the red roses, emblems of the Houses of York and Lancaster, were united by the marriage of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. ' Richard III, whose badge was a silver boar, and who mur- dered the two young sons of Edward IV, who stood between him and the throne ' •Eleanor, queen of Edward I, lost her life In Saying her husband's by suck- ing the poison from a dagger-wound. THOMAS GEAY 65 Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aciiiiig sight!' Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.^ 110 All hail, 3'e genuine kings," Britannia's issue, hail! ' III. 2 "Girt with many a baron bold Sublime^ their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. 115 In the midst a form divine !* . Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line ; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper 'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 120 What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; They breathe a so^l to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, , . Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many- color 'd wings. ni. 3 125 <'The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drfest.^ In buskin 'd° measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 130 With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.'' A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear;* And distant' warblings lessen on my ear. That, lost in long futurity, expire. 135 Fond° impious man, think 'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Rais'd by thy breath, has quench 'd the orb of day? Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood. »It W4S predicted and commonly be- lieved that King Arthur would re- turn from fairy- land to reign over Britain, "The House of Tudor, which was of Welsh blood. •lifted up in remem- bering the lasty the other in expecting the future carnival. We cannot well subsist upon such slender diet, no more than upon 35 an execrable Italian comedy, and a pup- pet-show, called Rappresentazione d'un anima dannata/ which, I think, are all the present diversions of the place ; except the Marquise de Gavaillac 's Conversa-l ^ zione, where one goes to see people play at ombre and taroc, a game with seventy- two cards all painted with suns and moons and devils and monks. Mr. Walpole has been at court; the family are at present 45 at a country palace, called La Venerie. The palace here in town is the very quintessence .'of gilding and looking-glass; inlaid' floors, carved panels, and painting, wherever they could stick a brush. I own 50 I have not, as yet, anywhere met with those grand and simple works of, art that are to' amaze one, and whose sight one is to :be the better for; but those of Nature- have astonished me beyond expression. 55 In our little journey up to the Grande Chartreuse, I do not remember to have *cqstom-house officers ' Representation of a ■ lost soul; gone ten paces without an exclamation, that there was no restraining: not a prec- ipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion ajid poetry. There are certain scenes that would awe an atheist into beli,ef, without the help of other argument. One need not have a very fantastic imagination to see spirits there at noon-day. You have Death per- petually before your eyes, only so far removed as to compose the mind without frighting it. I am well persuaded St. Bruno was a man of - no common genius to choose such a situation for his retire- ment, and perhaps should have been a disciple of his, had t been bprn in his tirne. You may believe Abelard and Heloise were not forgot upon this occa- sion. If I do not mistake, I saw you. too every now and then at a distance along the trees^ il me semble, que^ j'ai vu ce chie/n de visage Id, quelque part.^ You seemed to call to me . from the other side of the precipice, but the noise of the river below was so great, that I really could not distinguish what you said; it seemed to have a cadence like verse. In your next you will be so good to let me know what it was. The week we have since passed among the Alps has not equalled the single day upon that moun- tain, because the winter was rather too far advanced, and the weather a little foggy. However, it did not want its beau- ties; the savage rudeness of the view is inconceivable without seeing it. I reck- oned in one day thirteen casca,des, the least of which was, I dare say, one hun- dred, feet in height. I had Livy in the chaise with me, and beheld his "Nives coslo prQpe immistcE, teota informia im- posita rupibuSj pecora jun^entaqiie torrida frigore,. homines intonsi and inculti, ani- malia inanimaque omnia rigentia gelu; omnia oonfragosa, praruptaque."^ The creatures that inhabit them are, in all respects, below humanity; and most of them, especially women, hay? the tu- midum guttur,^ which they call ; ^oscia. Mont Cenis, I confess, carries the permis- sion mountains have of being frightful rather too, far; and its horrors were ae- Mt seems to me that I bare seen that dog-face somewhere , , ' Snows almost mingling with the sky, the shape- less huts situated on the cliffs, the cattle and , beasts of burden withered by the cold, the men unshorn a:nd wildly dreSsed, all things — animate and lnanimate^^stlffened with frost, everythlne broken and jagged.^Llyy, History oj Rome, " swollen throat THOMAS 6EAY 71 eompanied with too much danger to give one titae to reflect ,upbn their beauties. There is a family of the Alpine monsters I have inentioned, tipon its very top, that in the middle of winter calmly lay in their 5 stock of provisions and firing, and so are buried in their hut for a month or two under the snow. When we were down it, and got a little way into Piedmont, we began to find "Apneas quosdam colles, lo rivosque prope sylvas, and jam humano bultu digniora loca."^ I redd Silius Itali- cus too, for the first time; and wished for you, according to custom. We set out fot' Genoa in two days' time. 15 To Horace Walpolb [J760.] I am so charmed with the two speci- mens of Erse poetry,^ that I cannot help giving you the trouble to enquire a little 20 farther about them, and should wish to see a few lines of the original,, that I may form some Slight idea of the language, the measures, and the rhythm. Is there anything known of the author 25 or authors, and of what antiquity are they supposed to be? Is there any more to be had of equal beauty, or at all ap- proaching to itf I have been often told that the poem ealledi Uardicanute (which so I always admired and still admire) was the work of somebody that lived a few years ago. This I do not at all believe, though it has evidently been retouched in places by some modern hand: but however, I am 35 authorized by this teport to ask whether the two poems in question are certainly antique ahd genuine. I make this enquiry in quality of an antiquary, and am not otherwise con- cerned about it: for, if I were sure that 40 any one now living in Scotland had writ- ten them to divert himself, and laugh at the credulity of the world, I would under- take a" jpufney into the Highlands only for the pleasure of seeing him. 45 To Richard Stonehewer London, June 23, 1760.. I have received another Scotch packet with a third specimen, inferior in kind 1 Some sunnv Mljs and ^IvuletS- flowing beside woods, and scenes more worthy the abode of man.-i^Livy, Hietary of Borne, 21 :37. . , ' , ' » Specimens of the Ossianlc poems, which Mac- pheVson declared he had collected in the Scot- tish Highlands, and had translated from the Gaelic or Tlrse language. 50 (because it, is merely description), but yet full of nature and noble wild imagi- nation. Five bards pass the night at the castle of a chief (himself a principal bard) ; each goes out in his turn to Observe the face of things, and returns with an extem|)ore picture of the changed he has seen; it is an October night (the harvest- month of the Highlands). This is the whole "plan ; yet ' there is a eontrivancfe, and a prepar9,tion of ideas, that you would not expect. The oddest thing is, that every one of them sees ghosts (more or less). The idea that struck and sur- prised me most, is the following. One of them (descHbing a storm of wind and rain) says— ' ' ' Ghosts ride on the tempest tonight : Sweet is their voice between the gusts of winfl ; Their songs are of other worlds! Did you never observe (while rocking winds are piping loud"^) that pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the, ear in a shrill and' plaintive note, li)ie the swell of an .^olian harp? I do as- sure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit. Thomson had an ear sometimes: he was not deaf to this; ,and has described it gloriously, but given it another different turn, 'and of more liOrror. I , cannot repeat the lines: it is in his "Winter."^ , There is another very fine picture in one of them. It describes the breaking of the clouds after the storm before it is settled into a calm, and when the moon is seen by short intervals. The waves are tumbling on the lake, And lash the rock.y sides. The boat is brim-full' in the cove. The oars on the rocking tide. Sad sits a maid beneath a cliS, And eyes the rolling stream ; , Her Lover promised to come, She saw his bqat (when it was evening) on the lake ; Are these his groans in the gale? Is this Ms iroJcen boat on the shoreP To Thomas Whaeton [July, 1760.1 If you' have' seen Stonehewerj he has probably told^ you of my old Scotch (or rather' Irish) poetry. I am gone mad about them. They are said to be transla- tions, (literal and in prose) from the Erse tongue, done by one Maepherson, a young 1 ri Pensero((o, 1,26. 2 See 11. 67-71 ; 149-52 ; 175-201. ' ■ "These lines were published in a note ,t^, Maepher- son' s Oroma. 72 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEEEUNNEES clergyman in the Highlands. He means to publish a collection he has of these specimens of antiquity; but what plagues me is, I cannot come at any certainty on that head. I was so struck, so extasie^ b with their infinite beauty, that I writ into Scotland to make a thousand enquiries. The letters I have in return are ill wrote, ill reasoned, unsatisfactory, calculated (one would imagine) to deceive one, and lo yet not cunning enough to do it cleverly. In short, the whole external evidence would make; one believe these fragments (for so he calls them, though nothing can be more entire) counterfeit ; but the inter- is nal is so strong on the other side, that I am resolved to believe them genuine, spite of the devil and the kirk. It is impossible to convince me that they were invented by the same man that writes me these 20 letters. On the other hand, it is almost , as hard to suppose, if they are original, that he should be able to translate them so admirably. What can one do? Since Stonehewer went, I have received another 25 of a very different and inferior kind (being merely descriptive), much more modern than the former (he says), yet very old too. This too in its way is ex- tremely iine. In shorty this man is the 30 very dsemon of poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid for ages. The Wejch poets are also coming to light. I have seen a discourse in MS. about them (by one Mr. Evans, a clergyman) with speci- 35 mens of their writings.; This is in Latin, and though it don't approach the other, there are fine scraps among it 40 To The Eeverend William Mason Pembroke Hall, August 7, 1760. The Erse fragments have been published five weeks ago in Scotland, though I had them not (by a mistake) till the other day. ^5 As you tell me new things do not reach you soon at Aston, I inclose what I can; the rest shall follow, when you tell me whether you have not got the pamphlet already. I send the two which I had before, BO for Mr. Wood; because he has not the affec- tation of not admiring. I continue to think them genuine, though my reasons for believing the contrary are rather stronger tha:n ever: but I will have them antique. 56 for I never knew a Scotchman of my own time th!at could read, much less w:rite, poetry ; and such poetry too ! I have one » enraptured (from Mr. Macpherson) which he has not printed: it is mere description, but excellent, too, in its kind. If you are good, and will learn to admire, I will tran- scribe it. As to their authenticity, I have made many enquiries, and have lately procured a letter from Mr. David Hume (the his- torian), which is more satisfactory than anything I have yet met with on that subject. He says— "Certain it is that these poems are in everybody 's mouth in the Highlands, have been handed down from father to son, and are of an age beyond all memory and tradition. Adam Smith, the celebrated professor in Glasgow, told me that the piper of the A.rgyleshire Militia repeated to him all of those which Mr. Macpherson had translated, and many more of equal beauty. Major Mackay (Lord Eae's brother) told me that he remembers them perfectly well; as likewise did the Laird of Macfarlane (the greatest antiquarian we have in this country), and who insists strongly on the historical truth as well as the poetical beauty of these productions. I could add the Laird and Lady Macleod, with many more, that live in different parts of the Highlands, very remote from each other, and could only , be acquainted with what had become (in a manner) national works. There is a country sur- geon in Lochaber who has by heart the entire epic poem^ mentioned by Mr. Mac- pherson in his preface; and, as he is old, is perhaps the only person living that knows it all, and has never committed it to writing, we are in the more haste to recover a monument which will certainly be regarded as a curiosity in the republic of letters: we have, therefore, set about a subscription of a guinea or two guineas apiece, in order to enable Mr. Macpherson to undertake a mission into the High- lands to recover this poem, and other frag- ments of antiquity." He adds, too, that the names of Fingal, Ossian, Oscar, etc., are still given in the Highlands to large mastiffs, as we give to ours the names of Caesar, Pompey, Hector, etc. To The Eeverend "William Mason 1765. Bes est sacra miser' (says the poet), but I say it is the happy man that is the sacred thing, and therefore let the profane • Fingal. ° A wretched person Is a sacred object. THOMAS GRAY 73 keep their distance. He is one of Lucre- tius' gods, supremely blessed in the con- templation of his own felicity, and what has he to do with worshippers? This, mind, is the first reason why I did not come to York: the second is, that I do not love confinement, and probably by next summer 'may be pei^mitted to touch whom, and where, and with what I think fit, without giving you any offence : the third and last, and not the least perhaps, is, that the finances were at so low an ebb that I could not exactly do what I wished, hut was obliged to come the shortest road to town and recruit them. I do not justly know what your taste in reasons may be, since you altered your condition, but t;here is the ingenious, the petulant, and the duU; for you any one would have done, for in my conscience I do not believe you care a halfpenny for any reasons at pres- ent; so God bless ye both, and give ye all ye wish, when ye are restored to the use of your wishes. I am returned froih Scotland charmed with my expedition ; it is of the High- lands I spekk; the Lowlands are worth seeing once, but the mountains are ec- static, and oflght to be visited in pilgrim- age once a year. None but those mon- strous Creatures of God knew how to join so much beauty with so much horror. A fig for your poets, painters, gardeners, and dlergymen, that have not been among them; their imagination can be made of nothing but bowliiig-greens, flowering shrubs, horse-ponds, Fleet ditches, shell grrottoes, and Chinese rails.^ Then I had so so beautiful an autumn, Italy could hardly produce a nobler scene, and this so sweetly contrasted with that perfection of nasti- ness, and total -want of/ accommodation, that Scotland only can supply. Oh, you would have blessed yourself. I shall cer- tainly go again ; what a pity it is I can- not draw, nor describe, nor ride on horse- back. Stonehewer is the busiest creature upon earth except Mr. Fraser ; they stand pretj;y tight, for all his Royal Highness. Have you read (oh nb, I had forgot) Dr. Lowth's pamphlet against your uncle the Bishop ? Oh, how he works him. I hear he will soon be on the same bench. Today Mr. Hurd came to see me, but we had not a word of that matter; he is ^own pure 1 Terms similar to those used by Mason In his poetry, and indicating popular architectural ornaments of the 18th century. and plump, just of the proper breadth for a celebrated town-preacher. There was Dr. Balguy too ; he says Mrs. Mason is very handsome, so you are his ' f riehd B forever. Lord Newnham, I hear, has ill' health of laJte ; it is a nervous case, so hav6 a care. How do your eyes do? Adieu: my respects to the bride. I would kiss her, but you stand by and 10 pretend it is not the fashion, thougk I know they do so at Hull.— I am ever yours, ■ T. G. ' 15 From JOURNAL IN THE LAKES 1769 mo Sept. 30, 1769. ... On the ascent of the hill above Appleby the thick hang- ing wood and the long reaches of the Eden (rapid, clear, and full as evel') wind- 20 ing below with views of the castle and town, gave much employment to the mit-^ ror; but the sun was wanting and the sky overcast. , . . In the afternoon -v^ralked up the Beacon-hill a mile to the top, saw 25 Whinfi^ld and Lqwther Parks, ahd through an opening in the bosom of that cluster of mountains, which the Doctor well re- members, the lakfe of Ulz-watef; with the craggy tops of a hundred nameless' hills. 30 ■' ' ' M . ' , October 3. Wind at S. E. ; a heavenly day; Eose at 7, and walked out under the conduct of my landlord to.Borrodale. The grass was covered with a hoar frost, 3S which soon melted, and exhaled in a thin blueish smoke. Crossed the liieadows obliquely, catching a diversity of views among the hills over the lake and islands,' and changing prospect at every ten paces ;' 40 left Cockshut and Castlehill (which we • formerly mounted) behind me, and drew near the foot of Walla-crag, whose bare and rffcky brow, cut perpendicularly down above 400 feet, as I guess, awfully over-' 45 looks the way; Our path here tends to the left, and the ground gently rising,'' and covered with a glade of scattering trees and hushes on the very margin of the' watet, opens both ways tlie most delicious 50 view, that my eyes ever beheld. Behind you are the magnificent heights of Walla-' crag; opposite lie the thick hanging woods of Lord. Egremont, and Ijfewland valley, with green and smiling fields embosomed BS in the dark cliffs; to the left the jaws of Borrodale, with that turbulent chaos of mountain behind mountain^ rolled' ip con'-' fusion; beneath you, and stretching far away to the right, the shining ^■lirity of 74 EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY EOBEBUNNEBS the Lake, just ruffled by the breesze, enough to shew it is alive, reiieeting rocks, woods, fields, and inverted tops of mountains, with the white buildings of Keswick, Crosthwait church, and Skiddaw for a 5 background , at a distance. Oh! Doctor! I never wished more for you; and pray think, how the glass played its part in such a spot, which is called Carf-close- reeds; I choose to set down these bar- lo barous names, that any body may enquire on the place, and easily find the particu- lar station, that I mean. This scene con- tinues to Borrow-gate, and a little far- ther, passing a brook called Barrow-beck, 15 we entered Borrodale. The crags, named Lodoor-banks, now , bpgin to impend ter- ribly over your way; and more terribly, when you hear, that three years since an immense mass of rock tumbled at once 20 from the brow, and barred aU access to the dale (for this is the only road) till they could work their way through it. Luckily no one was passing at the time of this fall; but down the side of the 25 mountain, and far into the lake lie dis- persed the huge fragments of this ruin in all shapes and in all , directions. Some- thing farther we turned aside into a cop- pice, ascending a little in front of Lodoor 30 waterfall, the height appears to be about 200 feet, the quantity of water not great, though (these days excepted) it had rained d^ily in the hills for nearly two months before : but then the stream was nobly 35 broken, leaping from, rock to rock, and foaming with fury. On one side a tower- ing crag, that spired up to equal, if not overtop, the neighbciring cliffs ^this lay all in shade and darkness) on the other 40 hand a rounder broader projecting hill shagged with wood and illumined by the sun, which glanced sideways on the upper part of the cataract. The , force of the w:ater wearing a deep channel in the 45 ground hurries away to join the lake. We descended again, and passed the stream over a rijde bridge. Soon after we came und,^r Gowd^r, crag, a hill more formid- able to the eye and to the apprehension 50 than that of Lodoor; the rocks a-top, deep-cloven perpendicularly by the rains, hanging loose and nodding forwards, seem just starting from their base in shivers; the whole way down, and the 55 road on both sides is strewed with piles of the fragments strangely thrown across each other, and of a dreadful bulk. The place reminds one of those passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above, and bring, down a mass, that; would overwhelm a caravan. I took their counsel here and hastened on in silence. ... . Walked leisurely home the way we came, but , saw a new landscape : the features indeed were the same in part, but many new ones were disclosed by the midday sun, and the tints were entirely changed. Take notice this was the best or perhaps the, only (lay for going up Skid- daw, but I thought it better employed: it was perfectly serene, and hot as mid- summer. In the evening walked alone down to the Lake by the side, of Crow-Park after sun-set and saw the solemn coloring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hill-tops, the deep serene of the waters, and the long shadows of the moun- tains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At distance heard the murmur of many . waterfalls not audible in the day-time. Wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and^silent, hid in her vacant interlunar cave. October 8. Past by the little , cliapel of Wiborn, out of which the Sunday congregation were then issuing. Past a beck near Dunmailraise and entered Westmoreland a second, time, now begin to see Helm-crag distinguished from its rugged neighbors not so . much by its height, as by the strange broken outline of its top, like some gigantic building de- molished, and the stones that composed it flung across ea,ch other in wild confusion. Just beyond it opens one of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imitate. The bosom of the mountains spreading here into a broad basin discov- ers in the midst Gi^asmere-water ; its mar- gin is hollowed into small bayswi^h bold eminences: some of them rocks, some of' soft turf that half conceal and vary the figure of the little lake they command. From the shore a low promontory pushes itself far into the water, and on it stands a white village with the parish-church rising in the midst of it, hanging enclo- sures, corn-fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees an^ hedges, and cattle fill up the w;hole space from the edge of the water. Just opposite to you is a large farm-house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn embosomed in old THOMAS WAETON 75 woods, which climh h^lf way up the moun- tain's side, and discover above them a broken line of crags, that crown the scene. Not a single red tile, no flaming gentle- man's house, or , garden walls break in upon the repose of this little unsjispected paradise, but all is peace, rusticity, and happyi poverty in its neatest, most becom- ing attire. THOMAS WARTON (1728-1790) From THE PLKASUEES OF MELAN- CHOLY 17i'5.: 1747 Mother of musings, i Contemplation Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock , , Of Teneriff ; 'raid the tempestuous night. On which, in calmes); mediation held, 5 Thou hear 'st with howUng winds the beating rain i . , , , ■ And drifting hail, descend;, or if the skies , j^ , TJnclouded shine, and thro' the 'blue serene . Pale Cynthia ,rolls her silver-axled car, , Whejjce gazing sfcedfast on the spangled vault ,. ' ,,, ■ 1* Raptur'd, thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct , v Of distant billows sooth thy ipepsive , With hoarse , and , hollow, sounds; secure, self-ble^t, ■ ; , . There oft thou listen 'st to 'the wild up- roar _ '. •J Of fleets encount 'ring7 that in whispers low 15 Ascends .^the . rocky summit, where thou dwell 'sf .( , , - Remote from marl, conversing with the , spheres ! • ; j lead nie, queen sublime, ,tp solemn I glooms ^ ,, r- * Congenial with my soul ; to cheerless ,, shades, ,. ,. • i To ruin'd seats, to twilight .cells ; and bow'rs, • y.r. 20 Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse. Her f av 'rite midnight haunts. The laugh- ing scenes Of purple Spring-, 'where all the wanton train il Of Smiles and Graces seeni tp lead the dance In sportive round, while from their hand they show'r .25 Ambrosial blooms anfi flow 'rs, no longer charm ; ! ,,Tempe, no more I court; thy balmy breeze, ^ ildiifu green yales! ye braider 'd meads, 'adieu! .,) Beneath yon ruined abbey 's; moss-grown piles Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, ^0 Where through some western window the pale moon : • : . ; ■ , Pours . her ,long-levelIed rule of stream- ing light, 1 While s,ulle4, sacred silence reigns around, Save the lone screech-owl's note, who , !., , . builds, his bow'r. Ami4 the mould 'ring caverns dark and damp, ^5 Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leaves Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green Invests some wasted tow 'r. ■ Or let me ■' tread - ' " ''- ■"' ' Its neighb'ring walk of pinfes,' where mused of old The cloistered brothers : through the . ' ''gloomy void *" That far -extends beneath their ample ' , ■' > . arch'' ■;...' As on I pace, religious horror wraps My soul in dread repose. But when the world Is clad in midnight's raven-eoiored robe, 1.1:1:' ' 'Mid hollow ieharnel let me watch the flame *5 Ofittiper dim, shedding a livid glare '' O'er the wan heaps, while airy voices ■ talk Along the glimm'ring walls, or ghostly ■ ' ' ■ shape, ' ' ' ' ' "' ' At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand My lonesome steps through the ' far- winding 'Vaults. ' 5" Nor undelightful is the solemn iioon Of night, when, haply wakeful, from my couch I start.: lo, all is motionless around ! Roars ;not the rushing' wind; the,, sons of men '' ' Arid, every beast in mute oblivion 11,6; 55 All Nature's hushed in silence ai^d in sleep : then how fearful is it to reflect That through the still globe's awful solitude, ■ , '.' " 76 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBy FOEEBUNNEES No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews. ^^ Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born, My senses lead through flow'ry paths of joy- But let the sacred genius of the night Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw^ When through bewild'ring Taney's magic maze, ^5 To the fell house of Busyrane, he led Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, When in abstracted thought he first con- ceived All heav 'n in tumult, and the seraphim Come tow 'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.2 \ Thro/ Pope's soft song tho' all the Graces breathe. And happiest art adorn his Attic^ page; 1^5 Yet does my mind with sweeter trans- port glow. As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd, In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song* I see deserted Una wander wide Thro' wastefijl solitudes,' and lurid heaths, : .. 160 Weary, forlorn; than when the fated fair Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames Launches in all the lustre of brocade, Amid the splendors of the laughing Sun.° The gay description palls upon the sense, 165 And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. From ODE ON THE APPEOACH OF SUMMEE 1753 Hence, iron-scepter 'd Winter, haste To bleak Siberian waste ! Haste to thy polar solitude; Mid cataracts of ice, S Whose torrents dumb are stretch 'd in fragments rude From many an airy precipice, ^ Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs, Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs, Amid whose howling iles^ and halls, 10 Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls, ' r ft e Faerie Queene, * The Faerie Qu^ene, I, III. 11-12. 3 and 6. * Paradise LQSt, 6, llOi ^Fove; The Rape of •marked by classic th^^I/ODk, 2, Iff. qualities ° aisles On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud Thy brows in many a murky cloud. Haste thee, nymph! and hand in hand, With thee lead a buxom band ; Bring fantastic-footed Joy, 6" With Sport, that yellow-tressed boy: Leisure, that through the balmy sky Chases a crimson butterfly. Bring Health, that loves in early dawn To meet the milk-maid oh the lawn; 65 Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace, Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess ! And that sweet stripling. Zephyr, bring. Light, and forever on the wing. Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean ''" On river-margins, mossy green. But who is she, that bears thy train, Pacing light the velvet plain? The pale pink binds her auburn hair, Her tresses flow with pdstoral air; '^5 'Tis May, the Grace— confest she stands By brdnch of hawthorn in her hands: Lo ! near her trip the lightsome Dews, Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues ;i With whom the pow'rs of Flora play, ^0 And paint with pansies all the way. Oft when thy season, sweetest queen, Has dress 'd the groves' in liv'ry green; When in each fair and fertile field Beauty begins her bow'r to build! 85 While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown, Puts her matron-mantle on. And mists in spreading streams convey More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay: Then, goddess, guide my pilgrim feet Conternplation hoar to meet, 3" As slow he winds in museful mood, Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's flood; Or o 'er old Avon 's magic edge, ' Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge. All playful yet, in years unripe, 95 To frame a shrill arid simple pipe. There thro' the dusk but dimly seen. Sweet ev 'ning-ob.fects intervene : His wattled cotes the shepherd plants, Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants, 100 The woodman, speeding ' home, awhile Rests him at a shady stile. Nor wants there fragrance to dispense Refreshment o'er my soothed sense; Nor tangled woodbine's balmy bloom, 105 Nor grass besprent^ to breathe perfume : Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet To bathe in dew my roving feet: * • colors of the rainbow » sprinkled over THOMAS WARTON 77 . Nor wants there note of Philomel, Nor sound of distant-tingling, bell: no Nor lowings faint of herds remote, Nor mastiff's bark from bosom 'd cot: Rustle the breezes lightly .bpri:te . O'er deep embattled ears of corn: Eound ancient elm,, with humming noise, 115 Full loud tie chaffer-swarms^ rejoice. THE CEUSADE 1777 Bound for holy Palestine, Nimbly we, br^sh'd, the level brine, All in azure steel array 'd; O'er the w^ye our weapons play'd, 5 And made the dancing billows glow; iJigh upon tJie trophied prow, Many a warrior-minstrel swung His sounding harp, and boldly sung: "Syrian virgins, W£|,il iftnd weep, 1' English Richard plows the .deep! Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy From distant towers, with anxious eye, The radiant range of shield and lance Down Damascus' hills advance:' 15 From Sion's turrets as afar , Ye ken the, inarch of Europe's y^axl Saladin, thou paynim king, , , Fy.om Albion's isle revenge we bring! On Aeon's spiry citadel, 20 Thpiigh to the gale thy banners swell, Pictur'd with the silver moon; England sh,all end thy glory soon ! In vain, to break our firm array, /fhy brazen drums hoarse discord -bray : 25 Those sounds our rising fury fan : Epglish Richard in the van, On to victory we go, A vaunting infidel the foe. ' ' Blondel le tropical grasslands containing scattered trees In golden cups no costly wine. No murder 'd fatling of the flock, But flowers and honey from the rock. nymph with loosely-flowing hair, 10 With buskin 'd' leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown 'd. Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand, 15 Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow, 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow. Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Thro' air, and over earth and sea, While the vast various landscape lies 20 Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. lover of the desert, hail! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain 's side, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside, 25 'Mid broken rocks,- a rugged scene. With green and grassy dales between. Mid forests dark of aged oak, Ne 'er echoing with the woodman 's stroke. Where never human art appear 'd, 3" Nor ev'n one straw-roof 'd cot was reared, Where Nature seems to sit alone. Majestic on a craggy throne ; Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell. To thy unknown sequest'red cell, 35 Where woodbines cluster round the door. Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor. And on whose top an hawthorn blows. Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, 4" Each evening warbling thee to rest: Then lay me by the haunted stream. Rapt in some wild, poetic dream. In converse while'met'hinks I rove With Spenser through a fairy grove; 45 Till, suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper 'd music in my ear. And my glad soul in bliss is drown 'd By the sweetly-soothing sound! Me, goddess, by thy right hand lead 50 Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court. Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, 55 Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter, rose-lipp'd Hebe, leads; Where Echo walks steep hills among, List'ning to the shepherd's song: / Yet not these flowery fields of joy ^0 Can long my pensive mind employ, V Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, 1 clad in a bnskln, or half-boot JOSEPH WARTON 85 To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; 65 Let us with silent footsteps go To eharnels and the house of woe. To Gothic_cburehes, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some vitgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, ■"^ Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; Or to some abbey 's mould 'ring tow 'rs. Where, to avoid cold wintry show'ts. The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, '5 And trembles lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall. Now let us louder strike the lyre. For my heart glows with martial fire, I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat ; 80 The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, Give me another horse, I cry, Lo! the base Gallib squadrons fly; 85 Whence is this ragel— what spirit, say . : . To battle hurries me away? 'Tis Fancy, in her fiery ear. Transports me to the thickest war. There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, 8" Where Tumult and Destruction reign ; Where mad with pain, the wounded steed Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, 85 And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field. Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! guide me from this horrid scene, To high-arch 'd walks and alkys- green, WMeh lovely Laura seeks to shun i 1"" .The fervors of the mid-day sun^ - The pangs of absence, remove ! / For thou canst place me near my love, ' Canst fold in vision ary blis j. And let me think"! steal a ^iss, 105 While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence! When young-eyed Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose. When the soft turtle of the dale 11* To Summer tells her; tender tale. When Autumn coolingi caverns seeks; And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; When Winter, like poor pilgrim old. Shakes his silver beard with cold; 115 ^t every season let ■ my ear Thy solemn whispers. Fancy, hear. warm, enthusiastic maid. Without thy powerful, vital aid. That breathes an energy divine, 120 That gives, a soul to every line. Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallow'd strain. Nor dare to touch the sacred string. Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing. 125 hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb. On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,, Musing o'er thy darling's gxave; ' queen of numbers, once again 130 Animate some chosen swain, Who, fill 'd- with unexhausted fire. May boldly smite the sounding lyre. Who with some new unequall'd song. May rise above the rhyming throng, 135 O'er all our Jiist'ning passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, AVith terror shake, and pity move, Eouse with revenge, or melt with love, deign t' attend his evening walk, 1^" With him in , groves and grottos talk; Teach him to scorn with, frigid art Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The bosom 's ; inihost foldings, pierce ; 1*5, With native beauties win applause Beyond cold critics 'tstudied laws; let each Muse's fame increase, , bid Britannia rival Greece. From ESSAY ON THE GENIUS AND WEITINGS OF POPE 1756-82 Thus have I endeavored to give a crit- ieaL account, with freedom, but it is hoped with impartiality, of each of Pope's works; by which review it will appear, 6 that the largest portion of them is of the didactic, moral; and satyric 'kind; and consequently, not of the most poetic spe- cies of poetry ; whence it is manifest, that good sense and judgment were his char- 10 acteristical excellencies, rather than fancy and invention: not that the author of The Bwpeof the Lock, and Eloisa,' can be thought to want imagination; but because his imagination was not his predominant 15 talent, because he indulged it not, and be- cause he gave not so many proofs of this talent as of the other. This turn -of mind led him to admire French models; hfe studied Boileau attentively; formed him- 86 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY F0BERUNNEB8 self upon him, as Milton foi'tned himself upon the Grecian and Italian sons of Fancy. He stuck to describing modern manners; but those manners, because they are familiar, uniform, and polished, are, 5 in their very nature, unfit for any lofty effort of the Muse. He gradually became one of the most correct, even, and exact poets that ever wrote ; polishing his pieces with a care and assiduity, that no business 10 or avocation ever interrupted ; so that if be does not frequently ravish and transport his reader, yet he does not disgust him with unexpected inequalities, and absurd improprieties. Whatever poetical enthu- 15 siasm he actually possessed, he withheld and stifled. The perusal of him affects hot our minds with such strong emotions as we feel from Homer and Milton; so that no man of a true poetical spirit, is master 20 of himself while he reads J;hem. Hence, he is a writer fit for universal perusal; adapted to all ages and stations; for the old and for the young ; the man of business and the scholar. He who would think The 25 Faery Queen, Palamon and Arcite, The: Tempest or Comus, childish and romantic, might relish Pope. ' Surely, it is no narrow and niggardly encomium, to say he is the great Poet of Reason, the first of ethical 30 authors in verse. And this species of writing is, after all, the surest road to an extensive reputation. It lieS' more level to the general capacities of men, than the higher flights of more genuine 35 poetry. We all remember when even a Churchill' was more in vogue' than a Gray. He that treats of fashionable follies and the topics of the day, that describes pres- ent persons and recent events, finds many 40 readers, whose understandings and whose passions he gratifies. The name of Ches- terfield on one hand, and of Walpole on the other, failed not to make ' a poem bought up and talked of. And it cannot 45 be doubted that the Odes of Horace which celebrated, and the Satires which ridiculed, well-known and real characters at Rome, were more frequently cited, than the .iEneid and the Georgic of VirgiL so Where then, according to the question proposed at the beginning of this Essay, shall we with justice be ) authorized to place our admired Pope? Not, assuredly, in the same rank with Spenser, Shake- 55 speare, and Milton; however justly we may applaud the Eloisa and Rape of the Lock; but, considering the eorreetnesS, elegance, and utility of his works, the weight of sentiment, and the knowledge of man they contain, we may venture to assign him a place, next to Milton, and just above Dryden. Yet, to" bring our minds steadily to make this decision, we must forget, for a moment, the divine Music Ode of Dryden; and may, perhaps, then be compelled to confess, that though Dryden be the greater genius, yet Pope is the better artist The preference here given to Pope above other modern English poets, it must be remembered, is founded on the excel- lencies of his works in general,, and taken all together ; for there are parts and pass- ages in other modern authors, in Young and in Thomson, for instance, equal to, any of Pope ; and he has written nothing in a strain so truly sublime, as The Bard of Gray. JAMES MACPHERSON (1738-1796) CAETHON: A POEM 1760 , A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days of other years! The murmur of thy streams, O Lora! brings back the memory of the pasti : The sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not behold, Mal- vina, a rock with its head of heath ? Three aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain. grows, and shakes its white head in the .fereeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk in the ground, shew their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty lie, Malvina! in the narrow plain of the roqk. A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of other years! Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him? the sun- beam pours its bright stream before him;- his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening beam that looks from the cloud of the i west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the king of mighty deeds! He beholds his hills with joyj he bids a thousand voices rise. "Ye have fled over your fields; ye sons of the distant land! The king of the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride; he JAMES MACPHEESON 87 takes his father's, ^word^ Ye have ,fle said, "from his rock on ocean's closing mist? 26 His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering on the blast.' Stately are his steps in grief ! The tears are in his eyes ! His manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul! Retire, I am distant far, so • a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids!" . ' ' Soft voice of the streamy' isle, "I said^ 86 "why dost thou mourn by night? The race of daring Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul! Within this bosom is a voice ; it comes not 40 to other ears: it bids Ossian hear the hapless, in their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night! Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock ! " With morning I loosed the king. I 45 gave the long-haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words in the midst of his echo- ing halls. "King of Fuarfed wild, why should Ton-thormod mourn? He is of the race of heroes, and a flame in war. EO Your fathers have been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors! It was the cloud of other 65 years. " Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks were young; though loveli- ness, with a robe of beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! From FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM 1762 Book I CuthulUn sat by Tura's wall; by the tree of the rustling sound. His 'spear leaned against the rock. His shield lay on the grass by his side. Amid his thoughts of mighty Cairbar, a hero slain by the chief in war, the scout of ocean comes, Moran the son of Fithil ! "Arise," says the youth, "CuthulUn, arise. I see the ships of the north! Many, chief of men, are the foe. Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran!" ' ' Moran ! ' ' replied the blue-eyed chief, "thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil!, Thy fears have increased the foe, It is Fingal, king of deserts,, with aid to green Erin- of streams." "I beheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine. His shield the rising moon ! He sat on the shore, like a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named, the mighty man; but many mighty men are seen from Tura 's windy walls. ' ' "He spoke, like a wave on a rock: 'Who in this land appears like me? Heroes stand not in my presence : they fall j;o earth from my hand. Who can meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal, king of Selma of storms ? Once we wrestled on Malmor ; our heels overturned the woods. Rocks fell from their place; rivulets, changing their course, fled murmuring from our side. Three days we renewed the strife; heroes stood at-a distance and trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says that the king of the ocean f eU ! but Swaran says he stood! Let dark Cuthullin yield to him, that is strong as the storms of his land!'" "No!" replied the blue-eyed chief, "I never yield to mortal me^n ! Dark Cuth- ullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rus- tling gate; The sound of peace is not its voice ! My heroes shall hear and obey. ' ' He went. He struck the bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads along the wood: deer start by the lake of JAMES MACPHERSON 93 roes. Curaeh leaps from the sounding rock; and Connal of the bloody spear! Crugal's breast of snow beats high. The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. It is the shield of war, said Ronnar! the 6 spear of Cuthullin, said Lugar ! Son of the sea, put on thy arms ! Calmar, lift thy sounding steel 1 Puno ! dreadful hero^ arise! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla! Bend thy knee, Eth! descend lo from the streams of Lena. Ca-olt, stretch thy: side as thou movest along the whis- tling heath of Mora: thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea, when the dark winds pour it oni rooky 15 Cnthon. . Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former deeds! Their souls are kin- dled at the battles of old; at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames of 20 fire. They roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords, rliightning pours from their sides of steel. They come like streams from the mountains ; each rushes roaring from the 2B hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle, in the armor of their fathers. Gloomy and dark their heroes follow, like the gather- ing of the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven. The sounds of crash- so ing arms ascend. The gray dogs howl be- tween. Unequal bursts the song of battle. Bo&king Cromla echoes round. On Lena's dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn: when broken 35 and dark it settles high, and lifts its head j;o heaven ! "Hail," said Cuthullin, "sons of the narrow vales! hail, hunters of the deer! Another sport is drawing near. It is like 40 the dark rolling of that wave on the coast! Or shall we fight, ye sons of war! or yield green Erin to Lochlin ? Connal ! speak, thou first of men ! thou breaker of the shields! thou hast often fought with 45 Locklin: wilt thou lift thy father's' spear?" "Cuthullin!" calm the chief replied, "the spear of Connal is keen. It de- lights to shine in battle; to mix with the 50 blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin. Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His- mastsj are many on our coast, : like reeds in the 65 lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed with mists, when the 'trees yield by turns to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal would shun his arm, the first of mortal men! Fingal', who scatters the mighty, as stormy winds the heath; when streams roar through echoing Cona: and night settles with all her clouds on the hill!" "Fly, thou man of peace," said Cal- mar;- "fly," said the son of Matha; "go^ Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never brightens in war ! Pursue the dark- brown deer of Cromla: stop with thine arrows the bounding roes of Lena. But, blue-eyed son idf Semo; Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scattei? thou the sons of Loch- lin! roar through the ranks of their pride. Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound on the dark-rolling waves of Ihis- tore. Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise! roar, whirlwinds of* Lara of hinds! Amid the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud, by angry ghosts of men; amid the tem- pest let Calmar die, if ever chases' was sport to him, so much as the battle of shields!" "Calmar!" Connal slow replied, "I never fied, 'young son of Matha ! I was swift with my friends 'in fight; but small is the fame of Connal! The battle was won in my presence; the valiant over- came! Btit, son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the ancient throne of Cormae; Give wealth and half the land for peace, till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword' and spear. My joy shall be in the midst of thousands; my soul shall lighten tltrough the gloom of the fight!"' "To me," Cuthullin replies, "pleasant' is the noise of arms! pleasant as the thunder of; heaven, before the shower of spring! But gather all the shining tribes, that I may view the sons of war! Lef them pass along the heath, bright as the' sunshine befoite a storm; when the west wind collects the clouds, and Morven echoes over all lier oaks! But where are my friends in battle? the supporters of my arm in danger?' Where art thou, white- bosomed Cathba? Where is that cloud in' war, Duch6inar? Hast thou left me, Fergus! in the day of the storm? Fergus, first in our joy at the feast ! son of Rossa ! arm of ^eath!"comest thou like a roe from Msflmor? like a hart from thy echoing^ hills? Hail, thou son of Rossa! what shades the soul of war ? " "Four stones," replied the chief, "rise on the grave of Cathba. These hands have laid in earth Duehomar, that cloud in war! Cathba, son of Torman ! thou wert a siin- 94 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOREEUNNEES beam in Erin. And thou, valiant Dueh- omar! a mist of the marshy Lano, when it moves on the plains of autumn, bearina the death of thousands along. Morna! fairest of maids! calm is thy sleep in the B cave of the rock! Thou hast fallen in darkness, like a star that shoots across the desert, when the traveller is alone, and mourns the transient beam ! ' ' "Say,"' said Semo's blue-eyed son, lo "say how fell the chiefs of Erin. Fell they by the sons of Lochlin, striving, in the battle of heroes? Or what conflneis the strong in arms to the dark and narrow house?" IB "Cathba," replied the herO, "fell by the sword of Duchomar at the oak of the noisy streams. Duchomar came to Tura's cave; he spoke to the lovely Morna. 'Morna, fairest among women, lovely 2fr daughter of strong-armed Cormac! Why in the circle of stones? in the cave of the rock alone? The stream murmurs along. The old tree groans iil the wind. The lake is troubled before thee J dark 25 are the clouds of the sky! But thou art snow on the heath; thy hair is the. mist of Cromla; when it curls on the hill; when it shines to the beam of the west ! Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen 30 from Branno of streams. Thy ; arms, like two white pillars in the halls, of the great Fingal.' " 'From whence,' the fair-haired maid replied, 'from whence, Duchomatr,. most 35 gloomy of men? Dark are thy brows and terrible! Red are thy rolling eyes! Does Swaran appear on the sea? What of the foe, Duchomar?'— 'From the hill I return, Morna, from the hill of , the dark- 40 brown hinds. Three have I slain with my bended yew. Three with my long-bound- ing dogs of the chase. Lovely daughter of Cormac, I love thee as my soul ! , I have slain one stately deer for thee. High was 46 his branchy head; and fleet his feet of wind. '—'Duchomar!' calm the maid re- plied, ' I love thee not, thou gloomy man ! hard is thy heart of rock; dark is thy terrible brow. But Cathba, .young son of so Torman, thou art the love of Morna. Thou art a sunbeam, in the day of the glooniy storm. Sawest thou the son of Torman, lovely on' the hill of his hinds? Here the daughter of Cormac waits the coming of 65 Cathba!' ' " 'Long shall Morna wait,' Duchomar said, 'long shall Morna wait for Cathba! Behold this sword unsheathed! Here wanders the blood of Cathba. Long shall Morna wait. He fell by the stream of Branno ! On Croma I will raise his tomb, daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Turn on Duchomar thine eyes ; his arm is strong as a storm.' — 'Is thfe son of Torman fallen?' said the wildly Tbursting voice of the maid. 'Is he fallen on his echoing hills, the youth with the breast 'of snow? the first in the chase of hinds? the foe of the strangers of ocean? Thou art dark"^ to me, Duchomar, cruel is thine arm to Morna!. Give me that sword, my foe! I love the wandering blood of Cathba!' "He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his manly breast! He fell, like the bank of a mountain-stream, and stretching forth his hand, he spoke : 'Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Thou hast slain me in youth! The sword is cold in my breast! Morna, I feel it cold. Give me to Moina the maid. Duchomar was the dream of her night ! She will raise my tomb; the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword from my breast. Morna, the steel is cold!' She came, in all her tears, she came ; she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced her white side! He spread her fair locks on the ground ! Her bursting blood sounds from her side: her white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs." "Peace," said Cuthullin, "to the souls Of the heroes! their deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around me on clouds. Let them shew their features of war. My soul, shall then be firm in daii.g-er; mine ai-m like the thunder of heaven ! But be thou on a moonbeam, Morna! near the window of my rest; when my thoughts are of peace; when the din of arms is past. Gather the strength of the tribes! Move to the wars of Erin! Attend the car of my battles ! Rejoice in the noise of my course! Place three spears by my side: follow the bounding of my steeds! that my soul may be strong in my friends, when battle darkens round the beams of my steel ! " As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady deep of ' Cromla, when the thunder is travelling above, and dark-brown night sits on half the hill, through the breaches of the tempest look' forth the diin faces of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so ter- 1 "She alludes to his name, the 'dark man'" Macpherson. ■ JAMES MACPHEESON 95 rible, , rushed on , ,the. sons of Erin. The chief, like a wh(^le,qf ocean, -yvhom ,all, his billows pursue, poured valor fovth as a stream, rolling his might along the shore. The sons of Lochlin heard the noise, as the sound of i a winter-storm. ■ .Swaran struck his bo^sy shield : he called the so» of Arno, "What murmur rolls , along the hill, like the gathering flies of the eve? The sons o,f Eriii despeiid^ or rustlii^g -v^inds^ roar in the distant wood ! Such is the noise of Gormai, ; before the ,whit^, tops of: my waves arise. 0,son ,of, Amo! ascend the hill ; , view, .the dark face of the heath ! " i He wpn.t..,He, trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly .round. His heart beat high against his side. His words were, faltering, brpkenj slow. ."A,rise, son of ocean, arise, chief of the dark-brown shields! I ^ee ,the dark, the niountain- stream of battle ! the deep-moving strength, of the^ons of Erm ! The car of war comes on, like the flame of death ! the rapid car of Cuthulliji, the noble son of Semo ! It bends behind like a wave near a rock ; like .the sun- streaked mist of the heath- Its sides are em- bossed; with stones, and sparkle like- the sea round the boat of night. ; Of polished, yew is its beam; .its seat of the, smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears ; the, bottom is the footstool of heroes! Before the r right' side of the car is seen the snorting, horse! the high-maned, broad breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed of the hill. Loud >and resounding is his hoof; the spreading of his mane above is like a stream of smoke on a ridge of roeks.^ Bright are the sides of the steed! his name is Sulin-Sifadda. , : ; "Before^ the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse ! The thin-maned, high- headed, strong-hoofed, fleet,, bounding, son of the hill : his name is Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard pol- ished bits shine in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with gerng,, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The steeds that, like wreaths iof mist, fly over the streamy vales,!,. The. wildness of deer is in their .course, the strength -of eagles descending on the prey. Their noise is like, the ,blast of winter, on the sides of the snowrheaded Gormai. '.'Within the ear is seen the. chief ;. the strojfflg-armed son of the .gword. The hero 's . name is Ctthullin, son of Semo, king of , shells.^ His red cheek is likg. my 1 See pi 91, n. 1. i' '" polished yew. The look of his blue-rolling eye is .wide, beneath the dark arch of his brow. , His hair flies from his head like a flame, as bending, forward he wields 5 the spear. Fly, kihg of qcean, fly! He comes like a st(?rm along the streamy vale ! ' ' "When did I tiyV replied the king-. ' ' When fled Swaran from, the battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, 10 chief , of the little soul? I met the' storm, of Gormai, when the foam, of, my .waves beat high. I met the storm of. thcs, clouds; shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself before, me, my soul should 15 not darken with .fear. Arise, to battle, my thousands ! pour round me like the echo- ing, main. Gather round the bright steel of your king ; strong as,, the rocks of my land, that, meet the storm with joy, and 20 stretch their dairk, pines to the,- wind!" Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, towards each other approached the heroes. Like two deep streams from .high rocks : meeting, i 25 mixing, roaring on the plain ; , loud, jough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Inisr. fail. ;, Chief mixes his, strokes , with '.chief, and man with man ; steel, clanging, sounds on steel., Helmets are cleft on high. Bloodi 30 bursts and smokes around- Strings mur- mur on the polished yews. Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of J,ight, ,which gild the face :of night,! As the, noise of the;troubled ocean, when' roll S5 the waves on high; as the last peal of; thunder in heaven, ; such is the din of war! Though , Corm^c 's hundred bards were , there to give the flght to song;, feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to send the ,40 deaths to future times! ,For many were the deaths .of, heroes;' wide .poured. theii blood of the brave ! • ' Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the . death ,of 'the noble, Sithallin. Let the sighs 45 of Fiona rise, on the lone plains of her lovely Ardan. They fellj like two hinds of the. desert, by the hands of. the mighty Swaran; when, in the midst of [thousands, he roared, like the shrill spirit of a storm. 60 He sits dim on the clouds of the north, and enjoys the death of the mariner. Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the , isle, of mist!'- many were the deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou son ■ of Semo ! 55 His swoi;d was like , the beam of heaven ; when it pierces the sons of the vale;' when the people are blasted and fall,, and all \ ' '' ' ■ » The', Isle of Sky, o£E the coast of- Scotland. 96 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBERUNNEES the hills are burning around. Dusronnal snorted over the bodies of heroes. Sifadda bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay behind them, as groves overturned on the d€!Sert of Cromla; when the blast has B passed the heath, laden with the spirits of night ! Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, maid of Inistore ! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou lovelier than the 10 ghost of the hills, when it moves in a sunbeam, at noon, over the silence of Morven ! He is fallen ! thy youth is low ! pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin! No more shall valor raise thy love to match 15 the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, maid of Inistore! His gray dogs are howling at home ! they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in the hall of his 20 hinds! As' roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his 25 voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each hero is a pillar of dark- ness ; the sword a beam of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that iise, by turns, on so the red son of the furnace. Who a,re these on Lena's' heath, these so gloomy and daTk? Who are these like two clouds, and their swords like lightning above them ? The little hills are troubled around ; 35 the rocks tremble with all their moss. Who is it but Ocean's son and the car-borne chief of Erin ? Many are the anxious eyes of their friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night conceals the chiefs 40 in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight ! It was on Cromla 's shaggy side that Dorglas had placed the deer ; the early fortune of the chase, before the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect 45 the heath; ten warriors wake the fire; three hundred choose the polished stones. The feast is smoking wide! Cuthullin, chief of Erin 's war, resumed his mighty ' soul. He stood upon his beamy spear, and 50 spoke to the son of songs ; tO Carril of other times, the gray-haired son of Kin- f ena. "Is this feast spread for me alone and the king of Lochlin on Erin's shore; far from the deer of his hills, and sound- 55 ing halls of his feasts? Rise, Carril of other times; Carry my words to Swaran. Tell him from the roaring of waters, that Cuthullin gives his feast.' Here let him listen to the sound of my groves, amidst the clouds of night, for cold and bleak the blustering winds rush over the foam of his seas. Here let him praise the trem- bling harp, and hear the songs of heroes ! ' ' Old Carril went, with softest voice. He called the king of dark-brown shields ! "Rise from the skins of thy chase; rise, Swaran, king of groves! Cuthullin gives the joy of shells. Partake the feast of Erin's blue-eyed chief!" He answered like the sullen sound of Cromla before a storm. "Though all thy daughters, Inis- fail! should stretch their arms of snow; should raise the heavings of their breasts, and softly roll their eyes of love; yet, fixed as Lochlin 's thousand rocks, here Swaran should remain, till morn, with the young beams of the east,- shall light me to the death of Cuthullin. Pleasaht to my ear is Lochlin 's wind ! It rushes over my seas! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds, and brings my greCn forests to my mind: the green forests of Gormal, which often echoed to my winds, when my spear was red in the chase of the boar. Let dark Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of' Coi-maCj or Erin's torrents shall show from their hills the red foam of. the blood of his pride!" "Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice," said Carril of other times! , "Sad to him- self alone, ' ' said the blue-eyed son of Seiho. ' ' But, Carril, raise the voice on high; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou the night away in song; and give the joy of grief. For many heroes and maids of love, have moved on Inis-fail, and lovely are the songs of woe that are heard in Albion's rocks, when the noise of the chase is past, and the streams of Coma answer to the voice of Ossian. ' ' ' ' In other days, ' ' Carril replies, ' ' came the sons of Ocean to Erin; a thousand vesisels bounded on waves to tJllin 's lovely plains.- The sons of Inis-fail arose to meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar, first of men, was there, and Grudar, stately youth ! Long had they strove for the spotted bull, that lowed on Golbun's echoing heath. Each claimed him as his own. Death was' often at the point of their steel! Side by side the heroes folight; the strangers of Ocean fled. Whose name was fairer on the hill, than the name of Cairbar and Grudar ! But ah! why ever lowed the bull, on Gol- bun's echoing heath. They saw him leap- EICHAED HUED 97 ing like snow. The wrath of the chiefs returned ! ' ' On Ijubar 's grassy, banks they fought ; Grudar fell in his blood. Fierce Cairbar came to the vale, where Brassolis, fairest of his sisters, all alone, raised the song of grief.: She sung of, the actions of Grudar, the youth of her secret soul ! She mourned him in the field . of blood, but still ,sbe hoped for his return. Her white bosom is seen from her robe, as the moon from the clouds of night, when its edge heaves white on the view,: from the darkness which covers its orb. Her voice was softer than the harp to raise the song of grief. Her soul was fixed on Grudar. The secret look of her eye was his. 'When slialt thou come in thine arms, thou mighty in the war ? ' . ■ , "'Takp, I^rassolis, ' Cairbar came and said, 'take, Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within my hall, the armor of my foe!' Her soft heart beat against her side. Distracted, pale, she flew. She found her youth in all his blood ;. she died on Cromla's heath. Here rests their dust, CuthuUin !■ these lonely yews sprung from their tombs, and shade them from the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the plain! Stately was Grudar on the hill ! The bard shall preserve their names, and send them down to future times ! " "Pleasant is thy voice, Carril," said the blue-eyed chief of Erin. "Pleasant are the words of other times! They are like the calm shower of spring, when the sun looks on the field, and the light cloud flies over the hills. strike the harp in praise of my love, the lonely sun- beam of Dunscaith! Strike the harp in the praise of Bragela, she that I left in the isle of mist, the spouse of Semo's son ! ,Post; thou raise thy fair face from the rock to find the sails of CuthuUin? The sea is rolling distant far; its white foam ideceives thee for my sails. Eetire, for it is night, my love; ; the dark winds sing in thy hair. Retire to the halls of my feasts; think of the times that are past. I will not return till the storm of war is ceased. Gonnal ! speak o^ war and arms, and send her from my mind. Lovely with her flow- ing hair is the white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan." •Connal, slow to speak, replied, "Guard against the . race of Ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and watch the strength of Swaran. Cnthullin! I am for peace till, the race of Selma come, till Fingal come, the first of men, and beam, like the sun, on our fields!" The hero struck the shield of alarms, the war- riors of the night moved on! The rest 6 lay in the heath of the , deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind. The ghosts of the lately dead were near,i and swam on the gloomy clouds* And far distant, in the dark silence of Lena, the feeble voices of 10 death were faintly heard. RICHARD KURD (1720-1808) Prom LETTERS ON CHIVALRT AND ROMANCE 17&2 1762 Lettee I 16 The ages we call barbarous present us with many a subject of curious specula- 20 tion. What, for instance, is more re- markable than the Gothic chivalry? or than the spirit of romance, which took its rise from that singular institution 1 Nothing in human nature, my dear 25 friend, is without its reasons. The modes and fashions of different times may ap- pear, at first sight, fantastic and unac- countable. But they who look nearly into them discover some latent cause of their 30 production. Nature once known, no prodigies remain,' as sings our philosophical bard; but to come at this knowledge is the difficulty. 85 Sometimes a close attention to the work- ings of the human mind is sufficient to lead us to it. Sometimes more than that, the diligent observation of what passes without us, is necessary. 40 This last I take to be the case here. The prodigies^ we are now contemplating had their origin in the barbarous ages. Why, then, says the fastidious modern, look any farther for the reason? Why 45 not resolve them at once into the usual caprice and absurdity of barbarians? This, you see, is a short and commodious philosophy.' Yet barbarians have their own, such as it is, if they are not en- 50 lightened by our reason. Shall we then condemn them unheard, or will it not be fair to let them have the telling of their own story? Would we know from what causes the 65 ■ 1 "it was long the opinion of the ancient Scots that a ghost was heard shrieking near the place where a death was to happen soon after." — Macpberson. . , , = Pope, Moral Essays, Epistle 1, 208. ' Modes and fashions of medieval chivalry. 98 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY F0EEEUNNER8 institution of chivalry was derived? The time of its birth, the situation of the barbarians, amongst whom it arose, must be considered. Their wants, designs, and policies must be explored. We must in- quire when and where and how it came to pass that the western w6rld became familiarized to this prodigy, which we now start at. Another thing is full as remarkable, and concerns us more nearly. The spirit of chivalry was a flre which soon spent itself; but that of romance, which was kindled at it, burnt long, and continued its light and heat even to the politer ages. The gi'eatest geniuses of our own and foreign countries, such as Ariosto and Tasso in Italy, and Spenser and Milton in England, were seduced by these bar- barities of their forefathers, were even charmed by the Gothic romances.^ Was this caprice and absurdity in them? Or, may there not be something in the Gothic romance peculiarly suited to the views of a genius, and to the ends of poetry? And may not the philosophic moderns have gone too far, in their perpetual ridi- cule and contempt of it ? ' To form a judgment in the case, the rise, progress, and genius of Gothic chiv- alry must be explained. The circumstances in the Gothic fictions and manners, which are proper to the ends of poetry (if any such there be) must be pointed out. Reasons for the decline and rejection of the Gothic taste in later times must be given. You have in these particulars both, the subject and the plan of the following Letters. Letter VI Let it be no surprise to you that, in the 'Close of my last Letter, I presumed to bring the Gierusalemme Liberata into com- petition with the Iliad. So far as the heroic and Gothic man- ners are the same, the pictures of each, if well taken, must be equally entertain- ing. But I go further, and maintain that the circumstances in which they differ are clearly to the advantage of the Gothic designers. You see, my purpose is to lead you froru this forgotten chivalry to a more amusing subject; I mean the poetry we still read, and which was founded upon it. ^Medieval romances of chivalry. Much has been saidj and with great' truth, of the felicity of Homer's age, for poetical manners. But as Homer was a citizen of the world, when he had seen 5 in Greece, on the one hand, the manners he has described, could he, on the other hand, have seen in the west the manners of the feudal ages, I make no doubt but he would eertainljf have preferred the lat- 10 ter. And the grounds of this preference would, I suppose, have been the improved gallantry of the feudal times and the superior solemnity of their superstitions. If any great poet, like Homer, had lived 15 amongst, and sung of, the Gothic knights (for after all, Spenser and Tasso came too late, and it was impossible for them to paint truly and perfectly ^hat was no longer seen or believed) this preference, 20 I persuade myself, had been very sensible. But their fortune was not so happy. — ^^bmnes lllacrymablles Urgentur, ignotique longa Nocte, oarent gula vate sacro.^ 25 As it is, we may take a guess of what the subject was capable of affording to real genius from the rude sketches we have of it in the old romancers. And it^ is but looking into any of them to be con- 30 vinced that the gallantry which inspirited the feudal times was of a nature to fur- nish the poet with finer scenes and sub- jects of description in every view, than the simple and uncontrolled barbarity of 35 the Grecian. • The principal entertainment arising from the delineation of these consists in the exercise of the boisterous passions, which are provoked and kept alive from 40 one end of the Iliad to the other, by every imaginable scene of rage, revenge, and slaughter. In the other, together with these, the gentler and more humane iaffee- tions are awakened in us by the most 45 interesting displays of love and friend- ship ; of love, elevated to its noblest heights; and of friendship, operating on the' purest motives. The mere variety of these paintings is a relief to the reader, 50 as well as writer. But their beauty, nov- elty, and pathos give them a vast advan- tage on the comparison. Consider, withal, the surprises, acci- dents, adventures which probably and 65 naturally attend on the life of wandering knights; the occasion there must be for lAll are overwhelmed with the long night of death, unwept and unknown because they lack a sacred bard. — Horace, Odes, IV, 9, 26 ft. BICHAED HUKD 99 describing the wonders of different coun- tries, and of presenting to view the man- ners and policies of distant states: all which make so conspicuous a part of the materials of the greater poetry. 5 So that, on the whole,, though the spirit, passions, rapine, and violence of the two sets of manners were equal, yet there was a dignity, a magnificence, a variety in the feudal, which the other wanted. W As to religious machinery, perhaps the popular system of each was equally remote from reason, yet the latter had something in it more amusing, as well as more awakening to the imagination. IB The current popular tales of elves and fairies were even fitter to take the credu- lous mind, and charm it into a willing admiration of the specious miracles, which wayward fancy delights in, than those of 20 the old traditionary rabble of pagan divin- ities. And then, for the more solemn fancies of witchcraft and incantation, the horrors of the Grothic were above measure striking and terrible. The mummeries of 26 the pagan priests were childish, but the Gothic enchanters shook and alarmed all nature. We feel this difference very sensibly in reading the ancient and modern poets, so You would not compare the -Canidia of Horace with the Witches in Maobeth. And what are Virgil's myrtles dropping blood,^ to Tasso 's enchanted forest 1^ Ovid indeed, who had a fancy turned to 35 romance, makes Medea, in a rant, talk wildly. But was this the common lan- guage of their other writers? The en- chantress in Virgil says coolly of the very chiefest prodigies of her charms and *> poisons. His ego S3ep% lupum fieri, & se condere sylvis Moedn ; ssepS anlmai; imis excire sepulchris, Atgue satas alio vldl ' traducere messes.* The admirable poet has given an air of <5 the marvellous to his subject, by the magic of his expression. Else, what do we find here, but the ordinary effects of melan- choly, the vulgar snpe!rstition of evoking spirits, and the supposed influeiice of BO fascination on the hopes of rural in- dustry. ' JEneid, 3, 23 fE. 'Jerusalem Delivered, 13, St. 43 ff. ' Often I have seen M e r 1 s become a ' ' wolf, and lilde him- self In the forest, and often I have seen him call forth souls from the depths of the tomb, and I have seen blm remove crops from one' pla c e to an- o t h e T.-^ Eclogites, 8,97ff. Non isthlc obllguo ocnlo mihi commoda guisguam Llmat' ... says the poet of his country-seat, as if this security from, a fascinating eye were a singular privilege, and the mark of a more than common good fortune. Shakespear, on the other hand, witji a terrible sublime (which not so much the energy of his genius, as the naturje of his subject drew from him) gives us another idea of the rough magic, as he calls it, of fairy enchantment. I have bedlmm'd The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twlxt the green sea and the azure vault Set roaring war-; to the dread rattling thunder Have I glv'n flre, and rifted: Joye's stout oak With his own bolt. The strohg-bas'd promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar. Graves,, at my command, Have open'd, and let forth their sleepers.^' The last circumstance, you will say^ is but the animas imis excire sepulchris^ of the Latin poet. But a very significant word marks ithe difference. The pagan necro- mancers had a hundred little tricks by, which they pretended to ealLup the ghosts, or shadows of the dead; but these, in the ideas of paganism, were quite another thing from Shakespear 's sleepers. , This may serve for a cast of Shake- spear 's magici And, I can't but think that, when Milton wanted to paint the horrors of that night (one of the noblest parts in his Paradise Regained) which the, Devir himself is feigned to conjure up in the wilderness, the Gothic language and ideas helped him ;to work up his tempest with such terror. You will judge &om these lines : Nor- staid the terror there : Infernal ghosts and hellish furies round Envlron'd thee ; some howl'd, some yell'd, some shrlek'd, Some bent at thee their flery darts.* But above all from the following, Thus pass'd the night so foul, till morning lafr Came forth with pilgrim 1 steps In aimlce' gray, Who with her radiant finger still'd the roar Of thunder, chas'd the clouds, and laid the winds And griesly specters." Where the radiant • finder points at the potent wand' of the - Gothic magicians,' which could reduce the calm of nature, upon occasion, as well as disturb it; and the griesly specters laid by the approach ' No ' one here lessens, ' Virgil, tiuoted' 'above. with an envious. ' Paradise Regained, 4, look, my advan- 421 ff. tages. — Horace, °A kind of hooded Epistles, 1, 14, 27. ; cloak lined with tur^ 'The Tempest, V, 1, ' Paradise Regained, i, 41 ff. 426 ff. 100 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS of morn, were apparently of their raising, as a sagacious critic perceived when he took notice "how very injudicious it was to retail tHe popular superstition in this place. ' ' 6 After all, the conclusion is not to be drawn so much from particular passages, as from the general impression left on our minds in reading the ancient and modern poets. And this is so much in favor of lo the latter that Mr. Addison scruples not to say, "The ancients have not much of this poetry among them; for, indeed, almost the whole substance of it owes its original to the darkness and superstition 16 of later ages— Our forefathers looked, upon nature with more reverence and horror, before the world was enlightened by learn- ing and philosophy, and loved to astonish themselves with the apprehensions ot zo Witchcraft, Prodigies, Charms, and In- chantments. There was not a village in England, that had not a Ghost in it; the churchyards were all haunted; every large common had a circle of fairies belonging Z6 to it; and there was scarce a Shepherd to be met with who had not seen a spirit. ' ' We are upon enchanted ground, my friend; and you are to think yourself well used that I dfetain you no longer in so this fearful circle. The glimpse you have had of it will help your imagination to conceive the rest. And without ; more words you will readily apprehend that the fancies of our modern bards are not only 35 more gallant, but, on a change of the scene, more sublime, more terrible, more alarming, than those of the classic fablers. In a word, you will find that the manners they paint, and the superstitions they ^ adopt, are the more poetical for being Gothic. 45 HORACE WALPOLE (1717-1797) From THE CASTLE OP OTRANTO 1764 Chapter I Manfred, iPrince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter. The latter, a, most 60 beautiful virgin aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed 66 any symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter, Isabella ; and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad's infirm state of health would permit. Manfred's impatience for this ceremonial was re- marked by his family and neighbors. The former indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince 's disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipita- tion. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great youth and greater infirmities ; but she never received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cau- tious in their discourses. They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince's dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that thp castle and lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it. It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy ; and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries or contradictions did not make the popu- lace adhere the less to their opinion. ■ Young Conrad's birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was assemjjled in the chapel of the castle, and everything ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, J- impatient of the least delay, and who had not iobseryed his son retire, dispatched o];ie of his attendants to summon the, young prince. The servant, who , had not, staid long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad's apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but pointed to the court. The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita, with- out knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away. Man- fred, less, apprehensive than en^s^ged , at the procrastination of the nuptials,, an^ at the folly of his domesticj asked im- periously what was the matter. The fellow made no answer, but continued pointing towards the court-yard ; and at last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, "Oh! the helmet! the helmet!" In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, aijd sur- HOKAOE WALPOLE 101 prise. Manfred^ who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained en- deavoring to assist her mother, and Isa- 6 bella staid for the: same purpose and to avoid showing any impatience ' for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection; The 'first thing that struck. Manfred's 10 eyes was a gToup of his- servants endeavor- ing to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable plumes. He gazed without believing his sight. ''What are ye doing?" cried Manfred, wrathfully. 15 "Where is my son?" A volley of voices replied, "Oh! my lord! the prince! the prince ! the helmet ! the helmet ! " Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dread- ing he kne* not what, he' advanced- hastily, 20 but with a sight for a father's eyes! He beheld his child dashed to pieces and almost buried under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than any casque ever 'mad& for human being, and 25 shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers. The horror of the spectacle, ;the igno- rance of all around how this misfortune had /happened, and above 'all, the tremen- 30 dous phenomenon beforie him, took awaj' the Prince's speech.- 'Yet his silence lasted ■ longer than even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision y 1 and seemed less atten- 85 tive to his loss than buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had- occa- sioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could- even the bleeding mangled remains of the young Prince 40 divert the eyes of Manfred from the por- tent before him. All who -bad known his partial fondness for young Conrad were as much surprised at -their Prince's insensi- bility, as thunder-struck themselves at the 45 miracle of the helmet.- They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least direction from Man- fred. As little- was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel. On 50 the contrary, without mentioning; the un- happy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Man- fred 's lips were, "Take care of the Lady Isabella." 65 The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided by their affection to their mistress to con- sider it as peculiarly addressed: to her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber, more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard except the death of her son. Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and' amazement, and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afiSicted parents. Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, arid who returned- that tenderness with equal duty and affection,' was scarce less assiduous about the Princess, at the same time en- deavoring to partake arid lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her own situation could not help finding its place' in her thoughts. She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration ; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which shad promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom or from the severe temper of: Manfi Isabella!" cried Manfred imperiously. ' ' I want Isa- bella. " " My lord, ' ' replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behavior had 6 shocked her mother, ''she has not been with us since your highness summoned her to your apartment. " " Tell me where she is," said the !Pi:Lnee; "I do not want to know where she has been. " "My good 10 lord," said Hippolita, "your daughter tells you the truth: Isabella left us by your command, and has npt returned since. But, my good lord, compose yourself; re- tire to your rest, This dismal day has 15 disordered you. Isabella shall wait, your orders in the morning." "What then! you know where she is I " cried Manfijed. "Tell me directly, for I will hot lose an instant! And you, woman," speaking to 20 his' wife, "order your chaplaiii to attend me forthwith." "Isabella/' said Hip- polity calmly, ' ' is retired, I suppose, to her cbamber. She is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my 25 lord," continued she, "let me know, what has disturbed you. Has Isabella offended you ? '-' " Ti;onble me not with questions, ' ' said Manfred ; ' ' but tell me where she is. " "Matilda shaJJ calliher," said the Prin- so cess. "Sit down, my lord, and resume your wonted fortitude. ' ' "What, art thou jealous of Isabella," replied he, "that you wish to , be , present at our interview?'.' "Good heavens! my lord," said Hippol- 85 ita, "what is it your highness means?" "Thou wilt know ere many, minutes are passed," said the cruel Prince. "Send your, chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here. ' ' At these words he flung out of the 40 room in search of Isabella, , leaving the amazed ladies thunder-struck ■ with his , words and frantic deportment, and. lost in vain conjectures on what he was medi- tating. • 45 Manfred was now, returning from the vault attended by the peasant and a few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended the stair- ease without , istopping i till he arrived at 60 the gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and, her chaplain. When , Diego had been , dismissed, by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess's apartment with the alarm of what he had seen. That 65 excellent, lady, who no more than Manfred doubtedipf. the , reality of the vision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, to save her lord from any additional shock, and pre- pared by a series of grief not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first sacrifice if fate had marked the present bour for their destruc- tion. Dismissing the reliietant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visited the gallery and great' chamber, and now with more serenity of soul than she had felt for many hours, she met her lord and assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable, and no' doubt an impressiorl made by fear and the dark and dismal hour of the night on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain, had examined the chamber, ■ and found every thing in' the usual order. Manfred, though persuaded 'like his wife that the vision had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a princess who returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into hi,s eyes; but not less ashamed .of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter out- rage, he curbed the, yearnings of his heart and did not dare to lean even towards pity. The next transition of his spul was to pxquisite villainy. Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flat- tered himself that she would not only acquiesce- with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavoring to persuade Isabella to give him her hand- But ere he could indulge this horrid hope, he reflected that Isa- bella was not to be found. Coriiing to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the castle should 'be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain ot their lives to Siuffer , nobody to , pass out. The young peasant, to whom he, spoke favorably, he ordered to remain in a small' chamber on the stairs, in ■ which there was a pallet-bed, and the key of which he took: away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him in the morning. Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen kind of balf-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber. 110 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEEUNNERS THOMAS PERCY (1729-1811) From RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETEY 1765 EoBiN Hood and Guy of Gisborne When shaws^ beene sheene,^ and shradds' full fayre, And leaves both large and longe, Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrSst To heare the small birdes songe. 5 The woodweele* sang, and wold not cease, Sitting upon the spraye, Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, In thei greenwood where he lay. ' ' Now by my f aye, ' '= sayd joUye Robin. 10 "A sweaven" I had this night; I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,^ That fastiwith me ean^ fight. Methought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bow mee f roe ; 15 Iff I be Robin alive in this lande. He be wroken' on them towe. ' ' ' ' Sweavens are swift, master, ' ' quoth John, "As the wind blowes ore the hill; , For if itt be never so loude this night, 20 Tomorrow it may be still." "Buske^" yee, bowne yee, my merry men all. And John shall goe with mee, For He goe seeke yond wight yeomen. In grieenwood where the^^ bee. ' ' 25 Then they cast on their gownes of grene. And tooke theyr bowes each one; And they away to the greene forrest A-shooting forth are gone; Untill they came to the merry greenwood, 30 Where they had gladdest bee, There were the ware of a wight yeoman, His body leaned to a tree. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side. Of manye a man the bane; 35 And he was clad in his capuU-hyde,^^ Topp and tayll and mayne. "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, ' ' Under this tree so grene. 1 grores 2 beautiful » coppices ' woodlark 1 faith ' dream ' two strong yeomen ' for !/an, did ° avenged " make ready ihuake and l)owne are doub- lets) "they " horse-hide And I will go to yond wight yeoman j > • r . Hood, _ rpj^j^^ ^j.j. -[jg^jj mother and may,' ".Leade on, I doe bidd thee. j ^l^j^j^ -^ destinye 120 "^^i^lZitont^^J'' '" "''' "" To dye before his day." 1 valley and hill '' wands 1 the ring within which = linden , 2 astray ^ "apart the prick or target "careless s trial of skill 'the wands (targets) was set to be shot * time 'unexpected hour together 1 at ■'maiden 112 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY EOEEKUNNERS For this is all the rewarde I aske; ' Nor noe other will I have. ' ' 205 ' < Thou art a madman, ' ' said the sherifEe, ■' ' Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee : But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, Well granted it shale be. ' ' When Little John heard his master speake, 210 Well knewe he it was his Steven:^ ' ' Now shall I be looset, ' ' quoth Little John, ' ' With Christ his might in heaven. ' ' Tast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, He thought to loose him belivej^ 215 The shLeriffe and all his companye Fast after him can driVe. "Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin; ' ' Why draw you mee soe neere ? Itt was never the use in our country^. Ones shrift another shold heere." Robin thought on our ladye deere. And soone leapt up againe, And strait he came with a backward"^ stroke, And he Sir Guy hath slayne. 1^5 He took Sir Guys head by the hayre. And stuck itt upon his bowes end : ' ' Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life, Which thing must have an ende. " Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, l'" And nicked Sir Guy in the face. That he was never on woman born, Cold tell whose head it was. Sales, ' ' Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye, And with me be not wrothe, ^''5 If thou have had the worst strokes at my hand. Thou shalt have the bfet.ter clothe. ' ' Robin did off his gowne of greene. And on Sir Guy did tbrowe. Arid hee put on that eapull-hyde, 180 That cladd him topp to toe. ' ' The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home, Now with me I will beare ; For I will away to Barnesdale, To see how my men doe fare. ' ' 185 Robin Hood sett Guyes home to his mouth, And a loud blast in it did blow, That beheard the sherifEe of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe.^ Towards his house in Nottingham towne "Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, 230 He fled full fast away; 190 "I heare now tydings good. And soe did all his companye : For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe. Not one, behind wold stay. And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. _,. ^ _ , , But he cold neither runne soe fast, "Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe, ^or away soe fast cold ryde, Itt blowes soe well m tyde, 235 But Little John with an arrowe soe broad 195 And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, jj^ ^-^^^^ Yiim into the backe-syde. Cladd in his eapull-hyde. , 220 But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife. And losed John hand and f oote. And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand, And bade it be his boote. 225 Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand, His boltes and arrowes eche one: When the sherifEe saw Little John bend his bow. He fettled him to be gone. "Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, Aske what thou wilt of mee. ' ' "0 1 will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, 200 ' ' Nor I will none of thy fee :^ "But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, "Let m^e goe strike the knaye; The Ancient Ballad of Chevy-Chase the pikst pits The Perse owt* of Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he, ' That he wolde hunte in the mountayns OfE Chyviat within dayes thre. In the mauger of ^ doughty Dogles, And all that ever with hiin be. 1 back-hand' ' bent, or <;urved, bow 'drew to the bard s t e e 1, — I. e., the bead ■set , " stress of battle ' endure ' Percy's addition t o the MS. The phrase may mean "they continued flgbting." ; ' above * Roger ' courteous • Ralph ' Pronounced as if spelled Lewdale. ' they made them biers 116 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOBEEUNNEKS 236 Many wedous with wepyng tears Cam to f ach ther makys"^ a-way. Tivydale may carpe ofE^ care, Northombarlond may mayk grat mone, Tor towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear, 240 On the March-perti^ shall never be none. Word ys commen to Edden-burrowe, , To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, , That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in. 2'45 His handdes dyd he weal* and wryng, He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! Such another eaptayn Skptland within, ' ' He sayd, "y-feth° shuld never be." Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone 250 Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Perse, leyff-tennante o£ the Merchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within. "God have merci on his soil," sayd kyng Harry, , , "Good lord, yf thy will it be! 255 I have a hondrith captayns in Yng- londe," he sayd, ' ' As good as ever was hee : But Perse, and I brook°,my lyff,e,,. Thy deth well quyte^ shall be." As our noble kyng made his a-vowe, 260 Lyke a noble prince of renowen, Tor the deth of the lord Perse, He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down : Wher syx and thritte Skottish knyghtes On a day were beaten down:, 265 Glendale glytteryde on' ther armor bryght. Over eastill, towar, and town. This was the hontynge off the Cheviat; That tear begane this spurn :" Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, 270 Call it the Battell of Otterbiirn. At Otterbum began this spume Uppon a Monnyn day: ^; 1 fetch their mates « if I enjoy Mf > talk of ' paid for ' rain does " border side 'with •evils remedy * clench » that there began this 'thy » in faith flght ' where Ther was the dougghtfe Doglas slean, The Pers6 never went away. 275 Ther was never a tym on the March-partes Sen the Doglas and the Persp met. But yt was marvele, and^ the redd? blude ronne not, As the reane doys^ in the stret. Jhesue Christ our balys bete,* 280 And to the* blys us brynge! Thus was the hountynge of the Chevyat : God send us all good ending ! ' Sm Pateick Spencb The king sits in Dumferling tourie. Drinking the blude-reid wine : ' ' quhar^ will I get guid sailor. To sail this schip of mine?" 5 Up and spak an eldern knieht, Sat at the kings richt kne : "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, That sails upon the se. " The king has written a braid« letter, 1* Anii sigiid it wi' his hand; And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch' lauched he :, 15 The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee. "0 quha' is this has don this deid. This ill deid don to me ; To send me out this time o ' the zeir,» 20 To sail upon the se ? "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne ; ' ' "0 say na sae, my master deir, For T f eir a deadlie storme. 25 "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi' the aiild moone in hir arme; And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will com to harme." . our Scots nobles wer richt laith" 3" To yreet their cork-heild ^choone; •open; clear ' laugh 'who " year >» loth THOMAS PERCY 117 Bot lang. owre^ a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone.^ Olang, lang, may .thair ladies sit , Wi' thair fans into their hand, 35 Or eir th,ey se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land4 lang, lang, may thie ladies staiid Wi' thair gold kems^ in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir, lords, , *0 For they'll se tham^ na mair. Have owre,* have owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadbin deip: And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi' ■the Septs lords at his feit, Edom o' Goedon It fell about the Martinmas, Quhen' the wind blew sehril and eaiild,. Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, "We maun draw to a hauld."' 5 "And quhat^ a hauld sail we draw till. My mirry men and me?" ' "We wul gae to the house o' thefibdes, To see that fair ladie." The lady stude on her castle wa ', 10 Beheld baith dale and down:* There she was ware of a host of men Cum ry ding towards the toun." "0 see ze" nat, my mirry men a'? see ze nat quhat- 1 see ? 15 Methinks I see a host of men: .; I marveil quha" they be." . i, j , -- . ^ She weend^^ it had been hir I'uvely lord, As he came ryding hame ; It was the traitor JEdom o ' Gordon, 2" Quha reckt nae sin nor shame. She had nae sooner buskit^?, hirsel. And putteji on hir goup. But Edom o' Gordon and his men Were round about the tonn. 25 They had nae sooner supper ^6tt, . . .ISl^e sooner said the grace,' But'Edotno' Gordon and his men Were light about the place. ; i^but long before *swam above, — i. e., floated on water "combs ' '':■'■ * half way over ' when "we must draw to- ' wards (go take) a stronghold ' what . ; i s valley and hill » farm (with Its col- lection of buildings) " who , ' "thought-.,, . . "dressed {,[ , , The lady ran up to hir towir head, *** Sa fast as she could hie. To see if by hir fair speeches She: could wi' him agree. But quhan he see^ this lady saif , And hir yates all locked fast, 25 He fell into a rage of wrath. And his look was all aghast. "Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,' Cuni doun, cum doun to me : This night sail ye lig^ within mine armes, *" Tomorrow my bride sail be." ' ' I winnae^ cum doun, ze f als Gordon, I winnae cum doun to thee ; ' I winnae forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me." 45 ' ' Qive owre zour* house, ze lady fair. Give owre zour house to me. Or I sail brenn'^ yoursel therein, Bot and zour babies three. ' '° "I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon, 5" To nae sik^ traitor as zee;' And if ze brenn my am dear babes, My lord sail make ze drie;^ "But reach iny pistoll, Glaud my man. And charge ze well my gun : 55 For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher. My babes we been undone." ' She stude Upon hir castle wa', And let twa bullets flee: She mist that bluidy butchers hart, 60 And only raz'd his knee. "Set fire to the house," quo* fals Cfordon, All wood wi' dule and ire :" "Fals lady, ze sail rue this deid^ As ze bren in the fire." ■ 65 ' ' "v^ae worth, wae worth ze,^" Jock my man, I paid ze weil zour fee ;^^ Quhy pow^^ ze out the ground-wa stane, ,: Lets in the reek^? to me? : , ' And ein^* wae worth ze, Jock my man, ''O I paid ze weil zour hire ; 'saw ' will not , 'your " burn ° both you and your babies tbree ' no such ' suffer ; ., pay dearly ' all mad with pain and wrath " woe be to thee " wages ^2 pull " smoke " even 118 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa stane, To me lets in the fire?" ' ' Ze paid me weil my hire, lady ; Ze paid me weil my fee : '^^ But now Ime Edom o' Gordon's man Maun either doe or die.^ than bespaik hir little son, Sate on the nourice' knee: Sayes, ' ' Mither deare, gi owre .this house, 80 Tor the reek it smithers me." ' ' I wad gie a ' my gowd,^ my childe, Sae wad I a' my fee,' For ane blast o' the westlin wind, To blaw the reek f rae thee. ' ' 85 then bespaik hir dochter dear. She was baith jimp* and sma : ' ' row° me in a pair o ' sheits, And tow" me owre the wa. " , 130 The rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, 30 And towd hir owre the wa: But on the point of Gordons spear She gat a deadly fa. bonnie bonnie was hir mouth. And cherry were her cheiks, 35 And clear clear was hir zellow hair, Whareon the reid bluid dreips. Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, gin hir face was wan F . He sayd, "Ze are the first that eir 100 J wisht alive again. ' ' He turnd hir owre and owre again, gin hir skin was whyte ! "I might ha spared that bonnie face, To hae been sum mans delyte. 105 ' And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep '■ • .)"' A vision brought to his entranced sight. 295 And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear;; then tapers . ' '■-. . bright, ^2^ With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. • Anon in view a portal's blazon 'd arch Arose ; the trumpet -bids the valves un- fold, 300 And forth an host of little warriors march. Grasping the diamond lance and targe ^30 of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold. And green their helms, and green their silk attire ; 1 And here and there, right venerably old, 305 The long-rob 'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the mar- tial pipe inspire. 335 With merriment and song and, timbrels clear, The dream is fled. Prpud harbinger 1 of day, Who sear 'd 'st the vision with thy cla- rion shrill. Fell chanticleer! who oft hath reft fiway , , My fancied good, and brought substan- tial ill ! . , to thy cursed scream, discordant still, '.■'<■ Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear: Thy boastful mirth let 'jealous rivals spill, :, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, , And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear ! , Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line, , Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine Who feels from every change amuse- ment flow ? Even now his eyes with smiles of rap- ture glow. As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, / Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand ;no,tes of joy in every breeze are born. But who the melodies of mom can ■teiir, ■■,-;,,,, The wild brook babbling down the mountain side^ The lowing herd; the sheep-fold's simple bell; 124 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS The pipe of early shepherd dim de- Fancy a thousand wondrous forms scried ' descries, In the lone valley; echoing far and ^"^^ More wildly great than ever pencil 345 350 drew,— Eocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size. And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. Thence musing onward to the sounding shore. The lone enthusiast oft woiild take his way, Listening, with pleasing ' dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array, ; , When sulphurous clouds roU'd on th' autumnal day, Even then he hasten 'd from the haunt of man. Along the trembling wilderness to stray, The partridge bursts away on whir- *^^ What time the lightning's fierce career ring wings ; began. Deep mourns the turtle^ in sequester 'd And o'er Heav'n's rending arch the rat- wide, The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 3** The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the uni- versal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; Crown 'd with her pail the tripping ^^^ milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and hark! . Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; Through rustling corn the hare aston- ish 'd springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy ' hour; bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial, tower. Nature, how in every charm su- preme 355 Whose votaries feast on raptures ever ^^^ new! O for the voice and fire of seraphim. To sing thy glories with devotion due! Blest be the day I 'scaped the wran- gling crew, From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty; And held high converse with the god- like few. tling thunder ran. Responsive to the lively pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall. From the rude gambol far remote re- clin'd. Sooth 'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind, Ah ! then all jollity seem 'd noise and folly. To the pure soul by Fancy's fire re- fln'd; Ah! what is mirth but turbulence un- holy, Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, *^^ When with the charm compar'd of heav- and eye, 2^" Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd 515 to rave, ^70 He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlan- tic wave High-towering, sail along th ' horizon blue; Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new, 520 1 turtledove enly melancholy'? Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new. Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance, or search, was offer 'd to his view. He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. Whate 'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry- a'HOMAS OHATTERTON 125 At last, though long by penury eon- ' * Thou 'rt righte, " quodi hee, " f or, by' the troll'd Godde And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan 10 That syttes enthron'd on hyghe! unfold. ' i '. ' Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, To-daie shall surelie die." Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, • Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy^ ale Tor many a long month lost in snow Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymmwaite; profound, ' '" l^f'Goe tell the tray tour thatt. to-daie 525 When Sol from Cancer sends the sea- Hee leaves thys mortall state."' Son bland, , , ' And in their northern eaves the storms 'Sir Canterlone thenne. bendedd lowe, are bound; , With harte brymm-fuUe of wo,e; From silent mountains, straight^ with Hee journey 'd to the eastle-gate startling sound,. , 2" And to Syr Charles dydd goe. Torrents are hurl ''d ; green hiUs emerge; and, lo! But whenne hee came, hy^ children The trees are foliage, cliff s with flowers twaine, 7,' are crown 'd,; •,. > AniJ eke hys lovynge wyfe, 530 ■ Pure rills through vales of verdure Wythe brinie tears dydd. wett the, floore, warbling go ; For goode Syr Charleses lyf e. And wonder, lovei and joy, the peasant 's heart o'erflbw.; ',, ' ^^ "0 goode Syr Chiarles!" sayd Cantei;- lone, , Here pause, my Gothic lyre, . a -little "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." ■while, "Speke.boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr The leisure hour is all that thou canst Charles, .claim. ;;i ' ..,: ,, ; , ■■ , ' ' Whatte says thie traytor kynge ? " But on this verse if Montagu should ' ' smile, • "I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne 535 New strains ere long shall animate thy ^^ Does fromme the welkin flye, frame. ' ' ' H^^ hathe uppone hys honnouf sworne. And her applause to me is more than Thatt thou shalt surelie die." fame ; • , . , , For still with truth accords her taste "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr refln'd. . ; Charles; (, ■ At lucre or renown let others aim, ; "Gf thatte I'm not affearde; I only, wish, to please the gentle' *^ Whatte bootes ito lyve a little space? mind Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd: BW ."wiiom Nature's charms inspire, and love : i ,/, of humankind: - ''Butt telle thye kynge, for myne bee's not, , , ,, . . i I 'de sooner die to-daie, , , THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770) Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, BEISTOWE TEAGEDIE ; ' ' *° / , ^Ixo^f^ : I .shoulde lyve for aie. " OR, THE ,i)ETHE or SYR CHARLES BAWDIN Thenuc Cantcrlone hee dydd goe oiit, nes 1773 To telle the maior straite The feathered songster chaunticleer To gett all thynges'ynne reddyness '■ Han^ wounde hys bugle home, jFor goode Syr Charles's fate. And tolde the earlie villager >.•'.:..,' -The commynge of the morne: ' *5 Thenne' Maisterr Caflynge saughte the .• .' . ' '" ' iryiie'eV. '■ 5 Kynge Edwarde?.sawe,the ruddie Strelakes And felle down bnne hys knee; Of lyghte eclypse the greie ; " I 'm come, ' ' quod hee, ' ' unto your ,.,y.And herde tlje.'rayen's erokynge throte grace Proelayme '.the; fated Jdaiei To move your clemeneye. " .,,. 1,1': ' ■' '": . ,'.'' i'tas ' Edward' lY. '■ quoth ; said ' sparkling 126 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEBUNNERS Thenne quod the kynge, ' ' Youre tale Respect a brave and nobile mynde speke out, Altho' ynne enemies." s" You have been much cure friende; Whatever youre request may bee, "Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n We wylle to ytte attende. ' ' That dydd mee being gyve, 95 I -wylle nott, taste a bitt of breade "My nobile leige! alle my request, ' Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. Ys for a nobile knyghte, tin- -mt ■ j n o ■ ^ tt . 55 Who, tho' mayhap hee has donne wronge, Bie Mane, and a e Semctes ynne Heav 'n, Hee thoughte ytte style was ryghte : ^ Jhys sunns shall be hys laste ; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, ' ' Hee has a spouse and children twairie", "° ^^ ^^""^ t^« presence paste. ■ Alle rewyn'd^ are for aie; With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge Yff that you are resolv 'd to lett -g^ •' s j s 60 Charles Bawdin die to-daie." Hee to S^r, Charles dydd goe, ,,_ , ,, „ , , , ., ,, And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole, Speke nott of such a traytour vile, ^^^ teares beganne to flowe. The kynge ynn furie sayde; "Before the evening starre doth sheene, 105 "Wee alle must die," quod brave Syr Bawdin shall loose hys hedde : Charles ; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; 65 "Justice does loudlie for hym caUe, Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate And hee shalle have hys meede : Of all wee mortall menne. Speke, Maister Canynge! Whatte thynge else "Save why, my friend, thie honest soul Att present doe you neede?" "° Runns overr att thyne eye; Is ytte for my most welcome doome 70 ' ' My nobile leige ! ' ' good Canynge sayde, ^'^att thou dost child-lyke crye ? ' ' AnX;%lf~?ule'ltde- Q^° ' And from thys' world of peyne and grefe ' "' To'Godde ynne Heav'n to flie." ' "' And nowe the belle beganne to tblle. And elarypnnes to sounde; 215 gyp' Charles hee herde the horses' feetd A-prauneyng onne the grounder 220 And just before the'(3meers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepyhge unfeigned teei-es of woe, ; Wythe loude' and dysmalle' dynne. "Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynne quiet lett mee die ; Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian souie Maye looke onne dethe as I. • Richard, Duke of York, IV and Richard III. ' exchange 'peasant was father of Edward 128 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEEEUNNEES 225 " Sweet Florence ! why these brinie teeres ? The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Theye washe my soule awaie, "0 Appeared to the syghte, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Alls cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,* Wythe thee, sweete dame, to staie. Of godlie monkysh plyghte." Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; 275 Behynde theyre , backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tun 'd the strunge bataunt.* Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came; Echone* the bowe dydd bende, From rescue of Kynge Henrie 's friends 280 gyj. Charles f orr to defend. Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawne onne a elotfa-layde sledde. Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde : 285 Behynde hym flve-and-twentye moe Of archers stronge and stoute, Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande, Marched ynne goodlie route ; Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, 290 Echone hys parte dydd chaunt ; Behynde theyre backes syx myngtrelles came, " . Who tun 'd the strunge bataunt : ,c„ "Teaehe them to runne the nobile race rj,j,g„„g ^^^^ ^j^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ eldermenne, 2o0 Thatt I theyre fader runne ; Ynne clothe of Scarlett deck 't ■ Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu! 295 And theyre attendyng menne echone,, Lyke iiasterne princes trickt.^ " 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe 230 Untoe the lande of blysse; Nowe, as a proof e of husbande's love. Receive thys holie kysse." Thenne Florence, fault 'ring ynne her sale, Tremblynge these wordyes spoke, 235 "Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke : "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe, Wjrthoute thye lovynge wyfe? The crueUe axe thatt euttes thye necke, 2*0 Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe. ' ' And nowe the officers came ynne To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe. And thus to her dydd sale: 245 "J goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; Truste thou ynne Godde above, And teaehe thye sonnes to f eare the Lorde, And ynne theyre hertes hym love : Yee officers leade onne. Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere ; 255 "Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde, and lyfe!"- Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge.loud, Shee f ellen onne the ilore ; Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte, 260 And march 'd f romme oute the dore. 300 And after them a multitude Of citizenns dydd thronge ; The w^ndowes were all fuUe of heddes, As hee dydd passe alonge. And whenne hee came to the hyghe erosse, Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, ' ' Thouj thatt savest manne f romme synne, Washe mye soule clean thys daie!" Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Wythe lookes full brave and swete; Lookes thatt enshdne^ ne more concern Thanne anie ynne the strete. 265 Before hym went the council-menne, Ynne Scarlett robes and golde, And tassiis spanglynge ynne the sunne, Muche glorious to beholde : > showed (an Invented form) ^OS Att the grete ,mynsterr wyndowe sat The kynge ynne myckle' state, To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge To hys most welcom fate. 310 Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe That); Edwarde hee myghte heare, ' homespun clothes ' weave ; texture ' No such musical in- strument is known. The word is really an adjective, mean- ing eager. * each one " decked out ' great ; much THOMAS CHATTEETON 129 The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande ^55 For servynge loyally mye kynge, ^ "■'"-" uppe, Mye kynge most ryghtfullie. A^d thus hys wordes declare: '' '' ■ "As longe as Edwarde rules thys l^nd, "Thou seestmee; Edwarde! traytour vile! Ne' quiet you wyllekno we: Expos 'd to inf amie ; Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee 315 Butt bee assur'djdisloy all manne, slayne I 'm greaterr nowe thanne thee ! 360 - : ^nld brookes wythe bloude shalle ' ' flowe. "Bye forile proceedyngs, murdre/bloude, ' , Thou wearest nowe a erowne-; "You leave youre goode and lawfulle And hast appoynted mee to dye, kynge, 320 By power nott thyne owne. Whenne ynhe a,dversitye; Lyke mee, uhtoe the true cause stycke, "Thou thynkest I shall die to-daie; And for the true cause dye." I havebeene dede 'till nowe. And soone shall lyve to weare a erowne 365 Thenne hee, ,wyth, preestes, upojine hys For aie uponne my browe : knees A pray 'r to Godde dydd make, 326 "Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few Beseeehynge hym unto hymselfe yeares, Hys p^irtynge soule to take. , Shalt rule thy s fickle, lande, ' ', /. To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule ^^^ kneelynge doWne, hee layd hys . 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: hedde ^ ^ ,,„, , ■ i ii, 4. i 1 . 370 ' Most seemlie onne the bloeke; «o I'Fli'v Tr "''^''f,: * I !,"^ M Whvche f romme hys bodie f ayr^ at once 330 Shall falle onne thye owne hedde "- ^^j^ ^^j^ heddes-manne stroke:, , ' Fromme out of hearyng of the kynge - ■ Departed thenne the sledde. . ^ ^ x, , , ^ , , ^ And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, Kynge Edwarde's soule rush 'd,to hys face, „„ , ^/f ^^^^e the scaffolde twyne; Hee turn 'd hys hedde awaie, , , ''' ^"^^ Yeares, epowe to wash't awaje, 335 And to hys broder Qloucester^ , ^^y^d flow fromme each mann 's eyne. Hee thus dydd speke and sale: The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre "Tohymthatsoe-much-dreadeddethe Ynnto foure parties cutte ; I ■ No ghastHe terrors brynge, ^ And ey'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, Beholde the manne ! hee spake the truthe, ^^'' Uponne. a pole was putte. ' ' 3*0 Hee's greater thanne a kynge!" One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph- " Soe fett hym die ! " Duke Richard sayde ; hylle, ' "And maye echone oure foes One onne the mynster-tower, Bende ^downe theyre neckesto bloudie axe And one from off the castle-gate And feede the carryon erowes." The eroweni dydd devoure;' 3^5 And nowe the horses gentlie drewe 385 xhe other onne Seynete Powle's goode Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; gate, The .axe dydd glysterr ynne tfaesunne, A dreery spectacle; His pretious bloude to spylle. Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe ,,, , '; ■ . ,,,,■,., ' erosse, Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe, Ynne hyghe-streete most nbbile. As uppe a gildetl earre ' '■ Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs ' Thus was;,the ende of Bawdin's fate: Gayn 'd ynne the bloudie warre : 390 Godde prosper longe oure kynge. And grante, hee maye, wyth Bawdin's And to the people hee dydd sale, soule, "Beholde you see mee dye, Ynne heav 'n Godd 's meroie. synge ! 1 The Duke of Gloucester, afterward Richard til. i crows 350 130 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOEEEUNNEES THE ACCOUNTE OF W. CANYNGES FEAST 1768 1772 Thorowe the halle the belle han sounde;^ Byelecoyle doe the grave beseeme;^ The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde, Ande snoffelle oppe' the cheorte* steeme, s Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste Swotelye° tke morneynge ayre doe taste. Syke keene^ thie ate ; the minstrels plaie, The dynne of angelles doe theie keepe;'' Heie stylle,^ the guestes ha ne® to sale, 1" Butte nodde yer^" thankes ande falle aslape. Thus eehone daie bee I to deene,^^ Gyf^^ Rowley, Iscamm, or Tyb. Gorges^' be ne scene. From^LLA: A TRAGTCAL ENTEELUDE 1768 1777 I. Mtnsteelles Songe Fyrste Mynstrelle The boddynge^* flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; The mees^"* be sprenged"^' wyth the yellowe hue; Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; The nesh^' yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe ; 5 The trees enlefed,^* yntoe heavenne straughte/® Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe, to whestlyng dynne ys brought. The evenynge eommes, and brynges the dewe alonge ; The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne;^" Arounde the alestake^^ mynstrelles synge the songe ; Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne ; 10 ' has sounded ^ f a i r welcoming do the dignified per- sonages appear ' snuff up * savory ; pleasant " sweetly " so keenly ' they play music like that of angels e t h c y s t i 1 1,— i. e., when the musicians cease playing ' have nothing i» their " thus every day am I to dine 12 If 13 Imaginary boon com- panions of Canynge. " budding 1" meadows '° are sprinkled " tender "leafed out " stretched "^ the ruddy sky shines to the eye " A stake serving as the sign of an ale- house. 15 20 I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, Albeytte alle ys fayre, there laekethe somethynge stylle. Seconde Mynstrelle So Adam thoughtenne, whann, 7171 Paradyse, All heavenn and erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde ; Ynn womman alleyne^ manrles pleas- aunce lyes; As instrumentes of joie were made the kynde.^ Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charme for thee. Thyrde Mynstrelle Whanne Autumpne blake^ and sonne- brente doe appere, With hys goulde honde guylteynge* the f alleynge lef e, Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shef e ; Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede° ys whyte; Whanne levynue fyres^ and lemes'' do mete from far the syghte :* 25 Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie,^ Do bende the tree unto the fruetyle^" grounde ; When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die. Doe daunee yn ayre, and call the eyne^^ arounde ; Thann, bee the even f oule or even fayre, 30 Meethynckes mie hartys^^ joie ys steynced^^ wyth somme care. Seconde Mynstrelle Angelles bee wroghte to bee of neidher kynde ;i^ Angelles alleyne fromme chafe" desyre bee free : 1 alone 2 species, — i. e., woman- kind 'bleak ; bare (In Chatterton's glos- sary, It is defined as naked.) * gilding ^ willow seed • lightning ' gleams ' as far as the eye can see » ruddy as evening sky '» fruitful ^ " eyes '= heart's " stained 1' are made to be of neither sex "hot THOMAS CHATTEETON 131 Dheere^ ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde, Yatte,^ wythout womiiianne, cannot stylled bee; S5 Ne seyncte yn celles, botte,' havynge blodde and tare,* Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of wommanne f ayre ; Wommen bee made, notte for hem- selves, bqtte manne, Bone of hys bone, and ehyld of hys desire ; Fromme an ynutyle membere^ fyrste , beganne, ** YwTOghte with moehe of water, lyttele fyre; Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete The milkyness of kynde,^ and make hem- selves complete. Albeytte wythout wommen menne were :pheeres'' To salvage kynde,* and wulde botte lyve to slea, *5 Botte wommenne efte® the spryghte of peace so cheres, . Tochelod yn^" Angel joie heie^^ Angeles bee : Go, take thee swythyn'^^ to thie bedde a wyf e; Bee bante^^ or blessed bie^* yn proovynge marryage lyfe. 2. Mtnstkelles Songb ! synge untoe mie roundelaie,^" ! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,^* Lycke a leynynge^' ryver bee; 5 Mie love ys dedde, ._ , . ' Gpn to hys dejith-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Blaeke hys cryne^' as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode^* as the sommer silowe, 1* Rodde^" hys face as the momynge lyghte, Cale^^ he lyes ynne the grave belowe ; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. 15 Swote^ hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quyeke ynn daunce as thoughte eanne bee, Def te hys taboure,^ codgelle stote,* 0! bee lyes' bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, 20 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wyllowe tree. Harke ! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe ; Harke ! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, ?5 To the nyghte-mares as heie* goe ; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See ! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie ; 30 Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude ; Whyterre yanne^ the momynge skie, Whyterre yaane the evenynge cloude; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 35 Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponhe mie true loves grave, Sehalle the baren fleurs be layde, Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Al the celness of a mayde." Mie' love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. ^ there nhat ' no saint in cell, but ' tear " useless member, — t. e., Adam's rib » nature ' mates » savage species, — ^ e., wild beasts » often " dowered with "they ^ quickly " cursed " highly "accompany me in my sone song " holiday " running " hair " ''complexloii"-. Cbatterton. *" ruddy 21 cold 40 Wythe^ mie hondes I 'lie dente'^ the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre,^ ^5 Ouphante^ f airie lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie.stylle sehalle bee. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. 5" Comma, wythe aeome-coppe and thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie ; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete,^" or f easteby daie. Mie love ys dedde, 55 Gon to hys death-bed'de, Al under the wyllowe tree. ' sweet "skilful (he was) in playing the tabor (a stringed instru- ment similar to the guitar) ' his cudgel was stout 'they ' than " there is not one holy saint who can save a maid from the coldness that comes from watching at her lover's grave ( ?) ' fasten ' grow » elfln »" by night 132 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOREEUNNEES Waterre wytches, erownede wyllie reytes,' Bere mee to yer leathalle- tyde. I die ! I eonime ! mie true love way tes. ^^ Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHAEITIE: AS WBOTEN BIE THE GODE PEIESTE THOMAS ROWLEIE, 1464 ' * ^770 1777 In Virgyne' the sweltrie sun gan* sbeene, And hotte upon the mees^ did caste his raie; The apple rodded" from its palie greene, ' And the mole' peare did bende, the leafy spraie; 5 The peede chelandri* sunge the li^'e- long daie ; 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, And eke the grounde was dighte' in its most defte aumere.^" The sun was , glemeing in the middle of daie, Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue, 10 When from the sea arisf-^ in drear arraie A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue. The which full fast unto , the wood- lande drewe, Hiltriug attenes the sunnis fetyve face,^^ And the blacke tempeste swolne^^ and gatherd up apace. 15 Beneathe an holme,^* by a pathwaiie side Which dyde unto Seyncte Godwine 's covent^^ lede, A hapless pilgrim moneynge'^" dyd al^ide. ' water-flags 2 lethal ; deadly ' In the Virgin, that part ot the zodiac which the sun enters In August. ' one who decks out Chattei;'ton. , horses •then; at the same "drooping time ' ^that • poor " cross "Vai-let," replyd the Aljbatte, "cease . your dinne ! ' ^5 This is no season almes and prayers to give. , , ; Mie porter never lets a^ f aitour^ in ; None touch ' rnie rynge^ who not in honour live. " , And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve. And shettynge^ on the grounds his glairie raie :* ■^o The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eft- ' soones i^oadde awaie. ' Onee moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde : Paste reyneynge oer the plaine a' prieste was seen, Ne dighte" full proude, ne butto'nfid up in golde ; His cope ■'arid jape" were graie, and ekj were clene; ,' ''5 A Limitoure he was of order seene.^ And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, ' '■'•' i ' ■ ■■ • >■ ■ ■ ' Where the pore aimer laie binethe the hblmen tree. "Ah almes, sir priest!" the dr'oppynge pilgrim sayde, , "Fbt- sweete Seyhete Marie arid your order sake. ' ' *' The Limitoure then loosen 'd his pouche , ; 1 threade, ., ■- . ■. .-^ ., ■• Arid did there'oute a groate^ of silver take; , i , . The mister* pilgrim dyd for halline^" shake. ' Here take this, silver, it. male eathe" -thie care ; We are Goddes stewards all,^ nete^^ of oure owne we bare. 85 But ah! unhailie^^ pilgrim, leme of me, ' Scathe'* anie give a rentrolle,'" to their Lorde. Here take my semecope,'° ; thou arte bare I see; 'vagabond 'A small coin, worth ' hammer of the door- four pence. knocker ' poor ' ' shooting 10 5oy * shining ray ' i ease 6 dressed ; adorned " naught • A short surplice. " unhappy ' as to his order, he " scarcely was seen to be a " rental, account of liralter, ^^4. e., a rents friar licensed to beg " under-cloak within a certain limited area 134 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEEUNNEES Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde. " He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.^ 90 Virgynne and hallie Seynote, who sitte B yii gloure,^ Or give the mittee' will, or give the gode man power EPITAPH ON EOBEBT CANYNGE mo 1777 ^ went on 2 glory ' mignty * named ^ moldering « shine in ' empty » deeds "more 1" his kinsmen >Mot '-A title of the suc- cessors of Moham- med, now claimed by the Sultan of Turkey. It com- prehends the char- acter of prophet, priest, and king. 10 Thys mornynge starre of Radcleves rysynge raie, A true manne good of mynde and ^^ Canynge hyghte,* Benethe thys stone lies moltrynge' ynto claie, Untylle the dark tombe sheene an" eterne lyghte. ^ 5 Thyrde from hys loynes the present Canynge came; Houton^ are wordes for to telle hys doe;^ For aye shall lyve hys heaven-recorded ^ name, Ne shall yt dye whanne tyme shalle bee no moe;" Whanne Mychael 's trumpe shall sounde to rise the solle, ^ i** He'll wynge to heaven with kynne,^" and happie bee hys dolle.^^ WILLIAM BECKFORD (1759-1844) 35 From THE HISTOEY OP THE CALIPH12 VATHEK 11183 1786 Vathek, ninth Caliph of the race of the 40 Abassides, was the son of Motassem, and the grandson of Haroun Al Raschid. From an early accession to the throne, and the talents he possessed to adorn it, his subjects were induced to expect that his 45 reign would be long and happy. His figure was pleasing and majestic; but when he was angry one of his eyes became so terrible, that no person could bear to behold it, and the wretch upon whom it so was fixed instantly fell backward, and 55 sometimes expired. For fear, however, of depopulating his dominions and making his palace desolate, he but rarely gave way to his anger. Being much addicted to women and the pleasures of the table, he sought by his affa- bility to procure agreeable companions ; and he succeeded the better as his generosity was unbounded, and his indulgences unre- strained, for he was by no means scrupulous, nor did he think with the Caliph Omar Ben Abdalaziz, that it was necessary to make a hell of this world to enjoy Paradise in the next. He surpassed in magnificence all his pred- ecessors. The palace of Alkoremmi, which his father Motassem had erected on the hill of Pied Horses, and which commanded the whole city of Samarah, was in his idea far too scanty; he added, therefore, five wings, or rather other palaces, which he destined for the particular gratification of each of his senses. In the first of these were tables con- tinually covered with the most exquisite dainties, which were supplied both by night and by day according to their con- stant consumption, whilst the most deli- cious wines and the choicest cordials flowed forth from a hundred fountains that were never exhausted. This palace was called "The Eternal or Unsatiating Banquet. ' ' The second was styled "The Temple of Melody, or the Nectar of the Soul." It was inhabited by the most skilful musicians and admired poets of the time, who not only displayed their talents within, but, dis- persing in bands without, caused every sur- rounding scene to reverberate their songs, which were continually varied in the most delightful succession. The palace named "The Delight of the Eyes, or the .Support of Memory," was one entire enchantment. Rarities collected from every comer of the earth were there found in such profusion as to dazzle and confound, but for the order in which they were arranged. One gallery exhibited the pictures of the celebrated Mani, and statues that seemed to be alive. Here a well-man- aged perspective attracted the sight, there the magic of optics agreeably deceived it; whilst the naturalist on his part exhibited, in their several classes, the various gifts that Heaven had bestowed on our globe. In a word, Vathek omitted nothing in this palace that might gratify the curiosity of those who resorted to it, although he was WILLIAM BECKFORD 135 not able to satisfy his own, for he was of all men the most' curious. "The Palace of Perfumes," which was termed likewise "The Incentive to Pleas- ure," consisted of various halls where the 6 different perfumes which the earth produces were kept perpetually burning in censers of gold. Flambeaus and aromatic lamps were here lighted in open day. But the too powerful effects of this agreeable delirium 10 might be avoided by descending into an im- mense garden, where an assemblage of every fragrant flower diffused through the air the purest odors. The fifth palace, denominated "The Re- 15 treat of Joy, or the Dangerous," was fre- quented by troops of young females beau- tiful as the houris^ and not less seducing, who never failed to receive with caresses all whom the Caliph allowed to approach 20 them; for he was by no means disposed to be jealous, as his own women were secluded within the palace he inhabited himself. Notwithstanding the sensuality in which 25 Vathek indulged, he experienced no abate- ment in the love of his people, who thought that a sovereign immersed in pleasure .was not less toleraWe to his subjects than one that employed himself in creating them foes. 30 But the unquiet and impetuous disposition of the Caliph would not allow him to rest there; he had studied so much for his amusement in the lifetime of his father, as to acquire a great deal of knowledge, though 35 not a sufficiency to satisfy himself; for he wished to know everything, even sciences that did not exist. He was fond of engag- ing in disputes with the learned, but liked them not to push their opposition with 40 warmth; he stopped the mouths of those with presents whose mouths could be stopped, whilst others, whom his liberality was unable to subdue, he sent to prison to cool their blood, a remedy that often sue- 45 eeeded. Vathek discovered also a predilection for theological controversy, but it was not with the orthodox that he usually held. By this means he induced the zealots to oppose him, 50 and then persecuted them in return ; for he resolved at any rate to have reason on his side. The great prophet Mahomet, whose vicars the caliphs are, beheld with indignation from B6 his abode in the seventh heaven the irre- ligious conduct of such a viceregent. "Let ' Beantlfal virgins of the Mobamme^dan Paradise. US leave him to himself," said he to the Genii,^ who are always ready to receive his commands; "let us see to what lengths his folly and impiety will carry him; if he runs into excess we shall know how to chas- tise him. Assist him,, therefore, to complete the tower which, in imitation of Nimrod, he hath beglln, not, like that great warrior, to escape being drowned, but from the inso- lent curiosity of penetrating the secrets of Heaven; he will not divine the fate that awaits him." The Genii obeyed, and when the workmen had raised their structure a cubit in the day time, two pubits more were added in the night. The expedition with which the fab- ric arose was not a little flattering to the vanity of Vathek. He fancied that even insensible matter showed a forwardness to subserve his designs, not considering that the successes of the foolish and wicked form the first rod of their chastisement. His pride arrived at its height when, havr ing ascended for the first time the eleven thousand stairs of his tower, he cast his eyes below and beheld men not larger than pis- mires, mountains than shells, and cities than beehives. The idea which such an elevation inspired of his own grandeur completely bewildered him; he was almost ready to adore himself, till, lifting his ieyes upward, he saw the stars as high above him as they appeared when he stood on the surfare of the earth. He consoled himself, how- ever, for this transient perception of his littleness, with the thought of being great in the eyes of others, and flattered himself that the light of his mind would extend beyond the reach of his sight, and transfer to the stars the decrees of his destiny. With this view the inquisitive Prince passed most of his nights at the summit of his tower, till he became an adept in the mysteries of astrology, and imagined that the planets had disclosed to him the most marvellous adventures, which were to be accomplished by an extraordinary personage from , a country altogether unknown. Prompted by motives of curiosity he had always been courteous to strangers, but from this instant he redoubled his attention,, and ordered it to be announced by sound of ' In Oriental mythology, the genii are of a higher order than man, but lower than the angels^ They are said to have governed, the world be- fore the creation of Adam. They were noted for their architectural skill, the BJ^yptian pyra- mids having been ascribed' to ■ them. 'The Persians called them peris and dives. 136 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEEEUNNEES trumpet, through all the streets 'of Samarah that no one of his subjects, on peril of dis- pleasure, should either lodge or detain a traveller, but forthwith bring him to the palace. Not long after thiS proclamation there arrived in his metropolis a Inan s^ hideous that the very guards who arrested him were forced to shut their eyes as they led him along. The Caliph himself appeared startled at so horrible a visage, but joy succeeded to this emotion of terror when the stranger displayed to his view such rarities as he had never before seen, and of which he had no conception. In reality nothing was ever so extraordi- nary as the merchandize this stranger pro- duced ; most of his curiosities, which were not less admirable' for their workmanship than splendor, had besides, their several vir^ tues described on a parchment fastened to each. There were slippers, which enabled the feet to walk; knives that cut without the motion of a hand; sabres which dealt the blow at the person they were wished to strike, and' the whole enriched with gems that were hitherto unknown. The sabres, whose blades emitted a daz- zlirlg radiance, fixed rdore than all the. Caliph ''s attentioil, who promised himself to decipher at his leisure the uncouth charac- ters engraven on their sides. Without, therefore, demanding their price, he ordered all the coined gold to be brought from his treasury, and commanded the merchant to take what he pleased ; the stranger complied with modesty and silence. Vathek, imagining that the merchant's taciturnity was occasioned by the awe which his presence inspired, encouraged him to advance, and asked him, with an air of con- descension, who he was, whence he came, and where he obtained such beautiful com- modities. The man, or rather monster, in- stead of making a reply, thrice rubbed his forehead, which, as well as his body, was blacker than ebony, four times clapped his paunch, the projection of which was enor- mous, opened wide his huge eyes, which glowed like firebrands, began to laugh with a hideOiUS noise, and discovered his long amber-colored teeth bestreaked with green. The Caliph, though a little startled, re- newed his inqi^iries, but without being able to procure a reply; at which, beginning to be ruffled, he exclaimed: "Knowest thou, varlet, who I am ? and at whom thou art aiming thy gibes?" Then, addressing his guards, "Have ye heard him speak? is he dumb?" ' ' He hath spoken, ' ' they replied^ ' ' thojigh but little." 5 ' ' Let him speak again then^ " said Vathek, "and tell me who he is, from whence he came, and where he procured these singular curiosities, or I swear by the ass of Balaam,^ that I will make him rue his pertinacity." 10 The menace was accompanied by the Caliph with one of his angry and perilous glances, which the stranger sustained with- out the slightest emotion, although his eyes were fixed on the terrible eye of the Prince. 15 No words can describe the amazement of the courtiers when they beheld this rude merchant withstand the encounter un- shocked. They all fell prostrate with their faces on the ground to avoid the risk of; their 20 lives, and continued in the same abject posture till the Caliph exclaimed in a furious tone: "Up, cowards! seize the miscrean);! see that he be committed to prison and; guarded by the best of my soldiers! Let 25 him, however, retain the money I gave him; it is not my intent to take from him his property; I only want him to speak." No sooner had he uttered these words than the stranger was surrounded, pinioned; 30 with strong fetters, and hurried away to the ' prison of the great -tower, which, was en- - compassed by seven empalements of iron bars, and armed with spikes in every direc- , tion longer and sharper than spits. 35 The Caliph, nevertheless, remained in the most violent agitation; he sat down indeed to eat, but of the three hundred covers, that were daily placed before him could taste of no more than thirty-two. A diet to which he 40 had been so little accustomed was sufficient of itself to prevent him from sleeping; what then must be its effect when joined to the anxiety that preyed upon his spirits? A,t the first glimpse of dawn he hastened to the 45 prison, again to importune this intractable stranger; but the rage of Vathek exceeded all bounds on finding the prison empty, the gates burst asunder, and his, guards lying lifeless around him. In the paroxysm of ihis 50 passion he fell furiously on the poor car- casses, and kicked them till evening without intermission. His courtiers and vizirs exerted their efforts to soothe his extravagance, but finding every expedient inerfeetual they all 55 united in one vociferation: "The Caliph is ' See Numbers, 22-24. Mohammedans believed that all animals would be raised again, and that many of them, including the ass of ■ Balaam, were admitted into Paradise. WILLIAM BECKFOED 137 gone mad ! the Caliph is out of his senses!" This outcry, which soon resounded through the streets of Samarah, at length . reathing the ears of CarathiS, his mother, she flew in 6 the utmost consternation to try her ascend- ancy on the mirid of her son. Her tears and caresses called off 'his attention, and he Was prevailed upon by her entreaties to' be brought back to the palace. ' 10 Carathis, apprehensive of leaving Yathek to himself, caused, him to be put to bed, and seating herself by him, endeavored by her conversation to heal and compose him. Nor could any one have attempted it with better 15 success, for the Caliph not Only loved her as a mother, but respected her as a person of superior genius ; it yras she who had induced him, being a Greek herself, to adopt all the sciences and systems of her country, which 20 good Mussulmans Ifold in such thorough abhorrence. Judicial astrology'^ was one of those systems in which Carathis was a per- fect adept ; she began, therefore, with , re- minding her sori ofthe promise which the 25 stars had made him, and intimated an inten- tion of consulting them again. . ., "Alas!" sighed the Caliph, as soon as he could speak, "what a fool have I been ! not for the kicks bestowed, on my guards who so 30 tamely submitted to death, but for never considering that this extraordinary man was the same the planets had foretold, whorn, instead of ill-treating, I should' have concil- iated by all the arts of persuasion." 36 ' ' The past, " said Carathis, ' ' cannot be recalled, but. it behoves us to think o,f the future; perhaps you may again see the ob- ject you so much regret ; it is possible the inscriptions Oil the sabres will afford infor- 40 mation. l!at, therefore, and take thy repose, Iny dear son; we will consider, tomorrow, in what manner to act. " Vathek yielded to her counsel aS; well as he could, and arose in the morning with a mind 45 more at ease. 'The sabregihe commanded to be'instantly brought, and poring upon them through % green glass, that their glittering might not dazzle, he set himself in earnest to decipher the inscriptions ; but his reiterated so attempts were all of ihem nugatory ; in vain did he beat his head arid bite his nails, not a letter of the whole was he able to ascertain. So unlucky a disappointment would have undone him again, had not' Carathis by good BB fortune entered the apartment. » A pseudo-science (ionceriled with fOreteJling the future of nations and individuals, from obser- , vation of the stars. "Have patience, sonj" said she; r"you certainly are possessed of every important science, but the knowledge of languages is a ti'ifle at best, and the accomplishment of none but a pedant. Issue forth a proclamation that you will confer such rewards as becomie your greatness upon any one thai ^hall inter- pret what you do hot understand, and yri^at it is beneath you to learn, you will sogn find your curiosity gratified. " ' ' ' That may be, ' ' said the Caliph ; "but in the ineantime I shall be horribly disgusted by a crowd of smatterers, Vbo will come' to the trial as much for the pleasure of petai,ljng their jargon as from thehope of gaining, the reward. To avoid thi^ evU, it will be proper to add.thiat I will put every candidate :tb death who shall fail to give satisfaction; for, thank beayen ! I have skill enough to- distinguish between one that translates and one that invents. " , , "Of th^t I have no doubt," replied Cara- this; "but tp put the ignorant to death is somewhat severe, and may be productive of dangerous jeffects; content yourself with commanding their beards to be burnv— • beards in, a state are not quite so essential.as men." ,,,,,, The Qaliph submitted tp the reasons pfhis mother, and sending fpr Mprakariabad, his prime vizir, said : ' ' Let ,the common criers proclaini, not only in Samarah, but through- out every city in. my empire, that whosoever will repair hither and decipher certain char- acters which appear to be inexplicable, shall experience the liberality for which I am re- nowned; but that, all whp fail; upon trial shall have their beards burnt off tp, the .last hair. Let them add al^o that I will bestow fifty beautiful slaves, and as many jar^ of apricots from the isle of Ejirmith, Upon, any man that shall bring me intelligence pf the stranger.'' , , . , , , .t, ;, , . Th^ subjects of the Caliph,, like their sover- eign, , being, great admirers .pf women and apricots from Kirrnith, felt' their moutjti,s w^ter at these promises, bu,t were .totally unable tp gratify their hankering,, for np one knew which way the stranger had gone. ■ As to itbe Qaliph 's other requisitipn, the result ,was different. .The ieamed,the balf- learned, ,and those -jpho were neither, but fancied themselves equal to, both, came boldly to hazard tbeir beards, and all shamefully lostthem., „ ,;, , , ' ' , ,:, :, , The , exaction of these ,f orf eitures, \^hich "^From the earliest times, aipong the Mohamme- dans, the loss of the beard was regarded as highly disgracefiil. ;,;., 138 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS found sufficient employment for the eunuchs, gave them such a smell of singed hair as greatly to disgust the ladies of the seraglio, and make it necessary that this new occupa- tion of their guardians should be transferred into other hands. At length, however, an old man presented himself whose beard was a cubit and a half longer than any that had appeared before him. The officers of the palace whispered to each other, as they ushered him in, ' ' What a pity such a beard should be burnt ! ' ' Even the CaUph, when he saw it, concurred with them in opinion, but his concern was en- tirely needless. This venerable personage read the characters with facility, and ex- plained them verbatim as follows: "We were made where every thing good is made ; we are the least of the wonders of a place where all is wonderful, and deserving the sight of the first potentate on earth." "You translate admirably!" cried Vath- ek ; "I know to what these marvellous char- acters allude. Let him receive as many robes of honor and thousands of sequins^ of gold, as he hath spoken words. I am in some measure relieved from the perplexity that embarrassed me ! " Vathek invited the old man to dine, and even to remain some days in the palace. Un- luckily for him he accepted the offer; for the Caliph, having ordered him next morn- ing to be called, said : ' ' Read again to me what you have read already ; I cannot hear too often the promise that is made me, the completion of which I languish to obtain." The old man forthwith put on his green spectacles, but they instantly dropped from his nose on perceiving the characters he had read the day preceding had given place to others of different import. "What ails you?" asked the Caliph; ' ' and why these symptoms of wonder*? ' ' ' ' Sovereign of the world, ' ' replied the old man, "these §abres hold another language today from that they yesterday held. ' ' ' ' How say you ? ' ' returned Vathek — " but it matters not ! tell me, if you can, what they mean." "It is' this, my Lord," rejoined the old man: "Woe to the I'ash mortal who seeks to know that of which he should remain igno- rant, and to undertake that which surpasseth his power ! ' ' "And woe to thee!" cried the Caliph, in a burst of indignation; "today thou art void of understanding; begone from my presence, they shall burn but the half of thy 1 A gold coin, worth about $2.25. beard, because thou wert yesterday fortu- nate in guessing; — my gifts I never re- sume. ' ' The old man, wise enough to perceive he 6 had luckily escaped, considering the folly of disclosing so disgusting a truth, immediately withdrew and appeared not again. But it was not long before Vathek dis- covered abundant reason to regret his pre- 10 cipitation ; for though he could not decipher the characters himself, yet by constantly poring upon them he plainly perceived that Ihey every day changed, and unfortunately no other candidate offered to explain them. 15 This perplexing occupation inflamed his blood, dazzled his sight, and brought on a giddiness and debility that he could not sup- port. He failed not, however, though in so reduced a condition, to be often carried to 20 his tower, as he flattered himself that he might there read in the stars which he went to consult something more congenial to his wishes : but in this his hopes were deluded ; for his eyes, dimmed by the vapors of his 25 head, began to subserve his curiosity so ill, that he beheld nothing but a thick dun cloud, which he took for the most direful of omens. Agitated with so much anxiety, Vathek entirely lost all firmness ; a fever seized him, 30 and his appetite failed. Instead of being one of the greatest. eaters he became as dis- tinguished for drinking. So insatiable was the thirst which tormented him, that his mouth, like a funnel, was always open to 35 receive the various liquors that might be poured into it, and especially cold water, which calmed him more than every other. This unhappy prince being thus incapaci- tated for the enjoyment of any pleasure, 40 commanded the palaces of the five senses to be shut up, forbore to appear in public, either to display his magnificence or admin- ister justice, and retired to the inmost apart- ment of his harem. As he had ever been an 46 indulgent husband, his wives, overwhelmed with grief at his deplorable situation, inces- santly offered their prayers for his health and unremittingly suppliepl him with water. In the meantime the Princess Carathis, 50 whose affliction no words can describe, in- stead of restraining herself to sobbing and tears, was closeted daily with the Vizir Morakanabad, to find out some cure or miti- gation of the Caliph's disease. Under the 55 persuasion that it was caused by enchant- ment, they turned over together, leaf by leaf, all the books of magic that might point out a remedy, and caused the horrible stranger, whom they accused as the enchanter, to be WILLIAM BECKFOED 139 everywhere sought for with the strictest diligence. At the distance of a few miles from Sama- rah stood a high mountain, whose sides were swarded with wild thyme and basil, and its summit overspread with so delightful a plain, that it might be taken for the para- dise destined for the faithful. Upon it grew a hundred thickets of eglantine and other fragrant shrubs, a hundred arbors of roses, jessamine, and honeysuckle, as many clumps of orange trees, cedar, and citron, v^hose branches, interwoven with the palm, the pomegranate, and the vine, presented every luxury that could regale the eye or the taste. The ground was strewed with violets, hare- bells, and pansies, in the midst of which sprung forth tufts of jonquils, hyacinths, and carnations, with every other perfume that impregnates the air. Tour fountains, not less clear than deep, and so abundant as to slake the thirst of ten armies, seemed pro- fusely placed here to make the scene more resemble the garden of Eden, which was watered by the four sacred rivers.^ Here the nightingale sang the birth of the rose, her well-beloved, and at the same time la- mented its short-lived beauty; whilst the turtle^ deplored the loss of: more substan- tial pleasures, and the wakeful lark hailed the rising light that reanimates the whole creation. Hfere more thian anywhere the mingled melodies of birds expressed the vari- ous passions they inspired, as if ihe exquisite fruits which they pecked at pleasure had given them a double energy. To this mountain Vathek was sometimes brought for the sake of breathing a purer air, and especially to drink at will of the four fountains, which were, reputed in the highest degree salubrious and sacred to him- self. His attendants were his mother, his wives, and some eunufchs, who assiduously employed themselves in filling capacious bowls of rock crystal, and emulously pre- senting them to him ; but it f rigqiiently hap- pened that his avidity exceeded their zeal, insomuch that he would prostrate himself upon the ground to lap up the water, of which he could never have enough. One day when this unhappy prince had been long lying in so debasing a posture, a voice hoarse but strong, thus addressed him : "Why assumest thou the function of a dog, Caliph, so proud of thy dignity and power?" •Pishon, Glhon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates. — Gene- sis, 2 :10-l-4. ' turtledove At this apostrophe he raised his head and beheld the stranger that had caused him so much afflictibn. Inflamed with anger at the sight, he exclaimed : 6 "Accursed Giaour!^ what comest thou hither to do? is it not enough to have trans- formed a prince remarkable for his agility into one of those leather barrels which the Bedouin Arabs carry on their camels when 10 they traverse the deserts? Pereeivest thou not that I may perish by drinking to excess no less than by a total abstinence?" "Drink then this draught," said the stranger, as he presented to him a phial of 15 a red and yellow mixture ; ' ' and, to satiate the thirst of thy soul as well as of thy body, know that I am an Indian, but from a region of India which is wholly unknown. ' ' The Caliph, delighted to see his desires 20 accomplished in part, and flattering himself with the hope of obtaining their entire fulfil- ment, without a moment's hesitation swal- lowed the potion, and instantaneously found his health restored, his thirst appeased, and 25 his limbs as agile as ever. In the transports of his joy Vathek leaped upon the neck of the frightful Indian, and kissed his horrid mouth and hollow cheeks as though they had been the coral lips, and 30 the lilies and roses of his most beautiful wives ; whilst they, less terrified than jealous at the sight, dropped their veils to hide the blush of mortification that suffused their foreheads. S5 Nor would the scene have closed here, had not Carathis, with all the art of insinuation, a little repressed the raptures of her son. Having prevailed upon him to return to Samarah, she caused a herald to precede him, 40 whom she commanded to proclaim as loudly as possible : ' ' The wonderful stranger hatih appeared again, he hath healed the Caliph, he hath spoken! he hath spoken!" Forthwith all the inhabitaijts of this vast 45 city quitted their habitations, knd ran to- gether in crowds to see the procession of Vathek and the Indian, whom they now blessed as much as they had before execrated, incessantly shouting : * ' He hath healed our 50 sovereign, he hath spoken ! he hath spoken ! ' ' Nor were these Words forgotten in the public festivals which were celebrated the same evening, to testify the general joy; for the poets applied. them as a chorus to all the 65 songs they Composed. The Caliph, fired with the ambition of pre-' ' A term appljed to all persons not of the Moham- medan faith. 140 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY E0EEEUNNEE8 scribing laws to the Intelligences of Dark- ness, was but little embarrassed at this dereliction; the impetuosity of his blood prevented him from sleeping, nor did he encamp any more as before. Nouronihar, 5 whose impatience if possible exceeded , his own, mipprtuned him to hasten his march, and lavished on him a thousand caresses to beguile all reflection ; she fancied herself already more potent than Balkis, and pic- 10 tured to her imagination the Genii falling prostrate at the foot of her throne. , In this manner they advanced by moonlight, till they came within view of the two towering rocks that form a kind of portal, to the valley, 15 at whose extremity rose the vast ruins of Istakhar. Aloft on the mountain glimmered the fronts of various royal mausoleums, the horror of which was deepened by the shad- ows of night. They passed through two vil- 20 lages almost deserted, the only inhabitants remaining being a ie'w feeble old men, who, at the sight, of horses, and litters, fell upon their knees and cried out : , ' ' heaven ! is it then by these phantoms, 25 that we have been for six months tormented? Alas ! it was from the terror of these spec- tres and the noise beneath the mountains, that our people have fled, and left us at the mercy of malefice;it spirits ! " 30 The Caliph, to whom these complaints were but unpromising auguries, drove pver the ,b,odies of these wretqhed old men, and at length arrived at the foot of the terrace of black marble; there he desceri,ded from his 35 litter, handing down Nouronihar ; both with beating hearts stared wildly, around them, and expected with an apprehensive shudder the approach of the Giaour; but nothing as yet announced his appearance, 40 A deathlike stillness reigned , over the mountain and through the air; the moon dilated on a vast platform the shades of the lofty columns, which reached from the ter- race almost to the clouds ; the gloomy, watch- 45 towers, whose numbers could not be counted, were veiled by no roof, and their capitals, of an architecture unknown in the records of the earth, served as an asylum for the, birds of darkness, which, alarmed at the approach BO of such visitants, fled away croaking. , The chief of the eunuchs, trembling with fear, besought Vathek that a fire might be kindled. "No!" replied he, "there is no time left 55 to think of such trifles; abide where thou art, and expect my commands." Having thus spoken he presented his hand to Nouronihar, and, ascending the .steps of a vast staircase, reached the terrace, which was flagged with squares of marble, and resem- bled a smooth expanse of water, upon whose surface not a leaf ever dared to vegetate; on the right rose the watch-towers, ranged before the ruins of an immense palace, whose walls were embossed with various figures; in front stood forth the colossal forms of four creatures, composed of the leopard and the griffin; and, thoiigh but of stone, in- spired emotions of terror; near these were distinguished by the splendor of the mooii; which streamed full on the place, characters like those on the sabres of the Giaour, that possessed the same virtue of changing every moment; these, after vacillating for some time, at last fixed in Arabic letters, anij prescribed to the Calipl? the following words : "Vathek! thou hast violated the condi- tions of my parchment, and deservest to be sent back; but, in favor to thy companion, and as the n^eed for what thou, hast done to obtain it, Eblis permitteth that the portal of his palace shall loe opened, and the, subterra- nean fire, will receive thee into the number of its adorers. " He scarcely had read, these words before the mountain against which the terrace was reared trembled, and the watch-towers were, ready to topple headlong upon them; the rock yawned, and disclosed within it a stair- ease of polished marble that seemed to ap- proach the abyss; , upon each stair were planted two large torches, like those Nouron- ihar had seen in her vision, the camphorated vapor ascending from which gathered into a cloud ,under the hollow of the vault. This appearance, instead , of terrifying, gave new qourage to the daughter of Fak- reddin. Scarcely deigning to bid adieu to the moon, and the firmament, she abandoned without hesitation the pure atmosphere to plunge, into these infernal exhalations. The gait of those impious personages was haughty and determined ; as they descended by the effulgence of the torches they gazed, on each other with mutual admiration, and both appeared so resplendent, that they al- ready esteemed themselves spiritual Intelli- gences ; the only circumstance that perplexed them was their not arriving at the bottom of the stairs ; on hastening their descent with an a^'dent impetuosity, they felt, their steps accelerated to such a degree, that they seemed not walking, but falling from a precipice. Their progress, however, was at length im- peded by a vast portal of ebony, which the Caliph without difficulty recognized; here WILLIAM fiECKFOBb 141 the Giaour awaited them with the key in his hand; * ' Ye are welcome, ' ' said he to them with a ghastly smUe, "in spite 6f Mah6met and all his dependants. I will now admit you into that palace where you have so, highly merited a place. " ■Whilst he was uttering these words he touched the enamelled lock with hi? key, and the doors at once expanded, with a, noise still louder than the thunder of mountains, and, as suddenly recoiled the moment they hacl entered. The Caliph and Nourpnihar beheld each other with amazement, at finding themselves in a place which, though roofed with a vaulted ceiling, was so spacious and lofty that at first they took it for an immeasurable plain. But their eyes at length growing familiar to the grandeur of the objects at hand, they extended tlieir view to those at a distane'e, and discovered rows of columfis and arcades, which gradually diminished till . they terminated in a point, radiant as the sun when he darts his last beams athwart, the ocean; the pavement, streweS over with gold dust and saffron^ exhaled so subtle an odor as almost overpowered them ; they, however, went on, and observed an infinity of censers, in which ambergris and the wood of alcjes, were continually burning ; between the sev- eral columns were placed tables, each spread , with a profusion of viands, an^ wines, of every species sparkling in vases of crystal. A throng of Genii and other fantastic spirits of each sex dancejd lasciviously in troop^ at the sound of music whjch: issued from be- neath. ' . ■,,.,. In the miclst of this immense hall a vast multitude was incessantly passing, Vho sev- erally kept their right hands pn their hearts, without once regarding, anything around; them; they had all the livid paleness of death; their eyes, deep sunk in their sockets,, resembled those phosphoric meteors that glimmer by night in places pf interment. Spme stalked slowly on, absorbed in pro- found reveries ; some, shrieking with agony, ran furiously abput, like tigers wounded with poisoned arrows; whilst others, grinding, their teeth in rage, foamed along,, more franT tic than the wildest, man iaq. They all avoided each other, and, though surrounded, by a multitude that no pne could number, each wandered at. rando?n,:unneedful of the rest, as if alope on a desert which no foot ,had trodden. Vathek and l^ouronihar, frozen with ter- ror at a sight so baleful, demanded of the Giapur what these appearances might mean, arid why these ambulating spectres never \yithdre\v their hands from their hearts. ' ' Perplex not yourselves, ' ' replied he 5 bluntly, "with so much at pnce, .you will soon be acquainted with all; let us haste an (J present you to Eblis. " , They continued their way through the mul- titude, but, nqtwithstanding their confiderice 10 at first, they were not 'sufficiently composed to. examine- with, attention the various per- spectives of halls and. of galleries that opened on the right hand and .left, which were all illujninated.by torcljes and braziers, whose 15 flames :rose in ,pyraniids to the centre pf the vault. At length they came to a place' where long curtains, brocaded with crimson and gold, fell from all parts in striking confu- sion;,, here the choirs and dances were heard 20 no longer, .the" light, which glimmered came from, afar. After some time Yathek and Nouronihar perceived a gleajn brightening through the drapery, and entered a vast tabernacle car- 25 peted with the skins of leopards ; an infinity of elders with streaming beards, and Afrits^ in complete armor, had prostrated them- selves before the ascent of a lofty eminence, on the top of which, upon a §lobe of fire, sat 30 the formidable Jibiis. His person was that of a young man, whose noble and regular features, seemed to .have been tarnished by malignant yapors.;: lin .his large eyes.ap-, peared both jjride and despair; his flowing 35 hair retained sprap resemblance to that of an angel of light; in his hand, which .thunder had, blasted, he swayed the iron sceptre that causes the monster Oui;anabad, the. Afrits, . .and all the power,s-pf the abyss to tremble; 40 at, his presence the heart of the Caliph sunk within him, and for the flrst.tiitie, he fell prostrate, ophis face. Kouronihar,.lipTyeyer, though greatly dismayed, could not help ad- miring the .person of Eblis; for she expected' 45 to have seen some stupendous Giant Eblis, witha voice more mild than might, be imag- ined, but such as transfused through the soul the deepest melancholy, said : . , ; ' ' Creatures of clay, I receive you ipto 60 mine empire; ye are numbered ampngst jny adorers ; enjoy, whatever this palace affords ; the treasures , of the pre-adamite Sultans, their biekerin.a:^ sabres, and those talismans , that compel the Dives to ppen the subter- 55 ranean expanses of the, mountain of Kaf, which communicate, witihi these; there, in- satiable as your curiosity may be, shall you > Powefful evil demons In Arabic mythology. " clashing 142 EIGHTEENTH CBNTUBY FOEEEUNNEKS find sufficient to gratify it ; you shall possess the exclusive privilege of entering the for- tress of Aherman, and the halls of Argenk, where are portrayed all creatures endowed with intelligence, and the various animals 6 that inhabited that earth prior to the crea- tion of that contemptible being, whom ye denominate the Father of Mankind." Vathek and Nouronihar, feeling them- selves revived and ei\eouraged by this ha- 10 rangue, eagerly said to the Giaour : "Bring us instantly to the place which contains these precious talismans. ' ' ' ' Come ! ' ' answered this wicked Dive, with his malignant grin, "come! and possess 15 all that my Sovereign hath promised, and more. ' ' He then conducted them into a long aisle adjoining the tabernacle, preceding them with hasty steps, and followed by his disci- 20 pies with the utmost alacrity. They reached, at length, a" hall of great extent, and covered with a lofty dome, arovind which appeared fifty portals of bronze, secured with as many fastenings of iron; a funereal gloom pre- 26 vailed over the whole scene ; here, upon two beds of incorruptible cedar, lay recumbent the fleshless forms of the Pre-adamite Kings, who had been mjnarchs of the whole earth; they still possessed enough of life to be con- 30 scions of their deplorable condition; their eyes retained a melancholy motion ; they re- garded each other with looks of the deepest dejection, each holding his right hand mo- tionless on his heart; at their feet were 35 inscribed the events of their several reigns, their power, their pride, and their crimes; Soliman Raad, Soliman Daki, and Soliman Di Gian Ben Gian, who, after having chained up the Dives in the dark caverns of Kaf, 40 became so presumptuous as to doubt of the Supreme Power ; all these maintained great state, though not to be compared with the eminence of Soliman Ben Daoud. This king, so renowned for his wisdom, 45 was on the loftiest elevation, and placed immediately under the dome; he appeared to possess more animation than the rest; though from time to time he labored with profound sighs, and, like his companions, 50 kept his right hand on his heart; yet his countenance was more composed, and he seemed to be listening to the sullen roar of a vast cataract, visible in part through the grated portals ; this was the only sound that 55 intruded on the silence of these doleful man- sions. A range of brazen vases surrounded the elevation. ' ' Remove the covers from these cabalistic depositaries," said the Giaour to Vathek, "and avail thyself of the talismans, which will break asunder all these gates of bronze; and not only render thee master of the treas- ures contained within them, but also of the spirits by which they are guarded." The Caliph, whom this ominous prelimi- nary had entirely disconcerted, approached the vases with faltering footsteps, and was ready to sink with terror when he heard the groans of Soliman. As he proceeded, a voice from the livid lips of the Prophet articulated these words : "In my life-time I filled a magnificent throne, having on my right hand twelve thou- sand seats of gold, where the patriarchs and the prophets heard my doctrines ; on my left the sages and doctors, upon as many thrones of silver, were present at all my decisions. Whilst I thus administered justice to innu- merable multitude, the birds of the air librat- ingi over me served as a canopy fram the rays of the sun ; my people flourished, and my palace rose to the clouds; I erected a temple to the Most High, which was the won- der of the universe; but I basely suffered myself to be seduced by the love of women, and a curiosity that could not be restrained by sublunary things; I listened to the counsels of Aherman and the (J,aughter of Pharaoh, and adored fire and the hosts of heaven; I forsook the holy city, and commanded the Genii to rear the stupen- dous palace of Istakhar, and the terrace of the watch-towers, each of which was con- secrated to a star; there for a while I en- joyed myself in the zenith of glory and pleasure; not only men, but supernatural existences were subject also to my will. I began to think, as these unhappy monarchs around had already thought, that the venge- ance of Heaven was asleep; when at once the thunder burst hay structures asunder and precipitated me hither; where, however, I do not remain, like -the other inhabitants, totally destitute of hope, for an angel of light hath revealed that, in consideration of the piety of my early youth, my woes shall come to an end when this cataract shall for- ever cease to flow; till then I am in tor- ments, ineffable torments! an unrelenting fire preys on my heart. ' ' Having uttered this exclamation Soliman raised his hands towards Heaven, in token of supplication, and the Caliph discerned through his bosom, which was transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames. At a sight so full of horror Nouronihar fell ^ balancing WILLIAM BECKFORD 143 back, like one petrified, into the arms of Vathek, who cried out with a convulsive sob : "0 Giaour! whither hast thou brought us? Allow us to depart, and I will relin- quish all thou hast promised. Mahomet ! 5 remains there no more mercy?" "None! none!" replied the malicious Dive. "Know, miserable prince! thou art now in the abode of vengeance and despair; thy heart also will be kindled, like those of lo the other votaries of Eblis. A few days are allotted thee previous to this fatal period; employ them as thou wilt ; recline on these heaps of gold; command the Infernal Po- tentates ; range at thy pleasure through these IB immense subterranean domains; no barrier shall be shut against thee; as for me, I have fulfilled my mission; I now leave thee to thyself." At these words he vanished. The Caliph and Nouronihar remained in 20 the most abject affliction ; their tears unable to flow, scarcely could they support them- selves. At length, taking each other fle- spondingly by the hand, they went faltering from this fatal hall, indifferent which way Z6 they turned their steps ; every portal opened at their approach ; the Dives fell prostrate before them; every reservoir of riches was disclosed to their view; -but they no longer felt the incentives of curiosity, pride, or SO avarice. With like apathy they heard the chorus of Genii, and saw the stately ban- quets prepared to regale them ; they went wandering on from chamber to chamber, hall to hall, and gallery to gallery, all with- 35 out bounds or limit, all distinguishable by the same lowering gloom, all adorned with the same awful grandeur, all traversed by persons in search of repose and consolation, but who sought them in vain ; for, every one 40 carried within him a heart tormented in flames : shunned by these various sufferings, who seemed by their looks to be upbraiding the partners of their guilt, they withdrew from them to wait in direful suspense the 45 moment which should render them to each other the like objects of terror. "What!" exclaimed Nouronihar; "will the time come when I shall snatch my hand from thine?" BO " Ah ! " said Vathek ; ' ' and shall my eyes ^ ever cease to drink from thine long draughts " of enjoyment ! Shall the moments of ' our reciprocal ecstasies be reflected on with hor- ror! It was not thou that broughtest me 55 hither; the principles by which Carathis perverted my youth, have been the sole cause of my perdition!" Having given vent, to these painful expressions, he called to an Afrit, who was stirring up one of the brar ziers, and bade him fetch the Princess Cara- this from the palace of Samarah. After issuing these orders, the Caliph and Nouronihar continued walking amidst the silent crowd, till they heard voices at the end of the gallery; presuming them to proceed from some unhappy beings, who like them- selves were awaiting their final doom, they followed the sound, and found it to come from a small square chamber, where they discovered sitting on sofas five young men of goodly figure, and a lovely female, who were all holding a melancholy conversation by the glimmering of a lonely lamp; each had a gloomy and forlorn air, and two of them were embracing each other with great tender- ness. On seeing the Caliph and the daugh- ter of Fakreddin enter, they arose, saluted and gave them place ; then he who appeared the most Considerable of the group addressed himself thus to Vathek. "Strangers! who doubtless are in the same state of suspense with ourselves, as you do not yet bear your hand on your heart, if you are come hither to pass the interval allotted previous to the infliction of our common punishment, condescend to relate the adventures that have brought you to this fatal place, and we in return will acquaint you with ours, which deserve but too well to be heard; we will trace back our crimes to their source; though we are not permitted to repent, this is the only einployment suited to wretches like us ! " The Caliph and Nouronihar assented to the proposal, and Vathek began, not with- out tears and lamentations, a sincere recital of every circumstance that had passed. When the afflicting narrative was closed, the young man entered on his own. Each person pro- ceeded in Order, and when the fourth prince had reached the midst of his adventures, a sudden noise interrupted him, which caused the vault to tremble and to open. Immediately a cloud descended, which gradually dissipating, discovered Carathis on the back of ah Afrit, who gHevously com- plained of his burden. She, instantly Spring- ing to the ground, advanced towards her son and said : "What dost thou here in this little square chamber? As the Dives are become subject to thy beck, I expected to have found thee on the throne of the Pre-adamite Kings." "Execrable woman!" answered the Ca- liph; "cursed be the day thou gavest' me birth ! go, follow this Afrit, let him conduct thee to the hall of the Prophet Soliman; 144 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY F0EEBUNNEB8 there thou wilt learn to what these palaces are destined, and how n^uch I ought to abhor the impious knowledge thou hast taught me." ' ' The height of power, to which thou art arrived, has certainly turned thy brain, ' ' an- swei;ed Carathis; "but I ask no more than perrnission to show, my respect for the Prophet. It is, however, proper thou shpuld- est know,, that (as the Afrit has informed me neither of us shall return to Samarah) I re- quested his permission to arrange my affairs, and he politely consented ; availing myself, therefore, of the few moments allowed me, I set fire to the tower^ and eonsunied in it the mutes,, negresses, and serpents which have rendered me so much good service,; nor should I have been less kind to Morakana- bad, had he not prevented me, by deserting: at last to thy brother. ,As for Bababalouk, who had the folly to return to Samarah, and all the good brotherhood to provide husbands for thy wives, I undoubtedly would have put them to the torture, could I but have allowed them the time ; being, however, in a hurry, I only hung him after having caught him in a snare with thy wives, whilst them I buried alive by the l^elp of my negresses, who thus spent their last moments greatly to their sat^ isfaction. With respect to Dilara, who ever stood high in my favor, she hath evinced the grea,tnpss of her mind by fixing herself near in the service of one of the Magi, and I think will soon be our own. " Vathek, too much cast down to express tlie indignation excited by such a discourse,; ordered the Afrit to remove Carathis from his, presence, and continued immersed in thought, which his companion durst not disturb. . , . . i Carathis, however, .eagerly entered the dome of Soliman, anci, without regarding in the least the groans of the Prophet,, un- dauntedly removed the covers of the. vases, and, violently seized pn the talismans;, then, with a voice more loud than had hitherto been -heard within these mansions, she com- pelled the Dives to disclose to her the most secret treasures, the most profound stores,, which the Afrit himself had not seen ; she passed by rapid descents known only to Eblis and his most favored potentates, and thus penetrated the very entrails of the earth, where breathes the Sansar, or icy wind of (Jeath; nothing appalled her dauntless soul; she perceived, however, in all the in- mates who bore their hands on their heart a, little singularity, not much to her tasi;e. As she was emerging from one of the abysses, Eblis stood forth to her view, but, notwith- standing he displayed the. full effulgence of his infernal majesty, she preserved her countenance unaltered, and even paid her B compliments with considerable firmness, , This superb Monarch thus answered : "Princess^ whose knowledge and whose crimes have merited a conspicuous rank in my empire, thou dost well to employ the 10 leisure that remains; for the flames and tor- ments, which are ready to seize on thy h^art, will not fail to provide thee with full employ- ment." He said this, and was lost in the curtains of his tabernacle. 15 Carathis paused for a moment with sur- prise;, but, resolved to follow the advice of Eblis, she assembled all the choirs of, Genii, and all the Dives, to pay her homage ; thus marched she in triumph through a vapor of 20 perfumes, amidst the acclamations, of all the malignant spirits, with most of whom she, had formed a previous acquaintance; she even attempted to dethrone ojie of the Soli- mans for the purpose of usurping his place, 25 when a voice, proceeding from the abyss of Death, proclaimed, "All is accomplished!" Instantaneously, the haughty forehead of the intrepid Princess was corrugated with, agony; she uttered a tremendous yell, and 30 fixed, no more to be withdrawn,' her right hand upon her heart, which was become a receptacle of eternal fire. , In this delirium, forgetting all ambitious projects and her thirst for that knowledge: 35 which should ever be hidden from mortals, she overturned the offerings of the Genii,: and, having execrated the hour she was be^^ gotten and the womb that had borne her, glanced off in a whirl that rendered her in- 40 visible, and continued to revolve without intermission. At almost the same instant tiie same voice announced to the Caliph, Nouronihar, the five princes, and the princess, the awful, and 45 irii-evoca,bIe decree. Their hearts immediately took fire, and they at once lost the most prec- ious of the gifts of heaven— Hope. These unhappy beings recoiled with looks ,of the most furious distraction ; Vathek beheld in 50 the eyes of Nouroijihar nothing but rage and *vengea;nce, nor could she discern aught in his but aversion and despair. The two prince.s who were friends, and till that moment had, presen'ed their attachment, shrunk back, 65 gnashing, their teeth with mutual and .un- changeable hatred. Kalilah and his sister made j-eciprocal gestures of imprecation, , vsfhilst. the two other , princes testified, their horror for each other by the most.ffhastlv ■VVlLLIAM COWPEE 145 convulsions, arid screams that could not be sniothered. All severally plunged themselves into the accursed multitude, there to wander in an eternity of unabating anguish. , 5 Such was, and such should he, the punish- ment of. unrestrained passions and atropious actions ! Such is, and such should be, the chastisement of blind ambition, that would transgress those bounds which the Creator 10 hath prescribed to human knowledge; and, by aiming at discoveries reserved for pure Intelligence, acquire that inf situated pride, Which perceives not the condition appointed to man is to be ignorant and humble. 15 Thus the Caliph Vathek, who, for the sake of empty pomp and forbidden power, had sullied himself with a thousand crimes, be- came a prey to grief without end, and re- morse without mitigation ; whilst the humble 20 and despised Gulchenrouz passed whole ages in lindisturbed ' tranquillity, and the pure happiness of childhood. WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) From OLNET HYMNS 1763-73 1779 IiOVEST Thou MBfi Hark,' my soul! it is the Lord; 'Tis thy Savior, hear his word; Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee ; "''Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou me? 5 I deliver 'd thee when bound, ' And, when bleeding, heal'd thy wound; Sought thee wandering, set thee right, Tum'd thy darkness into light. Can a woman's tender, care 10 Cease towards the child she bare? Yes, she may forgetful be. Yet will I remember thee. Mine is an unchanging love, " Highei* than- the heights /above : 15 Deeper than the depthsi beneath, ' Tree and faithful, strong as death. Thou shalt see my glory soon. When the work of grace is done; Partner of my throne shalt be ; 20 Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou me?" Lord, it is my chief complaint. That my love is weak and faint ; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh!i foT grace to love thee more ! tjohn. 21.:16. Light Shining Out op DarknbssI God moves in &: mysterious way. His wonders to perform; He plapts his footsteps in the sea. And rides upon the storm. 5 Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill; He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. ' ; Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, 10 The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.' Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; 15 Behind a frowning providence. He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding ev'ry hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, 20 But sweet will be the flow'r. : '. Blind unbelief is sure to err. And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter. And he will make it plain. THE TA^K , 1783-1784 1785 From Book I. The SopA; ; Scenes that sooth 'd Or charm 'd me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing and of pow'r to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walkg,^ , 145 whose arm this twentieth winter I per- ceive Fast lock 'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, ,, , ; Confirm 'd by long experience of thy . . worth. And well-iried virtues, could alone in- ,,, , spire- Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. _ ; , , 150 ( Thou know 'st my praise of nature most , sincere, , ^ John, IS -.7. 2 Mrs. Mary Unwin, the friend and companion of Cowper for thlrto-four years. S?e Cow- per's To Mary, p. 153. 146 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOEEBUNNEBS And that my raptures are not conjur'd up To ferve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace 155 Has slacken 'd to a pause, and we have borne The wash of Ocean on his wind shore. And lull the spirit while they fill mind; Unnumber'd branches waving in blast, And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, at once. The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that i^" Nor less composure waits upon roar Of distant floods, or on the soi voice Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills t. slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves length it blew. While admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern 'd ISO The distant plough slow moving, and beside His lab 'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track. The sturdy swain diminish 'd to a boy! ^^^ Jn matted grass, that with a live! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level green plain Betrays the secret pf their silent coui Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled /Nature inanimate employs sweet soun o'er, I But animated nature sweeter still, 165 Conducts the eye along his sinuous \ To sooth and satisfy the human ear course ^"^ Ten thousand warblers cheer the d Delighted. There, fast rooted in their and one bank. The livelong. night: nor these alone, wh Stand, never overlook 'd, our fav'rite notes elms, ■ Nice-finger 'd art must emulate, in vain Thait screen the herdsman 's solitary hut ; But cawing "roolcs, and kites that sw While far beyond, and overthwart the sublime stream In still repeated circles, screaming lo I'^o That, as with molten glass, inlays the 205 The jay, the pie, and ey'n the bod: . vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-ro\v beauties numberless, square tow'r. Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells I'^s Just undulates upon the list'ning isar; Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. /^Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd. owl That hails the rising moon, have chai for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves e harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace fore reigns, And only there, please highly for th sake. f God made the country, and man ms the town. Please daily, and whose novelty sur- 750 'V^^jja.t wonder then that health and j vives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of — years. 180 Praise justly due to those that I de- scribe. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. Mighty tue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bit draught That life holds out to all, should m abound And least be threaten 'd in the fie and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye who, bo about winds That sweep the skirt of some far-spread- ''55 In chariots and sedans, know no ing wood tigue 185 Of ancient growth, make music not un- But that of idleness, and taste like scenes WILLIAH GOWPEE 147 But such as art contrives, possess ye Lands intersected by a narrow frith still . Abhor each other. Mountains interpos 'd Your element ; there only ye can shine, Make enemies of nations, vho had elge, There only minds like your's- can do no Like kindred drops, been mingled into harm. one. 760 Our groves were planted to console at 20 Thus man devotes his brother, and de- noon - stroys ; ^ The pensive ■ wand 'rer in their shades. And, worse than all, and most to be At eve deplor'd. The moonbeam, sliding softly in be- As human nature's broadest, foulest tween blot, The sleeping leaves, is all the light they Chains him, and t^sks him, and exacts wish, his sweat Birds warbling all the music. We can With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleed- spare ing heart, ^65 The splendor of your lamps; they but ^^ Weeps when she sees inflicted on a eclipse . beast. Our softer satellite. Your songs con- Then what is man? And what man, found seeing this, Our more harmonious notes: the thrush And having human feelings, does not departs blush, ' Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is And iang his head, to think himself a mute. man ? There is a public mischief in your mirth ; I . would not have a slave to till my ''''0 It plagues your country^ Folly such as ground, your's, ' ' 30 To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, Grae'd with a sword, and worthier of a And tremble when I wake, for all the fan, wealth Has made, what enemies could ne'er That sinews bought and sold have ever have done, earn 'd. Our arch of empire,' stedfast but for No: dear as freedom is, and in my you, heart's A mutilated structure, soon to fall. Just estimation priz 'd above all price, ' 35 I had much rather be myself the slave. From Book II. The Time-Piece ^""^ ^^ar the bonds, than fasten them on him. Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, We have no slaves at home.— Then why Some boundless contiguity of shade, abroad? Where rumor of oppression and deceit. And they themselves, once ferried o'er Of unsuccessful or successful war, the wave 5 Might never reach me more 1 My ear is That parts us, are emancipate and loos 'd. pain 'd, *" Slaves cannot breathe in England;^ if My soul is sick, with ev'ry day's re- _ their lungs port Receive our air, that moment they are Of wrong and outrage with which earth free ; is flU'd. ' They touch our country, and their shack- There is no flesh in man 's obdurate . les fall. heart. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation It does not feel for man ; the nat 'ral _ proud ' bond ' And jealous of the blessing. Spread it 1" Of brotherhood is sever 'd as the flax then. That falls asunder at the touch of fire. *^ And let it circulate through ev'ry vein He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Of all your empire; that where Britain's Not color 'd like his own ; and, having pow 'r pow'r Is. felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy ;, " cause • 16 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful 'The court decision that "slaves cannot breathe i^v/uiuo axxvA. uvj.i..,>-o jjj England" was given by Lord Mansfield in prey. ' 1772. The slave trade was abolished in 1811. 148 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEEUNNERS From Book VI. The Winter Walk AT Noon 560 I would not enter on my list of friends (Tho' grac'd with polish 'd manners and jSne sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail 5^5 That crawls at ev'ning in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn 'd,' Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes, C70 j^ visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose— th' al- cove, , The chamber, or refectory— may die : A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 575 And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the Spacious field: There they are privileg'd; and he that , hunt s / Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong, / Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm, 58(^ Who, when she form 'd, design'd them "^^ an abode. The sum is this. — If man's convenience, health, ' , Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extingi;iish their 's. Else they are all — the meanest things that are — 585 As free to live, and to enjoy that life. As God was free to form them at the first. Who, in his sov 'reign wisdom, made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring-time of our years 590 Is soon dishonor 'd and defll'd ia most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To cheek them. But, alas! none sooner shoots. If unrestrain 'd, into luxuriant growth. Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 595 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty tnan; And he that shows .none, being ripe in years. And conscious of the outrage he com- mits, ^"O Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. THE POPLAR-FIELD i78,4 . 1785 The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade , And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,. Nor Ouse on his bosom their image re- ceives.; 5 Twelve years have elaps'd since I first took a view Of my favorite field and the bank where theygr?w; And -now in the grass behold they are laid. And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 10 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm 'd me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty , no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 15 With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, , To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream,' his enjoy- ments, I see, 20' Have a being less durable even than he. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT -Z7SS 1793 Porc'd from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn, To increase a stranger 's treasures, ■ ' 'er the raging billows borne. WILLIAM COWPEE 149 ^ Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold I ' But, though, slave they have enf oil 'd me. Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, 10 What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, m'e to task ? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature 's claim ; 15 Skins 'may differ, but affection IJwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which ^ve' Ijoi} ? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, -" .,. Swe^t pf ours mijslj dress the soil, Think, ye masters, iron-hearted. Lolling at yoi)r jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. 2S Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, ,, Is there one who reigns on high? ; , Has ,he Ijid you buy and sell us. Speaking from his throne, the sky ? Ask, him if ypur knotted scourges, ^o Matches, blood-extorting sqrews, ,, Are the, means which duty urges Agents of his will to use? Hark! he answers! — Wild toraladoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;' 35 'W'asting towns, plantations, meadows. Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo. Fix 'd their tyrants ' habitations ^0 Where hi& whirlwinds answer — No. By our blood in Afric wasted. Ere our necks reeeiv 'd the chain ; By the mis'ries that we tasted. Crossing in your barks the main ; *5 By our suff 'rings since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart'; All sustain 'd by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart : Deem our nation brutes no lon'gfer 5* Till some reason ye sh^ll find Worthier of regard and stronger Than t,he color of our kind. Slaves of gold, #hose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs, ^5 Prove that you have human feelings. Ere you proudly question ours! ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK THE GIFT OF MT COUSIN ANN BODHAM 1790 1798 Oh that thogeilips had language! Life has pass'd -With me. but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-^thy own sweet smile ' I see, - ; The same that oft in childhood solaced me; s Voice only fails, else, how distinct they ' • _■ say, ' . "■ "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize. The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 1" To quench it) here shines on, me still the same. ■ Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though , unex,pected, here! Who bidd'st me honor yrith, an tartless song, ; ■ Affectionate, a. mother lost so ,long,^,r 15 I -Brill obey, not ^willingly alone. But gladly, as the precept were her own ; And, while, that face renews my filial grief, . ,.,,„, , 1 • Fancy shall weave a charm for my re- lief- Shall, steep me in Elysian reverie,. 20 A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn 'd that thou wast dead. Say,, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover 'd thy.. spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, ■ Wretch ,even then, life's, journey just ,1 , ,' !,- begun?, ;.. 25 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, 1 . : . a. kiss; . . ■ ■ , Pej-haps a tear, if souls can weep in ; bliss— Ah, that maternal smile! it answers— . Yes. ■ .- ' .. , , 1 heard the bell toll'd on thy, burial day, I saw the hearse that bore t^ee slow away, .3'' And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?- It was.— Where thou , art gone 1 Cowper's mother died In 1737. ' 150 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEEEUNNEES Adieus and farewells are a sound un- known. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 2" The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish 'd, I long believ 'd, And, disappointed still, was still de- ceiv 'd ; ''<' By expectation every day beguil'd. Dupe of tomorrow even from a child. Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn 'd at last submission to my lot; ^5 But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more. Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public way, 50 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet eapt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair 55 That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there. Still outlives many a storm that has effac 'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac 'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might 'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 60 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks be- stow 'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow 'd ; All this, and more endearing still than all, 85 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughen 'd by those cataracts and brakes That humor interpos 'd too often makes ; All this still legible in mem'ry 's page, And still to be so, to my latest age, '"> Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn 'd in heav'n, though little no- tie 'd here. Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, ■^5 When, playing with thy vesture 's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick 'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while. Would 'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile) ^0 Could those few pleasant hours again appear. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart— the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.— But no — what here we call our life is such, ^5 So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion 's coast (The storms all weather 'd and the ocean cross 'd) 80 Shoots into port at some well-haven 'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter sea- sons smile. There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below. While airs impregnated with incense play 95 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach 'd the shore "Where tempests never beat nor. billows roar, ' '^ And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long since, has anchor 'd at thy side.^ 100 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always dis- tress 'd — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss 'd. Sails ript, seams op 'ning wide, and com- pass lost, 1 Garth, The Dispensary, 3, 226, — "Where bil- lows nerer break, nor tempests roar." » Cowper's father died in 1756. William cowper 151 And day by day some current's thwart- ing force ^""^ Sets me more distant from a pros'prous course. Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ;^ ^^^ But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents pass 'd into the skies. And now, farewell— Time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done- By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, ' 115 I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er I again; ' To have renew 'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine : And, while the wings of Fancy still are I free, jAnd I can view this mimic show of tliee, 120/ Time has but half succeeded in his I theft— 1 Thyself remov 'd, thy power to sooth me \ left. YAEDLEY OAK 1791 1804 Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once liv'd here thy brethren ! — at my birth (Since which I number three-score win- ters past) A shatter 'd veteran, hollow-trUnk 'd per- haps 5 As now, and with excoriate^ forks de- form, Relies of ageis! Could a mind, imbued With truth from heav'n, created thing adore, I might with rev 'rence kneel and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse l** When our forefather Druids in thfiii: oaks Imagin 'd sanctity. The conscience yet Unpurifled by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 1 On his mother's side, Cowper traced his an- cestry to Henry III. ' bark-removing 15 Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscrib 'd, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball. Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin 'd 20 The auburn nut that held thee, swallow- ing down Thy yet close-folded latitude pf boughs And all thine embryo vastness, at a gulp. But Fiate thy growth decreed : autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow 'd the soil, ■ r- I 25 Design 'd thy cradle; and a, skip]3ii)s? deer, , ' With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe,i prepared The soft receptacle, iii which, secure. Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. ' ■ : • So Fancy dreams.— Disprove it, if ye can, 30 Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search . . ' i , : ■ Of argument, employ 'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short ' life away. Thou fell'st mature, and in the loamy clod Swelling, witlT vegetative force instinct 35 Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins Now stars ;2 two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf. And all the elements thy puny growth Fost'ring propitious, thou beeam'st a ^n twig. *" Who liv'd when thou wast Such? Oh, eouldst thou speak, As in Dodona once th;y kindred trees ' Oracular,' I would not' curious ask The future, bept unknown, bi* at thy '■' mouth Inquisitive, the less anibig'uous't)ast.' *5 By thee I might correct, erroneous pft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Eecov'ring, and misstated setting rig'ht- Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again! ii - . ' making holes in the sod or ground " Castor and Pollux, who, accotdiUfe to one tra- dition, were born' ^f an egg. 'The responses of the oracle at Dodona in Eplrus, were given by the rustling pf the oak trees in th(3 wind. The sou^ds were Inter- preted by priests. 152 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY F0KERUNNER8 50 Time made thee what thou wast— King of the woods ; And Time hath made thee what thou art— a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spread- ing boughs O'erhung the champaign;^ and the nu- merous flocks That graz'd it stood beneath that ample cope 55 Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter 'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv 'd Thy popularity and art become (Unless verse rescue" thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. ^•* While thus through all the stages thou hast push 'd Of treeship, first a seedling hid in grass, Then twig, then sapling, and, as century rqll*d Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth einormous, with moss-cushion 'd root 85 Upheav'd above the soil, and sides em- boss 'd With prominent wens globose,^ till at the last The rottenness, which Time is charg'd t' inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. What exhibitions various hath the world ''O Witness 'd of mutability in all That we account most durable below ! Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain, now the heat ''S Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of , clouds; Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought. Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that , live, — plant, animal, and man,^ so And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. Fine passing thought, ev'n in her coars- , est works. Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force, that agitates not unimpair 'd, But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause 85 Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 1 field ' growths in the shape of globes Thought cannot spend itself, compar- ing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state ' Of matchless grandeur, and, declension thence, ^0 Slow, into such magnificent d^eky. Time was when, settling on. thy leaf, a % ' Could shake thee to the root; and time has been < , When tempests could not. At thy firmest age _ _ ,, , , Thou hadst within thy bole, solid contents 85 That might have ribb'd the sides and plank 'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous . , arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present .,, , , To the f our-cfuarter 'd winds, robust and bold, , ,,, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load. J-OO But the axe spared thee; in those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to , supply The bottomless demands of pontest wag'd For senatorial honors. Thus to Time ; The task was left to whittle thee away 105 With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, 7 , Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining-from the rest, has, unobserv'd, Achiev'd a labor, wTiieh had, far and wide, (By man perform 'd) made all the forest ring. 110 Embowell'd now, and of. thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop 'd rind, that seems An huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, r ,, Which it would give in riy'lets to thy root. Thou temptest none, but. rather much forbid 'st 115 The feller's toil, which thou couldstill , requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, , , ' A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs. Which, crook 'd into a thousand whim- sies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. WILLIAM COWPEE 153 ^2' So stands a kingdom, whose founda- tion yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, ' Though all the , superstructure, by the tooth Pulveriz 'd of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself . 125 Thine arms have left thee. ,Wirids have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burnt. them. Some have left , ' , . A splinter 'd stumpj bleach 'd to a ^dwy . white; And some memorial none, where once they grew. 130 Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forti' Proof not contemptible of what she can. Even where death predominates. , The Sprinig rinds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstart of the neighboring wood, 135 go much thy juniors, who their birth receiv'd Half a millennium since the date of thine. , But since, although well qualified by .■a,ge: . . ' V ' ..,■■, To teach, no , spirit dwells in ,thee, nor , yoice May be expected from thee, seated here 1*' On thy distorted root, with hearers none Or prompter, save the scene, I ,^ill. per- form Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I inay. One man alone, the Father of us all, 1*5 Drew not ;his life from woman; never gaz 'd. With mute unconsciousness of what he '■:■ * - saw. On all around him ; learn 'd not by degrees, Nor .owed articulation to, his efir ; But, moulded by his Maker into man 150 At once, upstood intelligent, survey 'd All creatures, with precision , understood Their purport, uses, propeiiies, assign 'd , To each his name sigiiifipant, and, fiU'd With love and wisdom, render 'd back to heav 'n 155 In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was exeus'd the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task 'd his mind With problems ; history, not wanted yet. 1?" Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course. Eventful, should supply hpr with athjme. TO MARY X79S 1803 The twentieth year is well-nigh past; Since our first sky was overcast;* ' ' Ah, would that this might be the last ! My Mary ! 5 Thy spirits have a f aihter flow, ' I see thee 'daily weaker grow— 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, 1" For my sake restless heretofore. Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, ' My Mary I For,though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me fetill,- 15 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, ■ My Mary! But well thou play 'd'st the housewife's part. And all thy threads with magiq art, Have wound themselves about this heart, ^^ , , My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter 'd in a dream; Yet me- they charm, Whate'er^the theine, My Mary! 25 Thy silver locks, once. auburn bright. Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden, beams of .qrient light. My Mary ! For, could I view noi- them nor thee, 30 What sight worth seeing could I see 1 The sun would rise in vain for me. My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline. Thy hands their little force resign; 35 Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, " My Mary ! And then I feel that still I hold A richer store ten thousandfold , ,, Than, misers fancy in their gold/ " My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st. That now at every step thou mov'st lA reference to Cowper's violent attack of In- sanity In 1773. 154 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY F0EEBUNNEK8 Upheld by twoj yet still thou lov'st, My Mary! *^ And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary ! But ah ! by constant heed I know, so How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be east With much resemblance of the past, 55 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary ! THE CASTAWAY 1799 1803 Obscurest night involv'd the sky, Th ' Atlantic billows roar 'd. When such a destin'd wretch as I, Wash 'd headlong from on board, 5 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft. His floating home, forever left. No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 1* With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain. Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long' beneath the whelming brine. Expert to swim, he lay ; 15 Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But wag'd with death a lasting strife. Supported by despair of life. He shouted : nor his friends had fail 'd 2" To check the vessel's course. But so the f iirious blast prevail 'd, .That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind. And scudded still before the wind. 25 Some succor yet they could afford ; And, such as storms allow. The cask, the coop, the floated cord. Delay 'd not to bestow. But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore, 30 Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem 'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea. Alone could rescue them; 35 Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long sui:vives, who lives an hour In ocean, self -upheld; And so long he, with unspent pow 'r, ■*" His destiny repell'd; And ever, as the minutes flew. Entreated help, or cried— "Adieu!" At length, his transient respite past. His comrades, who before ^5 Had heard his voice in ev 'ry blast. Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him ; but the page 50 Of narrative sincere. That tells his name, his worth, his age. Is wet with Anson's tear.^ And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead. 55 I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting^ on his fate. To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date : But misery still delights to trace ^O Its semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allay 'd. No light propitious shone. When, snatch 'd from all effectual aid, We perish 'd, each alone : *5 But I beneath a rougher sea. And whelm 'd in deeper gulfs than he.' GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) From THE VILLAGE J780-178S 1783 Book I The village life, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants and declining swains ; What labor yields, and what, that labor past. Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; 5 What form the real picture of the poor, ■Demand a song — the Muse can give no more. '■ The poem is found- ' Cowper had a delu- ed on an incident sion that be bad in Lord George An- lost the favor of son's Voyage Bound God. See his let- the World (1748). ter to Newton, wrlt- "i commenting freely ten April 11, 1799. GEORGE CKABBB 155 Fled are those times, when, in harmo- The poor laborious natives of the place, nious strains, And see the mid-day sun, with fervid The rustic poet praised his native plains : ray. No shepherds now, in smooth alternate On their bare heads and deiwy temples verse, play ; 10 Their country'^ beauty or their nymphs' '*^ While some, with feebler heads and rehearse; fainter hearts, Yet still for these we frame the tender Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their strain, parts : Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, Then shall I dare these real ills to hide And shepherds ' boys their amorous pains In tinsel trappings of poetic pride ? reveal, No; east by Fortune on a frowning The only pains, alas ! they never feel. coast, 15 On Mincio's banks, in Cffisar's boun- ^^ Which neither groves nor happy valleys teous reign, boast, If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, Where other cares than those the Muse Must sleejpy bards the flattering dream relates, prolong,. And other shepherds dwell with other Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? mates. From Truth and Nature shall we widely By such examples taught, I paint the cot, 7 stray, As Truth will paint it, and as bards will J "^ 20 Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads not: the way? ^^ Nor you, ye poor, of letter 'd scorn com- - Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy ' plain, swains. To you the smoothest song is smooth in i Because the Muses never knew their vain; pains: O'ereome by labor, and bow'd down by They boast their peasants' pipes; but time, peasants now Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ? "^ Eesign their pipes and plod behind the Can poets soothe you, when you pine for plough; bread, 2B And few, amid the rural-trihe^ have time *o By winding myrtles round your ruin 'd To number syllables, and play with shed? rhyme ; Can their light tales your weighty griefs Save honest Duck, what son of verse o'erpower, could share Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome The poet's rapture, and the peasant's hour? care? Lo! where the heath with withering Or the great labors of the field degrade, brake grown o 'er, *0 With the new peril of a poorer trade ? Lends the light turf that warms the From this chief cause these idle praises neighboring poor ; spring, ^5 From thence a length of burning sand That themes so easy few forbear to sing ; appears, For no deep thought the trifling "'subjects Where the thin harvest waves its with- ask ; er 'd ears ; To ?ing of , shepherds is an easy task; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, 35 The happy youth assumes the common ^eign o 'er the land, and rob the blighted strain, rye : A nymph his mistress, and himself a There thistles stretch their prickly arms swain ; afar, • With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful ^^ And to the ragged infant threaten war ; Hi prayer, , _ There poppies nodding, mock the hope of But all, to look like her, is painted fair. toil; I grant indeed that fields and flocks There the blue bugloss^ paints the sterile have charms soil; *0 For him that grazes or for him that Hardy and ,hig!h, above the slender sheaf, farms; The slimy mallow'^ waves her silky leaf; But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace i A kind of plant. 156 eighteen'Th centuky forerunners "^^ 'er the young shoot the charlock^ throws To load the ready steed with g'uilty a shade, haste, ,j And clasping tares^ cling round the sickly To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste, blade; 1"^ Or, when detected, in their straggling With mingled tints the rocky coasts course, abound. To foil their foes by cunning or by And a sad splendor vainly shines around. force ; So looks the nymph whom wretched arts Or, yielding part (which equal knaves "adorn, ,. demand), 80 Betray 'd by man, then left for man to To gain a lawless passport through the scorn; land. Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic Here, wand 'ring long, araid these frown- rose, , i , in g' fields, ' V While her sad eyes the troubled breast ^i" I sought the simple life that Nature disclose; , yields; , Whose outward splendor, is but folly's Eapine and Wrong and Tear usurp 'd ^her dress, , ;^lacfe, ' ' ' Exposing most, when most , it gilds dis- And a bold, artful, surlyy saVage race, tress. ; Who, only skill 'd to take the finny tribe, 85 Here joyless roam a wild amphibious The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,^ I race, , ^^^ Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run With sullen wo display 'd io every face ; high. Who, far from civil arts and social ily. On the tost vessel bend their eager eye. And scowl at strangers with suspicious Which to their coast ditects its vent 'rous eye. _ way, Here too the lawless merchant, of ,the Theirs, or the ocean 's, miserable prey, main^ As on their neighboring beach yon 8* Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swallows stand, ' swain ;^ ^^^ And wait for favoring winds to leave Want only claim 'd the labor of the day, the land. But vice now steals his nightly rest While still for flight tte ready wing is away. , spread. Where are the swains, who, daily labor So waited I the favoring hour, and fled— done, Fled from these shores tyhere guilt and "^ With rural games play'd down the set- famine reign, ting sun; And cried. Ah! hapless they who still 95 Who struck with matchless force the remain ; bounding ball, . ^ho still remain to hear the ocean roar, Or made the pond 'rous quoit obliquely Whose greedy waves devour the lessening fall • ®"°^® ' While some huge Ajax, terrible and Till some fierce tide, with more imperious strone- sway, T, J ij! 1 J. • V ™ «j5 J.I.,, Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away ; Engaged some artful stripling of the When the ^ad tenant weeps from door to ^^^O'^S) door And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far 130 And begs a poor protection from the around poor! 100 Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return 'd But these are scenes where Nature's nig- the sound? gard hand Where now are these?— Beneath yon cliff Gave a spare portion to the famish 'd they stand, land ; \ To show the freighted pinnace where to Hers is the fault, if here mankind corn- land ;* plain , , , . , ,„,„„i. Of fruitless toil and labor spent in vain: 1 A kind of plant. i; td i i. • iu n • • • 2 The smuggler. ^''^ But yet in other scenes more fair in View, ' He became intoxicated on smuggled brandy. Where Plentv .tsmilpt! alfl The local body of Justices of the Peace. • Goldsmith, The Deserted Village, 142. A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task As much as God or man can fairly ask; The rest he gives to loves and labors , light, , _ (, , . To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; 310 None better skill 'd the noisy pack to guide, To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide ; A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, Aad, skill 'd at whist, .devotes th^ night to play : Then, while such honors bloom around his head, , , : 31^ Shall he sit sadly by the sick man 's bed, To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that e 'en the pious feel ? Now once again the gloomy scene ex- plore. Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, 320 T]je man of many sorrows sighs no more. Up yonder hill, behold how , sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below ; There lie the happy dead, from trouble free. And the glad parish pays the, .frugal fee : 325 No more, Death ! thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern,, or kingly overseer; No more the farmer claims his humble bow, - Thou :art ,his lord, the best of .tyrants thou ! Now to the church behold the mourn- ers come, 330 Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb ; The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their ancient , friend; For he was one in all their idle sport. And like a monarch ruled their little court. 335 The pliant bow, he form'd, the flying ball. The bat, the wicket, were his labors all; Him, now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand ; While bending low,, their eager eyes ex- plore 340 Jhe mingled- rplics of the parish; .pioor: The bell tolls late, the moping owl, flies round. 160 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FORERUNNERS Fear marks the flight and magnifies the Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, sound; and look, The busy priest, deta'in'd by weightier As it steals by, upon the bordering care, brook; Defers his duty till the day of prayer ; That winding streamlet, limpid, linger- 345 And, waiting long, the crowd retire ing, slow, distress 'd, *" Where the reeds whisper when the zeph- To think a poor man's bones should lie yrs blow; unbless'd. Where in the midst, upon her throne of green, From THE BOROUGH ^^^^ t^® ^^^S^ ^^^y ^^ *^^ water's queen; 1810 And makes the current,' forced awhile Letter I. General Description ,, *" ^^^^t ,,, . ., Murmur and bubble as it shoots away; "Describe the Borough"— though our 35 Draw then the strongest contrast to idle tribe that stream. May love description, can we so describe, And our broad river will before, thee That you shall fairly streets and build- seem. ings trace, With ceaseless motion comes and, goes And all that gives distinction to a place? the tide ' ' 5 This cannot be; yet, moved by your re- Flowing, it fills the channel vast and quest, • wide; A part I paint— let fancy form the rest. Then back to sea, with strong majestic Cities and towns, the various haunts sweep of men, 40 it rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; Eequire the pencil ; they defy the pen : Here sampire-banks^ and salt-vort^ bound Could he, who sang so well the Grecian the flood • flfi^t,^ There stakes arid sea-weeds withering on ^0 So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? the mud; Can measured lines these ' various build- And higher up, a ridge of all things ings show, ' base, The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Which some strong tide has roll'd upon Row? the place. ' Can I the seats of wealth and want ex- 45 Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy plore, boat, . ' And lengthen out my lays from door to Urged on by pains, half grounded, half door? afloat, 15 Then let thy fancy aid me— I repair while at her stern an angler' takes his From this tall mansion of our last-year's stand ^^^yo^) And marks thie fish he purposes to land, Till we the outskirts of the Borough From that clear space, where, in the reach, cheerful ray And these half -buried buildings next the 60 Qf the warm sun, the scaly people play. beach, Far other craft our prouder river shows, Where hang at open doors the net and Hoys, pinks, and sloops; brigs, brigan- cork, _ tines, and snows :^ 20 While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy Nor angler we on our wide stream de- work, scry, Till comes the hour, when fishing through But one poor dredger where his oysters the tide, lie; ■ The weary husband throws his freight 55 He, cold and wet, and driving with the aside, _ the tide, A living mass, which now demands the Beats his weak arms against his tarrv wife, side Th' alternate labors of their humble life. Then drains the remnant of diluted gin, 25 Can scenes like these withdraw thee from To aid the warmth that languishes, within, thy wood. Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood? 1 A kind of sea shrub. 1 Homer, Iliad, 2. = Kinds of small coasting vessels. GEOEGE OEABBE Igl ^ His 'tingling 'fingers into gathering teat, ^^i Before you bid these busy scenes adieu, He shall again be seen when evening Behold the wealth that lies in public ; ' . comes, ' view. And social parties crowd their favorite Those far-extended heaps of coal and rooms : ■ coke, . . Where on the table pipes and papers lie, Where fresh-fill 'd lime-kilns breathe The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by ; their stifling smoke. 65 'Tis then, with all these comforts spread This shall pass oS, and you behold, in- around, stead, • They hear the painful dredger's welcome ^P* The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed; 1 sound; ' When from the light-house brighter And few themselves; the savory bb'on beams will rise, '•' ' deny. To show the shipman where the shallow The food that fieeds, the living luxury. lies. ' • 1 Yon is our quay! those smaller! hoys Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene from town, ■ Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene—' ■'O Its various wares, for country-usej 'bring ^"^ Rich— is that varied vieVr with woods down; around, Those 'laden wagons, in return, impart Seen from thy seat, within the shrtibb 'ry The country-produce to the city mart ; bound ; - ' Hark to the clamor in that miry ' road. Where shines the distant lake, and Bounded and narrow "d by yon vessels' where appear ' ' •load, ' From ruins bolting, unmolested deer; ^B The lumbering wealth she empties iound Lively— the village-greeflj ■ the inn, the the place, ' place, ^ 'L ' Package and parcel, hogshead, chest, and ^^^ Where the good widow schools her infant case. ' race. While the loud seaman and the angry Shopsy whence are heard the hammer hind, ■ 1 , and the saw. Mingling in business, bellow -to the wind. And village-pleasures unreproved by law; Near these a crew amphibious^ in the Then how serene! when in 'your favorite docks, ' ' "■ •■'■" ■ - room, :, . c ;.. 8* Rear, for the sea, those castles on the Gales from your jasinines ' soothe the '■' - ; stocks,'.- ■• ' ..• '-■■ r ..'i] • evening gloom ; ■ '; " ■ • i See ! the long keel, which soon the waves '^^ When from your upland paddock^ you must'hide; i' >• i- -'look down, ■■ . ' See! the strong -ribs which form the And just perceive the smoke iwhich hides rodmy side; ^ the town; ■ ' , Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest When weary peasants at the close of day ' stroke. Walk to their cots, and part upon the wiajr; And planks which curve and crackle in When cattle slowly cross the shallow the smoke. ' brook, 85 Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, 120 ^,j shepherds pen their fJolds; and rest '•'■' and far ■ ■ upon their crook. ' ^^ Bear the warm pungenee; of o'er-boiling • ' We prune bur hedges, prime our slen- ' 'tar. " ''■•■'•■ ' '■'' :■■ ' i.iT. .: ■ ' der trees, ■'■ - ■Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys And nothing looks untutored and at ease; crowd, • i On the wide heath, or in the Bow 'ry vale, Swiin round a ship, or swing upon the' '' We scent the vapors of the sea-born gale; shroud; 125 Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile ' Or in a boat purloin 'd, with paddles play, ' " j to stile, "^-jf^ ^o And grow familiai: with the watery way: And sewers from streets,' the road-side Young though they be, they feel i whose ■ banks defile; sons they are. Our guarded fields a sense of danger show. They know what British' seamen do and : Where garden-crops with corn and clover dare; _ ^grow; Proud of that fame, they raise and they Fences are form'd of wreck and placed enjoy . around, , , The rustic wonder of the village-boy. » small pasture ; field 162 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS 130 (With tenters^ tipp'd) a strong^ repul- Its colors changing, when from clouds sive bound; ■ and sun i Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run, Shades after shades upon the surface run; And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;' Embrown 'd and horrid^ now, and now Or yon broad board, which' guards each serene, tempting prize, i™ In limpid blue, and evanescent green ; ' ' Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies. "^ ■, ' And oft the foggy banks on oceail lie, 135 There stands a cottage with an open Lift the fair sail, and cheat th^ expe- door, rienced eye. Its garden undefended blooms before: Beit the summerruoon: a sandy gpace Her wheel is still, and overturn 'd her stool. The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; While the lone widow seeks the neigh- i 175 Then just the hot and stony beach stbove, b 'ring pool: > ■' Light twinkling streams, in bright con- This gives us hope, all views of town to : . fusion move; shun— ', ' . (For ; heated thus, the warmer air 1^" No ! here are tokens of the ^ sailor-son ; ascends. That old blue jaciet, and that shirt of And with , the, . cooler, in its fall con- check, tends) — And silken kerchief- for the seaman's -neck; ^ Then the broad, bosom of the ocean keeps Sea-spoils and shells from many a dis- i^** An equal, motion ; swelling as it steeps, : taut shore^ ■ . .' ■ Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand, And furry robe from frozen Labrador.' Faint< lazy, waves o 'ercreep, the ridgy sand, 145 Our busy streets and sylvan-walks be- Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, .. tween, u' . ' And back return in silence, smooth and Fen, marshes, bog, and heath all intervene; slow. .,; Here pits of cragt^with spongy, plaslly base, 185 Sy|,s in .^jjje calm seem anchor !d", for To some enrich th ' uncultivated space : they glide For there are blossoms rare; and curious : On the still sea, urged solely by' the tide; rush. Art thou not present, this calm scene • 15.9 The gale's^ i rich balm, and sun-dew's^; befote, v ■ ■;_ crimson blush, , '■'}' •' Where ralLbeside is pebbly length cif shore, Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty And far as eye can reach, it can discern .- ,; dress'd, no more? . ;■ <■ Forms a gay pillow . for the plover's i^" Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud '-' .r^, breast. ..!■,' ■ . /: ;■ :to make - . ;., -• Not distant far, a house commodious The quiet surface of.the ;ocean shake, l.made, , ; '.. As an awaken 'd giant with, a fro^n (Lonely yet public stands) for Sunday- Might show his wrath, and then to sleep . trade; ; v -:- ,sink down. ^ : ; \ 15B Thither, for this day free, gay parties go, View now the winter-storm! above, one . : Their tea-house walk, their tippling ren- cloud, , , ; . dezvous; 1^5 Black and unbroken, all the skies o'er- There humble couples sit in' corner- , shroud; , ■,.;' bowers, Th ' unwieldy porpoise: through the day Or .gaily; ramble for th' allotted hours; . before- .; , , i , ;,'.,, Sailors and lasses from the town attend, Had roU'd in view of bodingjrien on shore; 160 The servantJover, the apprentice-friend; And sometimes, hid; a,nAi.' sometimes With all the idle social tribes, who seek, show'd his form, ;,-.?. And find their humble pleasures once a Dark as the cloud, a^nd :feriovi$ .-as the week. storm. :;•:•;::■ Turn to the watery world!— but who -200 AH where the «ye. delights,; yet -dreads to thee : ' to roapij .• .. op (A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint— The breaking billows east, the fly^g f oam . the sea ? Upon the billows rising — :aU the deep 165 Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,;,. Is restless change; the waves so. s\Fell'd When luU'd by zephyrs, or when roused and steep, by storms, ' Breaking and' sinking, , and the sunken 1 sharp hooked nails Epistle 1, 340. , swells, sPope, Moral Essays, » A kind o£ plant. i rough (a Latlnlsm) GEORGE CRABBE 163 205 jjor one, one moment, in its station dwells : Yes, '4is a driven vessel : I discern But nearer Iknd you may the billows trace, Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from As if' contending in theii: watery chase; the stern; May watch the mightiest till the shoal ^*^ Others behold them too, and from the town they reach, ' In various parties seamen hurry down ; Then break and hurry to their utmost Their wives pursue, and damsels urged stretch; • > by dread, -•■■: ", 210 Curl'd as they come, they strike with Lest men so dear be into danger led; furious force, ' Their head -the gown has hooded, and And then re-flowing, take their grating their call course, ^50 j^ this sad'night is piercing like the squall ; Eaking the rounded flintsj which ages past They feel their kinds of power, and when Koll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last. they meet, Par off the petrel in the troubled way Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or 216 Swims with her brood, or flutters in the entreat. ' spray; See one poor girl, all terror and alarm, She rises often, often drops £(gain, Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm; And sports at ease on the tempestuous ^55 "Thou shalt not venture;" and he ans- main. wers, "No! High o'«r the restless deep, above the I will not"— stjll she cries, "Thou shalt reach not go." ; ' ' Of gunner's hope, vast^ flights of wild- No need of this; not here the stoutest ducks stretch; boat 220 Par as the eye can glance on either side, Can through such breakers, o'er such In a broad space and level line they glide; billows float; All in their wedge-like figures from the Yet may they view these lights upon the north, beach, Day after day, flight after flight go forth. 260 Which yield them hope, whom help can I In-shore their passage tribes of sea- riever reach. ' gulls urge. From parted clouds the moon her 225 And drop for prey within the sweeping . radiance throws surge; On the wild waves, and' all the danger Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly shows; Far back, then turn, and all their force But shows them beaming in her shining apply- ' ■■;-,- ^y^^^* 1 nj,-; '.V While to the storm they give their weak Terrific splendor! gloom in glory dress 'd ! complaining cry; ' ' 265 This for a imoment, and then clouds again Or clap the sleek white pinion to the Hide every beam, and fear and darkness breast, ' reign. ' ' ' 23* And in the restless ocean dip for rest. But hear we now those ' isounds ? - Do Darkness begins to reign; the louder -^^ lights appear?- wind I see them not ! the storm alone I hear : Appals the weak and awes the firmer And lo! the sailors homeward take their mind; way; But frights not him, whom evening and 270 Man must endure— let us submit and pray, the spray Such are our winter-views; but night In part conceal— yon prowler on his way : comes on— 235 Lo! he has something seen-; he runs apace, Now business sleeps,! and daily cares are As if he fear'd companion in the chase; gone; He sees his prize, and now he turns again, Now parties form, and some their friends Slowly and sorrowing — "Was 'your assist search in vain?" To waste the idle hours at sober whist; GruflSy he answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight! 275 The tavern's pleasure or the concert's 240 A seaman's body: there'll be more to- charm night!" Unnumber'd momehts of their sting dis- Hark! to those sounds! they're from arm; distress at sea : - Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite. How quick they come! What terrors To p^ss off one dread portion of the night ;^ may there be ! And show and song and luxury combined, 164 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY F0BERUNNEE8 280 Ljf t (jg from man this burthen oi mankind. Others . advent 'rous walk abroad and meet Returning parties p>acing through the street ; ' When various voices, in the dying day, Hum in our walks, and gt'eet us in our way; «— 285 W'hen tavern-lights flit on from room to room, And. guide the tippling sailor staggering home. There as we pass, the jingling bells betray How business 'rises, with the closing day : Now walking silent, by the river's side, 29* The ear perceives the rippling of the tide; Or measured cadence of the lads who tow .Some enter'd hoy, to: fix her in her row; Or hollow sound, which from the parish- bell - : . i- ;_!_ To some departed spirit bids farewell ! 295 Thus'shall you something of our Borough know, Far as a verse, with Fancy 's aid, can show ; Of sea or river, of a quay or street. Tie, best description must be incomplete ; But when a happier theme succeeds, and when ■! ■ .''';■ 300 jyjen are our subjects and the deeds of men ; Then may we find the Muse in happier style. And we may sometimes sigh and some- times smile. WILLIAM LISLE BQWLES (1762-1850) AT.TYNEMOUTH PRIOBY : . As slow I climb the cliff 's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past. When o 'er the dark wave rode the howling ,■ ,:' blast. Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide ■ 5 That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam Of evening smiles on the gray battlement, , And yon forsaken, tower that time has rent ; The lifted oar far off with transient gleam :. Is. touched, and hushed is all the billowy deep ! .10 Soothed by. the scene, thus on tired Na- • ture's'.breast A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest, While sea-sounds; lull her,' as she sinks to sleep. Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre. Waked by the breezey andj ^s they mourn, expire ! THE BELLS, OSTEND 1787 ' ,,1789 How sweet the tuneful bells ' responsive peal! i; As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze . i , , i Breathes on the tremblingj sense of pale I disease, . , So piercing to my heart their; force I feel ! 5 And hark ! with lessening cadence now/they fall ! And now, along the white and level tide, Tiey fling their melancholy music wide, Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer days, and those delightful years 10 When from an ancient tower, in life's fair . prime, i - The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked ray wondering- childhood into tears! .: , : But seeming now, when all those daysL are 'er, • The sounds of joy once heard,, and heard no more. BEREAVEMENT Whose was that gentle voice, that, whisper- ing sweet, . - : i I Promised, methought, long days of bliss sincere ! . Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat s Thoughts dark and drooping. 'Twas the voice of Hope. Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak, r, Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek ; That oh ! .poor friend, might to lifefsidown- ward slope Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. 10 Ah me ! the prospect saddened as she sung ; Loud on my , startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable ,bowerSj> Whilst Horror pointing to yon breathless -clay, , , ,•■ . ,. . "No peace be thine, '^exclaimed, "away, away ! " BAMBOROUGH, CASTLE 1789 ; Te holy towers that shade the wave- worn steep. Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime. Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time WILlilAM LISLE BOWLES 165 AssSiI you, and the winds of winter sweep 6 Round your dark battlements ; for far from halls ■ ^ '' Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat, Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests beat ' ; . . . With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; •■: - ••■ "'I And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 1** Of midnight, when the moon is hid'on high, Keepd lier lone watch upon the tojpmost tower, ' • ' .0 And turns her ear to each expiring cry ; Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch inay save, '"-••. "- -■■ And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave. ■■■ .:.-■() .ii-- '•:■. HOPE .' ■17891., 'I As'ohe who, long by wasting sickness Wpm, "Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard Unmoved'the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely'pbrch ; now first at mom 5 Goes forth, rleaying lus melanehply bedj He th;e' green, slope ,£ind level meadow views, Delighitfijl b^,t5e4,| wi|h , ^low-ascending , ,d^ws;.''" ' /,,-, ; ,., ',,,, '. .. Or marks the eloiids, that o'er the moun- taiiv/s, head ; , . In varj^ng forms fantastic wander white ; 10 Or turns Jiis ear to every random song, Heard the. green .river's . lyinding inarge along, The whilst each, sense i^ steeped in /still delighj;., . , , ,, . r So o 'er my breast young ^umiper 's br^eath .Ifeel,. ,;.;;.;„ ";,,:'•; ;,,': Sweet Hope ! thy fragrance pure and heal- ,,. ing intense steal,! .^ji Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 'j ' ' •' Forgetful, though its wings are wet 'the while;— ^. Yet ah! how much must that poor heart ■ _^:; endure, "^ '» jJJ.V, which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure. 'S', APPROACH OF STJMMEB -;:■•■ ■ '■'■, ; ,1789 :, , i.' ' How shall I meet thee. Summer,- wont to fill , My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant ■'■•■■ '■: tide ■ ■•- ;■;."-■'' First came, and on the Coo!iilb''s romantic ' Was heard ' th6 distant cuckbo 's hollow ■■■ Willi " . ■' 5 Fresh fiowers shall fringe tlife margin o^the '" /'•' stream; ''' ' f ' " "■ ' , ■''_'■ As with the songs of joyance and of hope The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and oi;i the ''■' ' ' slope' ' '■■="' ■• ■■'■> ■'•' " "• ■* The poplars sparkle ip the passiijg beam ; The sHiiubs iind laurels that I loved to tend, 1" Thinking their May-tide f i'agrahce 'wOuld delight,, . ■/ ' '• With many a* peacef ill charm, thee, my poor friend, Shall put f o;rth. their green shpots, and cheer the sight I ' •:> ' ' But I shair.'rmark thfeir' hues with sadder And weep the more fop one ■Who in the .cold "' ■' ' ■ ''earth lies! "' ABSENCE .There is.ftrange,mi}.s^ein.the stirring lyind, ^hgii Josyers, the autumnal eve, ^nd all alone, :" ■,, -, ;..■:[-, Tp. fthe ^ark wood's ,Cf))d covert .JJiQii' art gone. Whose ancient trees.on the, rough, slope re- clmed Time I who know'st a lenient hand to lay ^ 5 Rack, Vd^at times'soatter thejr tresses sere. SnftPst. or, sorrow/s .wonnds.. «nd, ..Inwlv . j£ j- ^^^^ shades, ; beneath\thei,r murmur- INFLUEN.CE OF TIME ON 6KIEF 1789 , , . .-. ' Softest, on sorrow's fwounds,; and; slowly thence, ;: ..//./.i <- Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, ' ' The faint ipang stealest unperceived.away : ^'' ^ On thee T rest my only hope at last,', n And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear , ^ ,.',,''' * That flows in ifain o'er all my soul held dear,_ ,.,, ,, . I may look back on every sorrow past, ^ And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile;— ' , / . \ !■'* As some lone bird, at day 's'departirig hour, -^ j Th.ou late ha^t^passed the happ^e;c hflurs of ' .. , spring, , ,..'; _ ' ', .: ,'__; With S34ness tl^ou wilt mark the 'tading _.,,., yeiar';,. .,. ^, , ',^, .,,„ ,'; '.;_, Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at ■ \morn ,,,,,,' •; :r W\.Qt evening ,.th.9u hast shared, afar shall stray. Spring, return ! rej;urn, auspicious, l^ayl 'beU; 600m ' ' ' '''' "" 166 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY EOEEEUNNERS But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, far, far away. WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) TO SPRING 1783 thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morn- ing, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, Spring! B The hills tell each other, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth. Aid let thy holy feet visit our clime. Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds ^^ Kiss thy perfumed garments ; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. deck her forth with thy fair fingers ; pour Thy soft kisses on her, bosom ; and put 15 Thy golden crown upon her languished head. Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee. HOW SWEET I ROAMED 1783 How sweet I roamed from field to field. And tasted all the summer's pride. Till I the Prince of Love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide. 5 He showed me lilies for my hair. And blushing roses for my brow ; He led me through his gardens fair. Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May dews my wings were wet, 1' And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; He caught ine in his silken net. And shut me in his golden cage. He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; 15 Then stretches out my golden wing. And mocks my loss of liberty. 10 MY SILKS AND PINE ARRAY ,1783 My silks and fine array, My 'smiles and languished air. By love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew ■ to deck my grave : Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold; 0, why to him was't given, Whosei heart is wintry cold 1 His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb. Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade. Bring me a winding-sheet; IB When I my grave have made. Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. , True love doth pass away! TO THE MUSES 1783 WhSther on Ida's shady brow. Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now ' From ancient melody have ceased; 5 Whether in Heaven ye wander fai:^, Or the green corners of the earth,' Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth ; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, 1' Beneath the bosom of the sea. Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you I 15 The languid strings do scarcely' move, The sound is forced, the notes are few ! INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OP INNOCENCE 1789 Piping down the valleys wild. Piping songs of pleasant glee. On a cloud I saw a child. And be, laughing, said to me : 5 ^'Pipe a song about a Lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped : he wept to hear. WILLIAM BLAKE 16T - "Drop thy pipe, thy Kappy pipe; ■ 1" Sing thy songs of happy eheer!" ' Sd'I'satig the same aga;in^ * ' ^ While he wept' with-joy'to hear. "Piper, git thee down, and iwrite , In a book, that all may read. " ' ; IS So he vanished from my; sight; ., ' And I plucfced a hollow reed, ■ And I made a rural pep, And I stained tt.e, water clear, ,An|i,.I, wrote my happy songs 20 'Every child m9,y joy to, hear. THE SHEPHEED ■ ITSQ ■ ■ ■ ' ' How, sweet is the shepheri's. sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays ; He shall follow his sheep all the d^y. And his tongue shall he filled with praise. 5 For he hears the lambs' innocent call, , And he hear s the ewes ' tender reply ; He is watchful while they are in peace, Mor they know when their ^hepherd is nigh. , ^ ' ' THE LITTLE BLACk BOY ' My mother bore me in the sputperEi wild, , Ai>4 t am black, but 0, my soul is jyhite ! White as an an^el is the English child, Rnt I a,mp}a(ik, as if bereaved. of light. ■5 Mymother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the hteat of She took me on her lap apd kissed llite. And, pointing to the Eastj began to say : "Look on the rising sun: there God does -•■: live, -•; ■ - ■'■■'■■ 1" And gives His light, and gives His heat away. And flowers and "trees' and- beasts and men ieeeive '''' Comfort in morning, joy in the noon- day. "And we are put on earth a little space, , That^ we may learn i to., bear the beams of love; •, : , 15 And. these black bodies and this sun- , burnt face Are, bnta cloud, and like a shady .grove. ..''¥,0T, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, . • ^ Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care, j 20 And round my golden -tent like JainBs rejoice: ' " J Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; And thus I say to little English boy. When I' from black, and he from iwfiite cloud free, '-' And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, ' ■ 25 I'll shade him from the heat till he can (bear To lean iii joy upon our Father 's knee ; And then'I'll stand'and stroke his. silver ■ heiir,' ■•' ■ • ■■ - ■"• . . - • ,' // And be like him, and he will then love me. LAUGHING SONG ■ 1789 ' ■' When the greeii woods laugh'trith the voice of , joy, And the'dimpling stream rutis laughing by,; When the air does laugh with oiir m$rry And the green hill laughs with the noise of it; , - 5 Wheri the meadows laugh ^ith ' lively , green, ' ' ' "' And the grasshopper laughs ii'the merry scene; , When Mary and Susan and Emily With theii" sweet round mouths ^sing .. "Ha ha he! r '' ■ ; ."; When th^ painted. t)irdslaug^[^ in the shade, 1" Where onir taible, with cHefnes and nuts is spread: Come live, and be merry, and join with me, To,.sing thes sweet cliorus of ',-';Hfi,,ha he!" THE DIVINE IMAGE 1789 To .Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, , '' ' All pifay in their distresgj ' ' '' And to thes6 virtues of delight , ■' Eeturn their thankfulness. ' 5 For Mercy, Pity, P^ace, and Love, Is. God, our Father dear; ' And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, . .,^ Is man, Hi^ child and care. . li'or Meyey has a, hiim^n heart ; 1*' ' Pity, a human'face; , ■ ' And Love, the' hitman foriri divine; And Peace, the human dress.,.,, 168 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY EOEEEUNNEES Then every man of every clime, That prays in his distress, 15 Prays to the hUman form divine: Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew. Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, 20 There God is dwelling too. A DREAM 17S9 Once a dream did weave a shade 'er my angel-guarded bed. That an emmet' lost its way Where on grass methought I • lay. 6 Troubled, wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her S£iy : "0 my children! do they cfy, 10 Do they hear their father sigh ? Now they look abroad to see. Now return and weep for me. ' ' Pitying, I dropped a tear: But I saw a glow-worm near,- 15 Who replied: "What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night? "I am set to light the ground. While the beetle goes his round ! Follow now the beetle's hum; 20 Little wanderer, hie thee home!" THE BOOK OF THEL 1789 ■ thel's motto Does the eagle know what Is In the pit, Or wilt thou go ask the mole ? Can wisdom be put In a silver rod, Or I6v6 in a golden bowl? The Daughters of the Seraphim led round their sunny flocks— All but the youngest; she in paleness sought the secret air. To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day. Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, 5 And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew: "0 life of this, our Spring! w^y fades the lotus of tbe water? «ant Why fade these children of the Spring, -born but to smUe. and fall ? Ah! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud, Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water, 10 Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face. Like the dove 's voice, like transient day, like music in the air. Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest iny head. And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time ! ' '^ 15 The Lily of the Valley, breathing in lihe humble grass, Answered the lovely maid, and said: "I am a watery weed. And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales : So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. Yet I am visited from heaven ; and He that smiles on all,' Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads His hand, 20 Saying, 'Kejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily-flower, Thou gentle maid of Silent valleys and of modest brooks; ' For thou shalt be clothed in light and fed with morning manna, ,, Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs. To flourish in eternal vales.' Then why . , should Thel complain ? 25 "Wliy should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?" She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. Thel answered : "0 thou little virgin of the peaceful valley. Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o 'ertired, , Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb ; he smells thy milky garments, ^0 He crops thy flowers, while thou isittest smiling in his face, Wiping his mild and meekin^ mouth from all contagious taints. Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume, Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs. 1 See Genesis, 3 :8. ' gentle WILLIAM BLAKE 169 Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed. 35 But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find "my place ? ' ' ' ' Queen of the vales, ' ' the Lily answered, "ask the tender Cloud, '" • ' And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morniiig 'sky, • And why it scatters its bright beauty ' through the humid air. " - *" Descend, little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel." The Clbud- descended; and ^the 'Lily bowed her modest head, 'And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. .■■:'. a . ->r: "0 little Cloud," the virgin said, "I charge- tliee teir to me ' '• ' Why thou eomplainest not, when in one hour thqu fad 'st away : *5 Then we shall -seek thee, but not find. , Ah ! Thel is like to thee— I pass away ; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice." The Cloud then showed his golden head, arid his bright form emerged. Hovering and glittering on the air, be- fore thie face of Thel. "0 virgin, knoW'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs 60 Where Luvah doth renfew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth. And feafest thou because I vanish and am seen no more? Nothing remains. maid, I tell thee, ■' when I paiss away, ' It is to tenfold Ufe^ to love, to peace, and raptures holy.' Unseen, descending, T^eigh my light wings upon bal^jiiy flowers, " ^5 And court the fair-eyed Dew to take me to her shining tent: " The weeping virgin, tremblirig, kneels be- fore the risen sun. Till we arise, linked in a goldeil band, and never jKirt, . But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers. " "Dost thou, p little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee ; . 6* For I walk through the vales of ''Har, and smell the sweetest flowers, But I feed not the little flowefs; I 'hear the warbling birds. But I feed not the warbling birds— they fly and seek their food. But Thel delights in these no more; be- cause I fade awayj And all shall say, 'Without a use this shining woman lived; ^5 Or did she only live to he at' death the food of worms?' " ''' The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, ' ■ and answered ^thus: -i-;' I 'i ".Then if thou art the food of worms, virgin of the skies, . ,, How great thy use, how great; thy bless- ing! Everything that: dives ''" Lives not alone nor for itself. '^ real"; not, and I will call The weak WorUi from its lowly bed,. and thou shalt hear its voice. Come forthy Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive queen.'? The helpless Worm; arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf, . And the bright Cloud sailed, on to find bis partner in the vale. i ™ •''5 Then Thel,, iastonished, viewed the Worm upon its de^y b^d. "Ajct thou a worm, image of weakness? art thou but a. worm?j ' I see thee, like an infant, wrapped in the Lily's leaf. Ah! weep not, little voice; thou canst ■ not speak, but thou canst w^ep. Is this a worm? I see thee lie helpless * and naked, weeping,' ' '"■•'' '' 8" And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother 's smites. "' ' The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, and raised her' pitying head: " She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaled In milky fondness ; then on Thel she fixed ' her humble eyes. • "0 beauty of the vales of Har! we livie not for ourselves. 85 Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. My bosom of itself is cold, and; of itself is dark ; But He that loves the loWly pours His oil upon my head, ^ See Romans, 14 :7. 170 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FORERUNNERS And kisses, mey and binds His nuptial bands around my breast, And says; 'Tliou mother of my children, I ' have loved thee, '"' And I have given thee a crown that none can take away.' But how this is, sweet maid, I know, not, and I cannot know ; I ponder, and I cannot ponder j yet I live and love!" The Daughter of Beauty wiped her pity- ing tears with her -white veil, And said : ' ' Alas ! I knew' not this, and therefore did I weep. ^5 That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot That wilful bruised its helpless form ;^ but that He cherished it With milk and oil, I never knew, and therefore did I weep. And I complained in the mild air, be- cause I fade away, And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot." 100 "Queen of the vales," the matron 'Clay answered, "I heard thy sighs, And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down. Wilt thou, qiieen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter. And to return': fear nothing; enter with thy virgin feet." The eternal gates ' terxiflc porter lifted ,] i .the northern bar; ; 105 Thel entere4Tin, ancj saw the secrets of ;,,,:. the land unknpwn. ... . , She saw the coufilies of the -dead, and where fibrous root Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless i twists; ./ ■ A land of sorrows and of te^rs, where never smile was seen. She wandered in the land of clouds, through valleys dark, listening 11" Dolors and lamentaitions^ waiting oft beside a dewy grave. She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground. Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, ■ And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. 1 See Cowper's The Tosfc,6, 560 S. (p. 148). "Why eannpt the ear be elosed to its own destruction ? ii"* Or the glistening- eye to the poisau of a smile? ',, ■ ; Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn. Where a thousand fighting-men in am- bush lie,- ,, ,.- Or an eye of .gifts and graces showering fruits and cqinfed gold ? ■ . Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind "i : 120 -^jiy an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? . ; ,. ■ ' Why a nostril wide-inhaling terror, trem- bling, and affright? Why a ;tender curb upon .the . youtjiful burning boy? Why a little ciirtein of flesh on the bed of our desire ? ' ' The Virgin started from her seat, and -with a shriek : , 125 Fled back unhindered, till she came into the vales of Har, THE CLOB AND. THE PEBBLE 1794 "Love se.^keth not itself to please,. Nor for itself hath any care. But for another gives, its ease, . And builds a heaven in hell's despair." 5 So sung a little, clod of clay,/ Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a pebble -of the brook Warbled, put these metres meet :" , " Love sejekethi only ^elf to please, . / 1" To bind another to its. delight, Joys in another 's loss of ease, , , . And builds a hell in heaven's despite." HOLY THURSDAY 1794 Is this a holy thing to see. In a rich, and fruitful land,— Babes reduced to misery, .Fed with cold and usurous liand? 5 Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song, of jpy ? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty ! And their sun does, never shipe, - 1" And their fields are bleak and bare. And their ways are filled with. thorns- It is eterjial winter . there. WILLIAM BLAKE 171 For where 'er the sun does shine, And' where 'er the rain does fall, 15 Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appal. THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER 1794 A. little. black thing among. the snow. Crying, f' weep !, weep ! " in notes of woe ! ' ' Where are thy father and . mother ? ,Say!':^- "They are both gone up to church to pray. s "Beeause I was happy upon the heath, And smiled among the winter's snow, ~ They clothed me in the clothes of death. And taught m« to sing ithe notes of woe. "And because I am happy, and,. dance . I r. , and sing, ^ ■ . ; 1-* They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God and f His priest and king, :' ^ho^^make up a heaven, of -our misery." NURSE'S SONG 1794 When the voices of children are heard On the green, , ' And whisperings are in the dale, The days bf my youth rise fresh in my mind ; My fae^ turns green and pale. 5. Then come home my children, the sun is ^opfe down. And the dews of night arise ; Your spring and your day are wasted in ■play,' " ' . / ": And your winter and night in disguise. THE TIGER ;; 1794 Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful ssrmmetry? 5 In iwhat distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art 1" Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? And, when thy heart began to beat,' What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer ? t^hat the chain ? In what furnace was thy brain ? ' 15 What the anvil ? what dread grasp Dare its deadly' terrors Clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears. Did He smile His work to see? • 20 Did He who made the laihb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? ' AH, SUNFLOWER 1794 !Ah, Sunflower, weary of time,.. Who eountest the steps of the sun ; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is dpi^e; 5 Where the yottth pined away with desire, ' And the pale virgin shrouded in show, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to .gp ! THE GARDEN OF LOVE 1794 ,,.,,.,,,. I went to the Gfarden of Love, And saw what I never had 'seen; A chapel was built in the midst, ' Where I used to play on th^ green. 5 And the gates of this chapel were shut, And " Thou 'shalt' not" writ over the door;; So I turned to.the.Gardea of Love That so many sweet flowers bore. 10 And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be ; And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, <: '. , And: binding with briars my joys and I desires. A POISON TREE 1794 I was angiry with my friend: ' I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my f oe : I told it not, my wrath did gi;6w. ' And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. 172 EIGHTEENTH CBNTIJEY FOBEEUNNERS And it grew both day and, night, 1" Till it bore an apple bright, And, my foe beheld it shine,, And he knew that it was mine, t-, , And into my gai;den stole When th^ night had veiled the pole ; ^s In the morning, glad, I see. , i My foe outstretched beneath the , tree. A CRADLE SONG, 1794 ■ Sleep ! sleep ! beauty bright, Dreaming o'er the joys of, night; ■ Sleep! sleep! in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. 5 Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, •Secret joys and secret smiles, ' Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel, f Spiiles as .of the morning steal , O'er tiy cheek, and o,'er thy, breast Where thy little heart does pest. . , i ! the' Running wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep. 15 Wheii 'thy little lieart does 'wake, Then the dreadful lightnings break Froi^i thy pheek and from thy eye, 'er .Ijhe youthful , harvests nigh. Infant wiles and infa-ot smiles , ; ,/ 2" Heaven and Earth of peace beguiles. ,,, I „.,., • .■■ ■■ - • '' ■/: ■' : .... ATO'TJEIBS OF INNOCENCE 1801-S 1S,63 To see aj world in * a grain of sand, > And a heaven in a wild flower; '<' Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, . And eternity in an hour. '. ;.' ,5 A robin redbreast 'in: a cage ' Puts all heaven in a rage ; ; ,1. A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions. A dog starved at his master's gate 1" Predicts; the ruin of the state. A game-cock clipped and armed for fight Doth the rising sun affright ; ,■ t ;A, horse misused upon the road } Calls to heaven for human blood. Every, w:olf 's and lion 's howl IS Raisies from hell a human soul; Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear; A stylark wo,unde;d ou the wing, , , . ^O Doth make a elieru.b cease to sjng. He who shall hurt the little wj:e;a Shall never be, beloved by. men ; , He who the ox to wr^th has moved Shall never be by woman loyed ; 25 He who shall train the horse to war Sha,ll, never pass, the polar bar. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity; He who torments the chafer's 'Sprite 30 Weaves a bower in endless liight. ' The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother 's^rief; The wild deer wandering here -and there 1 Keep the human soul from care; 35 The lainb misused breeds public strife. And yet forgives the butcher's knife. Kill not the moth ndr, butterfly; ^•^■■ For the last judgment draweth nigh ; The beggar's dog and widow's feat, " 40 Feed them and thou shalt grow fat. ' Every tear from every eye ' ' ' ' Becomes a babe in eternity ; The bleat, the bark, bellow,' and roar. Are waves that beat on' heaven 's sho're. *5 The bat, that, flits at clos^ of eve, Has left the brain that won't believe; ,The owl, that calls upon the night, , , Spe'aks'the unbeliever 's fright ; " ' Thej gnat, that sings his summer fs spng, 50 Poison gets' from Slander's tongue;,. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sw^at of Envy 's foot ; The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy; 55 The strongest poisoii ever known Came from Caesar's laiirel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armorer 's ,iron hiaee ; , The soldier armed with sword and gun ^0 Palsied strikes the summer's sun. When gold and gems 'adorn the plough. To peaceful arts' Shall Envy bow. The beggar 's. rags fluttering in air . i' Do to ragsithe heavens tear; : 85 The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. ■ One mite, wrung from the laborer's ■ hand^/ n ' j. ' i Shall buy and sell the miser 's lands) ' Or, if; protected from, on high, '^f' Shall that whole nation sell and buy; The poor :man 's farthing is worth'more Than all the, gold onAfric's shore. T,he whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build fthat nation 's fate ; .'.' WILLIAM BLA'KE' 173 V6 Tbe harlot 's cry from street to' street ■' Shall weave OldEngland 's winding 'sheet ; The winner's Shout, the loser's curse, Shall dance before dead England 'siearse. • He who mocks the infant 's ' faith ■ 8* Shall be mockedin age and death;' He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall lie'er get but; " He who respects the infant 's faith »; Triumphs over hell and death: 85 The babe is more than swaddling-bands Throughout ' all these human lands-; Tools were made, and bortf were hands, Every farmer understands. ■ . Jhe auejstipner^who ^its so sly 5''''*Shall never know how, to reply ; ,_,t,He who replies to words of doubt^,, it Doth pui the light of knowledge out ; A riddle, or the cricket 's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. 85 The child's toys and the old inan 's reasons Are the fruits of the two seag6ns. ' The emmet 's^ inch and eagle 's mile Make lame philosophy to sniile. A truth that's told with bad' intent 100 Beats all the lies you can invenjt. . He. who doubts froih what he, sees Will ne'er believe, do what you plpase ; If the,'sun and niooii should doubt, They'd immediately go out. ' 105 Every night and every morn , Same to misery are bprn ; Every morii and every nigh't. Some are born to sweet delight ; Some are bprn Jo ^weet delight, IJO Spme are born to endless night. ' Joy and woe are woven fine, , A clothing for the soul divine ; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy ,yith silken twine. 115 It is righj; it should 'be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And, when this we rightly know. Safely through the world we go. We are led to believe a lie 120 When we see with hot throiigh the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night When the sOul slept in' beams of light. God appears, and God' is light' To those poor souls who dwell in night, 125 But doth a Jiuman.form display To those who dwell in realmfe of day. i: ■ ■■ - lanfB . , THE MENTAL TEAVELLEB : , • .1, 180J ., ,, 1863 , I travelled through a land of men, A laid of men and women too; And heard and saw such dreadful things As cold earth-wanderers never knew. 5 For there the babe is born in joy That was begotten in 'dire woe; Just as-we'reap in joy the fruit .i) 'Which we in bitter tears did sow. And, if the babe- is born a boy, 10 He 's given to a woman old, : .[,, ' Who. nails him down upon a rock,f Catches his shrieks in.cupg of gold. ■-■■Mi_;h . '.■''■- ' ' ' '-'' ' '■■'■'-. "' ''' She binds iron thorns around his head ; ; , I She pierces boti( ,his hands and. feet ; 15 She eutp his heart out at his side, . To make it feel both cold and heat. Her fingers number every nerve, Just, as a miser counts his gol|d ; Sh6 lives upon; his shrieks and cries, 20 And 'she gi'ows ypung as he grows. old. Till he becomes' a bleeding youth, And she becomes a virgin bright ; Then ho Vends' up 'his 'manacles, "■ ■ And binds her down for his delight. 25 He plants'himself in all her nerves, Just as a husbandman his mould, And she becomes his dwelling-place And garden fruitful seventy-fold. An aged shadow soon he fades, 30 Wandering round an earthly cot, FuIl-fiUpd all -with gems and gold , Which he by industry hacj got. . Arid these are the gems, of the, human soul, The rubies and pearls of a love-sick eye, 35 The countless gold of the aching heart, The m,artyr'|s groan" and the lover fs sigh. They are his meat, they are h,is'df;ink; He feeds the beggar and the poor; To the wayfaring traveller *0 Forever bp'efi is his door. ' His grief is' their eternal joy, They make the roofs and walls to ring;. Till from the fire upon the hearth A little female babe doth sji.ring. *5 And she is all of solid 'Are ' And .gems and gold, that hoile bis h.an^. 174 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEBRUNNEES Dares stretch to touch her baby form, Or wrap her in his swaddling-band. But she comes to the man she loves, ^^ If young or old or rich or poor; They soon drive out the aged host, A beggar at another's door. He wanders weeping far away, Until some other take him in; S5 Oft blind and age-bent, sore distressed, Until he can a maiden win. And, to allay his freezing age, The poor man takes her in his arms ; The cottage fades before his sight, ^o The garden and its lovely charms. The guests are scattered through the land ; For the eye altering alters all; The senses roll themselves in fear. And the flat earth becomes a ball. *5 The stars, sun, moon, all shrink away,. A desert vast without a bound. And nothing left to eat or drink. And a dark desert all around. The honey of her inflint lips,' ■'O The bread and wine of her sweet smile, The wild game of her roving eye, Do him to infancy beguile. Tor as he eats and drinks, he grows Younger and younger every day ; 75 And on the desert wild, they both Wander in terror and dismay. Like the wild stag she flies away; Her fear plants many a thicket wild. While he pursues her night and day ^' By various art of love beguiled ; By various arts of love and hate. Till the wild desert planted o 'er With labyrinths of wayward love. Where roam the lion. Wolf, and boar; 85 Till he becomes a wajrward babe. And she a weeping woman old ; Then many a lover wanders here, The sun and stars are nearer rolled ; The trees bring, forth sweet ecstasy 90 To all who in the desert roam; Till many a city there is built And many a pleasant shepherd''s home. But, when they find the frowning babe, Terror strikes through the region wide ; 95 They cry : " The babe ! the babe is born ! ' ' And flee away on every side. For who dare touch the frowning form. His arms is withered to its root; Bears, lions, wolves, all howling flee, i*" And every tree doth shed its fruit. And none can touch that frowning form Except it be a woman old ; She nails him down upon the rock, And all is done as I have told. COUPLET Great things are done when men and mountains meet ; These are not done by jostling in the street. From MILTON 1S04 And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England 's mountain green ? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? 5 And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills ? Bring me my bow of burning gold! 1" Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear ! clouds, unfold ! Bring me my chariot of Are ! ' I will not cease from mental flglit. Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 15 Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land. TO THE QUEEN 1806-7 1808 The door of Death is made of gold, . That mortal eyes cannot behold; ^ But when the mortal eyes are closed. And cold and pale the limbs reposed, 5 The soul awakes, and, wond,'rinig, sees In her mild hand the golden keys. The grave is heaven 's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait : , Shepherdess of England 's fold, 1" Behold this gate of pearl and gold I To dedicate to England's Queen The visions that my soul has seen. And by her kind permission bring EOBEET BURNS 175 What I have borne on solemn wing 15 From the vast regions of the grave, Before her throne my wings I wave ; Bowing before my sov 'reign's feet, The Grave produced these blossoms sweet, In mild repose from earthly strife, -0 The blossoms of eternal life. ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) O, ONCE I LOV'D A BONIEi LASS nfi 1786 0, once I lov'd a bonie lass. Ay, and I love her still ! And whilst that virtue warms my breast, I'll love my handsome Nell. 6 As bonie lasses I hae^ seen. And monie full as braw ; ^ But for a modest, graeef u ' mien. The like I never saw. A bonie lass, I will confess, 1" Is pleasant to the e 'e. But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me. But Nelly 's looks are blythe and sweet, And what is best of a ', ^5 Her reputation is complete, And fair without a flaw. She dresses ay sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel : And then there 's something in her gait 20 Gars* onie dress look weel. A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. 2» 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. A PEAYEB IN THE PEOSPECT OF DEATH 178X 1786 Thou unknown. Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour. Perhaps I must appear ! S jf I have wander 'd in those paths Of lif^ -*- ought to shun,— As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done,— Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 1" With passions wild and strong; And list 'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short. Or frailtv stept aside, 15 Do Thou, All-Good-for such Thou art— In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err 'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good ; and Goodness still 20 Delighteth to forgive. MAEY MOBISON 1781 1800 Mary, at thy window be! It is the wish 'd, the trysted hour. Those smiles and glances let me see. That make the miser's treasure poor: 5 How blithely wad I bide^ the stoure,^ A weary slave f rae^ sun to sun ; Could I the rich reward secure. The lovely Mary Morison! Yestreen.* when to the trembling string The dance gaed^ thro' the lighted ha'. To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw : Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,® And yon the toast of a ' the town, 15 I sigh'd, and said, amang them a': ' ' Ye are na Mary Morison ! ' ' Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut^ is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie,^ At least be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o ' Mary Morison. MY NANIE, O 1782 1787 Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, The wintry sun the day has elos'd. And I'll awa to Nanie, 0. 5 The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;' , The night 's baith mirk and rainy, ; 10 20 1 pretty 'have ' gaily dressed ' makes 'await ; endure ^ dust ; conflict ^ from * last niglit '' went " fine : handsome 'fault ** not give • shrill 176 EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY FOEEEUNNERS But I '11 get my plaid, an ' out I '11 stealj An' owre the hill to Nanie, 0. MyNanie's charming, sweet, an' young; ^^ Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0: May ill bef a ' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nanie, 0. Her face is fair, her heart is true; As spotless as. she's bonie, : 15 The op'ning gowan,^ wat wi' dew, Nae purer js than Nanie, 0. A country lad is my degree, • An' few there be that ken me, 0; But what care I how few they be? 20 I 'm welcome ay to Nanie, 0. A friend mair faithful ne'er cam Mgh him, ! Than Mailie dead. I wat^ she was a sheep o ' sense, 20 An' could behave hersel wi' mense:'' I'll say 't, she never brak a fence. Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely,^ keeps the spence* Sin' Mailie 's dead. 25 Or, if he wanders up the howe," Her living image in her yowe" ' Comes bleatin till him, owre the knbwe,' For bits o' bread; An ' down the briny pearls rowe^ 30 For, Mailie dead. My riches a's my penny-fee,^ An ' I maun^, guide it eannie,* ; But warl's gear° ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a'— my Nanie, 0. 25 Our auld guidman" delights ]to,view His sheep an ' kye thrive bonie, O ; But I'm as blythe that bauds'' his pleugh, An ' has nae care but Nanie, 0. Come weel, come woe, I care na by,' 30 I '11 tak what Heav 'n will send me, ; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an ' love my Nanie, 0. POOE MAILIE '8 ELEGY 1782 il786 Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears tricklin down your nose; Our bardie 's° fate is at a close. Past a' remead;"' 5 The last, sad cape-stane'^ of his woes; Poor Mailie 's dead! It's no the loss o' warl's gear,^^ That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie,^' wear 10 The mourning weed : He's lost a friend an' neebor dear In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A l^ng half-mile she could descry him ; 15 ■^i ' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed: She was nae get' o' moorlan tips,^" Wi' tawted^^ ket,^^ an' hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae 'yont^ the Tweed : 35 A bonier fleesh ne'er cross 'd the clips'* Than Mailie 's dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchaneie'° thing— a rape!"* It maks guid fellows gim^' an ' gape, *o Wi' ehokin diead; , An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape. For Mailie dead. 0, a ' ye bards on bonie Doon ! An ' wha on Ayr your chanters'* tune ! ■*5 Come, join the melancholious croon" 0' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon^" His Mailie 's dead! GEEEN GEOW THE EASHES,2i 178S 1803 Chorus Green grow the rashes, 0! Green gTow the rashes, ! The sweetest hours that e 'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, 6. 5 There's nought but care on ev'ry han'. In evei-y hour that passes, 0: What signifies the life o' man. An ' 'twere nae for the lasses, ? 'daisy, 2 wages paid in money ' must < carefnlly = world's goods " master ' Iiolds ;* I care nothing ' bard's ; poet's ^° remedy 1 cope-stone (figura- tive for finishing touch) '2 world's goods '' gloomy 'know " matted 2 discretion ; good man- " fleece ners " beyond^ ' lonely " shears * ' inner room " unlucky ; daneerous "glen. . " rope • , ; ! "■grin " bagpipes "ewe ' knoll ' roll " mournful tune ' no issue' s" above xo rams *• rushes ROBERT BURNS 177 The war'ly" race may riches chase, 10 An ' riches still may fly them, ; An' tho' at last they eateh them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. But gie me a cannie^ hour at e'en, 'My arias about my dearie, : ^5 An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie,' 0. For you sae douce,* ye sneer at this, Ye 're nought but senseless asses, : The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 2" He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. Auld Nature swears' the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, : Her prentice ban ' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, 0. . . Chorus .,, f , Green grow the rashes, © ! Green grow the rashes, ! The sweetest hours that e 'er I spend Are spent amang tbe lasSesj 0. TO DAVIE SECOND EPISTLE 178^ 1789 Auld Neeboe, ; ^ . . ': I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-f arrant' f rien 'ly letter : Tho' I maun" say 't, I doubt ye 'flatter,' ii^.. Ye speak sae fair, 6 For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun Sair.' For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,' ' 20 Rivin^ the words to gar them clink;* Whyl^s daez't* wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, - - Wi' jads" or Masons; An' whyles,. but ay o\yre" late, I think Braw'' sober lessons. 25 Of a' the' thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan 0' rhymin clink' — ■ The devil-haet that I sud banF^ ^^ They never think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin, ' Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin ; But just the pouchie'" put the nieve" in. An ' while ought 's there 35 Then hiltie-skiltie,'^ we gae serievin," An' fash nae mair.'* Leeze me on rhyme!" it's aye a treasure. My chief, amaist"'my only pleasure ; - At hame, a-flel', at wark or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie I" Tho' rough an' raploch^' be her measure, She's seldom lazy. 40 Haud'* to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' toay play you monie a shavie;^" *5 But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae puir,2i Na, even tho' limpin wi the spavie^^ Frae door to door ! Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Lang may your elbuck' jink" an ' diddle,^" To cheer you thro' the weary widdle'^ ' 10 O ' war 'ly cares, Till bairns' bairns^^ kindly cuddle ' ' Your auld gray hairs! But Davie, lad, I'm red^' ye 're glaikit;^* I'm tauld the Muse ye hae.negleckit; 15 An' gif it's sae,^' ye sud be licket" Until ye fyke;" Sic han's^' as you sud ne'er be faiket,^" Be hain^t wha like.^o » worldly "children's children 'onlet ■ topsy-turvy " afraid 'f thoughtless ; foolish * so Bolemn » If It's so » oia-favorlng ; saga- JP beaten ,v clous " sguirm i > ' •must " such hands 'serve '» let off 1 « elbow •» be spared who like, — » dance i. e., whoever may M shake be spared " struggle EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1, 1785 , , 1785 1786 While briers an ' Woodbines budding green, And-paitricks^* scraichin^* loud at e'en, An ' morning poussie-" whiddin^' seen, Inspire my Muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' ■•■ . i " I pray excuse. 1 That Is, beginning to write poetry ; or, - perhapSj about t o publish; ' splitting ; cleaving " make them jingle, or rime * dazed "jades ; wenches ? all too 'fine " jingle • the devil have my soul that I should curse them "> pocket "fist ^' helter-skelter " reeling ^'and worry no more " blessings on rhyme (from leis me, dear Is to me) " almost " hussy "homespun " hold " bad turn 'I poor ^ spavin '^ partridges " calling hoarsely » hare " scudding 178 EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY FOEERUNNEKS On Tasten-e 'en^ we had a rdckin,' To ca' the eraek' and weave our stockin; And there was muckle* fun and jokin, 1" ; , Ye need na doubt. At length we had a hearty yokin'' At "sang about."" Thefe was ae saug,T amang the r^st, Aboon^ them a' it pleas 'd me best, IS' That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife : It thirl 'd' the heart-strings thro' the breast, ' A ' to the life. I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, 20 What gen 'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, OrBeattie'swark?" They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel'" About Muirkirk. 25 It pat me fidgin-fain'^' to hear't, .. An' sae about him there I spier 't,^^ , Then a' that ken 't^^ him round declar'd He had ingine,^* That nane excell 'd it, few cam near 't, 30 ■ It was sae fine. That ;Set him to, a pint of ale, An ' either douce'^ or merry tale. Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel. Or witty catches:'" 35 'Tween Inverness an? Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swooran aiiif,^'' Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,'' ' Or die a cadger pownie's'" death, 40 - At some dyke-back,2° A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, To hear your crack.^"^ But, first an' foremost,; I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, 'the evening before Lent , ' 2 social meeting 2 have a chat *much. ■• ^ time ; spell ( literally the word means as much work ' as is done by the draught animals at one time) "A game in which each participant sings a song ' one song ' above » thrilled - = ■i« follow "put me tipgling with pleasure 12 asked i» knew •* genius "■• serious 1° three - .part songs, each part sung in turn " oath 18 tools "hawker pony's *> back of a fence =' chat *5 I to the crambo-jingle' fell; T'hd' rude an' rough- Yet crooning to a body's sel, , , Does weel eiieugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, 50 But just a rhymer like^ by chance. An' hae to learning nae pretence; . Yet, what the matter? Whene 'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. 55 Your critic-foJk may coek their nose/ And say, ' ' How can you : e ?er propdse. You, wha ken^ hardly verse f rae prose. To mak a sang?''' . But, by your leaves, my learned foes, *o Ye 're maybe wrang. j What 's a ' your jargon o ' your schools, I Your Latin names for horns^ an' stools? If honest Nature made you fools. What sairs* your gram- mers? ; 65 Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools," Or knappin-hammers.' A set o' dull, conceited hashes^ Confuse their brains in college classes ; They gang* in stirks," and come out asses, I; ,, . .,, , ■'■ '"' Plain truth to speak; An' syne'" they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek! /Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire! ^ That's a' the learning I desire; "5, Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub'* an' mire I ; At pleugh or cart. My Muse, tho' liamely in aitire, , , May touch the heart. Ofor a spunk'2 o' Allan's'^ glee, 80 Or Fergusson 's, the bauld an ' slee,'* Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. If I can hit it! ' That would be lear" eneugh for mej If I could get it ! 85 Now, ;sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fow,'" ' , ; ' rhyming ■ ' knows ' ' Ink-horns * serves ■ ■ ^ shovels 8 hammers for break- ■ Ing'stone " fools 8 go ® yearling steers " after-wards ^ puddle " spark " Allan Kamsay*s '' bold and ingenious 1° lore ; learning " full KOBEKT BUENS 179 I'se no^ insist ;i But gif ye want ae friend that 's true, 90 I'm on your list. Iwinna^ blaw about mysel, As ill I like my fauts* to tell; But friends an' folk that wish me well,. They sometimes ' roose* me; 95 Tho ', I maun° own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me^ I like the lasses— Gude f orgie me ! For monie a plaek' they wheedle f rae' me, 1"" At dahee or fair; Maybe some ither thing they gie me Thesyweel can spare. But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair, I should be proud, to. meet you there; 105 We 'se8 gie ae night 's discharge to care. If we forgather; And hae a swap o' rhyinin-ware Wi' ane anither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him elat- ter,» 11* An' kirsen^" him yri' reekin^^ water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whit- ter,^'' To cheer our heart ; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better Before we part. 115 Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that bavins,^' sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place ! To Catch-the-Plack!"' I dinna like to see your face, 120 Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, "Whose hearts the tide of kindness wariiis. Who hold your being on the terms, "Bach aid the others," 125 Come to my bowl, come to my arms. My friends, my brothers ! But, to coijclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen 's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me flssle,"^ 1" Who am most fervent, While I can either sing or whistle. Your friend and servant. EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH INCLOSING A COPT OF HOLY WILLIE'S PKAYER WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED 1785 1808 While at the stook^ the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. Or in gulravage, rinnin, scowr* ' ' ' ' To pass the time, 5 To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My Musie, tir 'd wi ' monie a sonnet On gown an ' ban,^ an ' douse" black-bonnet, Is grown right eerie^ now she's done it, ^^ Lest they should blame her. An' rouse their holy thunder on it, And anathem' her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a sirnple, countra bardie, 15 Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken' me. Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Louse^" Hell upon me. But T gae" mad at their grimaces, 20 Their sighin; cantin," grace-proud faces. Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces. Their raxin^' conscience, Whase" greed, revenge, an' pride dis- graces Waur nor?° their noh- sense. 25 There's Gau'n," misca'd" waur than a beast, Wha has pair honor in hijs breast Than monie scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him. And may a bard no crack his jest ^^ What way they've use 't him? > I shall not •will not ' faults * praise ; flatter "must ' we shall ' we shall cause b 1 m to make a noise i» christen ^ dirty » tingle with delight 2 shock of sheaves ' pelting ^:run and chase about lii horse-play " know " loose "go "tilted to one side " elastic •A- coin worth about ""hearty draught one cent. . "good manners 'from "hunt the coin (a game) ' band (worn by clergy- " whose men) " worse than " sedate "Gavin Hamilton. ' concerned ; fearful (See Glossary.) ' pronounce a curse " miscalled ; abused upon 180 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOEEEUNNEES See him, the poor man 's friend, in need, The gentleman in word an' deed— An' shallhis fame an' honor bleed By worthless skellums,^ 35 An' not a Muse erect her head ' To eowe the blellums'!^ Pope, had I thy satire's darts, To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 40 An' tell aloud Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd! God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be,' ■*5 But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean Than under gospel colors hid be. Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, 50 An honest man may like a lass; But mean revenge, an' malice fause' He '11 still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel, laws, Like some we Sen. 55 They take religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, gra,ee, an' truth, rpr what? to gie their malice skouth* On some puir wight. An' hunt him, down, o'er right -an 'ruth, 60 To ruin streight. All hail. Religion! Maid divine! Pardon a Muse sae mean as mine, Who, in her rough imperfect line, Thus daurs to name thee, 65 To stigmatise false friends of thine Can ne 'er defame thee. Tho' blotch 't an' foul wi' monie a itain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain 70 To join with those Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes': In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs, 75 In spite o ' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. But hellish spirit ! Ayr f my dear, my native ground, 80 Within thy piresbyterial bound, ■ A candid' lib 'ral band is found Of public teachers. As men, as Christians too,' renown 'd, An' manly preachefs. *5 Sir, in that circle: you are nam'd; Sir, in that circle you are f am 'd ; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam 'd (Which gies ye honor), Ev'n,'Sir,,by them your heart's esteesm'd. An ' winning manner. Pardon this f ree<}om, I have taen. An' if impertinent I've been, " Impute it not, good sir, in ane Whase heart ne'er wirang'd ye, 85 But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye. THE JOLLY BEGGARS 90 A J785 CANTATA 1799 10 1 ; , Eecitativo When lyart^ leaves bestrow the yird. Or, wavering like the' bauiekie^bil'd,^ '-'■' Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,' And infant frosts begin to bite. In hoary eranreuch* drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core' 0' randie,* gangreF bodies. In Poosie-Nansie 's held the splore,' To drink their orra duddie's;* Wi ' quafftng and laughing. They ranted^" an ' they sang; Wi' jumping an' thumping, Th« vera girdle^ ^ rang. 15 First, niest"^^' the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brae 'd wi' mealy bags'^*.; And knapsack a' in order; His doxy^* lay within his arm ; Wi' nsquebae'° an' blankets warm, *o She blinket on her sodger.'^ An ' ay he gies the tozie drab^' ' good-for-nothings ' blusterers ' false * vent 1 gray = bat ' dash * frost ' corps ; group ' lawless ' vagrant ' carousal ' spare rags or clothes '° were jovial In a noisy way "A plate of metal for frying cakes, ""next " The meal-bag was the chBef equipment of the beggar. It usually contained oatmeal, w h i c b might : be u B e d as food, or traded, or sold. See 1. 48. " wench " whisky " soldier , '" gives the tipsy wench ROBERT BURNS 181 The tither skelpin ' kiss,^ Wli^p, she hqld up lier greedy gab , ; _ ,,, Just like ^n aumpus^ dish: . , ,, Ilk^ smack still did firack stil,! Like pnie a ,c^clg?r's wliup,* i^lipn, swaggering, an' staggering, He roar 'd this ,ditty up: — AiK , - •■• TONE — Soldier's Joy I am a son of Msfcrs, who have been in i,;,,i many >wars, -j i i; ;. .• -i,-;-^ 3" An(^ , sljjov? ^^y ftV^ts and, scar^ jwherever ■ I come; ' ■' ' ; r This here was for a wench, and that, other, in £1 trench, ,< ,: When welcoming the French • at' the sound of the drum. 60 55j My prentieeship I past, where! my jieader . breath 'd, his last, . , ^ r, ^st 3^ " "When the bloody die was cast on the ibeights of Abram ; ■ i (7 I served but: my. trade, when the gallant game Ivas play 'd, ., ' And the Moro low waa laid; at 'the sound of the drum. . . . I lastP^^was with Curtis, among'the float- ■iii I ing batt'ries, ■ ' ' And'there I left for'witnfess an 'arm Re,cj,tativo He ended; and the kebars sheuk* Aboon^ the choruS roar; ■Wliile' frighted raftons^ backward leuk, ''■'' An 'seek the benmost bore ;^ A fairy fiddler frae the neuk," ' J He: skirl 'd° out Encore! But up arose the niartial chuck,'' An' laid the loud uproar: — . .■ ' A AlB J. ,, '■'''' riJNE — Sodger Laddie '■• • • i oiiee was a maid, tho ' I cannot tell when. And' still thy delight is in proper ybung men.'"' Lai de.idaiidle, etc. *'® Some one of a troop of dragoo'ns was my daddie; No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie! ,, -u.i Sing, lal de dal, etc. The first of my loves w;as a swaggering bladp; To rattle the thundering drum was hi^ trade ; 85 His leg was so tight,' and his cheek Was so ruddy.;:, ,i. . , Transported I was with my sodger ladjlie. But the godly old chaplain left him in the -'lurch;' -'■ '"'■•'■ "■''' ■ -'■'•-■'T ''"•'- The sword L forsook for the sake of the ehuteh ; i He risked ' the soul, and I veitur'd the fcody; _ ., ,,| ,,, .| And' now, tho.' I must beg with a wooden ™ 'Twas.thpn^Iprpy'd .false tomy sodger arm a.nd leg, , and.aflimb; , ** Yet let my poiihtry need me, with'Bliptt ■ to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps at the sopnd of the druin. And many g, tatter 'd rag hanging over my buria, ' ^ ' ' ' ^ I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, ansd my callet,?. r f ■' i ■ ■. ^^ As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Full soon r grew sick of my sanctified .i.i, sot; .d' The regiment at large for a husband I i'-^got;. , ,i , r ... From the gilded spontoon' to the /fife I was ready; I asked no more but a; sodger laddie. 'What tho' with hoary locks I must stand ■ Beneath the woods and rocks i)f ten- ''^ But the peace it redue'd me to beg in tiine's for a home? When thie tother bag* I sell,® airid the !■!'.. tother'bottle telV I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a dfufti/ ■ ' ' :! , Lal de daudle, etc, 'another sounding kiss "wench , ; 'Salms "See 1. 16. , , ^pQp], 'count ftnnther hnttlo < hi despair, ' Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham , Fair; ''"-■"' '' .'■ ' His rags regimental they flutter 'd so gaudy, _ _ , , ■ • My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie. 1 rafter^ shqok ° cried ; yelled " abpv.e ' ' hen *rats , , 'trim; comely * Inmost chink , "A weapon carried by ' nook military officers. 182 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY F0EERUNNEB8 85 90 135 And now I have liv'd— I know not how long! 120 80 And still I can join in a cup and a song ; And whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie ! 125 Sing, lal ,de dal, etc. Eecitativo ,' Poor Merry-Andrew in the neuk, Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler-hizzie,* They mind't na wha the chorus teuk. Between theinselves they were sae busy. At length with drink arid courting dizzy, ^^^ He stoiter'd^ up an' made a face;. Then turn 'd, an ' laid a smack on Grizzle, Syne' tun'd his pipes wi' grave gri- mace : — Air TVNE^-Auld Sir Symon Sir Wisdom 's a fool when he 's f ou ;* Sir Knave is a fool in a session ;° He's there but a prentice 1 trow, 95 But I am a fool by profession. My grannie she bought me a beuk. An ' I held awa to the school ; I fear I my talent misteuk, But what will ye hae° of a fool? 100 Poj. drink I wad venture my neck ; A hizzie's the half of my craft; But what could ye other expect Of ane that 's avowedly daft 1 I ance was tyed up like a stirk,* 105 j'or civilly swearing and quaffing; I ance was abus 'd in the kirk, jPor tpwsing a lass i' my daffin.*, Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer: 11" There 's even, I 'm taul, i ' the Court A tumbler ca'd the Premier. Observ'd ye yon reverend lad Mak faces to tickle the mob? He rails at our mountebank squads 115 It's rivalship just i' the job. And now my conclusion I '11 tell, For faith ! J. 'm confoundedly dry ; The chiel that's a fool for iiimsel, Guid Lord! he's far dafter than I. 140 145 ISO 155 Recitativo Then niest ontspak a raucle earlin,^ Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin,* For monie a pursie she had hooked. An' had in monie a well been doukfed. Her love had been a Highland laddie. But weary fa ' the waef u ' woodie !' Wi ' sighs an ' sobs she thus began To wail her braw* John Highlandman:— AlE TUNE — An' Ye Were Dead, Quidman A Highland lad my love was born. The Lalland' laws he held in scorn, .. But he still was f aithf u ' to his elan^ ' My gallant, braw John Highlandman. Chorus , Sing hey my braw John Highlandman! Sing ho my braw John Highlandman ! There's not a lad in a' the Tan' Was match for my John Highlandman ! With his philibeg* an' tartan plaid,'' An' guid claymore' down his side, ' The ladies' hearts he did trepan," My gallant, braw John Highlandman. We rang&d a' from Tweed to Spey,^" An' liv'd' like lords, an' ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallapt, braw John Highlandman. They banish 'd him beyond the sea. But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embiracing my John Highlandman. -But, Och I they catch 'd him at the Isst, Arid bound him in a dungeon fast; ' My curse upon them every one — They've hang'd my braw John Highland- man! And now a widow, I must mourn The plfeasures thai will ne 'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can . When I think on Johii Highlandman. Chorus Sing hey my braw John Highlandman! Sing ho my braw John, Highlandman ! There's no^ a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman ! * tinker-wench ' staggered' ' then * full ; drunk ' court-session * have ' tied up like a young bullock or heifer, — i. e., punished with a sort of iron collar « f un ' ' * sturdy old woman ^ pinch the ready cash * gallows (on which her -love had been hanged) ' handsome : fine ■> Lowland " A kind of short plalt- ' — *" — "<■ ■•ob/.h- to the knees, worn by Highlanders. ^ checkered coat 'A kind of broad- sword. ' pierce "That is, from one end of the country to the other. EOBBET BUKNS 183 ... , Ekcitativq 1*" A pigmy scraper on a fiddle, ' WHstus'd to tiystes an' fairs^ to driddle,^ Her strappin limb an ' gawsie^ middle (He reach 'd nae higher) Had hbl 'd* his heartie like a riddle,^ 185 An ' blawn 't on Are. Wi' handoti hainch,^ and upward -e'e, He croon 'd' his, gamut, one, two, three. Then in an arioso^, key, , ,,,;[ . .,: : Tie wee Apollo 1'^'* Set ofE wi' (tlleffrettqfgise..,, ,.:• ;;,:., His, ^ipo^PuSqlo : — AlK, TONE — Whistle Oicfe the Lave^ O't Let me ryke up to dight'^^ tljat.tear; An ' go wi ' me an ' be my dear, 200 175 4^' then your every care an ' fear May whistle owre the laye> o't. ' , , Chorps I I am ai fiddler to my trade, : And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to' wife or maid, ' ■ Was Whistle Oivre the Lave O't. 1*" At kims^^ ah' weddings we 'Se be there An ' ! sae nicely 's we -willjare ! We'll bowse" about till Daddie Care Sings Whistle Owre the Lave 't. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke,^^ 185 An ' sun oiirsels about the dyke,^* An ' at our leisure, when ye like, We '11— whistle ^wre the lave o 't ! But bless me wi'your beav'n o' charms. An' while I kittle, hair on thairms,^' 18* Hunger, canld, an ' a ' sic harms,?* May whistle owre tbe lave o 't. I am a fiddler to my trade, And a ' the tunes that e 'er'Ii play 'd. The sweetest still to wife or maid. Was Whistle Owre the- Lave O't. 195 205 Eecitativo Her ehairms had struck a sturdy eaird,"^ As weel as ppor gut-seraper ; He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a roosty rapier; He swqor by a' W|as swearing worth, To, speet him like a pliver,^ Unless he would from that time forth "Relinquish her forever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor Tweedle-Dee. Upon his hunkers^ bended. An' pray 'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, An'sae the quarrel ended. But tho'-his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her, 21* He feign'dto snirtle* in ,his sleeve, ;l^hen,thus the caird address 'd her :- Am .TDNE — Cleut^ the Cauldron My bonie lass, I wOrk in brass, A tinkler is my station; I'vetfavell'd round all Christian ground, In this my occupation. I 've taen the gold," an ' been enrolled In many a noble' squadron ; But vain they search 'd, when off I inarch 'd To go an ' clout the cauldron. 215 225 ' cattle-markets and markets for hiring servants and farm laborers " toddle ; ' buxom * pierced ' sieve " bauncb ' bummed ° smooth ; melodious •quick ; spirited "•'A lively dance. "remainder (See Burns's poem of this title, p. 196.) • 12 TeAih lip to wiiie '" harvest homes " booze 1° bones we'll pick 1" stone or turf ' fence " tickle hair on cat- gut, — t. e., play on the violin •» all such harms 220 Despise that shrimp, that wither 'd imp, Wi'.a' his noise an' cap'rin, An' take a share wi' those that bear The budget' and the apron ! And 'by that sto'wp,8'my faith an' houpe! And by that dear Kilbaigie!' If e 'er ye want, or meet wi ' scant, May I ne'er weet my eraigie.^" , : , Eecitativo , . j , . i , The caird prevail 'd : th ' unblushing fair In his etpbi'aces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ereome sae sair,'^ 4.H ' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with aii air , That show'd a man o' spunk. Wished unison between the pair, 235 4.H' made the bottle elunk^^ ^ To their health that night. 230 1 tinker 2 spit him like ». plover ' hams * snicker ° mend " enlisted ' A tinker's bag ol tools. 'lug 'A kind of whiskey, name^ from a noted , distillery, "wet niy throat " so sorely "gurgle (from the sound of emptying a narrow-necked , bottle) , 184 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY F0EEBUNNEK8 But burchin^ Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie;''' The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 2*0 Behint the chicken cavie.' Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft,* Tho' limping wi' the spa vie/ He hirpl'd* up, an' lap like daft,' , An' shor'd^ them "Dainty Davie"" 2« 0' boot" that night. He vras a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed!^'- Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid. His heart she ever miss 'd it. 250 jje had nae wish but— to be glad. Nor want but— when he thirsted; He hated nought but— to be sad. An ' thus the Muse suggested His sang that night. Air TUNE — For A' That, An' A' That 255 I am a bard of no regaj-d Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that;. But .Homer-like, the glowrin byke,'^^ Frae town to town I draw th^t; Chorus For a' that, an' a' that, 260 An ' twice as muckle 's^^ a * that, I 've lost but ane, I 've twa behin ', I've wife eneugh for a' that. I never drank the Muses' stank,'^* Castalia's bum,^° an' a' that; 265 But there it streams, and richly reams^'- My Helicon I ea' that. Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, an' a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still 270 A mortal sin to thraw^' that. • urcbia 2 trick ' coop ' a person of Homer's profession, — i. e., a poet (Homer is al- lowed to be the old- est ballad singer on record."^,Biirns.) • spavin '■'; ' • hobbled ' leaped like mad s offered ■ • The name of a popu- lar song which cele- brated an amorous adventure of Mass David Williamson, a seventeenth cen- tury blade, who be- came Jj n o w n as Dainty.Davy. This song is printed in The Merry Muses of Caledonia (1911), p. 81, and The Anciffit and Modern Scots Songs (1791), Vol. 2, p. ; 283. The ' adven- ture Is related In Creichton's305 Memoirs ( Swift ed'.), 12, 19-20. (From H enley 's note in the Cam- bridge ed. of Burns, p. 335.) "to boot ^ enlisted, or enrolled, as- a follower 310 12 staring crowd '" as much as " pool ; ditch •^ rivulet 1° foams (He refers to ale as his source of inspiration.) " thwart In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love, an' a', that; But for how lang the flie may stang,* Let inclination law' that! 275 Their tricks an ' craft hae put me daft,* They've taen me in, an' a' that; But clear your decks, an ' here 's the sex ! I like the jads for a' that. Chorus For a' that, an' a' that, ' 280 An ' twice as muckle 's a ' that ; My dearest bluid, to do them gxiid. They're welcome till't* for a' that! Eecitativo So sang the bard, and Nansip's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo 'd from each mouth ! They toom'd their pocks," an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to eoor their fuds,* To quench their lowin drouth.' Then owre again the jovial thrang, ■. The poet did request To lowse his pack an ' wale a sang,' A ballad o' the best; He, rising, rejoicing. Between his twa Deborahs,"' ' Looks round him, an ' found thein Impatient for the chorus : — AlE TUNE — Jolly Mortals, Fill Your Glasses See the smoking bowl before us ! Mark our jovial ragged ring ! , Round and round take up the chorus. And in raptures let us sing. ; Chorus A fig for those by law protected! Liberty 's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest ! What is title? what is treasure? What is reputation's care? If we lead a life of pleasure^ 'Tis np matter how or where! With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day ; 235 290 295 300 1 how long the fly may sting 'govern ; rule = have made me fool- ish ' to it ' emptied their wal- lets • cover their bodies ' ragfng thirst ' open his pack and choose a soni ' See Judges. 4 f. EOBEBT BUENS 185 Arid at night, in bam or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. Does the train-attended carriage '" Thro' the country lighter rove? 315 Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love? Life is all a variorum. We regard not how it goes ; Let theni cant about decorum 320 Who have character to lose. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!' Here 's to all the wandering train ! Here's bur ragged brats andcalleits! One and all, cry out, Amen! ' . Chorus 325 A fig for those by law protected ! Liberty 's a glorious feast! ■■ ,'•' Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest! THE HOLT FAIEi ' 1785 1786 A robe of seeming, trutb and trust Hid crafty 6bse*Tatl6n ; And secret hung, vrith polson'd crust, The dirk of defamation : A maslt that like the gorget show'd, Dy^-varying on the pigeon ; And|for a mantle large and broad He'Vrapt him in Kellglon. — Hypocrisy H-la-mo^e. Upon a simmer Sunday morn. When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An 'snuff the caller^ air. The rising sun owreGalston Muirs Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares werehirplin^ down the furs,* The lav 'roeks^ they were ehantin Fu' sweet that day. 1" As lightsomely I glowr'd' abroad. To see a scene sae gay. Three hizzies,'' early at the road, Cam skelpin* up the way; '^ • • Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, , But ane wi' lyart' lining; The third, that gaed a wee a-back. Was in the fashion shining Tu' gay that day. 15 1 " 'Hply Fair' is a common phrase in the West of Scot- land for a sacra- mental occasion." — Burns. 2 fresh 'limping * furrows " larks ' stared ' women * clattering "gray The twa appear 'd like sisters twin, 20 In feature, form, an' claes;^ •. Their visage wither 'd, larig, an' thin, An' sour as onieslaesi^ The third cam up, hap-step-an^-lowp,^ As light as onie lambie,. : ?? An,' wi' a curchie* low did stoop. As soon as e 'er she saw me, ' Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, (juoth I, "Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; ,; I'm sure I've seen that, bonie face, . But yet I canna name ye. " Quo ' she, an ' laughin as she spak. An' taks me by the ban's, "Ye, for my sake, haegi'en the feck= Of a' the Ten Comman's A screed?, some day. "My'name is Fun— your eronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An ' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. , I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin:' Gin^ ye'U go there, yon runkl'd' pair. We will get famous laughin At them this day." Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do 't; I'll get my Sunday's sark^" on. An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we'se hae" fine remarkin!" so Then I gaed hiame at crowdie-time,i2 An' soon I iuade me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a wearie body,, In droves that day. 55 Here, farmers gash," in ridin graith;" Gaed hoddin by their cotters;" There swankies" young, in braw braid- claith," Are springin owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin ba'refit,i» thrahg,i» In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,^" An' farls,2i bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump22 that day. 30 35 40 46 60 > clothes " sloe betries ' hop-stfep-and-leap ', curtsy " have -given the sub- stance *rent ' fun ; larking »lf " wrinkled " shirt •1 we shall have " porridge time ^' shrewd " attire , " jogging by their cot- tagers 1" strapping^ fellows " fine bj-oaacloth " hastening barefoot " crowded =° thick slice ■^ coarse oake =» crisp 186 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEEUNNEES When by the plate we set our nose, 85 Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A, greedy glowr,^ black-bonnet^ throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. .Then in we go to see the show : On ev'ry side they're gath'rin;. '" Some cari-yin- dails,^ some chairs an' stools, - An' some are busy bleth'rin* Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countr a gentry; ''s There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores, Are blinkin at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin ' jads,° •' Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck; An' there a batch o' wabster* lads, 80 Blaekguardin frae Kilmarnock, For fun this day. Here some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyl'd' his shins, 85 Anither sighs an ' pra,ys : On this hand sits a chosen swatch,' Wi' screw 'd-up, grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps, at watch, Thrahg winkin on the lasses SO , , To chaijps that day. happy is that man an' blest!' , , , Nae wonder that it pride him ! ; Whase ain dear la,ss, that he likes best, ; Comes clinkini"' down beside him! 95 "Vyi' arm repos'd on the chair-back. He sweetly (does compose him;, ■ Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof^^ upon her bosom, , ; Unkend that day. 100 Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation: ,, For Moodie speels^^ the holy door, Wi ' Tidings o ' damnation. , , . Should Hornie,. as in ancient days, 105 'Mang sons o' God present .him. The vera sight o' Moodie 's face To's ain bet hame^^had sentljim Wi' fright that day. Hear ho,w.he clears the poipts o,' faith 110 -^i' rattlin an ' thugipip ! , Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin and he 's j umpin ! His lengthen 'd chin, his turn 'd-up snotit, His eldritch"^ squeel an' gestures, 115 Oh, how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian^ plaisters. On sic' a, day! But harjk! the tent has ehang'd its voice; There's peace an' rest nae langer: 120 ■ppj. a' tjie real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his c^uld harangues, On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 125 To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. f- 13:0 135 What signifies his barren shine. Of moral pow 'rs an ' reason ? His English style, an ' gesture fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine^ Or some.auld pagan heathen, The moral man he does define. But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison 'd nostrum;* For Peebles, frae the water-fit,' AsceifiSs'the holy rostrum: 1^0 See, up he's got the word o' God, - An' meek an' mim* has view'd it. While Common Sense'^ has taen the road. An' aff, an' up the Cowgate Fast^ fast, that day. 1*5 Wee Miller niest' the guaid relieveSj An' orthodoxy raibles,® j Tho' in his heart he weel believes An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But faith!, the birkie^" wants a manse; So, canriilie he hums them;'"^ Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-wise o 'ercomes him^^ At times that day. 150 »look ' The elder who , held the collection . plate at the entrance usually wore a black bonnet. » boards * chattering » row of whispering jades ; « weaker ' soiled ' sanaple ; 'Psalms, 146:2 (Scotch metrical version) . "• dropping quickly 11 and his, hand 12 climbs, — -i. e., enters (Probably a carica- ture of his personal appearance and style of oratory. ) " to his own hot home 1 unearthly ' made' of cantharides, a preparation of dried blister beetles 'such * doctrine (used figur- atively) ^ from the water foot, or river's :mouth, — : i. e., from' Newton, situated, at the mouth of the River Ayr 'prim: affectedly nieefc • ' Supposed, to refer to Burns's friend. Dr. Mackenzie. ' next » rattles off 1° smart young fellow 11 so cunningly he humbugs them « nearly half o'er- comes him itOBEET BDEMS 187 Now butt an ' heu^ the change-house^ fills, 1B5 ■yyi' yill-eaup* commentators;- < Here 's crying out for bakes* an ' gills,° And there the pint-stoWp' clatters j While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic an '.wi' Scripture, > 160 They raise a din, that in the end, Is like to breed a rupture i 0' wrath that 4ay. Leeze me on^ drink! it gies us mair Than either school or college ; 165 It kindles wit, it waukens lear,* It pangs us fou^ o' knowledge. , Be't whisky-gill, or penny wheep,^". . Or; omie stronger potion, ,; It never fails, on drinkin deep, 1^'"* ,.:To kittle^^ up lOur notion, By /night or day. An ' how they crouded to the yill,* When they were a' dismist; How drink gaed found, in cogs^ an' eaups,^ Amang the funns* an' benches; 205 An ' cheese an ' bread, f rae women 's laps. Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds' that day. 210 215 175 180 The lads an' lasses, blythely henj; T« mind baith gaul an ' body, Sit round the table, weel content, , An' steer about, the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk. They're makin observations; .,., ^ While some are eozie i' the neuk,^^ An ' forming assignations , , ; j To meet some Say. * But now the Lorii's ain trumpet touts. Till a ' the hills are rairin," And echoes back return the shouts; Black Bus^sell is na spairin : 185 His piercin'words, lik,e Highlan' swords, Divide the joints an ' marrow ; , His talk o ' hell, whare devils^ dwell, Our verra "sauls does harrow '"^* Wi* fright that day! 190 A vast, unbottom'd, l)6undless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin brijnstane," Whageragin, flame, an' scorehin heat, Wad , melt, ^he rb^rdest whun-stane!^° The half -asleep st9,rt up wi' fear. An' think they hear it roarin. When presently it does, appear 'Twas but some neebor snorin Asleep that day. 220 225 In comes a gawsie,' gash'' guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, ^■'- ' Syne* draws her kebbuck* an' her knife;' The lasses they are shyer. The aiild guidmen, about the' grace, Frae side to side they bother. Till some ane by his bonnet lays. An' gies them't like a tether,^" Fu' lang that day. Waesucks !^^ for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naethingl Sma ' need has he to say a grace. Or melvie^^ his braw claithing ! wives, be mindfii' a.nce yoursel How bonie lads ye wanted. An ' dinna for a kebbnek-heeF* Let lasses be-affirbited On sic a day! Now, ClinkumbelJ, wi' rattlin tow,^* ^egins to jow" an' croon ;^* Some swagger hame the best they dow,^^ Some wait the afternoon. 230 At slaps" the billies" halt a blink, / Till lasses strip their^sEoon;^'' , , Wi' faith an' hope, an' Ipve an' drink, I They're a' in famous tune ^- For crack^i that day. 195 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, 200 How monie stories past ; , , 235 How monie hearts this. day. converts; / - ■ ■ ,0' sinners and o' lasses! f Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, Asf saf t as onie rfiesh: is.? -, There's some are;fou o' love divine; 2*0 There's some are fou o' branidy; An' monie jobs that day begiiij May end in houghmagapdie?? Some ither day. I outer and 1 ii n e r apartments, — ; i.^ e.^ kitchen and parlor ' tavern ' ale-mug ♦biscuits 'glasses J gf wMsky " pint - measure (two EngUsl) quarts) 'blessings' on 'learning » crams' us full i» small ale " tickle I," nook " roaring " Hamlet, I, 5, 16. "i flaming brimstone " mill-stone ' ale , ' wooden bowls » small bowls ; cups * forms °in full portions and large lumps 'my. ' shrewd ' then 'cheese " That is, gives the word to let go. "alas " dust with meal " last piece of cheese " rope , " swing " boom " can "gaps In the fence '» young fellows ™ shoes "talk ''illicit relations 188 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY F0EEEUNNEE8 THE COTTER 'SI SATURDAY NIGHT INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 1785 178G Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure j Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. — Geay's Elegy. My lov'd, my honor 'd, much respected friend! ; ■^, i^ No mercenary bard his homage pays ; ' With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise, i , / ^ To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays^ The lowly train in life's sequester 'dscene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; c What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far hap- pier there, I ween ! 10 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,^ The short 'ning winter day is near a close.; ,The miry beasts retreating f rae the pleugh, The black 'ning' trains o' cr^ws^ to their repose; .. The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,— 15 This night his weekly moil is at an end,-^ Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, . , Hoping the morn in ease and rest to Spend, And weary, o 'er the moor, his 'course dc/es hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, 20 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things,. toddlin, stacher* through To meet their dad,' wi' flichterin'^ noise and glee. His wee bit ingle," blinkin boiiilie,' His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifle's smilSj 25 The lisping infant, prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary kiaugh* and care be- guile, , '"' An' makes him quite forget his' labor and his toil. Belyve,^ the elder bairns come drapping in. At service out, amang the farmers roun ' ; 30 Some ca^° the pleugh, some herd, some tentie^^ rin , ' cottager's. 2 sound 3 crows « stagger = fluttering « fire-place ; fire A cannie^ errand to a neebor town:' Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, ■- i' Comes hame; perhaps, to shew a braw* ' new gown, 35 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,* To help her parents dear, if they in hard- ship be. With jby unfeign'd, brothers and sisters mfefet, And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:' ■ / The social hours, swift-wing 'd, Unnotic'd fleet; ' ■ ' *o Each tell the unco^' that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;. Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars^ auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; ■ ' ' *5 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. - ' ■ ■ ■ ■■■'.- , . I if Their master's and their ' mistress's com- mand The younkers a' are warned \o obey;, Aiid mind their labors wi' airi' eydent' hand. And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk° or ,play: 50 "And ! be sure to fear the Lprd a'lway, And itind your duty, duly, morn and night ! Lest, in temptation's path ye gang astray, .Implore His counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! ' ' 55 But hark! a rap eorhes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens^" the meaning o ' the same. Tells how a neeboi- lad caiije o.'er the moor. To do some errands, and convoy her hame. ' ' The wily mother sees the conscious flame 00 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care, enquires his name. While Jenny haffliris^^ is afraid to speak ; Weel-pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. ' shining prettily ' careful "news » anxiety = farm (with its collec- ' makes » presently tion of buildings) "diligent " drive "fine • trifle " hfeedful < hard-won wsiges "►who knows ' asks " partly , . iROBEET BU1ENS 189 With i kindly , welcome, Jenny brings him To gj-aee the lad, her weel-hain 'd kebbuek,^ ben;i .,;;,:; fell;^ v, - -'■ 65 A strappin' youth, he takes,. the mother's , And aft' he.'s prest, and aft he ca's it eye; ■ .,„.. guid; Blythe^Jepny sees yie visit ?s no ill taen ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will: tell, The father, cracks^ of horses, pleiUghSj and How 'twas a towmp.nd'' auld,isin' lint" , ;s •, kye.' ..^,,., ;.-;,;, .,,01 ,; ■. ■ ' _ i was i ' ithe bell.^. • -. ' 'n; :. The youngster's artfess heart, overflows wi' ,1. joy, ;, , / ..:; jj ,,,. l"" The eheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. But, blate* aiid Jaithf u ',5 sca,ree can weel ,,. They, round the ingle,_ form a circle Wide; behave • ... The sire turns o 'er, wi'th patriarbhal grace, 10 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 11 The big ha'-Bible,' auce his fatheK's pWde. What makes the youth sae bashfu ' and sae His bonnet rev'rently is laid.aside, ; , • (grave ••■ ■ ■ ■ ^'^^ His .lyart hafEets' wearing thin and bare; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's re- Those strains that once did sweet in Zion ; . ...spectEd like thei.lave.'* " i-' ' glide, :' j , ' ': ,.- ., I, .. ;. , ii, . .;■•'■ He wales°i a portion with judicious care, '' ' O happy love! where love like this "is .And, ffhet us worship God!" he says, ..,,..,, fomnd! • .■ '• ■■ 1.. i. with solemn air. 6 heart-felt raptures! bliss; beyond com- ^^ ^j^.^^ ^^^^ ^^^j^^^ ^^^^^ j^ ^.^^^ . ' : - ■■ .pare"!' ■ ■• ..■ . .'; ■ , 1 _i... .■ - ., ., •<. ,^ . ;. .,■ .■ .l ■ '■■ . ■ • ^ 7S -I've paeed.much this weary, mortahroiind, no They tunftiieir hearts, by far the noblest And sage experience bids me this declare:— •' • . ' •' , , - . :.^^If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- ^ '^^^^^ Dundee's'" wild-warbling' meas-' ure spare,,'' ^ • © " ^ "i' ? u,r6s rise One cordial in this melancholy vale,. q^ j^j^^i^^ Martj/rs,'" worthy of tjie name. ^ 'Tis when a youthful, lovmg, modest Qr noble EZ^m" beets^^ the heavepward ^ ' flame i 80 In Other's arms, breathe out the tender tale - V^he sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. '■^'The JtlTngg'S?' ii5.C„^p,r'd,v.ith these, Italian "^triUg-, are T .u ■ u f j^ u. ti. „ I, 4. , The tickl 'dear no heart-felt raptures raise; Is there, in human form that bears a heart, . ^^^ ^^ ^^ j^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ,^ A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! nraise . . ,■ That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, . ;< .-"' '■■''I ' ■ '' . '■ 85 Betray sweet Jenny's urisuspeeting youth? . The priest-like father reads the sacred Ciirse' on his per jur'd arts! dissembling, . page,— , , . ,. r smooth ! How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil dl 120 Qr Moses bade eternal warfare wage c. Is there no- pity, no relenting rutlr, With 'Amalek's ungracious progeny; .Points :to the pareilts; fondtog o'er their ' Or how the royal bard^^ did groaning lie childj _ ; Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 9' Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their ■ jj.g. . V distraction wild? •-'',- '^ 6r Job's pattetic plaint, and wailing cry; . ^25 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; But now the supper drowns their simple Qr other holy seers that tune the sacred board, , lyre. The healsome parritch,' chief of Scotia's f bod ; PerhEtps'the Christian volume is the theme : The soupe' their only hawkie^ does afford, How guiltless blood for guilty iaan was That 'yont^" the hallan" snugly chowsier shed; ■ cood;- * How lie,,, ^ho bore ^ Heaven the. seeqnd 85 The dame brings forth, in complimental name, niood, • , ;;, , ''weH-savea cheese jsembly r o m • In ""'-"' • . ' ^strong ' laiCge houses.) >ln 'i .,,.; 'wholesome porridge ; Soften "gray locks or temples ' talks oatmeal ' twelve-month " chooses "cows 'milk ■> slope flax "A sacred melody. 4 shy "white-faced cow "hlossom. " kiodlea ■bashful i»heyond 'hall-Bible (The hall "David. .Krest ; others " partition was the general as- ; , . 190 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBERUNNBBS 130 Had hot on earth whereon to lay His head ; ^^^ Princes and lards are but the breath of How His first followers and servants sped ; kings, The preeeptfe sage they wrote to many a ' ' An honest man 's the noblest work of land; God."*' !, How he,^ who lone in Patmos banished, And certes, in fair Virtue 's heavenly road,'^ Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. The cottage leaves the palace far behind t- 135 ^u,j heard great Bab 'Ion's doom pro- What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous nounc'd by Heaven's command. load, }, ' ' t- i''" Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal Studied in arts of Helly in wickedness King, refin'd! ' The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! Hope "springs exulting on triumphant For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is wing, ' '^ sent ! That thus they all shall meet in future days ; Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 1*" There, ever bask in uncreated rays, ■^''^ Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet No more to sigh or shed the bittertear, content! i Together hymning their Creator's praise, And ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- In such society, yet still more dear, vent ' While circling Time moves round in an From Luxury 's contagion, weak and vile ! eternal sphere. Then, howe 'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, 1*5 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's iso j^^d stand a wall of fire around their pride, ' mueh-lov 'd Isle. In all the pomp of method and of art ; /^ mT i ' When men display to congregations wide Thou, who pour d the. patriotic tide ' Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart, That stream 'd thro' Wallace's undaunted The Power, ineens'd, the pageant will de- '^^f^U .: gert Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 156 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;' Or ^lo^'y ^}^> t^e second glorious part! But haply, in some cottage far apart, C^^^ patriot's God, pecuharly Thou art, May hear> well-pleas 'd, the language of the ^^ fri,end,._ mspirer, guardian, and re- soul, •. ward!) And in His Book of Life the inmates never, never Scotia's realm desert; poor enroll. But still the patriot and the patriot-hard In bright succession raise, her ornament Then homeward all take o£E their sev'ral and guard! way; '^- , 155 The youngling cottagers retire to restp TO A MOUSE , The parent-pair their secret homage pay, " qn TURNING HER UP in her nest with And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- the plough, November, i785 quest, 1785 1786 That He, who sjills the raven's clam'rous Wee, sleekit,^ cowrin, tim'rous beastie, nest,* •? : 0, what a panic's in thy breastie! And decks tie lily fair in flow'ry pride,"* Thou need na, start awa sae hasty, 160 "Would, in the way His wisdom sees the Wi' bickering brattle !* best, ,5 I ^ad i,e laith* to rin an' chase tljee,. For them and for their little ones provide ; Wi ' murdering pattle !' But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace | - . ,, ■•• Divine preside. V I'm truly sorry man's 4fiminip5 _,' ,., ^, ,,„,., Has broken Nature's social upion. From scenes like these, old Scotia's gran- | An' justifies that ill opinion ■ • ■ deur 'springs, ^ 10 Which makes. tiee startle That makes ^her lov'd at home, rever'd At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, abroad: : An' fellow mortal! , .• . iJolin. , * See Psa?ms, 147 :9. ^ Pope, S»*a« o» ifon. » sudden Rratnn^ »Vove,WindsorForist, = See Matthew, 6:28- i, i&. '^ ' * would be frotb^ .„y£v,„..=f,.„nf ^^- "^'^"^ 'paddle for Aeai.lng ■ KOBBET' BURNS 191 I doiibt na, whyies^^ But thcrti may 'thieve ; . ; ; jWjhat then ? poor ■ beastie, ' thou maun : . live! 1 ■ .1 . 1 J.) S 15 A dainSen icker in & thrave^ 1 ■■■'ii 'S a sma' request: - I'll get a blfes^in. wi' the lave,* '- And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 20 Its silly, wa's tbe. win's are strewin! .An' naethingy now, to big* a new ane, ■: .: '■■■:, .0', foggage^ green! ' ■ An' bleak'Deeemberi's win's ensuin, Baith snell® an' keen! 25 Thottvsaw the. fields laid! ibaie an' /waste, An' weiary winter comin fa^t, i An' eozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell. Till crash! the cruel coulter' past 30 ■ Out thro' thy cell. Th^t, wee bi.tjheap,o;'.lea.y!es an'.stibble Has cost thee, nionie a weary nibble! ' iSfow thou's .tijrned/ out, for a' thy :., .„ trpuble, .^ n-.. But' house or bald,' 35 To thole^" the winter's sleety dribble. An' cranreuch^^ eauld! Buj:, Mousie, thou art.,rio thy lane,^^ In provipg foresight may be yain:, ( The best-laid ^eheines o ' mice an ' men, *0 f. ,, \. Gang aft agley,^*; , // An' Jea'e us nougJ}t,,but grief an' pain For jfromis'd joy! Slill tihpu ai^t- blest, compared wi' me! The pireseht only toucheth thee,: *5 But peiil I bfiekwardicasf mye'e, ' On prospects dr^ar! . . An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an ' fear ! ADDEESS TO THE DEIL '" liS5 1786'. ;';;■■' .j ' Prtnce'! O Cblrf of many throiifed' ^iiw'rs^! That led th' cmbattl'S seraphim to war ! , ,i-fj::Mi;,TON.' 0; thou! whatever title suit thee— Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clogtie^" Wha in yon cavern grim an' so,6tJe, » at times ' s without ;fni 'an occasional, ear in "abode |.i. a shock (of twenty- " endure .;:.joi!;i ..^our sheaves) " hoar-frost. uf; ' 'remainder "not aloneii.r; 'build ,.i ■ f "awryvj' i,^a;.: ■iiank grass " -PBrodisei.f J&ost, 1, •^barp , 128-9. .ri . * cutter -attached to "A clootle.'ls a' little the beam ol a'.^>low hoof. .) to cut the sward Uj. ">. i ' ' Clos'd' under- hatches, ^Spairges^ i about the brunstane cootie,^ ■' . To seaud^ poor wretches ! Hear' me, Auld Hangie,* for a wee," An' let poor damned bodies be; " •' I'm. sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 10 , Ev'ato a dei,l. To skelp" an' scaud iioor do^s like me. An' hear us squeel. Qxedi is thy pow 'r, ah ' great thy f ^me ; Far kend an' rioted is thy name: ']' 1^ An'' th6' yb'ii' iowin heugh's' thy hame, .;(-...,',,: i; ■ ., Thou travels far; ", ■ .; An'; faith! thou's neither lag,;^inor lame, Nor.blate, npr scaur." .Whyl'es,^" rainging. like a roarin lion, 2? For prey, a;_' hoJes an' corners trying; ' Whyles, on the strongrwing'd tempest "■' ' flyin, '' ■■' '''■"*■ " '"■■ •'■■■" '": ' Tirlin the kirkS;i^ ' \^hyles, in the human bosom pryin, ,. '■■ '' '' ' Unseen thou lurks;' ' 25 I 'ye heard my rev 'rend grauiiie say, In lanely^^ glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin'd 'castles gray;i • :Nod to the moon, ., Ye fright; the nightly wand 'rer 'g, way 30 Wi' eldritch croon." When twilight, did my graunie summon, ,- To .say her pray'rs, douee,^* honest '■'.""'v woman!' "^ "' " Aft Jfofit^" the dyke she's heard , you buniinin,^* ■ . ; / ' Wi' eerie dronej^.' „. 35 Or, rtfstlin thro' the boortrees^* coriiin, Wi' heavy groan. Ae drieary, windy, winter night, The" star shot' down wi' skletitiii'" : lighty . ' Wi' you mysel I gat afrigbt:,!'. oi' *o .,,. ,, Ayont the lough,2o Ye, like a rash-buss,^^ stood in sight, '■ Wi' waving sugh.''^ 1 splashes •■ ' brimstone. tub 'scald' ■' ' old hangmain " moment 8 slap ' flaming cavern » slow *:sh,y nor timid " sometimes ;■". unrOoflngr the . churches "> lonely " unearthly 1 moan " saber "often beyond " humming "ghostly sound " elders "slanting ="> beyond the lake a bush «f rushes "'^ a . sound , as . fof the wind 192 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEERUNNEES The cudgel in my nieve* did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 45 When wi! an eldritch, stoor^ "quaiek, quaick, ' ' Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter 'd like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks' grim, an' wither 'd hags, 50 Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,* They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagties" Owre howkit^ dead. , 55 Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn' in vain; For ! the yellow treasure 's taen By witching skill; An' dawtit,* twal-pint hawkie's® gaen As yell's the bill." 60 85 Lang syne,i in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd. The raptur'd hour. Sweet on the fragrant, flow 'ry swaird, ^^ In shady bow 'r: Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing^ dog 1 Ye cam to Paradise incog, (■■ > An' play'd on man a cursed brogue* ' (Black be your fa' !^), 95 An' gied the infant warld a shog," 'Maist ruin'd a'- D ' ye mind that day when in a bizz,» Wi' reekit' duds, an' reestit gizz>* i'!' '•- Ye did present your smoutie phiz ' - "» 'Mang better folk, ;/ An' sklented^ on the man of Uzz^" Your spitef u ' joke ? Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse An ' how ye gat him i ' your thrall. On young guidmen,^^ fond, keen, an' An' brak him out o' house an' hal', croose;^^ ^"^ While scabs an' botches did him gall. When the best wark-lume^^ i' the house, Wi' bitter claw. By cantraipi* ^it, And lows'd^^ his ill-toilgu 'd, wicked ^5 Is instant made no worth a louse, scaul,"^^ Just at the bit.i^ Was warst ava V 70 ■When thowes"^^ dissolve the snawy hoofd,^^ An' float the jinglin icy-boord,'* Then, water-kelp ies"^' haunt the foord, By yriur direction, An' nighted trav'Uers are allur'd To their destruction. 110 And aft^" your moss-traversing spunkies^' . Decoy the wight tljat late an ' drunk is : "^^ The bleezin,^'' curst, mischievous monkies Delude his eyes. Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. , When Masons' mystic word an' grip 80 In storms an' tempests raise you up. Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,^' Or, strange to tell ! The youngest brother ye wad whip . Aff straight to hell. 125 »flst ' harsh * wizards ' rag-weed stems used instead of broom- sticks, for horses ' covenants « dug-up ' chnrn ' petted » twelve-pint white- faced cow's " as dry as the bull " newly-married men '2 bold ; sure " work-loom " magic "^ at the time when most needfSd '° thaws ■ - " snowy hoard >' surface of Ice " river-demous . (usu- ally in the form of : horses) =" often ^ will-o'-the-wisps ^ blazing ^ That is, by being of- fered as a s.Tcriflce. But. a' your doings to rehearse;. Your wily snares an f echtih^* fierce!, Sin' that day Michael did ybti pieree^^^ Down to this time, , Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Ersp,^* In prose oi- rhyme. An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye 're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantih, drinkin, ' Some luckless hour will send him linkin" To your black pit: But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,*' An' eheait you yet. But, fare you weel, Auld Niekie-ben! 0, wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins^^ might— I dinna ken- Still hae a stake :2» I'm wae^' to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your safcel- 1 long since 'latch-lifting ; intrud- ing » trick ' Mot ' shock « flurry ' smoky ' singed face ' squinted ; directed » Job. f" let loose " scold " worst of all " fighting . " See Parddiae Lost, 6, 325. " would baffle a Low- land tongue or Gaelic "skipping; tripping " dodging " perhaps '"have a position (cf. "to havea stake In ' the country.")' asad ' ROBERT BURNS 193 A BARB'S EPITAPH • ■ 1786 ' 1786 Is theye a whim-inspirfed fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, ' Owre blate^ to seek, owre proud to snooll"— Let him draw near; s And owre this grassy heap sing dool,' And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. That weekly this area throng? — , ^<* 0, pass not by! But with a frater-feeling strong, . Hfire hea,ve( a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, IS Yet runs himself life's mad career , , Wild as the wave?— Here pause^and, thro ' the starting tear Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant, below , ,; , 20 Was quick to learn and wise to know. And keenly felt the friendly glow - , And. softer flame; But thoughtless' follies laid him low, '"' '■ ■ •' ' ' And stain'd his name. 25 Eeader, attend ! whether thy soul Soiar.s fancy's flights beyond the pole. Or darkling grubs this earthly hole In low pursuit ; Ejiow, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. I ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID; OR, THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS 1786 1787 My Soil, these maxims make a rule, An' lump them ay theglther : The Rigid Blghteous is a fooi, The Rigid Wise anithe'r ; The Cleanest corn that e'er was dlght* May hae some pyles o' ca(P In ; So ne er a .fellow-creature slight , , For random fits o' daffln."- Solomon. — Bacles., 7 :ie. ye who are sae guid yoiarsel, Sae pious and sae holy, , , : ; Te've nought to do but mark and tell Your neebors ' f auts' and folly ; 5 Whase life- is like a weel-gaun' inill. Supplied wi' store o' water; The heapet happer's^ ebbing still. An' still the elap^ plays clatter! Hear me, ye venerable core,* 1" As counsel for popr jQortals ,> That frequent pass douce*, "ViTisdom 's door For glaikit" Folly's portals; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. Would, hpre propone* defences — 15 Their donsie' tricks, their blaqk raisiakes. Their failings and mischances. ' , Ye see your state wi ' thieirs compared. And shudder at the niffer;* But cast a moment 'si fair regard, 2" What makes the mighty differ?" Discount what scant occasion gave. That purity ye pride in. And (what's aft^" mair than a' the lave*^) Your better art o' hidin. 25 Think, when your castigated pulse '' Gies now and then a wallop,*^ ■■ i What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop ! >"•- '>T '■ Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, S*) Eight on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o'baith^^ to sail,. It makes an uneo^* lee- way.- - See Social-life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, ^„ , , 35 Till, quite transmogrify 'd,^^ they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: 0, would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences, Or— your more dreadful hell to state- Damnation of expenses! Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. Tied up in godly laces, ' fvBefore ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose, a change o' eases; ^5 A dear-lov 'd lad, convenience snug, A treaeh'rous inclination -n i. But,, let me, whisper i' your lug,^'' Ye'redblins" nae temptation. , ■ Then gently scan your brother man, 5" Still gentler sister woman ; Tbo' they may 'gang a kennin^* wrang. To step aside is human : ' 40 'shy ' eriDge ; crawl • sorrow * winnowed "grains of ch'aff • fun ' faults " well-goiiig ' heaped-up hopper's ' clapper ' corps ; company ' e^ave ' ' 5 giddy « propose 'unlucky, ' ' exchange " difference " often "1 remainder "^ quick jerk " both " wonderful '= transformed le ear i " perhaps "trifle 194 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOEEEUNNEBS One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it ; ^5 And just as lamely can ye mark 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 : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 nse 1786 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou 's met me in an evil hour ; Por I maun^ crush amang the stoure^ Thy slender stem : B To spare thee now is past my pow 'r. Thou bonie gem. Alas ! it 's no thy neebor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet. Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 10 Wi' spreckl'd breast! When upward-spririging, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; 15 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, , Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 20 High shelt'ring woods and wa's^ maun shield ; But thou, beneath the random bield* ' clod or stane, Adorns the histie" stibble-fleld, - Unseen, alane. 25 Tbere, in ,thy scanty mantle clad. Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, 30 And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow 'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray 'd, And guileless trust; 35 Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean, luckless starr'dl Unskilful he to note the card* ^0 Of prudent lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. And whelm him o 'er ! Such fate to suffering Worth is giv 'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, *5 By human pride or cunning driv 'n To mis 'ry 's brink ; Till, wrench 'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn 'st the Daisy's fate, 50 That fate is thine— no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, Full on thy bloom. Till crush 'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom ! TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHTTKCH 1786 1786 Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin^ ferlie?' Your impudence protects you sairly :* I canna say but ye strunt" rarely Owre gauze and lace ; 5 Tho', faith ! I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye. ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,' Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. How daur ye set your fit^ upon her— ^^ Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith ! ' in some beggar 's hauffet* squat- tie;" There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,'* 15 'Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 'must s walls ♦ shelter ' dry ; bare * compass-card = crawling : ' wonder * greatly 5 strut ' blasted marvel (used contemptuously) 'foot » quick ' side of the head '" sprawl " struggle ROBERT BURNS 195 In shoals and nations; Whare hom^ nor bane^ ne'er daur un- settle Your thick plantations. Now hand' you there ! ye 're out o ' sight, 20 Below the fatt'rils,* snug an 'tight; Na, faith ye yet!''* ye '11 no be right 'Till ye've got on it— The vera tapmost, tow 'ring height 0' Miss's bonnet. 25 My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an* gray as onie grozet ;° for some rank, mercurial rozet,^ Or fell, red smeddum,' I'd gie you sic. a hearty dose o't, Wad dress your' droddum.* 1 wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's. ilainen toy;" Or aiblins^^ some bit duddie"^^ boy, ,On's wyliecoat;i'' . , 35 But Missy's fine Lunardi!^* fye! How daur ye do't? Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread!'' Ye little ken what cursed speed " The blastie'smakin!'* Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin! 30 wad some Power the giftie^^ gie us To see oursels' as ithers see us ! '5 It wad fra^ monie a blunder free ,us, „, 4-11 ' foolish notion: What airs in dress an ' gajt wad lea 'e us. An ' ev 'n devotion ! THE SILVER TASSIE18 J788 1790 Go, fetch to me a pint o ' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie. That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonie lassie ! 5 The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae ferry,- ■ The ship rides by the Berwick-Law, And I maun leave my bonie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 10 The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, , The battle closes deep and bloody. It 's aot the roar o ' sea or shore ' Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 15 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar— It 's leaving thee, my bonie Maf y. OP A' THE AIRTSi 1788 1790 Of' a ' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west. For there the bonie lassie lives. The lassie I lo'e best. 5 There wild woods grow, and rivers row,^ And monie a hill between ; But day and night my fancy 's flight ■ Is ever wi ' my Jean. the ' horn-comb ' poison •Bold • ribbon-ends "A reiteration of the eticlamatlon in 1. 5. • gooseberry ' rosin ' powder • breech " flannel cap " perhaps >^ small ragged " flannel Test "balloon - bonaet (named after tinnardl, a famous aeronaut) « abroad "blast e d, — (. e., dwarfed, creature is malting (or, pos- sibly, damned crea- ture) ■ " small gift " goblet I see her in the dewy flowers, 10 I see her sVeet and fair : I hear her in the tunef u ' birds, I hear her charm the air. There 's not a bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw,' or green, 15 There's not a bonie bird that sings. But minds me o' my Jean. , , ATJLD LANG SYNE* 1788 1796 Chorus For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld Ibngsyiie, We '11 tak a cup o ' kindness yet For auld lang syne ! 5 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And nevei- brought to niind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And auld lang syne? And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp,* 10 And surely I'll be mine; ,'And we'll tak a cup o' kindnessi yet For auld lang syne ! We twa hae run about the- braes,* And pou'd' the gowans^ fine; l* But we've wandered monie a weary fit^ Sin' auld lang syne. ' directions ' i ' roll ' wood * old long since (old times) 'be good for 'your three-pint measure ' hill-sides ' pulled ' daisies 'foot 196 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOKEEUNNEES We twa hae paidl'd^ in the burn,^ Frae morning sun till dine f But seas between us braid* hae roar'd 2" Sin' auld lang syne. And there 's a hand, my trusty flere,° And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught' Tor auld lang syne. Chorus 25 For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne ! WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T^ 1789 1790 First when Maggie was my care, Heav'n, I thought, was in her air; Now we're married — spier nae mair'— But— whistle o'er the lave o't! 5 Meg was meek, and Meg was mild. Sweet and harmless as a child: Wiser rpen than me's beguil'd— Whistle 'er the lave o 't ! How we live, my Meg and me, 10 How we love, and hbw we gree,° I care na by^° how few may see- Whistle o 'er the lave o 't ! Wha I wish were maggots' meat, Dish'd up in her winding-sheet, 15 I could write— but Meg wad see't- Whistle o 'er the lave o 't ! MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS 1789 1790 Chorus My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart , is not here ; - My heart 's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 5 Farewell to the Highlands, f ai-ewell to the North, • The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. The hills of the Highlands forever I love. Farewell to the mountains, high-cover 'd with snow ; , 10 Farewell to the straths* and .green val- leys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud- pouriiig floods. Chorus My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the depr; 15 A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. JOHN ANDERSON MY J02 1789 1790 John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent. Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent ;^ 5 But now your brow is beld,* John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow," John Anderson my jo ! John Anderson my jo, Jghn, 10 We elamb the Mil thegither; And monie a eantie' day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we '11 go, 15 And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo ! SWEET AFTON 1789 1789 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes;' Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — Flow gently, ■ sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 5 Thou ^tock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen. Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon 1 paddled ' hearty, good-will LtlUXlljr VA^ ill. ' brook draught ^ dinner-time ' rest of It • broad vales ■head * broad ' ask no more ' sweetheart' • bappjr ^ comrade » agree » smooth ' hlllB " I care not The sweet-scented birk^ shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, '•'''' And winds hy the cot where my Mary ' resides! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 20 As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave ! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; Flow gently, sweet river, the , theme of my lays; My Mary ,'s , asleep hy thy murmuring stream-— Flow gently, sweet Aftoif, disturb not her dream. WILLIE BEEW'D A PECK OF MAUT2 2789 1790 Chorus We are na fou,' we're nae that fou. But just a drappie* in our e'e ! The cock may craw, the day may daw. And ay we'll taste the harley-bree !' 5 0, Willie brew 'd a peck o ' maut. And Rob and Allan cam to see; Three blyther hearts,, that lee-lang"' night, ^ ,;;',. ■'', Ye wad na found in Christendie'. Here are we met, thriee merry boys, 10 Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And monie a night we've merry been, And monie mae^ we hopei to be ! It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift^ sae hie; 15 ' She shines sae bright to wyle^ us hame. But, by my sooth, she '11 wait a wee ! Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he ! Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 20 He is the king amang us three! Chorus I We are na fou, we're nae that fou, But just a drappie in our e 'e ! The cock may craw, the day may daw. And ay we '11 taste the barley-bree ! TAM GLEN I7S9 ITSO My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie!* Some counsel unto me come len'. To anger them a' is a pity. But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? 5 I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw' fellow. In poortith" I might mak a fen'.'' What care I in riches to wa,llow, If I mauna* marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller, ^'^ "Guid day to you"— brute! he comes ben:9" He brags and he blaws o' his siller; But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie^o does constantly deave" me. And bids me beware o'- young men; 15 They flatter, she says, to deceive me— But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin^^ I'll forsake him, ■ He'll gie me guid hunder marks^^ ten: But, if it 's ordain 'd I maun take him, 20 0, wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen a,t the valentines' dealing. My heart to my mou^* gied a siea,'^^ For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, ' ' Tam Glen ' ' ! 1 birch ' small drop 2 malt " brew » full ; drunk • Uve-long 'more • sky ' entice * sister ° such a fine "poverty ' shift ' may not "In ' " mother " deafen "if ■ " Scotch ooiiis, worth 26 cents each. " mputh ' "gave a leap 198 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEETTNNEES 25 The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve,"^ as ye ken ;- His likeness cam up the house staukin,' And the very gray bracks* o ' Tarn Glen ! Come, counsel, dear tittie, don 't tarry ! 2" I'll gie you my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. THOU LING'EING STAE 1789 1790 Thou ling 'ring star with less'ning ray, . .That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher 'st in the day , My Mary from my soul was torn. 5 Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast 1 That sacred hour can I forget, 1* Can I forget the hallow 'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past, 15 Thy image at our last embrace— Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gjirgling, kiss'd his pebbl'd shore, O'erhutig with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar 20 Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene ; The flowers sf^rang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray. Till too, too soon, the glowing *est Proclaim 'd the speed of winged day. 25 Still o 'er these scenes my mem 'ry wakes And fondly broods with miser-care. Time but th' impression stronger. makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. 'watching my drencbed shirt- sleeve , . , 2 "You go out, one or mdre (for this Is a social: spell), to a s o u't h-r u n n 1 ng spring, or rivulet, where 'three lairds' lands meet,' and dip your left shirt- sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hing your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake ; and some time near midnight, an appa- rition, having the exact ffgure of the grand object in ques- tion [future hus- band], will come and turn the sleeve, as If to dry the other sld e." — Burns's note on Halloween, st. 24. ' stalking * breeches Mary, dear departed shade! 30 Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? TAM O' SHANTEE A TALE 1790 1791 Of Brownyis and 6f BogilUs^ full is this Buke. — Gawin Douglas.' When chapman billies' leave the street, And drouthy* neebors, neebors meet; As market-days are wearin late, An' folk begin to tak the gate;^ 5 While we sit bousing at the nappy,® An' gettin' fou^ and unco^ happyj We think na on the lang Scots miles,* The mosses, waters, slaps,^" and styles. That lie between us and, our hame, 10 Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm. Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand" honest, Tarn o' S banter. As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: 15 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses). Tam, hadst thou but been sae ^7186, As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum.^^ 20 A blethering,^' blustering, drunken blel- lum;i* That frae November till October, Ae market-jday thou was nae sober; That ilka melder'^^ wi' the miller. Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 25 That ev'ry naig was ea'd'® a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Mon- day. ^ She prophesied that, late or soon, 30 Thou would be found deep drown 'd in Doon, Or catch 'd wi' warlocks^'' in the mirk^* By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk. > hobgoblins , > Translation of the JEneid, Prologue 6, 15. ' peddler fellows ' thirsty ^tafcei.the way, — t. e., go home « drinking ale ' full ; drunk 8 very ■The old Scotch mile was 216 y a r d a longer, than the English mile. "• gaps '; openings in fences. " found 1- scamp " idly-talking "babbler "" every grist or grind- ing " driven " wizards " dark BOBEBT BUBNS 199 ' Ah, geutle dames! it gars me greet^ To think how monie counsels sweet, 25 How monie lengthen 'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! ' But to our tale:— Ae market-night, Tarn had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle,^ bleezing finely, 40 y^i' reaming swats,^ that drank di- vinely ; And at his elbow, Souter* Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie; Tarn lo'ed him like a very britherj' They had been fou for weeks thegither! *5 The night drave on wi'sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favors, sweet and precious; The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; s" 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 himsel 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 a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread; so You seize the flow 'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white— then melts forever; Or like the borealis racey ' That flit ere you can point their place; 65 Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour appiroaches Tam maun ridfe: That hour, o ' night 's black arch the key- stane, ■^ That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. I The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattling showers rose on the blast; '5 The speedy gleams the darkness swal- low'd; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bel- low 'd : That night, a Child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel-mounted on his gray mare, Meg — ^^ A better never lifted leg-^ Tam skelpit^ on thro' dub^ and mire. Despising wind, and rain, and flre; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning^ o'er some auld' Scots sonnet ;* 85 Whiles glow 'ring round wi' prudent cares. Lest bogies" catch him unawares; Kirk-Allo\vray was drawing nigh. Where ghaists and houlets^ nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, 3" Whare ■ in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;^ And past the birks* and meikle® stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neckbane; And' thro' the whins,^" and by the caim,^^ Where hunters f and the murder 'd bairn ;^^ ^5 And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo 's mither hang 'd hersel. Before him Dooh pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro ' the woods ; The lightnings flash froin pole to pole; lO" 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. ^"5 Inspiring b6ld Jo!in Barleycorn, Whslt dangers thoii canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny,^^ we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae,^^ we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream 'd^^ in Tammie 's noddle. Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.'' But Maggie ^tood,' right sair astonish 'd. Till, by the heel and hand admonish 'd. She yentur'd forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an uneo^° sight! 115 Warlocks^" and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion, brent-new^^ frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys; and .reels,^^ Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker^Mn the east, . 120 There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A tousie tyke,^* black, grim, and large, 110 > makes me«r1evo 2flre-f5idf 'foaming ale < cobbler ' clattered 2 puddle ' humming * song " goblins "owls ' smotbered ' birches ' great M furze " stone-heap " child " blaze "every creyice '= two-penny ale " whisKey > " ale so foamed " copper " strange ^ wizards • ^ brand-new ^ Names of Scottish dances. "^ window-seat ^ touseled, shaggy cur 200 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS 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 cantraip sleight,^ Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tarn was able 15* To note upon the haly* table, A murderer's banes in gibbet-aims;" Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-eutted frae a rape," Wi' his last gasp his gab^ did gape; 135 j^ive tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five seymitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father 's throat had mangled. Whom his ain son o' life bereft— 1*" The gray hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible an' awefu'. Which even to name wad be unlawfu'- As Tammie glowr'd,^ amaz'd, and curious; The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 1^5 The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reei'd, they set, they cross 'd, they eleekit,' Till ilka carlin^" «wat and reekit,'^ And coost her duddies to the wark,'^^ . 150 ^11^ lihket at it in her sark !^^ But Tarn kend what was what fu' brawlie:'^ There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,' 165 That night enlisted in the core,' Lang after kend on Carriek shore (For monie a beast to dead she shot, An' perish 'd monie a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear^* l''" And kept the country-side in fear) ; Her cutty sark," o ' Paisley ham," That while a lassie she had worn. In longitude tho' sorely scanty. It was her best, and she ^vas vauntie.'' i''5 Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie. That sark she cof t* for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots" ('twas a 'her riches), Wad ever grae 'd a dance of witches ! But here my Muse her wing maun cour;^" 18" Sic flights are far beyond her power ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang^^ (A souple jad she -was, and Strang) , And how Tam stood like ane bewitch 'd. And thought his very een enrich 'd; 185 Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,^^ And botched^' 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 ! ' ' 1^* And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 'When out the hellish legion sallied. Now Tkm! Tam! -had thae been queans^* A' plump and strapj)ing in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie"^^ flannen, l?5 Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen !^" 155 Thir breeks^^ o' mine, my only pair. That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,^^ For ae blink o' the bohie burdies!^* But wither 'd beldams, auld and droll, 160 Rigwoodie^" hags wad spean^^ a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock,^^ I wonder did na turn thy stomach ! ' made them shriek ^ magic trick * holy "bones in gibbet irons ' rope ' nioutb , ' stared ' linked afms 1" each old woman " sweated and steamed '2 cast her clothes to the work ^' went at it in her shirt " wenches " greasy ' ' ' M very fine linen, with 1700 threads to a width ' " these breeches " hips " lasses ^ lean ; skinny ^ wean (by disgust) 22 leaping and caper- ing on a crooked staff As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,^" When plundering herds'^^" , assail their byke;" As open^' pussie's^* mortal foes, When, pop I she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market-rcrowd. When "Catch the thief!" .resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 200 "y^i' monie an eldritch^" skrieeh and hollo. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou 'It get thy f airin !*^ In hell they'll roast thee like a herrip! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! > full well ' vigorous ' company * wheat and barley "short shirt * coarse linen ' proud ' bought *A pound Scots is worth about forty cents. M must stoop " leaped and kicked "fidgeted with eager- " hitched; jerked "lost , , , ■ i^fuss " herders of cattle " hive 15 begin to bark , " the hare'd ' 2" unearthly 21 reward (literally, a present from a fair) ROBERT BURNS 201 Kate soon will be a woef u * 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 dare na cross; But ere the key-stane she could ma'ke, 210 The flent" a tail she had to shake; For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest. And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;* But little wist* she Maggie's mettle— 215 Ae spring brought off her master hale. 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, 220 nt man and mother 's son take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear; Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. '' YE FLOWERY BANKS 1791 1808 Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little- birds, And I sae fu' o' care? 5 Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird. That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my f ause® luve was true. Thou '11 break my heai;t, thou bonie b,ird, 1" That sings beside thy mate ; ■ For sae I sat, and sae I sang. And wist na'' o ' my fate. Aft^ hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, 15 And ilka* bird sang o' its luve, And sae did I ,o' mine. Wi ' lightsome heart I pu 'd a rose, Frae aff' its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw'^" my rose, 20 But left the thorn wi' me. AEll FOND KISS 1-}91 1792 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; . , Ae farewell, and then, forever! Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, » bridge = devil 'knew 8 often ' intention ; aim ? every ^Imew i» stole " seized " one ' false Warring sighs and groans I'll wage^ thee. 5 Who shall say 'that Fortune grieves him. While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around' benights- me. I '11 ne 'er blame my partial fancy ; 10 Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to, Jove her; Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 15 Never met— or never parted— We had ne'er been brokeurbearted, Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka^ joy and treasure, 20 Peace,' enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell, alas, forever! Deep, in heart- wrung tears I 'IL pledge thee, Warritig sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! THE DEIL'S AWA WI' TH' EXCISEMAN 1792 1792 Chorus The deil's awa, the deil'sawa, The deil's awa wi' th' Exciseman; He's danc'd awa; he's dane'd awa, '• He's danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman! 5 The deil cam fiddlin thro' the town And danc'd awa wi' th' Excisenlan, And ilka^ wife cries: "Auld Mahoun,^ I wish you luck o ' the prize, man ! "We'll mak our maut,* we'll brew our drink, 10 We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice', man; And monie braw° thanks to the meikle^ black deil, , , That danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman." There's threesome reels,'' there's foursome reels, , ' ' There's hornpipes and strathspeys,* man ; 15 But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land Was The Deil's Awa wi' th' Excise^ man. ' pledge ' 5 many fine ' every » great ' Old Mahomet (an an- ' reels in which three cient name for the take part , devil) 8 Lively Scottish -•malt dances. ' 202 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY EOBERUNNERS Chorus The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' th' Exciseman; He's danc'd awa, he's dane'd awa, 2* He's dane'd awa wi' th' Exciseman! SAW YE BONIE LESLEY I7S2 1798 0, saw ye bonie Lesley, As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. 5 To see her is to love her, And love but her forever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley— 1* Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley — The hearts o' men adore thee.- The deil he could na skaith'^ thee. Nor aught that wad belang thee; 15 He 'd look into thy bonie face, And say: "I canna wrang thee." The Powers aboon will tent^ thee; Misfortune sha' na steer^ thee: Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely, 20 That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonie. HIGHLAND MARY 1792 1799 Te fair your banks and braes* and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and flowers. Your waters never drumlie!^ 5 There Summer first unfald her robes. And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel, 0' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom 'd the gay, green birk,* 1" How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp 'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel, wings, Flew o 'er me and my dearie ; 15 For dear to me as light and life. Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and loek'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft^ to meet again, 20 We tore oursels asunder. But' 0, fell Death's untimely frost. That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and eauld's the That wraps my Highland Mary ! 25 0, pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly; And clos'd for ay, the sparkling glance, That dwalt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. 30 LAST MAY 1791, BEAW2 WOOER 1799 10 15 Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair** wi' his love he did deave* me. I said there was naething I hated like men : The deuce gae wi'm* to believe me, be- lieve me— The deuce gae wi 'm to believe me ! He spak o ' the darts in my bonie black een. And vow'd for my love he was dyin. I said he might die when he liket" for Jean : The Lord forgie me for lyin, for'lyin— The Lord forgie me for lyin ! A weel-stocket mailen,'' himsel for the laird. And marriage aff-hand were his prof- fers: I never loot on that I kenn'd it or car'd, But thought I might hae waur offers,^ waur offers — But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think 1 In a fortnight or less (The Deil tak his taste to gae near her!) He up the Grate-Slack to my black cousin, Bess ! 1 Injure * slopes •take care of ' muddy » molest " hlreh I often » with hlifa 2 fine ; handsome ' liked ; pleased ' sorely 'farm ' deafen ' have worse ofifers BOBEET BURNS 203 Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her— : 2" Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But a' the mest^:week, as I petted^ wi' , care, •< , ' , I gaed to the tryste' o' Dalgamock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there 1 I glowr 'd as I 'd seen a warlock,* a war- . lock— 25 I glowr 'd as I 'd seen a warlock. But owre my left sliouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy. My wooer he caper 'd as he'd been in drink. And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie— 3" And vow 'd I was his dear lassie. I spier'd" for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin° she had recover 'd her hearin, And how her new shbon fit her auld, shachl'd^ feet— But heaveils! how he fell a swearin, a swearin — 35 But heavens ! how he fell a swearin ! He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun* wed him tomorrow, to- morrow — f *" I think I maun wed him tomorrow! JSCOTS, WHA HAB 179S 1794 Scots, wha hae wi' "Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Vietorie ! 5 Now's the day, and now's the hourj See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's' power- Chains and slaverie ! "Wha will be a traitor knave? 10 Wba can fill a coward's grave? "Wha sae base as be a slave ?— Let him turn and flee ! 1 next ' was vexed ' went to the fair < wizard ° asked " whether ' shapeless ' must •Edward II, of Eng- land. -,,, . Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 15 Freeman stand, or freeman fa'; Let him follow me ! By Oppression's woes and pains, ■ By your sons in servile chains ; ■ We will drain our dearest veins, 29 But they shall be free I Lay thei proud usurpers low ! I'yrants fall in every foe! Liberty ,'s in every blow! ^ ' Let us do or die ! A EED, EED E08E ir/9i 1796 0, my luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: P, my luve is like the me,lodie That's sweetly played in tune. ^ As fair art thou, my bpnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.. Till a' the seas ganig dry, my' dear, '^O And the rocks melt wi ' the sun ; And I will luve' thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, ihy only luve ! And fare thee well , a while ! ^5 And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile! MY NANIE's'awA 1794 1799 Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, : ■ ; And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,^ , .. ,, , While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw;^ But to me it's delightle§ss— my Nanie's a's^a ! , , i , ; , 5 The snawdrap and primrose our wood- , lands adorn. And violets bathe in the weet' o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ; ,. ■ They mind me o '; Nanie^and Nanie 's awa ! Thou lav 'rock,* that springs frae the dews of the lawn 1" The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, ■ slopes » wet ' every green wood * lark 204 EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOEEEUNNERS And thou mellow mavis,^ that hails the night-fa, Give over for pity t- my Nanie's awal Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay : 15 ' The dark, 'dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me— now Nanie's awa. / CONTENTED WI' LITTLE ngj, 1799 Contented wi' little, and cantie^ wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care, I gie- them a skelp,' as they're creepin alang, Wi' a cog* o' guid swats' and an auld Scottish sang. 5 I whyles" claw' the' elbow o' troublesome- Thought'; ' But man is a soger,* and life is a f aught;® My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouqh, / And my Freedom 's. my lairdship nae monarch daur touch. A towmond^" o' trouble, should that be my fa',^^ . - , '^ , 10 A night o' guid fellowship sowthers^^ it a': When at the blythe end o' our journey at, last,' Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? Blind Chance, let her, snapper and stoyte^' on her way ; Be 't to me, be 't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: 15 Come Ease, or come Travail, come Pleas- ure or Pain, My warst word is, "Welconie, and wel- come again ! ' ' LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITEW LOCKS 179J, 1800 Chorus I Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, / Bonie lassie, artless lassie, 1 thrush ' merry 'slap * cup ^ale " sometimes ' scratch » soldier 1 fight '» twelve-month "lot "■solders ; mends '' stumble and stagger "flax-colored (a pale yellow) Wilt thou wi' me tent^ the flocks? Wilt thou be my deariey 0? 5 Now Nature deeds'" the flowery lea. And a' is young and sweet like thee; wilt thou share its joy wi' me. And say thou 'It be my dearie, ? The primrose bank, the wimpling burn,' 1" The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn. The wanton lambs at early morn, Shall welcome thee, my dearie, 0. And when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer 'd ilk drooping little flower, 15 We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, 0. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray. The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 20 And talk o' love, my dearie, 0. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest. Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, 0. Chorus 25 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, 0? IS THEEE FOE HONEST POVEETY nsJ, 1795 Is there for honest poverty. That hings his head, an' a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by— We dare be poor for a ' that ! 5 For a' that, an' a' that. Our toils obscure, an' a' that. The rank is but the guinea's stamp; The man's the gowd* for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine, 10 Wear hoddin gray' an' a' that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine^ A man's a man for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that, ^ Their tinsel show, an ' a ' that, 15 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie,' ca'd "a lord," Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that? 1 care for = clothes = meandering brook ' gold '• coarse gray cloth > young fellow ROBERT BURIES 205 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, . 20 He 's but a cuif f for a ' that : For a' that, an' a' that, His ribband, star, an ' a ' that, I The man o' independent mind. He Ipojss an' laughs at a' ^jast. : , 25 A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that;' But an honest man's aboon^ his might— Guid faith, he mauna fa'' that! For a' that, an' a' that, 30 Their dignities, an' a' that, ^ The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Arfe higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may. As come it will for a' that, 35 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree*' an' a' that; For a ' that, an ' a ' that, It 's comin yet for a ' that, ' That man to man, the world o'er, 40- ' Shall brithers be for a ' that ! O, WERT THOU IN THE CATJLD BLAST 1796 1800 P, wert thou in the cauld blast On yonder l^a, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt,= , , I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 5 Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. Thy bield° should be my bosom. To share it a', to share it a'- Or were I in the wildest waste, 10 Sae black and bare, sae Waet and bare. The desert were a paradise. If thou wlerti there, if thou wert thesri?. Or were I monarch of the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 15 The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 0, LAY THY L00F7 IN MINE, LASS 1796 1803 Chorus 0, lay thy loof in mine, lass. In mine, lass, in mine, lass. And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. 5 A slave to Love's unbounded sway, He aft has wrought me nieikle wae;^ But now he is my deadly f ae,* IJnless thOu be my ain. There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 10 That for a blink I ha^ lo'ed best; But thou art queen 'within my breast, Forever to remain. Chorus ' 0, lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass. And swear on thy white hand,, lass. That thou wilt be my, ain. 15 10 15 20 25 'fool ' windy quarter 2 above 'shelter - ■ ° may not claim ' palm o( the hand » prize 8 much woe > ' 80 35 40 PREFACE TO THE FIRST, OR KILMAR- NOCK EDITION OF BURNS'S POEMS 1786 1786' ; I. The following trifles are not the [pro- duction of the poet, who, with all thei ad- vantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and: idlenesses of upper life, looks down fori a rural, theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil.; To the author of this, these and other,. cele- brated names (their countrymen) are, at least in their original language, "a foun- tain shut up, and a book sealed." XJn-^ acquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet^ by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language^^ Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses Of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his was worth showing; and none of the following I works were composed with a view to the press. . To amuse himself with ■ the little ' creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of. a laborious life; to tran-. scribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind; these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears in the public char- acter of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the' rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought ' of being branded as ' ' An imper- ifoe ^ for beginning the vocation of a poet ' 206 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBERUNNEBS tinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world; and, because he can make shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looks upon himself as a poet of no small consequence forsooth." It' is an observation of that celebrated poet,^ whose divine Elegies do honor to our language, our nation, and our species— that "Humility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame." If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon him- self as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done would be a maneuver below the worst character which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawn- ings of the poor, unfortunate Tergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, de- clares that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. To his subscribers the author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mer- cenary bow over a counter, but the heart- throbbing gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he is indebted to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom— to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honor him with a perusal, that they will make every allow- ance for education and circumstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid^ and imr partial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned without mercy, to contempt and oblivioui DEDICATION TO THE SECOND, OR EDINBURGH EDITION OF BURNS 'S POEMS nst 1787 TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HDNT2 Mt Lords and Gentlemen: A Scottish bard, proud of the name, 55 and whose highest ambition is to sing in his country's service— where shall he so 1 Shenstone " An association of Scottish huntsmen. 20 i 30 40 45 50 properly look for patronage as to the illus- trious names of his native land; those who bear the honors and inherit the virtues of their ancestors? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic ,ba,rd Elijah did Elisha— at the plough;^ and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil", in my native tongue : I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. She whis- pered me to come to this ancient metrop^ olis of Caledonia and lay my songs under your honored protection: I now obey her dictates. Though much indebted to your good- ness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedi- cation, to thank you for past favors : that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learn- ing that honest, rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those favors: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen; and to tell the world that I glbry in the title. I come to congratulate my country, that the blood of her ancient heiroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your cour- age,, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warm- est wishes to' the great fountain of honor, the monarch of the universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favorite amusement of your forefathers, may pleasure ever be of your party: and may social joy await your return ! When harassed in courts, or camps with the jostlings -of bad men and bad measures, may the honest conscious- ness of injured worth attend your return to your native seats ; and inay domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates ! May corruption shrink at your kindling, indignant glance; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentious- ness in the people, equally find you an inexoral)le foe! I have the honor to be, with the sin- cerest gratitude and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble Servant, Robert Burns. Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. 1 See 1 Kings, 19 :19. II. NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855) THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY i792 1792 ■ Trom Pakt I Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green, With magie tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that thro' the hainlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak 5 The peasants flocked to hear the miiistrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no g^ more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 10 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. .AH, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! What secret charms this silent spot en- ^ dear ! Mark yon old mansion frowning thro' the trees, ' ' g5 Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 15 That easement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light- of heaven con- veyed. The mouldering gateway strews the grass- grown court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; 90 When all things pleased, for life itself was new, ' 20 And the heart promised what the fancy drew. As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, 70 What fond illusions swarm in every 95 grove How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 207 We watched the emmet^ to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with Triendship 's votive rhyme. The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, ' Thro' sister elms that waved their sum- mer shade; Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! Childhood's loved group revisits every scene; The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green ! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know ; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades and life forgets to charm ; Thee would the Muse invoke!— to thee belong The saga's precept and the poet's song. What ; softened views thy magie glass reveals, When 'er the landscape Time 's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy tempered gleams of happiness re- • -signed Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind, ant 208 NINETEENTH CENTUEY EOMANTICISTS The school 's lone porch, with reverend mosses 'gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, i^"" Quickening my truant feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noon- tide air. When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cher- ished here, ' los And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems ,'/ With golden visions and romantic dreams ! Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The Gipsy's fagot— there we stood and . gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, 11" Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw ; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er;, The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; 115 Whose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the distant watch- dog bayed: — And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard- wall. , , As o !er my palm the silver piece she drew, 120 And traced the line of life with search- ing view, ' How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, To learn the color of my future years ! Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; This truth once known— To bless is to be blest! 125 T^e led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver- gray) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit . felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, 150 And sighed to think that little was no more, He breathed his prayer, ' ' Long may such goodness live ! ' ' 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight. Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. 135 But hark! tliro' those old firs, with sullen swell. The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, . to tr^be The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door, - 140 Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more. Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring, Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. 1^5 The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade. He lectured every youth that round him played ; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, 1^" Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings,' hush ! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth ! Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth ! 155 Whose every word enlightened and endeared; In age beloved, in poverty revered; In Friendship's silent register ye live. Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. But when the sons of peace, of pleas- ure sleep, 160 When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ? SAMUEL EOGEKS 209 AN ITALIAN SONG X793 Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builda and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. 5 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange groves and myrtle bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours 1* With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave. For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at bresik of day, The ballet danced in twilight gla,de, 15 The canzonet^ and roundelay^ Sung in the silent green-wood shade: These simple joys, that never fail. Shall bind me to my native vale. WEITTEN AT MIDNIGHT 1806 While thro' the broken pane the tem- pest sighs. And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smi,ies on me no more; 5 With many a voice that thrills of trans- port gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave ! WBITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND 1812 Blue was the loch,^ the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone. When, Luss, I left thee ; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, 5 Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Where gray with age, the dial stands; That dial so well known to me ! — Tho' many a shadow it had shed, Beloved sister,* since with thee ' 10 The legend on the stone was read. The fairy isles fled far away; That with its woods and uplands green, Where shepherd huts are dimly seen, And songs are heard at close of day; 15 That too, the deer's wild covert, fled. And that, the asylum of the dead: lA short song, light and graceful. 'A, song with a recur- ring word, phrase, or line, "lake * His sister Sslrah. While, as the boat went merrily, Much of Rob Roy the boat-man told ; His arm that fell below his knee, 2" His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. Tarbat, thy shore I climbed at last; And, thy shady region passed. Upon another shore I stood. And looked upon another flood; 25 Great Ocean's self !,, ('Tis He ^ho Alls That vast and awful depth of hills;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, ^0 As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky. As o 'er the glimmering waves we flew ; The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 25 And now the grampus, half-descried, Black and huge above the tide ; The cliffs, and promontories there. Front to front, and, broad and bare; Each beyond each, with giant feet *" Advancing as in haste to meet ; The shattered fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain. Tyrant of the drear domain; All into midnight shado-S7; sweep— *5 When day springs upward from the deep Kindling the waters in its flight, The prow wakes splendor; and ihe oar. That rose and fell unseen before. Flashes in a sea of light ! 5" Glad sign, and sure ! for now we hail Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale; And bright indeed the path should be, That leads to friendship and to thee ! Oh blest retreat, and sacred too! 55 Sacred as when the bell of prayer Tolled duly on the desert air. And crosses decked thy summits blue. Oft, like some loved romantic tale. Oft shall my weary mind recall, ^0 Amid the hum and stir of men. Thy beechen grove and waterfall, Thy ferry with its gliding sail. And her— the Lady of the Glen! An INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA 1812 Shepherd, or huntsman, or worn mariner, Whate'er thou art, who. wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone. Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse, 5 This iron cup chained for the general use. 210 NINETEENTH CENTURY E0MANTICIST8 And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 'Twas here she turned from her beloved sire. To see his face no more. Oh, if thou canst, 1" ( 'Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flbwers ; And with a drop of this sweet water fill The two small cells scooped in the marble there. That birds may come and drink upon his grave. Making it holy^ » * » » THE BOY OF EGREMOND 1819 1819 ' ' Say, what remains when Hope is fled ? ' ' She answered, ' ' Endless weeping ! ' ' For in the herdsman's eye she read, Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 5 At Embsay rung the matin bell. The stag was roused on Barden fell ; The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, And down the Wharf e a hern^ was flying; When near the cabin in the wood, 1" In tartan clad and forest-green. With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen. Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; But where the rock is rent in two, 15 And the river rushes through. His voice was heard no more ! 'Twas but a step ! the gulf he passed ; But that step— it was his last! As through the mist he winged his way, 20 (A cloud that hovers night and day,) The hound hiihg back, and back he drew The master and his merlin^ too. That narrow place of noise and strife Received their little all of life ! 25 There now the matin bell is rung; The ' ' Miserere ' ' duly sung ; And holy men in cowl and hood Are wandering up and down the wood. But what avail they? Ruthless Lord, 30 Thou didst not shudder when the sword Here on the young its fury spent, The helpless and the iflnoeent. Sit now and answer, groan for groan. The child before thee is thy own. 35 And she who wildly wanders there, The mother in her long despair, lA Tnrklsb superstition. ' heron ' small European falcon Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were treeping; Of those who would not be consoled ^0 When red with blood the river rolled. From 1819-1834 Thk Lake of Geneva ITALY 1822-34 Day glimmered in the east, and the white moon Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky, Yet visible, when on my way I went. Glad to be gone, a pilgrim from the North, 5 Now more and more attracted as I drew Nearer and nearer, Ere the artisan Had from his window , leant, drowsy, half -clad. To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth. From his green sod upspringing as to heaven, 10 (His tuneful bill o 'erflowing with a song Old in the days of Homer, and his wings With transport quivering)' on my way I went. Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut ; 15 As on that Sabbath eve when he arrived,' Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee. Such virtue dwells in those small syllables. Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street, His birth-place,— when, but one short step too late, 20 In his despair, as though the die were' east, He flung him down to weep, and wept till dawn ; Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world. 'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. Yet at a city gate, from time to time, 25 Much may be learnt; nor, London, least at thine, Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all. Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, And note who passes. Here comes one, a youth. Glowing with pride, the pride of con- scious power, 30 A Chatterton— in thought admired,' ca- ressed, And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol; Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand, And fester with the vilest. Here come two, 1 Jean Jacques Eousseau, who visited Geneva, his birthplace, In 1754. He had left there In 1728, when sixteen years of age. SAMUEL EOGEES 211 Less feverish, less exalted— soon to part, ^^ A Garriek and a Johnson; Wealth and Fame Awaiting one, even at the gate; Neglect And Want the other. But what multi- tudes, Urged by the love of change, and, like myself. Adventurous, careless of tomorrow's fare, 40 Press on— though but a rill entering the sea. Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Euffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave. If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, *^ Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sunbeam— 'where, alone and as en- tranced, Counting the hours, the flsher in his skiff Lay'-With his circular and dotted line 50 On the bright waters. When the heart of man Is light with hope, all things are sure to please ; And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by, Laden with peasant girls and fruits and flowers And many a chanticleer and partlet^ caged 65 por Vevey 's market place — a motley group Seen through the silvery haze. But soon ; 'twas gone. The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro, Then bore them off. I am not one of those So dead to all things in this visible world, ^0 So w'ondrously profound, as to move on In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old" (His name is justly in the Calendar'), Who through the day pursued this pleas- ant path That winds beside' the mirror of all beaiuty, ^5 And, when at eve his fellow pilgrims sate, Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. They marvelled as they might; and so must all, Seeing what now I saw : for now 'twas day. And the bright sun was in the firmament, ''0 A thousand shadows of a thousand hues ' cock and hen "Bernard, Abbot of Clalrraux (1091-1153). ' list of saints Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, Thy seas of ice and ice-buUt promon- tories, That change their shapes forever as in sport ; ''^ Then travelled onward and went down behind The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe Borne homeward through the forest in his hand; And, on the edge of some o 'erhanging cliff, *o That dungeon-f ortress"^ never to be named. Where, like a lion taken in the toils, Toiissaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. Little did he,^ who sent him there to die. Think, when he gave the word, that he himself, . ^^ Great as he was, the greatest among men. Should in like manner be so soon conveyed Athwart the deepj— and to a rock so small Amid the countless multitude of waves, That ships have gone and sought it, and returned, 80 Saying it was not! The Gondola Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is set. It came, and we embarked; but instantly. As at the waving of a magic wand. Though she had stept on board so light of foot, 5 So light of heart, laughing she knew not why. Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept. Prom time to time I waked her; but the boat Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now Risingffull-orbed, but broken by a cloud. 10 The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr, as enamored, played With her Ipose tresses, and drew more and more Her v(Bil across her bosom. Long I lay Contemplating that face so beautiful, 15 That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles. That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. I Tbe Castle' of Joux In Franche-Comtfi. ' Napoleon, who sent Toussalnt L'Ouvertnre to prison, and who was later banished to St. Helena. 212 NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTICI8TS 'Twas the sweet slumber of her early age. I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy I would express but cannot. Oft I wished 20 Gently— by stealth— to drop asleep myself, And to incline yet lower that sleep might come; Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness. 'Twas all in vain. Love would not let me rest. But how delightful when at length she waked ! 25 When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil So rudely scattered, she resumed her place ■ Beside me; and, as gaily as before. Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer. Poured out her innocent mind ! So, nor long since, 3" Sung a Venetian; and his lay of love, Dangerous and sweet, charmed- Venice. For myself, (Less fortunate, if love be happiness) No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, I went alone beneath the silent moon ; 35 Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, Glittering and frost^like, and, as day drew on. Melting away, an emblem of themselves. Those porches passed, thro' which the water-breeze Plays, though no longer on the noble forms ^o That moved there, sable-vested— and the quay, ' Silent, grass-grown — adventurer-like I launched Into the deep, ere long discovering , Isles such as cluster in the southern seas, All verdure. ^ Everywhere, from bush and brake, ^5 Tiie musky odor of the serpents came; Their slimy tract across the woodman's path Bright in the moonshine; and, as round I went. Dreaming of Greece,' whither the waves were gliding, I listened to the venerable pines 50 Then in close converse, and, jf right I guessed, ,, , Delivering many a message to the winds, , In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida. Nor when again in Venice, when again ; -In that strange place, so stirring and so still, 55 Where nothing comes to drown the human voice But music, or the dashing of the tide. Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica Sjing to her lute, her signal as she sate At her half -open window. .Then, me- thOUght, ; 60 A serenade broke silence, breathing hope Thro' walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart , , Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, (It was before an old Palladian house. As between night and day we floated by) 65 A gondolier lay singing; and he sung. As in the time when Venice was herself. Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars We rested ; and the verse was verse divine 1 We could not err— perhaps he was the last— ''O For none took up the strain, none an- swered him; And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear A something like the dying voice of Venice ! ^ The moon went down; and nothing now was seen Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone ''5 Faintly — or heard, but when he spoke, who stood Over the lantern at the prow and cried, Turning the comer of some reveremd; pile. Some school or hospital of old renown, Tho' haply none were coming, none were near, 80 "Hasten or slacken." But at length Night fled ; And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure. Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like, Crossed me and vanished— lost at once among Those hundred isles that tower majes- tically, 85 That rise abruptly from the water-mark. Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work Of noblest architects. I lingered still ; Nor sought my threshold, till the hour was come And past, when, flitting home in the gray light, ^0 The young Bianca found her father's door, That door so often with a trembling hand. So often— then so lately left ajar. Shut ; and, all terror, all perplexity, Now by her lover urged, nowi by her love, 35 Fled o'er the waters to return no more. The FodntainI It was a well Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry; 1 "The place here described Is near Mola dl Gagta, in the kingdom of Naples." — Rogers. WILLIAM GODWIN 213 And richly wrought with many a high relief, Greek sculpture— in some earlier day perhaps 5 A tomb, and honored with a hero 's ashes. The water from the rock filled and o'er- flowed ; Then dashed away, playing the prodigal. And soon was lost— stealing unseen, un- ' y heard, Thro' the long grass, and round the twisted roots r 10 Of aged trees, discovering^ where it ran By the fresh yerdmre. Overcome with heat, I threw me down, admiring, as I lay, That shady nook, a singing-place for birds, That grove so intricate, so full o| flowers, 15 More than enough to please a child a-Maying. The sun had set, a distant convent-bell Ringing the Angelus;^ and now ap- proached The hour for stir and villiage-gossip there. The hour Rebekah came,, when from the well 20 1 She drew with such alacrity to serve The stranger and his camels.^ Soon I heard Footsteps ; and lo, descending by a path Trodden for ages, many a nymph ap- peared. Appeared and vanished, bearing on her . head 25 Her earthen pitcher. It called wp the day Ulysses landed there;* and Idng I gazed. Like one awaking in a distant time. At length there came the loveliest of them all, Her little brother dancing down before her; so And ever as he spoke, which he did ever, Turning and looking up in warmth of heart And brotherly affection. Stopping there. She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them With the pure elejnent, gave him to drink; 35 And, while-he quenched his thirst, stand- ing on tip-toe. Looked down upon him with a sister's smile. Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue. ' dlselosing , - » That is, the summons to the Angelus* a service commeniotating the Incarnation of Christ. » See Oenesis, 24 :15-20. , „ * A tradition, recorded in Strabo's Oeograplaca, V, 4, S. See the Odyssey, 11. Then hadst thou seen them as theiy' stood, Canova, Thou hadst endowed them with immortal youth ; ' ' ' *0 And they had evermore lived undivided, Winning all hearts— of all thy works the fairest. WILLIAM GODWIN (1756-1836) ENQUIEY CONCERNING POLITICAL JUSTICE ngs 1793 From Book I. 'Of the Powers of Man Con- ^ siDERED IN His Social Capacity CHAPTER III. SPIRIT OF POLITICAL Il^STITUTIONS Additional perspicuity will be communi- cated to our view of the evils- of political society, if we reflect with farther and closer, attention upon what may be called B its interior and domestic history. Two of the greatest abuses relative to the interior policy of nations, which at this time prevail in the world,* consist in the irregular transfer of property, either first 10 by violence, or secondly by fraud. If among the inhabitants of any country, there existed no desire in one individual tO; possess himself ' of the substance of an- other, or no desire so vehement and rest- 15 less as to, prompt him to acquire it i by means inconsistent with order and justice, undoubtedly in that country guilt' could scarcely be known but by re^port. If every man could with perfect facility obtain the 20 necessaries of life, and, obtaining them, feel no uneasy craving after its super- fluities, temptation would lose its power. Private interest would visibly accord with publicgood; and civil society become whajt 25 poetry has feigned of the golden age. Let us enquire into the principles to which these evils are indebted for their existenlce. . First, then, it is to be observed that in the most refined states of Europe, thfe in- 30 equality of property has arisen to an alarming height. Vast numbers of their inhabitants are deprived of almost every accommodation that can render life toler- able or secure. Their utmost industry 35 scarcely suffices for their support. The women and . children lean with an insup- portable weight upon the efforts of the man, so that a large family has' in the lower orders of life become a proverbial 40 expression for an uncommon degree of poverty apd wretchedness. If sickness or some of those casualties which are ppr- 214 NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS petually incident to an active and labori- ous life be added to these burdens, the distress is yet greater. It seems to be agreed that in England there is less wretchedness and distress 5 than in most of the kingdoms of the conti- nent. In England, the poor's rates^ amount to the sum of two millions sterling per annum. It has been calculated that one person in seven of the inhabitants of this lo country derives at some period of his life assistance from this fund. If to this we add the persons who, from pride, a spirit of independence, or the want of a legal settlement, though in equal distress, re- 15 eeive no such assistance, the proportion will be considerably increased. I lay no stress upon the accuracy of this calculation; the general fact is sufficient to give us an idee of the greatness of the 20 abuse. The consequences that result are placed beyond the reach of contradiction. A perpetual struggle with the evils of poverty, if frequently ineffectual, must necessarily render many of the sufferers 25 desperate. A painful feeling of their op- pressed situation, will itself deprive them of the power of surmounting it. The superiority of the rich, being thus un- mercifully exercised, must inevitably ex- 30 pose them to reprisals; and the poor man will be induced to regard the state of society as a state of war, an unjust com- bination, not for protecting every man in his rights and securing to him the means 35 of existence, but for engrossing all its advantages to a few favored individuals, and reserving for the portion of the rest want, dependence, and misery. A second source of those destructive 40 passions by which the peace of society is interrupted is to be found in the luxury, the pageantry, and magnificence with which enormous wealth is usually accom- panied. Human beings are capable of 45 encountering with cheerfulness consider- able hardships, when those hardships are impartially shared with the rest of the society, and they are not insulted with the spectacle of indolence and ease in 50 others, no way deserving of greater ad- vantages than themselves. But it is a bitter aggravation of their own calamity to have the privileges of others forced on their observation, and, while they are per- 55 petually and vainly endeavoring to secure for themselves and their families the poor- est conveniences, to find others reveling in > Taxes levied for the relief of the poor. the fruits of their labors. This aggrava- tion is assiduously administered to them under most of the political establishments at present in existence. There is a numer- ous class of individuals who, though rich, have neither brilliant talents nor sublime virtues; and however highly they may prize their education, their affaibility, their superior polish, and the elegance of their manners, have a secret consciousness that they possess nothing by which they can so securely assert their preeminence and keep their inferiors at a distance as the splen- dor of their equipage, the magnificence of their retinue, and the sumptuousness of their entertainments. The poor man is struck with this exhibition; he feels his own miseries; he knows how unwearied are his efforts to obtain a slender pittance of this prodigal waste; and he mistakes opulence for felicity. He cannot persuade , himself that an embroidered garpaent may frequently cover an aching heart; A third disadvantage that is apt to con- nect _ poverty with discontent consists in the insolence and usurpation of the rich. If the poor man would in other respects compose himself in philosophic indiffer- ence, and, conscious that : he possesses everything that is truly honorable to man as fully as his rich neighbor, would look upon the rest as beneath his envy, his neighbor would not permit him to do so. He seems as if he could never bei satisfied with his possessions unless he can mate the spectacle of them gratiiig to others: and that honest self-esteem, by which his inferior might otherwise arrive at apathy, is rendered the instrument of galling him with oppression and injustice. In many countries justice is avowedly made a sub- ject of solicitation, and the man of the highest rank and most splendid connec- tions almost infallibly carries his cause against the unprotected and friendless. In countries where this shameless practice is not established, justice is frequently a matter of expensive purchase, and the man with the longest purse is proverbially victorious. A consciousness of these facts must be expected to render the rich little cautious of offence in his dealings with the poor, and to inspire him with a temper, overbearing, dictatorial, and tyrannical. Nor does this indirect oppression satisfy his despotism. The rich are in all such countries, directly or indirectly, the legis- la,to,rs of the state; and of consequence are perpetually reducing oppression into a WILLIAM GODWIN 215 system, and depriving the poor of that little commonage of nature, as it were,, which might otherwise still have remained to them. The opinions of individuals, and of con- sequence their desires, for desire is nothing but opinion maturing for action, will al- ways be in a, great degree .regulated by the opinions of the community. But the manners prevailing in many countries are accurately calculated to impress a convic- tion that integrity, virtue, understanding, and industry are nothing, and that opu- lence is everything. Does a man whose exterior denotes indigence expect to be well received" in society, and especially by those who would be understood to dictate to the rest? Does, he find or imagine him- self in want of their. assistance and: favor?, He is presently taught that no merits can atone for a mean appearance. The lesson that isi read to, him is, "Go home; enrich yourself by whatever means ; obtain those superfluities which are alone regarded as estimable; and you may then be secure of an amicable reception." Accordingly, poverty in such countries is viewed as the greatest of demerits. It is escaped from with an eagerness that has no leisure for the scruples of honesty. It is concealed as the most indelible disgrace. While one man Chooses the path of undistinguishing accumulation, another plunges into ex- penses which are to impose him upon the world as more opulent than he is. He hastens to the reality of that penury, the appearance of which he dreads; and, to- gether with his property, sacrifices the integrity, veracity, and character, which might have consoled him in his adversity. Such are the causes that, in different degrees under the different governments of the world, prontpt mankind openly or secretly to encroach upon the property of each other. Let us consider how far they admit either of remedy or aggravation from political institution. Whatever tends to decrease the injuries attendant upon poverty, decreases, at the same time, the inordinate desire and the enormous accu- mulation of wealth. Wealth is not pur- sued for its own sake, and seldom for the sensual gratification it can purchase, but for the same reasons that ordinarily prompt men to the acquisition of learning, elo- quence, and skill, for the love of distinc- tion and fear of contempt. How few would prize the possession of riches if they were condemned to enjoy .their equi- page, , their palaces, and their entertg,in- ments in solitude, with no eye to wonder at their n^agnificence, and no sordid ob- server ready to convert that wonder into 5 an adulation of the owner ! If admiration were not; generally deemed, the exclusive property of the rich, and contempt the constant lackey of poverty, the loye of gain would cease to be an universal pas- 10 sion. L|?t us consider in what respects political institution is rendered subservient to this passion. iPirst, then, legislation is in almost every country grossly the favorer of the rich 15 against the poor. Such is the character of the game laws, by which the indus- trious rustic is forbidden to destroy the animal that preys upon the hopes of his future subsistence, or to supply, himself 20 with the food that unsought thrusts itself in his path. Such was the spirit of, the late revenue laws of France, which in several of their provisions fell exclusively upon the humble and industrious, and, 25 exempted from their operation those who are best able to support it. Thus, in Eng- land, , the land tax at this moment pro- duces half a ^million less than it did a century ago, while the taxes on consump- 30 tign have experienced an addition of thir- teen millions per, annum during the same period, This is an attempt, w,hether eff.ec- tual or no, to throw, the burden froni the rich upon the poor, and as such is an 35 exhibition of the spirit, of legislation. Upon the same principle, robbery, and other offences, which the wealthier part of. the community have no temptation to commit, are treated as capital crimes, and. 40 attended with the most rigorous, often the most inhuman punishments. ■ The rich are encouraged to associate for the execution of the most partial and oppressive posi- tive laws; monopolies and patents are 45 lavishly dispensed to such as are able to purchase them; while the most vigilant policy is employed to prevent combinations of the poor to fix the price of labor, and they are deprived of the benefit of that 50 prudence and judgment which would select the scene of their industry. Secondly, the administration of law is not less iniquitous than the spirit in which it is framed. Under the late government, 55 of France,! the office of judge was a matter of purchase, partly by an open price ad- vanced to the crown, and partly by a secret douceur^ paid to the minister^; He 1 Before the Kevolutlon. "gift; bribe . ', 216 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS who knew best how to manage this market in the retail trade of justice, could afford to purchase the good will of its functions at the highest price. To the client, justice was avowedly made an object of personal 6 solicitation, and a powerful friend, a hand- some woman, or a proper present, were articles of a much greater value than a good cause. In England, the criminal law is administered with greater impartiality 10 so far as regards the trial itself; but the number of capital offences, and of conse- quence the frequency of pardons, open a wide door to favor and abuse. In causes relating to property, the practice of law 15 is arrived at such a pitch as to render all justice ineffectual. The length of our chancery suits, the multiplied appeals from court to court, the enormous fees of coun- sel, attorneys, secretaries, clerks, the draw- 20 ing of briefs, bills, replications, and re- joinders, and what has sometimes been called the glorious uncertainty of the law, render it frequently more advisable to resign a property than to contest it, and Z5 particularly exclude the impoverished claimant from the faintest hope of redress. Thirdly, the inequality of conditions usually maintained by political institution is calculated greatly to enhance the imag- so ined excellence of wealth. In the ancient monarchies of the East, and in Turkey at the present day, an eminent station could Scarcely fail to excite implicit deference. The timid inhabitant trembled before his 35 superior; and would have thought it little less than blasphemy to touch the veil drawn by the proud satrap over his inglorious origin. The same principles were exten- sively prevalent under the feudal system. 40 The vassal, who was regarded as a sort of live stock upon the festaite, and knew of no appeal from the arbitrary flat of his lord, would scarcely venture to suspect that he was of the same species. This, however, 45 constituted an unnatural and violent situa- tion. There is a propensity in man to look farther than the outside ; and to come with a writ of enquiry into the title of the upstart and the successful. By the opera- 60 tion of these causes, the insolence of wealth has been in some degree moderated. Meantime, it cannot be pretended that even among ourselves the inequality is not strained, so as to give birth to very unfor- 55 tunate consequences. If, in the enormous degree in which it prevails in some parts of the world, it wholly debilitate and emasculate the human race, we shall see some reason to believe that, even in the milder state in which we are accustomed to behold it, it is still pregnant with the most mischievous effects. From CHAPTER V. THE VOLUNTARY ACTIONS OP MEN ORIGINATE IN THEIR OPINIONS The corollaries respecting political truth, dedueible from the simple propo- sition, which seems clearly established by the reasonings of the present chapter, that the voluntary actions of men are in all instances conformable to the deductions of their understanding, are of the highest im- portance. Hence, we may infer what are the hopes and prospects of human im- provement. The doctrine which may be founded upon these principles may, per- haps, best be expressed in the five follow- ing propositions: sound reasoning and truth, when adequately communicated, must always be victorious over error; sound reasoning and truth are capable of being so communicated; truth is omnipo- tent; the vices and moral weakness of man are not invincible; man is perfect- ible, or, in other words, susceptible of perpetual improvement. These propositions will be found in part synonymous with each other. But the time of the enquirer will not be unprofltably spent in copiously clearing up the founda- tions of moral and political system. It is extremely beneficial that truth should be viewed on all sides, and examined under: different aspects. The propositions are even little more than so many different modes of stating the principal topic of this chapter. But if they will not admit each of a distinct train of arguments in its support, it may not, however, be use- less to bestow upon each a shdrt illus- tration. The first of these propositions ' is so evident that it needs only be stated in order to the being universally admitted. Is there any one who can imagine that when sound argument and sophistry are fairly brought into comparison, the vic- tory can be doubtful? Sophistry may assume a plausible appearance, and con- trive to a certain extent to bewilder the understanding. But it is one of the pre- rogatives of truth to follow it in its mazes and strip it of disguise. Nor does any difiiculty from this consideration interfere with the establishment of the present proposition. We suppose truth not merely WILLIAM GODWIN 217 to be exhibited, but adequately communi- cated,; that is, in other words, distinctly apprehfended by the person to whom it is addressed. In this case the victory is too sure to admit of being controverted by the most inveterate skepticism. The second proposition is that sound reasoning and truth are capable of being adequately communicated by one man to another. This proposition may be under- stood of such communication, either as it affects the individual or the species. First of the individual. In order to its due application in this point of view, opportunity for the com- munication must necessarily be supposed. The incapacity of human intellect at pres- ent requires that this opportunity should be of long duration or repeated recurrence. We do not always know how to, communi- cate all the evidence we are capable of communicating, in a single conversation, and much less in a single instant. But if the communicator be sufficiently master of his subject, and if the truth be alto- gether on his side, he must ultimately succeed in his undertaking. We suppose him to have suMcient urbanity to concil- iate the good will, and sufScient energy to engage the attention of the party con- cerned. In that case there is no prejudice, no blind reverence for estabUsJied systems, no false fear of the inferences to be drawn, that can resist him. He will" en- counter these one after the other, and he will encounter them with success. Oiir prejudices, our undue reverence and imagi- nary fears flow out of some views thje mind has been induced to entertain; they are founded in the belief of some propo- sitions. But every one of these proposi- tions is capable of being , refuted. The champion we describe proceeds from point to point; if in any his success have been doubtful, that he will retrace and put out of the reach of mistake; and it is evi- dently impossible that with such qualifica- tions and such perseverance be should not ultimately accomplish his purpose. Such is the appearance which this prop- osition assumes when examined in a loose and practical view. In strict considera- tion, it will not admit of debate. Man is a rational being. If there be any man who is incapable of ihaking inferences for him- self, or understanding, when stated in the most explicit terms, the inferences of an- other, . him we consider as an abortive production, and not in strictness belong- ing to the human spescies. It is absurd, therefore, to say that sound reasoning and truth cannot be communicated by one man to another. Whenever in any case he 5 fails, it is that he is not sufficiently labo- rious, patient, and clear. We suppose, of course, the person who undertakes to com- municate the truth really to possess it, and be master of his subject ; for it is scarcely 10 worth an observation to say that that which he has not himself he cannot com- municate, to another. If truth, therefore, can be brought home to the conviction of the individual, let us 15 see how it stands with the public or the world. Now in the first place, it , is ex- tremely clear that if no individual can resist the force of truth, it can only be necessary to apply this proposition from 20 individual to individual and we shall at length comprehend the whple. Thus the affirmation in its literal sense is com- pletely established. With respect to the chance of success, 26 this will depend, first, upon the precluding all extraordinary convulsions of nature, and after this upon the activity and energy of those to whose hands the sacred cause of truth piay be intrusted. It is 30 apparent that if justice be done to ; its merits, it includes in it the indestructible germ of ultimate victory, Every new con- vert that is made to its cause, if he be taught its excellence as well as its reality, 35 is a fresh apostle to extend its illumina- tions through a wider sphere. In this respect it resembles the motion of a fall- ing body, which increases |ts rapidity in proportion to the squares of the distances. 40 Add to which, that when a convert to truth has been adequately informed, it is barely possible that he should ever fail in his adherence; whereas error contains ip it the principle of its own mortality. Thus 45 the advocates of falsehood and mistake must continually diminish, and the well- informed adherents of truth incessantly multiply. It has sometimes been afiBrnied that 50 whenever a question is ably brought for- ward for examination, the decision of the human species must ultimately be on the right side. But this proposition is to be understood with allowances. Civil policy, 66 magnificent emoluments, and sinister mo- tives may upon many occasions, by dis- tracting the attention, cause the worse reason to pass as if it were the better. It is not absolutely certain that in the con- 218 NINETEENTH CENTURY EOMANTICISTS troversy brought forward by Clarke and Wilson against the doctrine of the Trinity, or by Collins and Woolston against the Christian revelation, the innovators had altogether the worst df the argument. Yet 5 fifty years after the agitation ^of these controversies, their effects could scarcely be traced, and things appeared on all sides as if the controversies had never existed. Perhaps it will be said that though the io effects of truth may be obscured for a time, they will break out in the sequel with double lustre. But this, at least, de- pends upon circumstances. No comet must come in the meantime and sweep away the 15 human species ; no Attila must have it in his power once again to lead back the flood of barbarism to deluge the civilized world ; and the disciples, or at least the books, of the original champions must remain, or 20 their discoveries and demonstrations must be nearly lost upon the world. The third of the propositions enume- rated is that truth is omnipotent. This proposition, which is convenient for its 25 ' brevity, must be understood with limita- tions. It would be absurd to affirm that truth unaccompanied by the evidence which proves it to be such, or when that evidence is partially and imperfectly so stated, has any such property. But it has sufficiently appeared froni the arguments already adduced, that truth, when ade- quately communicated, is, so far as relates to the conviction of the understanding, 35 irresistible. There may, indeed, be propo- sitions which, though trufe in themselves, inay be beyond the sphere of human knowledge, or respecting which human beings have not yet discovered sufficient 40 argunjents for their support. In that case, though true in themselves, they are not truths to us. The reasoning by which they are attempted to be established, is not sound reasoning. It may, perhaps, he 45 found that the human mind is not capable of arriving at absolute certainty upon any subject of enquiry; and it must be ad- mitted that human science is attended with all degrees' of certainty, from the highest 50 moral evidenbe to the slightest balance of probability. But human beings are capable of apprehending and weighing all these degrees; and to know the exact qua'htity of probability which I ought to ascribe to 65 any proposition, may be said to be in one sense the possessing certain knowledge. It would farther be absurd, if we' regard truth in relation to its empire over our conduct, to suppose that it is not limited in its operations by the faculties of our frame. It may be compared to a connois- seur, who, however consummate be his talents, can extract from a given instru- ment only such tones as that instrument will afford. But within these limits the deduction which forms the principal sub- stance of this chapter, proves to us that whatever is brought home to the convic- tion of the understanding, so long as it is present to the mind, possesses an undis- puted empire over the conduct. Nor will he who is suifieiently conversant with the science of intellect be hasty in assigning the bounds of our capacity*. There are some things which the structure of our bodies will render us forever unable to effect; but in many cases the lines which appear to prescribe a term to our efforts will, like the mists that arise from a lake, retire farther and farther, the more closely we endeavor to approach them. Fourthly, the vices and- moral weakness of man are not invincible. This is the preceding proposition with a very slight variation in the statement. Vice and weakness are founded upon ignorance . and error; but truth is more powerful than any champion that can be brought into the field against it; consequently, truth has the faculty of expelling weakness and vice, and placing nobler and more beneficent principles in their stead. [ Lastly, man is perfectible. This propo- sition needs some explanation. By perfectible it is not meant that he is capable of being brought to perfection. But the word seems sufficiently adapted to express the faculty of being continually made better and receiving perpetual im- provement; and in this sense it is here to be understood. The term perfectible, thus explained, not only does not imply the capacity of being brought' to perfec- tion, but stands in express opposition to it. If we could arrive at perfection, there would be an end of our improvement. There is, however, one thing of great im- portance that it does Imply; every per- fection or excellence that human beings are competent to conceive, human beings, unless in eases that are palpably and unequivocally excluded by the structure of their frame, are competent to attain. This is an inference which immediately follows from the omnipotence of truth. Every truth that is capable of being com- municated is capable of being brought WILLIAM GODWIN 219 home to the conviction of the mind. Every principle which can he brought home to the conviction of the mind will infallibly produce a correspondent effect upon the conduct. If there were not something in the nature of man incompatible with abso- lute perfection, the doctrine of the omnipo- tence of truth would afford no small prob- ability that he would one day reach it. Why is the perfection of man impossible ? The idea of absolute perfection is scarcely within the grasp of human under- standing. If science were more familiar- ized to speculations of this sort, we should perhaps discover that the notion itself was pregnant with absurdity and contradiction. It is not necessary in this argument to dwell upon the limited nature of human faculties. We can neither be present to alii places nor to all times. We cannot penetrate into the essences of things; or rather, we have no sound and satisfactory knowledge of things external to ourselves, but merely of' our own sensations. We cannot discover the causes of things, or ascertain that in the antecedent which (jonnects it with the consequent, and dis- cern nothing but their contiguity. With what pretence can a being thus shut in on all sides lay claim to absolute perfec- tion ■? But not to insist upon these considera- tions, there is one principle in the human mind which must forever exclude us from arriving at a close of our acquisitions, and eonifine us to perpetual progress. The human mind, so far as we are acquainted with it, is nothing else but a faculty of perception. All our knowledge, all our ideas, every thing we possess as intelli- gent beings, comes from impression. All the minds that exist set out from absolute ignorance. They received first one im- pression, and th^n a second. As the impressions became more numerous, and were stored by the help of memory, and combined by the faculty^ of association ; so the experience increased, and with the experience, the knowledge, the wisdom, every thing that distinguishes man from what we understand by a "clod of the valley."^ This seems to be a simple and incontrovertible history of intellectual beings; and if it be true, then as our accumulations have been incessant in the time that is gone; so, as long as we con- tinue to perceive, to remember or reflect, they must perpetually increase. 1 See Jot. 21 :33. Prom Book V. Of Legislative and Execu- tive Power chapter, iv. op a virtuous despotism 5 There is a principle frequently main- tained upon this subject, vrhich is well entitled, to our impartial consideration. It is granted by those who espouse it, "that absolute monarchy, from the im- 10 perfection of those by whom it is admiil- istered, is most frequently attended with evil;" hilt they assert, "'tha;t it is the best and most desirable of all forms under a good and virtuous prince. It is ex- 15 posed," say they, "to the fate of all excellent natures, and from the best thing frequently, if corrupted, becomes tlie worst. ' ' This remark is certainly not very decisive of the general question, so long 20 as any weight shall be attributed to the arguments which have been adduced to evince, what sort of character and dis- position may be. ordinarily expected in princes. It may, however, jje allowed, if 25 true, to create in the mind a sort of par- tial retrospect to this happy and perfect despotism; and if it can be shown to be false, it will render the argument for the abolition of monarchy, so far as it is 30 concerned, more entire and complete. Now, whatever dispositions any man inay possess in favor of the welfare of others, two things are necessary to give them validity : discernment and power. I 35 can prqmote the welfare of a few persons, becatfse I can be sufficiently informed of their circumstances. I can promote the welfare of many in certain general arti- cles, because for this purpose it is only 40 necessary that I should be informed of the nature of the human mind as such, not of the personal situation of the indi- viduals concerned. But for one inan to undertake to administer the affairs of 45 millions, to supply, not general principles and perspicuous reasoning, but particular application, and measures adapted to the necessities of the moment, is of all upder- teikings the most extravagant and absurd. BO The most simple and obvious of all proceedings is, for each man to be the sovereign arbiter of his own concerns. If the imperfection, the narrow views, and the mistakes of human beings render this 65 in certain cases inexpedient and imprac- ticable, the next resource is to call in the opinion of his peers, persons who from their vicinity may be presumed to, have some general knowledge of the case,' and 220 NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTICISTS who have leisure and means minutely to investigate the merits of the question. It cannot reasonably be doubted that the same expedient which men employed in their civil and criminal concerns, ^yould by uninstructed mortals be adopted in the assessment of taxes, in the deliberations of commerce, and in every other article in which their common interests were in- volved, only generalizing the deliberative assembly or panel in proportion to the generality of the question to be decided. Monarchy, instead of referring every question to the. persons concerned or their neighbors, refers it to a single individual placed at the greatest distance possible from the ordinary members of the society. Instead of distributing the causes to be judged into as many parcels as they would conveniently admit for the sake of pro- viding leisure and opportunities of exami- nation, it draws them to a single centre, and renders enquiry and examination im- possible, A despot, however virtuously disposed, is obliged to act in the dark, to derive his. knowledge from other men's information, and to execute his behests by other men 's instrumentality. Monarchy seems to be a species of government pro- scribed by the nature of man; and those persons who furnished their despot with integrity and virtue forgot to add om- niscience and omnipotence, qualities not less necessary to fit him for the office they have provided. Let us suppose this honest and incor- ruptible despot to be served by ministers, avaricious, hypocritical, and interested. What will the people gain by the good intentions of their monarch? He will mean them the greatest benefits, but he will be, altogether unacquainted with their situation, their character, and their wants. The information he receives will frequently be found the very reverse of the truth. He will be taught that one individual is highly meritorious and a proper subject of re- ward, whose only merit is the profligate cruelty with which he has served the pur- poses of his administration. He will be taught that another is the pest of t^e community, who is indebted for this report to the steady virtue with which he has traversed and defeated the wickedness of government. He will mean the greatest benefits to his people; but when he pre- scribes something calculated for their ad- vantage, his servants under pretense of cpmplying shall in reality perpetrate dia- metrically the reverse. Nothing will be more dangerous than to endeavor to re- move the obscurity with which his minis- ters surround him. The man who attempts E so hardy a task will become the incessant object of their hatred. However unalterr able may be the justice of the sovereign, the time will come when his observation will be laid asleep, while malice and re- 10 venge are ever vigilant. Could he unfold the secrets of his prison houses of state.' he would find men committed in his name whose crimes he never knew, whose names he never heard of, perhaps men whom he 15 honored and esteemed. Such is the history of the benevolent and philanthropic des- pots whom memory has recorded; and the conclusion from the whole is, that wherever despotism exists, there it will always be 20 attended with the evils of despotism,— capri- cious measures and arbitrary infliction. "But will not a wise king take care to provide himself with good and virtuous servants'?" Undoubtedly he will effect a 25 part of this, but he cannot supersede the essential natures of things. He that exe- cutes any offree as a deputy will never discharge it in the same perfection as if he were the principal. Either the minister 30 must be the author of the plans which he carries into effect, and then it is of little consequence, except so far as relates to his integrity in the choice of his servants, what sort of mortal the sovereign shall be 35 found ; or he must play a subordinate part, and then it is impossible to transfuse into his mind the perspicacity and energy of his master. Wherever despotism exists, it cannot remain in a single hand, but must 40 be transmitted whole and entire through all the progressive links of authority. To render depotism auspicious and benign it is necessary, not only that the sovereign should possess every human excellence, but 45 that all his officers should be men, of pene- trating , genius and unspotted virtue. If they fall short of this, they will, like the ministers of Elizabeth, be sometimes spe- cious profligates,^ and sometimes men who, 50 however admirably adapted, for the tech- nical emergencies of business, consult on many occasions exclusively their private advantage, worship the rising sun, enter into vindictive cabals, and cuff down new- BB fledged merit.^ Wherever the continuity is > Bamlet, I, 5, 14. ' "Dudley, DarJ of Leicester." — Godwin. * "Cecil, Earl ot Salisbury, Lord Treasurer ; lioW- ard, Earl of Nottlngljam, Lord Admiral." — God- WILLIAM GODWIN 221 broken, the flood of vice will bear down all ' before it. One weak or disingenuous man will be the source of unbounded mischief. It is the nature of monarchy under all its forms to confide greatly in the discretion 5 of individuals. It provides no resource for maintaining and diffusing tke spirit of justice. Everything rests upon the per- manence and extent of personar virtue. Another position, not less generally M asserted than that of the desirableness of a virtuous despotism, is, ' ' that republican- ism is a species of government, practicable only in a small state, while monarchy is best fitted to embrace the concerns of a 15 vast and flourishing empire. ' ' Thfe reverse of this, so far at least as relates to mon- archy, appears at first sight to be the trnth. The competence of any government cannot be measured by a purer standard 20 than the extent and accuracy of its infor- mation. In this respect monarchy appears in all eases to be wretchedly deficient ; but if it can ever be admitted, it must surely be in those narrow and limited instances 25 where an individual can, with least absurd- ity, be supposed to be acquainted with the affairs and interests of the whole. CHAPTER XI. MORAL EFFECTS OF AKISTOCRACT 30 There is one thing, more than all the rest, of importance to the well-being of mankind,— justice. Can there be any thing problematical or paradoxical in this funda- 35 mental principle, — that all injustice is in- jury ; and a thousand times more injurious by its effects in perverting the under- standing and overturning our calculations of the future, than by the immediate 40' calamity it may produce? All moral science may be reduced to this one head, — calculation of the future. We cannot reasonably expect virtue from the multitude of mankind if they be induced 45 by the perverseness of the eondiictorS of. human affairs to believe that it is not their interest "to be virtu9us. But this is not the point upon which the question turns. Virtue is nothing else but the pursuit of 50 general good. Justice is the standard which discriminates the advantage of the mainy and of the few, qf the whole and a part. If this first and most important of all subjects be involved in obscurity, how 55 shall the well-being of mankind be sub- stantially promoted ? The most benevolent of our species will be engaged in crusades of error; while the cooler and more phleg- matic spectators, discerning no evident clue that should guide them amidst the ld,byrinth, sit down in selfish neutrality, and leave the complicated scene to produce its own denouement. It is true that human affairs can never be reduced to that state of depraVation'as to reverse the nature of justice.' Virtue will always be the interest of the indi- vidual as well as of the pubKe. Imme- diate virtue will always be beneficial to ' the present age, as well as to their pos- terity. But though the depravation cannot rise to this excess, it will be abundantly sufficient to obscure the understanding and mislead the ' conduct. Human beings will never be so virtuous as they might easily be made, till justice be the spectacle per- petually presented to their view, and injustice be wondered, at as a prodigy. Of all the principles of justice there is none so material to the moral rectitude of mankind as this : that no man can be distinguished but by his personal merit. Why not endeavor to reduce to practice so sinaple and sublime a lesson? When a man has proved himself a benefactor to the public, when he has already by laud- able perseverance cultivated in himself "talents which need Only encouragement and public favor to bring theii to ma- turity, let that man be honored. In a state of society wheie fictitious distinctions are unknown, it is impossible he should not bts honored. But that a man should be looked up to with servility and awe because the king has bestowed on him a spurious name, ' or decorated him with a ribband; that another should wallow in luxury because his ancestor three centuries ago bled in ! the' quarrel of Lancaster or Yoi:k;— do we imagine that these iniquities can be prac- ' tieed without injury? ' Let those 'who entertain this opinion converse a little witli the lower orders of mankind. They will perceive that the un- fortunate wretch^ who with unremitted labbr finds himself incapable a^dequately to feed and clothe his family, has a sense of injustice rankling at his heart. One whom distress has spited with the world, Is he.whon) tempting fiends would pitch upon To do such deeds as make the prosperous men Lift up their, hands and wonder who could do them.i Such is the education of the human spe- cies. Such is the fabric of political society. 1 John Home, Douglas, III, 109-13. 222 NINETEENTH CENTURY EOMANTICISTS But let us suppose that their sense of injustice were less acute than it is here described. What favorable inference can be drawn from that? Is not the injustice real ? If the minds of men be so withered and stupified by the constancy with which it is practiced, that they do not feel the rigor that grinds them into nothing, how does that improve the picture? Let us for a moment give the reins to reflection, and endeavor accurately to con- ceive the state of mankind where justice should form the public and general prin- ciple. In that ease our moral feelings would assume a firm and wholesome tone, for they would not be perpetually counter- acted by examples that weakened their energy and confounded their clearness. Men would be fearless because they would know that there were no legal snares lying in wait for their lives. They would be courageous because no man would be pressed to the earth that another might enjoy immoderate luxury, because every one would be secure of the just reward of his industry and prize of his exertions. Jealousy and hatred would cease, for they are the offspring of injustice. Every man would speak truth with his neighbor, for there would be no temptation to falsehood and deceit. Mind would find its level, for there would be everything to encour- age and to animate. Science would be unspeakably improved, for understanding would convert into a real power, no longer an ignis fatuus, shining and expiring by turns, and leading us into sloughs of soph- istry, false science, and specious mistake. All men would be disposed to avow their dispositions and actions; none would en- deavor to suppress the just eulogium of his neighbor, for so long as there were tong:ues to record, the suppression would be impossible; none fear to detect the misconduct of his neighbor, for there would be no laws converting the sincere expression of otir convictions into a libel. Let us fairly consider for a moment what is the amount of injustice included in the institution of aristocracy. I am born, suppose, a Polish prince, with an income of £300,000 per annum. You are bom a manorial serf or a Creolian negro, attached to the soil and transferable by barter or otherwise to twenty successive lords. In vain shall be your most generous efforts and your unwearied industry to free yourself from the intolerable yoke. Doomed by the law of your birth, to wait B at the gates of the palace you must never enter, to sleep under a ruined weather- beaten roof while your master sleeps under canopies of state, to feed on putrified offals while the world is ransacked for 10 delicacies for his table, to labor without moderation or limit under a parching sun while he basks in perpetual sloth, and to be rewarded at last with contempt, repri- mand, stripes, and mutilation. In fact the 15 case is worse than this. I could endure all that injustice or caprice could inflict, provided I possessed in the resource of a firm mind the power of looking down with pity on my tyrant, and of knowing that I 20 had that within, that sacred character of truth, virtue, and fortitude, which all his injustice could not reach. But a slave and a serf are condemned to stupidity and vice as well as to calamity. 25 Is all things nothing? Is all this neces- sary for the maintainance of civil order? Let it be recollected that, for this distinc- tion, there is not the smallest foundation, in the nature of things; that, as we have 30 already said, there is no particular mould for the construction of lords; and that they are born neither better nor worse than the poorest of their dependents. It is this structure of aristocracy in all its 35 sanctuaries and fragments against which reason and philosophy have declared war. It is alike unjust, whether we consider it in the castes ,of India, the villainage of feudal system, or the despotism of the 40 patricians of ancient Rome dragging their debtors into personal servitude to expiate loans they could not repay. Mankind will never be in an eminent degree virtuous and happy till each man shall possess that 45 portion of distinction, -and no more, to which he is entitled by his personal merits. The dissolution of aristocracy is equally the interest of the oppressor and, the op- pressed. The one will be delivered from 50 the listlessness of tyranny, and the other from the brutalizing operation of servi- tude. How long shall we be told in vain, "that mediocrity of fortune is the true rampart of personal happiness?" 65 wilI)];am wordswoeth 223 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) EXTEACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OP A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL 1786 1815 Dear native l-egions, I foretell, From' what I leel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend. And whensoe 'er my course shall end, 5 If in that hour a single tie ■ Survive of local sympathy. My soul will east the backward view, The longing' look alone on you. Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest 1" Far in the regions of the west. Though, to the vale no parting beam Be given, not one memorial gleam, A lingering ligbt he fondly throws 1 On the dear hills where first he rose. WEITTEN IN VEET E^ELY YOUTH 1786 1802 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass. Is cropping audibly ' his later meal: 5 Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O'er vale, and mountain, and the star- less sky. Now, in this blank of things, a hannony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal That grief for which the senses still supply 10 Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends ! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain ; Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel The ofBeious touch that makes me droop again. From AN EVENING WALK ' - 1787-89 1793 Dear Brook, farewell! Tomorrow's noon again Shall hide me, wooing long thy wild- ly wood strain; put now the sun has gained his western 1 road. And eve's mild hour invites my steps ■ abroad. 8", , While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In, many a whistling circle wheels her flight; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel alpng the precipice's base; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, 95 By lichens gray, and scanty moss, o'er- grown; . Where scarce the foxglove peeps, • or thistle's beard; And restless stpne-chat,^ all day long, is lieard. ? How pleasant, as the sun declines, lu view The spacious landscape change in form and hue ! 100 Here, vanish, as in mist, before a floori Of bright pbscurity, hill, lawn, and.'^vood ; There, objects, by the searching be.^ms betrayed. Come forth, and here retire, in , purple shade; jEyen the white stems of birch, the, cot- tage white, i ,, ■ . ' . '' 105 Soften their glare before the mellow light; The skiffs, at anchor where with um- brage wide ' ■ Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat- house hide. Shed from their sides, that face the sun 's slant beam. Strong flakes, of. radiance on the trem- ulous stream : ' 110 Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty eloti'd : Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, Now shows a shadowy speck, and noV, is lost entire. LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A, YEW-TREE ,, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHW^ITE, ON A DESOLATE PAET OF THE SHORE COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT 1795 1798 Nay, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling : what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? ' , ^ A common ^European singing bird. 224 NINETEENTH CBNTUEY ROMANTICISTS What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 6 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 10 First covered, and here taught this aged tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.^— He was one who owned ■ No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by Nature into a wild scene IS Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favored Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,— against all enemies prepared, 20 All but neglect. The world, for so it . thought, Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, Ajid with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.— Stranger! these gloomy boughs 25 Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit. His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat,^ or the glancing sand- piper And on these barren rocks,, with fern and heath. And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 3" Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life : And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distaat scene, — how lovely 'tis 3° Thou seest,— and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, 1 "He was a gentleman of the neighborhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at one of our universities, and re- turned to pass his time In seclusion on bis own estate. '^Wordsworth. 'A common European singing bird. When Nature had subdued him to her- self, Would he forget those Beings to whose minds, 40 Warm from the labors of benevolence, The world and human life appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt Wbat he must never feel: and so, lost Man! *5 On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. , In this deep vale He died, — this seat his only monument. If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, 5" Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. Is littleness; that he who feels contenlpt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that, thought with him 55 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth- look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wis- dom holds Unlawful, ever. be wiser, thou! 60 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart. THE EEVEEIE OP POOR SUSAN 1797 1800 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears. Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years : Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and ^ has heard ™n the silence of morning the song of the bird. 5 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; Bright volumes of vapor through Loth- buyy glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. WIULIAM WORDSWORTH 225 Gfieen pastures' she views in the midst of the dale,' 1* Down which she so often ' has tripped with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, ' The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: 15 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, ■ > And the colors have all passed away from her eyes! WE ARE SEVEN 1798 1798 —A simple child, That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death? 5 I met a little cottage girl: She wasiieight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic,, woodland air, i** And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. '^ "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" 15 "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we;' And two of us at Gonway dwell, 2" And two are gone to sea. ' ' Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; i Andj in the churchyard cottage, I ■ Dwell near them with my mother.*' ' 25 "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell. Sweet maid, how this may 'be. ' ' Then did the little maid reply, i 30 "Seven boys and gi Sad case it was, as you may think. For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink. joy for hei' ! whehe 'er in winter 50 The winds at night had made a rout; And scattered many a, lusty splinter And many arotten b6Ug;h about. Yet never bad she, well or siet. As eireiy man *ho knew her says, 55 A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Eilough to warm bar for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring. And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring 60 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now andj:hen/it must be said. When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed. To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 65 Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected — That he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire. he'd go, ''0 And to the fields his road would take ; And there, at night, in frost and snow. He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once,, behind, a, rick of barley. Thus looking out did Harry stand: ^5 The moon was full and shining clearly. And crisp with frost the stubble land. — He hears a noise— be 's all awake- Again ?— on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps— 'tis Goodv Blake ; 80 She's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! Eight glad, was heiwhen be beheld her; Stick aitex stidi did. Goody pull : > cheerful WILLIAM WORBSWOBTH 229 • He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron f uU. j .' 85 When with her load she turned about, The by-way fbaefc again to take ; ■ j He started £orward,,with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, 9' And, by the arm he held her fast. And fiercely by the arrnhe .shook her, ; And cried, " I 'ye eaiaght,you then at last ! ' ' Then !Grpo,dy, wlu) had nothing said, ' , Her bundle from her lap let fall ; ! ■ ;^ 85 And, kneelinjg on the sticks, she prayed To Qod-that is the judge of all. .,/•! She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held, her by the; arm— " God !_ w;ho art never. oi;it of hearing, ; loo may he never more'hes warm!" The eol^, eold moon above her head. Thus on her knees did Goody pray { Ypjung Harry heard what she had saicj : And icy cold he turned away. . ■ , - .. ; ' los He went complaining all the, mprriOWi That he was cold and very chill : His face was gloom,, his .^eait was sorrow, Alas ! that day for Harry .Gill ! That day he wore a riding-coat, ^1" But not a whit the warmer he : Another w^s pn;Thursday brought. And ere the Sabbath he had three. . 'Twas all in, vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinned ; 115 Yet stillhis jaws and teeth -they clatter, Like a .Ippsp' easement in the wind. And Harry's fl^h it fella^vay; And all who see him say, 'tis plain. That, live as long as liyehe.piay, 120 He never will be warm again., , ~ No word to any man be lutters, A-bed or up, to young or old ; But ever to himself he, mutters, " ' ' Poor ,Harry ;Gill is very cold, ' ' 125 A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. ; , No-w think,, ye farmers all, I pray. Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! HEE EYES ABE WILD lyos ' 1798 Her eyes are wild, h?rihe0d;is bare, , ■■ The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; Her, eyebrow^ h^Sfe a rusty stjaip, „.'l And she came far from over the;mai|i.' 5 She had a-^baby on heir arm,, .■ ( ■ Or else she were alone : i : And underneath the hay-stack warm. And on. the greenwobd stone, She talked and sung the woods among, 1" Aid it was in the English tongue. • ' ' Sweet ;babe !. tJjjBy say that I am mad, Bu|,nay, rny lie.art is far too glad; AnS.I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing 15 Then, lovely baby, do not fear! I .pray thee have no fear of me ; But safe as in a cradle, k^re, My lovely baby ! thou Shalt be,: To thee I know tod much I owe ; 20 I cannpt work tljee any, woe'., ' ' A fire was, once vithin ,my brain ; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three. Hung at my breast, and pulled at uie^ 25 But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good ; I waked, and, saw my littl^ boy. My little, boy of , flesh and.lbjloodj; Oh joy forme that sight ip see! 30; For h? .was here, and only he. "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! ■ ^ It cools my blood ; it ,c661§ my brain ; Thy lips I feel th,em, baby ! ,they Draw from my H^apt the pain away. 35 Oh! press' me with thy little hand ; It Ipflseiis something at my chest ; About that .tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The bjreeze I see is, in thp ti;ee : *0 It comes tp copl my babe and rne. : " Oh ! love nie, love me, little boy ! Thou, art thy pptl^er 's only joy ; ,And do not dread, the waves below, , When o'er the sea-rock's edge, v?e.g,b; , 45 The high crag cannot work me harm, " Nor leaping torrenjts-when they howl ; The babe I carry on toy arm, .. He saves for me rpy precious soul; Then happy lie ; forblest am I; 50 Without me my sweet babe would die. "Then'do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion will I b,e; ' , , And I will alvays bq tjiy guide, -: Through bollow snows and rivers jsddje.. 55 I'll build an Indian bpwer; I know The leaves that make the softest be4,:. And if from me thou wilt, not go> .. , ; But still be true till I am dead, , -My pretty thing! ,then thoUishaltpsing 00 Asmerry as the birds in spring. 230 NINETEENTH CENTUBY B0MANTICI8T8 ' ' Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest j 'Tis all thine own 1— and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, *5 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! My beauty, little t;hild, is flown, But thou wilt live with me in love ; And what if my poor cheek be brown ? 'Tis well for me thou canst not see -'O How pale and wan it else would be. "Dread not their taunts, my little life; I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. ''^ If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stayed : From him no harm my babe can take ; But he, poor man ! is wretched made ; And every day we two will pray 80 j"or him that 's gone and far away. "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe ! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 85 — Where art thou gone, my own dear child f What -wicked looks are those I see ? Alas ! Alas ! that look so wild, It never, never came from me : If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 90 Then I must be forever sad. " Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb ! Tor I thy own dear mother am : My love for thee has well been tried : I 've sought thy father far and wide. '••5 I know the poisons of the shade ; I know the earth-nuts fit for food : Then, pretty dear, be not afraid : We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! ^00 And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." SIMON LEE THE OLD huntsman; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED 179S 1798 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from plea.sant Ivor-hall, An old man dwells, a little man, — 'Tis said he once was tall. 5 Full five and thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. No man like him the horn could sound, 10 And hill and valley rang with glee When Echo bandied, round and round, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; 15 To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind ; And often, ere the chase was done, 2' He reeled, and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices! 25 But, oh the heavy change!— bereff Of health, strength, friends, and kin- dred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His master's dead, — and no one now 30 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses^ all are dead; •*■ He is the sole survivor. And he is lean, and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, 35 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, ^^ His wife, an aged woman. Lives with him, near the waterfa,ll, *" Upon the village common. Beside their moss-grown but of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, ' A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. 45 This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer? Oft, working by her husband's side, 50 Ruth does what SimWn cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labor could not wean them. 55 'Tis little, very little-all That they can do between. them. Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more *" Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle reader, I peire^ve WILLIAM "WOEDSWOETH 231 ■ How patiently you 've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related. 65 readei:! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, gentle reader! you would find A I tale in every thing. Wha,t more I nave to say is short, 70 ^nd you must kindly take it; It is no tale ; biitj should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll miake it. One summer-day I chanced to see This old man doing all he could c 75 To unearth the root, of an • old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavor, That at the root of the old tree ' 80 He might . have worked forever. "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffered aid. ■ 85 1 struck, and with a single blow The taiiglfed root I severed, At *hicji, the poor old man so long, And vainly had endeavored. The tears into. his eyes were brgught. '* And thanks an^, praises gemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would (have dorie. —I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With eol(fcess still rfeturning; 85 Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. XINES WEITTEN IN EAELT SPRING 1798 i798 ' 1 hear(i,ja thousand blended notes,, "While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bripgjss^d. thoughts to t^ie mind., -• 5 To her fair works did Nature link The human souL that through nle ran ; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. ' Through ' primrose tufts, in that green bower, 10 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 15 But the least motion -which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I caii, 20 That there was pleasure there; If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan. Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? TO MY SISTERi 1798 1798' It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before, The redbreast sings ,from the tall Jarch That stands beside our door. [ 5 There is a blessing in- the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare. And gras.s in the green field: ,, My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) 10 Now that our morning meal is done, Make ha^te, your morning task resign; Come ^orth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you;— and, pray, ^ Put on with speed your, woodland dress; 15 And bring no book: .for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from today, my friend, will date 20 The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth,!'' From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: — It is the hour of feeling. 25 One moment now may give us more Than years of toili&g i^ason : Our minds shall drink at every pore , The,, spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, ^0 Which they shall long obey: '- We for the year to come may take Our temper from today. , . •Dorothy Wordsworth. 232 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, 35 ^^Q >\i frame the measure of our souls : They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my sister! come, I pray. With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day 40 "VVe'll give to idleness. A WHIRL-BLAST FEOM BEHIND THE HILL 1798 1800 A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound ; Then— all at once the air was still. And showers of hailstones pattered round. 5 Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor If With withered leaves is covered o'er. And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones dtop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze— no breath of air— 15 Yet here, and there, arid everjrwhere Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made. The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare 20 Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee> Were dancing to the minstrelsy. EXPOSTULATION AND EEPLT 1798 1T98 "Why, William, on that old gray stotte. Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone. And dream your time away? 5 "Where are your books?— that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From de^d nlfen to their kind. V "You look round on your Mother Earth, ' " As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her fir^t-bom birth. And none had lived before you!" One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why. 15 To me my good friend Matthew^ spake, And thus I made reply : "The eye— it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, ^0 Against or with our will. "Nor less I deeni that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. 25 ' ' Think you, 'mid all .this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come. But we must still be seeking? " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 3* Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone. And dream my time away. ' ' THE TABLES TURNED AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT 1798 1798 Up! up! my friend, and quit your bcjoks^; Or surely you'll grow double: '. y Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble? 5 The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, ' His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 1" Come, hear the woodland linnet. How sweet his music! on my life, There 's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preachep : 15 Come forth into the light of things. Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth. Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 20 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man. Of moral evil and of good. Than all the sages can. ' "A friend who was somewhat unreasonable at- tached to modern books of moral philosophy " — Wordsworth. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 233 25 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling -intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms ' of things:— "We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of, Art; 30 Close !«Pj those barren leaves ; , Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and, receives. / , LINES COMPOSED A TEW JULES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OP THE WYE IHJKING A TOUR, JULY 13, 1798 . 1708 n'98 yjive years have past,; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters,, rolling from their moun- taiii-springs With a. soft, inland murmur.— Once a,^ain f ijo I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Tli^t on a wild secluded scene impress Tiioflghts of more deep seclusion,; and connect , ,; ■ The Jandseape -s^ith, the quiet 6£ the sky. I The day is .come. 'when I again repose ^^ Here, under this clark, sycamore, and view These plots qf , eottage^ground, thpse orohard^ufts, ^ Which at tiis season, with their unripe ,, fruits, -■ ■ ,.; 1,1, -,,,;, } Are ; clad in . one green i fcue, and lose themselves , ']\Iid groves and copses. Once again I pee 15 These tedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little , lines , Of sportive wfiod run wild : these pas- toral farms, ' , , Green ip the very doqr; and wreaths,- of smoke , Sept up, in silence, from among the trees! Withsome uncertain notice, as might s^em 2", Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. Or of some hermit 's cave, where by his fire The hermit, sits alpije. , , These beauteous forms, Thifdugh a lon'g al)sence, have not been to me 25 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in loneiy rooms, arid 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, 3" With tranquil re^oration:— feelings too Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight ^or trivial influence On that hest'portion of a good man'siKfe, His little, nameless, unremembered acts 35 Of kindness and of love. Nor le?s, I trust, To them I may have owed another, gift, Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery,' In which the heavy and the weary weight *•* Of all this unintelligible world. Is lightened:— that serene and blessed mood, , . , In which the affections gently lead us on,— Until, the breath of this corporeal fraime And even the motion of oui" human blood ■•S' Almost suspended, we are laid' asleep In body, and become a living' sou!: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life -of things. i 'I' ' ' -,. ... If this ■ 50 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft— In darkness and aonid the many sha|pes Of joyless daylight; when the :fretful stir '■ ■•■'•! ■''- Unprofitable, and the fever of the-world. Have i hung upon the beatings of my . heart- hs How'oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thxo ' the woods, ; , . . How often has my spirit turned to thee ! ■'■■• '..■.. ' ' ■: t ■-■■ ,iiM: :,ui. And now, with gleams of .half -extin- guished thought, - '" ■<■' ! ■ With many 'recognitions dim and 'faint, 80 And somewhat of a: sad. perplexity, ' " The picture of the naind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but' witH pleasing ■ '' 'thoughts ' ' -•' '■!'.' That in this moment there is life- and food 65, For future years. And so I dare to hope, :' Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mouritainsj by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 70 Wherever nature led: more like a man ' Flying from something that he dreads than one > i !;-• Who sought the thing he loved. ..For nature then"; - •. i^ '- ' (The coarser pleasures. of my boyish days, And their glad animal miovements all ■' gone by) .; .'i . ' ■^5 To me was all in all. — I <5annot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like- a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and. glo'Omy wood. «234 NrNETEENTH CENTURY E0MANTICIST8 Their colors and their forms, were then Knowing that Nature never did betray to me The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, "> An appetite ; a feeling and a love, Through all the years of this our life, That had no need of a rerttoter charm, to lead By thought supplied, nor any interest ^25 From joy to joy: for she can so iii:^orm Unborrowed from the eye.— That time is The mind that is within us, so impress past. With quietness and beauty, and so ffeed And all its aching joys, are now no more. With lofty thoughts, that ■ neither '■ 6vil S^And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this tongues. Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish gifts . men. Have followed ; for such loss, I would ^^o Nw. greetings where no kindness is, nor all believe, The dreary intercourse of daily life. Abundant recompense. For I have learned Shall e 'er prevail against 'usj or disturb To look on nature, not as in the hour Our cheerful faith," that all which we ** Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing often- behold times •'■ ' Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon The still, sad music of humanity, ■ / ^■'^ Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample And let the misty mountain-winds be' free power To blow against thee : and, in aft^r yekrs. To chasten and subdue. And I have felt When these wild ecstasies shall be matij;:ed A presence that disturbs me with the. joy Into a spbef pleasure; w'hpn thy mind 1 95 Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime !*•' Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 1 . Of something far more deeply interfused, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place Whose dwelling is the light of setting Suns, Fot all sweet sounds and harnionies ; And the round ocean and the living air, oh ! then^ And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : If solitude, or feai^, or pain, or grief, ^'0 A motion and a spirit, that impels,' Should be thy portion, with what heal- All thinking things, all. objects of all ing thoughts thought, . - ; 1*5 Of tender joy wilt thou relhember me. And rolls through all things. Therefore And thes,e my exhortations! Nor,,per- am I still chance— '• A lover of the meadows and the woods, If I should be where I no more can hear And mountains ; and of all that we behold Thy voice, nor catch froni thy wild e^es 1,05 From this green earth ; of all the mighty these gleams world Of past existence— wilt thou then forget Of eye, and ear,— both what they: half ^50 That on the banks of this delightful stream create. We stood tpgether; and that I, so long And what perceive; well pleased to rec- A wOrshipperof Nature, hither came ognize Unwearied in that, service : rather say In nature and the language of the sense With warmer love— oh! with faf' deeper The anchor of my purest thoughts, the zeal nurse, ^55 of ' holier love. Nor wilt thoii then forget '■"> The guide, thei guardian of my heart, That after many wanderings, rria'ny years and soul . Of absence, these steep woods and lofty Of all my moral being. •: ' cliffs, : '' " Nor perchance. And this green pastoral landscape, were If I were not thus taught, should I the niore to me ' ,, Suffer my genial spirits' to decay: More dear, both for themselves and for For.thou art with me here upon the, banks thy sake! ^15 Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend, Mv dear, dear friend; and in thy voice THE OLD CUMBEELAI>fI) BEGGAR I catch :..:, "'' l^O" The language of my former heart, and read T saw an aged begga,r in my walk; ..^ My former pleasures in the shooting lights And he was seated, by the highway side, Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while On a low structure «f rude masonry i20 ]Vfay i behold in thee, what I was once, Built at the, foot of a huge hill, that they. My dear, dear sister! and this prayer ^ Who lead- their horses down the steep I make, rough, road .y WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 235 May thence remount at ease. The aged man. Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone JThat overlays the pile; and, froih a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 1* He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; And scanned them with a fixed and seri- ous look Of idle computation. In the sun, ' Upon the second step of that small pile, Surroimded by those wild mipeopled hills, 15 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : And ever scattered from his palsied hand. That; still attempting to. prevent the waste. Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground ; and the small moun- tain birds, 20 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, > Approached within the length of half his staff. Him from, my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; ■ He travel's on, a solitary man, ; 25 So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand his alms npon the ground. But stops,— that be may safely lodge the coin ' Within the old man 's hat ; nor quits him so, 30 But still, when he has feiven his horse the rein, ' '" Watches the aged beggar with a look ' Sidelong, and half -reverted. She who . tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees i'^^ The aged beggar coming, quits her work. And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake . ;. ;; . The aged beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned *' The old man does not change his course, the boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, ' And passes gently by, without a curse I Upon his liips or anger at his heart. He travels on, a solitary man; *5 His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turnedj and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and,; ever- more, ' ' i' ; Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 50 And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-beht; his eyes forever on the ground. He plies his weary journey; seeing still, '■- And seldom knowing that he se^S,- some straw, ■ 55 Some scattered leaf/ or marks which, in one track. The nails of cart or chairiot-wheel have left Impressed on the white ' road, — in the same line. At distance still the same. Poor traveller ! His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet ^0 Disturb the summer dust; he is so still In look and motion, that the cottage curs, - Ere he has passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, ' maids and youths, ^5 And urchins newly breeched — all pass him by: Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves behind. ! ' But deem ■ riot this man useless. — Statesmen! ye ^ Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands ■"> To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye con- template Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth ! 'Tis Nature 's law That none, the meanest of created things, ''S Of forms created' the most vile and brute, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of good, A life iand soul, to ievery niode of being Inseparably linked. Then be assured *' That least of all can aught— that ever owned The heaven-regarding eye and front sub- lime Which man is born to— sink, howe'er depressed. So low as to be scorned without a sin ; Without offence to God cast out of view; 236 NINETEENTH- jGENTCRY BOMANTICISTS *5 Like the dry remnant of a gardeti flower ^30 jjig present Messings, and' to husband up Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement The respite of the season, 'he, at least, _Worn out and worthless. While from And 'tis no vulgar service,' makes theliii felt, door to door, , This oldman creeps, the villagers in him Yet further.^ Many, I believe, there are Behold a record which together binds Who live ailife of virtuous decency, ?". East deeds a^d offices of charity, ^^^ Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel Else unrememberedji.and so keeps alive ; No self-reproach;, who of the moral law The, kindly mood in hearts which lapse Established in the land where they abide of years. Are strict obsiervers ; and not negligent And that half- wisdom half-experience In acts of love to those with whom they gives, , ' dwell, . . Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 1^" Their kindred, and the children of their 8^. To selfishness and cold .oblivious cares. blood. ■ .'■•;■ Among the farms and solitary huts. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, iu peace!' Where'er the aged beggar takes, his rbunds, —But of the poor man ask, the abject The mild necessity of use compels ' > poor; , 19" To acts of love ; and habit; does the work Go, and demand of him, if there be here Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy In. this cold abstinence from evil deeds, Which reason cherishes. ! And thus the soul, i''^ And these inevitable charities, , i . By that sweet taste of pleasure unpilrsued,; ■ Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? Doth find herself insensibly disposed No — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 105 Xo virtue and true goodness. ' Long for sotne moments in a weary life ,:.,;.,' Some there are. When they can know and^ffeel that they By their, 'good works exalted, lofty minds, have been. And meditative, authors of delight i^"' Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out And happiness, which to the end) of time Of some small blessings; have been kind Will live, and spread, and kindle: even • to such ■ < • 1 such minds , ^,i As needed kindness; for this single cause, 110' ij, childhood, from this solitary being, That we have all of us one human heart. Or from like wanderer haply have received —Such pleasure is to one kind Ibeing (A thing nlore precious far than all that known, books 1^^ My neighbor; when with punctual care, Or the solicitudes of love can; do!) each week, That first mild touch of , sympathy and-- Duly as Friday comes, though pressed thought, ' herself 4?'?. In which they found their kindred with, - By her own wants, she from her store of a world. • meal ,-. i : 1, '. . Where, want and sorrow were. The easy Takes one unsparing handful' for the scrip man ' -; Of this old mendicant, and, from her door Who sits at his own door,— and, like the W,9 Ret-tirning with exhilarated, heart, pear Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in That overhangs his head from the /green M'-i % '.heaven. ' . wall, ... ' ;-- '■> r, , Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and..-:' Then.let him pass, a blessing on his head! ypung, - 'I' Aiid while in that vast solitude to which 120, The . prosperous and unthinking, they The tide of things has borne him, he who live ' . ' ' ■ ' appears ' : ; ■ ■ j Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 1^5 To breathe and live but for himself alone. Of their own kindred;— all behold in him Unblamed, uninjured, let' him bear about A- silent monitor, which on their minds The: good' which the benignant latr of Must needs impress a transitory thought Heaven 125^ Of self-congratulation, to the heart Has hung around him : and, while life Of each recallina; his peculiar boons, is his. His charters and exemptions; and',' per-- , ■ Still let him prompt the unlettered' villagers chance, ' l'^' To tender offices and pensive thoughts. •Though he to no one give the forlitfide ■■■- -^'^Then let him pass, a blessing.on his head ! And circumspection needful to preserve And, long as he can wander; let him breathe WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 237 ' The freshness df the Valleys ; let' his' blood Struggle wUh frosty air and winter snows; ^''5 And let the chartered^ wind that sweeps ■ "" the heatt' ' ''' ' • '■ ' Beat his gray locks against his withered ■ face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his Jjeart. May never House, misnamed 6f Industry,^ 18' Make him a captive ! — for that pent-up Those life'-consuining Sounds thkt clog the, air, Be his the natural silence of old age!,, Let him be free of mouitain solitudes; 'And have around him, whether heard or not, 185 The pleasant melody of woodland . birds. ' Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle upon, earth That not without some effort, they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, 18? Rising or setting, let the light ;£^t least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. And let him, where and when he will, sit down BeniBath the trees, or on a grassy bank Of highway side, and with the little birds 1^5 Share his bhance-gathered meal; and, flriaiiy'. As in the eye of Nature he has lived. So in the eye of Nature let him die! NUTTING 1799 ■' 1800 ■ It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of , boyish- hope, 5 I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth With a huge, wallet o'er my shoi^ders ,.isi.; slung, ._ , , ,;, A nutting crook in hand ; a-nd turned my steps ^,,, ^1; Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a figure • quaint, j v ' Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds^i ' 1' Which for that service had been hus- banded. By exhortation of my frugal damer- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thortis, and brakes,' and brambles,— '■ and in truth ■ '- More ragged than need was! O'er piath- ■ less rocks. 1 prWlleged * The poorhouse. ' garments , 15 Through beds of matted fern, itrid tangled thickets. Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited,' where not a broken bough Drooped with its witherefd leaves, un- gracious sign ■ ' "! ' ' Of devastation ; but the 'hazels' rose ' 2* Tall and erect, with tempting clusters ,..' .Hung,,,,, :,„ : ., ' ; . - , • A virgin scene!— A,, little whilerl ,st,ood. Breathing with sucli suppression of , the heajct -,.,,.< . . ; :'■.■•■ As joy delights in ; and with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 25 The banquet ;-^ or beneath the trees I sate Among the .flowers, and with the' flowers I played; ' ' ' i' ■ ' ''^ A temper knbwh to thofee who, af tei* long And weary expectation, have been blest „ With sudden' happiness beyond, aH,,hope. 30 Perhaps it was a bower beneath,, whose leaves,; ..,,;,, '! t The violets of five seasons reappear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy TYater-breaks^ do murmur on Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam, 35 And— with my cheek oh one: of 'those green stones ' , ,i That, fleeced with moss, under the staay , trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheeppv, ■ , I ■ , ■ ■ : , i I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay ,„,-,,. *" Tribute to ease;. and, of its joy 'Sequre, The heart luxuriates with indiffei-ent things, ', ;' Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. And dragged' to earth both^branch and bough, with crash ^5 And merciless ravage : and the shady nook Of hazelsy and the' green and' mossy 'bower. Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and unless I now Confound my piresent feelings with the past, 5" Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exultingj rich beyond tW wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I behgld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.— Then, dearest maiden, move along these ■''' ■ ' 'shades'' ' " '' '''■ 55 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand TouoK^for there is a spirit ifl the woods. 1 ripples ■' ' " ' ' ' 238 NINETEENTH CENTTJEY ROMANTICISTS STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN 1799 1800 Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. 5 When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way. Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 1" All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, ^^ The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept- 2* On the descending moon. My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof. At once, the bright moon dropped. 25 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide ■ Into a. lover's head! "0 mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!" SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 1799 1800 She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: 5 A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know 10 When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh, : The difference to me! I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN 1799 1807 I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 5 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel 1" The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers whiere Lucy played; 15 And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER 1799 1800 Three years she grew in sun and shower. Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; 5 She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, 1" In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn 15 Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm. And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend 20 To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden 's form By silent sympathy. 25 "The stars of midnight shall be dear 'To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wajrward round, And beauty bom of murmuring sound 30 Shall pass into her face. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 239 "4nd vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgipi bosom s'well^ Such thoughts to Lucy I Will give 35 While she and I together live- Here in this happy delli'' Thus Nature spake— The work was done- How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died^ and left to me 40 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; , The memory of what has been, : And never more will be. •'• A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 1799 1800 A slumber did my ipirit seal ; I had no human fears : , She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. 5 No motion has ghe now, no force ;. ^he neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in,; earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. A PQET'S EPITAPH: , 1799 1800 Art thou a statist in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred ? -First learn to love one living man; Then may 'st thou think upon the dead. 5 A lawyer art thou?— draw not nigh ! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practiced' eye, The hardness of that sallow face. Art thou a mati of purple cheer? 10 A rosy man, right plump, to see? Approach; yet, doctor,^ not too near^ This grave no cushion is f ot thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride, A soldier and no man of chaff ? 15 Welcome!— feut lay thy Sword aside. And lean upon a peasant 's staff. Physician art thou?— o^ie, all eyes, .. Philosopher !^a -fltigering slave,' One that w;ould peep and botanize 20 Upon his mother's grave? Wrapt, closely in thy sensual fleece, ,, turn aside,— and take, I pray,' That he below may rest in peace. Thy ever-dwindliilg soul, away ! ' , > A divine. 25 A moralist^ perchance appears; ■ Led> Heaven knows how ! ■ to this poor sod : And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smoothr-rubbed soul cancling 30 Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. An intellectual all-in-all ! ; ' Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; 35 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is he, with modest looks, , And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks ■^o A music sweeter than their own. He is retired as noontide dew. Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; And you must love him, ere to you He w^ll seem worthy of your loye. *5,The outward shows of sky and ea!rth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie ^'^' Some random truths he can impart,— The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak ; both man and boy, Hath been an idler in the land; . 55 Contented if he might enjoy ' ' The things which others understand. —Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking Wave ! ■ Here stretch thy body. at full length; 00 Or build thy house upon this grave. MATTHEW 17.99 1800 If Nature, for a favorite child, In thee hath tempered so her clay, That every, hour thy heart runs wild. Yet never once doth go astray, 5 Read o 'er these lines ; and then review This tablet,: that thus humbly, xears- In such diversity of hue • Its history of two hundred years. —When through this little wj;eck of fame, 10 Cipher, and syll'a'ble! thine eye 1 One who teaches nioral dntles. 240 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS Has travelled down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy. And if a sleeping tear should wake, Then be it neither checked nor stayed : '5 For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool ; Far from the chimney's merry roar, 20 And murmur of the village school. The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness ; The tears which came to Matthew 's eyes Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 25 Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round. It seemed as if he drank it up — He felt with spirit so profound. — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 30 Thou happy Soul! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of tiee? THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 1799 1800 We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun ; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!" 5 A village schoolmaster was he. With hair of glittering gray ; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass, 10 And by the steaming rills. We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun, Then from thy breast what thought, 15 Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop ; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, 20 To me he made reply : ' ' Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind, 25 "And just above yon slope of com Such colors, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother. "With rod and line I sued^ the sport 30 Which that sweet season gave. And, to the churchyard come, stopped short. Beside my daughter's grave. "Nine summers had/ she scarcely seeii. The pride of all the vale ; 35 And then she sang; — she would have been A very nightingale. "Six feet in earth my Emiqa lay;' And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day ;^ ^0 I e'er had loved before. ^ "And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the churchyard yew, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet , With points of niomin'g dew^ *5 " A basket on her head she bare ; Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight ! ' ' No fountain from its rocky cave 50 E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. "There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confin,e; 55 I looked at her, and looked again: And did not wish her mine!" Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks, I see him stand, As at that moment, with a bough ^0 Of wilding in his hand. THE rOUNTAIN A CONVEESATION 1799 1800 We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was yqung. And Matthew seventy-two. 5 We lay iDeneath a spreading oak. Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke,. And gurgled at our feet. ' pursued WILLIAM WOEDSWORTH 241 ■■■■■ .*'No-w:; Matthew .'"'said I, ''let us Imateh 1" This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon; ,; v"' ■ I " Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, 15 That half-mad- thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and; eyed The spring beneath the tree ; And thus the, dear old man replied, 20 The gray-haired man of glee: "No cheek, no stay, this streamlet fears; How merrily it goes ! 'Twill . murmur on a thousand years. And flow as now it flows. 25 "And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous many ili lay Besidei this fountain 's brink. Im'i "My eyes are dim with childish tears, ** My: heart is idly stirred, , : For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. "Thus fares it still in^ our decay: ■And yet the wiser mind 35 Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. , ; "The blackbird anjid leafy trees, The lark above: the hillj Let loose their carols when they please, 40 Are quiet isphen, they will. ''With Nature never; do they wage A foolish strife > they see - A happy youth, and their old age ■ . Is 'beautiful and free: *.5 "But we are pressed by heavy, laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face at joy, because We have been glad of yore. "If there be one who need bemoan 50 His kmdred laid ia esirth,- The household hearts that were his own ; It is the man of mirth. "My days, my friend, are almost gone, ]\Iy, life has been approved, 56 AnA many love me ! but by none Am I raiQUgh beloved. " "Now both himself and me' he wrongs. The man who thus complains ! I live and sing my idle songs 80 Upon these happy plains; "And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasped my hand, aiid said, "Alas! that cannot be." ' ' 65 ■^Q j-osg up from the f otintain-sid^ ; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did We glide ; And through the wood we weilt ; ' And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, ''0 He sang those witty rhymes ■ About the crazy old church-clock. And the bewildered chimes. LUCYGEAY OR, SOLITUDE 1799 1800 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild^ I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. 5 No mate, no comrade Lucy kI^e■??•;,i-;l She dwelt on a wide moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Bgside a human door ! You yet may spy the fawn at play, 10 The hare upon the green ; i But the S'vveet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "Tonight will be a stormy night— You to the town mustgo; , ; 15 And take a lantern, child, to light, ■ Your mother through the snow.'^ ' "That, father! will I gladly do: iTis scarcely afternoon— The, minuter-clock has just struck two, 20 And yonder is the moon ! ' ' At this the father raised his hook, - ,And snapped a faggot-band; ^He plied his work ;-^ and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. 25 Not blither is the mountain roe : With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. 242 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS The storm came on before its time : 3" She waiidered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb : But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; 3S But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, ^O A furlong from their door. They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, ' ' In heaven we all shall meet ; " — When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. *S Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall ; And then an open field they crossed : ^^ The marks were still the same ; They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, S5 Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none ! — Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 8" Upon the lonesome wild. 'er rough and smooth she trips along. And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. THE PBELTJDE 1709-1805 1850 Trom Book I. Inteoductiok — Childhood And School-Time Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up Fostered alike by beauty and by fear: Much favored in my birthplace, and no less In that beloved Vale^ to which erelong 305 ■^e were transplanted — there were we let loose For sports of wider range. Ere I had told lEsthwaite.La^eashiire, In wlilch the Tillage of Hawkshead, Where Wordsworth attended school, was situated. ' ' Ten birthdays, when among the mountain slopes Frost, and. the breath of frosty wind, had snapped The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy 310 With store of springes^ o'er my shoulder hung To range the open heights where wood- cocks run Among the smooth green turf. Through half the night, •' Scudding away f roin snare to snare, I plied That anxious visitation ;^moon and stars 315 "^Y^ere shining o'er my head. I was alone, And seemed to be a trouble to the peace That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell In these night wanderings, that a strong desire 'erpowered my better reason, and the bird 320 Which 'was the captive of another's toil Became my prey; and when the deed was done 1 heard among the solitary hills Low breathings coming after me, and sounds I Of undistinguishable motion,' steps 325 Almost as silent as the turf they trod. Nor less when spring had warmed the cultured Vale,^ Moved we as plunderers where the mother- bird • ' Had in high places built her lodge ; though mean Our object and inglorious, yet the end 330 Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have hung Above the raven 's nest, by knots of grass And half -inch fissures in the slippery rock But ill-sustained, and almost (so it seemed) Suspended by the blast that blew' amain, '35 Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind Blow through my ear ! the sky seemed not a sky Of earth— and with what motion moved the clouds! 340 Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grp.ws Like harmony in music ; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling to- gether In one society. How strange that all 3*5 The terrors, pains, and early miseries^ 1 snares ; traps 'Tewdale, a vale near Hawkshead. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 243 Kegrets, vexations, lasatudes interfused And through the meadows homeward went, "Within my mind, should e'er have borne in grave a part, ^^^ And serious mood; but after I had seen And that a needful part, in making up That spectacle, for many days, jny brain The calm existence that is mine when I Worked with a dim and undetermined sense 350 Am worthy of myself ! Praise to the end ! Of unknown modes of being ; o 'er itiy Thanks to the means which Nature deigned I thoughts to employ; I There hung a darkness, call it solitude Whether her fearless visitings,' or thpse i^^^ Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes That came with soft alarm, like huritless | Eemained, no pleasant images of trees, light ■ 'Of sea or sl^, no colors of green fields ; Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she may But huge and mighty forms, that do not live use 355 Severer interventions, ministry Like living men, moved slowly through the mind More palpable, as best might suit her aim. j*"" By' day, and were a trouble to my dreams. One summer evening (led by her) I found i Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! A little boat tied to a willow tree j Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought, Within a rocky cove, its usual home. , That givest to forms and images a breath 360 Straight I unloosed hqr chain, and stepping * And everlasting motion, not in vain in '"'5 By day or star-light thus from my first Pushed from the shore. It was an act dawn of stealth Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me And troubled pleasure, nor without the The passions that build up our human soul ; voice Not with the mean and vulgar works of Of mountain echoes did my boat move on; man, Leaving behind her still, on either side. But with high objects, with, enduring 365 Small circles glittering idly in the moon, things— Until they melted all into one track *10 'With life and nature— purifjring thus Of sparkling light. But now, like one The elements of feeling and of thought, who rows, And sanctifying, by such discipline. Proud of his skill, to reack a chosen point - | Both pain and fear, until we recognize With an unswerving line, I fixed my view lA grandeur in the beatings_pf_ the heart 370 Upon the summit of a craggy riSge, ^i* Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to m( The horizon's utmost boundary;, far, af)0ve With stinted kindness. In November days. Was nothing but the stars and the gray sky. When vapors rolling down the valley made She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily A lonely scene more lonesome, among I dipped my oars into the silent lake, woods, 375 And, as I rose upon the stroke, my bqat At noon and 'mid the calm of summer Went heaving through the water, like a nights, swan ; *20 When, by the margin of the trembling lake. When, from behind that craggy steep till Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went then In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black Mine was it in the fields both day and night, and huge, And by the waters, all the summer long. As if with voluntary power instinct 380 Upreared its head. I struck and struck ^^5 And in the frosty season, when the sun again, Was 'set,' and visible for many a mile And growing still in stature the grim shape The cottage windows blazed through twi- Towered up between me and the stars, , light gloom, and still, ' I heeded- not their summons : happy time For so it seemed, with purpose of its own It was indeed for all of us— for me And measured motion like a living thing, ^30 it was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 385 Strode after me. With trembling oars i The village clock tolled six,— I wheeled I turned, about. And through the silent water stole my way Proud, and exulting like an untired horse Back to the covert of the willow tree ; That cares not for his home. All shod There in her mooring-plaee I left my with steel, bark,— We hissed along the polished ice in games 244 NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS ^35 Confederate, imitative of' the chase Of exercise and play, to -which the year And woodland pleasures,— the resounding Did summon us in i his delightful round, horn, ■ ...... The pack loud chiming, and the hunted Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace „ , ^^^f' , , , ■,,,-, ^*^' How Nature by extrinsic passion first So through the darkness and the cold we Peopled the mind with forms sublime or flew, , fair ! And not a voice was idle ; with the din And made me love them, may I here omit «0 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; How other pleasures have been mine, and The leafless trees and every icy crag -joys ' Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Qf subtler origin; how I have felt. Into the tumult sent an alien sound 550 Not seldom even in that teiidpestuous time, Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the Those hallowed and pure motions of the SLais ^prmp "5 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the which seem, in their simplicity, to own ^, ^^^^ , „ . ,. , , An intellectual charm; that calm delight The orange sky of evening died away. which, if I err not, surely must belong Not seldom from the uproar I retired 555 To those first-born aflinities that fit Into a silent bay, or sportively Our new existence to existing, things,' Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous And, in our dawn of being, constitute ^throng, ^, ^ ^ ^ The bond of union between life and joy. *°" To cut across the reflex oi a star ' ' That fled, and, flying' still before me, ■ Yes, I remember when the changeful ' gleamed ' - ' earth, ' Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, ^^^ And twice five summers on my mind had When we had given our bodies to the wind, J'l stamped . > \ And all the shadowy banks on either side i The faces of the moving year, even then ■^55 Came sweeping through the darkness, , I held unconscious intercourse with beauty ' spinning still ' ' A Old as creation, drinking in a pure The rapid line of motion, then at once Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths Have I, reclining hack upon my heels, ^^^ Of curling mist, or from the level plain Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs Of waters colored by impending clouds. ^^''^lllL '"'"'''''' ^' '^ *''" '""^^ ^^^ The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks ronea ^^^ bays 460 With visible motion her diurnal round ! r\f c i,_4_> i v' -i ji . ,, Behind me»id they stretch in solemn train, SL 3,/n fLT^..™'*''^ V^ '^" '" Feebler and feebler, and I stood and ^°^' ^^ """""'"^ Till all'^Ifteanauil as a dreamless sleeD "" f"^ *° ,*^ shepherd's hut on distant hillg iill all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. ^^^^ welcome notice of the rising moon. Ye Presences of Nature in the skv ?°T^ ^^'^^ ?.^°°?' *" fancies such as these 465 And onThe ear h! ?f Vi ions 5f t^hills! ' IfoZ^^!?,^^"'"^ ""f^ "^ f^r^^ And Souls of lonely places ! can I think 575 ^^rhTrno. T'^ °^ ^ ^""^v^^ ''^^*' A vulgar hope was yours when ye em- nf l^V^^ "".Pr"'' t"" f "'," Tilovp/ Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood, o 1. • • i. 1. it, I. Even while mine eve hath moved o'er Such ministry, when ye through many a ^^^^ ^ lengae ™ovea, er Hauntilg^Le thus among my boyish sports, ?wS°!v7i'^' ■^^^"'il? ^ '^J^^'Tfi 470 On caves and trees, upon the woods and ^^'^""^^^ ^^^^^ hair-breadth ,m t|iat, field Impressed'upon all forms the characters ''" New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. Of danger or desire ; and thus did make Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy The surface of the universal earth Which, .through all seasons, on a child's With triumph and delight, with hope and pursuits fear, Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy 475 Work like a seal -bliss „ Not uselessly employed. Which, like a tempest, works alon& the Might I pursue this theme through every blood change 1 See Ode: Intimations of Immortality (p. 303). WILLIAM WOEDSWOBTH 245 "^5;Ang[ is fprgotten; ^ven then I felt And sorrow is not there ! The seasons came, Gleams like the flashing of a shield; — And every season wheresoe 'er I moved the, earth ■ 290 Uj^folded transitory qualities, And common face of Nature spake to me I; "Which, but for .this most watchful power Rememberable things ; sometimes, 'tis true, I : of love, : , . By chai^ce collisions and quaint accidents ^ Had been neglected ; left a register ^^^ (Like those ill-sorted unions, iwork sup- < Of permanent relations, else unknown. ,. , J posed /■..' ' * Hence life, and ehangeyand beauty, soli- Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain tude ' i> Nor prpfitl^s, if haply they impressed ^^^ More active even than "best society" — Collateral pbjects and Eippearances, . Society made sweet as solitude m ' : Albeit lifeless then, and doomed, to sleepy' By silent inobtrusive sympathies, 595' Until maturer seasons qalled them forth ,V- And gentle agitations of the mind To impcegnate and to elevate ithe mind. • •' Frdm: manifold distinctions, difference —And if the vulgar joy by its own weight soo Perceived in things, where, to the iinwateh- Wearied itself, out of the memory, ; ." ' ' ful eye, ' ' Th^ scenes which were a (fitness of that' joy No difference is, and hencS, from the same fi<">Resmainedi in .their substantial lineaments • source, , Pepipted on the brain, and to the eye Subliraer joy ! for I would walk alone. Were visible, a daily sight; and thus Under the quiet stars, and' at that time I By the impressive diseipliiie. of fear. Have felt whate'er there is of power in By pleasure and repeated happiness, sound 6*5 So frequently repeated, and by force ^"5 T6 breathe an elevated mood, by fotm ' Of :©^scure feelings representative ' ' Or image unprof aned ; and I would stand, Of.thjngs forgotten, these same scenes so If the night blackened with a coming storm, .;, I , bright, li ; ■ ■ Beneath some rock, listening to notes that So beautiful, so majestic iij themselves, are " , ThpugH yet the day was distant, did become The ghostly lan'guage' of the ancient earth, 61" Habitually dear, and all their forms ^i" Or make their dim abode in distaint winds. And changeful colors by invisible links Thence did I drink 'the visionary power; / Were fastened to the. affections. And deem not profitless those fleeting , . . ,.r . w .,- . . ; ' ' ■ ':- moods ■ ■ f'''"' - ■ ' ' .''''" --,. _ .„ „ ,„ .: ^- Of shadowy exultation : not for 'this, ' ' '"" From Book II. School-Time rpj^^^ ^.^^^ ^^^ kindred to our purer 'mind 265 From early, days, ^15 ^ij,j iutellectuallife; ^but that the soui; Beginning not long after that fij^st time Beihembering how she felt, but what^.she ^ ,,, III which, a babe, by intercourse qf tdUch felt ^' , : ;.-': i I held mute dialogues with my mother's Remembering not, retains an obscute sense f,,,: 1 heart, ' Of possible sublimity, whereto I have endeavored to display the means >With'growing faculties she doth aSpire, 270 Whereby this infant sensibility, ^^^ With faculties still growing, feeling still Great birthright of jaur being, was in me That whatsoever point they gain, they yet Augmented and sustained. Yiet is a path Have something to pursiie. More ^ifftcuit before, me; and I fear And not alone. That in its broken windings we shall need 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid ^''5 .The fih^mois' sinews,' and the eagle's wing: .■ ^ fair For now a trouble came into my mind And tranquil scenes, that universal poy^er From unknown causes. I was 'left alone ^^5 ^^^ fltnggs in ^jjg ja^gjj^ qygjjjjgg i> j S,eeking the visible world, nor knowiing why. And essences of things, by which the mind The props of , my -affections were remdyed. Is moved with feelings' of delight, to ip;e 286 And yet the building stood, as if sustained Came strengthened with a superadded soul. By its.pwn spiritj AH that Ibeheld ' Avirtue not its own. Was dear, and hence to finer influxes ii ., ; . ;. . . '. '^ The mind .lay open, tP a more exaet ■ . -546 How shall I seek the origin'? where find And close communion. - Many are our joys . Faith in the marvellous things which then 285 In youth, but oh! what happiness to live I felt? -"-■'■ / , When .every, hour brings palpabk access -Oft in these moments such a holy calm Of knowledge, when all knowledge is de- Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes i light, ' ^^^ Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw j 360 246 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS Appeared like something in myself, a I had received so much, that all my dream, thoughts ^_^ A prospect in the mind. , Were steeped in feeling; I was only then ' 'Twere long to tell ^'"•/ Contented, when with bliss ineffable I What spring and autumn, what the winter i I felt the sentiment of' Being spread • snows, / 'er all that moves and all that seemeth !■ And what the summer shade, what day W still; / and night. O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of 355 Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought ' thought And human knowledge, to the human eye ; From sources inexhaustible, poured forth ^"5 Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; To feed the spirit of religious love 'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts In which I walked with Nature. But let this and sings, Be not forgotten, that I still retained Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that My first creative sensibility; glides That by the regular action of the world . Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power V-A^nd mighty depth of waters. Wonder not \ Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times ^ifj If high the transport, great the joy I felt Rebellious, acting in a devious mood ; Communing in this sort through earth and 365 ^ local spirit of his own, at war heaven With general tendency, but, for the most, With every form of creature, as it looked Subservient strictly to external things I Towards the Uncreated with a countenance With which it communed. An auxiliar light V Of adoration, with an eye of love. Came from my mind, which on the setting ■'is Qne song they sang, and it was audible, sun Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,, ''"' Bestowed new splendor; the melodious O'ercome by humblest prelude of that birds, strain. The fluttering breezes, fountains that run Forgot her functions, and slept uhdis- on turbed. ' ' Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed If this be error, and another faith A like dominion, and the midnight storm *20 pind easier access to- the pious mind, 375 Grew darker in the presence of my eye : Yet were I grossly destitute of all Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, Those human' sentiments that make this And hence my transport. earth Nor should this, perchance. So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye The exercise and produce of a toil, lakes Than analytic industry to me *25 And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 380 More pleasing, and whose character I deem That dwell among the hills where ' I was Is more poetic as resembling more born. Crea,tive agency. The song would speak If in my youth I have been pure in heart, Of that interminable building reared If, mingling with the world, I am content By observation of affinities _ With my own modest pleasures, and have 385 In objects where no brotherhood exists lived To passive minds. My seventeenth year the centre of Eterijity , The sea lay laughing at a distance ; rnear, 248 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS The solid mountains shone, bright as the Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his clouds, mouth Grain-tinctured,^ drenched in empjrean Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, light ; Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, And in the meadows and the lower grounds That they might answer him ; and they 330 "^as all the sweetness of a common dawn — would shout Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds, ^'^^ Across the watery vale, and shout again. And laborers going forth to till the fields. Responsive to his call, with quivering peals. Ah ! need I say, dear friend ! that to the And long halloos and screams, and echoes brim _ loud, ',My heart was full; I made no vows, but Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild ! vows Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened 335 ivVere then made for me ; bond unknown pause ' to me 28" Of silence came and baffled his best skill, Was given, that I should be, else sinning Then sometimes, in that silence while he , greatly, _ _ hung , ; , jA dedicated Spirit. On I walked Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise (In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. Has carried fat into his heart the voice . . . . . Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene _, _ „ T, 385 Would enter unawares into his mind, Frgm B^OK Y^ B^o^ V ^ > ^jth all its solemn imagery,! its rocks. These mighty workmen of our later age. Its woods,' and that uncertain heaven, re- Who, with a broad highway, have over- eeived bridged Into the bosom of the steady lake. The f roward chaos of futurity, ' l ' ■ .. ' 350 Tamed to their bidding; they who have This Boy was taken froin his mates, T tl^^^^^ll, , . . ., , and died To manage books, and thmgs, and make 3&0 in childhobd, ere he was full twelve years them act . old 1 •' On infant minds as surely as the sun ^^ir is the spot, most beautifulthe vale lime ^ '^^''^ °"'' ^^^""^ ^^ "^^^ ^°™'' *^^ ^'^^^y ''^'^''''^' ,.. ?'^ guides' and wardens of our faculties, Upon J^slope^^bdve the village school^ 355 Sages who in their prescience would control And through that ' churchyard when my All accidents, and to. the very road way has led ■ . •' A^Tiich they have fashioned would con- 395 Qn summer evenings, I believe that there fine us down, A long half hour together I have stood Like engines ; when will their presumption Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies ! m, J. • ^^^™' . \i. ii ^^^'i "o^ appears before the mind 's clear That in the unreasoning progress 01 the g^g ,„„ A • '^°^^?.. . x , J, That self-same village church; I see her sit 360 A wiser spirit is at work for us, 400 (The throned Lady whom erewhUe we A better eye than theirs, most prodigal hailed) "' Of blessings, and most studious of our Qn her green hill, forgetful of 'this Boy .^°°°' ^ i 4, -xjy , ^ho slumbei's iat her feet, -forgetful,' too, . Even in what seem our most unfruitful Qi all her silent neighborhood of graves^ '^°"^®' And listening Only to the gladsome sounds There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ^"^ That, from the rural school ascending, play ye cliffs Beneath her and about her. May she long 365 And islands of Winander !— many a time Behold a race of young ones Mke to those At evening, when the earliest stars began ^^^^ yrhqm I herded !— (easily, indeed, To move along the edges of the hills, .. „ ^/ ^^g"* have fed upon a f atteV soil Rising or setting, would he stand alone O* arts and letters-but be that for- Beneath the trees or by the glimmering givferl) — jajjg , A race of real children; not too wise, 370 And there,' with fingers interwoven, both Too learned, or too good; but wanton, hands f'^esh, > dyed scarlet ' Esthwaite. ' At Hawksbead WILLIAM WOEDSWORTH 249 And bandied up and. down by love and hate; Not imresentful where self-justified ; s^" *l5;,pierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, ' shy; Mad at their Sports like withered leaves in winds; Though doing wrong and snfEering, and fuUbft Bending beneath our life's mysterious ^25 weight ' Of pain, and doiibt, and fear, yet yielding not *20 In happiness to the happiest upon learth. Simplicity in habit, truth in speech. Be these the daily strengthenefs of their ' - minds; 5^" May books and Nature be their early joy ! And knowledge, rightly honored with that "name— ' 425 Knowledge not purchased by the loss of ' power! To endure this state of meagre vassalage, Unwilling to forego, confess, submit Uneasy and Unsettled, yokcTfellows To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed And humbled down; — oh! then we feel, we feel, We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then. Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then. Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape Philosophy will call you ; then we feel With what, and how great might ye are in league, j Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed, An empire, a possession,— ye whom time And seasons serve ; all Faculties to whom Earth crouches, the elements are potter's clay, Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights; Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once. A gracicTis spirit o'er this earth pre- sides, , ■ ' And o'er the heart of man : invisibly It comes, to works of unre'pfoved dplight,: And tendency benign, directing those . ' S 495 Who care not, know not, 'think not what they do. *^ The tales that charm away the wakeful night In Araby, romances; legends penned For solace by dim light of monkish lamps; Fictions, for ladies of thpir love, devised 500 By yottthfui squires; adventures endless, ^0 spun ;' By the dismantled warrior in old age. Out of the bowels of those very schemes, In which his youth did first extrayagate ; ^ These spread like day, knd Somethyig in the shape , ^*5 Of these will live till man shall be no more. ^^ Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, And they must have their food. Our childhood sits. Our simple childhood, sits upon a ttrone That ha,th more power than all the ele- metits. ^^^ I guess not what this tells of being past, Nor what it augurg of the life to come; *" But so it is, and, in that dubious hour. That twilight when we first Ijegin to see This dawning earth, to recognize, expect, ^15 And; in the long probation that ensues, The time of trial, ere we learn to live In' reconcilement with our stinted powers ; ^^ 1 wander about Sweet Of present happiness, while future years Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams, No few of which have since been realized ; And some remain, hopes for my future - life. Four years and thirty, told this very week. Have I been now a sojourner on earth'," By sorrow not unsmitten ; yet for me Life's morning radiance hath not left the ■ hiUs, Her dew is on the flowers. Those were the days Which also first emboldened me to trust With firmness, hitherto but slightly "touched By such a daring thought, that I might leave Some monument behind me which pure hearts Should reverence. The instinctive humble- ness, Maintained even by the very name and thought Of printed books and authorship, began To melt away; and further, the dread awe Of mighty names was softened down and ' seemed Approachable, admitting fellowship Of modest sympathy. ' Such aspect now. Though not familiarly, my mind put On, Content to observe, to achieve, 'arid to enjoy. ■ 250 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS All ■winter long, whenever free to choose, Effort, and expectation, and desire, Did I by night frequent the College groves And something evermore about to be. And tributary wedks ; the last, and oft Under such banners militant, the soul The only one, who had been lingering there ^i" Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no 70 Through hours of silence, till the porter's spoils bell. That may attest her prowess, blest in A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, thoughts Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice. That are their own perfection and reward. Inexorable summons ! Lofty elms, Strong in herself and in beatitude Inviting shades of opportune recess, That hides her, like the mighty flood of "^^ Bestowed composure on a neighborhood Nile Unpeacef ul in itself. A single tree ^^^ Poured :f rom his fount of Abyssinian With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely clouds wreathed,' To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain. Grew there : an ash which Winter for him- _,, , , , ... , , ' gglf The melancholy slaekenmg that, ensued Decked as in pride, and with outlandish UP°i those tidings by the peasant given rrrapp- Was soou dislodgcd. Downwards we hur- ^•^ Up from the ground, and almost to the . ' . , ™ ,f ,' ,„ , ■ , , ; , ^Q■p . bJu And with the half -shaped road which we The trunk and every master branch were ,-, , ' , ™'®?^w , : ] ™ , green lintered a narrow chasm, Th,e brook and With clustering ivy, and the lightsome .^ •'P™ „ ... t-^™ Were fellow-trayellers m this gloomy And outer spray profusely tipped with strait, seeds "^^"^ with them did we journey several That hun|; in yellow tassels, while the air - .■. hours 85 Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I .„, ■*■* ^ slow pace. The immeasurable height stood Of woQd,? decayiag, never to be decayed, Eoot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree The stationary blasts of waterfalls, Beneath a frosty moon. The, hemisphere -^-"^ " ^^^ narrow rent at every turn Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance Wmds thwarting winds, bewildered and May never tread J but scarcely Spenser's - forlorn, .^ self The torrent shooting from .the clear blue ^^ Could have more tranquil visions in his ., '. ^^V' youth < . T*?® rocks that muttered close upon our Or could more bright appearances create ^ j^T^' . Of human forms with superhuman powers, ^J^^k drizzling crags that . spake by the Than I beheld loitering on calm clear nights , , .„ ^^y-^i"^ ^ , Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth. ^? if a voice were ui them, the sick sight , ■ , , , . . And giddy prospect of the raving stream, Imagination— here the Power so called '^^^ unfettered clouds and region of the Through sa^d incompetence of human „,, heavens, . speech, iumultand peace, the darkness and the That awful Power rose from the mind 's ,?,.," abyss . ^^^^ !^Un"lie workiiigs of, one mind, the 585 Li]j:e an unfathered vapor that enwraps, „ leatures At once, some lonely traveller-^I was lost; Xu ^'^^f^™® J^f^' blossoms mpon one.tree; Halted without an effort to break through ; <-haracters of the great Apocalypse, But to my conscious soul I now can say- „,„ XtJ'^?^^ ^^i symbols of Eternity, "I recognize thy glory:" in such strength " *^* *^^^^' f^ ^^^t, and mid?t, and without BOO Of usurpation, when the light; of sense . '^^J\' . , _ . _ Goes out, but with a flash that has. revealed The invisible world, doth greatness make Book VIII. Reteospect— Love or Nature abode Leading to Love of, Man There harbors ; whether we be young or old, What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are Our destiny, our being's heart and home, heard 605 Is with infinitude, and only there; Up to thy summit, through the depth of air With hope it is, hope that can never die. Ascending, as if distance had the power WILLIAM WORDSWOETH 251 . To make the sounds more audible? What crowd 5 Covers, or sprinkles o'er; yon village green? Crowd seems it, solitary hill ! to thee. Though but a little family of men, Shepherds and tillers of the ground— be- times Assembled with their children and their wives, 1" And here and there a stranger interspersed. They hold a rustic fair— a festival, ' Such as, on this side now, and now on that, Repeated through his tributary vales, Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest, 15 Sees annually, if clouds towards either ocean Blown from their favorite resting-place, or mists Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded "head. Delightful day it is for all who dwell In this secluded glen, and eagerly 20 They give it welcome; Long ere heat of noon. From byre^ or field the kine were brought ; the sheep Are penned in cotes; the chafEering is begun. The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud. 25 Booths are there none; a stall or two is here; ' ' A lame man or a blind, the one to beg. The other to make music ; hither, too, ' From far, with basket, slung upon her arm. Of hawker's wares ^ books, pictures, combs, and pins — 30 Some aged woman finds her way again. Year after year^ a punctual visitant ! There also .stands a 'speech-maker by rote, Pulling the strings of his boxed raree- show ;^ And in the lapse of many years may come 55 Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid. But one there is, the loveliest of them all. Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out For gains, and who that sees her would not buy? 40 Fruits of her father's orchard are her wares, And -with the ruddy produce' she -walks round Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed Of her new ofl&ee, blushing restlessly. The children now are rich, for the old today "cow barn * cheap street-show 45 Are generous as the young; and, if content With looking on, some ancient wedded pair Sit in the shade together, while they gaze, "A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled brow, ' The days departed start again to life, 50 And all the scenes of childhood reappear. Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun To him who slept at noon and wakes at "eve. ' '1 Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail, Spreading from young to old, from old to young, 55 And no one seems to want his share.— Immense Is the recess, the circumambient world Magnificent, by which they are embraced: They move about upon the soft gi-een turf : How little they, they and their doings, seem, ^0 And all that they can further or obstruct ! Through utter weakness pitiably dear. As tender infants are : and yet how great ! For all things serve them; them the morn- ing light Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks ; 05 And them the silent rocks, which now from high Look down upon them; the reposing clouds ; The wild brooks prattling from invisible haunts; And old Helvellyn, , conscious of the stir Which animates this dqy their calm abode. ''o With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel. In that enormous City's turbulent world Of men and things, what benefit I owed To thee, and those domains of rural peace, Where to the sense of beauty first my heart "5 Was opened ; tract more exquisitely fair Than that famed paradise of ten thousand trees. Or Gehol's matchless gardens,^ for delight Of the Tartarian dynasty composed (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, ^0 China's stupendous mound) by patient toil Of myriads and boon Nature's lavish help ; There, in a clime from widest empire chosen. Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more?) A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes *5 Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts • Joseph' Cottle, Malvern Hills, 952-56. = The' Hanging Gardens of Babylon. 252 NINETEENTH CENTUEY EOMANTICISTS With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds, Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught ^^o "^ith arts and laws so tempered, that to melt their lives Into each other their obsequious hues. Left, even to us toiling in this late day, 3" Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, A bright tradition of the golden age ; Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth Not such as, 'mid Arcadi?in fastnesses In no discordant opposition, strong Sequestered, handed down among, them- And gorgeous as the colors side by side selves Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds ; ^35 Felicity, in Grecian song renowned ;?^ ^5 And mountains over all, embracing all ; Nor such as — when an adverse fate had And all the landscape, endlessly enriched driven. With waters running, falling, or asleep. From house and home, the courtly band But lovelier far than this, the paradise Entered, with° ShaSpeare 's genius, the Where I was reared; in Nature's pruni- ^jj^j woods ' inA -,-, 1 ^ ^, •, Of Arden— amid sunshine or in shade 100 Favored no less, and more to every sense ho Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted Delicious, se.emg triat the sun and sky, hours The elements, and seasons as they change, gre Phoebe 'sighed for the false' Gany- Do find a worthy lellow-laborer there — mede "^ Man free, man working for himself, with Qj. there where Perdita and, Florizel ins ^^ .• "*^^ , :, X.- ^ -u ,.- Together danced, Queen of the feasti and i«o Of time, and place, and object; by his King-^ wants, jjoj, sygij gg Spenser fabled.* True it is, His comforts native occupations, cares, 145 That I had heard (what he perhaps had Cheerfully led to. individual ends seen.) Or social, and still followed by a, train Qf maids at sunrise bringing in from far .,„ ^^^°°^^,'^^'^^°^8^i-?^,^''^^-^^P^^<'^iy, Their .May,bush, and along the street in "0 And beauty, and mevitable grace. flocks - " Yea, when a glimpse of thdse imperial Parading with a song of taunting rhymes, bowers Aimed at the , laggards, .slumbering within Would to a child be transport over-great, ica'tt j J+oors; _ ; ,.;' When but a half -hour's roam through ^"<^ ^^° "jeard, from those who yet re- such a place ^' T.?H7*^' , , ^ Would leave behind a dance of images, ^^^^ °*_ the May-pole dance,, and tirreaths 115 That shall break in upon his sleep for „ • that decked , , ■weeks; : Porch, doorway, or kirk pilla^j and of Even then the 'common haunts of the green _ y° ,.' earth Ji^ach with his maid, before the sun. was up, And ordinal^ interests of man, „. ^y annual custom, issuing forth in troops, Which they embosom, all without regard 1° f ^^°*^ ^-^ ^^^^'^^ °* ^°™^ samted well, As both -may seem, are fastening on the And hang Jt: round with garlanite;. Love heart survives; 120 Insensibly, each with the other's help. ^^^> ^""^ ^^'^}^- PUrpose, flowers no .Iptoger For me, when my affections first were led _ . S^^"^ '■ From kmdred, friends, and playmates, to ^'^^ times, too sage, perhaps too proud, partake _,, have dropped Love for the human creature's absolute self, „„ \'^^f^ lighter graces; and the rural way? That noticeable kindliness of heart ^^^ manners which my ehildhoQd looked '25 Sprang out of fountains, there abounding .l^^*"^, most, ^^^-^ "^^ unluxunant produce of a life Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks ^*f "* °i. ^''tle but substantial needs. And occupations which her beauty adorned, ' ^^l T'™' ™ oeauty, beauty that was felt. And shepherds were the men that pleased ,„ ^^^ images of danger and distress, me first;! ' *^^i suffering among awful Powers and 1 These shepherds lived close to Nature and were ' Intensely real. They appealed to Words- i Polyblus, Bistorim, 4, 20-21 worth's Imagination infinitely more than the ''As Tou Like It/ III and IV artificial shepherds in the pastoral literature = TTie Winter's Tale IV 4 of the ancients and of Shakspere and Spenser. * The Shepheardes Calender WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH 258 Of this T heard, and saw enough' to rdake 205 Jn unlaBorious pleasure, with no task' ' Imagination restless ; nor was free More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl Myself from frequent: perils; nor were ■ For springer fountain, which the traveller tales finds, Wanting, — the tragedies of former times, When through the region he pufsues at 170 Hazards and strange escapes, of which the will ro(;ks His devious course. A glimpse of -'such Immutable, and, everflowing streams,'. sweet life' Where'er I roamed, were speaking monu- ^lO l sarw when, from the melancholy walls ments. ■ ' Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed - ' My daily walk along that wide ch'am- Smooth life had flock and shepherd in paign,^ old time, ^ ' ■ That, reaching to her gates, spreads east Long springs and tepid winters, on the and west, . banks And northwards, from beneath the moun- I'^s Of delicate Galesus; and no less ■ 'tainous verge ' ' ''- Those scattered along Adria's myrtle ^is Of the Hereynian forest. Yet, hail to yoii shores:.. ,;, Moors^ mountains, headlands, and ye hol- Smooth life had. herdsman, and his snow- - low vales, .. white herd, Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's To triumphs and to. sacrificial rites i voice, DevQted, on the inviolable stream '. Powers of my native region ! Ye that Seize 180 Of rich Clitumnus ; and the goat-herd lived The heart with firmer grasp ! Your snows As calmly, .underneath the pleasant brows and streaims Of copl Lucretilis, where, the pipe was 220 Ungovernable, and yout- terrifying winds, _, ,; . ; heard :,! i< That howl so dismally for him who treads .Of Pan,; invisible god, .thrilling- the rocks Companionless your awful solitudes! With tutelary music, from all i harm There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter 185 The fold protecting, I myself, mature ■ long In manhood then, have seen a pastoral To wait upon the' stortos: 6f their ap- „ ; , ; trapt^ . .f... proach' Like one of these, where Fancy might run 225 Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives ,.wild, ;' ... .1 ■ His flock, and thither from the homestead Though under skies less generous, less . bears ' ■ • '' • , ., serene:! '.;.„• A toilsome burden up the craggy ways. There, for her own delight had Nature And deals it out, their regular noufishnient , ,; ,j., framed '; . ■ ' Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the 1^" A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse spring ' ' , , .Of fl^yel pastjire, islanded with gToves ' 230 Looks out, and all the pastures dance with And banked with woody risings; but the lambs, plain ' . ' And when "the flock, with warmer weather. Endless, here opening widely out, and there climbs ' Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn Higher and higher, him his ofiiee leads 155 And intricate recesses, creek or,, bay To watch their goings, whatsoever track Sheltered -within a sjhelter, where at large Thewanderers choose. For this he' quits ,; The s^ep^^er4•, strays, a rolling hut liis . his home home. : ' _ 235 At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun Thither he comes with spring-time, there Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat, abides Than he lies down- upon some shining rock, All summer, and at sunrise ye may bear - And breakfasts with his dog. When they 2*"' Hi^ flageolet to. liquid notes af love i have stolen, 4ttuned,; Qr sprighldy fife resounding far. As is their wont, a pittance from strict Nook is there none, nor tracti of that vast < ■ time, , ' space . ' ^^^ For rest not needed or exchange of love, Where passage opens, but the same shall Then from his couch he start^; and now have • ., , . _ 'his feet ' ■'■' In turm its, visi<;ant, telling there his hours Crush out a livelier fragrance from the .! .. flowers ^At Goslar, nsar the Hartz Mountains. ^ level field 254 NINETEENTH CENTURY EOMANTIOISTS Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill en- wrought In the wild turf: the lingering dews of mom 245 Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies. His staff protending like a hunter's spear. Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy 's call, 250 Might deign to follow him through what he does Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels, In those vast regions where his service lies, A freeman, wedded to his life of hope And hazard, and hard labor interchanged 255 'W'ith that majestic indolence so dear To native man. A rambling schoolboy, thus I felt his presence in his own domain. As of a lord and master, or a power, Or genius, under Nature^ under God, 260 Presiding; and severest solitude Had more commanding looks when he was there. When up the lonely brooks on rainy days Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes 265 Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, In size a giant, stalking through thick fog. His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped Beyond the boundary line of some hill shadow. His form hath flashed upon me, glorified 270 By the deep radiance of the setting sun: Or him have I descried in distant sky, A solitary object and sublime, Above all height ! like an aerial cross Stationed alone upon a spiry rock 275 Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man Ennobled outwardly before my sight, And thus my heart was early introduced To an unconscious love and reverence Of human ijature ; hence the human form 280 To me became an index of delight. Of grace and honor, power and worthiness. Meanwhile this creature— spiritual almost As those of books, but more exalted far; Far more of an imaginative form . 285 Than the gay Corin of the groves, who lives For his own fancies, or to dance by the hour. In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst — Was, for the purposes of kind, a man With the most common; husband, father; learned, (rh 290 Could teach, admonish; suffered with the rest From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear; Of this I little saw, cared less for it. But something must have felt. Call ye these appearances— Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth, 295 This sanctity of Nature given to man— A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things ; Whose truth is not a motion or a shape Instinct with vital functions, but a block .100 Or waxen image which yourselves have made, And ye adore ! But blessed be the God f Nature and of Man that this was so ; That men before my inexperienced eyfes Did first present themselves thus purified, ^"5 Removed, and to a distance that was fit : And so we all of us in some degree Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led, And howsoever; were it otherwise, And we found evil fast as we find good "1" In our first years, or think that it is found, How could the innocent heart bear up and live! But doubly fortunate my lot ; not here Alone, that something of a better life Perhaps was round me than it is the privilege ' ^ 315 Of most to move in, but that first I looked At man through objects that were great or fair ; First communed with him by their help. And thus Was founded a sure safeguard and de- fence Against the weight of meanness, selfish cares, 320 Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat in On all sides from the ordinary world In which we traffic. Starting from this point, I had my face turned toward the truth; began With an advantage furnished by that kind 325 Of prepossession, without which the soul Receives no knowledge that can bring forth good, No genuine insight ever comes to her. From the restraint of over-watchful eyes Preserved, I moved about, year after year, 330 Happy, and now most thankful that my walk Was guarded from too early intercourse WILLIAM WOBDSWOETH 255 "With the deformities of crowded life, ■ And those ensuing laughters ^and con- '■"- tempts. Self -pleasing, which, if we would wish to think , . ^'^^ With a due reverence on earth's rightful lord, 380 Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven, WilL not pelrmit us; but pursue the mind, That to devotion willingly would rise, Into the temple and'the temple 's heart. 340 Yet deem not, friend ! that human kind with me 385 Thus early took a place pre-eminent ; ' Nature herself was, at this unripe time,' But secondary to my own pursuits And animal at!tivities,' and all ■ 345 Their trivial pleasures; and when these had drooped ■■ ''■ And ^adually expired, and NatiiTe, prized For her own sake, became niy joy, even 390 then — And upwards through late youth, until tot less ■" • ' ■ • Than two-and-twenty summers had been told— ; '•- ■' 350 •^Y'as Man in my affections and Tfegards Subordinate to her, her visiblei f orins And viewless agencies : a passibn, she, A rapture often, and immediate love Ever at hand ; he, only a delight 395 355 Occasional, an accidental grace. His hour being not yet come. Tar less had then The inferior creatures, beast or bird, at- tuned My spirit tb that gentleness of love (Though they had long been carefully ■*<"' '' '' -- observed), 360 'w^on from me those minute- obeisances Of tenderness, which I may number now With my first blessings. Nevertheless, on these The light of beauty did not fall in vain, Or grkndeur cireumf use them to no end. ^"5 365 But when that first poetic faculty ' Of plain Imagination and severe, ' No longer a mute influence of the soul, '^enturedy at some rash muse 's earnest call, To -try her strength among harmonious •'.. ' words; 3'^* And to book-notions and the rules of art ' Did knowingly conform' itself; there came Among- the simple shapes of human life 410 A wilfulneiss of fancy and conceit: jAr^d .Nature and her;- objects beautified; 3''5 'These fletions, as in some sort, in their turn, They burnished hex. From touch of Jihis new power < Nothing was safe; the elder-tree that grew Beside the well-known charnel-house had then A dismal look; the yew-tree had its ghost, That took his istation there for ornament: The dignities of plain occurrence then Were tasteless, and truth's golden meaii, a point Where no sufficient pleasure could be found. Then, if a. widow, staggering with the blow Of her distress,; was known to have turned ' her steps To the cold grave in which her husband slept, One night, or haply more than one, through pain Or half -insensate impotence of mind, The fact was caught at greedily, and there She must be visitant the whole year thrcfugh, Wetting the turf with neverrending tears. Through quaint obliquities^ I might '^ pursue < ■ These cravings ; when ,the foxglove, one : by one, : '■ ■ Upwards through every stage 6t the tall stem. Had shed beside the public way its bells. And stood of all dismantled, save the last Left' at the ' tapering ladder's' top, that ■■■ ■- ■ ' seemed To bend as doth a slender blade of grass Tipped with a rain-^drop, Fancy loved to seat, ■ , ■ " Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested still With this last relic, soon itself to fall) Some vagrant mother, whose arch little ones, '■• t All' unconefemed by her dejected plight, Laughed as with rival eagerness their hands Gatrhei'ed the purple cups that round th6m lay. Strewing the turf's green slope. A diamond light (Whene'er the summer sun, declining, smote A smooth rock wet with constant springs) was seen ■ ■ ■ Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that rose Fronting our cottage. Oft beside the hearth Seated, with open door, often and long Upon this restless lustre have I gazed,,, r "deviations 256 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS That made my fancy restless as itself. Some pensive musings which might well 'Twas now for me a burnished silver shield beseem *^^ Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay Maturer years. Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood : A grove there is whose boughs An entrance now into some magic cave Stretch from the western marge of Thur- Or palace built by f aities of the rock ; ston-mere, Nor could I have been bribed to disenchant ''^'' With length of shade so thick, that whoso ^20 The spectacle by visiting the spot. glides Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood, Along the line of low-roofed water, moves Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings As in a cloister. Once— while, in that shade bred Loitering, I watched the gqlden beams of By pure Imagination: busy Power light She was, and with her ready pupil turned Flung from the setting sun, as they re- ^25 Instinctively to human passions, then posed Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent *^^ In silent beauty on the naked ridge . swarm Of a high eastern hill — thus flowed my Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich thoughts As mine was through the bounty of a grand In a pure stream of words fresh from the And lovely region, I had forms distinct heart: *30 To steady me : each airy thought revolved Dear native Regions,^ whereso'er shall Round a substantial centre, which at once close Incited it to motion, and controlled. My mortal course, there will I think on you I did not pine like one in cities bred,'^ ^"^^ Dying, will cast on you a backward look ; As was thy melancholy lot, dear friend! Even as this setting sun (albeit the vale 435 Grreat Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams Is nowhere touched by one memorial Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things gleam) Without the light of knowledge. Where Doth with the fond remains of his last the harm, power If, when the woodman languished with Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds disease , ^^^ On the dear mountain-tops where first he Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground rose. **•* Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, ■ I called the pangs of disappointed, love. Enough of humble arguments ; recallj And all the sad etcetera of the wrong, My song ! those high .emotions which thy To help him to his grave? Meanwhile the voice man, Has heretofore made known; that burst- Ij^ not already from the woods retired ing forth **5 To die at home, was haply as I knew. Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired, . , Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle ^80 When everywhere a vital pulse was felt, airs. And all the several frames of things, like Birds, running streams, and hills so beauti- stars, ■' ful Through every magnitude distinguishable. On golden evenings, while the charcoal pile Shone mutually indebted, or half lost Breathed up its smoke, an image of his Each in the other 's blaze, a galaxy ghost *^^ Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man, 450 Or spirit that full soon must take her Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, flight. As, of all visible natures, crown, though Nor shall we not be tending towards that bom point Of dust, and kindred to the worm ; ■ a Of sound humanity to which our tale Being, Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I Both in perception and discernment, first show ■*^* In every capability of rapture, How Fancy, in a season when she wove Through the divine ei5fect of power and 455 Those slender cords, to guide the uncon- love; scious Boy As, more than anything we know, instinct For the Man's sake, could feed at Na- With godhead, and, by reason and by will, ture's call Acknowledging dependency sublime. "See Coleridge's Frost at MldnigM, 51-53 (p. 'The following eight lines are recast from the 350). Emtracti p. 22S. WILLIAM WOBDSWORTH 257 **^ Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I Some inner meanings which might harbor moved, there. Begirt, from day to day, with temporal But how could I in mood so light indulge, ' • ' shapes ^^^ Keeping such fresh remembrance of the Of vice and folly thrust upon my view, day, Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, When, having thridded the long labyrinth Manners and characters discriminate, Of the suburban villages, I first SO" And little bustling passions that eclipse. Entered thy vast dominion? On the roof As well they might, the impersonated Of an itinerant vehicle' 1 sate, thought, • w ; 545 With vulgar men about me, trivial forms The idea, or abstraction of the kind. Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and y things,— An idler among academic bowers, ^^^^ f'^^P^s on every side: but, at the Such was my new condition, as at large .^, instant, . , , , 505 Has been set forth ; yet here the vulgar 3^^^*° ^/^fi^ ^* ^^^^^? ™§^^* ^« ^^i^' jjgjjj. The threshold now. is overpast, (how Of present, actual, superficial life, „« m, ^ strange ^ , Gleaming, through coloring of other times, "'^" That aught external to the living mmd Old usages and local privilege, ^1'°"!'^ ^^^ ^"""^ ™'g^'^*y ^^^y ' ^^^. ^° ^^ Was welcome, softened, if not solemnized. . • y?^V ^-j x n ^ 510 This notwithstanding, being brought more ;^ ^^^^^^ f ages did at once descend jjg-j. Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no To vice and guilt, forerunning wretched- Distinct remembrances, . but weight and ness ' power,- Itrembled,'-thought, at times, of human '^^ Power growing under weight : alas! I feel jj£g That I am, triflmg: 'twas a moment's With an indefinite terror and dismay, . ,, ,, P^yise)— .^, . , Such as the storms and angiy .elements ^^^ t^^* ^""f^ ^)^^ ^'■''^'^ ™« '^a™® ^^'^ 515 Had bred in me : bjit gloomier far, a dim . . "'^ent Analogy to uproar and misrule, \^ J" ^ moment; yet with Time it dwells. Disquiet,, danger, and obscurity. ^"^^ ^zi^hA memory, as a thing divme. ^ . , , , , , , „ 560 The curious traveller, who, from open It might be told (but wherefore speak ^ay ■ of things Hath passed with torches into some huge Common to all") that, seeing, I was led gave 520 Gravely to ponder-judging between good The Grotto of Antiparos, or the den^ And evil, not as for the mind's delight i^ oi^ time haunted by that Danish vsfitch. But for her guidance-one who was to Yordas; he looks around and sees the vault , *^7 , , „ - ,, ^^^^ Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he As sometimes to the best of feeble means gggg . I did, by human sympathy impelled ; Erelong, the massy roof above his head; 525 And, through dislike and most offensive That instantly unsettles and reeedes,- pain. Substance' and shadow, light and darkness, Was to the truth conducted ; oi this laith ^jj Never forsaken, that, by acting well, Commingled, making up a canopy Md understandmg, I should learn to love 570 of shapes and forms and tendencies to The end of life, and eveiythmg we know. shape >' ■ ' That shift and vanish, change and inter- B30 Grave teacher, stem preceptress! for at change , i a 'times Like spectres, — ferment silent and snb- Thou canst put on an aspect most severe ; lime ! London, to thee I willingly return. Tha't after a short space works less and less, Erewhile my verse played idly with the Till, every effort, every motion gone, flowers ' _ 575 The scene before him stands in perfect view Enwrought upon thy. mantle ; satisfied Exposed, and lifeless as a written book I— 535 With that amusement,' and a simple look But let him pause awhile, and look again, Of child-like inquisition now and then And a new quickening shall succeed, at first Cast upwards on thy ebuntenance, to detect i a cavern in Yorkshire. 258 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, ^^o Stript of their harmonizing soul, the life 580 Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, Of manners and familiar incidents, Busies thfe eye with images and forms Had never much delighted me. And less Boldly assembled, — here is shadowed forth Than other intellects had ipine been used From the projections, wrinkles, cavities. To lean upon extrinsic circumstance A variegated landscape,— there the shape 625 Qf record or tradition ; but a sense 585 Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail. Of what in the great City had been done The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk, And suffered, and was doing, suffering. Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff : still. Strange congregation ! yet not slow to meet Weighed with me, could support the test Eyes that perceive through minds that can of thought; inspire. And, in despite of all that had gone by, 630 Or was departing never to return, 590 Even in such sort had I at first been There I conversed with majesty and power ]jjQyg(j Like independent natures. Hfehce, the Nor otherwise continued to be moved, _^ place ^ ,., , As I explored the vast metropolis, ^as thronged with impregnations like the Pount of my country's destiny and the ^ , y, ^ , « ,■ , ■, , world's* -'■'^ which my early feelings had been That great emporium, chronicle at once .„, „ ,^^1^^^^ "T ■,, n , ^ 595 And burial-place of passions, and their Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, home " rocks. Imperial, their chief living residence. ^^^ audible seclusions, dashing lakes. Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags __..j, , ,. , . ., ,., That into music touch the passing wind. With strong sensations teeming as it did jjere then my young imagination found Of past and present, such a place must 640 No uncongenial element ; could here needs , . , , , , Among new objects serve or give com- Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at mand unn Ti ' ™^t *^i™^, . , , , Even as the heart's occasions might re- bouyar less than craving power; yet knowl- quire edge came. To forward reason's else too scrupulous bought or unsought, and influxes of power march Caine, of themselves, or at ber call derived ^he effect was, still more elevated views In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness, 645 of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt, en. ^''°'^ ?" ^'5^^' "^^™ ^bate er was m itself Debasement undergone by body, or mind, 605 Capacious found, or seemed to find m me jjoj. ^u the misery forced upon my sight, A correspondent amplitude of mind; Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes Such IS the strength and glory of our scanned „, , youth! T.. I. T ^ li. Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust The human nature unto which I felt 650 in what we may become; induce belief „„ That I belonged and reverenced with love. That I was ignorant, had been falsely bio Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit taught Diffused through time and space, with aid a solitary, who with vain conceits „„ .J "'^'r , , Had been inspired, and walked about in Oi evidence trom monuments, erect, dreams Prostrate, or leaning towards their com- ^^0^ those sad scenes when meditation monrest . turned. In earth, the widely scattered wreck sub- 655 Lo! everything that was indeed divine niK ,-v* -T^ i- 1 1 J Retained its purity inviolate, «15 Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn jjay brighter shone, by this portentous From books and what they picture and gloom - ''^''°^'^' Set off; such opposition as aroused The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise 'Tis true, the history of our native land, 660 Though fallen from blisSJ when in the With those of Greece compared and popu- east he saw lar Rome, Darkness ere day's mid course, and mom- And in our high-wrought mpdem narra- ing light tives More orient in the western cloud, that drew WILLIAM WOKDSWOBTH 259 'er the blue firmament a radiant white, Descending slow with something heavenly fraught. *65 Add also, that among the multitudes Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen Affeetingly set forth, more than elsewhere Is possible, the unity of man, One spirit -over ignorance and vice 6T0 Predominant in good and evil hearts ; One sense for moral judgments, as one eye For the sun's light. The soul when smit- ten thus By a siiblime idea, whencesoe'er Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds ^''5 On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with God. i Thus from a very early- age, friend! My thoughts by slow gradations had been drawn To human-kind, and to the good and ill Of human life : Nature had led me on ; S^" And oft amid the "busy 'hum" I seemed To travel independent of her help. As if I had forgotten her; but ho,' The world of human-kind outweighed not hers In my habitual thoughts; the scale of love, 685 Though filling daily, still was light, com- pared With that in which her mighty objects lay. From Book XI. France 105 pleasant exercise of hope and joy!^ Tor niighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, us who were strong in love ! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very Heaven ! times, ^1" In -whieh the meagre, stale, forbidding ways Of custom, law, and statute, took at once The attraction of a country in romance ! When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights When most intent on making of herself ^1^ A prime enchantress — to assist the work. Which then was going forward in her name ! Not favored, spots alone, but the whole Earth, The beauty wore of promise — that which sets (As at some moments might not be unfelt 120 Among the bowers of Paradise itself) The budding rose above the rose full blown. 1 To "Meditate with ardor on the rule and man- agement ol nations."^-!. 99. What temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of ? The inert Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 125 They who had fed their childhood iipon dreams. The play-fellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength Their ministers,— who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense, 130 And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had within some lurking right To wield it ;— they, too, who of gentle mood Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, 135 And in the region of their peaceful selves ; — ' Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty Did both find, helpers to their hearts' de- sire. And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish, — ' Were called upon to exercise their skill, i'*" Not in Utopia,— subterranean fields,— Or some secreted island,^ Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us, — the place where, in the end. We find our happiness, or not at all! 145 -^i^riiy should I not confess that Earth was then To me, what an interitanee, new-fallen. Seems, when the first time visited, to one Who thither comes to find in it his home °! He walks about and looks upon the spot 150 writh cordial transport, moulds it and re- , , moulds, !• And is , half -pleased with things that are amiss, 'Twill be such joy to see them disappear. An active partisan, I thusconvoke^ From every object pleasant circumstance 155 To suit my ends ; I moved among mankind With genial f eeling-s still predominant ; When erring, erring on the better part. And in the kinder spirit ; placable. Indulgent, as not uninformed that men 16" See 9S-they have been taught t- Antiquity Gives rights to error; and aware, no less. That thiiowing off oppression must be work As well of License as of Liberty ; And above all— for this was more than all— ' Such as Bacon's New Atlantis. 260 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS 165 Not caring if the wind did now and then Which they had struggled for : up Blow keen upon an eminence that gave , mounted now, Prospect so large into futurity ; ^^'^ Openly in the eye of earth and heaven, In' brief , a child of Nature, as at first. The scale of liberty. I read her doom, Diffusing only those affections wider With anger vexed, with disappointment 170 That from the cradle had grown up with sore, me, But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame And losing, in no other way than light ^ Of a false prophet. While resentment rose Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong. ^^^ Striving to hide, what nought could heal, ^ In the main outline such it might be said q^ mortifieTpresumption, I adhered 17. J^! ™y condition till with open war j^^^.^ ^^^^ ^o old tenets, and, to prove Bntain opposed the liberties of France.^ rpheir temper, strained them more; and This threw me first out of the pale of love ; thus in heat Soured and corrupted, upwards to the Of contest,' did opinions every day I ,^ source, ,,.,,, ^20 Q-i-Q^jr into consequence, till round my mind ,; My sentiments; was not, as hitherto, ^hey clung, as if they were its life, nay i A swallowing up of lesser things m great, "^ more T ?''*, !^°^^ °* ^^''^ '"^ ■" ?r •'°"l'r''' The very being of the, immortal' soul. And thus a way was opened for mistakes And false conclusions, in degree as gross, ,' ' , ; In kind more dangerous. What had been 270 1 A strong shoebj a pride, -^^g given to old opinions; . all men's Was now a shame ; my likings and my loves minds 185 Kan in new channels, leaving old ones jj^j j^ij. -^^ ^^^ ^j^^ ^^^ ^^^j^ j^^ ^^y> loose And hence a blow that, in maturer age, ^3^ j^^^^ ^^^ -^^^^^^ After what bath-been Would but have touched the judgment. Already said of patriotic love, ■ struck more deep ^ 275 gufiice it here to add, that, somewhat stem Into sensations near the^ heart : meantime, j^ temperament, withal a happy man, ion i' *T * ' f ' ^ /'/"' 7""" A ' ^^d therefore bold to look on :painful 190 To whose .pretensions, sedulously urged, things i had but'lent a careless ear, assured ^^^^ ^^^^-^^ ^j ^^^^ ^,^^1^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ That time was readj^ to set all, things right, j^p^.^ ^^^^ ' And that tlie multitude, so long oppressed, j summoned my best skill, and toiled, intent Would be oppressed no more. 28O To anatomize the frame bf social life ; ,0. -o wi But when events Yea, the whole body of society 195 Brought less encouragement, and unto these Searched to its heart. Share with me, The immediate proof of principles no more friend ' the wish Could be entrusted, while the events them- r^hat some dramatic tale, endued with Worn out in greatness, stripped of novelty. Livelier, and flinging out less guarded Less occupied the mind, and sentiments words ' 200 Could through my understanding's natural 285 Than suit the work we fashion, might set growth forth No longer keep their ground, by faith ^j^^^j ^hen I learned, or think I learned, ^ maintained of truth Of inward consciousness, and hope that AndLthfi^^errors'lnto which I fell, betrayed TT ,. J , , . , ., By present objects, andliy reasonings false Her hand upon her object-evidence y^om their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn on. ?^^^''' ?! """'l^sal application, such 290 Out of a heart that had been turned aside 205 As could not be impeached, was sought p^om Nature's way by outward accidents, elsewhere. ^ And which was thus confounded, more But now, become oppressors in their and more turn. Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared, Frenchmen had changed a war of self- Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims", defense creeds,- Eor one of conquest, losing sight of all ^^^ Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind, 1 In 1793. ■ ■ Suspiciously, to establish in plain day WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 261 Her titles and her honors ; now believing, Now disbelieving; endlessly perplexed With impulse, motive, right and wrong, the ground 300 Of obJigatioD, what the rule and whence The sanction; till, demanding formal' proof, And seeking it in everjrthing, I lost All feeling of conviction, and, in fine. Sick, wearied out with eontrarietieSj ' 305 Yielded up moral questions in despair. *rhen it was— Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all ^' good!— ^ _ / 335 That 'the beloved sister^ in whose sight Those days were passed, now speaking in a v6ice Of sudden admonition — like a brook That did but cross a lonely road, and ,now Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn, 3*0 Companion never lost through many a league — Maintained for me a saving intercourse With my true self ; for, though bedimmed aiid changed Much, as it seemed, I was no . further changed ' Than as a clouded and a waning moon : 2*5 She whispered still that brigl^|;ness w:ould return, ''. '■ ' .,i: - She, in the midst of all, preserved me still ' A poet, made me seek beneath; that name, And that alone, my ofEiee upon earth; And, lastly, as hereafter will be. shown, 350 If -willing audience fail not, Nature 's self. By all varieties of human love Assisted, led me back through openingiday To ithose sweet counsels between head, and heart Whence grew , that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace, 355 Which, through the later sirijiings of this '' cause,' , . ' Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now. From Book XII. Imagination and Taste, How Impaired and Restored Long time have human ignorance and guilt Detained us, on what speeta'cles of woe Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed With sbrrow, disappointment;, vexing thoughts, 5 Confusion of the judgtoient, zeal decayed, 1 Wordsworth joined his sister Dorothy at.Hall- i.'i: fax in the' winter of 1794*. And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself And things to hope for! Not with these began Our song, and not with these our song must end. — ' ■ ' Ye motions of delight, that haunt the-feides 10 Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs, Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers^ • Feelingly watched, might teach Man 's - haughty I'aee How without injury to take, to give Without offence ; ye who, as if to show 15 Xhe wondrous influence of power gently used, Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, And, with a touch, shift the Stupendous clouds ' ' Through the whole compass of the sky; ye brooks. Muttering along' the stoiies, a busy noise 20 By day, a quiet sound in silent night; Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal - 'forth ■' ■ In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore, Not mute; and then retire, fearing' no storm; And you, ye graves,- whose ministry it is 25 To interpose the covert of your'shadesj Even as a sleep, between the heart Sf maii And outward troubles^ between man him- self, Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart : Oh I that I had a mufeic and a voice 30 Harmonious as -your own, that I might tell iWhat ye have done for 'me. The inbm- > ing shines, - , - ... Nor heedeth Man's perverseness; Spring returns,— I saw the Spring return, and could' rejoice, In common with the children of her love, 35 Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh ■:..■_ : fields, ■ ' ,',,•':;■ Or boldly seeking pleasure nearer heaven On wings that navigate cerulean skies. So neither were compTacency,'nor peace, ■ Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good *o Through these distracted times; in Na- ' ture still ' ■ ' " ' Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her. Which, when the spirit of evil reached its height, ' Maintained for me a secret happiness. -'' - ' Before' I was called forth ij^S From the retirement of my native hills, I loved whate'er I saw: nor lightly loved, I -But most intensely; never dreamt of a'ttght /. 262 NINETEENTH CENTUEY EOMANTICISTS More grand, more fair, more exquisitely framed Than those few nooks to which my happy feet 180 "Were limited. I had not at that time Lived long enough, nor in the least survived The flr^t diviner influence of this world. As it appears to unaccustomed eyes. Worshipping then among the depth of things, 1^5 As piety ordained ; could I submit To measured admiration, or to aught That should preclude humility and love? I felt, observed, and pondered; did not judge, Tea, never thought of judging; with the gift 190 Of all this glory filled and satisfied. And afterwards, when through the gor- geous Alps Roaming, I carried with me the same heart : In truth, the degradation— howsoe'er Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree, 195 Of custom that prepares a partial scale In which the little oft outweighs the great; Or any other cause that hath been named ; Or lastly, aggravated by the times And their impassioned sounds, which well might make 200 The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes Inaudible — was transient; I had known Too forcibly, too early in my life, Visitings of imaginative power For this to last : I shook the habit off, 205 Entirely and forever, and again In Nature 's presence stood, as now I stand, A sensitive being, a creative soul. Book XIII. Imagination and TastEj How Impaired and Kestoked — {Concluded) ^ From Nature doth emotio n come; and Tippnds 'V Of cal mnesg equally are Nature's gift: This is Tier' glory ; these two attributes Are sister horns that constitute her strength. 5 Hence Genius, born to thrive by inter- change Of peace and excitation, finds in her His best and purest friend; from her receives That energy by which he seeks the truth, From her that happy stillness of the mind 10 Which fits him to receive it when unsought. Such benefit the humblest intellects Partake of, each in their degree ; 'tis mine To speak what I myself have known and felt; Smooth task! for words find easy way, inspired 15 By gratitude, and confidence in truth. Long time in search of knowledge did 1 range The field of human life, in heart and mind Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now To -reappear, 'twas proved that not in vain "0 I had been taught to reverence a Power That is the visible quality and shape And image of right reason; that matures Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth To no impatient or fallacious hopes, 2,5 No heat of passion or excessive zeal, No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns Of self-applaliding intellect ; but trains To meekness, and exalts by humble faith; Holds up before the mind intoxicate 30 With present objects, and the busy dance Of things that pass away, a temperate show Of objects that endure;, and by this course Disposes her, when over-f ondly set , On throwing off incumbrances, to seek 35 In man, and in the frame of social life, Whate 'er there is desirable and good Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form And fiinetion, or, through strict vicissitude Of life and death, revolving. Above all 40 "VVere re-established now those watchful thoughts Which, seeing little worthy or sublime In what the historian 's pen so much de- lights To blazon— powei' arid energy detached From moral purpose— early tutored me *5 To look with feelings of fraternal love Upon the unassuming things that hold A silent station in this beauteous world. Thus moderated, thus composed, I found Once more in Man an object of delight, 50 Of pure imagination, and of love; And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged. Again I took the intellectual eye For my instructor, studious more to see Great truths, than touch and handle little ones. 55 Knowledge was given accordingly ; my trust Became -more firm in feelings that had stood The test of such a trial; clearer far My sense of excellence- of right and wrong :, The promise of the present time retired WILLIAM WORDSWOETH 263 *•* Into its true proportion; sanguine By bodily toil, labor exceeding far schemes, Their due proportion, under all the weight Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I Of that injustice which upon ourselves sought ^'"^ Ourselves entail. ' ' Such estimate to frame For present good in life's familiar face, I chiefly looked (what need to look And built thereon my hopes of good to ' beyond?) come. Among the natural abodes of men, Fields with their rural works; recalled With settling -judgments now of what ^^. mmd would last " y earhest notices; with these compared 65 And what would disappear; prepared to "* The observations made in later youth , /.-J ^ ; X- jr ^jjij ^P ^jjgj. ^gy continued.— For,the time Presumption, folly, madness, in thfe men Had never been when throes x>t mighty Who thrust themselves upon the passive .iT^ "^^^j, i. u * ij „AA And- the world's tumult unto me could world . , , As Rulers of the world; to see in these, „y'^'"' , , .j j j Eveii when the public welfare is their aim, „. How far soe 'er transported and possessed 70 Plans Without thought, or built on theories "" Full measure of content; but still I craved Vague and unsound; and having brought An mtermmghng of distmct regards the ioooks = , = ^jj^ truths of individual sympathy Of modern statists to their proper test, Nearer ourselves. Such often might be Life, human life, with all its sacred claims „ f, . n-^ 1-4- 4-1, Of sex and age, and heaveri-descended ^^'"^ <';%|^^^* ^'^^^ ^'^^ ^* T'* ^^''^ T5 Mortal, m- 'those beyond the reach of "' To me a heart-depressing wilderness; ^ . , . •'. - . But much was wanting : therefore did I • And having thus discerned how dire a thing ™"^ j 1 1 j Is worshipped in that idol proudly named To you ye pathways and ye lonely roads ; "The Wealth of Nations,''^ where alone bought you^ enriched with evei-ythmg I that wealth .p,„,, P"^^°' , ■ j ■ , • Is lodged, and how increased ; and having With human kindnesses and simple joys. 80 A more^^licious knowledge of the worth ''** O^'-' "^^t to one dear state of bliss. And dignity of individual man, . , , voucnsaieci . No composition of the brain, but man ^'^^ *« *7 '\^^'^ untoward world. Of whom we read, the man whom we be- The bliss of walking daily in life 's prime , , ■] ' Through held or forest with the maid we With our own eyfes— I could not but en- . ^°^' • r While yet our hearts are young, while yet 85 Not with less interest than heretofore, ,„ ^.^ ^, . we breathe But greater, though in spirit more sub- ''' Nothing but happiness, m^some lone nook, ' dned— Deep vale, or anywhere, the home 01 both. Why is this glorious creature to be found ^ro^i which it -would be misery to stir : One only in ten thousand? What one is, ^^ '■ "^^V" '"" f f ^^f * °f our youth. Why may not millions be? What bars In my esteem, next to such dear delight, are thrown " wandering on from day to day 90 By Nature in the way of such a hope ? Where I could iueditate in peace, and Cull Our animal appetite^ and daily wants, . Knowledge that step by step might lead Are these obStrilctions insurinountable? _ _ "le on '.,,', If riot, then others vanish into air. To wisdom ; or as hghtsome as a bird "Inspect the basi? of the social pile: ... Rafted upon the wind from distant lands, 95 Enquire," said I, "how much of mental ^^^ ^mg notes ot greeting to s range fields pj. or groves,- ■ And gemilne virtue they possess who';live ^hich k^ed not voice to welcome me in ., ,■ , . .i o t-ifc' 4.1 And, when that pleasant toil had ceased lA reference to the works of Adam Smith, tlie +1 famtius political economist, wbo was charged to please, .jcith treating man, in his Wealth of Nation « Converse with' men, Where if we meet a face tu^^i'sHiVotTv'e""''"''*"'^ """" ''^ ' We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 264 NINETEENTH CENTURY EOMANTICISTS 140 With long long, ways before, by cottage From mouths of men obscure and lowly, bench, truths Or well-spring where the weai-y traveller Replete with honor; sounds in unison rests. ^^^ With loftiest promises of good and fair. Who doth not love to follow with his eye The windings of a public way'? the sight, Familiar object as it is, hath wrought ^*5 On my imagination since the morn Of childhood, when a disappearing line. One daily present to my eyes, that crossed The naked summit of a far-ofE hill Beyond the limits that my feet had trod, 150 T^as like an invitation into space Boundless, or guide into eternity. Yes, something of the grandeur which invests The mariner who sails the roaring sea Through storm and darkness, early in my mind 155 Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth ; Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites ; From many other uncouth, vagrants (passed In fear) have walked with quicker step; but why i?0 Take note of this? When I began to enquire. To watch and question those I met, and speak Without reserve to them, the lonely roads Were open schools in which I daily read With most delight the passions of mankind, 365 "Whether by w.ords, looks, sighs, or tears, , revealed; , : There saw into the depth of human souls, Souls that appear to have no depth at all To careless eyes. And— now convinced at heart How little those formalities, to which ''■'''> With, overweening trust alone we give The name of Education, have to do With real feeling and just sense ; how vain A correspondence with fthe talking world , Proves to the most; and called to make good search - i"5 If man 's estate, by doom of Nature yoked With toil, be therefore yoked with igno- rance; If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, And intellectual strength so rare a boon— I prized such walks still more, for there I found 1^" Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace And steadiness, and heaHng and repose To every angry passion. There I heard, There are who think that strotigflffee- tion, love Kjiown by whatever name, is falsely deemed A gift, to use a term which they woiild use. Of vulgar nature ; that its growth requires ^90 Retirement, leisure, language pjirified By manners studied .and elaborate; That whoso feels such passion in its strength Must live within the very light and air Of courteous usages refined by art. 195 True is it,, where oppression worse than death Salutes the being at his birth, where grace Of culture hath been utterly unknown, And poverty and labor in excess From day to day preoccupy the ground 200 Of the affections, and to Nature's self ^ppose a deeper nature; there, indeed, , 'Love cannot be; nor does it thrive with ease ■ ■. ipng the close and overcrowded haunts _ cities, where the human heart is sick, 20^ AnTthe eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. — "Ses, in those wanderings deeply did I I feel ' How we mislead each other ; above all, How books mislead us, seeking their re- ward From judgmlents of the wealthy .Few, who see 210 By artificial lights ; how they debase The Many for the pleasure of those Few; Effeminately level down the truth To certain general notions, for the sake Of being understood at once, or else 215 Through want of better knowledge in the heads That framed them; flattering self-conceit with words. That, while they most ambitiously set forth Extrinsic differences, the outward marks Whereby society has parted man 220 Prom man, neglect the universal heart. Here, calling up to mind what then I saw, A youthful traveller, and see daily now In the familiar circuit of my home Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 225 To Nature, andrthe power of human minds, To men as they are men within themselves! How oft high service is performed within. WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH 265 240 When all the external man is rude in show, — Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 230 But a mere mountain chapel, that protects Its simple worshippers from sun and shower. -Ojf these, said I, shall be my song ; of these. If future years mature me for the task. Will I, record the praises, making verse ii35 Deal boldly with substantial things; in truth And sanctity of passion, speak of these. That justice may be done, obeisance paid Where it is due : thus haply shall I teach, Inspire ; ^through unadulterated ears Pnrm^Xapttirf;, te nderness, and, hop e , — my theme Nn inth<.r t);