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 THE FAMILY LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH POETRY 
 
 FROM CHAUCER TO THE PRESENT TIME. 
 
 (1350-1878.) 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 JAMES T. FIELDS and EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. 
 
 "Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us lieirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! " 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 fr 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 HOUGHTON, OSGOOD, AND COMPANY, 
 
 1878. 
 
 -9> 
 
eft- — — ^ -a 
 
 i^- 
 
 
 Copyright, 1878. 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 /2- 3^;j.z3 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 BtVEESIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED DY n. O. HOUGHTON AND COMTA-NY. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a -Q) 
 
 TO 
 
 MR. AND MRS. HORACE HOWARD FURNESS, 
 
 WHOSE HELP TO THE BETTER UNDERSTANDING OF SHAKESPEARE HAS MADE DEBTORS OF ALL 
 WHO STUDY THE GREATEST OF ENGLISH POETS, 
 
 TH/S VOLUME IS CORDIALLY INSCRIBED BY 
 
 THE EDITORS. 
 
 <^ ^ 
 
(Qr 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 INTRODUCTIOIS^ 
 
 fr 
 
 In this " Family Library of British Poetry " 
 the Editors have kept steadily in view the idea 
 of the family, — the best and happiest result 
 of civilization. They have tried to excjude 
 everything which might not be read with profit 
 and delight by the fireside, and, at the same 
 time, to enlarge the scope of fireside conver- 
 sation and enjoyment. They have endeav- 
 ored to present a view of English poetry from 
 the fourteenth to the nineteenth century 
 which would afford pleasure in itself, and also 
 kindle the desire, in appreciative readers, to 
 explore for themselves the treasures which now 
 lie almost buried in a thousand volumes. The 
 chronological arrangement has been adopted, 
 because that arrangement best enables the 
 reader to survey English poetry in connection 
 with English history. The passions of human 
 nature, as of English nature, are ever the same 
 in essence. Still, the poetic expression of them 
 varies, in difi'erent periods, with the habits, 
 manners, and ideals of each period. Even so 
 universal a passion as love is wonderfully va- 
 ried in expression by poets of different times 
 and countries, who celebrate the passion under 
 widely different circumstances of race, climate, 
 and conventional fashions. A lover, of the age 
 of Chaucer, of Spenser, of Shakespeare, of Ca- 
 rew, of Dryden, of Pope, of Thomson, expresses 
 what he calls his " flame " in a very different 
 way from the lover who, in the nineteenth 
 century, told the story of " Genevieve," or 
 celebrated " The Phantom of Delight," or drew 
 the character of Haidee, or made a curiously 
 intellectual generation thrill to the description 
 of such a simple maiden as Maud. As to 
 other passions, such as hatred, revenge, envy, 
 malignity, ambition, avarice, and the rest, 
 though true to their original roots in human 
 nature, they still alter their expression, as they 
 alter their objects, with the general spirit pre- 
 
 dominating in any particular age. In respect to 
 thought there will be found to be a variation 
 similar to that which has been observed in the 
 phenomena of passion. If one wishes to know 
 what were the thoughts caught up by the 
 poets of any special period, he wiU find that 
 they vary with the intellectual characteristics 
 of the time. Then it will be discovered that 
 opinions are modified by circumstances, and 
 that it is only in great poets who grasp the 
 universal while depicting and representing 
 their own particular age, that an advance is 
 made in poetic thinking as well as in poetic 
 feeling. From Chaucer to Wordsworth we have 
 in English literature five great original poets, 
 namely, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Mil- 
 ton, and Wordsworth. The second-rate and 
 third-rate poets, even the fourth-rate, are wor- 
 thy of attention ; but these five are commonly 
 recognized to be, on the whole, the greatest. 
 The only question is whether Wordsworth, in 
 the marked revival of English poetry during the 
 present century, should yield the position of 
 leader to Coleridge, Byron, SheUey, or Scott, — 
 all of whom were poets of striking individ- 
 uality and splendid genius. The question of ' 
 precedence among these eminent men we wUl 
 not now discus.s. 
 
 The first consideration which jiresses on the 
 editors of such a work as the present is the 
 absolute worth of the highest poetry as a 
 means of mental, moral, and religious culture. 
 Among the testimonies to its value in these 
 respects, we pass over the eloquent " Defence " 
 of Sidney, the memorable lines of George 
 Wither, the touching tribute of Coleridge, the 
 ecstatic passages scattered through the works 
 of Milton and Emerson, in order to fasten at- 
 tention on the deliberate opinion of a conse- 
 crated poet, who made poetry his vocation, and 
 who listened to the utterances of the Muse 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 —^ 
 
 <0- 
 
 willi the rapt and solemn attention with which 
 otlier holy men have listened to the still, 
 small voice heard in the inmost recesses of 
 their souls, indicating their transient commun- 
 ion with the Holy Spirit of God. From his 
 own thrilling experience of mysteries in na- 
 ture wiiich science is incompetent to expjlain, 
 WordsYV-orth, in 1807, was impelled to say : 
 " It is an awful truth that there neither is, 
 nor can be, any genuine love of poetry among 
 nineteen out of twenty of those who live, or 
 wish to live, in the broad light of the world " ; 
 in other words, that the secret of the loftiest 
 poetry is hidden from confirmed worldlings, 
 though they may themselves be competent to 
 write brilliant and telling verses. But the 
 point of the remark is discerned in the next 
 sentence : " This is a truth, and an awful one, 
 because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, 
 in my sense of the word, is to be without love 
 of human nature and revertnce for God." Now 
 men and women are of little worth unless 
 they possess these two sentiments, reverence 
 for God and love of man. Still, they niay 
 have these sentiments without adopting Words- 
 worth's exclusive dogma, — a dogma prompted, 
 we may suppose, by the general neglect, at the 
 time it was announced, of his own poems and 
 of those of his friends Coleridge and Southey ; 
 but still the opinion thus solemnly stated as 
 an " awful truth " is worthy the attention of 
 all educators of the yoimg. Plant in the 
 growing mind this seed of the highest poetry, 
 make the boy and girl thoroughly enthusiastic 
 for grand sentiments and ideas as expressed 
 through the imaginations of creative spirits, 
 ' and a large portion of the work of education 
 is done ; for a passion for what is true and 
 beautiful and good comes to the aid of formal 
 ethics, and enforces what morality merely 
 teaches. 
 
 Still, Wordsworth's definition of poetry is too 
 limited. It will be found, in the present vol- 
 ume, that the light and playful as well as the 
 deep and serious elements of humanity are 
 included in the scope of English, Scottish, and 
 Iiish poetry, and thai there is hardly an actual 
 or possible mood of the human mind which is 
 not embodied in these pages. We have quoted 
 over four hundred poets, writing under various 
 conditions of birth, individuality, genius, and 
 external circumstances, who have recorded 
 
 their e.\periences of life and nature. From the 
 loftiest flights of impassioned imagination to the 
 quaint play of wit and fancy on scores of trivial 
 themes, we feel assured that the readers of this 
 book will acknowledge the comprehensiveness 
 of its plan, and find poems answering to every 
 transient as well as to every permanent mood 
 of their minds. It may not be unreasonable 
 to hope that the specimens we have given of 
 the immense richness and variety of English 
 poetry, from Chaucer to Swinburne, will stim- 
 ulate thousands of readers to go over the whole 
 field in detail, and find in the work constant 
 instruction, inspiration, and delight. While 
 deejjy appreciating Wordsworth's lofty idea 
 of the function of poetr}', and allowing the 
 great poets the amplest space for the expres- 
 sion of their genius, we have still made this 
 deference to the preponderating claims of the 
 superior poets compatible with a breadth of 
 representation which includes all wits and 
 humorists who have written in verse, and all 
 minor rhymers who, after groping about for 
 a litetime, versifying the commonplaces of 
 their age, have at last lighted upon one senti- 
 ment or idea, and put it into melodious verse, 
 which hit the public taste, and made a few 
 stanzas or couplets almost as immortal as the 
 grander efforts of the noblest poets. It is to be 
 noted that most of these " occasional " poems 
 refer to domestic or religious subjects. They 
 are commonly deficient in the great qualities 
 of poetry ; the fancy, the imagination, the 
 passion, may be comparatively feeble ; but 
 they have taken hold of the public mind, and 
 will not submit to the death which tlieir essen- 
 tial inferiority in respect to thought and im- 
 agination would, from a critical point of view, 
 seem to doom them. Many of the most popu- 
 lar short ])oems in the language, poems which 
 are stereotyped in the memory of ordinary 
 Englishmen and Americans, are merely acci- 
 dental " hits " of generally mediocre rhymers. 
 We have rescued some novel examples of this 
 class of poems from the undeserved oblivion 
 which sometimes follows great popularity. 
 But while such pieces are included in this col- 
 lection, because readers in general would de- 
 mand their appearance in it, the Editors take 
 satisfaction in the prominence they have given 
 to such poets as Chancer. Spenser, Shakespeare, 
 Ben Junsdu, Beaumont and Fletcher. Milton, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 -9) 
 
 fr 
 
 Dryden, Marvell, Herbert, Pope, Akenside, 
 Young, Tlioinson, Goldsmith, Burns, Words- 
 worth, Coleridge, Scott, Campbell, Byron, 
 Southey, and Tennyson. 
 
 In every case where a poet of the first rank 
 has been cited, care has been taken to consult 
 the best editions within our reach. Our gen- 
 eral reliance has been upon the American 
 rejirint of the Aldine poets, published by 
 Pickering in London, and edited in this coun- 
 try by Professor Francis J. Child. As to the 
 " occasional " poems, found in all collections, 
 we have endeavored to get at the true text, but 
 may sometimes have failed. It is said, for ex- 
 ample, that a poem so familiar as "The Burial 
 of Sir John Moore " has never been correctly 
 printed in the United States except in Cheever's 
 small volume of selections, published nearly 
 half a century ago ; " Auhl Robin Gray," the 
 most pathetic and popular of songs, was so al- 
 tered, first by the authoress, and afterwards by 
 collectors of songs, that even Palgrave seemed to 
 have been ignorant of the lyric as it was origi- 
 nally written, when he printed it in his excel- 
 lent "Golden Treasury." It would appear 
 that Burns's lines on Bannockburn could not 
 be misprinted, yet there are two vei'sions of 
 it, and the poorer version is that which is 
 often accepted. The list might be extended 
 to a great length. The songs in the plays of 
 the dramatists of the Elizabethan period are 
 often strangely perverted in collections of 
 English lyrics. We have generally followed 
 the text of the volume in which Robert Bell 
 has collected them, and are quite sure, from 
 frequent reference to the originals, that he is 
 right. But there are many popular poems 
 where it is almost impossible to be certain that 
 one has the pure text. If we have made mis- 
 takes in such cases, it has not been for want of 
 industry, but from the intrinsic difficulties we 
 have encountered. The compilers of h3'mn- 
 books used in our churches have taken the 
 strangest liberties in altering the style, and 
 sometimes the meaning, of the religious poets 
 from whose works they have made their selec- 
 tions. A lawyer who had strict views regarding 
 the guilt of transposing or omitting words in a 
 WTitten document duly signed, and of substi- 
 tuting different words from those which the 
 signer used, could hardly enter a church in the 
 land without having a strange sensation, com- 
 
 pounded of the horrible and the comical, in 
 listening to choirs devoutly chanting or singing 
 verses with forged names appended to them in 
 the hymn-book he holds in his hands. 
 
 It would be presumption to assert that among 
 the hundreds of poems to be found in this vol- 
 ume, some mistakes, as we have said, may not 
 be detected ; but where the poet is eminent, or 
 where, if not eminent, he can boast of a good 
 editor, it will be found that the text is. pure. 
 There are, for instance, many poems of Andrew 
 Marvell, which deservedly appear in all col- 
 lections of English poetry ; but they are taken 
 from a splendid though wretchedly edited 
 quarto edition of his works, published in the 
 last century. The chief fault in this edition is 
 wrong punctuation ; in Professor Child's edi- 
 tion, published in the Boston reprint of the 
 British poets, this fault, which makes nonsense 
 of some of Marvell's best passages, is corrected ; 
 and there are also numerous emendations of 
 the text, in which the word that Marvell really 
 wrote is substituted for the word which Jlar- 
 vell's first editor should have known he was 
 incapable of writing. It is the same with nu- 
 merous editions of Southwell, Crashaw, Her- 
 rick, Herbert, and Vaughan, — especially of \ 
 Herrick. 
 
 In the extracts from Chaucer we have dis- 
 carded Tj'rwhitt, and followed the text as given 
 in the " Clarendon Series " ; in the numerous 
 citations from Spenser we have relied on the 
 best edition in existence, that of Professor 
 Child, containing, as it does, the finest results 
 of the labors of previous editors, with many 
 precious additions of his own ; and Milton, 
 Dryden, Pope, Gray, Collins, Thomson, Gold- 
 smith, Cowper, Burns, Wordsworth, Campbell, 
 Southey, Coleridge, Byron, Browning, Tenny- 
 son, not to mention others, are represented in 
 this volume by selections taken from the best 
 and latest editions of their works. It will also 
 be observed that we have, in a number of in- 
 stances, extracted many long poems, which 
 have obtained a deserved celebrity, without 
 retrenchment. While quoting liberally from 
 the other works of Pope, we have given the 
 most exquisite mock-heroic poem in the Eng- 
 lish, or perhaps in any language, " The Rape 
 of the Lock," in full. While selecting from 
 Thomson's "Seasons" the passages which have 
 taken the strongest hold on the popular imagi- 
 
 — 9> 
 
a- 
 
 INT1{0DUCT10N. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 nation, the best of his poems, " The Castle of 
 Indolence," appears in this volume as "one 
 entire and perfect chrysolite." The Odes of 
 Gray and Collins, indeed, almost all the pieces 
 they VTote worthy of remenilirance, are here 
 reproduced. Many persons may be unalile to 
 jiurchase the comjdete works of Goldsmith and 
 Johnson ; but in this volume they will find 
 "The Traveller "and "The Deserted Village," 
 "London "and"TheVamty of Human Wishes." 
 Tiie first book of " The Minstrel " of Beattie, 
 and the larger portion of the second book, 
 occupy what may by some be considered a 
 disproportionate space, beca\ise " The Minstrel" 
 has, for more than a hundred years, exercised 
 a peculiar fascination over the hearts and im- 
 aginations of the young. The whole of "The 
 Eve of St. Agnes," by Keats, has been included 
 in the collection, because that poem, beautiful 
 in itself, is perhaps the most striking example 
 of what the genius of the author might have 
 accomplished, had he lived long enough to 
 show his capacity to combine the full flow of a 
 genuine poetic inspiration with the regulating 
 principles of an almost perfect poetic art. Ir. 
 the extracts from Wordsworth, the lovers of 
 that great poet will perceive that care has 
 been taken to represent fairly every aspect of 
 his genius ; and certainly no admirer of Byron 
 or Scott cau complain of scant justice done to 
 whatever was individual in the products of 
 their inspired moods. The Editors feel confi- 
 dent that, in their selections from the eminent 
 and the minor poets of five centuries, they 
 have not erred from any intellectual narrow- 
 ness, excluding this or that poet because he 
 did not fulfil the rigid requirements of any 
 exclusive system of poetic art ; that, in the 
 wide sweep of their selections from poets of 
 various kinds and degrees of power, they have 
 admitted nothing in the volume which is not 
 admissible in a family circle ; and that, though 
 repudiating Wordsworth's somewhat exclusive 
 
 system of poetic criticism, which would seem 
 to reject the light and graceful fancies which 
 spring spontaneously from moods in which 
 the jjoet abandons himself to merry and 
 jovial extravagances in contemplating the lu- 
 dicrous side of life, the mission of this volume 
 will be, on the whole, like that of the pure 
 stream of the Duddon, immortalized in his 
 sonnets ; that is, its effect will be 
 
 " To heal aud cleanse, not niaiUlen or pollute." 
 
 The Editors intended to give here a general 
 sketch of British poetry ; but as a companion 
 volume, "The Family Library of British Prose," 
 is soon to accompany the present work, they 
 have concluded to reserve for that volume a 
 general view of the literature of Britain, in- 
 cluding its prose as well as poetical writers. 
 It will be seen that this method has the advan- 
 tage of enabling the Editors to give a more 
 .synmietrical view of the different periods of 
 British literatiu-e. The age of Elizabeth re- 
 quires Hooker and Bacon as much as Spenser, 
 and nearly as much as Shakespeare ; in the 
 age of Charles II. (leaving out Milton,) the 
 two great imaginative mimls are Bunyan and 
 Jeremy Taylor ; in the period between 1740 
 and 1790 no poet, in respect to imperial and 
 prodigal genius, can be compared with Burke ; 
 and among the poets of the present century, the 
 large majority ai'e eminent as prose-writers as 
 well as poets. The examples of Scott, Cole- 
 ridge, Southey, and Moore will at once recur to 
 every mind. The Editors for these reasons 
 have decided to postpone their general sketch 
 of the literature of Britain, and present it in the 
 forthcoming " Family I,ibrary of British Prose." 
 From Milton to Swinburne modem orthog- 
 raphy has generally been followed, and in 
 such words as " preserved " the last e has been 
 retained, in acconlauce with present usage, 
 though without indicating the addition of a 
 syllable. 
 
 ^ 
 
 J 
 
r 
 
 -ft 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS. 
 
 h 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Addison, Joseph 287 
 
 AiRD, Thomas 875 
 
 Akenside, Makk 410 
 
 Alexandee, Mks. C. F 940 
 
 Alford, Henry 896 
 
 Alison, Richard 86 
 
 Allingham, William 952 
 
 Anonymous 977 
 
 Anstey, Christopher 422 
 
 Armstrong, John 378 
 
 Arnold, Edwin 960 
 
 Arnold, Matthew 949 
 
 Ayton, Sm Robert 125 
 
 Aytoun, William Edmon- 
 STOUNE 935 
 
 Bacon, Francis, Lord 84 
 
 Bailey, Philip James 942 
 
 Baillie, Joanna 552 
 
 Ballads, British 967 
 
 Banim, John 872 
 
 Barbauld, Anna Letitia.. 489 
 
 Barbour, John 15 
 
 Barham, Richard Harris 820 
 
 Barnard, Lady Anne 500 
 
 Barnes, William 948 
 
 Barnfield, Richard 85 
 
 Barrett, Eaton Stannard 866 
 
 Barton, Bernard 768 
 
 Bayly, Thomas Haynes ... 832 
 
 Beattie, James 472 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher 111 
 
 Beaumont, Sir John 147 
 
 Beddoes, Thomas Lovell 883 
 
 Bennett, Henry 777 
 
 Bennett, William C 947 
 
 Bennoch, Francis 941 
 
 Berkeley, George 303 
 
 Bickerstaff, Isaac 480 
 
 Blacklock, Thomas 407 
 
 Blackstone, Sir William 420 
 
 Blair, Robert 335 
 
 Blake, William 520 
 
 Blamire, Susanna 498 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert 570 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bonar, Horatius 890 
 
 BoswELL, Sir Alexander. 706 
 Bowles, William Lisle ... 558 
 
 Bowring, Sir John 835 
 
 Breton, Nicholas 57 
 
 Brome, Richard 132 
 
 Brooke, Fulke Geeville, 
 
 Lord 57 
 
 Browne, Sir Thomas 156 
 
 Browne, William 154 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Bar- 
 rett 923 
 
 Browning, Robert 928 
 
 Bruce, Michael 496 
 
 Brydges, Sir Samuel Eg- 
 
 erton 556 
 
 Buchanan, Robert 963 
 
 Buckinghamshire, John 
 
 Sheffield, Duke op ... 268 
 BuLWER. See Lytton. 
 
 Burns, Robert 524 
 
 BuTLEB, Samuel 220 
 
 Byrd, William 28 
 
 Byrom, John 332 
 
 Byron, Lord 784 
 
 Campbell, Thomas 716 
 
 Campion, Thomas 86 
 
 Canning, George 574 
 
 Carew, Lady Elizabeth... 176 
 
 Carew, Thomas 161 
 
 Carey, Henry 365 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas 850 
 
 Cartwright, William ... 219 
 
 Chalkhill, John 156 
 
 Chamberlayne, William.. 241 
 
 Chapman, George 62 
 
 Chai-ierton, Thomas 604 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey 1 
 
 Cherry, Andrew 556 
 
 Chorley, Henry Fother- 
 
 GILL 881 
 
 Churchill, Charles 468 
 
 Cibber, Colley 286 
 
 Clare, John 837 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Cleveland, John 227 
 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh ... 944 
 
 Cockburn, Alicia 486 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley 849 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Tay- 
 lor 666 
 
 Collins, William 399 
 
 CoLMAN, George, the 
 
 Younger 557 
 
 CoNGREVE, William 289 
 
 Constable, Henry 58 
 
 Cook, Eliza 944 
 
 Corbet, Richard 148 
 
 Cornwall, Barry. See 
 Procter. 
 
 Cotton, Charles 253 
 
 Cotton, Nathaniel 409 
 
 CowLfeY, Abraham 233 
 
 Cowpee, William 447 
 
 Ceabbe, George 510 
 
 Crashaw, Richard 215 
 
 Crawford, Robert 419 
 
 Croly, George 748 
 
 Cunningham, Allan 769 
 
 Cunningham, John 446 
 
 Daniel, Samuel 
 
 Darley, George 
 
 Darwin, Erasmus 
 
 Davenant, Sir William... 
 
 Davies, Sir John 
 
 Davy, Sir Humphry 
 
 Dekker, Thomas 
 
 Denham, Sir John 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey 
 
 Dibdin, Charles 
 
 DiBDiN, Thomas 
 
 Dickens, Charles 
 
 DiMOND, William 
 
 Dobell, Sydney 
 
 Doddridge, Philip 
 
 Domett, Alfred 
 
 Donne, John 
 
 Dorset, Charles Sack- 
 viLLE, Earl of 
 
 65 
 772 
 466 
 174 
 135 
 734 
 100 
 228 
 836 
 492 
 653 
 922 
 939 
 951 
 365 
 938 
 139 
 
 266 t 
 
a- 
 
 NAMES OP THE POETS. 
 
 -to 
 
 DoBSET, Thomas Sack- 
 
 viLLE, Eaul of 25 
 
 Douglas, Gavin 20 
 
 Downing, Mary 886 
 
 Dkayton, Michael 67 
 
 Drummond, William 148 
 
 Dryden, John 253 
 
 DuFFERiN, Lady 891 
 
 Dunbar, William 19 
 
 Dyer, John 363 
 
 Eliot, George (Mrs. 
 
 George H. Lewes) 946 
 
 Elliot, Sir Gilbert 486 
 
 Elliot, Jane 485 
 
 Elliott, Ebenezer 752 
 
 EwEN, John 755 
 
 Fabee, Frederic William 938 
 
 Fairfax, Edward 144 
 
 Falconer, William 447 
 
 Fanshawe, Catherine ... 822 
 Fanshawe, Sir Richard... 183 
 
 Ferguson, Samuel 884 
 
 Fergusson, Robert 501 
 
 Ferrier, Mary 754 
 
 Fielding, Henry 36S 
 
 Fletcher, Giles 150 
 
 Fletcher, Phineas «. 151 
 
 Ford, John 127 
 
 Frere, John Hookham ... 572 
 
 Garrick, David 386 
 
 Garth, Sir Samuel 285 
 
 Gascoigne, George 4 
 
 Gay, John 309 
 
 Gifford, William 518 
 
 Gilfillan, Robert 936 
 
 GiEN, William 755 
 
 Glover, Richard 381 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver 431 
 
 Good, John Mason 920 
 
 Gower, John 15 
 
 Grahame, James 568 
 
 Grainger, Dr. James 408 
 
 Grant, Anne (of Lacgan) 518 
 
 Gray, David 962 
 
 Gray, Thomas 389 
 
 Green, Matthew 333 
 
 Greene, Robert 59 
 
 Griffin, Gerald 882 
 
 Habington, William 174 
 
 Hall, Joseph 142 
 
 Hallam, Arthur Henry... 920 
 Hamilton, William 366 
 
 ^s-^ 
 
 Harrington, John 24 
 
 Harrington, Sir John ... 64 
 
 Hayley, William 495 
 
 Hebeu, Reginald 757 
 
 Hemans, Felicia Doro- 
 thea 838 
 
 Henryson, Robert 18 
 
 Herbert, Lord (of Cher- 
 bury) 215 
 
 Herbert, George 168 
 
 Herrick, Robert 163 
 
 Hebvey, Thomas Kibble... 865 
 
 Hevwood, Thomas 106 
 
 Hinds, Samuel 827 
 
 Hogg, James 654 
 
 Holcroft, Thomas 494 
 
 Holland, J 919 
 
 Home, John 421 
 
 Ho.ME, Richard Henry ... 895 
 
 Hood, Thomas 856 
 
 Houghton, Lord (Richard 
 
 Monckton MiLNEs) 893 
 
 Howitt, Mary 883 
 
 Hovvitt, William 883 
 
 Hughes, John 873 
 
 Hunt, James Henry Leigh 759 
 
 Incelow, Jean 958 
 
 Jago, Richard 384 
 
 JamesI., King ofScotland 17 
 James VI., King of Scot- 
 land 86 
 
 Jameson, Anna 853 
 
 Jewsbury, Maria Jane 
 
 (Mrs. Fletcher) 837 
 
 Johnson, Samuel 370 
 
 Jones, Sir William 495 
 
 JoNSON, Ben 87 
 
 Keats, John 842 
 
 Keble, John 836 
 
 Kemble, Frances Anne ... 921 
 
 King, Henry 155 
 
 KiNGSLEY, Charles 945 
 
 Knowles, Herbert 854 
 
 Knox,William 822 
 
 Laidlaw, William 747 
 
 Lamb, Charles 711 
 
 Lamb, Mary 715 
 
 Landon, Letitia Eliza- 
 
 BETH 877 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage... 708 
 
 Lanqhorne, John 480 
 
 Leighton, Robert 957 
 
 Lever, Charles James ... 894 
 Lewis, Matthew Gregory 686 
 
 Leyden, John 707 
 
 Lloyd, Robert 471 
 
 Locker, Frederick 957 
 
 Lockhart, John Gibson ... 840 
 
 Lodge, Thomas 60 
 
 Logan, John 498 
 
 Lovelace, Richard 232 
 
 Lover, Samuel 853 
 
 Lowe, John 500 
 
 Lydgate, John 13 
 
 Lyly, John 28 
 
 Lyndsay, Sir David 21 
 
 Lyttelton, Lord 378 
 
 Lytton, Lord (Edward 
 
 BuLWER Lytton) 878 
 
 Lytton, Lord (Robert) 
 
 (Owen Meredith) 959 
 
 Macaulay, Lord 
 
 Macdonald, George 
 
 Mackay, Charles 
 
 Macneill, Hector 
 
 Mahoney, Francis (Fa- 
 ther Prout) 
 
 Mallet, David 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher ... 
 
 Marston, John 
 
 Martin, Theodore 
 
 Marvell, Andrew 
 
 Mason, William 
 
 Massey, Gerald 
 
 Massinger, Philip 
 
 Mayne, John 
 
 Meredith, George 
 
 Meredith, Owen. &? Lyt- 
 ton 
 
 Merrick, James 
 
 MicKLE, William James... 
 
 Middleton, Thomas 
 
 Miller, Thomas 
 
 MiLLiKEN, Richard Al- 
 fred 
 
 Milman, Henry Hart 
 
 Milton, John 
 
 Mitford, Mary Russell... 
 
 MoiR, David Macbeth ... 
 
 Montgomery, Alexander. 
 
 Montgomery, James 
 
 Montgomery, Robert 
 
 Montrose, James Graham, 
 Marquess of 
 
 Moore, Edward 
 
 Moore, Thomas 
 
 More, Henry 
 
 866 
 950 
 
 922 
 497 
 
 886 
 362 
 70 
 104 
 935 
 241 
 424 
 955 
 123 
 550 
 953 
 
 398 
 
 471 
 104 
 892 
 
 648 
 823 
 184 
 776 
 855 
 85 
 648 
 889 
 
 226 
 381 
 738 
 
 227 
 
 -P 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Morris, William 962 
 
 Moss, Thomas 557 
 
 Motherwell, William ... 851 
 
 Moultrie, John 866 
 
 MuLOCK, Dinah Maria 
 
 (Mrs. Ceaik) 952 
 
 Nairn, Carolina, Ladv ... 571 
 
 Nash, Thomas 61 
 
 Newcastle, Margaret Lu- 
 cas, Duchess of 247 
 
 NicoLL, Robert 937 
 
 Noel,T 895 
 
 NoRRis, John 277 
 
 Norton, Caroline Eliza- 
 beth Sarah 890 
 
 Oldys, William 334 
 
 Opie, Amelia 571 
 
 O'Reilly, John Boyle ... 964 
 
 Otway, Thomas 269 
 
 Oveebury, Sir Thomas ... 146 
 O.xroHD, Edward Vere, 
 
 Earl of 84 
 
 Palmerston, Viscount ... 
 
 Paknell, Thomas 
 
 Patmore, Coventry 
 
 Peele, George 
 
 Penrose, Thomas 
 
 Percy, Thomas 
 
 Philips, Ambrose 
 
 Philips, John 
 
 Philips, K.vtherine 
 
 Pindar, Peter. See Wol- 
 
 COTT. 
 
 Piozzi, Hester Lynch ... 
 
 PoLLOK, Robert 
 
 PoMFRET, John 
 
 Pope, Alexander 
 
 Peaed, Winthrop Mack- 
 worth 
 
 Peingle, Thomas 
 
 Prior, Matthew 
 
 Procter, Adelaide Anne 
 
 Procter, Bryan Waller 
 (Barry Cornwall) 
 
 Prout, Father. See Ma- 
 honey. 
 
 772 
 294 
 950 
 58 
 488 
 429 
 286 
 293 
 264 
 
 487 
 864 
 279 
 312 
 
 876 
 783 
 272 
 961 
 
 778 
 
 fr 
 
 Quarles, Francis 168 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter 30 
 
 Ramsay, .\llan 305 
 
 Randolph, Thomas 130 
 
 Reynolds, John Hamil- 
 ton 948 
 
 Rochester, John Wilmot, 
 
 Earl of 267 
 
 Rodger, Alexander 772 
 
 Rogers, Samuel 560 
 
 RoscoE, William 509 
 
 Roscommon, Earl OF 264 
 
 Rossetti, Christina Geor- 
 
 GINA 955 
 
 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 954 
 
 RowE, Nicholas 290 
 
 RoYDON, Mathew 56 
 
 RusKiN, John 945 
 
 Russell, Thomas 557 
 
 Sandys, George 143 
 
 Savage, Richard 335 
 
 Scott, John 446 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter 625 
 
 Sedley, Sir Charles 267 
 
 Shakespeare, William ... 72 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe... 382 
 
 Shenstone, William 382 
 
 Sheridan, Kicbaed Beins- 
 
 ley 503 
 
 Shirley, James 129 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip 56 
 
 Skelton, John 21 
 
 Smart, Christopher 419 
 
 Smith, Alexander 956 
 
 Smith, Charlotte 499 
 
 Smith, Horace 735 
 
 Smith, James 704 
 
 Smith, Sydney 574 
 
 Smollett, Tobias George 405 
 
 someeville, william 302 
 
 SoTHEBY, William 519 
 
 Southern, Thomas 270 
 
 SouTHEY, Caroline 
 
 (Bowles) 778 
 
 SoUTHEY, ROBEET 690 
 
 Southwell, Robert 63 
 
 Spencer, William Robert 576 
 
 Spenser, Edmund 31 
 
 Stanley, Thomas 252 
 
 Stephens, George Alex- 
 ander 397 
 
 Sterling, John 888 
 
 Still, John 27 
 
 Stirling, William Alex- 
 ander, Earl of 144 
 
 Strode, William 173 
 
 Suckling, Sir John 157 
 
 Surrey, Henry Howard, 
 
 Earl op 22 
 
 Swain, Chaeles 878 
 
 Swift, Jonathan 279 
 
 Swinburne, Algernon C. 964 
 Sylvester, Joshua 65 
 
 Talfoued, Thomas Noon.. 841 
 
 Tannahill, Robert 087 
 
 Taylor, Henry 887 
 
 Tayloe, Jane 756 
 
 Taylor, John, the W.ater 
 
 Poet 184 
 
 Tayloe, Tom 943 
 
 Tennant, William 774 
 
 Tennyson, .\lfred 896 
 
 Tennyson, Frederick 918 
 
 Thackeray, William 
 
 Makepeace 920 
 
 Thompson, Edward 481 
 
 Thomson, James 337 
 
 Thuelow, Loed 751 
 
 Tickell, Thomas 303 
 
 Tighe, Mary 688 
 
 Toplady, a 486 
 
 TouENEUE, Cyril 107 
 
 Trench, Richard Chen- 
 
 Evix 889 
 
 Turner, Charles 919 
 
 TussER, Thomas 23 
 
 Udall, Nicholas 24 
 
 Vaughan, Henry 247 
 
 Waller, Edmund 176 
 
 Waller, John Francis ... 940 
 
 Walton, Izaak 128 
 
 Warton, Joseph 418 
 
 Waeton, Thomas 425 
 
 Watts, Isaac 291 
 
 Webstee, John 108 
 
 Wesley, Charles 3G9 
 
 Westwood, Thomas 937 
 
 White, Henry Kirke 773 
 
 White, Joseph Blanco ... 708 
 
 Whitehead, William 384 
 
 Wilson, Alexander 571 
 
 Wilson, John 774 
 
 Winchelsea, Anne, Count- 
 ess OF 334 
 
 Wither, George 152 
 
 WoLCOTT, John (Peter Pin- 
 dar) 482 
 
 Wolfe, Charles 823 
 
 Wordsworth, William ... 578 
 
 WoTTON, Sir Henry 133 
 
 Wyatt, Sir Thomas 21 
 
 Wyntoun, Andrew 16 
 
 Young, Edward 225 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 -05 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER. 
 
 fr 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GEOFFREY CHArCEE. 1328{t)-U00. 
 
 The I'iolog:ue lo the Canterbury Tales 1 
 
 The Boy Martyr 9 
 
 l\- Hu°:elino, Comite de Pize 11 
 
 The Temple of Mars 11 
 
 Emelle 12 
 
 Morning in May 12 
 
 Creseiile 13 
 
 The Daisy 13 
 
 A Morning Walk 13 
 
 Trees, Flowers, and Birds I* 
 
 Slander 14 
 
 Bniuty 1* 
 
 JOHS OOWEB. 1330-U02. 
 
 Ttie Knvioiis Man and the Miser 15 
 
 Mi'dea gatherin;; Enchanted Herbs 15 
 
 JOHN BARBOCR. 1316 (?)- 1395(0- 
 
 Fm^il.nii 15 
 
 JOHN LYDGATE. 1375(7) - U60 (?). 
 
 Fioiii ihf L'lnilon Lyckpenny 16 
 
 ANDREW WYNTOUN. After U20. 
 
 ltiiir\ i'-\v ol" Si. Serf wilh Satlinnns 16 
 
 JAMES I., KING OF SCOTLAND. 1406-1437. 
 Kiii^ Jjums's First View of Lady Jane Beaufort, after- 
 wards Ills Queen 17 
 
 ROBERT HENUYSON. 1508 (*). 
 
 ihrGaniunt of Guod Ladies 18 
 
 WILLIAM DCNBAB. U65 (?)-1530(?). 
 
 Tlie Merle and Uie Nightingale 19 
 
 GAYIN DOUGLAS. U74(?)-1522. 
 
 Morniii;,' III May '. 20 
 
 JOHN SKELTON. UGnt?)-1.529. 
 
 T.I Ml^UL■^s Margaret Ilussey 21 
 
 SIR DAVID LINDSAY. 1490-155?. 
 
 A ('.Miiiaf'.'s Aci.tJiiiii of a Lawsuit 31 
 
 SIB THOMAS WYATT. 1503-1542. 
 
 ■' IJIauu' nut my iule! " 21 
 
 T.I his Mistress 23 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Snrrey. 1515(?)-1547. 
 
 C.iinplaiiu of a Lo\er relinked 22 
 
 Complaint of the Lnver disdained 23 
 
 Hescription and Praise of his Love Geraldine 23 
 
 The Means to attain Happy Life 23 
 
 Prisoned in Windsor, he recounteth his Pleasure there 
 
 passed 23 
 
 THOMAS TCSSER. 151.=; f?)- 1580 (?). 
 
 I'liiRipal I'tunis of Religion 23 
 
 NICHOLAS TDALL. 1506-156*. 
 
 'Ihe Million Wife 24- 
 
 The Work-Girl's Sonj 24 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 1530(?)-1577. 
 
 Die Vanity of the Beautiful 24 
 
 Swiftness nf Time 24 
 
 JOHN HARRINGTON. 1534-1582. 
 
 Lines on Isabella Markhain 34 
 
 THOMAS SACKYILLE. Earl of Dorset. 1536-1608. 
 
 Inipersouation of Sorrow 25 
 
 AUegorieal Personages deserilied in Hell %5 
 
 Henry Duke of Buckingham in Hell 27 
 
 JOHN STILL. 1543-1607. 
 
 Jolly G(jod Ale and Old 2? 
 
 JOHN tYLY. 1553(?)-1601(t). 
 
 Cupid and Camraspe 28 
 
 The Songs of Birds 28 
 
 Pan's Song of Syrinx 28 
 
 Song to Apollo 28 
 
 Apollo's Song of Daphne 28 
 
 WILLIAM BYRD. About 1590. 
 
 " My mind to me a kingdom is " 28 
 
 15, 
 
 -1618. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 The Soul's Errand 
 
 The Nynipli's Reply to Marlowe's Passionate Shepherd 
 
 A Vision upon this Conceit of the Faery Queene 
 
 The Pilgrim 
 
 The Silent Lover 
 
 EDMCND SPENSER. 1552-1598. 
 
 Proem to the Fust Booke of the Faerie Queene 
 
 Una and the R.'d Crosse Knight 
 
 Avcliimago, the Magician, and the House of Morpheus 
 
 Una and the Lion 
 
 The Chariot of Pride drawn by the Passions 
 
 Una, rescued from Sansloy by the Wood.Gods, dwells 
 with them 
 
 Prince Arthur 
 
 The Cave of Despair i 
 
 BelphcKbe. , 
 
 Sir Gnyon binding Furor 
 
 Wanton Mirth 
 
 The Cave of Mammon 
 
 Garden of Proserpine 
 
 Guyon guarded by an Angel 
 
 Impersonations of Imagination, Reason, and Memory 
 
 The Bower of Bliss 
 
 The Flight of Floiimell 
 
 From the Masque of Cupid 
 
 Combat of Blandamour and Paridell 
 
 The Graces and the Poet's Mistress..... 
 
 Epithalamion 
 
 From the Prothalamion 
 
 Spiritual Beauty 
 
 Sonnets. 
 " Weakc is th* assurance that weake flesh reposeth '* 
 " Lackyng my Love, I go from place to place" 
 
 ■^ 
 
e 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 -Q) 
 
 " After so long a race 03 I Imve run " 
 
 " Lyke as the culver on thu bared bougli ' 
 
 !No1)le Minds displaced at Court 
 
 licauty 
 
 Womankind 
 
 I'ower keeping down Merit 
 
 Dflif^ht and Liberty 
 
 Misrries uf a Suitor at Court 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 15.H-1586. 
 Sonnets. 
 " Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace" 
 " With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou clinib'st the 
 
 skies " 
 
 " happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear ! " ... 
 
 MATHEW ROYDON. About 1586 
 
 Kroin an Lltj^y on the Dratli of Sir Philip Sidney ... 
 
 FULKE GREVILLE, Lord Brooke. 1554-1638. 
 
 Cunstitiitioiial Guvertimtiit 
 
 Reality of a True Religion 
 
 NICHOLAS BRETON. 1555(7)-1G24(7). 
 
 A Fastiiial of Phillis and Coridon 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. Published in 1594. 
 
 Sonnil 
 
 GEORGE PEELE. 1552 (7)-1598(?). 
 
 Kn^land 
 
 David and Bethsabe 
 
 The Aged Man-at-Amis 
 
 , Cupid's Arrows 
 
 ROBERT GREENE. 1560 (?)- 1593. 
 
 Samela 
 
 Content , 
 
 A Mother's Song to a Child 
 
 A Young Maiden 
 
 Prod ign lity 
 
 The Shepherd and the King , 
 
 THOMAS LODGE. 1555 (7)-1625. 
 
 Rosaline 
 
 Rogader's Sonetto , 
 
 " Jjove in my bosom, like a be*- " ,.. 
 THOMAS NASH. 1564(7)-1601. 
 
 Tiie Decay of Summer 
 
 Despair of a Poor Scholar 
 
 Spring 
 
 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 1557-1634. 
 
 Till- Master Spirit 
 
 Fall of a Warrior fighting 
 
 Insinuating Manners 
 
 Passion and Reason 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 Virtue 
 
 A King 
 
 A Great Heart 
 
 Invocation to Rest 
 
 Omniscience 
 
 Sin 
 
 Invocation to Light , 
 
 The Praise of Ilitnipr 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Look Hume 
 
 Love's Ser^iIe Lot 
 
 1500-1595. 
 
 SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. 1561-1613. 
 
 A I'lTcise Tailor 
 
 Tieaaon 
 
 Fortune 
 
 Writers who carp at other Men's Books . 
 
 156;J-1G18. 
 
 JOSHUA SYLVESTER. 
 
 To Religion 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 1563-1619. 
 
 I'-piaile to the Countess of Cumberland 
 
 Sonnets. 
 " I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would 
 read" 
 
 U-- 
 
 " Fair is my love, and cruel as she 'a fair " 67 
 
 " Care-cliarmer Sleep, sun of tlie sable Night" ... 67 
 
 " Restore thy tresses to the golden ore " 67 
 
 Early Love 67 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 1563-1631. 
 
 'liie lialiail ot Agincourt 67 
 
 Queen Isabella and Mortimer 68 
 
 Morning in Warwickshire 69 
 
 To his Coy Love 70 
 
 Sonnet i 70 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 1564-1593. 
 
 Tlie Passionate Sbejitierd to his Love 70 
 
 Description ol Tamburlaine 70 
 
 Riches 71 
 
 Faust's Vision of Helena 71 
 
 Beauty beyond Expression 71 
 
 Description of Hero and Leauder 71 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 15G4-1616. 
 SoniiLts. 
 
 " Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" 72 
 
 " Let those who are in favor with their stars" 72 
 
 "When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes " 72 
 
 " When to the sessions of sweet silent thought " ... 73 
 
 " Full many a glorious morning have I seen " 7-* 
 
 " Not marble, nor the gilded monuments " 73 
 
 "Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry" 73 
 
 "That thou art blam'd shall not be tliy defect" ... 73 
 
 " No longer mourn for me when I am dead " 73 
 
 " From you 1 have been absent in the spring " 73 
 
 " Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'stsolong " 73 
 
 " When in the chronicle of wasted time " 74 
 
 " Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul" 74 
 
 "Alas, 'tis true I liave gone here and there" 74 
 
 " Oh ! for my sake do you with fortune chide " 74 
 
 "Let me not to the mariinge of true minds " 74 
 
 " Tir expense of spirit in a waste of shame" "4 
 
 " Those lips that Love's own hand did make " 74 
 
 " So on the tip of his subduing tongue " 75 
 
 The PlKBnix and the Turtle 75 
 
 Description of a Horse 76 
 
 The Beauty of Adonis 76 
 
 The Lark 76 
 
 Lucrere Sleeping '. 76 
 
 Opportunity 76 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth 77 
 
 Forsworn for Love 78 
 
 Songs from the Dramas. 78 
 
 Silvia 78 
 
 White and Red 78 
 
 Spring and Winter 78 
 
 Song of I he Fairy 78 
 
 Titaiiia in the Wood 79 
 
 Birds 79 
 
 The Dead of Kicht, — Approach of the Fairies 79 
 
 Inconstancy of Men 79 
 
 Hei-o's Epitaph 80 
 
 Hymn at tlie Tomb 80 
 
 One Good Woman in Ten 80 
 
 The Birth and Death of Fancy 80 
 
 Sweet-and-Twenty 80 
 
 Slain by Love ^ 80 
 
 "The rain it raineth every day" 80 
 
 "Under the greenwood tree" 81 
 
 Ingratitude ,,, ^ 
 
 The Homily of Love 81 
 
 The Message of Hopeless Love 81 
 
 The Betmthal 82 
 
 Wedlock 83 
 
 Take, O, take those lips away 82 
 
 The Sweet 0' the Year 83 
 
 A Merry Heart for the Road 82 
 
 The Pedler at the Diinr 83 
 
 " Come unto these yellow sands" 83 
 
 Full fathom live thy father lies" 82 
 
 The Warning 83 . 
 
 The Blessing of Juno nml Ceres h,' 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 AND TITLES OP THE POEMS. 
 
 XV I 
 
 Ariel set free 83 
 
 Influence of Musie 83 
 
 Ophelia's Song3 83 
 
 " Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sing3 " ... 83 
 
 « The Dirge of Imogen 83 
 
 The Willow Song 84 
 
 The Fool's Song M 
 
 A Cynic's Grace 8t 
 
 Bacchanalian Round 8i 
 
 EDWARD VERE, Earl of Oxford. 163t{i)-1604. 
 
 .\ IliiiiincialKin 84 
 
 FRANCIS. BACON, Baron Ternlam, Tisconnt St. 
 Albans. 1501 - 1S26. 
 
 RICHARD BARNFIELD. 
 
 The Nightin-jale 
 
 Ahout 1570. 
 
 -1607(1). 
 
 -1625. 
 
 k 
 
 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Nijrlit is niiih gone 
 
 KING JfAMES.VI. (of Scotland). 1566 
 
 Aue .Sclioi-t Poenie of Tyiiie 
 
 RICHARD ALISON. About 1606. 
 
 Clit-rry Ili|te 
 
 THOMAS CAMPION. 1510 (?) -162.3 (?*. 
 
 Dialojiue ijctwccn a Sylvan aud an Hour 
 
 DEN JONSON. 1574- 16?7. 
 
 VtilpoiiL' (tbe Fox) and his Dupes 
 
 Towering Sensuality 
 
 The Fall of Catiline". 
 
 To the Memory of my Beloved Master, William 
 
 Shakespeare, and what he hath left us 
 
 On the Portrait of Shakespeare 
 
 To the Holy Trinity 
 
 A Celebration of Charis 
 
 '* Follow a shadow, it still flies you " 
 
 Sung to Celia „. 
 
 The Proclamation of the Graces against Cupid, the 
 
 Runaway 
 
 Echo mouraing the Death of Narcissus 
 
 The Kiss 
 
 The Glove of the Dead Lady 
 
 Hymn to Diana 
 
 Wanton Cupid 
 
 Wake! Music and Wine 
 
 Love while we can 
 
 The Birth of Love 
 
 Cupids sliooting at Random 
 
 The Grace of Simplicity 
 
 A Vision of Beauty 
 
 Love and Death 
 
 The Slicpherd's Love 
 
 " O, do not wanton with those eyes *' 
 
 To thi'. Countess of Rutland 
 
 Epitaph 
 
 Epigram on Sir Francis Drake. 
 
 Fantasy 
 
 Epitnpli on the Countess of Pembroke 
 
 Character of a Poet 
 
 Love - 
 
 Bounty 
 
 The Morning of a Conspiracy 
 
 Good Lite, Long Life .. 
 
 Epitaph on my First Daughter 
 
 THOMAS DEKKER. 157t(T)-16tl (?). 
 
 The CliiibU;iii i,july and her Angel 
 
 Fortunatus chooses among the Gifts of Fortune 
 
 The Summer's Queen 
 
 Virtue and Vice 
 
 Lullaby 
 
 Patience 
 
 " Beauty, arise 1 " ;..,. 
 
 Sweet Content 
 
 The Old and YoungCourtier 
 
 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 1570 (T) -1627 (*). 
 
 Happiness nf Married Life 
 
 Virtuous Poverty 
 
 Death 
 
 The Three States of Woman 
 
 The Parting of Lovers 
 
 What Love is like 
 
 " Pity, pity, pity ! " 
 
 JOHN MARSTON. 1603 (?). 
 
 Misery almost without Hope 
 
 The Scholar and his Dog 
 
 Wherein Fools are Happy 
 
 Day Breaking 
 
 One who died, slandered 
 
 THOMAS HETWOOD. 1570 (t) . 
 
 Go. Pretty Birds 
 
 TlieLark 
 
 The Death Bell 
 
 CYRIL TOURNEUR. About 1580. 
 
 Vindici addresses the Skull of his Dead Lady , 
 
 Evil Report after Death 
 
 Love and Courage 
 
 The Incorruptible Maid 
 
 JOHN WEBSTER. 1585 (?)- 1654 (t). 
 
 The Duchess of Malfy 
 
 Single Life , 
 
 Reputation, Love, and Death 
 
 Funeral Dirge 
 
 Honorable Employment 
 
 Natural Death 
 
 Vow of Murder Rebuked 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Frakcis Beai'mont, 1586-1616. 
 John Fletchke, 1576 - 16i25. 
 
 The Pliilosophy of Kicks and Beatings 
 
 Description of Aspatia 
 
 The Grief of Aspatia 
 
 Philaster's tirst Meeting with Bcllario 
 
 Bellario's Love for Philaster 
 
 Cffisar's Lamentation over Pompey 
 
 Caratach on the Romans 
 
 Address of Suetonius to his Soldiers 
 
 The Mutual Love of two Young Girls 
 
 Song to Pan 
 
 The Satyr's Leave-Taking 
 
 Constancy 
 
 The Student awakened by Love 
 
 Fickleness 
 
 The Love Philter.... 
 
 The Invitation 
 
 The Praises of Pan 
 
 Dirge for the Faithful Lover 
 
 Tlie Sleeping Beauty 
 
 WTiat Women most desire 
 
 Hear what Love can do 
 
 "Take, O, take those lips away " 
 
 To the Blest Evanthe 
 
 A Bridal Song 
 
 Melancholy 
 
 " Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ".... 
 
 To Sleep 
 
 A Lover's Legacy to his Cruel Mistress 
 
 The Warning of Orpheus 
 
 To Venus 
 
 The Battle of Pelusium 
 
 A Satyr presents a Basket of Fruit to Clorin . 
 
 Cloe to Mcnot 
 
 The Mermaid Tavern 
 
 On the Tombs in Westminster 
 
 An Epitaph 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER. 1584-1640. 
 
 Sir Giles Overreach and Lord Lovel 
 
 Mareelia tempted by Francisco 
 
 The Appeal of Athenais to Pulcheria 
 
 Luke glorying over his Wealth 
 
 A Wife parting from her Husband 
 
 Unwithholding Love 
 
 Death 
 
 104 
 104 
 104 
 104 
 104 
 104 
 
 104 
 106 
 105 
 106 
 106 
 
 106 
 1(16 
 106 
 
 107 
 107 
 107 
 107 
 
 108 
 110 
 
 no 
 no 
 111 
 111 
 111 
 
 m 
 
 115 
 115 
 115 
 116 
 116 
 116 
 117 
 117 
 117 
 117 
 118 
 118 
 118 
 118 
 118 
 119 
 119 
 119 
 119 
 119 
 119 
 120 
 120 
 120 
 120 
 120 
 121 
 121 
 121 
 121 
 121 
 122 
 122 
 122 
 
 123 
 123 
 125 
 126 
 126 
 126 
 127 
 
 — U^ 
 
e 
 
 XVI 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 -fi) 
 
 CX 
 
 JOHN FORD. 158fi - 1G;?9 {?). 
 
 Cuiilcntiuii of a Nightingale with a Musician 127 
 
 Peath of Calista 137 
 
 Irreverent Reasoning 128 
 
 The Real and the Ideal 128 
 
 " Fly hence, shadows! '* 128 
 
 A Dirge 128 
 
 Birds' Songs 128 
 
 IZAAK WALTON. 1593-1683. 
 
 The Aii-lL-r'= Wish 128 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY. 1:196-1666. 
 
 The Equahty of the Grave 129 
 
 The Common Doom 129 
 
 Love*8 Hue and Cry 129 
 
 Joy following Grief 129 
 
 Friendship 130 
 
 A Tear and a Smile 130 
 
 THOMAS RANDOLPH. 1605-1634. 
 
 Fear, Rashness, and Flattery 130 
 
 To a Lady admiriug herself in a Looking-Glass 133 
 
 RICHARD BROME. 1653.. 
 
 Fathers, oh.-y yuur Children 132 
 
 SIR HENRI WOTTON. 1568-1639 
 
 Fart-WLlI to the Vanities of the World 133 
 
 Character of a IIa]>py Life 133 
 
 A Meditation 133 
 
 Fall of the Karl of Somerset 134 
 
 In Praise of Angling 134 
 
 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 134 
 
 Hnshand and Wife 135 
 
 SIR ROBERT ATTON. 1570-1638. 
 
 On Woman's Inconstancy 135 
 
 A Fickle Woman 135 
 
 SIR JOHN DAVIES. 1570-1626. 
 
 The Soul's Recoil upnu herself 135 
 
 The Soul is more than a Perfection or Reflection of 
 
 the Sense 136 
 
 The Soul is more than the Temperature of the 
 
 Humours of the Body 137 
 
 In what Manner the Siiul is united to the Body 137 
 
 The Immortality of the Soul 137 
 
 The Dignity of Man 139 
 
 The Dancing of the Air 139 
 
 The Dancing of the Sea 139 
 
 JOHN DONNE. 1573-1631. 
 
 To Sir Henry Goodyere 139 
 
 Religiun 140 
 
 From "The Progress of the Soul" 140 
 
 On the Blessed Virgin Mary 140 
 
 On the Sacrament 140 
 
 A Valediction forhidding Mourning 140 
 
 Love's Deity , 141 
 
 Bishop Valentine 141 
 
 The Will 141 
 
 A Hymn to Clirist, at the Author's last going into 
 
 Germany 142 
 
 Conjugal AfTection 142 
 
 JOSEPH HALL. 1574-1656. 
 
 A Private Tutor 143 
 
 A Poor Gallant 143 
 
 GEORGE SANDYS. 1577-1644. 
 
 Psalm XLII 143 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER, Earl of Stirling. 1580(t) -1640. 
 
 Sonnets. 144 
 
 " I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes '* 144 
 
 " 0, if thou knew'st how tliou thyself dost harm " 144 
 
 EDWARD FAIRFAX. 15ftO(?) -K.-'iii?). 
 
 Satan suiiiiuoniiig his Peers to plot against the 
 
 Christians 144 
 
 The Combat of Argantes and Tancrcd 144 
 
 Armida in the Christian Camp 145 
 
 The Garden of Armida 145 
 
 Armida and Riiialdo 146 
 
 SIR THOMAS OVERBURY, 1581-1613. 
 
 Tia- Wile 146 
 
 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. 1582-1628. 
 
 On the Death ut a Friend 147 
 
 On my Dear Son, Gervase Beaumont 147 
 
 RICHARD CORBET. 1582-1635. 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies 148 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 1585-1649. 
 
 To liis Lute 148 
 
 Spring 148 
 
 Love and Mutability 148 
 
 To a Nightingale l49 
 
 John the Baptist 149 
 
 The Lessons of Nature 149 
 
 Summons to Love 149 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 1588 (?) - 1623. 
 
 Mercy brijjhtening the Rainbow • 150 
 
 Tlie Sorceress of Vain Delight 150 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 1584 {?)- 1650 (?). 
 
 Happiness uf the Shepherd's Life 151 
 
 Love 152 
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 1588-1667. 
 
 The Companionship of the Muse 152 
 
 The Steadfast Shepherd 153 
 
 Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss 154 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 1590-1645. 
 
 Morning 154 
 
 Invocation to his Native Soil 154 
 
 The Syrens* Song 154 
 
 Pastoral Enjoyments 155 
 
 HENRY KING. 1591-1669. 
 
 Sic Vila 155 
 
 The Dirge 155 
 
 On the Death of his Wife 155 
 
 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 1605-1682. 
 
 Before Sleep : 156 
 
 JOHN CHALKHILL. Bom about 1575. 
 
 The Witch's Cave 156 
 
 The Priestess of Diana 157 
 
 The Votaress of Diana 157 
 
 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 1609 -1W2(?). 
 
 A Session of tin; Poets 157 
 
 A Ballad upon a Wedding 159 
 
 Love and Honor 160 
 
 Constancy 160 
 
 " I prythee send me hack my heart" 161 
 
 " Wliy so pnle arid wan, fond lover! " 161 
 
 A Woman's Face 161 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 1589 (?) -1639(7). 
 
 " Ask me no move where Jove bestows" 161 
 
 The Compliment 161 
 
 Song 161 
 
 Disdain returned 163 
 
 "Give me more love, ormore disdain*' 162 
 
 "Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain" 163 
 
 Approach of Spring 162 
 
 Persuasions to Love 162 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 1591-1G74. 
 
 Upon Julia's Recovery 163 
 
 The Ruck of Rubies and the Quarrie of Pearls 163 
 
 To Robin Red-Brest 163 
 
 Delight in Disorder 163 
 
 The Bag of the Bee 163 
 
 An Epitaph upon a Child 163 
 
 Coriniia 's going a Maying 164 
 
 Upon a Child that dyed , 164 
 
 To Muaique, to becalme his Fever. 164 
 
 To Violets 165 
 
 To Musick. A Song 165 
 
 -5^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 To the Virgins, to make much of Time 165 
 
 To Primroses liU'd witU Morning Dew 165 
 
 To Meddowcs 165 
 
 To Antliea, who may command him Any Thing 166 
 
 Upon a Child. Au Epitaph 166 
 
 To Daffadills 166 
 
 To Blossoms 166 
 
 Upon her Feet 166 
 
 The Primrose. 166 
 
 Tlie Night-Piece, to Julia 167 
 
 Upon a Child 167 
 
 Upon Julia's Clothes 167 
 
 Upon Ben Jonson t 167 
 
 A Bacchanali.in Verse 167 
 
 An Ode for Him 167 
 
 To tinde God 167 
 
 His Prayer for Absolution 168 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES. 1592-1644. 
 
 MorsTua 168 
 
 Delight in God only 168 
 
 What is Life" 168 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 1593-1633. 
 
 Till! Cliurch Porch 168 
 
 .Siiine 170 
 
 Prayer 170 
 
 Sunday 17U 
 
 Vanitie 170 
 
 Vertue 171 
 
 Man 171 
 
 Life 172 
 
 Peace 172 
 
 The Pulley 172 
 
 The Flower 172 
 
 ThcElixer 173 
 
 WILLIAM STRODE. 16IJI)-16H. 
 
 Music 173 
 
 WILLIAM HABINGTOX. 1603-1615. 
 
 Dcscii]itiiin ol Caslaia 174 
 
 Impartial Contemplation of Life 17+ 
 
 To Roses in the Bosom of Castara 174 
 
 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. lGn5-1608. 
 
 Description of tlie Vugui Birtha 174 
 
 "The lark now leaves hif watery nest" 175 
 
 To the Queen 175 
 
 The Coquet 176 
 
 Grieve not for the Past 176 
 
 LAD¥ ELIZABETH t'AREW. Ahout 1613. 
 
 Revenge of Injuries 
 
 fr 
 
 176 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 1605-1687. 
 
 A Panegyric to the Lord Protector (Cromwell) 176 
 
 On Love 178 
 
 At Penshurst 179 
 
 On a Girdle 179 
 
 The Bud 179 
 
 "Go, lovely rose! " 180 
 
 Old Age and Death 180 
 
 To Aiiioret 180 
 
 To Phyllis : :.. 181 
 
 Of the Queen 181 
 
 On my Lady Sydney's Picture 181 
 
 Of my Lady Isabella playing the Lute 181 
 
 To a Lady singing a Song of his composing 181 
 
 Love's Farewell 182 
 
 On Loving at First Sight 182 
 
 Apology for having loved before 182 
 
 The Scif-Banished 182 
 
 The Night-Piece, or a Picture drawn in the Dark ... 183 
 
 The British Navy 183 
 
 SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. 1607-1666. 
 
 A Rich Fool 183 
 
 A Rose 183 
 
 JOHN TAYLOR, the Water Poet. 1580-1654. 
 
 Dedication of " Thame lais " to " Anybody " 184 
 
 From Tavlor on " Thame Isis " 184 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 18(iS-107t. 
 
 Speech ot the Genius of the Wood 
 
 11 Penseroso 
 
 L* Allegro 
 
 At a Solemn Music 
 
 On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 
 
 Lycidas 
 
 An Epitaph on the admirable Dramatic Poet, W. 
 
 Shakespeare 
 
 On the new Forcers of Conscience under the Long 
 
 Pa rliamen t 
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 To the Nightingale 
 
 On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three 
 
 When the Assault was intended to the City 
 
 To the Lady Margaret Ley 
 
 To the Lord General Fairfax 
 
 To the Lord General Cromwell 
 
 To Sir Henry Vane the Younger 
 
 On the late Massacre in Pieraont 
 
 On his Blindness 
 
 To Cyriac Skinner , 
 
 On his Deceased Wife 
 
 Lady and Conius 
 
 Chastity 
 
 " To the ocean now I fly" 
 
 Sabrina Fair 
 
 Virtue 
 
 Philosophy 
 
 The Supremacy of Virtue 
 
 Invocation to the Heavenly Muse 
 
 Coufercnce of Satan and Beelzebub in the Fiery Gldf 
 
 Satan rouses and assembles the Rebel Angels 
 
 The Conclave of the Rebel Angels m Hell 
 
 Satan meeting with Sin and Death 
 
 Invocation to Light 
 
 Satan's Address to the Sun 
 
 Satan viewing the Garden of Eden 
 
 Wedded Love 
 
 The Prayer of Adam and Eve 
 
 The Son of God assailing the RebelliouB Angels 
 
 Adam and Eve expelled from Eden 
 
 .\tliens 
 
 184 
 185 
 186 
 187 
 188 
 190 
 
 19S 
 193 
 193 
 193 
 193 
 193 
 194 
 194 
 194 
 194 
 194 
 194 
 193 
 193 
 196 
 196 
 196 
 196 
 196 
 197 
 199 
 204 
 209 
 210 
 211 
 212 
 212 
 213 
 213 
 214 
 214 
 
 EDWARD, LORD HERBERT, of Cherbui7, 
 
 Ce i Inda 
 
 1581- 
 
 1648. 
 . 215 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW. 1610 (!)- 1650. 
 
 Music's Duel 215 
 
 Wishes to his Supposed Mistresa 217 
 
 All Epitaph upon Husband and Wife 218 
 
 The Weeper 218 
 
 On the Baptized Ethiopian 219 
 
 The Widow's Mites 219 
 
 Upod the Infant Martyrs 219 
 
 Samson to his Delilah 219 
 
 Two went up into the Temple to pray 219 
 
 Upon Ford's two Tragedies 219 
 
 Love 219 
 
 Water turned into Wine 219 
 
 WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. 1611-1643. 
 
 To Chloe 219 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER. 1612-1680. 
 
 The Aocoriiplisbiiients of Iludibras 
 
 The Religion of Iludibras 
 
 The Turns of Fortune 
 
 Svnods 
 
 Night '. 
 
 Hypocrisy 
 
 A Wise and Masterly Cowardice 
 
 Mom 
 
 Woman's Right, from a Hudibrastic Point of View 
 
 A Woman's Reply 
 
 Licentiousness of the Age of Charles the Second ... 
 
 The Difficulty of Rhyming 
 
 Socrates 
 
 Diogenes 
 
 220 
 220 
 221 
 221 
 222 
 222 
 223 
 223 
 223 
 223 
 223 
 224 
 224 
 225 
 
 -€P 
 
fOr 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Opinion 225 
 
 Miscellaneous TUouglits 235 
 
 Description of Holland 225 
 
 OiUl Rlivmes and Images 226 
 
 JAMES GRAHAM, Marquess of Montrose. 1612-1050. 
 •■My a.aiiiiiil..nl.vloic, 1 piay- 226 
 
 JOHN CLEVELAND. 1013-1639. 
 
 Oil Pliilhs waHiing licfore Sunrise 227 
 
 His Ilatied of Scotchmen 227 
 
 HENRY MORE. 16U-1687. 
 
 L)L'V0li01l 
 
 Charity and Humility 
 
 Euthanasia 
 
 227 
 
 228 
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM. 1615-1668. 
 
 Cooper's Hill 228 
 
 RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-10.58. 
 
 On Sir Peter Lcly's Portrait of Charles the First ... 232 
 
 The Music of her Face 232 
 
 "' "Why should you swear I am forsworn " 232 
 
 The Rose 232 
 
 " Aniarauthn, sweet and fair" 232 
 
 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars 232 
 
 To Althea, from Prison 233 
 
 To Lucasta, on going beyond the Seas 233 
 
 Lord of Himself 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEI. 1618-1667. 
 
 Tiic Praise of Poetry 
 
 or Myself 
 
 The Chi-onicle 
 
 From " Anacreontiques " 
 
 Gold 
 
 Tlie Grasshopper 
 
 Hope 
 
 Clandian's Old Man of Verona 
 
 The Wish 
 
 Prom the "Hymu to Light " 
 
 Destruction of the First-Bom, in the " Plagues of 
 
 Egypt" 
 
 The Complaint 
 
 From " Friendship in Absence" 
 
 Of Solitude 
 
 Epitaph on a living Author 
 
 A Supplication 
 
 Baron 
 
 On the Death of the Poet Crashaw, a Roman Catholic 
 
 Heaven 
 
 On the Death of Sir Henry Wottoa 
 
 WILLIAM CHAMBERLAINE. 1619-1689. 
 
 Poverty and Genius 
 
 A Snuiincr Morning 
 
 Virgin Purity 
 
 ■ 1678. 
 
 fr 
 
 ANDREW MARVELL. 1020. 
 
 Coinuiunion with jNature 
 
 Bermudas 
 
 The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn 
 
 To his Coy Mistress 
 
 The Fair Singer 
 
 The Mower against Gardens 
 
 An Epitaph 
 
 Translated from Seneca's Tragedy of Thyeates 
 
 ^[ikon's Paradise Lost 
 
 The Garden 
 
 A Iloratian Ode 
 
 The Character of Holland 
 
 A Drop of Dew 
 
 MARGARET LUCAS, Duchess of Newcastle. 1624- 
 167:i. 
 
 The Qmin of the Fairies 
 
 Mclanchiily 
 
 HENRY VAUOHAN. 1621-1696. 
 
 The Retreat 
 
 The World 
 
 Sundays 
 
 233 
 
 233 
 234 
 234- 
 ;S5 
 235 
 235 
 235 
 236 
 236 
 237 
 
 237 
 237 
 239 
 239 
 239 
 240 
 240 
 240 
 240 
 240 
 
 241 
 241 
 241 
 
 241 
 241 
 242 
 243 
 243 
 243 
 24t 
 344 
 2+4 
 2-H 
 245 
 246 
 247 
 
 247 
 S47 
 
 247 
 248 
 248 
 
 Man 249 
 
 "They are all gone" 249 
 
 The Knot 249 
 
 The Rainbow 250 
 
 The Night 250 
 
 To his Books 250 
 
 Renunciation of the World 250 
 
 The Bee 251 
 
 THOMAS STANLEY. 1625-1678. 
 
 Kdii- 10 .Moscluii 252 
 
 CHARLES COTTON. 1630-1687. 
 
 Imitation to Izaak Walton 253 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 1631 - 1700. 
 
 Cliaracter of the Duke of Buckingham 253 
 
 Charncfer of the Earl of Shaftesbury 253 
 
 Character of Slingsby Bethel, Whig Sheriff for 
 
 London 254 
 
 Titus Gates 254 
 
 Character of Elkanah Settle 254 
 
 Character of Shadwell 254 
 
 Mac Flecknoe '255 
 
 Dryden to Congreve 256 
 
 Dryden's Dislike of Married Life 256 
 
 Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew 256 
 
 A Song for St. CecUia's Day. 1687 257 
 
 Alexander's Feast ; or, The Power of Music 258 
 
 Prologue to the Tempest 260 
 
 Veni Creator Spiritus 260 
 
 The PoT.er of Love 260 
 
 TheSea-Fight 262 
 
 Love and Friendship 203 
 
 Fortune 203 
 
 Love and Beauty 203 
 
 Love 263 
 
 Homer. Dante, and Milton 263 
 
 Love in Gentle and Passionate Natures 263 
 
 Sa\age Freedom 263 
 
 Fear of Death 263 
 
 Reason and Religion 264 
 
 Men and Children 264 
 
 .\iitony's Remorse for his Misused Life 261 
 
 KATHERINE PHILIPS. 10"^ - 1664. 
 
 .V Iriind 264 
 
 WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Boscommon. 
 
 1633 (•)- 1084. 
 
 The Modest Muse 264 
 
 Poetic Inspiration 265 
 
 The Quack Doctor 265 
 
 On the Day of Judgment 265 
 
 CHARLES SACK VILIE, Earl of Dorset. 1637 - 1706. 
 
 " To all yun ladies now at laud" 266 
 
 Satire on Edward Howard 266 
 
 " Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes" 266 
 
 SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 1639 (?)-1701. 
 
 To a very Young Lady 267 
 
 " Love still has something of the sea " 267 
 
 Song : 267 
 
 JOHN WILMOT, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1630. 
 
 ruMslaiii-y - 267 
 
 JOHN SHEFFIELD, Duke of Bucklngliamslure. 
 
 iijty-i;:;i. 
 
 P„et,y 268 
 
 THOMAS OTWAY. 1651-1685. 
 
 Uelu.lera iiinl Jafiier 209 
 
 Description of Morning 269 
 
 Jaffler parting with Behidera 270 
 
 Castalio to Monimia 270 
 
 Cnstnlio's Curse on Womankind 270 
 
 Piiuli to lielvidcra 270 
 
 THOMAS SOUTHERN. 1660-1746. 
 
 Isahella and Hirun 270 
 
 ^ 
 
<&-- 
 
 AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 XIX 
 
 MATTHEW PRIOR. 1664-1721. 
 
 The Dfspiiiiiiig Shepherd 372 
 
 Cupid aud Ganymede ^2 
 
 The Lady's Lookraj-Glass 373 
 
 The Tliief and the Cordelier 373 
 
 " Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim" 374 
 
 An Epitaph on a Stupid Couple 274 
 
 King William and Ins Dead Queen 275 
 
 ToCloe 275 
 
 A Rcasonalile Afliietion 275 
 
 riullis'sAge 275 
 
 The Rumeiiy worse than the Disease 276 
 
 To a Child of Quality 270 
 
 The Feraalc Phaeton 276 
 
 Venns's Advice to the Muses 276 
 
 The Old Gentry 277 
 
 Ahra 277 
 
 For my own Monument 277 
 
 Epilnph Extempore 277 
 
 JOHN NOERIS. 1637-1711. 
 
 Mipcrstiliou 277 
 
 A Ilyiiin upoLi the Transfiguration 278 
 
 The '.Meditation 278 
 
 JOHN POMFRET. 1667-1703. 
 
 A I'oet's Ideal of a Country Life 279 
 
 Cusliiiii 279 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 1067-1741. 
 
 The i'luiuture of a Woman's Mind 279 
 
 On Poetry 280 
 
 To the Earl of Peterhorongh 280 
 
 From " On the Death of Dean Swift " 281 
 
 Baucis and Philemon 282 
 
 The Judicial Court of Venus 284 
 
 Tlie Birth and Breeding of Vanessa 284 
 
 Learning as a Shield from the Attacks of Love 285 
 
 Love and Philosophy 285 
 
 SIR SAMCEL GARTH. 166T- 1719. 
 
 An Apothecary's Address 
 
 Sloth 
 
 283 
 
 286 
 
 AMBROSE PHILIPS. 1671-1749. 
 
 i laiiil.TUoii ot a Fragment of Sappho 286 
 
 Tu Charlotte Pnltcncv 286 
 
 COLLET CIBBEE. 
 
 The Bliml B.iv . 
 
 1671-1757. 
 
 286 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 1673-1719. 
 
 " riie spacious firmament on high " 287 
 
 " When all thy mercies, O my God" 287 
 
 "How are thy servants hlest, Lord! '* 287 
 
 "When rising from the lied of death " 288 
 
 " The Lord my pasture shall prepare " 288 
 
 Marlliorough at the Battle of Blenheim 283 
 
 Cato's Solilorjuy on the Immortality of the Sottl 288 
 
 Cato to his Son 289 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 1672-1729. 
 
 The Cathedral '. 289 
 
 Love's Amhitiou 289 
 
 Amoret '. 289 
 
 Love's Infidelities 290 
 
 Leshia ;.... 290 
 
 Selinda 293 
 
 Music 290 
 
 NICHOLAS ROWE. 1073-1718. 
 
 A WHl's Struggle with Temptation 290 
 
 ISAAC WATTS. 1674-1748. 
 
 The Day of Judgment 291 
 
 " Lord, when I quit this earthly stage" 291 
 
 "T'.iere is a land of pure delight" 293 
 
 "Unveil thy hosom, faithful tomb" 292 
 
 A Cradle Hymn 292 
 
 On burning Bad Verses of Eminent Poets 293 
 
 fr 
 
 JOHN PHILIPS. 1676- 
 The Splendid Shilling 
 
 1708. 
 
 293 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 1679-1717. 
 
 Tin- lliiiiiu 294 
 
 EDWARD I'OING. 1081-1765. 
 
 From " Satires on the Love of Fame *' 297 
 
 On Life aud Immortality 298 
 
 Death 300 
 
 Procrastination 300 
 
 Man 300 
 
 Friendship 300 
 
 The World 301 
 
 The Risen Christ '. SOL 
 
 Religious Ardor 301 
 
 Ideal of a Christian 301 
 
 The World 302 
 
 Fortitude .' .302 
 
 Night 302 
 
 Evteiiipnre Epigram oil Voltaire 302 
 
 WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. 10Ci2»-17t2. 
 
 The lliiiit.d Hare 302 
 
 GEORGE BERKELEY. 1684-1753. 
 
 Verses on llie Prospect of planting Arts and Learn- 
 ing in America 303 
 
 THOMAS TICKELL. 1686-1740. 
 
 Culin and Lucy 303 
 
 To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Addison ... 3U4 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAT. 1685-1758. 
 
 Ode liom Horace 305 
 
 Song 3G6 
 
 " The last time I came o'er the moor" 306 
 
 Lochnber no more 306 
 
 Rustic Courtship 306 
 
 Dialogue on Marriage 307 
 
 JOHN GAY. 1688-1733. 
 
 " All ill the Downs the fleet was moored " 309 
 
 A Ballad 309 
 
 The F'ox at the Point of Death 310 
 
 The Lion and the Cub SIO 
 
 Similes of Love 311 
 
 The Sick Man and the Angel 311 
 
 The Hare and many Friends 311 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 1688-1744. 
 
 The Itipeof the Lock ■ 312 
 
 Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady 319 
 
 Extracts from " An Essay on Criticism " 320 
 
 Prologue to Mr. Addison's " Cato" 322 
 
 Unnersal Prayer 322 
 
 Ode on Solitude 323 
 
 The Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book of Horace 323 
 
 Epitaph on Mr. Gay 323 
 
 Celia 324 
 
 On his Grotto at Twickenhaai 324 
 
 Extracts from " Xn Essay on Man " .-. 324 
 
 Extracts from "Moral Essays" 327 
 
 From " Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace imi- 
 tated" 329 
 
 From "Epilogue to the Satires " 331 
 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul 331 
 
 JOHN BYROM. 1091-1703. 
 
 A Pa«lor;il 332 
 
 MATTHEW GREEN. 1696-1737. 
 
 From " The S|deen " 333 
 
 WILLIAM OLDYS. 1090-1761. 
 
 " Busy, cui'ious, thirsty fly " 334 
 
 ANNE, Countess of Wlnchelsea. 1730. 
 
 A Nocturnal Reverie 334 
 
 RICHARD SAVAGE. 1698-1743, 
 
 Remorse 335 
 
 Cnnsol.ition of a Nohle's Illegitimate Son 335 
 
 ROBERT BLAIR. 1699-1746. 
 
 The Giaie 335 
 
 Death of the Strong Man 336 
 
 Friendship 337 
 
 W 
 
C&- 
 
 XX 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Resurrection 3:J7 
 
 The Summons of Death to the Rich 337 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 1700-1748. 
 
 To Mvra 337 
 
 To the Nightingale 338 
 
 Contentment 338 
 
 Rule, Britannia! 338 
 
 The Rainbow 338 
 
 Tlic Golden Age 339 
 
 Nature in Spring 339 
 
 The Passion of the Grafes 340 
 
 The Care of Birds for their Young .' 340 
 
 Lo-e and Marriage 340 
 
 The Sandy Desert 341 
 
 A Tliunder-Storm 341 
 
 Celadon and Amelia 342 
 
 Bathing 342 
 
 Lavinia .' 342 
 
 The Snow-Storm 344 
 
 The Shepherd lost in the Snow 344 
 
 The Indifference of Wealth to Poverty 844 
 
 The Seasons as typical of Human Life 345 
 
 Hymn on the Seasons 345 
 
 The Castle of Indolence 346 
 
 DAVID MALLET. 1700-1763. 
 
 William and .Margaret 362 
 
 JOHN DIEK. 1700-1758. 
 
 Cioiigar Hill 363 
 
 PHILIP DODDKIDGE. 1702-1751. 
 
 On Krcoveiy from Sickness 365 
 
 " Ve gulden lamps of heaven, farewell! " 365 
 
 HENRT CAKET. 1063-1743. 
 
 bully in our Alley 365 
 
 A .Maiden's Ideal of a Husband 366 
 
 God save the King 366 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 1704-1764. 
 
 the Biais of Variow 366 
 
 Sung 367 
 
 HENRI FIELDING. 1707-1754. 
 
 A Huuiiug we will go 36S 
 
 The Roast Beef of Old England S6S 
 
 CHARLES WESLEY. 1708-1788. 
 
 llyiuii of Praise 369 
 
 " Jesu. lover of my soul" 369 
 
 Communion with God 369 
 
 SAMrEL JOHNSON. 1709-1784. 
 
 London 370 
 
 The Vanity of Human Wishes 373 
 
 Prologue spoken by Mr. Garrick 376 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Robert Levett 377 
 
 Imitation of Dr. Percy's Ballad Style 377 
 
 BhrlesQUe on the Ballad Style 377 
 
 Epitaph for Mr. Hogarth 377 
 
 Hymn 377 
 
 JOHN ARMSTRONG. 1709-1779. 
 
 Effeeis of 11 Pestilence in the Fifteenth Century 378 
 
 A Hill near the Sea-Coast 378 
 
 LORD LVTTELTON. 1709-1773. 
 
 Prologue to the Tragedy of Coriolanus 378 
 
 Ode to the Memory of his Wife 379 
 
 ' Tell me. mv iieart, if this be love " 
 
 381 
 
 fr 
 
 EDWARD MOORE. 1712-1757. 
 
 The Iliippy .Marriage 381 
 
 RICHARD GLOVER. 1712-1785. 
 
 .\dilress of Lcoiuttas 381 
 
 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714-1763. 
 
 WnUenalaii Inn at Henley 382 
 
 The Srliuuliuislicss 383 
 
 RICHARD JAGO. 1715-1781. 
 
 lliiiulet's Noliluiiuy Imitated .384 
 
 WILLIAM AVHITEHEAD. 1715-1785. 
 
 Varietv 384 
 
 DAVID GARRICK. 1716-1779. 
 
 Epilogue to the English .Merchant 3S6 
 
 Epilogue on quitting the Stage, June, 1776 .*iM7 
 
 Louisa's Lip 388 
 
 Hearts of Oak 398 
 
 On Dr. HUl's Farce 388 
 
 Epitaph on Lawrence Sterne 388 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 1716-1771. 
 
 Ode on the Spring 389 
 
 Odeon a Distant Prospect of Eton College 389 
 
 Hymn to Adversity 390 
 
 The Progress of Poesy 390 
 
 The Bard 392 
 
 Ode for Music 393 
 
 Ode on the Pleasure arising from Viciasitnde 394 
 
 On the Death of a Favorite Cat 395 
 
 The Fatal Sisters 395 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 396 
 
 GEORGE ALEXANDER STEPHENS. 1720 (;) - 1784. 
 
 '■ Cease, rude Boreas, Ijlustcring lailer ! " 397 
 
 JAMES MERRICK. 1720-1769. 
 
 The Chaiueleon 398 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 1721-1759. 
 
 Ode on the Poetical Character 399 
 
 Ode to Liberty 309 
 
 " How sleep the brave, who sink to rest " 401 
 
 Ode to Evening 401 
 
 The Passions 402 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson 403 
 
 Tasso and his English Translator 403 
 
 Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer 403 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline 405 
 
 TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 1721-1771. 
 
 Ode to liulepeudenee 405 
 
 Ode to Leven-Water 406 
 
 The Tears of Scotland 407 
 
 THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 1721-1791. 
 
 Terrors of a Guilty Conscience 407 
 
 The Portrait 408 
 
 DB. JAMES GRAINGER. 1721 P)- 1766. 
 
 Ode lu .Sulitude 408 
 
 NATHANIEL COTTON. 1721P)-1788. 
 
 The l'iic=ide 409 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE. 1721 - 1770. 
 
 Taste 410 
 
 The Soul's Aspiration towards the Infinite 411 
 
 Beauty 412 
 
 God as the Source of Beauty 412 
 
 Truth and Virtne , 413 
 
 The Aspiration of Nature 413 
 
 Human Fellowship 413 
 
 Invocation to the Muses 414 
 
 An Epislle to Curio 414 
 
 Song 417 
 
 CHRISTOPHER SMART. 1722-1770. 
 
 From " A Trip to Cambridge' 418 
 
 David 418 
 
 JOSEPH WABTON. 1723-1800. 
 
 Ode lu FaliLV 418 
 
 ROBERT CBAWFORD. About 1733. 
 
 The Bush nboou Traquair 419 
 
 Twcedside 420 
 
 SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 1733-1780. 
 
 .\ Lawyer's Farewell to his .Muse 420 
 
 JOHN HOME. 1724-1808. 
 
 Lord ltniidol|ili, Lady Randolph, and Young Norval 421 
 CHRISTOPHER ANSTET. 1724-1805. 
 
 'flie Piil.lie ll-eiikLlst 422 
 
 WILLIAM MASON. 1725-1797. 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, in the Cathedral of Bristol 424 
 
 An Ode from Caractacus 424 
 
 Against Homicide tCl 
 
 -s> 
 
a- 
 
 AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 XXI 
 
 A Scene of Pagan Rites 434 
 
 E|ntaph on Gray .' 425 
 
 Short Passages 425 
 
 THOMAS WAETON. 1728-1790. 
 
 Wiiit.n m a Ulank Leaf of Dngdale's Monasticon ... 425 
 
 On revisiting tlie River Lodou 425 
 
 On Sir Joshna Reynolds's Painted Window at Oxford 435 
 
 The Hamlet 426 
 
 The Progress of Discontent 426 
 
 Tlie Grave of King Arthur 427 
 
 THOMAS PEECT. 1728-1811. 
 
 The Friar of Orders Gray 429 
 
 "0 Nauny, wilt thou gang wi' me?" 430 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774. 
 
 The Traulhr 431 
 
 The Deserted Village 435 
 
 The Haunch of Venison 439 
 
 Retaliation 441 
 
 The Hermit 443 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 445 
 
 An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 445 
 
 "The wretch condemned with life to part " 445 
 
 " When lovely woman stoops to folly " 446 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 1729-1773. 
 
 May-E\e;or, Kate of Aberdeen 446 
 
 Content 446 
 
 JOHN SCOTT. 1730-1783. 
 
 Ode on hearing the Drum 446 
 
 WILLIAM FALCONEE. 1730-1769. 
 
 The Wrecked Ship , 
 
 fr 
 
 WILLIAM COWPEB. 1731-1800. 
 
 The Duties, 0|»|K)rtiinities, and Infirmities of Kings 
 
 The Englishman and Frenchman 
 
 Artificial and Natural Poetry 
 
 Chatham,. '..„■. 
 
 Rural Sounds 
 
 Town and Country 
 
 Slavery 
 
 England 
 
 The Pulpit 
 
 Cowper's Experience of Life 
 
 The Winter Evening 
 
 Winter 
 
 The Freeman 
 
 Alexander Selkirk 
 
 Report of an Adjudged Case not to be found in any 
 
 of the Books 
 
 Ode to Peace 
 
 Human Frailty 
 
 The Rose ■. 
 
 Pairing-Time anticipated 
 
 The Poet, the Oyster, and Sensitive Plant 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 
 
 The Nightingale and Glowworm 
 
 Boadieea 
 
 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 
 
 Walking with God 
 
 The Light and Glory of the Word 
 
 Light shining out of Darkness 
 
 Retirement 
 
 Joy and Peace in Believing 
 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 
 
 To Mrs. Unwin 
 
 To Mary 
 
 The Castaway 
 
 EEASMUS DAEWIN. 1731-1802. 
 
 Philanthropy of Howard 
 
 Deatli of Eliza at the Battle of Minden 
 
 The Mother of Moses 
 
 , The African Slave-Trade 
 
 The Extinction of the Stars 
 
 Loves of the Plants 
 
 Prediction of the Steanitioat and Railroad 
 
 447 
 
 447 
 448 
 449 
 449 
 449 
 450 
 450 
 450 
 451 
 453 
 453 
 454 
 455 
 455 
 
 456 
 456 
 456 
 456 
 467 
 457 
 458 
 461 
 461 
 461 
 463 
 
 463 
 464 
 464 
 464 
 464 
 465 
 
 466 
 466 
 467 
 ■467 
 467 
 467 
 40S 
 
 CHAELES CHIIECHILL. 1731-1764 
 
 Charaetei"3 of Quin, Tom Sheridan, and Garrick 468 
 
 The Poet's Remorse 469 
 
 Lampoon on the Scotch 470 
 
 Poets absolved from Taxation 470 
 
 A Critical Fribble 470 
 
 BOBEBT LLOTD. 1733-1764. 
 
 The .Miseries of a Poet's Life 471 
 
 The Poet doomed to be Usher of a Sfliool 471 
 
 WILLIAM JAMES MICKLE. 1734-1788. 
 
 The Sailor's Wife 471 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 1735-1803. 
 
 The Hermit 472 
 
 The Minstrel ; 6r, The Prt)gres8 of Genius 472 
 
 ISAAC BICKEESTAFF. 1735 (f) - 1787. 
 
 " There was a jolly miller" 480 
 
 JOHN LANGHOENE. ITS. -1779. 
 
 Country Justices and he Rural Poor 480 
 
 An Advice to the Married 481 
 
 EDWAED THOMPSON. 1738-1786. 
 
 The Sailor's Farewell 481 
 
 JOHN WOLCOTT (Peter Pindar). 1738-1819. 
 
 The .Ypple-Dumpiings and a King 462 
 
 Whitbread's Brewery visited by their Majesties ;... 482 
 
 May-Day 485 
 
 To Boswell 485 
 
 Sleep 485 
 
 JANE ELLIOT. .Uiout 1760. 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 485 
 
 ALICIA COCKBUBN. 1794. 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 486 
 
 SIB GILBEET ELLIOT. 1777. 
 
 Aiiivuta 486 
 
 A. TOPLADT. 1740-1778. 
 
 " Love divine, all love excelling " 486 
 
 HESTEE LTNCH PIOZZI. 1740-1832. 
 
 The Three Warnings 487 
 
 THOMAS PENEOSE. 1743-1779. 
 
 The Field of Battle 488 
 
 ANNA LETITIA BAEBAULD. 1743-1825. 
 
 To a Lady, wilh some Painted Flowers 489 
 
 Hymn to Content 489 
 
 Washing-Day 489 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous 490 
 
 "Come unto Me" 490 
 
 "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares " 491 
 
 An Atldress to the Deity 491 
 
 Life : 493 
 
 CHAELES DIBDIN. 1745-1814. 
 
 Tom Bowling 492 
 
 The Sailor's Consolation 493 
 
 Heaving of the Lead 492 
 
 True Courage 493 
 
 Lovely Nan 493 
 
 Poor Jack 494 
 
 THOMAS HOLCEOFT. 1745-1809. 
 
 GiifierGniy 494 
 
 WILLIAM HATLET. 17t5-1820. 
 
 Inscription on the Tomb of Cowper 495 
 
 On the Tomb of Mrs. Unwin 495 
 
 SIE WILLIAM JONES. 1746-1794. 
 
 An Ode, in Imitation of AlcEeus 495 
 
 .\ Persian Song of Hafiz 495 
 
 Narayena; Spirit of God 496 
 
 The Babe 496 
 
 The Employment of the Day 496 
 
 The Concluding Sentence of Berkeley's Siris imitated 496 
 
 -95 
 
a- 
 
 XXll 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 —Q> 
 
 -17G7. 
 
 MICHAEL BRrCE. 1746- 
 I'Ac'^y : written in Spring... 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 1746 
 
 Mary of Cuslk- Cni-y 
 
 SUSANNA BLAiniRE. W7- 
 
 AuUl K.jliMi Forljca 
 
 " Wlint nils this lieart o' miue? 
 
 179t. 
 
 1788. 
 
 JOHN LOGAN. 17« 
 
 Ti) tilt' Cuclvoo ' 
 
 The Brac3 of Yarrow 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 1719-1806. 
 
 Oil tliu Departure of the Nightingale.. 
 Written at the Close of Spring 
 
 LADY ANNE BARNARD. 1750-1825. 
 Aulil Ivoliin Gray 
 
 JOHN LOWE. 1750-1798. 
 
 -Mary's l)r.am 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON. 1751-177*. 
 
 Braid Clailh 
 
 .'^eutlijll Seencry and Music 
 
 Caiiler Water 
 
 A Sunday in Edinburgh 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEf SHERIDAN. 1751-1816. 
 
 Lo\e for Love 
 
 Conditions of Beauty 
 
 " Let tlie toast pass" 
 
 Epilogue to Fatal Falsehood 
 
 '' liail I a titart for falsehood framed" 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 1753-1770. 
 
 Clioius 111 Goddwyn, a Tragedic 
 
 The MynstrellesSonge in ^Ella, aTragycal Enterlude 
 
 Bristow Tragedy ; or, The Death of Sir Charles Baw- 
 
 din 
 
 WILLIAM ROSCOE. 1753-1831. 
 
 Siiiiiut oil parting with his Books 
 
 GEORGE CRABBE. 1754-18.33. , 
 
 The Parish Worliliouse and Apothecary 
 
 Isaac Asliford, tlie Peasant 
 
 Plnrhe Dawson 
 
 Dream of tlie Condemned Felon 
 
 Story of a Betrothed Pair in Humble Life 
 
 The Lover's Journey 
 
 Gradual Approaehes of Age 
 
 Song of the Crazed Maiden 
 
 496 
 •497 
 
 493 
 493 
 
 498 
 499 
 
 499 
 499 
 
 600 
 
 600 
 
 501 
 601 
 602 
 502 
 
 603 
 603 
 603 
 604 
 604 
 
 604 
 
 605 
 
 606 
 
 509 
 
 510 
 610 
 611 
 513 
 513 
 614 
 617 
 517 
 
 ANNE GRANT (of Laggm). 
 
 The Uiglihnd Poor 
 
 1756-1838. 
 
 fr 
 
 WILLIAM GIFFORD. 1756-1826. 
 
 TliL' CIvum; ofAnun 
 
 WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 1757-1833. 
 
 Sdii'^' of ilif Vii-f;iiis celebrating the Victory of Saul 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 1757-1827. 
 
 " lluw s«ri't I roamed from field to field" 
 
 "My silks and fine array " 
 
 " I love the jocund dance" 
 
 Tu the Muses 
 
 The Piper !!!..!!!'! 
 
 The Little Black Boy ....!'. ^!*!. 
 
 The Chimney-Sweeper 
 
 The Divine Image 
 
 On Another's Sorrow 
 
 Tlie Tiger ; ].'**" 
 
 A Little Boy lost 
 
 " A little black thing among the snow " 
 
 The Smile 
 
 The Little Vagabond ." 
 
 Aiigiirii's of Innocence 
 
 EOBERT BURNS. l7B9-]796. 
 
 Till- ("otter's Saturday Night 
 
 Tain O'Slinnter '. 
 
 Thi'Twa Dogs 
 
 Address to the Deil -. 
 
 On Pastoral Poetry.... 
 
 519 
 
 520 
 520 
 520 
 520 
 520 
 521 
 521 
 521 
 522 
 522 
 522 
 522 
 623 
 •52S 
 523 
 
 524 
 526 
 529 
 531 
 533 
 
 To a Mouse : 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy 
 
 The Vision 
 
 Epistle to a Young Triend 
 
 To Dr. Blacklock 
 
 Bannockburn 
 
 Afton Water 
 
 The Sodger's Return 
 
 Prayer for Mary » 
 
 Highland Mary 
 
 To Mary in nea\"ea 
 
 The Banks o' Doon 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo 
 
 "For a' that and a' that" 
 
 I love my Jean .'. 
 
 Ae Fond Kiss 
 
 Addi'ess to the Unco Guid 
 
 "O, my luve 's like a red, red rose" 
 
 Auld lang syne 
 
 The Lass o' Ballochmyle 
 
 Logan Braes 
 
 M'Pherson's Farewell 
 
 My Bonnie Maiy 
 
 My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 
 
 My Heart 's in the Highlands 
 
 Bonnie Lesley 
 
 Mary Morison 
 
 A Bard's Epitaph 
 
 Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots 
 
 Jessie 
 
 The Highland Lassie 
 
 Peggy's Charms 
 
 My Nannie, 
 
 Green grow the Rashes - 
 
 Coming through the Rye 
 
 The Highland Laddie 
 
 The Blue-eyed Lassie 
 
 E.xtemporaneous Effusion, on being appointed to the 
 
 Excise 
 
 The Dcil's awa wi* the Exciseman 
 
 On Sensibility 
 
 Man was made to moum 
 
 Sketch 
 
 JOHN MAINE. 1761-1836. 
 
 Logan Braes 
 
 Mustering of the Trades to shoot for the Siller Gun 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 1762-1851. 
 
 " The guWEiu glitters on the sward " 
 
 The Kitten 
 
 Description of Jane de Montfort 
 
 De Montfort and his Sister 
 
 To a Child 
 
 Patriotism and Freedom 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 1762-1812. 
 
 TliL- Bay of Bisray, 0! 
 
 SIR SAMUEL EGEBTON BRIDGES. 1762-1837. 
 
 Echo and Silence 
 
 The Winds 
 
 To Evening 
 
 To Autumn, near hev Departure 
 
 To Mary 
 
 GEORGE COLMAN, the lounger. 1762-1836. 
 
 Sir Mnr mad like 
 
 THOMAS RUSSELL. 1763-1788. 
 
 Sonnet to Valclusa 
 
 THOMAS MOSS. 1740-1808. 
 
 Tlie 1) ggar 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOTTLES. 1763-1850. 
 
 To Time 
 
 Hope 
 
 To the River Tweed 
 
 Written at Tynemouth after a Tempestuous Voyage 
 
 The Greenwich Pensioners 
 
 The Greenwood 
 
 The Glowworm 
 
 633 
 SU 
 &U 
 
 537 
 538 
 639 
 639 
 639 
 5tO 
 640 
 641 
 611 
 Ul 
 541 
 542 
 642 
 542 
 543 
 543 
 543 
 6-44 
 544 
 'lit 
 ,", 1 :, 
 545 
 545 
 545 
 
 .-.in 
 .",ir, 
 647 
 547 
 647 
 547 
 648 
 548 
 648 
 648 
 
 549 
 519 
 549 
 619 
 
 550 
 
 550 
 650 
 
 552 
 553 
 663 
 653 
 565 
 555 
 
 556 
 656 
 556 
 556 
 657 
 
 657 
 
 657 
 
 667 
 
 668 
 668 
 568 
 6^8 
 659 
 569 
 6. -.9 
 
 W 
 
a- 
 
 AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 -9) 
 
 SAHCEL ROGERS. 176^-1855. 
 
 Fruiii " Flrasurt's of Memory " 560 
 
 From " Human Life" 561 
 
 A Prophecy of Italian Emancipation 562 
 
 Venice 563 
 
 Ginevra 561 
 
 Jorasse 565 
 
 Pitstnm ; 5CG 
 
 A Wish 567 
 
 On a Tear 567 
 
 To the Butterfly 267 
 
 The Boy of Egreniond 6U7 
 
 JAHES GRAHAME. 1765-13U. 
 
 Faiexvcll to Scotland 568 
 
 Cliurch Worship 568 
 
 Tlie Blind Old Man and his Dog 669 
 
 A Scottish Country Wedding 5G9 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 1766 -1323. 
 
 The soldier's Hume 570 
 
 CAROLINA, LADY NAIRN. 176G-1345. 
 
 The Land o' the Leal 571 
 
 ALEXANDER WILSON. 1766-1313. 
 
 A N'lU&gc Scold surprising her Husband in an Ale- 
 house 571 
 
 AMELIA OPIE. 1769-1853. 
 
 The Orphan Boy's Talc 571 
 
 JOHN HOOKHABI FREKE. 17G9-184G. 
 
 Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National 
 
 Work 
 
 Sir Gawain 
 
 The Giants and the Abbey 
 
 War-Song on the Victory of Brunnenhurg 
 
 SIDNEY SMITH. 1769- 
 A Recipe for a Salad... 
 Parody on Pope 
 
 ISIS. 
 
 GEORGE CANNING. 1770-1837. 
 
 The Fnend of Humanity and the Knife-Grindcr 
 
 Song by Rogero in " The Rovers " 
 
 Lines on the Death of his Eldest Son 
 
 572 
 
 573 
 
 573 
 
 ..573 
 
 671 
 674 
 
 671 
 575 
 575 
 
 WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. 1770 - 1834. 
 
 Beth GtMert, or the Grave of the Greyhound 576 
 
 Wife, Children, and Friends 577 
 
 *' Too late 1 stayed, — forgive the crime " 577 
 
 Epitaph upon the Year 1806 577 
 
 Stanzas 678 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1770-1S.50. 
 
 " My heal t leaps up wlicn I behold '' 678 
 
 Lucy Gray 578 
 
 We are Seven 579 
 
 Lonisa 579 
 
 " She dwelt among thenntrodden ways" 580 
 
 "Her eyes are wild " 580 
 
 Love 631 
 
 Tintern Abbey 581 
 
 To a Skylark " 583 
 
 To a Skylark 583 
 
 The Kitten and Falling Leaves 683 
 
 To the Daisy 584 
 
 To the Cuekoo 685 
 
 Yew-Trec3 685 
 
 " She was a phantom of delight " 585 
 
 " Three years she grew in sun and shower " 586 
 
 The Daffodils 586 
 
 Ruth 586 
 
 Hart-Leap Well 589 
 
 The Solitary Reaper 591 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 591 
 
 To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the Grave of 
 
 their Father 593 
 
 To a Highland Girl 693 
 
 Rob Rny's Grave 694 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited 595 
 
 Yarrow Visited 596 
 
 (Q— 
 
 Lines written in Early Spring 
 
 Expostulation and Reply 
 
 The Tables turned 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 
 
 Ode to Duty 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior 
 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill 
 
 ToaChild 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 
 
 E.-ctenipore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg 
 
 Laodamia 
 
 Dion 
 
 Devotional Incitements „..' 
 
 Peter Bell 
 
 Ode : Intimations of Immortality from Recollections 
 
 of Early Childhood '. 
 
 On the Power of Sound 
 
 E.vtracts from " The Prelude " 
 
 Prelude to "The E.vcursion " 
 
 Unrecognized Poets 
 
 Genius in Cammuuion with Nature 
 
 The Sun glorifying the Mist 
 
 Natural Religion 
 
 The Pagan Mythology 
 
 Science and Poetic Faith 
 
 Imagination 
 
 The Child and the Shell 
 
 The Wiite Doe 
 
 The Reality and the Reflection 
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 " Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 
 room" 
 
 " It is a beauteous evening, calm and free " 
 
 "The world is too much with us" 
 
 " Weak is the will of man, his judgment blind ".. . 
 
 The Sonnet 
 
 " Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell " 
 
 To Lady Beaumont 
 
 "There is a pleasure in poetic pains " 
 
 Loudon 
 
 To , in her Seventieth Year 
 
 "A Poet! He hath put his heart to school" 
 
 " I grieved for Buonapart6 " 
 
 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 
 
 To Toussaint L'Ouverture 
 
 September, 1802. Near Dover 
 
 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Swit- 
 zerland 
 
 Written in London, September, 1802 
 
 Milton 
 
 "Great men have been among us " 
 
 British F'rcedom 
 
 October. 1803 
 
 To the Men of Kent. October, 1803 
 
 Patriotic Instincts 
 
 The Savage Man 
 
 Afterthought 
 
 Eminent Reformers 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 
 
 Walton's Book of Lives 
 
 Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters 
 
 Cave of Staffa 
 
 Tranquillity 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 1771-1832. 
 
 The Old Minstrel 
 
 Branksome Tower 
 
 Melrose Abbey 
 
 Love 
 
 The Poet 
 
 Patriotism ' 
 
 Rosabelle 
 
 Hymn for the Dead 
 
 Lochinvar ..*. 
 
 Marmion and Douglas 
 
 The Battle of Flodden 
 
 Harp of the North 
 
 697 
 
 697 
 697 
 698 
 698 
 699 
 600 
 601 
 601 
 603 
 604 
 604 
 606 
 007 
 608 
 
 609 
 611 
 613 
 615 
 616 
 617 
 617 
 617 
 618 
 618 
 619 
 619 
 619 
 620 
 
 620 
 620 
 620 
 620 
 620 
 621 
 621 
 621 
 621 
 621 
 621 
 623 
 623 
 632 
 622 
 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 623 
 624 
 624 
 624 
 634 
 624 
 624 
 626 
 
 626 
 626 
 626 
 637 
 627 
 627 
 628 
 628 
 628 
 629 
 630 
 633 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 XXIV 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 -fi) 
 
 V- 
 
 . Ellen, the Lady of the Lake 633 
 
 Boat-Song 633 
 
 Coronach 634 
 
 "The heath this night must be my bed" 634 
 
 Hymn to the Vii-jiin 634 
 
 " Merry it ia in the good greenwood " 635 
 
 Pitz-James and llodcrick Dhu 636 
 
 Battle of Bear an Duine 638 
 
 Allen-a-Dalc 641 
 
 Bertram 641 
 
 The Harp 641 
 
 The Grief of Childhood 642 
 
 Bevtiani'3 Death 642 
 
 The Battle of Banuockbuni .' 643 
 
 Rei)ecca's Ilyuin 645 
 
 Border Song 645 
 
 County Guy 646 
 
 The Lay of Poor Louise G46 
 
 " 0, Robin Hood "was a bowman good " 646 
 
 Helvellyn 646 
 
 Jock of Haz.eldean 647 
 
 "Pibroch of Dnnuil Dhu" 647 
 
 " Proud Maisie is in the wood " 648 
 
 KICHAKD ALFRED SILLIEEN. 1707-1815. 
 
 Tlie Groves nt lil.-iiney 648 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMEBY. 1771-1834. 
 
 Kighton the Alps 643 
 
 Kight 649 
 
 The Grave 649 
 
 Prayer 651 
 
 Home 651 
 
 A Mother's Love 651 
 
 To a Daisy 653 
 
 Friends 653 
 
 The Common Lot 653 
 
 The Soul's Longing for its Home 653 
 
 THOMAS DIBDI.V. 1771-1841. 
 
 The Siuiu' Little Island 653 
 
 All 's Well 654 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 1772-1835. 
 
 Kilriieny 654 
 
 The Skylark ; 657 
 
 The Women Po'k '. 657 
 
 The Maid of the Sea 658 
 
 " There 's gowd in the breast " 658 
 
 The Harp of Ossian 658 
 
 A Father's Lament 659 
 
 " When Maggy gangs away " 659 
 
 "Charlie is my darling " 659 
 
 Meg o' Marley 661) 
 
 Bonny Mary 6C') 
 
 " Love is like a dizziness " 661 
 
 Auld Joe Nicholson's Nanny 661 
 
 The Spectre's Cradle-Song 663 
 
 "WHien the kye comes hame"... 663 
 
 The Witch ofVife 663 
 
 SAMUEL TATLOB COLERIDGE. 1772-1834. 
 
 Genevieve 666 
 
 Epitaph on an Infant ,. 660 
 
 Domestic Peace 666 
 
 Sonnet to Schiller '. 666 
 
 " The sensual and the dark rebel in vain" 666 
 
 Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 667 
 
 Kubla Khan , 668 
 
 Love ; 668 
 
 The Night-Scene 669 
 
 TheEoliau Harp 670 
 
 Recollections of Love 671 
 
 Charles Lamb 671 
 
 Frost at Midnight 671 
 
 Hymn before .Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni 672 
 
 Sonnet on his first-born Child 673 
 
 Dejection: an Ode .. 673 
 
 The Knight's Tomb 675 
 
 Metrical Feet. Lesson turn iioy 675 
 
 Complaint 675 
 
 A Day-Dreanr 675 
 
 Human Life 676 
 
 The Pains of Sleep 676 
 
 Youth and Age 677 
 
 The Exchange „ ■ 677 
 
 To a Lady 677 
 
 Names i... 677 
 
 Work without Hope 677 
 
 Fancy in Nubibus; or, The Poet in the Clouds 678 
 
 Cologne 678 
 
 Love, Hope, and Patience in Education 678 
 
 My Baptismal Birthday 678 
 
 Epitaph on S. T. C 678 
 
 Address to the Soul of .ilvar 678 
 
 A Dungeon 679 
 
 The Sagacity of Innocence 679 
 
 Love and Fable 679 
 
 Cbristabel 680 
 
 MATTHEW GBEGOBT LEWIS. 1773 - 1818. 
 
 Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine 
 
 The Helmsman 
 
 686 
 
 687 
 
 ROBERT TAJiNAHILL. 1774-1810. 
 
 Tile Fiiuil Vuw 687 
 
 The Braes o' Balquhither 687 
 
 The Braes o' Gleniffer 688 
 
 The Flower o' Dumblane 688 
 
 MABIT TIGHE. 1774-1810. 
 
 Psyche gazing on Love 
 
 The Lily 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHET. 1774-1843. 
 
 The Cataract of Lodore 
 
 The Pig 
 
 The Devil's Walk 
 
 God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 
 
 The Inchcape Rock 
 
 The Battle of Blenheim 
 
 The March to Moscow 
 
 The Alderman's Funeral 
 
 Bishop Bruno ; 
 
 The Well of St. Kcyne 
 
 The Old Man's Comforts, and how he gained them 
 
 The Holly-Tree 
 
 The Complaints of the Poor 
 
 The Soldier's Wife 
 
 The Widow 
 
 St. Romuald 
 
 Night 
 
 " My days among the dead are passed" 
 
 Kehama's Curse 
 
 Love 
 
 Washington and George the Third 
 
 JAMES SMITH. 1775-1839. 
 
 To Mr. Strahan, enfeebled by the Gout 
 
 To Miss Edgeworth 
 
 The Baby's Daj4t 
 
 The Theatre :. 
 
 The Upas in Marybone Lane 
 
 SIB ALEXANDER BOSWELL. 
 
 "Jenny dang the weaver" .... 
 
 JOHN LEIDEN. 1776 -1811. 
 
 Sabbath Morn 
 
 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin.... 
 Ode to the Evening Star 
 
 JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 
 
 Night and Death 
 
 1775-1823. 
 
 1775-1841. 
 
 WALTEB SATAGE LANDOB. 
 
 Ipbigenia 
 
 To Macaulay 
 
 On the Death of Southey 
 
 Sixteen 
 
 The Dragon-Fly 
 
 The Shell and the Ocean 
 
 The Maid's Lament 
 
 1776-1864. 
 
 688 
 689 
 
 690 
 691 
 692 
 693 
 694 
 695 
 696 
 697 
 698 
 699 
 700 
 700 
 701 
 701 
 701 
 702 
 702 
 702 
 703 
 703 
 703 
 
 704 
 704 
 
 704 
 705 
 706 
 
 706 
 
 707 
 707 
 707 
 
 708 
 
 708 
 
 708 
 
 709 
 
 709 
 
 709 
 
 709 ,. 
 
 709 
 
 -05 
 
cQ- 
 
 AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 •^ 
 
 XXV 
 
 The Brier 709 
 
 Children 710 
 
 The Oue Gray Hair 710 
 
 To Age 710 
 
 Death 710 
 
 Rose Aylmer 710 
 
 Linnets Singiug 710 
 
 The Old Masters 711 
 
 Gifts 711 
 
 To Mary Russell Mitford j 711 
 
 To RoI.ert Browning 7U 
 
 To tlie Sister of Elia 711 
 
 CHARLES LIMB. 1775 -lS3k 
 
 A Farewell to Tobacco 711 
 
 To Hester .' 713 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 713 
 
 On an Infant dying as soon as bom 713 
 
 The Christening 7H 
 
 Childhood 7U 
 
 The Gypsy's Malison 714' 
 
 The Delights of the Country 715 
 
 MARY LAMB. lSi7. 
 
 The First Tooth 715 
 
 The Two Boys 715 
 
 David in the Cave of AduUam 716 
 
 Going into Breeches 716 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1777-1814. 
 
 E\ti;icts from " The Pleasures of Hope" 716 
 
 Extracts from "Gerfi-ude of Wyoming" 719 
 
 Lochiel's AVarning 731 
 
 " Ye mariners of England" 723 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 732 
 
 Holienlinden 733 
 
 Exile of Erin 723 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 734 
 
 Ode to the Memory of Burns , 724 
 
 The Soldier's Dream 735 
 
 To the Rainbow 726 
 
 The Last Man '. 736 
 
 Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kembic 727 
 
 Song of the Greeks 728 
 
 Hallowed Ground 728 
 
 Field Flowers 729 
 
 To the Memory of the Spanish Patiiots 730 
 
 To the Evening Star 730 
 
 The Power of Russia 731 
 
 " Earl March looked on his dying child " 732 
 
 Lines on the View from St. Leonard's 733 
 
 Switzerland 733 
 
 Men of England 73i 
 
 The Parrot 734 
 
 SIR HUMPHRY DATT. 1778-1829. 
 
 Thou-ht 734 
 
 The Eagles 734 
 
 Written after Recovery from a Dangerous Illness ... 735 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 1779-1819. 
 
 Address to the Mummy iuBelzoui'a Exhibition 735 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers 736 
 
 A Tale of Drury Lane 737 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 1779-1852. 
 
 " I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled"... 738 
 
 To 738 
 
 A Canadian Boat Song 738 
 
 Tlie Insurrection of the Papers 738 
 
 Litlle Man and Little Soul 739 
 
 Irish Melodies 
 
 " Go where glory waits thee " 739 
 
 " O, breathe not his name " 740 
 
 "0, blame not the bard" 740 
 
 " I saw thy form, in youthful prime" « 740 
 
 "Th3 harp that once through Tura's halls" 741 
 
 " She is far from the land " 741 
 
 " 'Tis the last rose of summer" 741 
 
 " Come, rest in this bosom " 7U 
 
 " Dear Harp of my Country " 741 
 
 "0, the sight entrancing " 742 
 
 Sacred Songs. 
 
 " The bird, let loose in eastern skies " 743 
 
 '* This world is all a fleeting show " 742 
 
 "The turf shall be my fragrant slirine" 742 
 
 "As down in the sunless retreats " 743 
 
 "They met but once " 743 
 
 The Light of other Days 743 
 
 " Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter " 743 
 
 " If there be an Elysium on earth " 744 
 
 Lines on the Death of Mr. Perceval 744 
 
 Lines on the Death of Sheridan 744 
 
 A Speculation 745 
 
 Satire on Castlereagh 745 
 
 Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into >"ap]es, 1821 746 
 
 Lampoon on Leigh Hunt's Reminiscences of Byron 747 
 
 A Curse on the Traitor 747 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 1780-1845. 
 
 Lucy's Flittm' .-. 747 
 
 GEORGE CROLY. 1780-1860. 
 
 Tbi; Deatli of Leonidas 748 
 
 Satan 749 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia 749 
 
 The Minstrel's Hour 750 
 
 Hymn from " Catiline " 750 
 
 Catiline's Dctiance to the Roman Senate 750 
 
 Catiline's Call to Anns 751 
 
 EDWARD HOVEL THCRLOW, Lord Thurlow. 
 
 1781-1^^9. 
 Sonnets. 
 
 On beholding Bodiam Castle 751 
 
 Written on the Last Day of Summer 751 
 
 To a Bird, that haunted the Waters of Lackcn, in 
 
 the Winter 753 
 
 In Autumn 753 
 
 To May 753 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 1781-1849. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fnlhers 753 
 
 Corn-Law Hymn 753 
 
 The Press 753 
 
 The Dying Boy to the Sloe Blossom 753 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 754 
 
 MART FERRIER. 1783-1854. 
 
 Th;; Laird o' Cockpcn 754 
 
 WILLIAM GLEN. Died about 1824. 
 
 " Wae 's me for Prince Charlie " 755 
 
 JOHN EWEN. 1821. 
 
 "The boatie rows " 755 
 
 JANE TAILOR. 1783-1824. 
 
 The Squiri-'s Pew 756 
 
 REGINALD HEBER. 1783-1826. 
 
 Ad* L-nt Sunday 757 
 
 Second Sunday in Advent 757 
 
 "By cool Siloam's shady rill" 757 
 
 Epiphany 758 
 
 " Thou art gone to the grave" 758 
 
 " From Greenland's icy mountains" 758 
 
 Before the Sacrament 758 
 
 Lines written to his Wife, while on a Visit to Upper 
 
 India 758 
 
 The Moonlight March 759 
 
 From "The Gulistan " 759 
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 1784-1859. 
 
 The Ftastof llie Pucts 759 
 
 Sonirs of the Flowers 764 
 
 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 766 
 
 To T, L. Hunt, six Years old, during a Sickness 766 
 
 Tlie Glove and the Lions 766 
 
 The iNile 767 
 
 Ariadne waking 767 
 
 Song to Ceres 767 
 
 Abou Ben Adhera 767 
 
 ^ 
 
 -0> 
 
a— 
 
 XXVI 
 
 NAMES OP THE POETS 
 
 -Q) 
 
 L(j\e-L('(ters made in Klowers 
 
 An Augel in the House..... 
 
 The Ilival of the Rose 
 
 "Jenny kissed me" 
 
 BEBNABD BAETON. 17S4-1849. 
 
 B'slKip Ilulii-rt 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 178* -18^. 
 
 " It '3 hanie, and it 's hame" 
 
 My Nanie-o 
 
 The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill 
 
 " Gane were but the winter cauld " 
 
 The Poet's Biidal-Day Song 
 
 "She 's gane to dwall in heaven" 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 
 
 "Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie " 
 
 HENET JOHN TEMPLE, Tiscount Palmerston. 
 
 1781-1865. 
 Lines written at llie Hot Wells, Bristol 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGEE. 17B*-1816. 
 
 '■ l!i!ia\e youiscl' before folk '* 
 
 GEOEGE DARLET. 1785-1849. 
 
 Song, from " Eilielstan " 
 
 The Qtieen of the May 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785-1806. 
 
 To an Early Primrose 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem 
 
 WILLIAM TENNANT. 1783-1848. 
 
 Anster Fair 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 1785-1854. 
 
 The Ship 
 
 The Wreck of the Ship 
 
 Lines written in a Highland Glen 
 
 Mary , 
 
 The Evening Cloud 
 
 MART EUSSELL MITFOED. 1786-1855. 
 
 Reasons fur Jlirlh 
 
 Rieiizi's .\ddress to the Romans 
 
 767 
 768 
 768 
 768 
 
 768 
 
 769 
 769 
 769 
 770 
 770 
 771 
 771 
 771 
 
 773 
 
 HENRI BENNETT. Born about 1785. 
 "St. Palruk was a gentleman " 
 
 CAROLINE (BOWLES) SOUTHET. 1787-1854. 
 
 Tlie Pauper's I)rai]i-H,>d 
 
 BRYAN WALLER PEOCTEE (Barrj Cornwall . 
 
 1787 -is;4. 
 
 The Sea 
 
 The Poet's Song to his Wife !...!!!^!!^!!.!."! 
 
 Belshazzar 
 
 The Evening Star !.!".!!!!! 
 
 A Repose 
 
 Song of the Outcast 
 
 "The lake has burst" 
 
 A Chamber Scene 
 
 To the Singer Pasta !.!..".!.!!!"" 
 
 "Softly woo away her breath" 
 
 A Storm !!..!!!.!!"!!'] 
 
 Golden-Tressed Arlelaidc 
 
 " I die for thy sweet love" 
 
 A Prayer in Sickness 
 
 A Petition to Time 
 
 An Epitaph 
 
 Tlie History of a Life 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 .-Mar III III.' lli-i 11 
 
 I7S8 - 1834. 
 
 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, Lord Byron. 
 
 1768- 182k. 
 
 " Wlicn we two parted " , 
 
 On Mnore's last Operatic Farce 
 
 Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland 
 
 Dog 
 
 " Maid of Athens, ere we part" 
 
 "There 's not a joy the world can give" 
 
 " Remember thee! remember thee ! 
 
 <^- 
 
 773 
 773 
 
 774 
 
 774 
 775 
 775 
 
 776 
 776 
 
 776 
 
 777 
 
 777 
 
 778 
 
 778 
 779 
 779 
 779 
 779 
 780 
 780 
 780 
 781 
 781 
 781 
 783 
 782 
 783 
 783 
 783 
 783 
 
 783 
 
 7«t 
 781 
 
 784 
 785 
 783 
 765 
 
 Prometheus 785 
 
 To Thomas Moore 786 
 
 The Irish Avatar 786 
 
 To Genevra 788 
 
 " When coldness wraps this suffering clay " 788 
 
 " She walks in licauty " 7H9 
 
 Vision of Belshazzar 7S9 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib 7h9 
 
 " 0, snatched away in beauty's bloom " 790 
 
 " Fare thee well" 790 
 
 Monody on the Death of Sheridan 790 
 
 The Dretm 792 
 
 Childe Harold ^ 794 
 
 The Battle of Talavera 794 
 
 Invocation to Parnassus 795 
 
 To Inez 795 
 
 "Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth" 796 
 
 The Rejuvenation of Greece .^ 796 
 
 Farewell to England 796 
 
 The Poet's Privileges and Sorrows 797 
 
 Waterloo 797 
 
 The Poet's Sympathy with Nature 798 
 
 Rousseau 799 
 
 Calm and Storm 799 
 
 Clarens 801 
 
 Voltaire and Gibbon 801 
 
 Venice 8;il 
 
 Personal Griefs and their Compensations 802 
 
 Imaginative Syiiipathy with Nature 803 
 
 Duke Alfonso and Tasso 803 
 
 Ariosto 803 
 
 The Venus de Medici 803 
 
 The Temple of the Clitumnus 804 
 
 The Fall of Terni ; 804 
 
 Rome 805 
 
 Tyrants and Freedom 8C5 
 
 Egeria 7. 806 
 
 Byron's Sense of liis Wrongs 8C6 
 
 The Dying Gladiator 807 
 
 The Roman Daughter , 8O7 
 
 The Church of St. Peter's 807 
 
 The Statues of Laocoon and Apollo 808 
 
 .Solitude 808 
 
 The Ocean 808 
 
 Farewell! 809 
 
 Greece 8n9 
 
 The Giaour's Confession 810 
 
 Know ye the Land ? 810 
 
 The Sea 811 
 
 Lara gii 
 
 The Inspiration of Greece 811 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon 811 
 
 Mont Blanc 811 
 
 Manfred's Remorse and Self-Loathing 811 
 
 Manfred and the Witch of the Alps 812 
 
 Manfred's Address to the Sun 813 
 
 The Coliseum by Moonlight 814 
 
 Death , 814 
 
 The Distant and the Near ." 815 
 
 Bourbon preparing to attack Rome 815 
 
 The Mother of Don .luan 815 
 
 My Grandmother's Review 816 
 
 Regret over Youth's Illusions 816 
 
 The Shipwreck 816 
 
 The Isles of Greece 818 
 
 The Death of Haidee 819 
 
 Ave Maria 819 
 
 Gulbeyaz 819 
 
 On this Day I complete my Thirty-sixth Year 830 
 
 KICHAED HARRIS BARHAM. 1788-1846 
 
 M r. lliirney Miigiure's AcTOunt of the Coronation ... 830 
 Song S21 
 
 CATHARINE PANSHAWE. . 
 
 .\ Itllllllc 
 
 , 823 
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 1789(1) -1825. 
 
 "D. why should the spirit of mortal be proud" F23 
 
 -5> 
 
^- 
 
 AND TITLES OP THE POEMS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 xxvu 
 
 CHAKLES WOLFE. 1701-18:3. 
 
 The Biu-ial ut Sir John Moore 833 
 
 " If I had thought thou couldst have died" 823 
 
 HENBT HART MILMAlf. 1791-18G8. 
 
 Good FiKlaj 833 
 
 Easter Hvnin 824 
 
 Marriage Hymn i.... 824 
 
 Funeral Antheiu 634 
 
 The Merry Heart t 825 
 
 PEKCY BYSSHE SHELLEI. 1793-1822. 
 
 Death and Sleep 825 
 
 Mutaliility 825 
 
 The Ileaance of Prometheus to Jupiter 825 
 
 From " Prometheus Unbound " 836 
 
 The Hours 827 
 
 The Suggestions of Music 837 
 
 Chorus of the Spirits of the Human Mind 827 
 
 The Fall of Jupiter 838 
 
 Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 828 
 
 Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples 829 
 
 England in 1819 829 
 
 Ode to the West Wind , 829 
 
 To 830 
 
 Love's Philosophy 830 
 
 The Cloud 830 
 
 ToaSkylark 831 
 
 From " fipipsyehidiou " 833 
 
 To ; 833 
 
 To Night 833 
 
 The Fugitives 833 
 
 Music ;. 834 
 
 Lines to an Indian Air 834 
 
 The Ravine 835 
 
 SIK JOHN BO WRING. 1793-1873. 
 
 Hymn 835 
 
 Jesus teaching the People 835 
 
 " Watchman, tell us of the night" 835 
 
 JOHN KEBLE. 1793*- 1866. 
 
 Falm Sunday 
 
 Holy Baptism 
 
 836 
 836 
 
 SAMUEL HINDS. 1793 - 1872. 
 
 Bal)y sleeps 
 
 Love keeping Watch 
 
 MARIA JANE JEWSBUBT (Mrs. Fletcher). 
 
 18011-1833. 
 The Flight of Xerxes 
 
 JOHN CLAEE. 1793-1864. 
 
 The Primrose 
 
 The Thrash's Nest 
 
 837 
 837 
 
 837 
 
 837 
 837 
 
 ^ 
 
 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 1/94-1835. 
 
 The Hour of Death 838 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England 838 
 
 Casaljianca 8.39 
 
 Bernardo del Carpio 839 
 
 A Dirge 810 
 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 1794-1854. 
 
 Zara's Ear-Rings 840 
 
 THOMAS NOON TALFOUBD. 1795-1854. 
 
 Deseripliun of Ion 841 
 
 Kindness 841 
 
 Ion receiving the Sacrificial Knife 841 
 
 Immortality assured hy Human Love 843 
 
 The Sacrifice of Ion 842 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 1795-1821. 
 
 " A tiling of beauty is a joy forever " 842 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes 842 
 
 Saturn and Thea 847 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 847 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 84S 
 
 On first looking into Chapman's Homer 849 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 1796-1349. 
 
 " She is not lair to outward view " 849 
 
 The First Man 849 
 
 Shakespeare 849 
 
 Song 849 
 
 THOMAS CARLTLE. 1795 . 
 
 To-Day 850 
 
 The Sower's Song 850 
 
 Adieu 850 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 1797 
 ■■ My lieiJ is like to reud, Willie ' 
 Jeanie Morrison 
 
 ■1835. 
 
 851 
 
 851 
 
 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 1797 - 1839. 
 
 "She jvore a wreath of roses" 852 
 
 " The rose that all are praising" 853 
 
 *'0,no! we never mention her " 853 
 
 ANNA JAMESON. 1797-1860. 
 
 •• Take inc. Mother Earth" 833 
 
 -1868. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 1797 
 
 'ihc- .\iigels' Whisper 
 
 Rnry O'Mure; or, All for Good Luck.. 
 
 HERBERT KNOWLES. 1798-1817. 
 
 Lines written in the Churchyard of Kichmoud 
 
 DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 1798-1851. 
 
 Casa Wappy v 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845. 
 
 Faithless Nelly Gray 
 
 The Bachelor's Dream 
 
 Love Lane 
 
 A Parental Ode to my Son, aged three Years and five 
 
 Months 
 
 The Death-Bed 
 
 Fair Ines , 
 
 Ruth 
 
 "I I'emember, I remember" 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 
 
 The Song of the Shirt 
 
 Remorse for Thoughtlessness 
 
 The Lost Heir 
 
 Hood's Last Verses 
 
 ROBERT POLLOE. 1799-1637. 
 
 Byiun , 
 
 THOMAS KIBBLE HEBTEY. 
 
 The DeiU ut Home 
 
 The Devil in Chancery 
 
 Epitaph 
 
 1799-1859. 
 
 853 
 854 
 
 856 
 857 
 858 
 
 859 
 859 
 869 
 860 
 
 861 
 862 
 
 865 
 866 
 
 JOHN MOULTRIE. 1799-1874. 
 
 " Forget tlice > " 
 
 EATON STANNAED BARRETT. 
 
 Woman 
 
 1785-1820. 
 
 LORD MACAULAT. 1800-1859. 
 
 The Battle of Moncontour 
 
 Voltaire 
 
 The Battle of Ivry ;. 
 
 The Armada 4 
 
 The Battle of Naseby 
 
 Lines written on the Night of the 30th of July, 1847 
 
 JOHN BANIM. 1800-1842. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon 
 
 867 
 867 
 
 869 
 
 871 
 
 JOHN HUGHES. . 
 
 Giles Scroggius and Molly Brown 
 
 The Tragic Lay of the One-Horse Chay 
 
 THOMAS AIRD. 1802-1876. 
 
 From "The Devil's Dream" 
 
 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PBAED. 
 
 The Belle of the Ball .„ 
 
 Charade 
 
 18C2-1839. 
 
 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON Mrs. Maclean^ 
 
 i8ii2-m:;M 
 
 "Can you forget me? " .. 
 
 873 
 873 
 
 876 
 877 
 
 877 
 
 ■w 
 
e 
 
 XXVIU 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 EDWABD Bl'UVER LTTTON, Lord Lj-tton. 1H05 
 
 Stanley antl Lord Joliu Russell 
 
 Till! Lanjiuage of the Eyes 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN. 1803-1874. 
 
 Drylnusili Alibey : A Vision 
 
 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLET. 1808-1872. 
 Tlie Brave Old Oak 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 1803-1840. 
 
 'llie Sister of Cliarity 
 
 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. 1903-1849. 
 
 I'iige 
 
 How many Times 
 
 WILLIAM HOWITT. 1795 . 
 
 Tlie Oeparlure of the Swallow 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 1804 . 
 
 Tlie Spitlei- and the Fly 
 
 The Voice of Spring 
 
 SAMtEL FERGUSON. Bora about 1805. 
 
 Tile Korttiug of the Anchor 
 
 MARY DOWNING. . 
 
 " Were 1 Imt his own wife " 
 
 FRANCIS MAHONEY Father Front). 
 
 The Bells of Shaudon 
 
 1805-1866. 
 
 1805- 
 
 HENRT TAYLOR. 
 
 Two Characters 
 
 Repentance and Improvement,.., 
 
 Greatness and Success 
 
 Kepoge of the Heart 
 
 A Wife 
 
 A Scholar 
 
 JOHN STERLING.. 1806-1844. 
 The Song of Eve to Cain 
 
 1807- 
 
 878 
 878 
 
 881 
 
 883 
 883 
 
 884 
 
 884 
 
 886 
 
 886 
 
 887 
 887 
 887 
 887 
 
 ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Christian Kesijjnation 
 The Widow's Mite ..,, 
 
 1855. 
 
 RICHARD CHENETIX TRENCH. 
 
 " Be patient ! " 
 
 HOBATIUS BONAB. 1808 . 
 
 The Master's Touch 
 
 1807- 
 
 CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON. 1808- 
 1877. 
 
 To the Duchess of Sutherland 
 
 " We have been friends together" 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 LADY DCFFERIN. 1867. 
 
 Lament of the Irish Emigrant 
 
 THOMAS MILLER. 1809-1874. 
 The Happy Valley .,.. 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. 1809 . 
 
 The Brookside 
 
 The Palm and the Pine 
 
 Labor 
 
 1809- 
 
 CHARLES JAMES LEVEE. 
 
 Widow Malone 
 
 1872. 
 
 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 1803 (?) . 
 
 The Great Man and the Great Poet 
 
 T. NOEL. . 
 
 The Pauper's Drive 
 
 HENRY ALFORD. 1810-1871. 
 
 Lady Mary 
 
 The Funeral 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 fr 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 1810 — 
 
 Mni'iana ., 
 
 CircuniBtance 
 
 The Lady of Shnlott 
 
 The Sisters 
 
 889 
 889 
 890 
 
 890 
 891 
 891 
 
 891 
 
 892 
 
 893 
 893 
 893 
 
 894 
 
 895 
 
 895 
 
 896 
 896 
 896 
 
 896 
 897 
 897 
 899 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 899 
 
 The May Queen : 900 
 
 " Of old sat Freedom on the heights " 903 
 
 Ulysses 903 
 
 Locksley Hall 904 
 
 St. Agnes 908 
 
 Sir Galahad 908 
 
 To , after reading a Life and Letters 909 
 
 Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 910 
 
 The Eagle : 910 
 
 " Break, break, break*'. 910 
 
 " Tears, idle tears " 910 
 
 The Poet's Song 911 
 
 " Sweet and low, sweet and low " 911 
 
 The Bugle Song 911 
 
 "O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South " 911 
 
 " Thy voice is heard through rolling drums " 911 
 
 " Home they brought her warrior dead " 911 
 
 "Ask me no more" 913 
 
 " Strong Son of God, immortal Love " 913 
 
 " O yet we trust that somehow good " 913 
 
 Spiritual Communications 913 
 
 " Her eyes are homes of silent prayer " 913 
 
 " Ring out, wild hells, to the wild sky " 913 
 
 " Birds in the high Hall-garden " 918 
 
 " Go not, happy day " 914 
 
 " I have led her home, my love, my only fnend " 914 
 
 " Come into the garden, Maud " 915 
 
 The Brook 915 
 
 To the Rev. F, D. Maurice ." 916 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade 917 
 
 "Wiat does little birdie say " 917 
 
 Milkmaid's Song 917 
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 
 
 The Blackbird 918 
 
 CHARLES TURNER. . 
 
 Bird-Nesting 919 
 
 J. HOLLAND. , 
 
 The Rainbow 
 
 JOHN MASON GOOD. 
 
 The Daisy 
 
 ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM. 
 
 To my Mother 
 
 An English Maiden and an E 
 
 1764-1837. 
 
 1811-1833. 
 
 glish Wife,, 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 
 
 At the Church Gate 
 
 The Age of Wisdom , 
 
 Sorrows of Werther 
 
 Little Billee , 
 
 1811-1883. 
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 1811 - 
 
 Fiiitli 
 
 Absence .■,,,,. 
 
 1812-1870, 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS, 
 
 The Ivv Green ,., 
 
 CHARLES MACKAY. 1812- 
 Tlie Good Time Coming 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROAVNINO. 1809-1861. 
 
 The Soul's E.vpression 
 
 To George Sand 
 
 To George Sand ?. 
 
 The Sleep 
 
 Cowper's Grave 
 
 A Child's Grave at Florence 
 
 A Child's Thought of God 
 
 Sonnets from the Portuguese, 
 
 " 1 thought once how Theocritus had sung " 
 
 " Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart ! " 
 
 "Go from nic, Ti'et I feel tliat I shall stand" 
 
 " Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed " 
 
 " T never gave a lock of hair away " 
 
 " Say over again, and yet oiiee over again " 
 
 " Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead " 
 
 " First time he kissed me, he hut oily kissed " .,. 
 
 " How do I love thee? Let me count the ways " 
 
 919 
 
 920 
 
 930 
 920 
 
 920 
 921 
 921 
 921 
 
 921 
 922 
 
 922 
 
 922 
 
 933 
 923 
 923 
 924 
 934 
 
 926 
 
 926 
 
 926 
 
 927 
 
 927' 
 
 927 
 
 927 
 
 927 
 
 927 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 1813 . 
 
 •• U\L-i- ilif si-a uur galleys went" 
 
 Tlie Lost Leader 
 
 The Pied Piper of Ilanielin 
 
 Incident of the French Camp 
 
 How they brought the Good News fi-oni Ghent to 
 
 Aix..' 
 
 Evelyn Hope 
 
 Meeting at Night 
 
 Parting at Morning 
 
 , Song of Pippa 
 
 Among the Roeks 
 
 Daybreak 
 
 Marching along 
 
 Prospice '. 
 
 WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE ATTOPIf. 1813-1865. 
 
 The Mrissncre uf the Maepherson 
 
 THEODORE MARTIN. 1816 . 
 
 JSunnit In P.iitain 
 
 929 
 9J9 
 933 
 
 933 
 933 
 93t 
 934 
 93* 
 93-1 
 93+ 
 934 
 934 
 
 935 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 1814 . 
 
 Song 
 
 " Sad is our youtli, for it is ever going " . 
 To mv Ladv singing 
 
 ROBERT GILFILLAN. 1798-1860. 
 In tile Days o' Langsyne 
 
 ROBERT NRIOLL. 1814-1837. 
 
 " We are brethren a' " 
 
 THOMAS WESTWOOD. 
 
 Little Bell 
 
 1814- 
 
 FREDERIC WILLIAM FABEK. 
 
 The Right must win 
 
 ALRED DOMETT. 1815 (?) -, 
 
 A Christmas Uymn 
 
 WILLIAM DIMOND. 
 
 The Mariner's Dream 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 " Dance light " 
 
 MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 
 
 Burial of Muses 
 
 1816-1863. 
 
 1810- 
 
 <^ 
 
 936 
 936 
 936 
 
 936 
 
 937 
 
 937 
 
 938 
 
 938 
 
 939 
 
 940 
 
 940 
 
 941 
 
 943 
 
 943 
 
 943 
 
 943 
 
 943 
 
 943 
 
 943 
 
 944 
 
 AKTHUK HUGH CLOUGH. 1819-1861. 
 
 Qua Cursinu Ventus 914 
 
 "Where lies the laud?" 944 
 
 JOHN RCSKIN. 1819 . 
 
 The Old Water-Wieel 945 
 
 CHARLES KINGSIEY. 1819-1876. 
 
 The Sauds of Dee 945 
 
 The Three Fishers 945 
 
 A Farewell 946 
 
 A Lament 946 
 
 The Day of the Lord ,. . 946 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT (Mrs. George H. Lewes). 
 
 1820 O)-- 
 
 " Should I long that dark were fair?" 946 
 
 " Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness " 946 
 
 " Day is dying!" 947 
 
 ' O, may 1 join the choir invisible ! " 947 
 
 FRANCIS BENNOCH. About 1811 
 May-Day 
 
 PHILIP JAMES BAILET. 1816- 
 
 " Like an island in a river" 
 
 Truth and Sorrow 
 
 The End of Life 
 
 A Letter 
 
 Great Thoughts 
 
 T'he Poet 
 
 TOM TAYLOR. 1817 -- 
 AI)rabam Lincoln 
 
 ELIZA COOK. 1817 — 
 The Old Arm-Chair ., 
 
 1830- 
 
 AVILLIAM C. BENNETT. 
 
 Buliy May 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 
 
 Think of Me 
 
 WILLIAM BARNES. 1810(1) 
 
 TUe Maid \ar my Bride 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 1823 
 
 Wordsworth and Goethe 
 
 Philomela 
 
 Excuse 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 HoniH'ia 
 
 The Paradox 
 
 1833- 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 1824- 
 
 Lesboiis lor a Child 
 
 The Shadows , 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 1834 . 
 
 " How 's my boy f " 
 
 DINAH MARIA MULOCK (Mrs. Craik). 1826- 
 
 " Douglas, Douglas, tender and true " 
 
 Philip my King 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 1838(1) . 
 
 Lo.ely Mary Donnelly 
 
 The Totichstone 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 1838- 
 
 Love in the Valley 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 1828- 
 
 Love-Lily 
 
 CHRISTINA GEOBGINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 At Home 
 
 A Ring Posy , 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 1838 . 
 
 Llltle Willie 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 Lady Barbara 
 
 ROBERT LEIGHTON. 
 
 The Garland 
 
 Books 
 
 1830- 
 
 1830-1867. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. - 
 
 Unfortunate Miss Bailey . 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 1830 — 
 
 Divided 
 
 Maternity 
 
 947 
 
 948 
 
 948 
 
 949 
 919 
 949 
 
 950 
 950 
 
 950 
 951 
 
 952 
 953 
 
 952 
 953 
 
 953 
 954 
 
 956 
 935 
 
 956 
 956 
 
 957 
 957 
 
 957 
 
 953 
 959 
 
 ROBERT BULWER LYTTON, Lord Lytton (Owen 
 
 Meredith). 1»31 . 
 
 Madame la Marquise 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 Flowers 
 
 1833- 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
 
 A Woman's Question 
 
 A Woman's Answer 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 Riding together .... 
 
 1835-1864. 
 
 1835- 
 
 DAVID GRAY. 1838-1861. 
 My Little Brother 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 1841- 
 Langiev Lane 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 My Name Laud 
 
 1844- 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 1837 
 
 " Wben the liouuds uf Spring are on Winter's traces ' 
 
 The Sundew 
 
 Oil Tout les vieilles Lunes? 
 
 Kissing her Hair 
 
 Before the Beginning of Years 
 
 959 
 
 960 
 
 9(il 
 961 
 
 962 
 
 962 
 
 963 
 
 964 
 
 964 
 966 
 965 
 965 
 966 
 
(Q- 
 
 NAMES OF THE POETS 
 
 -Q) 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 BRITISH BALLADS. 
 
 Thomas the Kliyiiier 967 
 
 Baibava Allen's Cruelty 968 
 
 Lord Lorel 968 
 
 Fair Helen of Kirconnell 969 
 
 The Twa Corbies 970 
 
 Sir Patrick Spens 97" 
 
 " Waly, waly, but love be bonny " 971 
 
 Lady Anne Botbwell's Lament 97« 
 
 The Children in the Wood 973 
 
 Chevy-Chace 974 
 
 AUONTMOUS. 
 
 My Swete Swetyng 977 
 
 The Auld Cloak 977 
 
 '' Love me little, love rae long I " 977 
 
 The Loveliness of Love 978 
 
 The Great Adventurer '. 978 
 
 Lament of the Border Widow 979 
 
 Sir John Barleycorn 979 
 
 " When banners are waving" 979 
 
 Robin Adair 980 
 
 Present in Absence 980 
 
 Annie Laurie 980 
 
 "0, saw ye the lass?" 981 
 
 " Love not me for comely grace '■ 981 
 
 " Begone, dull care I" 981 
 
 The Vicar of Bray 981 
 
 O'er the Water to Charlie •„ 982 
 
 "When shall we three meet again? " 982 
 
 Old King Coul 982 
 
 To-morrow 983 
 
 "Away! let naught to love displeasing 983 
 
 " Roy's wife of Aldivalloch " 984 
 
 Little Boy Blue 984 
 
 The White Rose _[\\\ 934 
 
 Perfume and Jewels 984 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■^ 
 
<e-- 
 
 ■^ 
 
 THE 
 
 FAMILY LIBRARY OF BRITISH POETRY. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 1388 (!)- 1400. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTEKB0EY TALES.* 
 
 WiiAN that Aprille with his schowres swoote' 
 The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote, 
 And bathed every veyne m swich^ licour, 
 Of which vertue engendred is the flour ; 
 Whan Zephirus eek with liis swete breethe 
 Euspircd hath iu every holte'* and heethe 
 The teudre croppes, and the youge somie 
 Hath iu tlie Ram liis halfe cours i-ronne, 
 And smale fowles maken melodie, 
 That slepen al the niglit witli open eye, 
 So priketh hem nature in here' corages :' — 
 Thanne longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, 
 And palmers for to seeken straunge strondes, 
 To feme' lialwes,' kouthe' in sondry londes ; 
 And specially, from every sohires ende 
 Of Eugelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
 The holy blisful martir for to seeke. 
 That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 
 
 Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day, 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
 Redy to weuden on my pilgrimage 
 To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
 At night was come into that hostelrie 
 Wei nyne' and twenty in a compainye. 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falle 
 In felaweschipe, and pilgryms were thei alle, 
 That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde ; 
 The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
 And wel we weren esed atte'" beste. 
 And schortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
 So hadde I spoken with hem everychon," 
 That I was of here felaweschipe anon, 
 And made forward erly for to ryse, 
 
 k 
 
 1 Sweet. 
 
 6 Hearts. 
 
 » Nine. 
 
 a Such. 
 
 8 Ancient. 
 
 lo At the. 
 
 3 Wood. 
 
 ' Saints. 
 
 11 Every one 
 
 * Their. 
 
 8 {lenoM-ned. 
 
 
 The text is that of Dr. Morris's edition, in the "Clarendon 
 Press Series." 
 
 To take our wey ther as I yow devyse. 
 
 But natheles, wliil I have tyme and space. 
 
 Or that I forther in this tale pace. 
 
 Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun. 
 
 To telle yow al the condioioun 
 
 Of eche of hem, so as it semede me. 
 
 And wliiche they weren, and of what degre ; 
 
 And eek in what array that they were inne : 
 
 And at a knight than wol I first bygynne. 
 
 A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
 That from the tyme that he first bigan 
 To ryden out, he lovede chy\-alrye, 
 Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 
 Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre. 
 And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre,' 
 As wel iu Cristendom as in hethenesse, 
 And evere honoured for his worthinesse. 
 At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne. 
 Fill ofte tyme he hadde the bord'' bygonne' 
 Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
 In Lettowe hadde he reysed' and in Euce, 
 No cristen man so ofte of his degre. 
 In Gernade atte siege hadde he be 
 Of Algesir, and riden in Belraarie. 
 At Lieys was he, and at Satalie, 
 Whan they were wonne ; and in the Greete see 
 At many a noble arive' hadde he be. 
 At mortal bataillcs hadde he ben fiftene, 
 And foughten for oure feith at Tramassene 
 In lystes' thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
 Tliis ilke worthi knight hadde ben also 
 Somtyme witli the lord of Palatye, 
 Ageyn another hethen in Turkye -. 
 And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys.' 
 And though that he was worthy, he was wys, 
 And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
 He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde 
 In al his lyf, unto no mauer wight. 
 He was a verray perfight gentil knight. 
 But for ti tellen you of his array. 
 His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay. 
 
 1 Farther. 
 
 2 Joust. 
 
 8 Begun. 
 
 * Made an inroad. 
 6 Arrival of troops. 
 
 8 Lists. 
 ' Prize. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Of fustyan he werede a gepoun' 
 Al bysmotered' with his habergeouu.' 
 Por he was late ycome from his viage, 
 And wente for to doon* his pilgrimage. 
 
 With him ther was his soiie, a yong Squyer, 
 A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, ' 
 With lokkes cruUe' as they were leyd in presse. 
 Of twenty yeer of age he was I gesse. 
 Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 
 And wouderly delyvere," and gret of strengthe. 
 And he hadde ben sointyme in cliivachie,' 
 In riaundres, in Artoys, and Pieardie, 
 And born liini wel, as of so htel space, 
 In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
 Embrowded' was he, as it were a mede 
 Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. 
 Syngyuge he was, or floytynge,' al the day ; 
 He was as fressh as is the moueth of May. 
 Scliort was liis goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. 
 Wel cowde he sitte on liors, and faire ryde. 
 He cowde songes make and wel endite. 
 Juste and eek daunce, and wel puvtreye '" and write . 
 So bote he lovede, that by uightertale" 
 He sleep nomore than doth a nightyngale. 
 Curteys he was, lowely, and servysable, 
 And carf "^ byforn his fader at the table. 
 
 A Yemau'^ liadde he, and servauntz nomoo 
 At that tyme, for him luste ryde soo ; 
 And he was clad in coote" and hood of grene. 
 A shef of pocok arwes'' brighte and kene 
 Under his belte he bar ful thriftily. 
 Wel cowde he dresse his takel " yemanly ; 
 His arwes drowpede nought with fetheres lowe. 
 And in his bond he bar a mighty bowe.- 
 A not-heed hadde he with a broun visage. 
 Of woode-craft wel cowde he al the usage. 
 Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer," 
 And by his side a swerd and a bokeler, 
 And on that other side a gay daggcre, 
 Hameysed wel, and scharp as poynt of spere ; 
 A Cristofre on his brest of silver schene. 
 An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene ; 
 A forster was he sothly, as I gesse. 
 
 Ther was also a Noune, a Prioresse, 
 That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy ; 
 Hire gretteste ooth ne was but by scynt Loy ; 
 And sche was eleped madame Eglentyne. 
 Eul wel sche sang tlie servise divyne, 
 Entuned in liire nose ful semely ; 
 And Frensch sehe spak ful faire and fetysly, 
 After the seole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
 
 fr 
 
 * A short cassock. 
 2 Sniulted. 
 
 !* A small coat of raail. 
 
 < Make. 
 
 » Culled. 
 
 " Active. 
 
 ' A military expedition. 
 
 * F.iiilinjiilcred. 
 Playin;^ on a flute. 
 
 ^0 Portray. 
 
 " Nipht-time. 
 
 '! Carved. 
 
 13 Yeoman. 
 
 " Coat. 
 
 1* Arrows. 
 
 w Weapons. 
 
 " Armor for tlic arm. 
 
 Eor Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
 At mete wel i-taught was sche withalle ; 
 Sche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
 Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepc. 
 Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe. 
 That no drope ne fille uppon hire breste. 
 In curteisie was set ful moche hire lestc' 
 Hire overlippe wypede sche so elene. 
 That in hire euppe was no ferthing^ seue 
 Of greece, whan sehe dronken hadde hire 
 
 draughte. 
 Ful semely after hire mete sche ranghtc,' 
 And sikcrly sche was of gret disport. 
 And ful plesaunt, and aniyable of port. 
 And peynede' hire to couutrcfete* cheere 
 Of court, and ben estatlich° of manere. 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
 But for to speken of hire conscience, 
 Sche was so charitable and so pitous, 
 Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous 
 Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
 Of smale houndes hadde sche, that sche fcdde 
 With rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel breed. 
 But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed. 
 Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte : 
 And al was conscience and tendre herte. 
 Ful semely hire wympel i-pynched was ; 
 Hire nose tretjs ; ' hire eyen greye as glas ; 
 Hire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed 
 But sikcrly' sche hadde a fair forheed. 
 It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe ; 
 For hardily sche was not uudergrowe." 
 Ful fetys was hire elokc, as I was waar. 
 Of smal coral aboute hire arm sehe baar 
 A peire of hcdes gauded al with grene ; 
 And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene, 
 On which was first i-write a crowned A, 
 And after, Jmor viiicit omnia. 
 Another Nonne with hire hadde sehe. 
 That was hire ehapcleyne, and Prcstcs thre. 
 A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 
 An out-rydere, that lovede venerye ;'° 
 A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
 Fid many a deynte " hors hadde he in stable : 
 And whan he rood, men mighte his bridel hcere 
 Gynglen in a whistlyng wynd as cleore. 
 And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle. 
 Ther as tliis lord was kepcre of the selle," 
 The reule of scynt Maure or of seint Beneyt, 
 Bycause that it was old and somdel " streyt, 
 This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace. 
 And held after the newe ■world the space. 
 
 1 Pleasure. 
 
 2 Smallest spot. 
 
 3 Ueaelied. 
 
 * Took pains. 
 
 3 Imitate. 
 
 Worthy. 
 
 ^ \mv^ and well proportioned. 
 
 » Surely. 
 
 9 Undergrown. 
 '0 Hunting. 
 » Dainty. 
 " Cell. ' 
 *3 Somewhat. 
 
 -* 
 
f 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 He yaf nat of tliat text a pulled hen. 
 
 That seitb, that hunters been noon holy men ; 
 
 Ne that a monk, whan he is reccheles' 
 
 Is Kkued to a fissch that is waterles ; 
 
 This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. 
 
 But thUke text held he not worth an oystre. 
 
 And I seide his opinioua was good. 
 
 What schulde lie studie, and make himselven wood, 
 
 Uppon a book in cloystre alway to powre. 
 
 Or swynke ' with his liandes, and laboure, 
 
 As Austyii byt?^ How schal the world be 
 
 served ? 
 Lat Austyn have liis swynk to him reserved. 
 Therl'ore he was a pricasour* aright ; 
 Greyiioundes he hadde as swilte as fowel in 
 
 flight; 
 Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 
 Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
 I saugh his sieves purfded ' atte honde 
 With grys,° and that the fyneste of a londe. 
 And for to festue his hood under his chynne 
 He hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pynne : 
 A love-knotte in the grettere ende ther was. 
 His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas, 
 And eek his face as lie hadde ben anoynt. 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; 
 His eyen steepe, and roUyng in his lioede. 
 That stemede as a forneys of a leede ;' 
 His bootes souplc, his hors in gret estate. 
 Now certcinly he was a fair prelate ; 
 He was not pale as a for-pyned goost. 
 A fat swan lovede he best of eny roost. 
 His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 
 
 A Frere ther was, a waiitown and a merye, 
 A lyinytour,' a ful soleinpne man. 
 In alle the ordres foure is noon that can' 
 So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. 
 He hadde i-niad ful many a mariage 
 Of yonge wymmen, at his owne cost. 
 Unto his ordre he was a noble post.'" 
 Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 
 With frankeleyns ovcr-al in his cuntre. 
 And €ek with worthi wommen of the toun : 
 For he hadde power of confcssioun, 
 As scyde himself, more than a curat. 
 For of his ordre lie was licentiat. 
 Fid sweetely herde he coiifessioun, 
 And plesaunt was his absolucioun ; 
 He was an esy man to yeve .penaunce 
 Ther as he wiste ban " a good pitaunce ; 
 For mito a poure ordre for to yive 
 Is signe that a man is wel i-schrive." 
 For if he yaf," he dorste make avauut, 
 
 1 Reckless, out of the rules. * A hard rider. « Grav fur. 
 
 2 Toil. 6 Fringed. ' Caldron. 
 
 3 Biddeth. 
 
 8 A friar licensed to ask alms witliin a certain limit. 
 ' Knew. 11 To have. is Gave. 
 
 1° Pillar. 12 Shriven. 
 
 He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 
 
 For many a man so liard is of his herte, 
 
 He may not wepe altliough him sore smerte. 
 
 Therfore in -stedc of wcpyng and preyeres, 
 
 Men moot yive silver to the poure freres. 
 
 His typet was ay farsed ful of knyfes 
 
 And pynnes, for to yive faire wyfes. 
 
 And certeynli he hadde a mcry noote ; 
 
 Wel couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote.' 
 
 Of yeddynges" he bar utterly the prys. 
 
 His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys. 
 
 Therto he strong was as a champioun. 
 
 He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, 
 
 And everych hostUcr and tappestere,* 
 
 Bet then a lazer,' or a Ijcggcsterc,' 
 
 For unto such a worthi man as he 
 
 Acordede not, as by his faculte. 
 
 To ban vnth sike lazars aqueyntaunce. 
 
 It is not honest, it may not avaunce. 
 
 For to delen with no such poraille,' 
 
 But :J with riche and sellers of vitaille. 
 
 And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise, 
 
 Curteys he was, and lowely of servyse. 
 
 Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. 
 
 He was the beste beggere in his hous. 
 
 For though a widewe hadde noglit oo schoo,' 
 
 So plesaunt was his In principio, 
 
 Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente. 
 
 His purchas ' was wel bettre than his rente. 
 
 And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe, 
 
 In love-dayes' couthe he mochel helpe. 
 
 For ther he was not lik a cloysterer, 
 
 With a thredbare cope as is a poure scoler, 
 
 But he was lik a maister or a pope. 
 
 Of double worstede was his semy-cope, 
 
 That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 
 
 Somwhat he lipsede, for his wautownesse. 
 
 To make his' Euglissch swete upon his tunge; 
 
 And in liis harpyng, whan that he hadde sunge, 
 
 His eyghen twynkled in liis heed 'aright. 
 
 As don the sterrcs in tlie frosty uiglit. 
 
 This wortlii lymvtour was cleped Huberd. 
 
 A Marchaunt was ther with a forked herd. 
 In motteleye,"' and high on horse he sat, 
 Uppon his lieed a Flaundriseh bevere liat ; 
 His botes elapsed faire and fetysly. 
 His resons he spak ful solempnely, 
 Sownynge" alway thencres'- of his wynnvnge. 
 He wolde the see were kept" for eny thinge 
 Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
 Wel couthe lie in eschaunge scheeldes" seUe. 
 This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette ; " 
 
 1 A stringed instrument. 
 - Songs embodying some story. 
 3 Female tapster. 
 Leper. 
 
 ^ .\ female beggar. 
 
 6 The poor. 
 
 ' Shoe. 
 
 8 Proceeds of begging 
 
 ^ Pays appointed for settling differences by umpire, 
 i" Motley. 13 Should be guarded. 
 
 11 Tending to. i« Crowns. 
 
 12 Tlie increase. i^ Used. 
 
 -* 
 
C&- 
 
 CHAUCEB. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette. 
 So estatly was he of governaunce. 
 With his bargayns, and with his chevysaunce.' 
 For sothe he was a worthi man witlhalle. 
 But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle. 
 
 A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also. 
 That unto logik hadde longe i-go. 
 As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
 And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
 But lokede holwe, and therto soberly. 
 Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy,' 
 For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, 
 Ne was so worldly for to have office. 
 For him was levere have at his beddes heede 
 Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reede, 
 Of Aristotle and his philosophic. 
 Then robes riche, or fithele,^ or gay sawtrie.* 
 But al be that he was a philosophre, 
 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 
 But al that he mighte of his frendes hente,^ 
 On bookes and on lernyng he it spente. 
 And busily gan for the soules preye 
 Of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye,' 
 Of studie took he most cure and most heede. 
 Not 00 word spak he more than was neede, 
 And that was seid in forme and reverence 
 And schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence. 
 Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche. 
 And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 
 
 A Sergeant of Lawc, war' and wys. 
 That often hadde ben atte parvys," 
 Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
 Discret he was, and of gret revei'ence : 
 He semede such, his wordes weren so wise. 
 Justice he was ful often in assise. 
 By patente, and by pleyn commissioun ; 
 For his science, and for his heih renoun, 
 Of fees and robes hadde he many oou. 
 So gret a purchasour' was nowher noon. 
 Al was fee symple to him in effecte, 
 His purchasyng mighte nought ben enfecte.'" 
 Nowher so besy a man as he ther nas. 
 And yit he seemede besier than he was. 
 In termes hadde he oaas and domes" alle 
 That fro the tyme of kyng William were falle. 
 Therto he eouthe endite, and make a thing, 
 Ther eouthe no wight pynche'^ at his writyng; 
 And every statute eouthe he pleyn by roote. 
 He rood but hoomly in a medle coote," 
 Gird with a seynt" of silk, with barres" smale; 
 Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 
 
 • Agreement for borrowing money. ^ Get 
 
 • irppemioat cloak of coarse cloth. ^ Study. 
 
 3 Fidillc. ' Prudent. 
 
 • Psaltery. 
 
 8 Portico of St. Paul's, where lawyers met. 
 
 ^ Prosecutor. " Coat of mixed stuff. 
 
 '» Tainted. " Girdle. 
 
 " Decisions. '" Small stripes. 
 
 Find fault with. 
 
 A Frankeleyn was in his compainye ; 
 Whit was his berde, as is the dayesye. 
 Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 
 Wei lovede he by the morwe' a sop in wyu.° 
 To lyven in deUte was al his wone," 
 For he was Epicurus owne sone. 
 That heeld opynyoun that pleyn delyt 
 Was verrady felicite perfyt. 
 An houshaldere, and that a gret, was he ; 
 Seynt Julian he was in his countre. 
 His breed, his ale, was alway after oou ; 
 A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. 
 Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous. 
 Of ilessch and flssch, and that so plentevous. 
 Hit snewede in his hous of mete and drynke. 
 Of alle deyntees that men cowde thynke. 
 Al'ter the sondry sesouns of the yeer. 
 So chaungede he his mete and his soper. 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe. 
 And many a brem and many a luce in stewe. 
 Woo was his cook, but-if his sauce were 
 Poynaunt and scharp, and redy al his gere. 
 His table dormant in his halle alway 
 Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
 At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire. 
 Fid oftc tyme he was knight of the schire. 
 An aiJas* and a gipser' al of silk 
 Heng at his girdel, whit as morne myUc. 
 A schirreve hadde he ben, and a countour ;° 
 Was nowher such a worthi vavasour.' 
 
 An Haberdasshere and a Carpenter, 
 A Webbe,' a Deyere, and a Tapicer, 
 And they were clothed aUe in oo lyvere. 
 Of a solempne and a gret fraternite. 
 Ful fressh and newe here gere apiked' was ; 
 Here knyfes were i-chaped nat with bras. 
 But al with silver wrought ful clene and wel, 
 Here gurdles and here pouches every del.'" 
 Wel semede ech of hem a fair burgeys," 
 To sitten in a yeldehalle on a deys. 
 Everych for the wisdom that he can. 
 Was schaply'^ for to ben an alderman. 
 For catel hadde they inongh and reute, 
 And eek here wyfes wolde it wel asseute ; 
 And dies certeyu were thei to blame. 
 It is ful fair to ben yclept madame. 
 And gon to vigilies al byfore, 
 And ban a mantel riallyche" i-bore." 
 
 A Cook thei hadde with hem for the nones. 
 To boylle chyknes with the mary bones, 
 And poudre-marchaunt tart, and galyngale.'' 
 Wel cowde he knowe a draughte of Londone 
 
 ale. 
 He cowde roste, and sethe, and broille, and frie, 
 
 * Morning. 
 2 Wine. 
 
 » fuslom. 
 
 • Knife. 
 6 Purse. 
 
 6 Auditor of accounts. 
 ' A sub-vassal. 
 9 Weaver, 
 1* Trimmed. 
 •» Fart. 
 
 " Citizen. 
 
 " Fit. 
 
 " Royally. 
 
 ^* Supported. 
 
 ''^ Sweet C.\ perns 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Makeu movtreux,' and wel bake a pye. 
 But gret harm was it, as it tlioughte me, 
 That on his sohyne ' a mormal ^ hadde he. 
 For blankmanger that made he witli the beste. 
 
 A Schipman was ther, wonjng * i'er by weste : 
 For ouglit I woot, he was of Dert«mouthe. 
 He rood upon a rouncy,' as he couthe. 
 In a gowne of faldyng" to tlie kne. 
 A daggere hangyng on a laas hadde he 
 Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
 The hoote ' somer hadde niaad his hew al broun ; 
 And certeinly he was a good felawe. 
 Ful many a draughte of wyn liadde he ydrawe 
 From Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman* 
 
 sleep 
 Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 
 If that he fauglite, and hadde the lieigher iiand, 
 By water lie sente hem boom to every land. 
 But of his craft to rekne wel his tydes. 
 His stremcs and liis daungers him bisides, 
 His herbergh" and his mone.'" his lodemenage," 
 Ther was non such from Hulle to Cartage. 
 Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; 
 With many a tempest hadde his herd ben schake. 
 He knew wel alle tlie havenes, as thei were. 
 From Gootlond to the cape of Fynystere, 
 And every cryke in Bretayne and in Spayne ; 
 His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 
 
 With us ther was a Dootour of Phisik, 
 In al this world ue was ther non him lyk 
 To speke of phisik and of surgerye ; 
 For he was grounded in astronomye. 
 He kepte his paoient wonderly wel 
 In houres by his magik naturel. 
 Wel eowde he fortunen the ascendent 
 Of his yniages for his pacieut. 
 He knew the cause of every maladye. 
 Were it of hoot or cold, or moyste or drye, 
 And where engeudred, and of what humour ; 
 He was a verrey parfiglit practisour. 
 The cause i-knowe, and of liis harm the roote, 
 Anon he yaf the syke man his boote.'^ 
 Ful redy hadde he his apotecarics. 
 To sende him dragges, and his Ictuaries," 
 For ech of hem made other for to wynne ; 
 Here frendscliipe nas not newe to begynne. 
 Wel knew he the olde Esculapius, 
 And Deisoorides, aaid eek Rufus ; 
 t)ld Ypocras, Haly, and Galien ; 
 Serapyou, Razis, and Avycen ; 
 Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn ; 
 Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 
 (Jf his diete mesurable was he, 
 For it was of no superfluite, 
 
 fr 
 
 1 A kind of pottage. 
 » Shin. 
 
 * Gangrene. 
 
 • Dwell ing. 
 ^ Hai'knev 
 
 « Coarse cloth. 
 ' Hot. 
 * Meiclmnt. 
 9 Port. 
 
 » Mnnn. 
 " Pilolaj;e. 
 ■: Ri'iiicily. 
 '3 Electuaries, 
 
 But of gret norisehiug and digestible. 
 His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
 In sangwin and in pers ' he clad was al, 
 Lined with taffata and with sendal.* 
 And yit he was but esy of dispence ; 
 He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 
 For gold iu phisik is a cordial, 
 Therfore he lovede gold in special. 
 
 A good Wif was ther of byside Bathe, 
 But sche was somdel deef, and that was skathc' 
 Of cloth-makyng she hadde such an haunt,* 
 Sche passede hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
 In al tlie parisslie wyf ne was ther noon 
 That to the offryng byforn hire sehidde goou,' 
 And if ther dide certeyn so wroth was sche. 
 That sche was out of alle charite. 
 Hire keverchefs ful fyne wereii of grounde ; 
 I durste swere they weyghedeu ten pounde 
 That on a Sonday were upon hire heed. 
 Hire hosen wereu of fyn scarlet reed, 
 Ful streyte y-teyd, and schoos ful moyste and 
 
 newe. 
 Bold was hire face, and fair, and reed of liewe. 
 Sche was a worthy womman al hire lyfe, 
 Housbondes at chirche dore sche hadde I'yfe," 
 Witliouten other compainye in youtlie ; 
 But therof needeth nought to speke as iiouthc.' 
 And tliries hadde sche ben at Jerusalem ; 
 Sche hadde passed many a straunge streem ; 
 At Rome sche hadde ben, and at Boloyne, 
 In Galice at seynt Jame, and at Coloyne. 
 Sche cowde' moche of wandryng by the weye. 
 Gat-tothed was sche, sothly for to seye. 
 Uppon an amblere' esily sche sat, 
 Ywympled wel, and on hire heed an hat 
 As brood as is a bokeler or a targe ; 
 A foot-mantel'" aboute liire liipes large. 
 And on hire feet a paire of spores" scharpe. 
 In felaweschipe wel cowde sche lawglie and 
 
 earpe.'- 
 Of remedyes of love sche knew parehaunce. 
 For of that art sche couthe " the olde dauuce. 
 
 A good man was ther of religioun. 
 And was a poure Persoun of a toun ; 
 But riclie he was of holy thought and werk. 
 He was also a lerned man, a clerk 
 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ; 
 His parischens devoutly wolde he tecte. 
 Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversitc ful pacieut ; 
 And such he was i-proved ofte sithes." 
 Fill loth were him to curse for his tythes, 
 But rather wolde he yeven out of dowte, 
 Unto his poure parisschens aboute, 
 
 I Sky-blue. 
 
 "- Thill silk. 
 
 3 Misfortune. 
 
 * Custom. 
 
 6 Walk. 
 
 » Five. 
 ' Just now. 
 8 Knew. 
 " Nag. 
 ^^ A riding petticoat. 
 
 " Spurs. 
 12 Talk. 
 ^3 Knew. 
 " Times. 
 
 -^ 
 
ca- 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 — Q> 
 
 Of his offrynge, and eek of liis substaunce. 
 
 He cowde iu litel tiling han sufEsaunce. 
 
 Wyd was liis paiische, and bouses fer asonder, 
 
 But lie ue lafte' not for rejne ne thonder, 
 
 In siknesse nor iu mescliief to visite 
 
 Tlie ferreste * iu his parissche, nioche and lite, 
 
 Uppou his feet, and in his hond a staf. 
 
 This noble ensample to his scheep he yaf," 
 
 That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte, 
 
 Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, 
 
 And this figure he addede eek therto. 
 
 That if gold ruste, what schal yren doo ? 
 
 For if a prest be foid, on whom we truste. 
 
 No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 
 
 And sohame it is, if that a prest take kepe, 
 
 A [foul] schepherde [to se] and a clene schepe ; 
 
 Wei oughte a prest ensample for to yive, 
 
 By his clennesse, how that his scheep schidde 
 
 lyve. 
 He sette not his benefice to hyre, 
 And leet his scheep encombred in the myre. 
 And ran to Londone, unto seynte ' Poules, 
 To seeken him a chauutcrie for soules. 
 Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde ;* 
 But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde. 
 So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye ; 
 He was a schepherde and no mercenarie. 
 And though he holy were, and verfuous. 
 He was to sinful man nought despitous," 
 Ne of his spechc daungerous ne digue,' 
 But in liis teching discret and beniguc. 
 To drawe folk to heven by fairnesse 
 By good ensample, this was his busynesse : 
 But it were eny persone obstinat, 
 What so he were, of high or lowe cstat, 
 Him wolde he suybbe * scharply for the nones. 
 A bettre preest, I trowe, ther nowher nou is. 
 He waytede after no pompe and reverence, 
 Ne makede him a spiced conscience, 
 But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve. 
 He taughte, but first he fohvedc it himselve. 
 With hiin ther was a Ploughman, was his 
 brother. 
 That hadde i-lad of dong ful many a fother,' 
 A trewe swynkere '° and a good was he, 
 Lyvynge in pees and perfight charitee. 
 God lovede he best with al his hoole herte 
 At alle tymes, though him ganiede " or smerte. 
 And thanne his ncighebour right as himselve. 
 He wolde tlu'csshe, and therto dyke and delve, 
 For Cristes sake, with every poure wight, 
 Withouten hyre, if it layc in liis might. 
 His tythes payedc he ful faire and wel, 
 Bothe of his owne swynk and his eatel. 
 In a tabard'^ he rood upon a mere. 
 
 ^- 
 
 1 Ccastd. 
 
 B Maintained. 
 
 I.tmd. 
 
 ' Farthest. 
 
 « Merciless. 
 
 '» Lalwrer. 
 
 s Gave. 
 
 ' Proud. 
 
 >i Pleased. 
 
 « Saint. 
 
 8 Snul). 
 
 '- I,in)se frock 
 
 Ther was also a Reeve ' and a Mellerc, 
 A Sompnour and a Pardoner also, 
 A Mauuciple, and my self, ther we're no mo. 
 
 The Mellere was a stout carl for the nones, 
 Ful big he was of braun, and eek of booucs ; 
 That prevede wel, for overal ther he cam. 
 At wrastlyuge he wolde have alwey the ram.' 
 He was schort schuldred, brood, a thikkc knarrc,' 
 Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre,' 
 Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 
 His herd as ouy sowe or fox was reed. 
 And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 
 Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 
 A wcrte, and theron stood a tuft of heres, 
 Reede as the berstles of a sowes eeres. 
 His nose-thurles ' blake were and wyde. 
 A swerd and bokeler baar he by his side. 
 His mouth as wyde was as a gret fonieys. 
 He was a janglere ° and a golyardeys,' 
 And that was most of syune and harlotries. 
 Wel cowde he stele com, and toUcn* tliries ; ° 
 And yet he hadde a thonibe of gold parde. 
 A whit cote and a blew hood werede he. 
 A baggepipe wel cowde he blowe and sowne. 
 And therwithal he brnuglite us out of towne. 
 
 A gentil Mauuciple '" was ther of a temple. 
 Of which achatours" mighteu take exciuple 
 For to be wyse iu beyying of vitaille. 
 For whether that he payde, or took by taille, 
 Algate he waytede so in his achate. 
 That he was ay bifoni '- and in good state. 
 Now is not that of God a ful fair grace. 
 That such a lewed mannes wit schal pace 
 The wisdom of an heep of Icrnede men ? 
 Of maystres hadde he moo than tltries t«n, 
 That were of lawc expert and curious ; 
 Of wliich ther were a dosejiie in that house, 
 Worthi to ben stiwaidcs of rente and loud 
 Of any lord that is in Eugeloud, 
 To make him lyvc by his jiroprc good. 
 In honour detteles,'* but-if he were wood, 
 Or lyve as scarsly as liym list desire ; 
 And able for to helpeu al a scliire 
 In any caas that mighte falle or Iiappe ; 
 And jdt this mauneiple sette here allcr cappe." 
 
 The Reeve was a sklendre colcrik man. 
 His herd was schave as neigh as evere he can. 
 His hcer was by his ores ful round i-shorn. 
 His top was docked lyk a preest bifoni. 
 Ful longc weru his legges, and ful lenc, 
 Y-lik a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. 
 Wel cowde he kepe a geruer" and a bynne ;'° 
 
 > Steward. * Ilinye. ' BufToon. 
 
 2 Prize. » Nostrils. ' Tjike toll. 
 
 3 A t1iiek-set fellow. » Prater, » Tlirii-e. 
 
 1" .\n officer who had the care of furnishing victuals for an 
 iiui of court. 
 1' Caterers. " Free from debt. ^^ Garner. . 
 
 " Before. " MadeafoolofUicmall. '» Bin. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Tlier was uou auditour cowde on him wynue. 
 Wei wiste lie by the droughte, and by the reyn, 
 The yeeldyiig of his seed, and of his greyii. 
 His lordcs scheep, liis neet,' his daycrie, 
 His swyn, his hors, liis stoor,' and liis pultrie, 
 Was holly in this reeves governynge. 
 And by his covenaunt yaf the rekenynge, 
 Syn that his lord was twenti year of age ; 
 Tlier conthe no man bringe him in arreragc. 
 Tlier nas baiUif, ne herde,' ne other hyne,* 
 That he ne knew liis sleighte' and his covyne; ° 
 They were adrad of liim, as of the dethe. 
 His wonyng' was ful fair upon an hethe, 
 With grene trees i-scliad%Ted was his place. 
 He cowde bettre than his lord purchace. 
 Ful riche he was astored* prively, ' 
 His lord wel couthe he plese subtUly, 
 To yeve and Icne him of his owne good, 
 And have a tliank, and yet a cote, and hood. 
 In youthe he lenied hadde a good mester ; 
 He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 
 This reeve sat upon a fiil good stot,° 
 That was al pomely" gray, and highte Scot. 
 A long surcote of pers uppou he hade, 
 And by his side he bar a rusty blade. 
 Of Nortlifolk was this reeve of wliicli I telle, 
 Byside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 
 Tukked" he was, as is a frcre, aboute. 
 And evere he rood the hyndre'ste of the route. 
 
 A Sompnour " was ther with us in that place, 
 Tiiat hadde a fyr-reed cherubynes face, 
 For sawccllem " he was, with eyglien narwe. 
 And [quyk] he was, and [chiiiied], ae a sparwe, 
 "With skalled" browes blake, and piled'* berd; 
 Of his visage oliildrcn weren aferd. 
 Ther nas quyksilver, litarge," ne bremstoon, 
 Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon, 
 Ne oynemcnt that wolde dense and byte, 
 That him niighte helpeu of his whelkes " white, 
 Nc of the kuobbes sittyng on his chcekes. 
 Wel lovede he garleek, oynouns, and ek leekes, 
 And for to driuke strong wyn reed as blood. 
 Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were 
 
 wood." 
 And whan that he wel dronkcn hadde the wyn, 
 Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
 A fewe termes hadde he, tuo or thre. 
 That he hadde Icrned out of som decree ; 
 No wonder is, he herde it al the day ; 
 And eek ye knowen wel, how that a jay 
 Can clepen Watte," as wel as can the pope. 
 
 I Cows. 5 Craft. » Stallion. 
 
 ' Stock. » Deceit. '» Dappled. 
 
 s Slieplici-a. ' Dwelling. " Coated. 
 
 * llinJ. 8 Stored. 
 
 ^2 An officer appointed to summon delinquents to appear in 
 Ecclesiastical courts. 
 
 M Pimpled. '» Wliite lead. " Mad. 
 
 w Scurfy. " Blotches. '» Can call Wat. 
 16 Plucked. 
 
 But who so couthe in other thing hiin grope,' 
 
 Thanne hadde he spent al his plulosopliie, 
 
 Ay, Queslio quid juris, wolde he crye. 
 
 He was a gcntil harlot and a kyude ; 
 
 A bettre felawe schulde men iioght fynde. 
 
 He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn 
 
 A good felawe to have his [wikked syn] 
 
 A twelf moneth, and excuse him atte fulle : 
 
 And prively a fynch eek cowde lie pulle. 
 
 And if he fond owher" a good felawe. 
 
 He wolde techeu him to ban uon awe 
 
 In such caas of the archedekncs curs,' 
 
 But-if a mannes soide were in liis purs ; 
 
 Eor in his purs he scholde y-punysschcd be. 
 
 " Purs is the erchcdcknes helle," quod he. 
 
 But wel I woot he lycde right in dede ; 
 
 Of cursyng oghte ecli gulty man him drcde ; 
 
 For curs wol slee' right as assoillyng saveth; 
 
 And also war ' him of a sigiiijiravit. 
 
 In daunger hadde he at his ovnie gise' 
 
 The yonge guides of the diocise. 
 
 And knew here couuseil, and was al here reed. 
 
 A garland hadde lie set upon his heed. 
 
 As gret as it were for an ale-stake ; 
 
 A bokeler hadde he niaad him of a cake. 
 
 With him tlier rood a gentil Pardoner ' 
 Of Rouncivale, his freud and liis comper. 
 That streyt was comen from the court of Rome. 
 Ful lowde he sang. Com liider, love, to me. 
 This sompnour bar to him a stif burdoun,' 
 Was ncverc trompe of half so gret a souu. 
 This pardoner hadde liecr' as yelwe as wex, 
 But smothc it heng, as doth a strike of Hex ; 
 By unces '° hynge his lokkes that lie hadde. 
 And them'ith he his schuldres overspradde. 
 Ful thiiine it lay, by culpons" on and oon. 
 But hood, for jolitee, ne werede he noon, 
 For it was trussed up in his walet. 
 Him thoughte ho rood al of the newe get,'' 
 Dischevele, sauf " his cappe, he rood al bare. 
 Suche glaryng eygiicn hadde he as an hare. 
 A veniicle" hadde he sowed upon his cappe. 
 His walet lay byforn him in his lappe, 
 Bret-ful of pardouu come from Rome al hoot. 
 A voys he hadde as smal as eny goot. 
 No berd hadde he, he nevcre scholde'* have, 
 As smothe it was as it were late i-schave ; 
 
 * * * 
 
 But of his craft, fro Bcrwyk into Ware, 
 Ne was ther such another pardoner. 
 For in his male '" lie hadde a pilwebeer," 
 
 I Test. « Sang the bass. 
 
 - .\nywhere. *■ Hair. 
 
 3 Archdeacon's curse. ^^ Small portions. 
 
 < Slay. " Shreds. 
 
 ^ Caution. *2 i'ashion. 
 
 » Way. M E.xcept. 
 
 ' A seller of Indulgences. 
 
 " A copy in nnniiitui-e of the picture of Christ. 
 
 •'= Should. M Bag. " Pillowcase. 
 
 ^^- 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 8 
 
 CHAUCEE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 WMcli that, he seide, was oure lady veyl : 
 
 He seide, he hadde a gobet' of the seyl'' 
 
 That seyiit Peter hadde, whan that lie wente 
 
 Uppon the see, til Jhesu Crist liim heiite.' 
 
 He hadde a croys of latoun * ful of stones, 
 
 And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 
 
 But with thise reliques, whan that he fond 
 
 A poure persouu dwellyng uppon lond, 
 
 Upon a day he gat him more moneye 
 
 Than that the persouu gat in monthes tweye. 
 
 And thus with feyned flaterie and japes,' 
 
 He made the persoun and the people his apes.' 
 
 But trewely to tellen atte laste. 
 
 He was in churche a noble eeelesiaste. 
 
 Wei cowde he rede a lessoun or a storye. 
 
 But althcrbest he sang an offertorie ; 
 
 Por wel he wyste, whan that song was songe. 
 
 He moste preohe, and wel affyle his tonge, 
 
 To Wynne silver, as he right wel eowde ; 
 
 Therfore he sang ful meriely and lowde. 
 
 Now have I told you schortly in a clause 
 Thestat,' tharray, the nombre, and eek the eause 
 Why that assembled was this compainye 
 In Southwerk at this gentU hostelrie, 
 That highte the Tabard, faste by tlie BeUe. 
 But now is tyme to yow for to telle 
 How that we bare us in that ilke' night, 
 Whan we were in that hostelrie iJight 
 And after wol I telle of oure viage, 
 And al the remeuaunt of oure pilgrimage. 
 But first I pray you of your curteisie. 
 That ye ne rette it nat my vileinye,' 
 Though that I pleynly speke in this matere, 
 To telle you here wordes and here oheere ; 
 Ne though I speke here wordes proprely. 
 For this ye kuowen also wel as I, 
 Whoso schal telle a tale after a man. 
 He moot reherce, as neigh as evere he can, 
 Everych a word, if it be in his charge, 
 Al speke he nevere so rudelyche'" and large;" 
 Or elles lie moot telle his tale untrewe, 
 Or feyue thing, or fynde wordes uewe. 
 He may not spare, although he were his brother ; 
 He moot as wel scyn oo word as another. 
 Crist spak himself ful broode in holy writ, 
 And wel ye woote no vileinye is it. 
 Eek Plato seitli, whoso that can him rede. 
 The wordes mote be cosyn to the dede. 
 Also I jiraye you to foryeve it me, 
 Al have I uat set folk in here degre 
 Here in this tale, as that thei schulde stonde; 
 My wit is schort, ye may wel understondc. 
 
 Greet oheere made oure host us everichon, 
 And to the souper sette he us anou ; 
 
 fr 
 
 1 piece. * Tinned iroQ. 
 
 % Sail. '■ Deceits. 
 
 8 Assisted. " Fools. 
 
 * Thnt ye aserihe it not to my ill-breeding. 
 10 Rudely. " Free. 
 
 ' The rank. 
 8 Same. 
 
 And servede us with vitiiille atte beste. 
 
 Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste.' 
 
 A semely man oure boost he was withaUe 
 
 For to han been a marschal in au halle ; 
 
 A large man he was with eyglien stepe, 
 
 A fairer burgeys was tlier noon in Chepe : 
 
 Bold of his speche, and wys and wel i-taught. 
 
 And of manhede him lakkede right naught. 
 
 Eek therto he was right a mery man, 
 
 And after soper playen he bygan. 
 
 And spak of myrthe amonges othre thinges, 
 
 Wlian that we hadde maad our rekenynges ; 
 
 And sayde thus : "Lo, lordynges, trewely 
 
 Ye ben to me right welcome hertely : 
 
 For by my trouthe, if that I schal not lye, 
 
 I saugh nought this yeer so mery a companye 
 
 At oones in this herbergh as is now. 
 
 Fayn wolde I don' yow mirthe, wiste I how. 
 
 And of a mirthe I am right now bythought. 
 
 To doon you eese, and it schal coste nought. 
 
 Ye goon to Caunterbury ; God you speede, 
 
 Tlie blisful martir quyte you youre meede !' 
 
 And wel I woot, as ye goii by the weye. 
 
 Ye sehapen' yow to talen' and to pleye;. 
 
 For tTewely eonfort ne mirthe is noon. 
 
 To ryde by the weye domb as a stoon ; 
 
 And therfore wol I makeu you disport. 
 
 As I seyde erst, and don you som contort. 
 
 And if yow liketh alle by oon assent 
 
 Now for to standen at my juggemeut; 
 
 And for to werken as I scli;J you seye, 
 
 To morwe, whan ye ridcii by the weye, 
 
 Now by my fader soule that is deed. 
 
 But ye be merye, I wol yeve yow myn heed. 
 
 Hold up youre bond withoute more speche. 
 
 Oure counseil was not loiige for to seehe ;° 
 
 Us thoughte it nas nat worth to make it wys. 
 
 And grauntede him withoute more avys, 
 
 And bad Mm seie his verdite,' as him leste. 
 
 "Lordynges," quoth he, "now herkneth for the 
 
 beste ; 
 But taketh it not, I praye you, in desdeyn ; 
 This is the poynt, to speken seiiort and pleyu, 
 That ecli of yow to schortc with oure weie. 
 In this viage, sclial telle tales tweye,' 
 To Caunterhuri-ward, I meiie it so. 
 And hom-ward he schal tcllcn otliere tuo, 
 Of aventures that whilom lian bifalle. 
 And which of yow that beretli liim best of alle, 
 Tliat is to se\m, that tellcth in this caas 
 Tales of best sentence and most solas,' 
 Schal han a soper at oure altlier cost 
 Here in this place sittyiige by this post. 
 Whan that we come ageyn from Caunterbury. 
 And for to maken you the more mery. 
 
 ensetl. 
 
 * Purpose 
 
 ake. 
 
 6 Tell tnU- 
 
 cward. 
 
 " Scfk. 
 
 "^ Sentence. 
 
 8 Two. 
 
 ^ Sulace, iiiirtli. 
 
 -P 
 
(&- 
 
 THE BOY MAETYR. 
 
 —^ 
 
 I wol myselvcu gladly with you ryde, 
 Right at myn owen cost, and be youre gyde. 
 And whoso wole my juggement withseie' 
 Schal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 
 And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, 
 Telle me anoon, withouten wordes moo. 
 And I wole erely schape me therfore." 
 This thing was graunted, and onre othes swore 
 With ful glad herte, and prayden him also 
 That he woldc vouchesauf for to doon so, 
 And that he wolde ben oure governour, 
 Ajid of oure tales jugge and reportour. 
 And sette a souper at a certeyn prys ; 
 And we wolde rewled,- beu at his devys. 
 In hcygh and lowe ; and thus by oou assent, 
 We been acorded to liis juggement. 
 And therupon the wyii was fet anoon ; 
 We dronken, and to reste wente echoon, 
 Withouteu eny lenger taryinge. 
 
 THE BOY MAETTB. 
 
 Ther was in Asia, in a gret citee, 
 
 Amonges cristen folk a lewerye, 
 
 Sustcned by a lord of that contree 
 
 For foule vsure and lucre of vilanye. 
 
 Hateful to Crist and to his companye; 
 
 And thurgh the strete men myglit ryde or wende. 
 
 For it was free, and open at eyther eude. 
 
 A litel scole of Cristen folk ther stood 
 Doun at the ferther endc, in which ther were 
 C-hildrcu an heep, yeomen of Cristen blood. 
 That lerncd in that scole yeer by yere 
 Swich maner doctrine as men vsed there. 
 This is to seyii, to siugen and to rede. 
 As smale cliildren doon in hir childhede. 
 
 Among thise children was a widwes sone, 
 A litel clcrgeon,^ seuen yeer of age, 
 That day by day to scole was his wone,' 
 And eek also, wher as he sey thymage 
 Of Cristes mooder, hadde he in vsage. 
 As him was taught, to knele adoun and seye 
 His Aue Marie as he goth by the weye. 
 
 Thus hath this widwe hir litel sone ytaught 
 Our blisful lady, Cristes mooder' dere. 
 To worshipe ay, and he forgat it naught, 
 For sely" cliild wol alday sone lere ;' 
 But ay, whan I remembre on this matere, 
 Seint Nicholas stant eucr in my presence, 
 For he so yong to Crist did reuerence. 
 
 This litel chUd his litel book leminge, 
 As he sat in the scole at his prymer. 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Gainsay. 
 
 < Wont. 
 
 e Simple 
 
 2 Killed. 
 
 6 Mother. 
 
 7 Learn. 
 
 3 Chorister bov. 
 
 
 
 He Alma redemptoris hcrde singe, 
 
 As children lenied hir autiphoner;' 
 
 And, as he dorste, he drough ' hym ner and ner. 
 
 And herkned ay the wordes and the note, 
 
 Til he the firste vers coude" al by rote. 
 
 Noght wiste he what this latin was to seye. 
 For he so youg and teudre was of age ; 
 But on a day his felaw* gan he preye 
 Texponndeu him this song in his langage. 
 Or telle him why this song was in vsage ; 
 This preyde he him to construe and declare 
 Ful ofte tyme vpon his knowes' bare. 
 
 His felaw, which that elder was than he, 
 
 Answerdc him thus : " This song, I haueherd seye, 
 
 AVas maked of our blisful lady free, 
 
 Hir to salue,' and eek hir for to preye 
 
 To been our help and socour whan we deye. 
 
 I can no more expounde in this matere ; 
 
 I lerne song, I can but smal graramere." 
 
 "And is this song maked in reuerence 
 Of Cristes mooder ? " seyde this Innocent ; 
 " Now ccrtes, I wol do my diligence 
 To conne it al, er Cristemasse is went ; 
 Though that I for my prymer shal be shcnt,' 
 And shal be beten thryes in an houre, 
 I wol it conne, our lady for to hunoure." 
 
 His felaw taughte him homward priuely,' 
 Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote, 
 And than he song it wel and boldely 
 Fro word to word, acordiug witli tiie note ; 
 Twyes a day it passed thurgli his tlirote. 
 To scoleward and homward whan he wente ; 
 On Cristes mooder set was his entente. 
 
 As I hane seyd, thurgh-out the lewerye 
 This litel child, as he cam to and fro, 
 Ful merily than' wolde he singe, and crye 
 Alma redemptoris euer-moo.'° 
 The swetnes hath his herte perced so 
 Of Cristes mooder, that, to hir to preye. 
 He can nat stinte of singing by the weye. 
 
 Our firste foo, the sei-pent Sathanas, 
 That hath in lewes herte his waspes nest, 
 Vp swal," and seide, " O Hcbraik peple, alias ! 
 Is this to yow a thmg that is honest. 
 That swich a boy shal walken as him lest 
 In your despyt, and suige of swich sentence, 
 Wliich is agayn your lawes reuerence ? " 
 
 Fro thennes forth the lewes ban couspyred 
 This iiuiocent out of this world to ehace : 
 
 1 Anthem hook. 
 
 2 Approaclied. 
 
 3 Knew. 
 
 * Companion, 
 
 5 Knees. 
 « Salute. 
 ' Scolded. 
 8 Privately. 
 
 » Then. 
 ^ Evermore. 
 ^ Swelled up. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 10 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 All liomicyde tlier-to liaii tliey liyred. 
 That in au aley hadde a priuee place ^ 
 And as t.lie child gau forby for to pace. 
 This cursed lew him heiite ' and heeld him faste, 
 And kitte his throte, and in a pit him caste. 
 » * « 
 
 This poure widwe awaiteth al that nyght 
 After hir litel child, but he cam noglit ; 
 For which, as sone as it was dayes lyght, 
 With face pale of drede and bisy tlioght, 
 She hatli at scole and elles-wher him soght, 
 Til finally she gan so fer espye 
 That he last seyn was in the lewerye. 
 
 With moodres pitee in hir brest enclosed, 
 She gooth, as she were half out of hir niynde, 
 To euery place wher she hath supposed 
 By lyklihede hir litel child to fynde ; 
 And euer on Cristes raooder nieke and kynde 
 She cryde, and atte laste thus she wroughte. 
 Among the cursed lewes she him soughte. 
 
 She frayneth ° and she preyeth pitously 
 To euery lew that dwelte in thilke place, 
 To telle hir, if hir child wente ought forby.' 
 They seyde, " Nay " ; but lesu, of his grace, 
 Yaf in hir thought, inwith a litel space 
 That in that place after hir sone she cryde, 
 Wher he was casteu in a pit bisyde. 
 
 O grete god, that parfournest ' thy laude 
 By mouth of Inuoccntz, lo beer thy myght ! 
 This gemme of chastitee, this Emeraude, 
 And eek of martirdom the Ruby bryght, 
 Thcr he with throte ykoruen ° lay vpryght. 
 He Alma redemptoris gan to singe 
 So loude, that al the place gan to riuge. 
 
 The Cristen folk, that thurgh the strete wente. 
 In coomeu, for to wondre vp-on this thing. 
 And hastily they for the Prouost sente ; 
 He cam anon with-outeu tarying, 
 And herieth' Crist that is of heuen king. 
 And eek his mooder, honour of mankyude, 
 And after that, the lewes leet he bynde." 
 
 This child with pitous lamentacioun 
 Vp-taken was, singing his song alway ; 
 And with honour of gret processioun 
 They carieu him vn-to the nexte abbay. 
 His mooder swowning by the here lay ; 
 Vnnethe' myght the peple that was there 
 This uewe Riichcl bringe fro his here. 
 
 With torment and with shamful deth eohon 
 This Prouost dooth the lewes for to steruc'" 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Seized. 
 
 B Performest. 
 
 8 Caused to be bouud 
 
 a Beseeches. 
 
 Cut. 
 
 » Willi difficulty. 
 
 3 Past. 
 
 ' Praiseth. 
 
 10 Die. 
 
 ' Gove. 
 
 
 
 That of this mordre wiste,' and that anon ; 
 He nolde' no swich cursednes obserue. 
 EueP shal haue, that euel wol deserue. 
 Tlierfor with wilde hors he dide hem drawc, 
 And after that he heng hem by the kwe. 
 
 Vp-on his here ay lyth this innocent 
 Biforn the chief auter, whil masse laste. 
 And after that, the abbot with his couent' 
 Han sped hem for to burien him ful faste ; 
 And whan they holy water on liim caste. 
 Yet spak this child, whan spreynd ' \\-as holy 
 
 water. 
 And song, Alma redemptoris mater! 
 
 This abbot, which that was an holy man 
 
 As monkes been, or elles ougliten be. 
 
 This yonge child to coniure he bigan. 
 
 And seyde, "O dere child, I halse' thee, 
 
 In vertu of the holy Trinitee, 
 
 Tel nie what is thy cause for to singe, 
 
 Sith that thy throte is cut, to my seminge ? " 
 
 " My throte is cut \ii-to my nekke-boon," 
 Seyde this child, " and, as by wey of kynde,' 
 I sholde haue deyed, ye, long tyme agoon. 
 But lesu Crist, as ye in bokes fynde, 
 Wil that his glorie laste and be in inynde. 
 And, for the worship of his mooder dere. 
 Yet may I singe Alma loude and clere. 
 
 "This welle of mercy, Cristes mooder swete, 
 
 I louede al wey, as alter my conninge ; ' 
 
 And whan that I my lyf sholde forlete,' 
 
 To me she cam, and bad me for to singe 
 
 This antem verraily in my deyinge. 
 
 As ye ban herd, and, whan that I had songe, 
 
 Me thoughte she leyde a greyn" vji-on my tonge. 
 
 " Wherfor I singe, and singe I mot" certeyn 
 In honour of that blisful niayden free. 
 Til fro my tonge of-taken is the greyn ; 
 And afterward thus seyde she to me, 
 ' My litel child, now wol I fecche thee 
 Whan that the greyn is fro thy tonge ytake ; 
 Be nat agast, I wol thee nat forsake.' " 
 
 Tills holy monk, this abbot, him mene I, 
 
 His tonge out-cauglite, and took a- wey the greyn. 
 
 And he yaf " vp the goost ful softcly. 
 
 And whan this abbot liad this wonder seyn, 
 
 His salte teres trikled doun as reyn. 
 
 And gruf" he fil al plat" vp-on the grounde, 
 
 .'Vud stille he lay as he had ben ybouudc. 
 
 ^ Knew. 
 
 > Would not. 
 
 » Evil. 
 
 * Conventual body. 
 
 » Sprinkled. 
 
 * Conjure. 
 ' Kature. 
 » Skill. 
 » Quit. 
 '» Grain. 
 
 >' Must. 
 " Gave. 
 " Prostrate. 
 " Flat. 
 
 ^ 
 
<^- 
 
 1)E HUGELINO. — THE TEMPLE OP MAES. 
 
 11 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Tlie couent eek lay on the pauement' 
 Weping, and herien Cristes mooder dere, 
 And after that they rise, and forth ben went, 
 And toke awey this martir fro his here, 
 And in a tombe of marbul-stones clere 
 Enclosen they his litel body swete ; 
 Ther he is now, god leue - us for to mete. 
 
 yonge Hugh of Lincohi, sleyu also 
 With cursed lewes, as it is notable, 
 For it nis ^ but a litel whyle ago ; 
 Prey eek ' for vs, we sinful folk vnstable. 
 That of his mercy god so mereiable 
 On vs his grete mercy multiplye. 
 For reuereuce of his mooder Marye. Amen. 
 The Prioresses Tale. 
 
 DE HUaELINO, COMTTE DE PIZE. 
 
 Of the erl Hugelyn of Pyse the langour' 
 Ther may no toiige telle for pitee ; 
 But litel out of Pyse stant a tour. 
 In whiche tour in prisoun put was he. 
 And with liim been his litel children tlu'e. 
 The eldeste scarsly fyf yeer was of age. 
 Alias, fortune ! it was greet crueltee 
 Swiche briddes' for to putte in swiche a cage ! 
 
 Dampned' was he to deye ia that prisoun. 
 For Roger, which that bisshop was of Pyse, 
 Hadde on him maad a fals suggestioun,' 
 Thurgh which the pejjle gan vpon him ryse. 
 And putten him to prisoun in swieh wyse 
 As ye ban herd, and mete and drink he hadde 
 So smal, that wel vnnetlie '" it may suffyse, 
 And therwith-al it was ful pom-e and badde. 
 
 And on a day bifil that in that hour 
 
 "Whan tliat his mete wont was to be brought, 
 
 Tlie gayler shette the dores of the tour. 
 
 He herde it wel, but he ne spak right nought, 
 
 And in his herte anon tiier ill" a thought. 
 
 That they for hunger wolde doon liim dyen. 
 
 "Alias!" quod he, "alias that I was wrought!" 
 
 Therwith the teres Alien from his yen. 
 
 His yonge sone, that thre yeer was of age, 
 Vn-to liim seyde, " Fader, why do ye wepe ? 
 Whan wol the gayler bringeu our potage, 
 Is ther no morsel breed that ye do kepe ? 
 I am so hungry that I nii^y nat slepe. 
 Now wolde god that I myghte slepen euer !" 
 Thau sliolde nat hunger in my wonibe crepe; 
 There is no thing, sane breed, that me were Icuer."" 
 
 * Pavement. 
 
 2 Grant. 
 
 3 Is not. 
 <■ Also. 
 
 f' Slow staYvation- 
 
 « Five. 
 ' Birds. 
 
 8 Contlenined. 
 ^ Criminal charge. 
 
 *•* Scarcely. 
 
 " Fell. 
 
 >2 Ever. 
 
 13 More desirable. 
 
 fQ^- 
 
 Thus day by day tliis child bigan to crye, 
 Til in his fadres barme ' adoun it lay. 
 And seyde, "Far wel, fader, I moot dye," 
 And kiste his fader, and deyde the same day. 
 And whan the woful fader deed it sey. 
 For wo liis amies two he gau to byte. 
 And seyde, " Alias, fortune ! and weylaway ! 
 Thy false wheel my wo al may I wyte ! "' 
 
 His children wende^ that it for hunger was 
 That lie his amies gnow,' and nat for wo. 
 And seyde, " Fader, do nat so, alias ! 
 But rather eet the fiessh vpon vs two ; 
 Our flessh thou yaf vs, tak our flessh vs fro. 
 And eet ynougli " ; right thus they to him seyde. 
 And after that, with-in a day or two. 
 They leyde hem' in his lappe adoun, and deyde. 
 
 Him-self, despeired, eek for hunger starf;' 
 Thus ended is this myglity Erl of Pyse ; 
 From liy estaat fortune awey him carf.' 
 Of this Tragedie it ouglite ynougli suifyse. 
 Who-so wol here it in a lenger wyse, 
 Redetli the grete poete of ItaiUe, 
 That highte Dante, for he can al deuyse 
 Fro point to point, nat o word wol he faille. 
 
 T/ie JIonl.es Tale. 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF MARS. 
 
 Al peyntcd was the wal in lengthe and breede 
 
 Lik to the estres' of the grisly place. 
 
 That highte the grete temple of Mars in Trace, 
 
 In thilko eolde frosty regioun, 
 
 Ther as Mars hath his sovercyu mancioun. 
 
 First on the wal was peyntcd a forest. 
 
 In which ther dwelleth neyther man ne best. 
 
 With knotty knarry bareyne trees olde 
 
 Of stubbes' scliarpe and hidons to byholde ; 
 
 In wliich ther ran a swymbel'° in a swough," 
 
 As theugh a storm sehnlde bcrsten every liough : 
 
 And downward on an liil under a bente,'" 
 
 Ther stood the temple of Marz armypotente, 
 
 Wrought al of burned steel, of which theiitre" 
 
 Was long and streyt, and gastly for to see. 
 
 And therout cam a rage and such a vese," 
 
 That it made al the gates for to rese.'* 
 
 The northen light in at the dores sohon. 
 
 For w\iidowe on the wal ne was tlier noon, 
 
 Thurgh which men mighten any light disceme. 
 
 The dores were alle of adeniauutz cterne, 
 
 I-clcnched overthwart and endelong 
 
 With iren tough ; and, for to make it strong, 
 
 Every piler the temple to susteene 
 
 1 Bosom. 6 Died. n The sounding of the wind. 
 
 ' Blame. ' Cut. '= Plain. 
 
 3 Supposed. ^ Interior. ^ The entrance. 
 
 * Gnaw. 8 .Stumps. " Rusli of wind. 
 
 » Them. »» Jloaning. >' Quake. 
 
 -9^ 
 
a- 
 
 12 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Was tonne greet,' of iren briglit and schene." 
 Tlier saugli I tirst tbe derke' ymaginyug 
 or felon_ve, and al the compassyng ; 
 The cruel ire, as reed as any gleede;' 
 Tlie pikepurs, and eek the pale drede ;' 
 Tlie smylere' with the knyf under tlie cloke; 
 The schepne' breunyng" with the blake smoke ; 
 The tresouii of the murtheryng in the bed ; 
 The open werve, with woundes al bi-bled ; ° 
 Contek" with bloody knyf, and scharp nianace. 
 Al ful of chirkyng" was that sory place. 
 The sleere'" of himself yet saugh I there, 
 His herte-blood hath batlied al his here ; 
 The nayl y-dryven in the schode'" a-nyght; 
 The colde detli, witli mouth gapyng upright. 
 Amyddes of the temple sat meschaunee. 
 With disconfort and sory contenaunee. 
 Yet saugh I woodnesse" laughying in his rage ; 
 Armed complaint, outhees," and tiers outrage. 
 The caroigne " in the bussh, with throte y-corve: " 
 A tliousand slain, and not of qualme " y-storve ; " 
 The tiraunt, with the prey by force y-raft;'" 
 The toun destroied, ther was no thyng laft. 
 Yet sawgh I brent the schippes hoppesteres ;*' 
 The hunte'* strangled with the wilde beres : 
 The sowe freten" tlie child right in the cradel; 
 The cook i-skalded, for al his louge ladel. 
 Nought was foryeten by the infortune of 
 
 Marte ; 
 The cartere over-ryden with his carte, 
 Under the whel ful lowe he lay adouu. 
 Ther were also of Martes divisiouu. 
 The harbour, and the bochcr ; and the smyth 
 That forgeth scharpe swerdes on his stith.^ 
 And al above depeynted in a tour 
 Saw I conquest sittyng in gret honour, 
 With the scharpe swerd over his heed 
 Hangynge by a so til*" twynes threed.* 
 Depeynted was the slaughtre of Julius, 
 Of grete Nero, and of Authonius ; 
 Al be that thilke" tyme they were unborn, 
 Yet was here deth depeynted ther byforn,'* 
 By manasyng'* of Mai-s, right by figure. 
 So was it schewed in that purtreiture 
 As is depeynted in the sterres above. 
 Who sclial be slayn or ellcs deed^ for love. 
 
 1 Of the civcumfcrence of a tun. ^^ Can-ion. 
 
 s Fail-. " Cut. 
 
 ^ Dark. w Sickness. 
 
 * Live coal. w licad. 
 » Fear. 5» Bereft. 
 
 » Smiler. « Warlike. 
 
 ' Stables. » Hunter. 
 
 * Burning. " Eating. 
 » Covered with blood. » Anvil. 
 
 '« Contest. ^ Subtile. 
 
 " Shrieking. «> Tliread. 
 
 » Slayer. " The like. 
 
 " Temple. » Before. 
 
 1* Madness. ^ Menacing. 
 
 "■■ Outcry. '» Dead. 
 
 SufEcetli 0011 ensample in stories olde, 
 I may not rckne hem alle, though I woldc. 
 The statue of Mars upon a carte' stood. 
 Armed, and lokede grym as he were wood ; - 
 And over his heed ther schynen two figures 
 Of sterres, that been cleped in scriptures, 
 That oon Puella, that other Rubens. 
 This god of armes was arrayed thus : — 
 A wolf ther stood byforn him at his feet 
 With eyen reede, and of a man he eet ; 
 With sotyl peucel depeynted was this storie. 
 In redoutyng of Mars and of his glorie. 
 
 The Kiiii/htea Tale. 
 
 EMELIE. 
 
 Tins passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day, 
 TU it fel oones in a morwe of May 
 That Emelie, that fairer was to seene 
 Than is the hlie on hire stalke grene. 
 And fresscher than the May ■ivith floures newe — 
 For with the rose colour strof ^ liire hewe, 
 I not which was the fayrere of hem two — 
 Er it were day, as was liire wone to do, 
 Sche was arisen, and al redy dight ; 
 For May wole ban no sloggardye anight. 
 The sesoun prikcth every gentil herte, 
 And maketh him out of his sleep to sterte, 
 And seith, " Arys, and do thin observaunce." 
 This makede Emelye ban remembraunce 
 To don honour to May, and for to ryse. 
 I-clothed was sche fresshe for to devyse. 
 Hire yelwe beer was browded in a tresse, 
 Byhynde hire bak, a yerde long I gesse. 
 And in the gardyn at the sonne upriste 
 Sche walketh up and douu, and as liire liste 
 Sche gadereth tioures, party whyte and reede, 
 To make a sotil gcrlaud for hire heede, 
 Aiid as an auiigel hevenlyche sche song. 
 
 T/ie Kiiightes Tale. 
 
 MORNING IN MAT. 
 
 The busy larke, messager of daye, 
 Salueth in hire song the morwe graye ; 
 And fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte. 
 That al the orient laugheth of the lighte, 
 And with his stremes dryeth in the greves* 
 The silver drojies, hongyng on the leeves. 
 ."Vnd Areite, that is in the court ryal 
 With Theseus, his sfjuypr principal. 
 Is risen, and loketh on the merye day. 
 And f(n' to doon his observaunce to May, 
 Remembryng on the poynt of liis desir, 
 He on his courser, stcrtyng as the fir,' 
 Is riden into the feeldes him to pleye,' 
 
 ■ Chariot. 
 2 Mad. 
 
 3 Strove. 
 * Groves. 
 
 » Fire. 
 ". I'lav. 
 
 -95 
 
a— 
 
 CRESEIDE. — A MORNING WALK. 
 
 13 
 
 -n> 
 
 Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye. 
 And to tlie grove, of whicli that I yow tolde, 
 By aventure his wey he gan to holde. 
 To makeu him a gariaud of the greves, 
 Were it of woodebynde or hawethorn leves. 
 And lowde he song ayens the sonne scheeue : 
 " May, with alle thy floures and thy greene. 
 Welcome be thou, wel faire fressche May, 
 I hope that I som grene gete may." 
 
 nc Knii/htes Tale. 
 
 CEESEIDE. 
 
 Among these other folke was Creseida, 
 In widowes habite bhack ; but natheless 
 l{ight as our first letter is now a. 
 In bcautie first so stood she matchless. 
 Her goodly looking gladded all the prees,' 
 Was never seene thing to be praised so dere, 
 Nor under cloude blacke so brighte starre. 
 
 Creseide meane' was of her stature. 
 Thereto of shape, of face and eke of chere. 
 There might ben no fairer creature, 
 And ofte time this was her manere, 
 iSo gone ytressed with her haires clere 
 Downe by her colere' at her back behind, 
 ^Miich with a thred of gold she woulde bind. 
 
 And save her browes joyneden yfere,* 
 
 There nas no lacke, in aught I cau espien ; 
 
 But for to speken of her eyen clere, 
 
 So, truly they written that her seien,' 
 
 That Paradis stood formed in her eien, 
 
 And with her riche beauty evermore 
 
 Strove love in her, aie wliich of hem was more. 
 
 She sobre was, eke simple, and wise withall, 
 The best ynorished eke that might bee, 
 And goodly of her speche in generall, 
 Charitable, estately, lusty and free, 
 Ne ncTCrmore ne lacked her pitee, 
 Tender hearted sliding of corage. 
 But tndy I can not tell her age. 
 
 Troilus and Creseide. 
 
 THE DAISY, 
 
 Of all the floures in the mede. 
 Than love I most these floures white and rede, 
 Soch that men callen daisies in our town ; 
 To hem I have so great affection. 
 As I said erst, whan comen is the May, 
 That in my beddc there daweth me no day. 
 That I nam ' up and walking in the mede, 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Crowd. 
 
 2 Ordinary. 
 
 s Collar. 
 < Together. 
 
 fi Seen. 
 ^ I am not. 
 
 To scene this flour ayenst the Suinie sprede. 
 Whan it up riseth early by the niorow, 
 That blissful sight softeneth all my sorow. 
 So glad am I, whan that I have the presence 
 Of it, to done it all reverence, 
 And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe, 
 And ever shall, till that mine hertc die 
 All swere I not, of this I will not he. 
 * * * 
 
 My busie gost. that thurstcth alway newe. 
 To seen this flour so yong, so fresh of hew, 
 Constrained me, with so greedy desire. 
 That in my herte I fele yet the fire, 
 That made me rise ere it were day, 
 And this was now the first morow of May, 
 With dreadful ' herte, and glad devotion 
 For to been at the resurrection 
 Of this floure, whan that it should unclose 
 Againe the Sunne, that rose as redde as rose. 
 And doune on knees anon right I me sette. 
 And as I could, this fresh floure I grctte, 
 KneeUug alway, till it unclosed was, 
 Upon the small, soft, swete gras, 
 That was with floures swete embrouded all. 
 Of such swetenesse, and such odour overall 
 That for to speke of gomme, herl)e, or tree, 
 Comparison may not ymaked be. 
 For it surmounteth plainly all odoures, 
 And of rich beaute of floures. 
 And Zephirus, and Flora gentelly, 
 Yave to these floures soft and tenderly, 
 Hir swote ' breth, and made hem for to sprede. 
 As god and goddesse of the flourie mede. 
 In which me thoughte I might day by day, 
 Dwellen alway, the joly month of May, 
 Withouten slepe, withouten meat or drinke : 
 Adoune full softly I gan to siidce. 
 And leaning on my elbow and my side, 
 The long day I shope me for to abide, 
 For nothing els, and I shall nat lie. 
 But for to looke upon the daisie, 
 That well by reason men it call may 
 The daisie, or els the eye of the da;^. 
 The empress and floure of floures all, 
 I pray to God that faire mote she fall. 
 And all that loven floures for her sake. 
 
 Legend of Good Women. 
 
 A MORNING WALK, 
 
 I ROSE anone and thought I woulde gone 
 Into the woode to hear the birdes sing. 
 Whan that the misty vapour was agone. 
 And cleare and faire was the morning. 
 The dewe also like silver in shining 
 
 ' Sweet. 
 
 J> 
 
a- 
 
 14 
 
 CHAUCEB. 
 
 —9) 
 
 U|joii the leaves, as any baume swete, 
 Till firy Titan with his persaut' hete 
 
 Had dried up the lusty licour newe, 
 Upon the herbes in the grene mede, 
 And that the floures of many divers hue, 
 Upon hir stalkes gon for to sprede, 
 And for to splay ^ out hir leves in brede 
 Againe the Sunne, gold burned in his spere, 
 That doune to hem cast his beames clere. 
 
 And by a river forth I gan costay,' 
 Of water clere, as birell or cristall. 
 Till at the last I found a little way. 
 Toward a parke, enclosed with a wall. 
 In compace rounde, and by a gate small, 
 Who so that wnnld, fi-eely might gone 
 Into this parke, walled with grene stone. 
 
 And in I went to heare the birdes song. 
 Which on the branches, both in plaine and vale. 
 So loud sang, that all the wood rong. 
 Like as it should shiver in peeces small. 
 And as me thought, that the nightingale 
 With so great might, her voice gan out wrest 
 Right as her herte for love would brest.' 
 
 The Complaint of the Black Knight. 
 
 TREES, FLOWEES, AND BIRDS. 
 
 The bilder oke, and eke the harde asshe, 
 The piller elme, the coffre unto caraine. 
 The boxe pipe tree, holme to whippes lache, 
 The sailing firre, the cipres deth to plaine. 
 The shooter ewe, the aspe for shaftes plaine, 
 Tlic olive of peace, and eke the dronkeu vine. 
 The victor palme, the laurer too divine. 
 
 A garden saw I, full of blossomed bowis, 
 Upon a river, in a grene mede. 
 There as sweetnesse evermore inough is. 
 With floures wliite, blewe, yelowe and rede, 
 And cold wclle streames, nothing dcde. 
 That swommen full of smale fishes light, 
 With fiimes rede, and scales silver bright. 
 
 On every bough the birdes heard I sing. 
 
 With voice of angell in hir amionie. 
 
 That busied hem, hir birdes forth to bi-ing ; 
 
 The little pretty conies to hir play gan hie. 
 
 And farther all about I gan espie. 
 
 The dredefnl roe, the buck, the hart, and hind. 
 
 Squirrels, and beastes small of gentle kind. 
 
 Of instruments of stringes in aceorde. 
 Heard I so play a ravishing swetnesse. 
 That God, that maker is of all and Lorde, 
 
 <fe-^ 
 
 : Oprn. 
 
 Ne heard never better, as I gesse ; 
 Therewith a wind, unneth it might be lesse, 
 JIadc in the leaves grene a noise soft. 
 Accordant to the foules song on loft. 
 
 Assemhhj of Foules. 
 
 SLANDER. 
 
 Wtiat did this Eolus, but he 
 Tooke out his blacke trump of brass 
 That fouler than the deWl was. 
 And gan this trompe' for to blow 
 As all the world should overthrow. 
 Throughout every regioun 
 Went this foule trumpes soun. 
 As swifte as a pellet' out of a gunne 
 When fire is in the pouder runne. 
 And such a smoke gan out wende 
 Out of the foule trumpes eude, 
 Blacke, blue, grenish, swartish, red, 
 As doth where that men melte lead. 
 So, all on hie from the teweU ;' 
 And therto saw I one thing well 
 That the farther that it ranne 
 Tlie greater wexen it begamie, 
 As doth a river from a well, 
 And it stauke as the pitta of Hell. 
 
 House of Fame. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 The god of love jolil'e and light. 
 
 Led on his honde a lady bright, 
 
 Of high prise,* and of gret degre, 
 
 This ladie called was Beaute ; 
 
 Ne she was derke,' ne browne, but bright 
 
 And clcare as the mooue light ; 
 
 Againe whom all the starres seemen 
 
 But small candles as we demen : 
 
 Her flesh was tender as dewe of flower. 
 
 Her cheare' was simple as bird in bower. 
 
 As white as lilly or rose in rise : 
 
 Her tresses yellow, and long straughten' 
 
 Unto her heeles down they raughten;* 
 
 Her nose, her mouth, and eye and cheke 
 
 Wcl wrought, and all the remnaunt eke. 
 
 A full gret savour and a swote ; 
 
 JIc thoughte in mine herte rote. 
 
 As helpe me God, when I remember 
 
 Of the fashion of every member. 
 
 In world is none so faire a wight : 
 
 For yong she was. and hewed bright 
 
 Sore plesant and fctis' with all. 
 
 Gentle and in her middle smaU. 
 
 Romaiint of the Rose. 
 
 ' Trumpet. 
 
 « Wovlh. 
 
 ' Stretching. 
 
 '■ Ilnlii-t. 
 
 » Diiik. 
 
 8 RcAcliing. 
 
 3 (."liiiinicy. 
 
 » Etliavior. 
 
 « Kent. 
 
 -p 
 
a- 
 
 THE ENVIOUS MAN AND THE MI 
 
 !;er. 
 
 ■FREEDOM. 
 
 15 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 JOHN GOAVER. 
 
 1330-1403. 
 
 THE ENTIOTTS MAN AND THE MISER, 
 
 Of Jupiter thus I find y-writ, 
 How wliilom that he would wit 
 Upon the plaints which he heard 
 Among the men, how it fared, 
 As of the wrong condition 
 To do justification ; 
 And for that cause down he sent 
 An angel, that about went, 
 That he the sooth know may. 
 
 So it befel upon a day, 
 Tliis angel which him should inform 
 Was clothed in a man's form, 
 And overtook, I understand. 
 Two men that wenten over lond ; 
 Through which he thought to aspy 
 His cause, and go'th in company. 
 
 This angel with his words wise 
 
 Opposeth them in sundry wise ; 
 
 Now loud words and now soft. 
 
 That made them to disputen oft ; 
 
 And each his reason had. 
 
 And thus with tales he them led, 
 
 With good exaramation, 
 
 Till he knew the condition, 
 
 What men they were both two ; 
 
 And saw well at last tho,' 
 
 That one of them was covetous, 
 
 And his fellow was envious. 
 
 And thus when he hath knowledging. 
 
 Anon he feigned departing. 
 
 And said he mote algate wend ; 
 
 But hearken now wliat fell at end ! 
 
 For than he made them understond, 
 
 That he was there of God's sond. 
 
 And said them for the kindship, 
 
 He woidd do them some grace again. 
 
 And bade that cue of them should sain,' 
 
 What thing is him levest to crave,' 
 
 And he it shall of gift have. 
 
 And over that ke forth with all 
 
 He saith, that other have shall 
 
 The double of that his fellow axeth ; 
 
 And thus to them his grace he taxeth. 
 
 The Covetous was wonder glad ; 
 And to that other man he bade, 
 And saith, that he first ax should ; 
 For he supposeth that he would 
 Make his axing of world's good ; 
 
 1 Then. 2 Say. 
 
 3 What thing he was most disposed to crave. 
 
 For then he knew well how it stood ; 
 If that hirasell by double weight 
 Shall after take, and thus by sleight 
 Because that he would win. 
 He bade his fellow first begin. 
 Tliis Envious, though it be late. 
 When that he saw he mote, algate. 
 Make his axing first, he thought. 
 If he his worship and profit sought 
 It shall be double to his fere. 
 That he would cliuse in no manner. 
 But then he showeth what he was 
 Toward envy, and in this case. 
 Unto this angel thus he said. 
 And for his gift thus he prayed. 
 To make him blind on his one ee, 
 So that his fellow notliing see. 
 
 This word was not so soon spoke, 
 That liis one ee anon was loke : 
 And his fellow forthwith also 
 'Wai blind on both his eyes two. 
 Tho was that other glad enough : 
 That one wept, and that other lough. 
 He set his one ee at no cost. 
 Whereof that other two hath lost. 
 
 MEDEA GATHEEINO ENCHANTED HERBS. 
 
 Thus it fell upon a night, 
 
 IVhen there was naught but starrie light. 
 
 She was vanish'd right as she list. 
 
 That no ■wight but herself wist. 
 
 And that was at midnight tide. 
 
 The world was still on every side. 
 
 With open hand and foot all hare ; 
 
 Her hair too spread, she 'gan to fare ; 
 
 Upon her clothes girt she was, 
 
 And speecheless, upon the grass, 
 
 She glode' forth, as an adder doth. 
 
 JOHN BARBOUR. 
 
 1316 (;) - 1395 (!). 
 
 FREEDOM, 
 
 A ! FREDOiiE is a nobOl thing ! 
 Fredome mayse man to haiff' liking ! 
 Fredome all solace to man giffis : 
 He levys at ese that frely levys ! 
 A noble hart may haiff nane ese, 
 Na cUys nocht that may him jilcse, 
 Gyff' fredome failythe : for fre liking 
 
 > Glided, 
 
 ^ 
 
(&r 
 
 IG 
 
 LYDGATE. — WYNTOUN. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Is yearnyt our all otliir thing 
 Na lie, that ay hase levyt Ire, 
 May nocht knaw weiU the propyrte. 
 The augyr, na the wreoliyt dome. 
 That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. 
 Bot gyff he had assayit it. 
 Than all perquer he suit it wyt ; 
 And suld think fredome mar to pryse 
 Than all the gold in warld that is. 
 
 JOHN LYDGATE. 
 
 1375 (!) - 1460 (•). 
 FEOM THE LONDON LYCKPENNT, 
 
 Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor 
 Would do for me aught, altho' I should die, 
 
 Wliich seeing I gat me out of the door. 
 Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 
 " Master, what will you kopen or buy ? 
 
 Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read ? 
 
 Lay down your silver and here may you speed." 
 
 Then to Westminster gate I presently went. 
 When the sun it was at high prime : 
 
 And cooks to mc they took good intent, 
 And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, 
 Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine, 
 
 A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread. 
 
 But, wanting money, I might not be sped. 
 
 Then unto London I did me hie. 
 Of all the land it beareth the price. 
 
 " Hot peascods ! " one began to cry, 
 
 " Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise." 
 One bade me draw near and buy some spice. 
 
 Pepper and saffron they 'gan me bid. 
 
 But, for lack of money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then to the Cheepe I 'gan me drawn, 
 Where much people I saw for to stand. 
 
 One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn ; 
 Another he taketh me by the hand, — 
 " Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land." 
 
 I never was used to such things indeed. 
 
 And, wanting money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then went I forth by London Stone, 
 Through out all Canwyke Street. 
 
 Drapers much cloth me offered anon. 
 
 Then comes mcone cried, " Hot sheep's feet." 
 One cried, " Maekrell ! " " Rysses green ! " 
 anotiier 'gan grcit. 
 
 One bade me buy a hood to cover my head, 
 
 But, for want of money, I might not be sped. 
 
 Then I hied me unto East Cheepe. 
 
 One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie. 
 Pewter pots they clattered on a heap. 
 
 Tiiere was hai-p, pipe, and miustrally. 
 
 " Yea, by cock ! nay, by eoek ! " some 'gan cry. 
 Some sang of Jenkin and Julian for their meed. 
 But, for lack of money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then into Cornhill anon I yode, 
 
 Where was much stolen gear ; among 
 
 I saw where hung mine own hood. 
 That I had lost among the ihrong. 
 To buy my own hood I thought it wrong ; 
 
 I knew it, well as I did my creed, 
 
 But, for lack of money, I could not speed. 
 
 The tavemer took me by the sleeve, 
 
 " Sir," says he, "will you our wine assay? " 
 
 I answered, " That cannot much me grieve, — 
 A ])enuy can do no more than it may." 
 I drank a pint, and for it did pay : 
 
 Yet sore a hungered from thence I yede. 
 
 And, wanting money, I could not speed. 
 
 ANDREW WYNTOUN. 
 
 After 1420. 
 INTERVIEW OF ST, SERF WITH SATHANAS. 
 
 While St. Serf, intil a stead, 
 Lay after matins in his bed, 
 The devil came, in foul intent 
 For til found him with argument. 
 And said, " St. Serf, by thy werk, 
 ' I ken thou art a cunning clerk." 
 St. Serf said, " Gif I sae be. 
 Foul wretch, what is that for tbee ? " 
 The devil said, " This question 
 I ask in our collation — 
 Say where was God, wit ye oucht. 
 Before that heaven and erd was wroueht ? " 
 St. Serf said, " In liimsclf stcadless 
 His Godhead hampered never was." 
 The devil then askit, " T^iat cause lie had 
 To make the creatures that he made ? " 
 To that St. Serf answered there, 
 " Of creatures made be was maker. 
 A maker micht he never be. 
 But gif creatures made had he." 
 The devil askit him, " Why God of nouclit 
 His wcrkis all full gude had wroueht." 
 St. Serf answered, " That (joddis wUl 
 Was never to make his werkis ill. 
 And as envious he had been seen, 
 Ciif nought but he full gude had been 
 St. Serf the devil askit than. 
 
 -^ 
 
(&r 
 
 KING JAMES'S PIRST VIEW OP LADY JANE BEAUFORT. 17 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 i 
 
 " Where God made Adam, tlie first man ? " 
 
 " In Ebron Adam formit was," 
 
 St. Serf said. And til liim Sathanas, 
 
 "Where was he, eft that, for his vice, 
 
 Ho was put out of Paradise ? " 
 
 St. Serf said, " Wiere he was made." 
 
 The devil askit, " How lang he bade 
 
 In Paradise, after liis siu." 
 
 " Seven hours," Serf said, "bade he therein." 
 
 " Wlien was Eve made ? " said Sathanas. 
 
 " In Paradise," Serf said, " she was." 
 
 * * * 
 Tlie devil askit, "Wliy that ye 
 Men, are quite deUvered free, 
 Througli Christ's passion precious bouclit, 
 And we devils sac are noucht ? " 
 
 St. Serf said, " Per that ye 
 Pell through your awn iniquity ; 
 And through ourselves we never fell, 
 But through your fellon false counsell." 
 
 ♦ * ♦ 
 
 Then saw the devil that he could noucht. 
 With all the wiles that he wrought, 
 Overcome St. Serf. He said than 
 He kenned him for a wise man. 
 Porthy there he gave him quit, 
 Por he wan at him na profit. 
 St. Serf said, " Thou wreteh, gae 
 Prac this stead, and 'uoy nae mae 
 Into this stead, I bid ye." 
 Suddenly then passed he; 
 Prac that stead he held his way. 
 And never was seen there to this day. 
 
 JAMES I., KING OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 1406-1437. 
 
 KING JAMES'S TIEST VIEW OF LADY JANE 
 BEAUFORT, AFTEKWARDS HIS QUEEN, 
 
 Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, 
 Despaired of all joy and remedy, 
 Por-tired of my thought, and woe-begone. 
 And to the window gan I walk in by' 
 To see the world and folk that went forbye,' 
 As, for the time, though I of mirthis food 
 Might have no more, to look it did me good. 
 
 Now was there made, fast by the towris wall, 
 
 A garden fair ; and in the corners set 
 
 Ane arbour green, with wandis long and small 
 
 Railed about, and so with trees set 
 
 Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, 
 
 That lyf was none walking there forbye. 
 
 That might within scarce any wight espy 
 
 ' Ilastc. 
 
 So thick the boughis and the leavis green 
 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were. 
 
 And mids of every arbour might be seen 
 
 The sharpe greene sweete juniper. 
 
 Growing so fair with branches here and there. 
 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
 
 The boughis spread the arbour all about. 
 
 And on the smalle greene twistis^ sat, 
 The little sweete nightingale, and sung 
 So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the gardens and the wallis rung 
 Right of their song. 
 
 Cast I down mine eyes again. 
 Where as I saw, walking under the tower, 
 Pull secretly, new eomen here to plain, 
 The fairest or the freshest younge flower 
 That ever I saw, methoiight, before that hour. 
 For which sudden abate, anon astart,* 
 The blood of all my body to my heart. 
 
 And though I stood abasit tho a lite,' 
 No wonder was ; for why ? my wittis all 
 Were so overcome with pleasance and delight. 
 Only through letting of my eyen fall, 
 That suddenly my heart became her thrall, 
 For ever of free will, — for of menace 
 There was no token in her sweete face. 
 
 And in my head I drew right hastily, 
 And eftesoons I leant it out again. 
 And saw lier walk that very womanly, 
 With no wight mo', but only women twain. 
 Then gan I study in myself, and sayn,* 
 " Ah, sweet ! are ye a worldly creature. 
 Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature ? 
 
 "Or are ye god Cupidis own princess. 
 And comin are to loose me out of band ? 
 Or are ye very Nature the goddess. 
 That have depainted with your heavenly hand. 
 This garden full of flowers as they stand ? 
 What shall I think, alas ! what reverence 
 Shall I mister ?' unto your excellence ? 
 
 " If ye a goddess be, and that ye like 
 
 To do me pain, I may it not astart :° 
 
 If ye be warldly wight, that doth me sike,' 
 
 Wliy list' God make you so, my dearest heart, 
 
 To do a seely' prisoner this smart, 
 
 Tliat loves you all, and wot of nought but wo ? 
 
 And therefore mercy, sweet ! sin' it is so." 
 
 Of her array the form if I shall write, 
 Towards her golden hair and rich attire, 
 
 1 Twigs. 
 
 2 Went and came. 
 
 3 Confounded for a little while. 
 • Say. 
 
 5 Minister. 
 
 ' Fly. 
 
 ^ Makes me sigh. 
 
 8 Pleased. 
 
 Wretched 
 
 -s^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 18 
 
 HENEYSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 In fret wise couchit' with pearlis white 
 And great balas" leamuig' as the fire. 
 With moiiy ane emerant and lair sapphire ; 
 And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, 
 Of plumis parted red, and white, and blue. 
 
 Full of quaking spangis bright as gold. 
 Forged of shape like to the amorets. 
 So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold. 
 The plumis eke like to the flower jonets,* 
 And other of shape, hke'to the flower jonets ; 
 And above aU this, tliere was, well I wot. 
 Beauty enougli to make a world to doat. 
 
 About her neck, white as the fire amail,' 
 A goodly chain of small orfevory," 
 Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail, 
 Like to ane heart shapen verily, 
 That as a spark of low,' so wantonly 
 Seemed burning upon her wliite throat. 
 Now if there was good party," God it wot. 
 
 And for to walk that fresh May's morrow, 
 Ajie hook she liad upon her tissue white. 
 That goodher had not been seen to-forow,' 
 As I suppose ; and girt she was alite," 
 Thus halflings loose for haste, to such delight 
 It was to see her youth in goodlihede. 
 That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport. 
 Bounty, richess, and womanly feature, 
 God better wot than my pen can report : 
 Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning" sure, 
 In every point so guided her measure, 
 In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
 That nature might no more her child avance ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 And when she walked had a little thraw 
 Under the sweete greene boughis bent. 
 Her fair fresh face, as wliite as any snaw, 
 She turned has, and furth her wayis went ; 
 But tho began mine aches and torment, 
 To see her part and follow I ua might ; 
 Methought the day was turned into night. 
 
 •ROBERT HENRYSON. 
 
 - 1608 (V). 
 THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES. 
 
 AVoULD my good lady love me best, 
 And work after my will. 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Inlaid like fretwork. 
 
 ' Flame. 
 
 - A kind of precious stone. 
 
 8 Match. 
 
 3 Glitlerins. 
 
 » Before. 
 
 < A kind of lily. 
 
 '» Slightly. 
 
 f* Enamel. 
 
 *^ Knowledge 
 
 « Gold work 
 
 
 I shoidd a garment goodliest 
 Gar make her body till.' 
 
 Of high honotir should be her hood. 
 
 Upon her head to wear, 
 Garnish'd with governance so good 
 
 Na deeiniug should her deir.' 
 
 Her sark ' should be her body next, 
 
 Of chastity so white ; 
 With shame and dread together mixt. 
 
 The same should be perfyte.* 
 
 Her kirtle should be of clean Constance, 
 
 Laeit with lesum ' love ; 
 The mailies ° of contii'iuance, 
 
 For never to remove. 
 
 Her gown should be of goodliness. 
 Well ribbon'd with renown ; 
 
 PurflU'd ' with pleasure in ilk ' place, 
 Furrit with fine fashioiiu. 
 
 Her belt should be of benignity. 
 
 About her middle meet ; 
 Her mantle of humility. 
 
 To thole ' both wmd and weit.'" 
 
 Her hat should be of fair having. 
 
 And her tippet of truth ; 
 Her patelet of good pausing " 
 
 Her hals-ribbon of ruth.'- 
 
 Her sleeves should be of esperance, 
 
 To keep her fra despair : 
 Her glovis of good governance. 
 
 To hide her fingers fair. 
 
 Her sheen shoidd be of sickerness, 
 
 In sign that she not slide ; 
 Her hose of honesty, I guess, 
 
 I shotild for her provide. 
 
 Would she put on this garment gay, 
 
 I durst swear by my seill," 
 That she wore never green nor gray 
 
 That set " her half so weel. 
 
 1 Cause to he made to her shape. 
 
 3 No opinion should injure her. 
 
 ' Shift. 
 
 ' Perfect. 
 
 ^ Lawful. 
 
 •* Eyelet-holes for lacing her kirtle. 
 
 T Parfilc (French), fringed or bordered. 
 
 « Each. 
 
 Endure. 
 >» Wet. 
 » Thinkin?;. 
 
 '- Her neck-ribhon of pity. 
 ^3 Salvation. 
 " Becanie. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE MEELE AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 19 
 
 -Q) 
 
 WILLIAM DUNBAR. 
 
 1465 (!) - 1530 (■). 
 
 THE MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 In May, as that Aurora did upsprmg, 
 With crystal eeu cliasiiig tlie cluddes sable, 
 I heard a Merle with merry notis sing 
 A sang of love, with voice right comfortable, 
 Again' the orient beamis, amiable, 
 Upon a blissful branch of laurel green ; 
 Tins was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 
 A lusty life in Lovis- service been. 
 
 Under this branch ran down a river bright, 
 Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, 
 Again' the heavenly azure skyis light. 
 Where did upon the tot.her side pursue 
 A Nightingale, with sugared notis new, 
 IVliose augel feathers as the peacock shone ; 
 This was her song, and of a sentence true. 
 All love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 With notis glad, and glorious harmony, 
 This joyful merle, so salust she the day, 
 While rung the woodis of her melody. 
 Saying, Awake, ye lovers of tliis May ; 
 Lo, fresh Flora has iiourished every spray, 
 As nature lias her taught, tiie noble queen. 
 The field been clothit in a new array ; 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
 Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, 
 Na made this merry gentle nightingale ; 
 Her sound went with the river as it ran. 
 Out through the fresh and flourished lusty vale; 
 " Merle ! " quoth she, " fool ! stint of thy tale. 
 For in thy song good sentence is there none, 
 For both is tint, tiie time and the travail 
 Of every love but upon God alone." 
 
 "Cease," quoth the Merle, "thy preaching, 
 
 Nightingale : 
 Shall folk their youth spend into holiness ? 
 Of young Sanctis, grows auld feindis, but fable ; 
 Fye, hyjiocrite, in yeiris tenderness. 
 Again' the law of kind thou goes express. 
 That crookit age makes one with youth serene. 
 Whom nature of conditions made diverse : 
 A lusty life m Lovis service been." 
 
 The Nightingale said, " Fool, remember thee, 
 That both in youth and eild,* and every hour. 
 The love of God most dear to man suld be ; 
 That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour. 
 And died himself, fro' dead him to succour ; 
 O, whether was kythit' there true love or none ? 
 
 C3_ 
 
 Age. 
 
 He is most true and stedfast paramour. 
 And love is lost but upou him alone." 
 
 The Merle said, "Wliy put God so great beauty 
 In ladies, with sic womanly having. 
 But gif he would that they suld lovit be ? 
 To love eke nature gave them inclining. 
 And He of nature that worker was and king. 
 Would nothing frustir put, nor let be seen, 
 Into his creature of his own making ; 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been." 
 
 The Nightingale said, " Not to that behoof 
 Put God sic beauty in a lady's face, 
 That she suld have the thank therefor or luve. 
 But He, the worker, that put in her sic grace ; 
 Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space. 
 And every gudeness that been to come or gone 
 Tlie tliank redounds to him in every place : 
 All love is lost, but upon God alone. 
 
 " Nightingale ! it were a story nice, 
 That love suld not depend on charity ; 
 And, gif that virtue coutrar be to vice. 
 Then love maun be a virtue, as thinks me ; 
 For, aye, to love envy maun contrar be : 
 God bade eke love thy neighbour fro' the spleen ; ' 
 And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be ? 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been." 
 
 The Nightingale said, " Bird, why does thou rave ? 
 Man may take in his lady sic delight. 
 Him to forget that her sic virtue gave. 
 And for his heaven receive her colour white : 
 Her golden tressit hairis redomite," 
 Like to Apollo's beamis tho' they slione, 
 Suld not him blind fro' love that is perflte ; 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 The Merle said, " Love is cause of honour aye. 
 Love makis cowards manhood to purchase, 
 Love makis knichtis hardy at essay. 
 Love makis wretches full of largeness, 
 Love makis sweir ' folks full of business. 
 Love makis sluggards fresh and well be seen. 
 Love changes vice iu virtuous uoblcnesse ; 
 A lusty hfe in Lovis service been." , 
 
 The Nightingale said, " True is the contrary ; 
 Sic frustis love it blindis men so far. 
 Into their minds it makis them to vary ; 
 In false vain glory they so drimken are. 
 Their wit is went, of woe they are not waur, 
 While that all worship away be fro' them gone. 
 Fame, goods, and strength ; wherefore well say 
 
 I daur. 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 - Bound, encirclfil. 
 
 -^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 20 
 
 GAVIN DOUGLAS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Then said the Merle, " Mine error I couless : 
 This frustis love is all but vanity : 
 Blind ignorance me gave sic hardiness, 
 To argue so again' the verity ; 
 Wliercfore I counsel every man that he 
 With love not in the feindis net be tone,' 
 But love the love that did for his love die : 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 Then sang they both with voices loud and clear. 
 The Merle sang, " Man, love God that has tlice 
 
 wrought," 
 The Nightingale sang, " Man, love the Lord most 
 
 dear, 
 That thee and all this world made of nought." 
 The Merle said, "Love him that thy love has 
 
 sought 
 Fro' heaven to earth, and here took flesh andbone." 
 The Nightingale sang, " And with his dead thee 
 
 bought : 
 All love is lost but upon him alone." 
 
 Then flew thir birdis o'er the boughis sheen. 
 Singing of love amang the leavis small ; 
 Whose aidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,^ 
 Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail : 
 Me to recomfort most it does avail, 
 Again for love, when love I can find none. 
 To tiiink how sung this Merle and Nightingale ; 
 All love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 o;»io 
 
 GAVIN DOUGLAS. 
 
 14740) -1528. 
 
 MORNING IN MAT. 
 
 Ivy leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; 
 The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all ; 
 Furth of fresh bourgeons' the wine grapes ying* 
 Endland the trellis did on twistis hing ; 
 The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees 
 O'erspreadand leaves of nature's tapestries ; 
 Soft grassy verdure after balmy shouirs, 
 
 On curland stalkis smiland to their flouirs 
 
 The diusy did on-breid her crownal small, 
 
 And every flouer unlappit in the dale 
 
 Sere downis small on dentilion sprang. 
 
 The young green bloomed strawberry leaves 
 
 amang ; 
 .limp jeryllouirs thereon leaves unshet. 
 Fresh primrose and the purpour violet;... 
 Heavenly liUies, with loekerand toppis white. 
 Opened and sliew their crestis redemite 
 
 • Tn'cn ; taken. 
 
 = Whose close dispuUtion yet moved my tliouglita. 
 ^ Sprouts. 
 Younjr. 
 
 Ane paradise it seemed to draw near 
 
 Thir galyard gardens and each green herbere 
 
 Maist amiable wax the emeraut meads ; 
 
 Swarmis soucliis through out the respand reeds. 
 
 Over the loehis and the fludis gray, 
 
 Searchand by kind ane place where they should 
 
 lay. 
 Phffibus' red fowl' liis cural crest can steer, 
 Oft streikand furth his heckle, crawaud clcer. 
 Amid the wortis and the rutis gent 
 Piokand his meat in alleys where he went. 
 His wivis Toppa and Partolet him by — 
 A bird all-time that hamitis bigamy. 
 The painted powne- pacand with plumes gym, 
 Kest up his tail ane proud plesand wheel-rim, 
 Islirouded in his feathering bright and sheen, 
 Sliapand the prent of Argus' hundred een. 
 Amang the bowis of the oUve twists. 
 Sere small fowls, w^orkand crafty nests, 
 Endlang the hedges thick, and on rank aiks 
 Ilk l)ird rejoicand with their mirtliful makes. 
 In corners and clear fenestres of glass, 
 Full busily Arachue weavand was. 
 To knit her nettis and her wobbis slie. 
 Therewith to catch the little midge or flie. 
 So dusty powder upstours' in every street, 
 While corby gaspit for the fervent heat. 
 Under tlic bowis bene in lufely vales, 
 Within fcrmancc and parkis close of pales, 
 The busteous buckis rakis furth on raw, 
 Hcrdis of liertis tlirough the thick wood-shaw. 
 The young fawns followand the dun daes, 
 Kids, skijipand through, runnis after raes. 
 In leisurs and on leyis, httle lambs 
 Full tait and trig socht bletand to their dams. 
 On salt streams wolk* Dorida and Thetis, 
 By rinnand strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis, 
 Sic as we clepe wenches and daniyscls. 
 In gersy graves' wanderand by spring wells; 
 Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, 
 Plettand their lusty chaplets for their head. 
 Some sang ring-souges, dances, leids.'and rouiuls, 
 With voices shrill, while all the dale resounds. 
 Wlicrcso tliey walk into their caroling. 
 For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. 
 Ane sang, "The ship sails over the salt faem, 
 Will bring the mercliants and my lemau lianie."' 
 Some other sings, " I will be biythe and lieht. 
 My lieart is lent upon so goodly wicht.'"' 
 And tliouglitful lovers rounis* to and fro. 
 To Icis' their pain, and plcin their jolly woe. 
 After tlieir guise, now singand, now in sorrow, 
 With iu'artis jicnsive the lang summer's morrow. 
 Some ballads list indite of liis lady ; 
 
 ' The eorlt. 
 
 2 The pencock. 
 
 3 Rises ii\ clouds. 
 • Walked. 
 
 c Cir.'issy groves. 
 
 9 Lays. 
 
 ' Son;2:3 then popular. 
 
 8 Whisper. 
 
 » Relieve. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 BLAME NOT MY LUTE 
 
 21 
 
 -fl) 
 
 Some livis in hope ; and some all utterly 
 Despairit is, and sae quite out of grace, 
 Ilis purgatory he finds in every place. . . . 
 Dame Nature's raenstrals, on that other part, 
 Their blissful lay intoning every art, . . . 
 And all small fowlis singis on the spray. 
 Welcome the lord of llcht, and lampe of day. 
 Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, 
 Welcome quickener of flourist flouirs sheen, 
 Welcome support of every rute and vein. 
 Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain. 
 Welcome tlie birdis beild^ upon the brier. 
 Welcome master and ruler of the year. 
 Welcome weelfare of husbands at the plews. 
 Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and bews. 
 Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads. 
 Welcome the life of every tiling that spreads, 
 ^Velcome storer of all kind bestial. 
 Welcome be thy bricht beamis, gladdand all. . . 
 
 JOHN SKELTON. 
 
 1460 ()- 1589. 
 
 TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSET. 
 
 Merry Margaret, 
 
 As midsummer flower. 
 
 Gentle as falcon. 
 
 Or liawk of the tower ; 
 
 With solace and gladness. 
 
 Much mirth and no madness. 
 
 All good and no badness ; 
 
 So joyously. 
 
 So maidenly. 
 
 So womaidy. 
 
 Her demeaning, 
 
 Li everytliing. 
 
 Far, far passing 
 
 Tliat I can indite, 
 
 Or suffice to write, 
 
 Of merry Margaret, 
 
 As midsummer flower. 
 
 Gentle as falcon 
 
 Or hawk of tlie tower ; 
 
 As patient and as still. 
 
 And as full of goodwill, 
 
 As fair Isiphil, 
 
 Coliander ; 
 
 Sweet Pomander, 
 
 Good Cassander ; 
 
 Stedfast of thouglit. 
 
 Well made, well wrought, 
 
 Far may be sought, 
 
 ^- 
 
 Ere you can find 
 
 So courteous, so kind. 
 
 As merry Margaret, 
 
 This midsummer flower. 
 
 Gentle as falcon. 
 
 Or hawk of the tower. 
 
 SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. 
 
 1490-1657. 
 
 A CARMAN'S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT. 
 
 Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch 
 
 hame coals, 
 And he her drounit into the quarry holes ; 
 And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie, 
 And there I happeuit amang aue greedie meinyic' 
 They gave me first ane thing they call citandam. 
 Within aucht days I gat but liheUandum ; 
 Within ane month I gat ad opponenduin ; 
 In half aue year I gat inter-loquendum ; 
 And syne I gat, — how call ye it ? — ad replican- 
 
 duiii ; 
 Bot I could never aue word yet understand him : 
 And then they gart me cast out mony placks. 
 And gart me pay for four-and-tweuty acts. 
 Bot or tliey came half gate to concludendum. 
 The fiend ane plack was left for to defend liiin. 
 Thus they postponed me t.wa year with their 
 
 train. 
 Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again ; 
 And then thir rooks they rowpit wonder fast 
 For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last, 
 0[ protiuiiciandum they made me wonder fain 
 Bot I gat. never my gude grey mare again. 
 
 ojajo 
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 1503-1643. 
 
 BLAME NOT MY LUTE! 
 
 THE lover's lute CANNOT BE BLAMED, THOUGH 
 IT SING OF HIS lady's UNKINDNESS. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! for lie must sound 
 
 Of this or that as liketli me ; 
 For lack of wit the Lute is bound 
 
 To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; 
 Though my songs be somewhat strange. 
 And speak such words as touch my change. 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 * Company. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 SUEREY. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 My Lute, alas ! doth not offend, 
 Though that per force he must agree 
 
 To sound such tunes as I intend, 
 To sing to them that heareth me ; 
 
 Then though my songs be somewhat plain, 
 
 And toucheth some that use to feign. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 My Lute and strings may not deny, 
 But as I strike they must obey ; 
 
 Break not them then so wrongfully. 
 But wreak thyself some other way ; 
 
 And though the songs wliich I indite. 
 
 Do quit thy change with rightfij spite. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 Spite asketh spite, and changing change, 
 And falsed faith, must needs be known ; 
 
 T)ie faults so great, the case so strange ; 
 Of right it must abroad be blown : 
 
 Then since that by thine own desert 
 
 My songs do tell how true thou art, 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 Blame but thyself that hast misdone, 
 And well deserved to have blame ; 
 
 Change thou thy way, so evil begone. 
 And then my Lute shall sound that same ; 
 
 But if till then my fingers play, 
 
 By thy desert their wonted way, 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 Farewell ! unknown ; for though thou break 
 My strings in spite with great disdain, 
 
 Yet have I found out for thy sake. 
 Strings for to string my Lute again : 
 
 And if perchance this silly riiynie, 
 
 Do make thee blush at any time. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 TO HIS MISTBESS. 
 
 THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MISTRESS NOT TO 
 FORGET HIS STEADFAST FAITH AND TRUE 
 INTENT. 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 
 Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
 My great travail so gladly spent 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet when first began 
 Tiie weary life, ye know since whan. 
 The suit, the service, none tell can ; 
 Forgot not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet the great assays, 
 The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. 
 
 The painful patience in delays. 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not ! — Oh ! forget not this, 
 How long ago hath been, and is 
 The mind that never meant amiss, 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not then thine own approved. 
 The which so long hath thee so loved. 
 Whose steadfast faith yet never moved, 
 Forget not this ! 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL 
 SURREY. 
 
 OF 
 
 1515 0-1547. 
 
 COMPLAINT OF A LOVEK EEBUKED. 
 
 Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, 
 Tliat built his seat witliin my captive breast; 
 Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought. 
 Oft iu my face he doth his banner rest. 
 She, that me taught to love, and suffer pain ; 
 My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire 
 With shamefaced cloak to shadow and resti"ain. 
 Her smihng grace converteth straight to ire. 
 And coward Love then to the heart apace 
 Taketh his flight ; whereas he lurks, and plains 
 His purpose lost, and dare not shew liis face. 
 For my Lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains. 
 Yet from my Lord shall not my foot remove : 
 Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love. 
 
 COMPLAINT OF THE LOVEE DISDAINED. 
 
 In Cyprus springs, whereas Dame Venus dwelt, 
 A well so hot, that wlioso tastes the same. 
 Were he of stone, as thawed ice should melt, 
 And kiudlcd find his breast with fixed flame ; 
 Wniose moist poison dissolved hath my hate. 
 This creeping fire my cold limbs so opprcst. 
 That iu the heart that harbour'd freedom, 
 
 late; 
 Endless despair long thraldom hath imprest. 
 Another' so cold in frozen ice is found, 
 Whose chilling veuom of repugnant kiud. 
 The fervent heat doth f|ueucli of Cupid's wound. 
 And with tlie spot of change infects tlie mind ; 
 
 Wiereof my dear hath tasted to my pain ; 
 
 My service thus is grown into disdain.' 
 
 ' Well. 
 
 3 Whereby my sen-ice grows into disdain. — Nott*s t'J. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 PRINCIPAL POINTS OF RELIGION. 
 
 23 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 DESCKIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE 
 GEEALDINE. 
 
 Trom; Tuscaiie came my Lady's worthy race ; 
 Fair Florence was sometime her' ancient seat. 
 The western isle whose pleasant shore doth face 
 Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat. 
 Foster'd she was with milk of Irish breast : 
 Hev sire an Earl ; her dame of Prince's blood. 
 From tender years, in Britain doth she rest. 
 With Kinges cliild ; where she tasteth costly food. 
 Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyen : 
 Bright is her hne, and Geraldine she liight. 
 Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine ; 
 And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight. 
 
 Her beauty of kind ; her virtues from above ; 
 
 Happy is he that can obtam her love ! 
 
 THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 The happy life, be these, I find : 
 The riches left, not got with pain ; 
 The fruitful ground, the quiet mind : 
 
 The equal friend, no grudge, no strife ; 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 Without disease, the healthful life ; 
 The household of continuance : 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 
 True wisdom join'd with simplencss ; 
 The night discharged of aU care, 
 Wliere wine the wit may not oppress : 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate ; 
 Such sleeps as may beguile the night. 
 Contented with thine own estate ; 
 Ne wish for Death, ue fear his might. 
 
 FKISONED IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS 
 PLEASURE THERE PASSED. 
 
 So cruel prison how could betide, alas, 
 As proud Windsor, where I in lust and joy. 
 With a Kinges son, my cliildish years did pass. 
 In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. 
 Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. 
 The large green courts, where we were wont to 
 
 hove,' 
 With eyes cast up into the Maiden's tower, 
 And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. 
 The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue. 
 The dances short, long tales of great delight ; 
 With words and looks, that tigers could but rue ; 
 Where each of us did plead the other's right. 
 
 Tluir. ' Hover. 
 
 The palme-play,' where, despoiled for the game. 
 With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love 
 Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame. 
 To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. 
 The gravel'd ground, with sleeves tied on the helm. 
 On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts ; 
 With chere, as though one should another whelm, 
 Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. 
 With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth. 
 In active games of uimbleiiess and strength. 
 Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth. 
 Our tender Umbs, that yet shot up in length. 
 The secret groves, which oft we made resound 
 Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; 
 Recording oft what grace each one had found, 
 Wliat hope of speed, what dread of long delays. 
 The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; 
 With reins availed, and swift y-breathed horse, 
 With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, 
 Where we did cliase the fearful hart of force. 
 The void vales eke, that harbour'd us each night : 
 Wherewith, alas ! reviveth in my breast 
 The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; 
 The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest ; 
 The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust ; 
 The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; 
 The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, 
 Wherewith we past the winter night away. 
 And with this thouglit the blood forsakes the face ; 
 The tears berain'' my cheeks of deadly hue : 
 The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! 
 Up-supped have, thus I my plaint renew : 
 " O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes ! 
 Give me account, where is my noble fere?' 
 Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose ; 
 To other Uef ;' but unto me most dear." 
 Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow me. 
 Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
 Thus I alone, where aU my freedom grew. 
 In prison pine, with bondage and restraint: 
 And with remembrance of the greater grief. 
 To banish the less, I find my chief reUef. 
 
 THOMAS TUSSER. 
 
 1515(!)-1580(?). 
 PRINCIPAL POINTS OF RELIGION. 
 
 L To pray to God continually, 
 
 2. To learn to know him rightfully, 
 
 3. To honour God in Trinity, 
 The Trinity in Unity, 
 The Father in his majesty, 
 
 ' Tennis-court. 
 
 2 Bedew, as with rain. 
 
 Companion. 
 Endeared. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 24 
 
 UDALL. — GASCOIGNE. 
 
 HAREINGTON. 
 
 -9) 
 
 The Son in his humanity, 
 Tlie Holy Ghost's benignity, 
 Tliree persons, one in Deity. 
 
 4. To serve liim always, holily, 
 
 5. To ask liim all thing needfully, 
 
 6. To praise him in all company, 
 
 7. To love him alway, heartily, 
 
 8. To dread him alway, christianly, 
 
 9. To ask him mercy, penitently, 
 
 10. To trust him alway, faitlifully, 
 
 11. To obey him alway, willingly, 
 
 12. To abide him alway, patiently, 
 
 13. To thank him alway, tliankfuUy, 
 
 14. To live here alway, virtuously, 
 
 15. To use thy neighbour, honestly, 
 
 16. To look for death still, presently, 
 
 17. To help the poor, in misery, 
 
 18. To hope for Heaven's felicity, 
 
 19. To have faith, hope, and charity, 
 
 20. To count this life but vanity, 
 Be points of Christianity. 
 
 NICHOLAS UDALL. 
 
 1506-1564. 
 
 THE MINION WIFE, 
 
 Who so to marry a minion wife, 
 Hath had good chance and hap. 
 
 Must love her and cherish her all his life. 
 And dandle her in his lap. 
 
 If she will fare well, if she will go gay, 
 
 A good husband ever still, 
 Wliatever she hst to do or to say. 
 
 Must let her have her own will. 
 
 About what affairs so ever lie go. 
 He must show her all his mind ; 
 
 None of his counsel she may be kept fro. 
 Else is he a man unkind. 
 
 THE WOKK-GIKL'S SONG. 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 Trilla, Trilla, TriUarie. 
 Work, Tibet; work, Annot; work, Margerie ; 
 Sew, Tibet; knit, Annot; spin, Margerie; 
 Let us see who will win the victory. 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 Trilla, Trilia, Trillarie. 
 Wliat, Tibet! what, Annot! what, Margerie! 
 Ye slee]i, but we do not, tliat shall we try ; 
 Yniir fingers be numb, our work will not lie. 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 TriUa, TriUa, Trillarie. 
 Now Tibet, now Annot, now Margerie ; 
 Now whippet apace for the maystrie ; 
 But it will not be, our mouth is so dry. 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 TriUa, Trilla, Trillarie. 
 Wien, Tibet? when, Annot? when, Margerie? 
 I will not, — I can not, — no more can 1 ; 
 Then give we all over, and there let it lie ! 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 1530(?)-1577. 
 
 THE VANIIT OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 They course the glass, and let it take no rest ; 
 They pass and spy who gazeth on their face ; 
 They darkly ask whose beauty seemeth best ; 
 They hark and mark who marketh most their 
 
 grace ; 
 They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace ; 
 They jealous are of every sight they see ; 
 They strive to seem, but never care to be. 
 * * * 
 
 Wliat grudge and grief our joys may then sup- 
 press. 
 To see our hairs, which yellow were as gold, 
 Now grey as glass; to feel and find them less ; 
 To scrape the bald skull which was wont to hold 
 Our lovely locks with curHng sticks controul'd ; 
 To look in glass, and spy Sir Wrinkle's chair 
 Set fast on fronts which ei'st were sleek and fair. 
 
 SWIFTNESS OF TIME. 
 
 The heavens on high perpetually do move ; 
 By minutes meal the hour doth steal away. 
 By hours the days, by days the months remove, 
 And then by months the years as fast decay ; 
 Yea, Virgil's verse and TuUy's truth do say 
 That Time fliefh, and never claps her wings ; 
 But rides on clouds, and forward still she fhngs. 
 
 JOHN HARRINGTON. 
 
 15.'J4-1582. 
 
 LINES ON ISABELLA MAKKHAM, 
 
 Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose; 
 It was from cheeks that shamed the ros 
 
 'Q— 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 ALLEGORICAL PERSONAGES DESCRIBED IN HELL. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, 
 From eyes tliat mock the diamond's blaze ; 
 Whence comes my woe? as freely own; 
 All me ! 't was from a heart like stone. 
 
 The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, 
 The lips befitting words most kind. 
 The eye does tempt to love's desire, 
 And seems to say 't is Cupid's fire ; 
 Yet all so fair but speak my moan, 
 Sitli nought doth say the heart of stone. 
 
 Wiiy thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
 Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek - 
 Yet not a heart to save my pain ; 
 C) Venus, take thy gifts again ! 
 Make not so fair to cause our moan. 
 Or make a heart that 's like oiu- own. 
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF 
 DORSET. 
 
 1636-1608. 
 
 IMPEKSONATION OF SORROW. 
 
 And strayt forth stalking with redoubled pace 
 For that I sawe the night drewe ou so fast, 
 In blacke all clad there fell before my face 
 A piteous wight, whom woe had al forwaste, 
 Furth from her iyen the ciistall teares outbrast. 
 And syghing sore her handes she wrong and 
 
 'folde. 
 Tare al her heare, that ruth was to beholde. 
 
 Her body small forwithered and forespent, 
 As is tiie stalk that sommcrs drought opprest; 
 Her wealked face with woful teares besprent. 
 Her colour pale, and (as it scemd her best) 
 lu woe and playnt reposed was Iier rest. 
 And as the stone that droppes of water weares ; 
 So dented wher her cheekes with fall of teares. 
 
 Her iyes swollen witli flowing streames atlote. 
 Wherewith herlookes throwen up full piteouslie. 
 Her fm-celes handes together ofte she smote, 
 Willi doleful shrikes, that echoed in tlie skye : 
 AVHiose playnt such sighes dyd strayt accompany, 
 Tii't in my doome was never man did see 
 A wiglit but halfe so woe begon as she. 
 
 ALLEGORICAL PERSONAGES DESCRIBED IN 
 HELL. 
 
 .\nd first, within the porch and jaws of hell. 
 Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
 
 With tears ; and to herself oft would she tell 
 Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent 
 To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament 
 With thoughtful care ; as she that, all in vain, 
 Woidd wear and waste coutuiually in pain : 
 
 Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there, 
 Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance 
 
 brought. 
 So was her mind continually in fear. 
 Tost and tormented with the tedious thought 
 Of those detested crimes which she had wrought ; 
 With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to tiie 
 
 sky, 
 
 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 
 
 Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook. 
 With foot uncertain, profer'd here and there ; 
 Benumb'd with speech ; and, with a ghastly look. 
 Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear. 
 His cap borne up with staring of his hair ; 
 'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread. 
 And fearing greater dangers than was need. 
 
 And, next, witliin the entry of this lake. 
 Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire ; 
 Devising means how she may vengeance take ; 
 Never in rest, till she have lier desire ; 
 But frets within so far forth with the fire 
 Of wreaking fiames, that now determines she 
 To die by death, or 'veng'd by death to be. 
 
 When fell Revenge, with bloody foul ]iretence. 
 Had show'd herself, as next in order set, 
 With trembling limbs we softly parted tlienoe, 
 Till in our eyes another sight we met ; 
 WHicn fro my heart a sigh forthwitli I fet, 
 Ruing, alas, upon tlie woful plight 
 Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight : 
 
 His face was lean, and some-deal pin'd away. 
 And eke liis hands consumed to the bone ; 
 But, what his body was, 1 cannot say, 
 For on his carcase raiment had he none. 
 Save clouts and patches pieced one by one ; 
 With staff' in hand, and scrip on shouldri-s east, 
 His chief defence against the winter's blast : 
 
 His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. 
 Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, 
 Which ill his wallet long, God wot. kept he, 
 As on the which full daint'ly would he fare ; 
 His drink, the running stream, his cup, tlie bare 
 Of his palm closed ; his bed, the liard cold ground : 
 To this poor life was Misery ybouiid. 
 
 WHiose wretched state when we had well beheld, 
 
 With tender ruth on him, and on his feers. 
 
 In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held ; 
 
 4> 
 
a- 
 
 2G 
 
 SACKVILLE. 
 
 -ft 
 
 And, by and by, another shape appears 
 Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers ; 
 His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in, 
 With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin. 
 
 The morrow grey no sooner hath begun 
 To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes. 
 But he is up, and to iiis work yrun ; 
 But let the iiiglit's black misty mantles rise. 
 And with foul dark never so much disguise 
 The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while. 
 But hath his caudles to prolong his toil. 
 
 By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, 
 Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 
 A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath : 
 Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on, 
 Or whom she lifted up into the throne 
 Of high renown, but, as a living death. 
 So dead aKve, of life he drew tiie breath : 
 
 The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, 
 The travel's ease, the still night's feer was he, 
 And of our life in eartii the better part ; 
 Riever of siglit, and yet in wiiom we see 
 Things oft tliat [tyde] and oft that never be ; 
 Without respect, esteem[ing] equally 
 Kuig Crcesus' pomp and Irus' poverty. 
 
 And next in order sad. Old- Age we found ; 
 His beard all hoar, liis eyes hollow and blind ; 
 With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, 
 As on tlie place where nature him assign'd 
 To rest, when tliat the sisters had untwin'd 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife 
 The fleeting course of fast declining life : 
 
 There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint 
 Rue with himself his end approaching fast. 
 And all for nought his wretched mind torment 
 With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. 
 And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste ; 
 Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek. 
 And to be young again of Jove beseek ! 
 
 But, an the cruel fates so fixed be 
 That time forepast cannot return again, 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he, — 
 That, in such wither'd pliglit, and wretched pain. 
 As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train. 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief 
 He might awhile yet linger forth his life. 
 
 And not so soon descend into the pit ; 
 
 Where Death, when he tiie mortal corpse hath 
 
 shun, 
 With reckless liand in grave doth cover it : 
 Thereafter never to enjoy again 
 Tlie gladsome light, but, in the grouml ylaiu, 
 
 In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought. 
 As he had ne'er uito the world been brought : 
 
 But who had seen him sobbing how he stood 
 
 Unto himself, and how he would bemoan 
 
 His youth forepast — as though it wrought hira 
 
 good 
 To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone — 
 He would have mused and marvel'd mucli 
 
 whereon 
 This wretched Age shoidd life desire so fain, 
 And knows full well life doth but length his 
 
 pain : 
 
 Crook-baek'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear- 
 eyed; 
 Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; 
 With old lame bones, that rattled by his side ; 
 His scalp all ]n\'d, and he with eld forelore. 
 His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door ; 
 Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his breath ; 
 For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 
 
 And fast by him pale Malady was placed : 
 Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone ; 
 Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, 
 Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone ; 
 Her breath corrupt ; her keepers every one 
 Abhorring her ; her sickness past recure, 
 Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. 
 
 But, 0, the doleful sight that then we see ! 
 We turn'd our look, and on the other side 
 A grisly shape of Famine mought we see : 
 With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried 
 And roar'd for meat, as she should there have 
 
 died ; 
 Her body thin and bare as any bone. 
 Whereto was left nought but the case alone. 
 
 And that, alas, was gnawen every where. 
 All full of holes ; that I ne mought refrain 
 From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, 
 And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, 
 ^Vlien, all lor nouglit, she fain would so sustain 
 Her starven corpse, that ratlier scem'd a shade 
 Tlian any substance of a creature nuule : 
 
 Great was her force, whom stone -wall could not 
 
 stay : 
 Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw ; 
 With gaping jaws, that by no means yniay 
 Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw. 
 But eats herself as she that hath no law ; 
 (Inawing, alas ! her carcase all in vain. 
 Where you may count each sinew, bone, and 
 
 vein. 
 
 ^ 
 
 On lier while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes, 
 Tiiat bled for ruth of such a dreary sight. 
 
 W 
 
(&■ 
 
 HENRY DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. — JOLLY GOOD ALE. 27 
 
 -fl) 
 
 <U- 
 
 Lo, suddenly she sliriek'd iii so huge wise 
 As made hell gates to shiver with the uiight ; 
 Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did hght 
 Wight on her breast, aud, therewithal, pale Death 
 Euthirhug it, to rieve her of her breath : 
 
 And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw. 
 Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright, 
 That daunts all earthly creatures to his law. 
 Against whose force in vain it is to fight ; 
 Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight, 
 No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower. 
 But all, perforce, must yield unto liis power : 
 
 His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took. 
 
 And in his hand (a dreadful siglit to see) 
 
 With gi-eat trium])h eftsoons the same he shook. 
 
 That most of all my fears affrayed me ; 
 
 His body dight with nought but bones, ])ardy ; 
 
 The naked shape of man there saw I plain. 
 
 All save the ilesh, the sinew, and the vein. 
 
 Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad. 
 With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hucd; 
 In his right hand a naked sword he had, 
 That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued ; 
 And in his left (tliat kings and kingdoms rued) 
 Famine aud fire he held, and tlierewithal 
 He razed towns, and threw down towers and all : 
 
 Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd 
 In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) 
 He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, 
 Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd, 
 Till he their wealth, their name, and all op- 
 
 press'd : 
 His face forehew'd with wounds ; and by his 
 
 side 
 There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. 
 
 HENKT DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM Df HELL, 
 
 Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, 
 His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn. 
 Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, 
 Which of a duke had made him now her scorn ; 
 With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn. 
 Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins as 
 
 fast. 
 With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upcast. 
 
 His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ; 
 His hair all torn, about the place it lain : 
 Jly heart so molt to see liis grief so great. 
 As feelingly, methouglit, it dropped away : 
 His eyes they whirled about witliouten stay: 
 With stormy sighs tlie place did so complain. 
 As if his heart at eacli had burst in twain. 
 
 Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale. 
 
 And thrice the sighs did swallow up liis voice ; 
 
 At each of which he shrieked so withal, 
 
 As though the heavens ryved with the noise ; 
 
 Tin at the last, recovering of his voice. 
 
 Supping the tears that all Ms breast berained. 
 
 On cruel Fortune, weeping thus he plained. 
 
 JOHN STILL. 
 
 1543-1607. 
 
 JOLLY GOOD ALE AHD OLD, 
 
 Back and side go bare, go bare, 
 
 Both foot and hand go cold : 
 But belly, God send thee good ale enough. 
 
 Whether it be new or old. 
 
 I cannot eat but little meat. 
 
 My stomach is not good ; 
 But sure I think, that I can drink 
 
 Witii him that wears a hood. 
 Though I go bare, take ye no care, 
 
 I am nothing a cold ; 
 I stuff my skin so full within 
 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, etc. 
 
 I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 
 
 And a crab laid in the fire ; 
 A Uttle bread shall do me stead. 
 
 Much bread I do not desire. 
 No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow. 
 
 Can hurt, me if I wold, 
 I am so wi'apt, and throwly lapt. 
 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, etc. 
 
 And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 
 
 Loveth well good ale to seek ; 
 Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 
 
 The tears run down her cheek. 
 Then doth she trowl to me the bowl. 
 
 Even as a malt-worm should ; 
 And saith. Sweetheart, I took my part 
 
 Of this jolly good ale and old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, etc. 
 
 Now let tliem drink till tlicy nod and wink, 
 
 Even as good fellows slioidd do; 
 They sliall not miss to have the bUss 
 
 Good ale doth bring men to ; 
 And all poor souls tliat have scoured bowls. 
 
 Or have them lustily trowled, 
 God save the lives of them and their wives. 
 
 Whether they be young or old. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 28 
 
 LYLY. 
 
 BYRD. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 JOHN LYLY. 
 
 1563 (!)- 1601 (I) 
 CTJPID AND CAMPASPE. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 
 
 At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. 
 
 He stakes liis quiver, bow, and arrows. 
 
 His motlier's doves and team of sparrows ; 
 
 Loses tliem too, and down he throws 
 
 The coral of his Up — the rose 
 
 Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how ; 
 
 With tliese tlie crystal on his brow, 
 
 And then the dimple of his chin ; 
 
 All these did my Campaspe win : 
 
 At last he set her both his eyes ; 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 Love, hath she done this to thee? 
 
 What shall, alas, become of me ! 
 
 THE SONGS OF BIEDS. 
 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 
 O, 't is the ravish'd nightingale — 
 Jug, j\ig, jug, jug — tereu — she cries, 
 And still her woes at midnight vise. 
 Brave prick-song ! who is 't now we hear ? 
 None but the lark so shiill and clear. 
 Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, 
 The morn not waking till she sings. 
 Hark, hark ! but what a pretty note. 
 Poor Robiu-redln'cast tunes his throat ; 
 Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing 
 " Cuckoo ! " to welcome in the spring. 
 
 PAN'S SONG OF STBINX. 
 
 Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed, 
 Though now she 's turned into a reed ; 
 From that dear reed Pan's pipe does come, 
 A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb ; 
 Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can 
 So cliant it as the jiipe of Pan : 
 Cross-gartered swains and dairy girls, 
 Witli faces smug and round as pearls. 
 When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play, 
 With dancing wear out niglit and day ; 
 The bagpipe's drone his hum lays by, 
 When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy; 
 His minstrelsy, O base ! This quill, 
 Wiieh at my mouth witli wind I fill. 
 Puts me in mind, flio\igh licr I miss. 
 That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss. 
 
 SONG TO APOLLO. 
 
 Sing to Apollo, god of day, 
 
 Whose golden beams with morning play. 
 
 And make her eyes so brightly shine, 
 
 Aurora's face is called divine. 
 
 Sing to Phffibus and that throne 
 
 Of diamonds which he sets upon.. 
 
 lo Pseans let us sing 
 
 To Physic and to Poesy's king. 
 
 Crown all his altars with bright fire, 
 Laurels bind about his lyre, 
 A Dajjhnean coronet for his head, 
 The Muses dance about his bed ; 
 WHien on his ravishing lute he plays, 
 Strew his temple round 'with bays, 
 lo Paeans let us sing 
 To the glittering Delian king. 
 
 APOLLO'S SONG OF DAPHNE. 
 
 My Daphne's hair is twisted gold. 
 Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold. 
 My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces, 
 My Daphne's beauty stains all faces. 
 On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry, 
 But Daphne's lip a sweeter berry ; 
 Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt. 
 And then no heavenlier warmth is felt ; 
 My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres, 
 My Daphne's music charms all ears ; 
 Fond am I thus to sing her praise. 
 These glories now are turned to bays. 
 
 WILLIAM BYRD. 
 
 About 1590. 
 
 MT MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 
 
 My mind to me a kingdom is, 
 Such perfect joy therein I find. 
 
 That it excels all other bliss 
 
 That God or nature hath assign'd : 
 
 Though much I want that most would have, 
 
 Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 
 
 No princely port, nor wealthy store. 
 
 Nor force to win a victory ; 
 No wily wit to salve a sore. 
 
 No shape to win a loving eye ; 
 To none of these I yield as thrall. 
 For why, my mind despise them all. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE SOUL'S EERAND. 
 
 29 
 
 -Q) 
 
 k 
 
 I see that plenty surfeits ot't, 
 And hasty climbers soonest fall ; 
 
 I see that such as are aloft. 
 
 Mishap doth threaten most of all ; 
 
 These get with toil, and keep with fear : 
 
 Such cares my mind can never bear. 
 
 I press to bear no haughty sway ; 
 
 I wish no more than may suffice ; 
 I do no more than well I may. 
 
 Look what I want, my mind suppUes ; 
 Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
 My mind's content with anything. 
 
 I laugh not at another's loss, 
 
 Nor grudge not at another's gain ; 
 
 Ko worldly waves my mind can toss ; 
 I brook that is another's bane ; 
 
 I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; 
 
 I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 
 
 My wealth is health and perfect ease, 
 And conscience clear my chief defence ; 
 
 I never seek by bribes to please. 
 Nor by desert to give offence ; 
 
 Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
 
 Would all do so as well as I ! 
 
 SIR AVALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 1553-1618. 
 
 THE SOUL'S EKRAND. 
 
 Go, soiJ, the body's guest. 
 Upon a thankless errand ! 
 Tear not to touch the best, 
 
 The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
 Go, since I needs must die, 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Go, tell the court it glows. 
 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Go, tell the church it shows 
 
 What 's good, and doth no good ; 
 If church and court reply, 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 TeU potentates, they live 
 
 Acting by others' actions. 
 Not lov'd unless they give, 
 
 Not strong but by their factions. 
 If potentates reply. 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 That rule affairs of state, 
 
 Their purpose is ambition, 
 Their practice only hate. 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell tliem that brave it most, 
 
 They beg for more by spending. 
 Who in their greatest cost, 
 
 Seek nothing but commendmg. 
 And if they make I'eply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell zeal it lacks devotion. 
 
 Tell love it is but lust. 
 Tell time it is but motion. 
 Tell flesh it is but dust ; 
 And wish them not reply. 
 For thou nmst give the lie. 
 
 Tell age it daily wasteth. 
 
 Tell honour how it alters. 
 Tell beauty how she blasteth. 
 Tell favour how she falters. 
 And as they shall reply. 
 Give every one the lie. 
 
 Tell wit how much it wrangles 
 In tickle points of niceness : 
 Tell wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in over-wiseness. 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight give them both the he. 
 
 TeU physic of her boldness, 
 Tell skill it is pretension, 
 Tell charity of coldness, 
 TeU law it is contention. 
 And as they do reply. 
 So give them stiU the lie. 
 
 Tell fortune of her blindness. 
 
 Tell nature of decay, 
 TeU friendship of unkindness, 
 TeU justice of delay, 
 And if they wUl reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 TeU arts they have no soundness. 
 
 But vary by esteeming, 
 Tell schools they want profoundness, 
 And stand too much on seeming. 
 If arts and schools reply. 
 Give arts and schools the lie. 
 
 TeU faith it 's fled the city, 
 
 Tell how the country erreth, 
 TeU, manhood shakes off pity, 
 TeU, virtue least prefen-eth. 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 30 
 
 EALEIGH. 
 
 -^ 
 
 So when thou hast, as I 
 
 Coiiimanded thee, doue blabbing : 
 Although to give the lie 
 
 Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
 Yet stab at thee who will. 
 No stab the soul can kill. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO MARLOWE'S PAS- 
 SIONATE SHEPHEKD. 
 
 If all the world and love were young. 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb. 
 The rest complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee and be thy love. 
 
 But covild youth last, and love still breed. 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
 Then these deUghts my mind might move 
 To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIT OF THE 
 FAERY QUEENE 
 
 Me thought I saw the grave where Laura lay. 
 Within that Temple where the vestall flame 
 Was wont to burne ; and passing by that way 
 To see that buried dust of living fame, 
 Whose tumbe fairc Love, and fairer Vertue kept. 
 All suddeiuly I saw the Faery Queene : 
 At whose approch the soule of Petrarke wept, 
 And from theucefortli those Graces were not seene ; 
 For they this Queene attended ; in whose steed 
 Oldivion laid him downe on Lauras herse : 
 Hcreat the hardest stones were scene to bleed, 
 And grones of buried gliostes the hevens did perse : 
 
 Where Homers spriglit did tremble all for 
 griefe. 
 
 And curst th' accesse of that celestial! theife. 
 
 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
 My statt' of faith to walk upon ; 
 My scrip of joy, immortal diet ; 
 My bottle of salvation ; 
 My gown of glory (hope's true gage). 
 And thus I '11 take my pilgrimage. 
 Blood must be my body's 'balmer, 
 Whdst my soul, a quiet Palmer, 
 Travelleth towards the land of Heaven ; 
 No other balm will there be given. 
 Over the silver mountains. 
 Where spring the nectar fountains. 
 There will I kiss the bowl of bliss. 
 And drink mine everlastuig fill 
 Upon every milken hill ; 
 My soul will be a-dry before. 
 But after, it will thirst no more. 
 Then, by that happy, blissful day. 
 
 More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 
 That have cast off their rags of clay, 
 
 And walk apparelled fresh, like me. 
 
 THE SILENT LOVER. 
 
 P.^ssioNS are liken'd best to floods and sti'eams. 
 The shallow iiuirmur, but the deep are dumb ; 
 So when affection yields discourse, it seems 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; 
 They that are rich in words must needs discover 
 They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 
 
 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart. 
 
 The merit of true passion, 
 ■With thinking that he feels no smart 
 
 That sues for no compassion. 
 
 Since if my plaints were not t' ajjprovc 
 
 The conquest of thy beauty. 
 It comes not from defect of love. 
 
 But fear t' e.\coed my duty. 
 
 For not knowing that I sue to serve 
 
 A saint of such perfection 
 As all desire, but none deserve 
 
 A place in her affection. 
 
 I rather chuse to want relief 
 
 Than venture the revealing ; 
 Wiere glory recommends the grief. 
 
 Despair disdains the healing. 
 
 ■Silence in love betrays more woe 
 Than words, tlio\igh ne'er so witty ; 
 
 A beggar that is dumb, you know. 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■-W 
 
cQ- 
 
 UNA AND THE RED CROSSE KNIGHT. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 31 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlieu wrong not, dearest to ray heart. 
 My love for secret passion ; 
 
 He smarteth most who hides his smart. 
 And sues for no compassion. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 1553 - 1598. 
 
 PROEM TO THE TIEST BOOKE OF THE FAERIE 
 QUEENE. 
 
 Lo ! I, the man whose Muse whylome did 
 
 maske. 
 As time her taught, in lowly shepliards weeds,' 
 Am now enforst, a farre mifitter taske. 
 For trumpets sterna to chaunge mine oaten 
 
 reeds. 
 And sing of knights and ladies gentle deeds; 
 Whose praises having slept in silence long. 
 Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds" 
 To blazon broade emongst her learned throng: 
 Tierce warres and faitlifull loves shall moralize my 
 
 song. 
 
 Helpe then, holy virgin, chicfe of nyne. 
 Thy weaker novice to performe thy will ; 
 Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne' 
 The antique roUes, which there lye hidden still. 
 Of Faerie knights, and fayrest Tanaquill* 
 Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long 
 Sought through the world, and suffered so much 
 
 "ill, 
 That I must rue his undeserved wrong : 
 O, helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my didl 
 tong ! 
 
 And thou, most dreaded impe' of highest love, 
 Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart 
 At that good knight so cunningly didst rove,° 
 That glorious fire it kindled in his hart ; 
 Lay now thy deadly heben' bo we apart. 
 And, with thy mother mylde, come to mine 
 
 ayde ; 
 Come, both ; and with you bring triumphant 
 
 Mart, 
 In loves and gentle iollities arraid, 
 .Vi'ter his murdrous spoyles and bloudie rage 
 
 allayd. 
 
 And with tiiem eke, O Goddesse heavenly 
 
 bright, 
 Mirrour of grace, and maiestie divine, 
 
 ' Clothes. 
 - Counsels, incites. 
 ■*' Box for liooks or papers (scriiiiuni). 
 * TinmquiU is another name for Gloriana, the Faerie Queeue. 
 ' ChiUl. Slwot. ' Ebony. 
 
 Great Ladie of the greatest Isle, whose light 
 Like Phcebus lampe throughout the world duth 
 
 shine. 
 Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne. 
 And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too 
 
 vile. 
 To tliinke of that tme glorious type of thine. 
 The argument of mine aillicted ' stile : 
 The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest Dread," 
 
 a while. 
 
 UNA AKD THE RED CROSSE KNIGHT. 
 
 A GENTLE Knight was pricking on the plaine, 
 Ycladd' in mightie armes and silver shielde, 
 Wlierein old dints of deepe wouudes did re- 
 
 maine, 
 The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
 Yet amies till that time did he never wield : 
 His angry steede did chide his foming bitt. 
 As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 
 Full ioUy knight he seemd, and faire did sitt. 
 As one for knightly giusts' and fierce encounters 
 
 fitt. 
 
 And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 
 The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
 For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he 
 
 wore. 
 And dead, as living ever, him ador'd : 
 Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 
 For soveraine hope, which in liis helpe he liad, 
 Right, faithfuU, true he was in deede and word ; 
 But of his cheere* did seeme too solemne sad; 
 Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.' 
 
 Upon a great adventure he was boud. 
 
 That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
 Tliat greatest glorious queene of Faery loud. 
 To winne him worshippe. and her grace to have, 
 Wliich of all earthly thiuges lie most did crave: 
 And ever, as he rode, his hart did eanie ' 
 To prove his puissance in battell brave 
 Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; 
 Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and steame. 
 
 A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside. 
 Upon a lowly asse more white then snow ; 
 Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
 Under a vele, tliat wimpled' was full low; 
 And over all a blacke stole shee did throw : 
 As one that iidy mounid, so was she sad, 
 And lieavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; 
 Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
 And by her in a liue a milke-white lambe she lad. 
 
 1 Low, or humble. 
 
 2 Oliject of reverence. 
 
 3 Clad. 
 
 * Jousts, tournnraents. 
 
 5 Countenance. 
 
 8 Dreaded. 
 
 ' Yearn. 
 
 8 Drawn about her. 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 32 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 So pure and innocent, as that same lambo, 
 She was in hfe and every vertuous lore ; 
 And by descent from royall lynage came 
 Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 
 Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne 
 
 shore, 
 And ;dl the world in their subiection held ; 
 Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 
 Forwasted' all their land, and them expeld; 
 Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far 
 
 compeld. 
 
 Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag. 
 That lasie seemd, in being ever last, 
 Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
 Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, 
 The day with eloudes was suddeine overcast. 
 And angry love an hideous storme of raine 
 Did poure into his lemaus lap so fast, 
 Tluit everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; 
 And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves 
 were fain. 
 
 Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
 A shadie grove not farr away they spide. 
 That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; 
 Wliose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. 
 Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide. 
 Not perceable with power of any starr : 
 And all witliin were pathes and alleles wide. 
 With footing worne, and leading inward farr : 
 Taire harbour that them seemes ; so in they entred 
 ar. 
 
 And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward 
 
 led, 
 loying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, 
 Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
 Seemd in their song to seorne the cniell sky. 
 Much can they praise the trees so straight and 
 
 Tlie sayling pine ; the cedar proud and tall ; 
 The vine-propp elnie ; the poplar never dry ; 
 The builder oake, sole king of forrests all ; 
 The aspine good for staves ; the oypresse funerall ; 
 
 The iaurell, meed of mightie conqueronrs 
 And poets sage ; the firre tliat weepefh still ; 
 The willow, worne of forlorue paramours ; 
 The eugli," obedient to the benders will ; 
 The bireh for shaftes ; the sallow for the mill; 
 The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter 
 
 wound ; 
 The warlike beech ; the ash for nothing ill ; 
 Tlie fruitfidl olive ; and the platane round ; 
 The carver liohne ; the maple seeldom inward 
 
 sound. 
 
 1 K'r 13 licre intensive. - Yew, 
 
 Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
 UntiU the blustring storme is overblowne ; 
 When, weening to retume whence they did 
 
 stray. 
 They cannot flnde that path, which first was 
 
 showne. 
 But wander too and fro in waies unknowne. 
 Furthest from end then, when they ueerest 
 
 weene, 
 That makes them doubt their wits be not their 
 
 owne: 
 So many pathes, so many turnings scene, 
 That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they 
 
 been. 
 
 T/ie Faerie Qneetie, Book I. Canto 1. 
 
 ARCHIMA&0, THE MAGICIAN, AND THE HOUSE 
 or MORPHEUS. 
 
 A LiTLE lowly hermitage it was, 
 Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side, 
 Far from resort of people, that did pas 
 In traveill to and froe : a litle wyde' 
 There was an holy chappell edifyde,' 
 ^Vlierein the hermite dcwly wont to say 
 His holy thinges each morne and eventyde : 
 Thereby a ehristall streame did gently play, 
 Which from a sacred fountaine weUed forth alway. 
 
 Arrived tJiere, the litle iionse they fill, 
 Ne looke for entertainement, where none was ; 
 Best is their feast, and all thinges at their will : 
 The noblest mind the best contentment has. 
 With faire discourse the evening so they pas ; 
 For that olde man of pleasing wordes had 
 
 store, 
 And well could file'' his tongue, as smooth as 
 
 glas : 
 He told of saint^;s and popes, and evermore 
 He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. 
 
 The drouping night thus creepeth on them 
 
 fast ; 
 And the sad' humor loading their cye-liddes. 
 As messenger of Morpheus, on them east 
 Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep 
 
 them biddes. 
 Untotlieir lodgings then his guestes he riddes:' 
 Where when all droxnid in deadly sleejie he 
 
 findes. 
 He to his studie goes ; and there amiddes 
 His magiek bookes, and artcs of sundrie kindes, 
 He seekes out mighty charnies to trouble sleepy 
 
 minds. 
 
 1 At a sliort (listflnce. 
 
 = Built. 
 
 3 Smooth or polish. 
 
 < Hi-nvy. 
 S Pianiisf 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 UNA AND THE LION. 
 
 33 
 
 -^ 
 
 Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
 (Let none them read !j thereof did verses 
 
 frame ; 
 With which, and other speUes hke terrible, 
 He bad awake blackc Plutoes griesly dame ; 
 And cursed heven ; and spake reprochful 
 
 shame 
 Of highest God, tlie Lord of life and hght. 
 A bold bad jnan ! that dar'd to call by name 
 Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead 
 
 night ; 
 At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to 
 
 flight. 
 
 And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd 
 Legions of sprights, the which, like Utle flyes, 
 Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd, 
 Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 
 To aide his friendes, or fray' his enimies : 
 Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo, 
 And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes ; 
 The one of them he gave a message too. 
 The other by himselfe staide other worke to doo. 
 
 He, making speedy way througli spersed' ayre, 
 And througli the world of waters wide and 
 
 deepe. 
 To Morpheus liousc doth hastily repaire. 
 Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe. 
 And low, where dawning day doth never 
 
 peepe. 
 His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed 
 Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe 
 In silver deaw ins ever-drouping hed, 
 "Wliiles sad Night over him her mantle black 
 
 doth spred. 
 
 Wiose double gates he findeth locked fast ; 
 The one faire frani'd of burnisht yvory, 
 The other all with silver overcast ; 
 And wakeful dogges before them farre doe lye. 
 Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
 Wiio oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 
 By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly, 
 And unto Morpheus comes, whom dro^vned 
 deepe 
 In drowsie fit he findes ; of nothing he takes 
 keepe.' 
 
 And, more to lullc him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling streame from high rock tumblmg 
 
 downe. 
 And ever-drizling raine upon the loft' 
 Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the 
 
 sowne ' 
 Of swarming bees, did caste him in a swowne. 
 No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 Alarm. 
 
 2 Dispersed. 
 
 3 Heeil. 
 * Floor. 
 
 As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne, 
 Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet 
 lyes. 
 Wrapt in eternall silence faiTe from enimyes. 
 
 The messenger approohing to him spake ; 
 But his waste wordes rctounid to him in vaine : 
 So sound he slept, that nought mought him 
 
 awake. 
 Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with 
 
 paine, 
 Wliercat he gan to stretch : but he againe 
 Shooke him so hard, that forced him to 
 
 speake. 
 As one tlien in a dreame. whose dryer braine 
 Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, 
 He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence 
 
 breake. 
 
 The Faerie Qiieene, Book I. Canto 1. 
 
 WSk AND TEE LION. 
 
 Nought is there under heavu's wide hollow- 
 
 nesse. 
 That moves more deare compassion of mind, 
 Then beautie brought t' unworthie wrctched- 
 
 nesse 
 Through envies snares, or fortunes frcakes 
 
 unkind. 
 I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd. 
 Or tlirough alleageance, and fast fealty, 
 Wiich I do owe unto all womankynd, 
 Feele my hart perst with so great agony, 
 Wlieu such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. 
 
 And now it is empassioned' so deepe. 
 For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 
 That my frayle eies these lines with teares do 
 
 steepe. 
 To thinke how she through guyleful handeling. 
 Though true as touch,' though daughter of a 
 
 king. 
 Though faire as ever living wight was fayre. 
 Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting. 
 Is from her Knight divorced in despayre. 
 And her dew loves deryv'd' to that vile Witches 
 
 shay re. 
 
 Yet she, most faithfull ladie, all this while 
 Forsaken, wofuU, solitarie mayd. 
 Far from all peoples preace,' as in exile. 
 In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd. 
 To secke her Knight ; who, subtily betrayd 
 Tlirough that late vision which th' Encliaunt- 
 
 er wrought 
 Had her abandoud. She, of nought affrayd. 
 
 • Moved. 
 
 2 Tourlistone. 
 
 5 Transferred. 
 * Press or throii''. 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 34 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Through woods and wastnes wide him daily 
 sought ; 
 Yet wished tydinges none of him unto lier 
 brought. 
 
 One day, nigh wearie of tlie yrkesome way, 
 From her uuliastie beast she did alight ; 
 And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay 
 In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight ; 
 From her fayre head her fillet she undight,' 
 And layd her stole aside. Her augels face. 
 As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 
 Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace. 
 
 It fortuned, out of the tliickest wood 
 A ramping lyon rushed suddcinly. 
 Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : 
 Soone as the royall Virgin he did spy, 
 With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
 To have attonce devourd her tender corse : 
 But to the pray whenas he drew more ny, 
 His bloody rage aswaged with remorse,^ 
 And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious 
 forse. 
 
 Instead thei-eof he kist lier wearie feet, 
 And hckt her Idly Lands with fawning tong ; 
 As he Iier wronged innocence did weet.^ 
 O how can beautie maister the most strong, 
 And simple tmth subdue avenging wrong ! 
 ^Vhose yielded pryde and proud submission, 
 Still dreading death, when she had marked 
 
 long, 
 Her hart gan melt in great compassion ; 
 And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. 
 
 " The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," 
 Quoth she, " his princely puissauce doth abate, 
 And mightie proud to humble weake does 
 
 yield, 
 ForgetfuU of the hungry rage, which late 
 Hiui prickt, in pittic of my sad estate ; — ■ 
 But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, 
 How does he find in eruell hart to hate 
 Her, tliat him lov'd, and ever most adord 
 As the god of my life ? why hath he me abhord ? " 
 
 Redounding' teares did choke th' cud of her 
 
 plaint. 
 Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour 
 
 wood; 
 And, sad to sec her sorrowfnll constraint, 
 The kingly beast upon her gazhig stood; 
 With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood. 
 At last, in close hart shutting u)) lier payne. 
 Arose the Virgin borne of heaveidy brood, 
 
 V- 
 
 1 Took off. 
 
 2 PitV. 
 
 3 Know. 
 
 * Ovcrtlowinoc 
 
 And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, 
 To seeke her strayed champion if she might 
 attayne. 
 
 The lyon would not leave her desolate. 
 But with her went along, as a strong gard 
 Of her chast person, and a faythfuU mate 
 Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard -. 
 Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and 
 
 ward ; 
 And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent. 
 With humble service to her will prepard ; 
 From her fayre eyes he took comniandement, 
 And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. 
 
 T/ie Fame Qiieeae, Book I. Canto 3. 
 
 THE CHABIOT OF PRIDE DRAWN BY THE 
 PASSIONS. 
 
 Sdddein upi-iseth from her stately place 
 The roiall Dame, and for her coche doth call.: 
 All liurthcu' forth; and she, with princely 
 
 pace, 
 As faire Aurora, in her purple pall, 
 Out of the east the dawning day doth call. 
 So forth she comes ; her brightnes brode doth 
 
 blaze. 
 The heapes of people, thronging in the hall, 
 Doe ride each other, upon her to gaze ; 
 Her glorious glitter and light doth all mens eies 
 
 So forth she comes, and to her coche docs cly me, 
 Adorned all with gold and girlonds gay. 
 That seemd as fresh as Flora in her prime ; 
 And strove to match, in roiall rich array. 
 Great lunoes golden chayre ;' the which, they 
 
 say. 
 The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride 
 To loves highhous through heavens bras-paved 
 
 way, 
 Drawne of fayre pecocks, that excell in pride. 
 And full of Argus eyes their tayles dispreddeu 
 
 wide. 
 
 But this was drawne of six unequall beasts, 
 On which her six sage eounsellours did ryde. 
 Taught to obay their bestiall beheasts, 
 With like conditions to their kindcs applyde : 
 Of which the first, that all the rest did guyde, 
 Was slugsish Idleuesse, the noursc of sin ; 
 Upon a slouthfvdl asse he chose to ryde, 
 Arayd in habit blaeke, and amis' thin; 
 Like to an holy nionck, the service to begin. 
 
 And in his hand his portesse' still he bare. 
 That much was win-nc, but therein little redd ; 
 
 ' Rnsli, 
 
 "- rli.-niMt, 
 
 s Rolic. 
 ' lliriia 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHAEIOT OF PRIDE DRAWN BY THE PASSIONS. 
 
 35 
 
 -Q) 
 
 For of devotion he liad little care. 
 
 Still drownd in sleepe and most of liis dales 
 
 dedd: 
 Scarse could he once uphold his heavie hedd, 
 To looken Avhetlier it were night or day. 
 May seemo the wayiie' was very evill Icdd, 
 Wlien such an one liad guiding of the way, 
 That knew not whether right he went or else 
 
 astray. 
 
 From worldly cares himselfe he did esloyne,* 
 And greatly shunned manly exercise ; 
 From everie worke he chalenged essoyne,' 
 For contemplation sake : yet otherwise 
 His life he led in lawlesse riotise ; 
 By which he grew to grievous malady : 
 For in his lustlesse' limbs, through evill guise,' 
 A shaking fever raignd continually : 
 Such one was Idlenesse, first of this company. 
 
 And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony, 
 Deformed creature, on a filthie swyne ; 
 His beUy was upblowne with luxury, 
 And eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne; 
 And like a crane his necke was long and fyne, 
 With which he swaUowd up excessive feast. 
 For want whereof poore people oft did pyne : 
 And all the way, most like a brutisli beast. 
 He spued up his gorge," that all did him deteast. 
 
 In greeue vine leaves he was right fitly clad ; 
 For other clothes he could not weare for heate : 
 And on his head an yvie girland liad, 
 From under which fast trickled dowae the 
 
 sweat : 
 Still as he rode, he somewhat stdl did eat. 
 And in his hand did beare a bouzing can,' 
 Of which he supt so oft, that on his seat 
 His drouken corse he scarse upholden can : 
 In shape and life more like a monster then a man. 
 
 Unfit he was for any worldly thing, 
 And eke unliable once to stirre or go ; 
 Not meet to be of counsell to a king. 
 Whose mind in meat and drinke was drowned so, 
 That from his frend he seeldome knew his fo : 
 Full of diseases was his carcas blew. 
 And a dry* dropsie through his flesli did flow, 
 Wliich by misdiet daily greater grew ; 
 Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. 
 
 And next to him rode lustfull Lechery 
 Upon a bearded gote, whose rugged heare, 
 And wlially " eies, (the signe of gelosy.) 
 Was like the person selfe, whom he did beare : 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 Chariot. 
 
 2 Witlulraw. 
 ^ Excuse. 
 
 * Listless. 
 ]Iabit. 
 
 « What he had swallowed. 
 
 7 A drinking-can. 
 s Tliivsty (?1. 
 
 8 Discolored, green (wall-eyed). 
 
 Who rough, and blacke, and filthy, did ap- 
 
 peare ; 
 Unseemely man to please faire ladies eye : 
 Yet he of ladies oft was loved deare, 
 Wlien fairer faces were bid standen by : 
 who does know the bent of womens fantasy ! 
 
 In a greene gowne he clothed was full faire, 
 Wliich underneath did hide his filthinesse ; 
 And in liis hand a burning hart he bare. 
 Full of value follies and uew-fanglenesse ; 
 For he was false, and fraught with ficklenesse ; 
 And learned had to love with secret lookes ; 
 And well could daunce ; and sing with rueful- 
 
 nesse ; 
 And fortunes tell ; and read in loving bookes : 
 And thousand other waies, to bait his fleshly 
 
 hookes. 
 
 Inconstant man, that loved all he saw, 
 And lusted after aU that he did love ; 
 Ne would his looser life be tide to law. 
 But ioyd weake weraens hearts to tempt, and 
 
 prove. 
 If from (heir loyall loves he might them move : 
 Wliich lewdnes fild him with reprochi'ull pain 
 Of that forde evill, which all men re|irove. 
 That rotts the marrow, and consumes the 
 
 braine ; 
 Such one was Lechery, the third of all this traiue. 
 
 And greedy Avarice by him did ride, 
 Upon a caraell loaden all with gold : 
 Two iron coffers hong on either side. 
 With precious metall full as they might hold ; 
 And in his lap an heap of coine he told ; 
 For of his wicked pelf liis god he made. 
 And unto hell him selfe for money sold : 
 Accursed usury was all his trade ; 
 Aaid right and wrong ylike m equall ballaunce 
 waide. 
 
 His life was nigh unto deaths dore yplaste ;' 
 And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes, nee ware ; 
 Ne scarse good morsell all his life did taste ; 
 But both from backe and belly still did spare. 
 To fill his bags, and richesse to compare ; ' 
 Yet childe ne kinsman living had he none 
 To leave tliem to ; but thorough daily care 
 To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne. 
 He led a wretched life, unto himselfe unknowne. 
 
 Most wretched wight, whom nothing might 
 
 suflise ; 
 Whose greedy lust did lacke in greatest store ; 
 TMiose need had end, but no end covetise ; ' 
 Whose welth was want ; whose plenty made 
 
 liim pore ; 
 
 I Reduced - Collect. s Covetoiisness. 
 
 ■^ 
 
y 30 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Wiio liad enough, yett wished ever more ; 
 A vilo disease : and eke in foots and hand 
 A grievous gout tormented him full sore ; 
 That well he could uot touch, nor goe, nor 
 
 stand : 
 Such one was Avarice, the forth of this faire 
 
 band ! 
 
 And next to him malicious Envy rode 
 Upon a ravenous wolfe, and still did chaw 
 Betweene his cankred teeth a vencnious tode, 
 That all the poison ran about his chaw;' 
 But inwardly lie chawed his owne maw 
 At neibors welth, that made him ever sad ; 
 For death it was, when any good he saw ; 
 And wept that cause of weeping none he had ; 
 But when he heard of harme, he wexed won- 
 drous glad. 
 
 All in a kirtle of discolom-d say " 
 He clotlied was, ypaynted fuU of cies ; 
 And in his bosome secretly there lay 
 An hatefuU snake, the which his taile uptyes' 
 In many folds, and raortall sting implyes :* 
 Still as he rode, he gnasht his teeth to see 
 Those heapes of gold with griple' Covetyse ; 
 And grudged at tiie great felicitee 
 Of proud Lucifera, and Ids owue companee. 
 
 He hated all good workes and verlnious deeds. 
 And him no lesse, that any like did use ; 
 And who with gratious bread the Imngry feeds. 
 His almes for want of faith he doth accuse ; 
 So every good to bad he doth abuse : 
 And eke the verse of famous poets witt 
 He does backebite, and spightfull poison spues 
 From leprous mouth on all tliat ever writt : 
 Such one vile Envy was, that fil'te iu row did sitt. 
 
 And Mm beside rides fierce revenging Wrath, 
 Upon a lion, loth for to be led ; 
 And in his hand a burning broud he liath. 
 The which he brandisheth about his hcd : 
 His eies did luirle forth sparcles fiery red, 
 And stared sterne on all that him beheld ; 
 As ashes pale of hew, and seeming dcd ; 
 And on his dagger still his hand he Ivcld, 
 Trembling through hasty rage, when cholcr in 
 him swcld. 
 
 His ruffin raiment all was staind with blood 
 Wiieh lie had spilt, and all to rags yrent ; 
 Through unadvizcd rashnes woxen wood ;° 
 For of his hands lie had no governement, 
 Ne car'd for blood iu his avcngemcnt : 
 But when tlie furious fitt was overpast. 
 His erucll facts' he often would repent; 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Jaw. 
 
 * Infixes. 
 
 Mad. 
 
 * Partv-colorcd silk. 
 
 5 Grasping. 
 
 ' Deeds 
 
 8 Tic3 up. 
 
 
 
 Yet, wilfull man, he never would forecast. 
 How many mischieves should ensue his hecdlesse 
 hast. 
 
 Full many mischiefes follow cruell Wrath ; 
 Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife, 
 Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath,' 
 Bitter despight with rancours rusty knife ; 
 And fretting griefc, the enemy of life : 
 All these, and many evils moe haunt Ire, 
 The swelling splene, and frenzy raging rife, 
 Tlie shaking palsey, and Saint Fraunces fire : 
 Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly 
 tire.'- 
 
 And, after all, upon the wagon beame 
 Rode Sathan with a smarting whip in hand. 
 With which he forward laslit the laesy teine. 
 So oft as Slowth still in ttie mire did stand. 
 Huge routs of people did about them band,' 
 Showting for ioy ; and still before their way 
 A foggy mist had covered all the land ; 
 And underneath their feet all scattered lay 
 Dead sculls and bones of men, whose life !iad gone 
 astray. 
 
 The Faerie Qnenie, Book I. Canto 4. 
 
 UNA, RESCUED FROM SANSLOY BY THE WOOD- 
 GODS, DWELLS WITH THEM, 
 
 The pitteous Mayden, carcfull,' coinfortlesse. 
 Does throw out thrilling shriekes, and shriek- 
 ing cryes ; 
 The last vaine lielpe of wemens great distresse, 
 And with loud plaintes impdrtuneth the skyes ; 
 Tliat molten starrcs doe drop hke weeping ej'es; 
 And Pha?bus, flying so most siiamefuU sight. 
 His blushing face in foggy cloud implyes,' 
 And liydcs for shame. What witt of nKn-tall 
 wight 
 Can now devise to quitt a thrall" from such a 
 plight ? 
 
 Etcrnall Providence, exceeding thought. 
 Where none appeares can make her selfe a way : 
 A wondrous way it for this Lady wrought, 
 From lyons clawes to pluck tiie grypcd pray. 
 Her .shrill oiitcryes and shrieks so louddid bray, 
 That all the woodes and forcslcsdid rcsowiid : 
 A troupe of Fauiics and S;ityrcs far away 
 AVithin tlie wood were dauncing in a rownd. 
 Whiles old Sylvanus slept in shady arber sownd : 
 
 AVho, when they heard that pitteous strained 
 
 voice, 
 In haste forsooke their rurall meriment, 
 
 ' n.iinngc, loss. ' Rnllier. * Envelops. 
 
 • Tinin, * Sorrowful. 
 
 ^ \ person subjected to the power of another. 
 
 ^ 
 
cfr 
 
 UNxV, RESCUED FROM SANSLOY. 
 
 37 
 
 -n> 
 
 And raa towardes the far rebownded uoycc, 
 To wcet what wight so loudly did lament. 
 Uiito the place they come iucoutinent ; ' 
 Whom when the raguig Sarazin espyde, 
 A rude, mishappen, monstrous rablement, 
 Whose like he never saw, he durst not byde ; 
 But got his ready steed, and fast away gan ryde. 
 
 The wyld woodgods, arrived in the place. 
 There find the Virgin, doolfuU, desolate. 
 With rutllcdrayments, and fayreblubbredM'ace, 
 As her outrageous foe had left her late ; 
 And tremblingyet through feare of former hate : 
 All stand amazed at so uncouth' siglit, 
 And gin to pittie her unhappie state ; 
 AH staud astonied at her beautie bright. 
 In their rude eyes unworthy of so ■wofull plight. 
 
 She, more amazd, in double dread doth dwell ; 
 And every tender part for feare docs shake. 
 As when a greedy wolfe, through houger fell, 
 A seely' lamb far from the flock does take. 
 Of whom he meanes his bloody feast to make, 
 A lyon spyes fast ninning towards him. 
 The innocent pray in hast he does forsake ; 
 Which, quitt from death, yet quakes in every lim 
 AVitli chauuge of feare, to see the lyon looke so grim. 
 
 Such fearefull fitt assaid her trembling hart ; 
 Ne word to speake, ne ioynt to move, she had. 
 The salvage nation feele her secret smart, 
 And read her soitow m her count'nance sad ; 
 Their frowning forheades, with rough horues 
 
 yelad 
 And rustick horror, all asyde doe lay ; 
 And, gently grenning,* shew a semblance glad 
 To comfort her ; aud, feare to put away. 
 Their backward-beut knees teach her humbly to 
 
 obay. 
 
 The doubtfidl" Damzell dare not yet committ 
 Ilcr single person to their barbarous truth ; 
 But still twixt feare and hope amazd doessitt, 
 Late learud what harmc to hasty trust ensu'th : 
 They, in compassion of her tender youth 
 And wonder of her beautie soverayne, 
 Are woune with pitty and unwonted ruth ; 
 And, all prostrate upon the lowly playne, 
 Doe kisse her feete, and fawne on her with 
 count'nance fayne.' 
 
 Their harts she ghesseth by their humble guise. 
 And yicldcs her to extremitie of time : 
 So from the ground she fearelesse doth arise» 
 Aud walkcth forth without suspect of crime ; 
 They, all as glad as birdes of ioyous Pryme,' 
 
 ^ 
 
 » Immciliately. * Simple. ' Glad. 
 
 2 Swelled with tears. ^ Grinning. 8 Spi-ing 
 
 s Strange. ^ Fearful. 
 
 Thence lead her forth, about her daunciug round. 
 Shouting, aud singing all a shepheards rymc; 
 And, with greene brauuchcs strowing all the 
 
 ground. 
 Do worship her as queene wdth olive girlond 
 
 cround. 
 
 Aud all the way their merry pipes they sound. 
 That all the woods with doubled eccho ring ;, 
 Aud with their horned feet doe weare tlie 
 
 ground. 
 Leaping like wanton kids in pleasant Spring. 
 So towards old Sylvanus they her bring ; 
 Who, with the noyse awaked, commeth out 
 To weet' the cause, his weake steps governing 
 And aged limbs on cypresse stadle' stout: 
 And with an yvie twyne liis waste is girt about. 
 
 Far off he wonders what them makes so glad. 
 Or Bacchus merry fruit they did invent,' 
 Or Cybeles franticke rites have made tliem mad : 
 They, drawing nigh, unto tiieir god present 
 That llowre of fayth and beautie excellent : 
 The god himselfe, vewing that mirrhour rare. 
 Stood long amazd, and burnt in his intent:' 
 Hisowue fayreDryopenow hetliinkesnotfaire, 
 Aud Pholoe fowle, when her to tliis he doth com- 
 paire. 
 
 The wood-borne people fall before her flat, 
 Aud worship her as goddesse of the wood ; 
 And old Sylvanus selfe betliinkes not, what 
 To tliiuke of wight so fayre ; but gazing stood 
 In doubt to deeme her borne of earthly brood : 
 Sometimes Dame Venus selfe he seemes to see ; 
 But Venus never had so sober mood : 
 Sometimes Diana he her takes to be ; 
 But misseth bow and shaftes, and buskins to her 
 knee. 
 
 By vew of her he ginneth' to revive 
 His ancient love, aud dearest Cyparisse ; 
 And calles to mind his pourtraiture ahve, 
 How fayre he was, and yet not fayre to this ; 
 And how he slew with glauncing dart amisse 
 A gentle hyud, the which the lovely boy 
 Did love as life, above aU worldly blisse : 
 For griefe whereof the lad n'ould" after ioy ; 
 But pynd away m anguish and selfe wild annoy. 
 
 The wooddy uymphes, faire Hamadryades, 
 Her to behold do thether ruime apace ; 
 And all the troupe of light-foot Naiades 
 Flocke all about to see her lovely face : 
 Bvit, when they vewed have her heavenly grace. 
 They envy her in their malitious mind. 
 
 ^ Know. 
 
 < staff. 
 
 3 Discover. 
 
 ' Glowed with admiration as he gazed upon 1 
 
 G Beginueth. ^ Would not. 
 
 I her. 
 
 -^-^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 38 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 -n> 
 
 Aud fly away lor t'eare of I'owle disgrace : 
 But all the Satyres sconie their woody kind. 
 And henceforth notliiug faire, but her, ou earth 
 they fiud. 
 
 Glad of such lucke, the luckelesse lucky Mayd 
 Did her content to please their feeble eyes ; 
 And long time with tliat salvage people stayd, 
 To gather breath in many miseryes. 
 During which time her gentle wit she plyes, 
 To teach them truth, whieli worsliipt her in 
 
 vaine. 
 And made lier th' image of idolatryes : 
 But, when their bootlessezeale she did restrayne 
 From her own worship, they her asse would 
 
 worship fayn. 
 
 The Faerie Queene, Book I. Canto 6. 
 
 PKINCE ARTHUK, 
 
 At last she chaunced by good hap to meet 
 A goodly knight, faire marching by the way, 
 Together with his squyre, arayed meet : 
 His glitterand armour sliined far away, 
 Like glauncing hght of Piioebus brightest ray ; 
 From top to toe no place appeared bare. 
 That deadly dint of Steele endanger may ; 
 Athwart his brest a bauldrick brave he ware. 
 That shind, like twinkling stars, with stones 
 most pretious rare : 
 
 And, in the midst thereof, one pretious stone 
 t)f wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous 
 
 mights, 
 Sliapt like a ladies head, exceeding shone. 
 Like Hesperus eraongst the lesser hghts. 
 And strove for to amaze the weaker sights : 
 Thereby his mortall blade full comely hong 
 In yvory sheath, yearv'd with curious sliglits,' 
 Whose hilts were burnisht gold ; and handle 
 
 strong 
 Of mother perle; and buckled with a golden tong. 
 
 His haughtic helmet, horrid all with gold. 
 Both glorious brightuesse and great teiTour 
 
 bredd : 
 For all the crest a dragon did enfold 
 With greedie pawes, and over all did spredd 
 His golden winges; hisdreadfull hideous lu'dd. 
 Close couched on the bever, seemd to throw 
 I'rom flaming mouth bright sparekles fiery rodd, 
 Tliat suddeine liorrour to faint hartes did show ; 
 And scaly tayle was stretcht adowne his back full 
 
 low. 
 
 Upon the top of all his loftie crest, 
 
 A bounch of hcares discolourd diversly, 
 
 fr-- 
 
 ^ "Devices. 
 
 With spriucled pearle and gold full lielily drest. 
 Did shake, and seemd to daunce for iollity ; 
 Like to an almond tree ymounted bye 
 On top of greene Selinis all alone, 
 With blossoms brave bedecked daintily ; 
 MTiose tender locks do tremble every one 
 At everie little breath, that under heaven is blowne. 
 
 His warlike shield all closely cover'd was, 
 Ne might of mortall eye be ever scene ; 
 Not made of Steele, nor of enduring bras, 
 (Such earthly mettals soone consumed beene,) 
 But all of diamond perfect pure aud cleene 
 It framed was, one massy entire moidd, 
 Hewen out of adamant rocke with engines 
 
 keene. 
 That point of speare it never perccu could, 
 Ne dint of direfull sword divide the substance 
 
 would. 
 
 The same to wight he never wont disclose. 
 But ' whenas monsters huge he would dismay, 
 Or daunt uncquaU armies of his foes. 
 Or when the flying heavens he would affray : 
 For so exceeding shone his ghstring ray, 
 That Phcebus golden face it did attaint,' 
 As when a cloud his beames doth over-lay ; 
 And silver Cynthia wexed pale and faynt. 
 As when her face is staynd with magicke arts 
 constraint. 
 
 No magicke arts hereof had any might. 
 Nor bloody wordes of bold enchauutcrs call ; 
 But all that was not such as seemd in sight 
 Before that shield did fade, and suddeine fall : 
 And, when him list the raskall routes' appall 
 Men into stones therewith he coidd transmcw,' 
 And stones to dust, and dust to nought at all ; 
 And when him hst the prouder lookes sub- 
 dew. 
 He would them gazing blind, orturne to otherhew. 
 T/ie Faerie Qiieeiie, Book I. Canto 7. 
 
 THE CAVE OF DESPAIR. 
 
 Ere long they come, w-here that same wicked 
 
 wight 
 His dwelling has, low in an hollow cave, 
 Far underucatli a craggy cliff ypight,' 
 D:uke, dolefuU, dreary, like a greedy grave, 
 That still for carrion carcases doth crave ; 
 On to]) whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owlc. 
 Shrieking his balefidl note, which ever drave 
 Far from tliat haunt all other chearefuU fuwlc ; 
 And all about it wandring ghostes did wayle and 
 
 howle : 
 
 ^ Except. 
 • Ul)scure. 
 
 3 The low rabble. 
 * Transform. 
 
 s Placed. 
 
 -g> 
 
(&■ 
 
 BELPHCEBE. 
 
 39 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And all about old stockes and stubs of trees, 
 Whereon nor fruite nor leafe was ever seene, 
 Did liaiig upon the ragged rooky knees ;' 
 On which had many wretches hanged beene. 
 Whose carcases were scattred on the greene, 
 And throwne about the cliffs. Arrived there, 
 That bare-head knight, for dread and dolefull 
 
 teene,'' 
 Would faine have fled, ne durst approchen 
 
 neare ; 
 But th' other forst him staye, and comforted in 
 
 feare. 
 
 That darkesome cave they enter, where they 
 
 find 
 That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, 
 Musing full sadly in his sidleiu mind : 
 His griesie* lockes, longgrowen and unbound, 
 Disordred hong about his shoulders round. 
 And hid his face ; through which his hollow 
 
 eyue 
 Lookt deadly dull, and stared as astound ; 
 His raw-bone cheekes, through penurie and 
 
 pine, 
 Were shronke into his iawes, as* he did never 
 
 dyne. 
 
 His garment, nought i)ut many ragged clouts, 
 W^ith thornes together pind and patched was. 
 The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts : 
 And him beside there lay upon the gras 
 A dreary corse, whose life away did pas. 
 All wallowd in his own yet luke-warme blood, 
 That from his wound yet welled fresh, alas ! 
 In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood, 
 And made an open passage for the gushing flood. 
 
 Wliich piteous spectacle, approving trew. 
 The wofidl tale that Trevisan had told, 
 Wlienas the gentle Rcdcrosse Knight did vew ; 
 Witli firie zeale he burnt in courage bold 
 Him to avenge, before his blood were cold ; 
 And to the VUleiu sayd : " Thou damned wight. 
 The authour of this fact we here behold, 
 What iustice can but iudge against thee right, 
 With thme owne blood to price' his blood, here 
 shed in sight '•! " 
 
 " What franticke fit," quoth he, " hath thus 
 
 distraught 
 Thee, foolish man, so rash a doome to give ? 
 What iustice ever other iudgement taught, 
 But he should dye, who raerites not to Uve ? 
 None els to death this man despayring drive" 
 
 * Rough points or projections of rock. 
 
 2 Trouble. 
 
 3 Greasy ; l)Ut probably a misprint for t/riesUe, grisly or 
 grizzly, which is the reading of the folio of 1611. 
 
 » As if 
 
 "> Pay for. 
 
 6 Driv (drove). 
 
 But his owne guUtie mind, deserving death. 
 Is then uiiiust to each his dew to give ? 
 Or let him dye, that loatheth Uving breath ? 
 Or let liim die at ease, that liveth here uueath?' 
 
 " Who travailes by the wearie wandring way. 
 To come unto his wished home in haste. 
 And meetes a flood, that doth his passage stay ; 
 Is not great grace to lielpe him over past. 
 Or free his feet that in the myre sticke fast ? 
 Most envious man, that grieves at neighbours 
 
 good; 
 And fond,' that ioyest in the woe thou hast ; 
 Why wilt not let him passe, that long hath 
 
 stood 
 Upon the bancke, yet wilt thyselfe not pas the 
 
 flood ? 
 
 " He there does now enioy eteruall rest 
 And happy ease, wliich tliou doest want and 
 
 crave. 
 And further from it daily wanderest : 
 What if some Uttle payne the passage have, 
 That makes frayle flesh to feare the bitter wave ; 
 Is not short payne well borne, that bringes 
 
 long ease. 
 And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave ? 
 Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, 
 Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly 
 
 please." 
 
 The Knight much wondred at his suddeine wit. 
 And, sayd : " The terme of life is limited, 
 Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten, it: 
 The souldier may not move from watchf ull sted,^ 
 Nor leave his stand untUl his captaine bed."' 
 " Who life did limit by almightie doome," 
 Quoth he, "knowes bcstthetermesestablishcd; 
 And he that points' the eentonell his roomc' 
 Doth license him depart at sound of morning 
 droome.' 
 
 TAe Faerie Queene, Book I. Canto 9. 
 
 BELPHffiBE. 
 
 Her face so faire, as flesh it seemed not, 
 But hevenly pourtraict of bright angels hew, 
 Cleare as the skye, withouten blame' or blot. 
 Through goodly mixture of complexions dew ; 
 And in her cheekes the vermeill red did shew 
 Like roses in a bed of UEies shed, 
 The which ambrosiall odours from them threw, 
 And gazers sence with double pleasure fed, 
 Hable to heale the sicke and to revive the ded. 
 
 In her faire eyes two liWng lamps did flame. 
 Kindled above at th' Hevenly Makers light, 
 
 > Uneasy. 
 
 * Bid. 
 
 T Drum- 
 
 ' Foolish. 
 
 B Appoints. 
 
 ' Blemish (?) 
 
 3 Place. 
 
 ' Place. 
 
 
 -95 
 
a- 
 
 40 
 
 SPEXSER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And darted fyrie beames out of the same, 
 So passing persant,' and so wondrous briglit, 
 That quite bereav'd the rash beliolders sight : 
 In them the blinded god his lustfull fyre 
 To kindle oft assayd, but had no might ; 
 Tor, with dredd maiestie and awfuU yre. 
 She broke his wanton darts, and quenched bace 
 desyre. 
 
 Her yvorie forhead, full of bountie brave, 
 Like a broad table' did itselfe dispred, 
 For Love his loftie triumphes to engrave, 
 And write the battailes •f his great godhed : 
 All good and honour might therein be red ; 
 For there their dwelling was. And, when she 
 
 spake, 
 Sweete wordes, like dropping honny, she did 
 
 shed; 
 And twixt the perles and rubins' softly brake 
 A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemd to 
 
 make. 
 
 Upon her eyelids many Graces sate. 
 Under the shadow of her even browes. 
 Working belgardes' and amorous reti'ate,' 
 And everie one her with a grace endowes, 
 And everie one ■»'ith meekenesse to her bowes : 
 So glorious rairrhour of celestiaU grace. 
 And soverame moniment of uiortaU vowes. 
 How shall frayle pen descrive her heavenly face, 
 For feare, through want of skill, her beauty to 
 disgrace ! 
 
 So faire, and thousand thousand times more 
 
 faire. 
 She seemd, when she presented was to sight ; 
 And was yclad, for heat of scorching aire, 
 All in a silken caraus' lUly whight, 
 Purfied' upon with many a folded plight,' 
 Which all above besprinckled was throughout 
 With golden aygulets,' that gUstred bright 
 Like twinckling starres ; and all the skirt about 
 Was hemd" with golden fringe. 
 
 Below her ham her weed" did somewhat trayne. 
 And her streight legs most bravely were em- 
 
 bayld >= 
 In gilden buskins of costly cordwayne," 
 All bard with golden bendes," which were en- 
 
 tayld" 
 With curious antickes," and fidl fayre au- 
 
 may Id : " 
 
 ^0 Bordered.. 
 
 >l Urcss. 
 
 ^- Buuiitl up. 
 
 ^ Spanisli li-atlior. 
 
 ^* Crossed willi sliijics. 
 
 ^ Engraved, cut. 
 
 ic Odd devices. 
 
 1" Enamelled. 
 
 ^ 
 
 > Piercing. 
 ' Taldel. 
 
 * Rubies. 
 
 * Sweet looks. 
 
 '' Expression (of countenance). 
 « \ li^'lit, loose robe. 
 ' Trimmed or flounced. 
 " Plait. 
 
 * The tag of a point or lace. 
 
 Before, they fastned were under her knee 
 In a rich iewell, and therein entrayld' 
 The ends of aU the knots, that none might see 
 How they within their fouldings close enwrapped 
 bee: 
 
 Like two faire marble pillours they were scene, 
 A\hich doe the temple of the gods support. 
 Whom all the people decke with girlands 
 
 greene. 
 And honour in their festivall resort ; 
 Those same with stately grace and princely port 
 She taught to tread, when she herselfe would 
 
 grace ; 
 But with the woody nymphes when she did 
 
 play,' 
 
 Or when the flying libbard' she did cliace, ' 
 She cotdd them nimbly move, and after fly apace. 
 
 And in her hand a sharpe bore-speare slie held. 
 And at her backe a bow and quiver gay, 
 Stuft with steele-headed dartes wherewith she 
 
 queld 
 The salvage beastes in her victorious play. 
 Knit with a golden bauldricke which forelay. 
 Athwart her snowy brest, and did divide 
 Her daintie paps ; which, like young fruit in 
 
 May, 
 Now little gan to swell, and being tide, 
 Througii her thin weed, their places only signifide. 
 
 Her yellow lockes, crisped like golden wyre, 
 About her shoulders weren loosely shed, 
 And when the winde eniongst them did inspyre,' 
 They waved like a penon wyde dispred. 
 And low behinde her backe were scattered : 
 And, whether art it were or heedelesse hap. 
 As through the flouring forrest rash sTie fled. 
 In her rude' heares sweet flowres themselves 
 
 did lap, 
 And flourishing fresh leaves and blossomes did 
 
 enwTap. 
 
 Such as Diana by the sandy shore 
 
 Of swift Eurotas, or on Cynthus greene, 
 
 AMiere all the nymphes have her unwarcs for- 
 
 lorc,' 
 Wandreth alone with bow and arrowes keene, 
 To scckc her game : or as that famous queene 
 Of Amazons, whom Pyrrhus did destroy. 
 The day, that first of Priame she was scene. 
 Did shew herselfe in great triumphant iny, 
 To succour the weake state of sad afflicted 
 
 Troy. 
 
 Tie Faerie Queene, Book 1 1. Canto 3. 
 
 1 Twisted together. * Breathe. 
 
 * Proliably a misprint for sport. ■ disordered. 
 
 » Leopard. • Left. 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 !5[R GUYON BINDING FUROR. — WANTON MIRTH. 
 
 41 
 
 -fi) 
 
 SIR GUTON BINDING FUROK. 
 
 In his strong amies lie stifly liim enibraste, 
 Wlio liim gain-striving' nought at all prevaild ; 
 For all his power was utterly defaste," 
 And furious fitts at earst^ quite weren' quaild: 
 Oft he re'nforst,* and oft his forces fayld, 
 Yet yield he would not, nor his rancor slack. 
 Then liim to ground he cast, and rudely liayld," 
 And bcitli his hands fast bound behind his backe. 
 And both Ids feet in fetters to an yron rack. 
 
 With hundred yron chaines he did hiin bhid. 
 And hundred knots, tiiat did him sore con- 
 
 straine : 
 Yet his great yron teetli he still did grind 
 And grimly gnash, threatning revenge in value : 
 His burning eyen, whom bloody strakes' did 
 
 staine, 
 Stared full wide, and threw forth sparkes of 
 
 fyre ; 
 And, more for ranck desplght then for great 
 
 paiue, 
 Shakt his long locks colourd like copper-wyre, 
 And bitt his tawny beard to shew his raging yre. 
 The Faerie Qiieeiie, Buok II. Canto 4. 
 
 WANTON MIRTH. . 
 
 A\'iioM bold Cymocliles traveiliug to flnde, 
 With cruell purpose bent to wreake on him 
 The wratli which Atin l;indled in his mind. 
 Came to a river, by whose utmost brim 
 Wayting to passe he saw whereas did swim 
 Along the shore, as swift as glaunce of eye, 
 A lifle gondclay,' Ijcdecked trim 
 Witli bouglies and arbours woven cunningly, 
 That like a litle forrest seemed outwardly. 
 
 And tlierein sate a lady fresh and fayre, 
 Making sweete solace to herselfe alone : 
 Sometimes she song as lowd as lark in ayre. 
 Sometimes she laught, that nigh her breath 
 
 was gone ; 
 Yet was there not with her else any one. 
 That to her might move cause of meriment : 
 Matter of merth enough, though there were 
 
 none. 
 She could devise ; and thousand waies invent 
 To feede her fooUsh humour and vaine iolliuient. 
 
 Wiicli when far of Cymoehles heard and saw. 
 He Idwdly cald to such as were abord 
 The little barke unto the shore to draw. 
 And him to ferry over that deepe ford. 
 
 CIL 
 
 1 Ki'sisting. 
 
 2 Overcome. 
 Instantly. 
 
 » Weve. 
 
 Made new efforts. 
 
 fi Hanletl. 
 
 ' Streaks. 
 
 8 Gondola, boat. 
 
 The merry Mariner unto his word 
 
 Sooue hearkned, and her painted bote streight- 
 
 way 
 Tunid to the shore, where that same warlike 
 
 lord 
 She in receiv'd ; but Atin by no way 
 She would admit, albe' the knight her much did 
 
 pray. 
 
 Eftsoones' her shallow ship away did slide. 
 More swift then swallow sheres' the liquid 
 
 skye, 
 Withouten oare or pilot it to guide. 
 Or winged canvas with the wind to lly : 
 Onely she turnd a pin, and by and by* 
 It cut away upon tbe yielding wave ; 
 Ne cared she her course for to apply,' 
 For it was taught the way which she would 
 
 have. 
 And both from rocks and flats itselfe could ^visely 
 
 save. 
 
 And all the way the wanton damsell found 
 New merth her passenger to entertnine ; 
 For she in pleasaunt purpose ° did abound. 
 And greatly ioyed merry tales to faine. 
 Of which a store-house did with her remaine; 
 Yet seemed, nothing well they her became : 
 For all her wordes she drownd with laughter 
 
 vaine, 
 And wanted grace in utt'ring of the same, 
 That turned all her pleasaunee to a scoffing 
 game. 
 
 And other whiles vaine toycs she would de- 
 vize, 
 As her fantasticke wit did most dehglit : 
 Sometimes her head she fondly would agnize' 
 With gaudy girlonds, or fresh flowrcts diglit 
 About her necke, or rings of rushes ])light ;* 
 Sometimes, to do him laugh, she would assay 
 To laugh at shaking of the leaves light, 
 Or to behold the water worke and play 
 About her httle frigot, therein making way. 
 
 Her light behaviour and loose dalliaunce 
 Gave wondrous great contentment to the 
 
 Knight, 
 That of his way he had no sovenaunce.' 
 Nor care of vow'd revenge and cruell fight ; 
 But to weake wench did yield his inartiaU 
 
 might. 
 So easie was to quench his flamed minde 
 With one sweete drop of sensuall delight ! 
 So casie is t' appease the stormy winde 
 Of malice in the calnie of pleasaunt womankind ! 
 T/ie Faerie Qtteeti, Book II. Canto 6. 
 
 ^ .\lthoiigh. 
 
 2 Immediately. 
 
 3 Cuts. 
 
 * Instantly. 
 
 5 Give attention to. 
 
 " Conversation. 
 
 ' Peck. 
 
 » Plat. 
 
 * Remembrance. 
 
 -9> 
 
cfi- 
 
 42 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 THE CAVE OF MAMMON. 
 
 At last, lie came unto a gloomy glade, 
 Covci-"d with boughes and shrubs from heavens 
 
 light, 
 Wlicreas he sitting found in secret shade 
 An uncouth, salvage, and uncivile wight, 
 Of griesly hew and fowle ill-favour'd sight ; 
 His face with smoke was taud, and eies were 
 
 bleard, 
 His head and beard with sout' were ill bedight," 
 His cole-blacke hands did seeme to have ben 
 
 seard 
 In smythes fire-spitting forge, and nayles like 
 
 clawes appeard. 
 
 His yroii cote, all overgrowne with rust, 
 Was underneath enveloped with gold; 
 Wiose glistring glosse, darkned with filfhy dust. 
 Well yet appeared to have beene of old 
 A worke of rich entayle' and curious mould 
 Woven with autickes* and wyld yinagery : 
 And ill his lap a masse of coyne lie told, 
 And turned upside downe, to feede his eye 
 And covetous desire with his huge threasury. 
 
 And round about him lay on every side 
 Great heapes of gold that never could be spent ; 
 Of which some were rude owre, not purilidc. 
 Of Mulcibers devouring element ; 
 Some others were new driven, and distent* 
 Into great ingowes" and to wedges square ; 
 Some in round plates withouten moniment;' 
 But most were stampt, and in their metal bare 
 The antique shapes of kings and kesars* straung 
 
 and rare. 
 
 * • ♦ * 
 
 "What secret place," quoth he, "can safely 
 
 hold 
 So huge a masse, and hide from heavens eie ? 
 Or where hast thou thy woiine,° that so much 
 
 gold 
 Thou canst preserve from wrong and robbery ? " 
 " Come thou," quoth he, " and see." So by 
 
 and by 
 Through that tliick covert he him led, and 
 
 fownd 
 A darkesome way, which no man could descry. 
 That deep descended through the hollow 
 
 grownd. 
 And was with dread and horror compassed 
 
 arowiid. 
 
 At length they came into a larger space. 
 That stretcht itselfe into an am]ile playne ; 
 Through which a beaten broad high way did 
 trace 
 
 fr 
 
 • Snot. 
 
 * Fantastic figures. 
 
 7 Stamp. 
 
 - Covci'cd. 
 
 6 Ik-atiMi out. 
 
 " Eiiipfi'ors 
 
 •' C^ai'viii;;. 
 
 Iii^'ota. 
 
 " Dwellinfi. 
 
 That straight did load to Plutoes griesly rayne : ' 
 By that wayes side there sate infernall Payne, 
 And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife ; 
 The one in hand an yron whip did strayne. 
 The other brandished a bloody knife ; 
 And both did gnasli their teeth, and both did 
 threten Life. 
 
 On th' other side in one consort' there sate 
 Cruell Revenge, and rancorous Despight, 
 Disloyall Treason, and hart-burning Hate ; 
 But gnawing Gealosy, out of their sight 
 Sitting .alone, his bitter lips did bight ; 
 And trenibUug Feare still to and fro did fly. 
 And found no place wher safe he shroud him 
 
 might : 
 Lamenting Sorrow did in darknes lye ; 
 And Shame his ugly face did hide from Uving 
 
 eye. 
 
 And over them sad Horror with grim hew 
 Did alwaies sore, beating his yron wings ; 
 And after him owles and night-ravens flew, 
 The hatefull messengers of heavy things. 
 Of death and dolor^ telling sad tidings; 
 Wliiles s.ad Celeno, sitting on a chfte, 
 A song of bale* and bitter sorrow sings. 
 That hart of flint asouder could have rifte ;' 
 Which having ended, after him she flyeth swifte. 
 
 All these before the gates of Pluto lay ; 
 By whom they passing spake unto them nought. 
 But th' Elfin Knight with wouder all the w.ay 
 Did feed his eyes, and fild liis inner thought. 
 At l.ast liim to a litle dore he brought. 
 That to the gate of hell, which gaped wide. 
 Was next adioyning, ne them parted ought : 
 Betwixt them both was but a litle stride. 
 That did the house of Richesse from hcll-moulh 
 divide. 
 
 Before the dore sat selfe-consuming Care, 
 Day .and night keeping wary watch and ward, 
 For feare least Force or Fraud should unaware 
 Bre.ake in, and spoile tlie treasure there in gard : 
 Ne would he Biilfer Sleepe once thether-ward 
 Approch, <albe" his drowsy den were next; 
 For next to Death is Sleepe to be compard ; 
 Therefore his house is unto his annext : 
 Here Sleep, tlier Richesse, and hel-gate them both 
 betwext. 
 
 So soone as Mammon there arrivd, the dore 
 To him did open and atfoorded w.ay : 
 Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore, 
 Ne darkenesse him ne d.aunger might dismay. 
 Sooue as he entred was, the dore streightway 
 
 1 Ri-ign, kingtlom. 
 8 Coiiipniiy. 
 
 1 Grief. 
 • Woe. 
 
 8 Riven. 
 « .^Ulioush. 
 
 -9> 
 
ce- 
 
 GARDEN OF PROSERPINE. 
 
 43 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Did shutt, and from beliiud it fortli there lept 
 
 All ugly t'eeud, more i'owle then disniall day ; * 
 
 The wliich with monstrous stalke behind liim 
 
 stept, 
 
 And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept. 
 
 Well hoped hee, ere long that hardy guest. 
 If ever covetous hand, or lustfull eye. 
 Or Ups he layd on thing that likte him best, 
 Or ever sleepe his eie-strings did untye, 
 Sliould be his ]n'ay : and therefore still ou hye 
 He over him did hold his cruell clawes, 
 Threatniiig with greedy gripe to doe him dye. 
 And rend in peeces with his ravenous pawes, 
 If ever he transgrest the fatall Stygian lawes. 
 
 That houses forme within was rude and strong, 
 Lyke an liugc cave licwne out of rocky clifte. 
 Prom whose rough vaut the ragged breaches 
 
 houg 
 Einbost with massy gold of glorious guifte," 
 And with rich metall loaded every rifte, 
 That heavy ruine they did seeme to threatt ; 
 And over them Arachne high did lifte 
 Her cunning web, and spred her subtile nctt, 
 Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more nlaok 
 tiien iett. 
 
 Both roofe, and floore, and walls, were all of 
 
 gold. 
 But overgro\5'ne with dust and old decay, 
 And hid in darkeues, that none could behold 
 The hew thereof: for vew of cherefull day 
 Did never in that house itselfe display, 
 Bnt a faint shadow of uneertein light ; 
 Such as a lamp, whose hfe does fade away; 
 Or as the mooue, cluathed with elowdy night. 
 Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad 
 affright. 
 
 In all that rowme was nothing to be seeue 
 But huge great yron chests, and coffers strong, 
 All bard with double bends,^ that none could 
 
 weene 
 Them to efforce by violence or wrong ; 
 On every side they placed were along. 
 But all the grownd with sculs was scattered 
 And dead mens bones, which round about were 
 
 Hong ; 
 Whose lives, it seemed, whilomc there were 
 
 shed. 
 And their vile carcases now left unburied. 
 * * » 
 
 Thence, forward he him Icdd and shortly 
 
 brought 
 Unto another rowme, whose dore forthright 
 
 > Death. 
 
 3 Gift; i. e, gifted with glorioua ricliness. 
 
 3 Bands. 
 
 To him did open as it had beene taught : 
 Tliereiii an hundred raunges weren pight,' 
 And hundred fournaces all burning bright ; 
 By every fournace many feendes did byde. 
 Deformed creatures, horrible in sight ; 
 And every feend his busie paines applydc 
 To melt the golden metaU, ready to be trydo. 
 
 One with great beUowes gathered filling ayre. 
 And with forst wind the fewell did inrtame ; 
 Another did the dying bronds repayre 
 With yrou tongs, and sprinekled ofte the same 
 With liquid waves, tiers Vuleans rage to tame, 
 "Who, maystring- them, reuewd his former heat : 
 Some scumd the drossc that from the metall 
 
 came ; 
 Some stird the molten owrc with ladles great : 
 And every one did swLncke,^ and every one did 
 
 sweat. 
 
 But, when an earthly wight they present saw 
 Glistring in armes and battailous array, 
 Prom their whot work they did themselves 
 
 withdraw 
 To wonder at the sight ; for, till that day, 
 They never creature saw that cam that way : 
 Their staring eyes sparckling with fervent fyre 
 And ugly shapes did nigh tlie man dismay, 
 Tliat, were it not for shaine, he would retyre ; 
 Till that him thus bespake their soveraiue lord 
 and syre : 
 
 " Behold, thou Paeries sonne, with mortaU eye. 
 That living eye before did never see ! 
 The thing that thou didst crave so earnestly. 
 To weet whence all the wealth late shewd by 
 
 mee 
 Proceeded, lo ! now is reveald to thee. 
 Here is the fountaine of the worldes good ! 
 Now therefore, if thou wilt enriched bee, 
 Avise' tliec well, and chaunge thy wilfull 
 mood ; 
 Least thou perhaps hereafter wish, and be with- 
 stood." 
 
 Tlie Faerit' Queeiie, Book II. Canto 7. 
 
 GABDEN OF PROSEEPENE. 
 
 Mammon eminoved was witli inward wrath ; 
 Yet, forcing it to fayne, him forth thence ledd, 
 Through griesly shadowes by a beaten path, 
 Into a gardin goodly garnished 
 With licarbs and fruits, whose kinds mote not 
 
 be redd:' 
 Not such as earth out of her fruitfull wooinb 
 Throwes fortli to men, sweet and well savored, 
 
 1 Placed. 
 
 2 Mastering, or subduing 
 a Toil. 
 
 < Bethink. 
 
 ^ Conceived of. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 -fl) 
 
 44 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 But direfull deadly black, both leafe aud bluom, 
 Fitt to adoriie the dead aud deck the drery 
 toombe. 
 
 There mournfull cypresse grew in greatest 
 
 store ; 
 And trees of bitter gall ; and heben' sad ; 
 Dead sleeping poppy ; and black liellebore ; 
 Cold eoloquintida ; and tetra mad ; 
 Mortall samnitis ; and cicuta^ bad, 
 With wliich th' uniust Athcnicns made to dy 
 Wise Socrates, who, thereof quaffing glad, 
 Pourd out liis life and last philosophy 
 To the fay re Critias, his dearest belamy ! ' 
 
 The Gardin of Proserpina this hight : 
 And in the midst thereof a silver seat, 
 AVith a thick arber goodly overdiglit,' 
 In which she often usd from open heat 
 Ilerselfc to shroud, aud pleasures to entj-eat.' 
 Next thereunto did grow a goodly tree, 
 Witli braunches broad dispredd and body great. 
 Clothed with leaves, that none t!ie wood mote 
 see, 
 And loaden all with fruit as thick as it might bee. 
 
 Their fruit were golden apples glistring bright. 
 That goodly was their glory to beliold ; 
 On eartli like never grew, ne living wight 
 Like ever saw, bnt 1hey from lience were sold ; 
 For those, which Hercules with conquest bold 
 Got from great Atlas daughters, lienee began. 
 And planted there did bring fortli fruit of gold ; 
 And those, witli which th' Eubsean young man 
 wan 
 Swift Atalanta, when through craft he her out ran. 
 
 Here also sprong that goodly golden fruit. 
 With whicli Aeontius got his lover trew, 
 Whom ho had long time souglit with fruitlcsse 
 
 suit ; 
 Here eke that famous golden apple grew. 
 The wliieh enicmgest tlie gods false Ate threw ; 
 For which th' Tdsean Ladies disagreed. 
 Till partiall Paris denipt' it Venus dew. 
 And had of her fayre Helen for liis meed, 
 That many nijble Greekes and Troians made to 
 
 bleed. 
 
 Tlie warUke Elfe much wondred at this tree. 
 So fayre and great, that shadowed all the 
 
 ground ; 
 And liis broad braunches, laden with rich fee,' 
 Did stretch themselves without the utmost 
 
 bound 
 
 fr 
 
 > Elmny. 
 
 2 Hemlock. 
 
 8 (.Bd niiii, Fv.) fair friend. 
 
 * Overspread. 
 
 ^ Woo, or enjoy. 
 
 8 Oeenied, adjudged. 
 
 ' Property. 
 
 Of this great gardin, compast with a mound : 
 Wliieh overhanging, they themselves did steepe 
 Li a blacke flood, which flow'd about it round; 
 That is the river of Coeytus deepe. 
 In which full many soules do endlesse wayle aud 
 weepe. 
 
 Which to behold he clomb up to the bancke, 
 And, looking downe, saw many damned wightes 
 In those sad waves, which direfull deadly 
 
 stancke, 
 Plonged continually of cruell sprightes. 
 That with their piteous cryes, and yelling 
 
 shriglites,° 
 Tliey made the further shore resounden wide : 
 Euiougst the rest of those same ruefull siglitcs. 
 One cursed creature he by chauuce espide. 
 That drenched lay full deepe under the garden 
 
 side. 
 
 Deepe was he drenched to the upmost chin, 
 Yet gaped stiU, as coveting to drinke 
 Of the cold liquour which lie waded in ; 
 And, stretching forth his hand, did often 
 
 thinke 
 To reach the fruit which grew upon the brineke ; 
 But both the fruit from hand, and flood from 
 
 mouth. 
 Did fly abacke, and made him vaincly swiuekc; ' 
 The whiles he sterv'd with hunger, and with 
 
 drouth 
 He daily dyde, yet never throughly* dyen couth.' 
 
 The Knight, him seeing labour so in vaine, 
 Askt who he was, and what he ineiit thereby ? 
 Who, groning deepe, thus answered him againe : 
 " Most cursed of all creatures under skye, 
 Lo Tantalus, I here tormented lye ! 
 Of whom high love wont whylome' feasted bee ; 
 Lo, here I now for want of food doe dye ! 
 But, if that thou be such as I thee sec. 
 Of grace I pray thee give to eat and driuke to 
 nice ! " 
 
 " Nay, nay, thou greedy Tantalus," quoth he, 
 " Abide the fortune of thy present fate ; 
 And, unto all that live in high degree, 
 Ensample be of mind inteniiierate. 
 To teach them how to use their present state." 
 Then gan the cursed wretch alowd to cry. 
 Accusing highest love and gods ingrate ; 
 And eke blaspheming heaven bitterly. 
 As autliour of uniustice, there to let liim dye. 
 
 He lookt a Utie further, and espyde 
 
 Another wretch, whose carcas deepe was drent' 
 
 1 T!v. 
 
 * Tliorouglily. 
 
 " t-'ornic 
 
 Iv 
 
 ! ShrieliS. 
 
 ■> Could. 
 
 ' Drenel 
 
 ed 
 
 8 Labor. 
 
 
 
 
 -^ 
 
a-^- 
 
 GUYON GUAEDED BY AN ANGEL. 
 
 45 
 
 ■fo 
 
 Within tlie river which the same did hyde : 
 But botli his liandes, most filthy feculent, 
 Aljovc tlie water were on high extent,' 
 And faynd- to wash themselves incessantly, 
 Yet uotliing cleaner were for such intent, 
 But rather fowler seemed to the eye ; 
 So lost his labour vaine and ydle industry. 
 
 The Knight, him calling, asked who he was ? 
 Who, lilting up liis head, him answerd thus : 
 " I Pilate am, the falsest iudge, alas ! 
 And most luiiust ; that, by unrighteous 
 And wicked doome, to lewes despiteous^ 
 Delivered up the Lord of Life to dye, 
 And did acquite a murdrer felonous ; 
 The whiles my handes I washt in purity,' 
 Tlie whiles my soule was soyld with fowle in- 
 iquity." 
 
 Infinite moe° tormented in like paine 
 He there beheld, too long here to be told : 
 Ne Mammon would there let liim long remayne, 
 For terrour of the tortures manifold, 
 Li which the damned soules he did behold. 
 But roughly him bespake : " Tliou fearefuU foole, 
 Wiiy takest not of that same fruite of gold ? 
 Ne sittest downe on that same silver stoole. 
 To rest tiiy weary person in the shadow coole ? " 
 
 All which he did to do him deadly fall 
 
 In frayle interaperaunce through sinfull bayt ; 
 
 To wliicli if he inclyned had at aU, 
 
 That dreadt'uU feend, which did behmde him 
 
 wayt, 
 Would him have rent in thousand peeces strayt : 
 But he was wary wise in all his way. 
 And well perceived his deceiptfuU sleight, 
 Nc sulfred lust" his safety to betray : 
 So goodly did beguile the guyler of his pray. 
 
 And now lie has so long remained theare. 
 That vitall powres gan wexe both weake and 
 
 wan 
 For want of food and sleepe, which two up- 
 
 beare. 
 Like mightie piUours, this frayle Ufe of man, 
 That nniie without the same enduren can : 
 For now three dayes of men were fuU out- 
 wrought. 
 Since he this hardy enterprize began : 
 Forthy ' great Mammon fayrely he besought 
 Into the world to guyde him backe, as he him 
 brought. 
 
 The God, though loth, yet was constraynd 
 
 t' obay ; 
 For lenger time then that, no living wight 
 
 fr 
 
 ^ Raised. 
 
 2 PrL-tcnded, scemed- 
 
 3 Malirions. 
 
 * 111 puu* water. 
 
 E More. 
 
 6 Desire (of gold), 
 
 ' Therefoi-e. 
 
 Below the earth might suifred be to stay : 
 So backe agaiue him brought to living light. 
 But all so soone as his enfeebled spright 
 Gan sueke this vitall ayre into his lirest. 
 As overcome with too exceeding might. 
 The life did flit away out of her nest. 
 And all his sences were with deadly fit opprest. 
 T/ie Faerie Qiieeiie, Book II. Canto 7. 
 
 GUYON GUARDED BY AN ANGEL. 
 
 And is there care in heaven? And is there 
 
 love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures bace, 
 That may compassion of their evilles move ? 
 There is : — else much more wretched were 
 
 the cace 
 Of men then beasts. But tli' exceeding 
 
 grace 
 Of Highest God, that loves his creatures so. 
 And all his workes with mercy doth embrace. 
 That blessed Angels he sends to and fro, 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve iiis wicked 
 
 foe! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
 To come to succour us that succour want ! 
 How oft do they with golden pineons cleave 
 The flitting' skyes, like flying pursuivant. 
 Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant ! 
 Tiiey for us fight, they watch and dewly ward. 
 And their bright squadrons round about us 
 
 plant ; 
 And all for love and nothing for reward : 
 0, why should hevenly God to men have such 
 
 regard ! 
 
 During the while that Guyon did abide 
 
 In Mamoiis house, the Palmer, whom why- 
 
 leare - 
 That wanton Mayd of passage had deiiide. 
 By further search had passage found else- 
 
 wliere ; 
 And, being on his way, approched neare 
 Where Guyon lay in traunce ; when suddeinly 
 He heard a voyce that called lowd and cleare, 
 " Come liether, hethcr, O come hastily ! " 
 That all the fields resounded with the ruefuU cry. 
 
 The Palmer lent his eare unto the noyce. 
 To weet who called so impdrtunely : 
 AgaLiie he heard a more efforced voyce, 
 That bad him come in haste. He by and by" 
 His feeble feet directed to the cry ; 
 Which to that shady delve* him brought at last. 
 Where Mammon earst did sunne his threasury : 
 
 Yielding. 
 ■ X little while Infoi-e 
 
 3 Tliniicdintrlv. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 46' 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 There tlie good Guyon he found slunibriug fast. 
 In senceles dreame ; which sight at first him sore 
 aghast.' 
 
 Beside his head there satt a faire young man, 
 Of wondrous beauty and of freshest yeares, 
 Wiiose tender bud to blossome new began, 
 And fiorisli faire above liis equall peares : 
 His snowy front, curled with golden heares. 
 Like Phnebus face adornd with sunny rayes. 
 Divinely shone ; and two sharpe winged sheares, 
 Decked witli diverse plumes, like painted iayes, 
 Were fixed at his baeke to cut his ayery wayes. 
 
 Like as Cupido on Ida;au hill, 
 When having laid his cruell bow away 
 And mortall arrowes, wherewith he doth fill 
 The world with murdrous spoiles and bloody 
 
 pray, 
 With his faire mother he him dights' to play, 
 And with his goodly sisters, Graces three ; 
 The goddesse, pleased with his wanton play. 
 Suffers herselfe through sleepe beguild to bee. 
 The whiles the other ladies mind theyr mery glee. 
 
 Whom when the Palmer saw, abasht he was 
 Through fear and wonder, that he nought 
 
 could say, 
 Till him the childe bespoke : " Long lackt, 
 
 alas ! 
 Hath bene thy faitlifull aide in hard assay,' 
 WhilKs deadly fitt thy pupiU doth dismay. 
 Behold tills heavy sight, thou reverend Sire ! 
 But dread of death and doku'* doe away ; 
 Por life ere long shall to her home retire, 
 And he, that breathlesse seems, shal corage bold 
 
 respire. 
 
 " The charge, which God doth unto me arrett,' 
 Of his deare safety, I to thee commend ; 
 Yet will I not forgoe, ne yet forgett 
 Tlie care thereof myselfe unto the end, 
 But evermore him succour, and defend 
 Against his foe and mine. Watch thou, I pray ; 
 Por evill is at iiand him to offend." 
 So having said, eftsoones he gan display 
 His painted nimble wings, and vanishtquite away. 
 The Faerin Queeae, Book II. Canto 7- 
 
 IMPERSONATIONS OF IMAGINATION, EEASON, 
 AND MEMORY, 
 
 The first of them could things to come foresee; 
 The next coiJd of thingcs ]iresent best advize ; 
 The tliird things past could kecpe in memoree ; 
 So that no time nor reason could ari/.o. 
 But that the same could one of these comprize. 
 
 c Appoint, 
 
 fr 
 
 Tc-n-ificd. 
 Prcpart-s. 
 
 » Trinl. 
 • Giirf. 
 
 Portliy' the first did in the forepart sit. 
 That nought mote hinder liis quicke prciudize;- 
 He had a sharpe foresight and working wit 
 That never idle was, ne once would rest a whit. 
 
 His chamber was dispainted all within 
 '\^'ith sondry colours, in the which were writ 
 Infinite shapes of tliinges dispersed thin ; 
 Some such as in the world were never yit, 
 Ne can devized be of mortall wit ; 
 Some daily scene and knoweu by their names, 
 Snch as in idle fantasies doe flit ; 
 Infernall hags, centaurs, feendes, hippodames,' 
 Apes, lyons, aegles, owles, fooles, lovers, chil- 
 dren, dames. 
 
 And all the chamber filled was with flyes. 
 Which buzzed all about, and made such sound 
 That they encombred all mens cares and eyes ; 
 Like many swarmes of bees assembled round, 
 After their hives with honny do abound. 
 All those were idle thoughtes and fantasies, 
 Devices, dreames, opinions unsound, 
 Shewes, visions, sooth-sayes, and prophesies ; 
 And all that fained is, as leasiugs, tales, and Ues. 
 
 Emongst them all sate he whieli wonned' there. 
 That hight Phantastes by liis nature trew ; 
 A man of yeares yet fresh, as mote appere. 
 Of swarth complexion, and of crabbed hew, 
 Tliat him full of mclanclioly did shew ; 
 Bent hollow beetle browes, sharpe staring eyes, 
 That mad or foolish secmd : one by his vew 
 Mote dccme him borne with ill-disposed skyes, 
 When oblique' Saturne sate in the house of 
 agonyes. 
 
 Whom Alma having shewed to her guestes 
 Thence brought them to the second rowme, 
 
 whose wals 
 Were painted faire with memorable gestes* 
 Of famous wisards ; and with picturals 
 Of magistrates, of courts, of tribunals. 
 Of eommen-wealthes, of states, of polliey. 
 Of lawes, of iudgementes. and of deerctids, 
 All artes, all science, all philosophy. 
 And all that in the world was ay thought wittily.' 
 
 Of those that rowme was fuU; and tliem among 
 There sate a man of ripe and jierfect age, 
 AVho did them mrdit,ate all his life long. 
 That through eontinuall practise and usage 
 He now was growne right wise and wondrous 
 
 sage : 
 Great jilesurc had those st raunger kniglites to see 
 His goodly reason and grave personage, 
 
 1 Tlirri'fnve. 
 
 Uiipmi 
 
 itious 
 
 2 I'mi'siirlit. 
 
 " Drnh. 
 
 
 3 IIJM r-liorscs (li'ppopotiinnisr's^ 
 
 ' Wisi-iv 
 
 
 ' IHivIt, 
 
 
 
 -^ 
 
a-^- 
 
 THE BOWER OF BLISS. 
 
 47 
 
 -Q) 
 
 That his disciples both desyrd to bee : 
 But Alma tlience them led to th' hindmost rownie 
 of three. 
 
 That chamber seemed rviinous and old, 
 And therefore was removed far behind, 
 Yet were the wals, that did the same uphold. 
 Right firme and strong, though somwhat they 
 
 declind; ' 
 And therein sat an old, old man, halfe blind, 
 And all decrepit in his feeble corse, 
 Yet lively vigour rested in his mind, 
 And recompenst him with a better scorse : ^ 
 Weake body well is chang'd for minds redoubled 
 
 forse. 
 
 This man of infinite remembraunce was. 
 And things foregone through many ages held, 
 Which he recorded still as they did pas, 
 Ne suffred them to jierish through long eld,' 
 As all things els the which this world doth 
 
 weld;* 
 But laid them up in liis immortall serine,^ 
 Where they for ever incorrupted dweld : 
 The warres he well remembred of King Nine, 
 Of old Assaracus, and Inachus divine. 
 
 The yeares of Nestor nothing were to his, 
 Ne yet Mathusalem, though longest liv'd ; 
 For he remembred both their infancis : 
 Ne wonder then if that he were depriv'd 
 Of native strength now that' he them sur\iv'd. 
 His chamber all was hangd about with rolls 
 And old records from auucient times derivd, 
 Some made in books, some in long parchment 
 scrolls. 
 That were all worm-eaten and full of canker holes. 
 
 Amidst them all he in a chaire was sett. 
 Tossing and turning them withouten end ; 
 But for he was unliable them to fett,° 
 A litle boy did on him still attend 
 To reach, whenever he for ought did send : 
 And oft when thinges were lost, or laid amis, 
 That boy them sought and unto him did lend;' 
 Therefore he Anamnestes cleped is ; 
 And that old man Eumnestes, by their propertis. 
 The Faerie Qiieeae, Book II. Cauto 9. 
 
 THE BOWER OF BLISS. 
 
 There the most daintie paradise on ground 
 Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye, 
 In wliich all pleasures plenteously abownd, 
 And none does others happinesse envye ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 * From the perpendicular. 
 
 2 Exchange. 
 
 3 Agp. 
 
 < Control. 
 
 5 Desk. 
 
 6 Fetch. 
 
 7 Hand, reach. 
 
 The painted tiowres ; the trees upshooting hye ; 
 The dales for shade ; the hilles for breathing 
 
 space ; 
 The trembling groves ; the christall miming 
 
 by; 
 And, that which all faire workes doth most 
 
 aggrace. 
 The art, wlrich all that wrought, appeared in no 
 
 place. 
 
 One would have thought, (so cunningly the 
 
 rude 
 And scorned partes were mingled with the 
 
 fine,) 
 That Nature had for wantonesse ensudc^ 
 Art, and that Art at Nature did re]nne ; 
 So striving each th' other to undermine. 
 Each did the others worke more beautify ; 
 So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine ;' 
 So all agreed, through sweete divei-sity, 
 This gardin to adorne with all variety. 
 
 And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, 
 Of richest substance that on earth might bee, 
 So pure and shiny that the silver flood 
 Through every chanuell running one might 
 
 see; 
 Most goodly it with curious ymageree 
 Was over- wrought, and shapes of naked boj'es. 
 Of which some seemd with lively ioUitee 
 To fly about playing their wanton toyes, 
 Why lest others did themselves embay' in liquid 
 
 ioyes. 
 
 And over all of purest gold was spred 
 A trayle of yvie in his native hew ; 
 For the rich metall was so coloured, 
 That wight, who did not well avis'd it vew, 
 Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew : 
 Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe. 
 That, themselves dipping in the silver dew. 
 Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe. 
 Which drops of christall seemd for wantones to 
 weep. 
 
 Inflnit streames continually did well 
 
 Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see, 
 
 The which into an ample laver fell. 
 
 And shortly grew to so great quantitie, 
 
 That like a litle lake it seemd to bee ; 
 
 Whose depth exceeded not three cubits bight, 
 
 That through the waves one might the bottom 
 
 see, 
 All pav'd beneath with iaspar shining bright. 
 That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle 
 
 upright. 
 
 ^ Give grace to. 
 
 2 Followed, or imitated. 
 
 ■■' In the end. 
 • Batlie. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 48 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Eftsooiies they heard a most melodious sound, 
 Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, 
 Sucli as attonce might not on living ground, 
 S.ivc in tiiis paradise, be heard elswliere : 
 Kight hard it was for wight which did it heare. 
 To read' wliat manner musicke that mote bee ; 
 For all that pleasing is to Hving eare 
 IV'as there consorted in one harmonee ; 
 Birdcs, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all 
 agree : 
 
 The ioyous birdcs, shrouded inchearefull shade, 
 Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet ; 
 Th' angelicall soft trembling voyees made 
 To th' instruments divine respondenee meet; 
 Tlie silver-sounding instruments did meet 
 With the base murmure of the waters fall ; 
 The waters fall, with difference discreet, 
 Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; 
 The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. 
 TAe Faerie Q/ieeiie, Book II. Canto 12. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF FLOKIMELL. 
 
 All suddenly out of the thickest brush, 
 Upon a milk-white palfrey all alone, 
 A goodly Lady did foreby" them rush. 
 Whose face did seeme as cleare as christall 
 
 stone. 
 And eke, through feare, as white as whales 
 
 bone : 
 Her garments all were wrought of beaten gold, 
 And all her steed with tinsell trappings shone, 
 Wliicli flcdd so fast that nothing mote him hold. 
 And scarse them leasure gave her passing to be- 
 hold. 
 
 Still as slie fledd iier eye she backward threw. 
 As fearing cvill that poursewd her fast; 
 And her faire yellow locks behind her flew. 
 Loosely disperst with puff of every blast : 
 All as a blazing starre doth farre outcast 
 His hcaric' beanies, and flaming loekes dis- 
 
 prcdd, 
 At sight wlicreof the people stand aghast ; 
 But tlie sage wisard telles, as he has redd. 
 That it importunes* death and dolefull drery- 
 
 hcdd.' 
 
 The Faerie Qiieene, Book III. Canto 1. 
 
 FROM THE MASQUE OF CUPID. 
 
 After all these there niarcht a most faire 
 
 Dame, 
 Led of two grysie* villeins, th' one Despight, 
 
 I 
 
 1 roncciv'c. ^ Ilniry. ^ Son-ow. 
 
 2 liy. * Portenils. 
 
 6 Sqnnliil. Prolmlily a misprint for grijsVn'. 
 
 The other cleped Cruelty by name : 
 She dolefull lady, like a dreary spright 
 Cald by strong charmes out of eternall niglit. 
 Had deathes owne yniage figurd in her face. 
 Full of sad signes, fearfuU to living sight ; 
 Yet in that horror shewd a seemcly grace. 
 And with her feeble feete did move a comely 
 pace. 
 
 Her brest all naked, as nett' yvory 
 Without adorne of gold or silver bright 
 Wherewith the craftesman wonts it beautify. 
 Of her dew honour was despoyled quight ; 
 And a wide wound therein ((J rucfidl sight !) 
 Entrenched deep with knyfc accursed keene, 
 Yet freshly bleeding forth her fainting spright, 
 (The worke of eruell hand) was to be scene, 
 That dyde in sanguine red her skin all snowy 
 cleene : 
 
 At that wide orifice her trembling hart 
 Was drawne forth, and in silver basin layd. 
 Quite through transfixed with a deadly dart. 
 And in her blood yet steemiiig fresh embayd." 
 And those two villeins which her ste])s npstayd, 
 Wlien her weake feete could scarcely her sus- 
 
 taine. 
 And fading vitall powres gan to fade. 
 Her forward stdl with torture did constraine. 
 And evermore encreased her consuming paine. 
 
 Next after her, the Winged God himselfc 
 Came riding on a lion ravenous. 
 Taught to obay the menage of that elfe 
 That man and beast with powre imperious 
 Subdeweth to his kingdome tyrannous : 
 His blindfold eies he bad awhile unbinde, 
 That his proud spoile of that same dolorous 
 Faii'e dame he might behold in perfect kinde : ' 
 Wliich scene, he much reioyced in his eruell 
 minde. 
 
 Of which ful prowd, himselfe uprearing liye, 
 He looked round about with sterne disdayne, 
 And did survay his goodly company ; 
 And, marshalling the eviU-ordered trayne, 
 With that the darts which his right hand did 
 
 straine 
 Full dreadfully he shooke, that all did quake, 
 And clapt on hye his eouhnird wingcs twaine, 
 Tliat all his many' it affraide did make: 
 Tho, blinding him againe, his way he forth did 
 
 take. 
 
 Bchinde him was Reprocb, Repentaunce, 
 Shame ; 
 
 Rcproeh the first, Shame next. Repent bc- 
 hinde : 
 
 1 Pure. 
 ■- Hill hod. 
 
 s With perfect distinctness. 
 « C..rii|i!iriv. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE GRACES AND THE POET'S MISTRESS. 
 
 49 
 
 -^ 
 
 Repeutaunce feeble, sorowfull, aud lame ; 
 Reprocli despightful, carelesse, aud uiikinde ; 
 Shame most ill-favourd, bestiall, and blinde : 
 Shame lo-nrd, Repeutaunce sigh'd, Reproch 
 
 did scould ; 
 Reproch sharpe stiiigs, Repentaunce whips 
 
 eiitwiiide, 
 Shame burning brond-yrons in her hand did 
 
 hold : 
 All three to each unlike, yet all made in one 
 
 mould. 
 
 And after them a rude confused rout 
 
 Of persons flockt, -whose names is hard to 
 
 read ; ' 
 Emongst them was steme Strife ; and Anger 
 
 stout ; 
 Unquiet Care ; and fond' Unthrifty head ; 
 Lewd Losse of Time ; and Sorrow seennng 
 
 dead ; 
 Inconstant Chaunge ; and false Disloyalty ; 
 Consuming Riotise ; and guilty Dread 
 Of heavenly vengeaunce; faint Infirmity; 
 Vile Poverty ; and, lastly. Death with infamy. 
 
 There were full many moe like maladies, 
 Whose names and natures I note' readen well ; 
 So many moe, as there be phantasies 
 In wavering wemens mtt, that none can tell, 
 Or paines in love, or punishments in hell : 
 All which disguized mareht in masking-wise 
 About the chamber by the Damozell ; 
 Aud then returned, having marched thrise, 
 Into the inner rowme from whence they first did 
 rise.* 
 
 The Faerie Qiieene, Book III. Canto 12. 
 
 COMBAT OF BLANDAMOUR AND PAKIBELL. 
 
 Their firie steedes with so untamed forse 
 Did bcare them both to fell avenges end. 
 That both their speares with pitilesse re- 
 morse 
 Through shield and mayle and haberieon^ did 
 
 wend. 
 And in their flesh a griesly passage rend, 
 Tliat with the furie of their owne affret" 
 Each other horse and man to ground did send ; 
 Where, lying still awhile, both did forget 
 Tlie perilous present stownd' in which their lives 
 were set. 
 
 As when two warlike brigandines at sea, 
 With murdrous weapons arm'd to cruell fight. 
 Doe nieete together on the watry lea, 
 They stemme" ech other with so fell despight, 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 Tell. 
 
 * Come forth. 
 
 ' Situation. 
 
 2 Foolish. 
 
 8 Coat of mail. 
 
 8 Run against 
 
 3 Cannot. 
 
 6 Encounter. 
 
 
 That with the shocke of their owne heedlesse 
 
 might 
 Their wooden ribs are shaken nigh asonder ; 
 They wliich from shore behold the dreadful! 
 
 sight 
 Of flasliing fire, and heare the ordenance thon- 
 
 der, 
 Do greatly stand amaz'd at such unwonted wonder. 
 
 At length they both upstarted in amaze. 
 As men awaked rashly out of drenie. 
 And round about themselves a while did gaze ; 
 Till, seeing her that Elorimell did seme. 
 In doubt to whom she victorie should decme,' 
 Therewith their dulled sprightsthayedgd anew, 
 Aud, drawing both their swords with rage ex- 
 treme, 
 Like two mad mastiffes each on other flew. 
 And shields did share," and mailes did rash,' and 
 helmes did hew. 
 
 So furiously each other did assayle, 
 
 As if their soules they would attonce have rent 
 
 Out of their brests, that streames of bloud did 
 
 rayle' 
 Adowne, as if their springs of life were spent ; 
 Tiiat all the ground with purple bloud was 
 
 sprent,' 
 And all their armom's staynd with bloudie gore ; 
 Yet scarcely once to breath would they relent, 
 So mortall was their mahee and so sore 
 Become, of fayned friendship which they vow'd 
 
 afore. 
 
 The Faerie Qneene, Book IV. Canto 2. 
 
 THE GRACES AND THE POET'S MISTRESS. 
 
 Such was the beauty of this goodly band, 
 Wliose sundry parts were here too long to tell : 
 But she, that in the midst of them did stand, 
 Seem'd all the rest in beauty to excell, 
 Crownd with a rosie girlond that right well 
 Did her beseeme : and ever, as the crew 
 About her daunst, sweet flowres, that far did 
 
 smell. 
 And fragrant odours they uppon her threw ; 
 But, most of all, those Three did her with gifts 
 
 endew. 
 
 Those were the Graces, daughters of delight, 
 Haudmaides of Venus, which are wont to haunt 
 Uppon this hill, and daunce there day and 
 
 night. 
 Those three to men all gifts of grace do graunt ; 
 And all that Venus in herselfe doth vaunt 
 Is borrowed of them : but that faire one, 
 Tiiat in the midst was placed paravaunt," 
 
 * Adjudge. 
 ^ Shear, cut 
 
 s Slash. 
 * Flow. 
 
 s Sprinkled. 
 » In front. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 50 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Was she to whom that Shepheard pypt alone ; 
 That made him pipe so merrily, as never none. 
 
 She was, to weete, that iolly Shepheards lasse. 
 Which piped there unto ttiat merry rout ; 
 That iolly Shepheard which there piped was 
 Poore CoUn Clout. (Who knowes not Cohn 
 
 Clout?) 
 He pypt apace, wliilcst they him daunst about. 
 Pype, iolly shepheard, pype thou now apace 
 Unto thy Love, that made thee low to lout;^ 
 Thy Love is present there with thee in place ; 
 Thy Love is there advaunst to be auother Grace. 
 The Faerie Qiteene, Book VI. Canto 10. 
 
 EPITHAIAMION. 
 
 Ye learned Sisters, which have oftentimes 
 Beene to me aydiug, others to adorne 
 Whom ye thought worthy of yourgracefull rymes, 
 That even the greatest did not greatly scorne 
 To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, 
 But ioyed in theyr praise, 
 And when ye Ust your own mishaps to mourne, 
 "Which death, or love, or fortunes ^vl•eck did rayse. 
 Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, 
 And teach the woods and waters to lament 
 Your dolefuU drcriment, 
 Kow lay those sorrowfuU complaints aside. 
 And having all your heads with girlauds orownd, 
 Helpe me mine owne Loves prayses to resound : 
 Ne let the same of any be envide : 
 So Orpheus did for his owne bride ; 
 So I unto my selfe alone will sing ; 
 The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho 
 ring. 
 
 Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe 
 
 His golden beame upon the hUs doth spred, 
 
 Having disperst the nights unchearfuU dampe, 
 
 Doe ye awake, and, with fresh lustyhed. 
 
 Go to the bowre of my beloved Love, 
 
 My truest turtle dove. 
 
 Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake. 
 
 And long since ready forth liis maske to move, 
 
 With liis bright tead" that flames with many a 
 
 flake. 
 And many a bachelor to waite on him, 
 In theyr fresh garments trim. 
 Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,' 
 For loe ! the wished day is come at last, 
 Tiiat shall for all the payiies and sorrowes past 
 Pay to her usury of long deliglit : 
 And whylcst she doth her diglit. 
 Doe ye to her of ioy and solace sing, 
 That all the woods may answer, and your eccho 
 
 ring. 
 
 ^ 
 
 2 Torrh. 
 
 5 Deck. 
 
 Bring with you all the nymphes that you can heare, 
 Both of the rivers and the forrests greene. 
 And of the sea that neighbours to her neare. 
 All with gay girlauds goodly wel beseene.' 
 And let them also with them bring in hand 
 Another gay girland. 
 
 For my fayre Love, of Idlyes and of roses, 
 Bound truelove wize with a blew silke riband. 
 And let them make great store of bridale poses, 
 Ajid let them eke bring store of other flowers. 
 To deck the bridale bowers : 
 And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, 
 For feare the stones her tender foot shoidd wrong. 
 Be strewd with fragrant flowers all along. 
 And diapred- lyke the discolored mead. 
 Wliich done, doe at her chamber dore awayt. 
 For she will waken strayt ; 
 The whiles do ye this song unto her sing. 
 The woods shall to you answer, and your eccho 
 ring. 
 
 Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefuU heed 
 
 The silver scaly trouts do tend full well. 
 
 And greedy pikes which use therein to feed, 
 
 (Those trouts and pikes all others doe exceU,) 
 
 And ye hke"nise which kecpe the rushy lake, 
 
 Wliere none doo fishes take, 
 
 Bynd up the locks the wliich hang scatterd hght, 
 
 And in his waters, which your mirror make, 
 
 Behold your faces as the christall bright, 
 
 That when you come whereas my Lore doth he, 
 
 No blemish she may spie. 
 
 And eke, ye lightfoot mayds which kecpe the dere 
 
 That on the hoary mountayne use to towre, 
 
 And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to de- 
 
 voure. 
 With your Steele darts doe chace from coming 
 
 neer. 
 Be also present heere. 
 To helpe to dccke her, and to help to sing, 
 That all the woods may answer, and your eccho 
 
 ring. 
 
 Wake now, my Love, awake ! for it is time : 
 The rosy Morne long since left Tithons bed, 
 AH ready to her silver coche to clyme. 
 And Phrcbus gins to shew his glorious hcd. 
 Hark ! how the eheerefull birds do chaunt theyr 
 
 laies. 
 And carroU of Loves praise : 
 The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft ; 
 The thrush rcplycs ; the mavis' descant' playes; 
 The ouzelP shrills; the ruddock" warbles soft; 
 So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 
 To this dayes meriment. 
 
 Ah ! my decre Love, why doe ye slecpe thus long. 
 When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
 
 1 Adorned. 
 
 2 Varie-iatcd. 
 
 s Song-tlinisli. 
 * Variation. 
 
 ^ Khckliird. 
 " Redln-cnst. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 EPITHALAMION. 
 
 51 
 
 -Q) 
 
 T' awayt the comming of your ioyous make,' 
 And hearken to the birds love-learned song, 
 The deawy leaves among ! 
 For they of ioy and pleasanee to you sing, 
 That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho 
 ring. 
 
 My love is now awake out of her dreame, 
 
 And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were 
 
 Witli darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly 
 
 beams 
 More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. 
 Come now, ye damzels, daughters of deUght, 
 Helpo quickly her to dight. 
 But first come, ye fayre Houres, wliich were begot, 
 In loves sweet paradiee, of Day and Night, 
 AV'liich doe the seasons of the year aUot, 
 And all that ever in this world is fayre 
 Do make and still repayre : 
 And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, 
 The which doe still acloni her beauties pride, 
 Helpe to adorne my beautifuUest bride : 
 And, as ye her array, stUl throw betweene 
 Some graces to be scene ; 
 And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing. 
 The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho 
 
 Now is my Love all ready forth to come : 
 
 Let all the Wrgius therefore well awayt. 
 
 And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groonie. 
 
 Prepare your selves, for he is comming-strayt. 
 
 Set all your things in seemely good aray. 
 
 Fit for so ioyfuU day. 
 
 The ioyfidst day that ever smme did see. 
 
 Fair Sun ! shew forth thy favourable ray, 
 
 And let thy KfulP heat not fervent be, 
 
 For feare of burning her suushyny face, 
 
 Her beauty to disgrace. 
 
 O fayrest Phoebus ! Father of the Muse ! 
 
 If ever I did honour thee aright, 
 
 (^)i- sing the tiling that mote thy mind delight. 
 
 Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse. 
 
 But let this day, let this one day, be mine ; 
 
 Let all tlie rest be thine. 
 
 Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, 
 
 That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho 
 
 TIarke ! how the minstrils gin to shriU aloud 
 Their merry musick that resomids from far. 
 The pipe, the tabor, and the trembUng croud,' 
 That well agree withouten breach or iar. 
 But most of all the damzels doe deUte, 
 When they their tymbrels smyte. 
 And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet. 
 That all the senoes they doe ravish quite ; 
 
 fr 
 
 2 Life-full. 
 
 3 Violin. 
 
 The why les the boyes run up and downe the street, 
 
 Crying aloud with strong confused noyoe, 
 
 As if it were one voyce, 
 
 " Hymen, 16 Hymen, Hymen," they do shout; 
 
 That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill 
 
 Doth reach, and all the firmament doth flU ; 
 
 To which the people, standing all about. 
 
 As in approvanee, doe thereto applaud, 
 
 And loud advaunce her laud ; 
 
 And evermore they " Hymen, Hymen," sing. 
 
 That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho 
 
 Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace, 
 
 Lyke Phccbe, from her chamber of the East, 
 
 Arysing forth to run her mighty race. 
 
 Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 
 
 So well it her beseems, that ye would weene 
 
 Some angell she had beene. 
 
 Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, 
 
 Sprinokled with perle, and perhng flowres atweene. 
 
 Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre. 
 
 And, being crowned with a girlaud greene, 
 
 Seem lyke some mayden queene. 
 
 Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
 
 So many gazers as on her do stare. 
 
 Upon the lowly ground affixed are, 
 
 Ne dai'C lift up her countenance too bold, 
 
 But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, — 
 
 So farre from being proud. 
 
 Natldesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, 
 
 That all the woods may answer, and your eccho 
 
 Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see 
 So fayre a creature' in your towne before ; 
 So sweet, so lovely, and so mUd as she, 
 Adomd with beautyes grace and vertues store ? 
 Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright. 
 Her forehead yvory white. 
 Her cheekes lyke apples which the sim hath 
 
 rudded, 
 Her lips lyke cherries, charming men to b^^-ie. 
 Her brest like to a bowl of ereame uncrudded,' 
 Her paps lyke lylhes budded. 
 Her snowie neoke lyke to a marble towre. 
 And all her body like a pallace fayre. 
 Ascending up, with many a stately stayre, 
 To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. 
 Why stand ye still, ye \-irguis, in amaze. 
 Upon her so to gaze, 
 "Wiiiles ye forget your former lay to sing, 
 To which the woods did answer, and your eccho 
 
 But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
 The inward beauty of her lively spright, 
 
 1 Uncurdled. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 SPENSEE. 
 
 —^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Gax'iiisht with heavenly guifts of high degree, 
 
 Much more then ■would ye wonder at that sight, 
 
 And stand astouisht lyke to those which red' 
 
 Mednsaes mazeful hed. 
 
 There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chastity, 
 
 Unspotted Fayth, and Comely Womaidiood, 
 
 Regard of Honour, and mUd Modesty ; 
 
 There Vertue raynes as queene iu royal throne. 
 
 And giveth lawes alone, 
 
 The which the base afTeetions doe obay. 
 
 And yeeld theyr services unto her will ; 
 
 Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
 
 Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. 
 
 Had ye once scene these her celestial threasurcs. 
 
 And unrevealed pleasures, 
 
 Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing. 
 
 That all the woods should answer, and your eccho 
 
 Open the temple gates unto my Love, 
 Open them wide that she may enter in, 
 And all the postes adorue as doth behove, 
 And all the pillours deck with girlands trim, 
 For to receyve this saynt with honom- dew. 
 That commeth in to you. 
 With trembling steps and humble reverence. 
 She commeth in before th' Almighties view : 
 Of her, ye virgins, lear-ne obedience, 
 Wien so ye come into those holy places, 
 To humble your proud faces. 
 Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
 The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
 The which do endlesse matrimony make ; 
 And let the roring organs loudly play 
 The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
 The whiles, with hollow throates. 
 The choristers the ioyous antheme sing, 
 That all the woods may answer, and their eceho 
 rmg. 
 
 Behold, wliiles she before the altar stands. 
 
 Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes 
 
 And blesseth her with liis two happy hands, 
 
 How the red roses flush up in her eheekes. 
 
 And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne. 
 
 Like orimsin dyde in grayne : 
 
 That even the angels, which continually 
 
 About the sacred altar doe remaine. 
 
 Forget their service and about her fly, 
 
 Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre 
 
 The more they on it stare. 
 
 But her sad' eyes, still fastened on the ground. 
 
 Are governed with goodly modesty. 
 
 That suffers not one look to glauuce awry, 
 
 ^^Hiich may let in a little thought unsownd. 
 
 Why blush ye, Love, to give to me your hand. 
 
 The pledge of all our band ? 
 
 Saw. * Serious. 
 
 Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluya sing. 
 
 That all the woods may answer, and your eccho 
 
 Now al is done ; bring home the bride agame ; 
 Bring home the triumph of our victory ; 
 Bring home with you the glory of her gaiue. 
 With ioyance bring her and with ioUity. 
 Never had man more ioyfuU day than this, 
 Wiom heaven would lieape with blis. 
 Make feast therefore now all this live-long day ; 
 Tins day for ever to me holy is. 
 Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, 
 Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, 
 Poure out to aU that wuU,' 
 And sprinkle all the posts and wals with wine. 
 That they may sweat, and dnmkcn be withall. 
 Crowne ye god Bacchus wdth a coronal]. 
 And Hymen also crowne with wreaths of vme ; 
 And let the Graces daunce unto the rest. 
 For they can doo it best : 
 The whiles the maydens doe theyr caiToU sing, 
 To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho 
 ring. 
 
 Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towiie, 
 And leave your wonted labors for this day. 
 This day is holy ; doe ye write it downe, 
 That ye for ever it remember may. 
 This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, 
 With Barnaby the bright. 
 From whence dechuiug daily by degrees. 
 He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, 
 When once the Crab behind his back he sees. 
 But for this time it ill ordained was. 
 To choose the longest day in all the yeare. 
 And shortest night, when longest fitter weare : 
 Yet never day so long, but late would passe. 
 Ring ye the bels to make it weare away, 
 And bouefiers make all day ; 
 Ami daunee about them, and about them sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and your eccho 
 ring. 
 
 Ah ! when will this long weary day have end. 
 And lende me leave to come unto my Love ? 
 How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend ? 
 How slowly docs sad Time his feathers move? 
 Hast thee, fayrest planet, to thy home, 
 Within the Westerne fomc : 
 Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. 
 Long though it be, at last I see it gloome. 
 And the bright evening-star with golden creast 
 Appeare out of the East. 
 F.iyre childe of beauty ! glorious lampe of love ! 
 That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead. 
 And ffuidest lovers throuirh the lughts sad dread, 
 
 1 Will. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 FROM THE PROTHALAMION. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 How chearefully thou lookest from above, 
 And seemst to laugh atweene thy twiukliug light, 
 As ioyiug in the sight 
 Of these glad mauy, which for ioy do sing. 
 That all the woods them answer, and their eccho 
 ring ! 
 
 Now ceasse, ye damsels, your dehghts fore- 
 past ; 
 Enough it is that all the day was youres : 
 Now day is doen, and night is nigliing fast ; 
 Now bring the bryde mto the brydall bowres. 
 The night is come ; now soon her disaray, 
 And in her bed her lay; 
 Lay her in lUlies and in violets. 
 And silken curteins over her display. 
 And odourd sheets, and Arras coverlets. 
 Behold liow goodly my faire Love does ly, 
 In proud huraUity ! 
 
 Like unto Maia, when as love her took 
 Li Tempe, lying on the flowi-y gras, 
 Twixt slecpe and wake, after she weary was 
 With bathing in the Acidahan brooke. 
 Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone, 
 And leave my Love alone. 
 And leave Ukewise your former lay to sing: 
 The woods no more shall answer, nor your eccho 
 
 ring. 
 
 * * * 
 
 And ye liigh heavens, the temple of the gods. 
 
 In which a thousand torches flaming bright 
 
 Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods 
 
 In dreadfid darknesse lend desired hght, 
 
 And all ye powers which in the same remayne. 
 
 More than we men can fayne, 
 
 Poure out your blessing on us plentiously. 
 
 And happy influence upon us raine, 
 
 That we may raise a large posterity. 
 
 Which from the earth, which they may long pos- 
 
 scsse 
 With lasting happinesse. 
 Up to your haughty paUaces may mount. 
 And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit. 
 May heaveidy tabernacles there inlierit, 
 Of blessed saints for to increase the count. 
 So let us rest, sweet Love, in hope of this. 
 And cease till then our tyniely ioyes to sing : 
 The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho 
 
 ring! 
 
 Song, made in heu of many ornaments 
 
 With which my Love should duly have been 
 
 deet. 
 Which cutting off through hasty accidents. 
 Ye would not stay your dew time to expect. 
 But promist both to recompens, 
 Be unto her a goodly ornament. 
 And for short time an endlesse moniment ! 
 
 FROM THE PROTHALAMION, 
 
 Calsie was the day, and through the trembling 
 
 ayi-e 
 Swcete-breatliing Zephyrus did softly play 
 A gentle spirit, that hghtly did delay ' 
 Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre ; 
 When I (whom sidlein care. 
 Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay 
 In princes coui't, and expectation vayne 
 Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away 
 Like empty shadows, did afiiict my brayne) 
 Walkt forth to ease my pa^^Tie 
 Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes ; 
 Whose rutty ° bank, the which his river heuunes. 
 Was paynted all -n-ith variable flowers. 
 And all the meades adornd with dainty gemmes, 
 Fit to decke maydens bowres, 
 And crowne their paramours 
 Against the brydale day, wliich is not long ;^ 
 Sweet Themmes ! ruime softly, till I end my 
 
 song. 
 
 There, in a meadow by the rivers side, 
 A flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy, 
 All lovely daughters of the flood thereby. 
 With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde, 
 As each had bene a bryde ; 
 And each one had a little wicker basket, 
 Made of fine twigs, entrayled ' curiously. 
 In which they gathered flowers to fill their flas- 
 ket,' 
 And with fine fingers cropt fuU feateously* 
 The tehder stalkes on hye. 
 Of every sort which iu that meadow grew 
 They gathered some ; the violet, paUid blew. 
 The httle dazie, that at evening closes. 
 The virgin hUie, and the primrose trew, 
 With store of vermeil roses. 
 To deck their bridegroomes posies 
 Against the brydale day, which was not long : 
 Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my 
 song. 
 
 With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe 
 
 Come softly swimming downe along the lee : ' 
 
 Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; 
 
 The snow which doth the top of Piiidus strew 
 
 Did never whiter shew. 
 
 Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be 
 
 Por love of Leda, whiter did appear ; 
 
 Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. 
 
 Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near : 
 
 So purely white they were. 
 
 That even the gentle stream, the which them bare. 
 
 1 Allay. 
 
 E A long, slmllow basket 
 
 2 Rootv. 
 
 6 Dexterously. 
 
 s Distant. 
 
 ' Stream. 
 
 * Interwoven. 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 -5> 
 
C&- 
 
 5i 
 
 SPENSEE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Seem'd foule to them, and bad his biUowes spare 
 To wet their silken feathers, least they miglit 
 Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayi-e, 
 And marre their beauties bright. 
 That shone as heavens Ught, 
 Against their brydalo day, wliicli was not long : 
 Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my 
 song. 
 
 SPIErrUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 But ah ! beleeve ine there is more then so, 
 That workes such wonders in the minds of men ;, 
 I, that have often prov'd, too well it know. 
 And who so hst the like assayes to ken 
 Shall find by trial, and confesse it then, 
 That Beautie is not, as fond men misdeeme. 
 An outward shew of things that onely seeme. 
 
 For that same goodly hew of white and red 
 With which the cheekes are sprinckled, shall de- 
 cay, 
 And those sweete rosy leaves, so fairly spred 
 Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away 
 To that they were, even to corrupted clay : 
 That golden wy re, those sparckhng stars so bright. 
 Shall turne to dust, and lose their goodly light. 
 
 But that faire lampe, from whose celestiall ray 
 That light proceedes which kindleth lovers fire, 
 Shall never be extinguisht nor decay ; 
 But when the vitall spirits doe expyre, 
 Unto her native planet shall retyre ; 
 For it is heavenly borne, and cannot die, 
 Being a parceU of the purest skie. 
 
 For when the soule, the which derived was. 
 At first, out of that great immortaU Spright, 
 By whom all live to love, whilome did pas 
 Down from the top of purest heavens hight 
 To be embodied here, it then tooke light 
 And lively spirits from that faya-est starre 
 Which Ughts the world forth from his fine carrc. 
 
 Which powre retayning still, or more or lesse, 
 Wlien she in fleshly seede is eft' enraced,- 
 Through every part she doth the same impresse. 
 According as the heavens have her graced, 
 And frames her house, in which she will be 
 
 placed, 
 Fit for her selfe, adorning it with sjioylc 
 Of th' heavenly riches which she robd erewhyle. 
 
 Thereof it comes that these faire soules which 
 
 have 
 The most resemblance of that heavenly liglit 
 Frame to themselves most beautifull and brave 
 
 k 
 
 1 Aftcrwnrds. 
 
 2 Implanted. 
 
 Their fleshly bowre, most fit for their delight, 
 And the grosse matter by a soveraine might 
 Temper so trim, that it may well be seene 
 A pallace fit for such a virgin queene. 
 
 So every spirit, as it is most pure. 
 
 And hath in it the more of heavenly light. 
 
 So it the fairer bodie doth procure 
 
 To habit in, and it more fairely dight' 
 
 With chearfull grace and amiable sight: 
 
 For of the soule the bodie forme doth take ; 
 
 For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make. 
 
 Therefore, where-ever that thou doest behold 
 A comely corpse,^ with beautie faire endewed. 
 Know this for certaine, that the same doth hold 
 A beauteous soule with fair conditions thewed,* 
 Fit to receive the seede of vertue strewed ; 
 For all that faire is, is by nature good ; 
 That is a sign to know the gentle blood. 
 
 Hymn in Honour of Beautie. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Weake is th' assurance that weake flesh reposeth 
 In her own powre, and scorncth others aydc ; 
 That soonest fals, when as she most supposeth 
 Her selfe assur'd, and is of nought affrayd. 
 All flesh is frayle, and all her strength unstayd. 
 Like a vaine bubble bloweu up with ayre : 
 Devouring tyrae and changeful chance have 
 
 prayd* 
 Her glorious pride, that none may it repayre. 
 Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre. 
 But fayleth, trusting on his owne assurance : 
 And he that standeth on the hyghest stayre 
 Fals lowest; for on earth nought liath endurance. 
 
 Why then doe ye, proud fayre, misdeeme so 
 farre. 
 
 That to your selfe ye most assured arre ! 
 
 Lackyng my Love, I go from place to place, 
 Lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd, 
 And seeka each where where last I sawe her face, 
 Wiose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd. 
 I seeke the fields with her late footing svnd ; 
 I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt ; 
 Yet nor in field nor bowre I can her fynd. 
 Yet field and bowre arc full of her aspect. 
 But when myne eyes I therimto direct. 
 They ydly back return to me agayne ; 
 And when I hope to see theyr trew obi^ct, 
 I f^d my self but fed with fancies vayne. 
 Cease then, myne eyes, to seeke her seUc to see. 
 And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mce. 
 
 1 Atlorn. 
 = Boilv. 
 
 8 Endowed with fair qnnlitipg. 
 * Preyed upon. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 POWER KEEPING DOWN MERIT. 
 
 55 
 
 -Q) 
 
 After so long a race as I have run 
 Through Faery land, which those six books com- 
 pile, 
 Give leave to rest me being half forcdonne, 
 And gather to my selfc new breath awhile. 
 Then, as a steed refreshed after toyle, 
 Out of my prison I will break anew, 
 And stoutly will that second work assoyle,' 
 With strong endevour and attention dew. 
 Till then give leave to me in pleasant mew ° 
 To sport my Muse, aud sing my Loves sweet 
 
 praise, 
 The contemplation of whose heavenly hew 
 My spirit to an lugher pitch will rayse. 
 But let her prayses yet be low aud meane. 
 Pit for the haudmayd of the Faery Queene. 
 
 Lyke as the cidver ' on the bared bough 
 Sits mourning for the absence of her mate. 
 And in her songs sends many a wishful vow 
 For his returne, that seemes to linger late, 
 So I alone, now left disconsolate, 
 Mourne to my selfe the absence of my Love ; 
 And wandring here and there all desolate, 
 Seek with my playnts to match that mournfid 
 
 dove : 
 Ne ioy of ought that under heaven doth hove,* 
 Can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight, 
 Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, 
 In her unspotted pleasauns to delight. 
 
 Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis, 
 And dead my life that wants such lively bhs. 
 From Amoretfi. 
 
 NOBLE MINDS DISPLACED AT COURT. 
 
 For each mans worth is measured by his weed,^ 
 As harts by homes, or asses by their cares : 
 Yet asses been not all whose cares exceed. 
 Nor yet all harts that homes the highest beares. 
 For highest lookes have not the highest myud, 
 Nor haughtie words most full of highest thoughts : 
 But are like bladders blowen up with wyud. 
 That being prickt do vanish into noughts. 
 Even such is all their vauuted vanltie, 
 Nought else but smoke, that f iimeth soone away : 
 Such is their glorie that in simple eie 
 Seeme greatest, when their garments are most 
 
 gay. 
 So they themselves for praise of fooles do sell. 
 And all their wealth for painting on a wall ; 
 With price whereof they buy a golden bell, 
 Aud purehace highest rowmes in bowre and ball: 
 Whiles single Truth and simple Honestie 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Discharge. 
 * Prison, retreat, 
 s Dove. 
 
 * Hover, exia' 
 5 Dress. 
 
 Do wander up and downe despys'd of all ; 
 Their plaine attire such glorious gallantry 
 Disdaines so much, that none them in doth call. 
 Colin Clouts Come Home Againe. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 For sure* of all that iu this mortall frame 
 Contained is, nought more divine doth seeme. 
 Or that resembleth more th' immortaU flame 
 Of heavenly hght, than Beauties glorious beam. 
 What wonder then, if with such rage extreme 
 Frail men, whose eyes seek heavenly things to 
 
 see. 
 At sight thereof so much enravisht bee ? 
 
 Hymn in Honour of Love. 
 
 WOMANKIND. 
 
 " Indeed," said Lucid, " I have often heard 
 Faire Rosalind of divers fowly blamed 
 For being to that swaine too eruell hard ; 
 That her bright glorie else hath much defamed. 
 But who can tell what cause had that faire 
 
 mayd 
 To use him so that used her so well ? 
 Or w ho with blame can iustly her upbrayd. 
 For loving not ? for who can love compell ? 
 And, sooth to say, it is foolhardie thing, 
 Rashly to wyten^ creatures so divine; 
 For demigods tliey be, and first did spring 
 From heaven, though graft m fraihiesse femi- 
 nine. 
 And well I wote that oft I heard it spoken, 
 How one that fairest Helene did revile, 
 Through iudgemeut of the gods to been ywro- 
 
 ken,'' 
 Lost both his eyes, and so remaynd long while, 
 TiU he recanted had his wicked rimes. 
 And made amends to her with treble praise. 
 Beware therefore, ye groomes, I read* betimes, 
 How rashly blame of Rosalind ye raise." 
 
 POWER KEEPING DOWN MERIT. 
 
 GRiEFE of griefes ! gall of all good heartes ! 
 To see that vertue should dispised bee 
 Of him that first was raisde for vertuous parts. 
 And now, broad spreading like an aged tree. 
 Lets none shoot up that nigh him planted bee. 
 let the man of whom the Muse is scorned. 
 Nor alive nor dead, be of the Muse adorned ! 
 
 The Ruines qflime. 
 
 1 Blame. 
 
 2 .^.venged, punished. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a^- 
 
 -Q) 
 
 oG 
 
 SIDNEY. — EOYDON. 
 
 DELIGHT AND LIBERTY. 
 
 What more felicitie can fall to creature 
 Than to enioy delight with libertie, 
 And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, 
 To raine in th' aire from earth to liighest skie, 
 To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature, 
 To take whatever thing doth please the eie ? 
 Who rests not pleased with such happines, 
 Well worthie he to taste of wretchednes. 
 
 From Miciopotmos. 
 
 MISEKIES OF A SUITOK AT COURT. 
 
 Most miserable man, whom wicked fate 
 Hath brought to court, to sue for had-ywist, 
 That few have found, and manie one hath mist ! 
 Fidl little knowest thou that hast not tride. 
 What hell it is in suing long to bide : 
 To loose good dayes, that might be better spent ; 
 To wast long nights in pensive discontent ; 
 To speed to day, to be put back to morrow ; 
 To feed on hope, to piue with fcare and sorrow ; 
 To have thy Princes grace, yet want her Peeres ; 
 To have thy asking, yet waite manie yeeres ; 
 To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares ; 
 To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires; 
 To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to romie, 
 To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne. 
 Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end. 
 That doth his life in so long tendance spend ! 
 
 3Iot/ier HiMerds Tale. 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 16S4-1586. 
 
 Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 
 The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
 The indifferent judge between the high and low. 
 With sliield of proof shield me from out the 
 
 prease 
 Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw ; 
 O, make in me those civil wars to cease : 
 I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; 
 A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light ; 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
 And it' these things, as being thine by right, 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
 Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 
 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 What may it be, that even in heavenly place 
 That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
 I read it in thy looks, thy lauguish'd grace 
 To me that feel the Uke thy state descries. 
 Then, even of fellowship, Moon, tell me, 
 Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
 Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 
 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefuluess ? 
 
 h 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou ehmb'st the 
 skies. 
 
 iiAPpy Thames, that didst my Stella bear ! 
 
 1 saw thee with full many a smihug line 
 Upon thy cheerfid face joy's livery wear. 
 While those fair planets on thy streams did sliine. 
 The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; 
 While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 
 Ravish' d, staid not, till in her golden hair 
 They did themselves (0 sweetest prison) t^dne : 
 And fam those CEol's youth there would their 
 
 stay 
 Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fly, 
 rirst did with puffing kiss those locks display. 
 She, so dishevell'd, blush'd. From window I, 
 With sight thereof, cried out, "O fair disgrace^; 
 Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place." 
 
 MATHEW ROYDON. 
 
 About 1586. 
 
 FROM AH ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SIR 
 PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 "Witein these woods of Arcadie 
 He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke. 
 And on the mountaine Parthcnie, 
 Upon the chrystall liquid brooke. 
 The Muses met him ev'ry day. 
 That taught him sing, to write, and say. 
 
 ".Wlien he descended downe to the mount. 
 His personage seemed most divine, 
 A thousand graces one might count 
 Upon his lovely, cheerfuU cine ; 
 
 To heare him speake and sweetly smile, 
 Xou were in Paradise the while. 
 
 " A sweet attractive kinde of grace, 
 A full assurance given by lookes, 
 Continuall comfort in a face, 
 The lineaments of Gospell bookes ; 
 
 -^ 
 
cQr 
 
 A PASTORAL OP PHILLIS AND CORIDON. 
 
 57 
 
 -& 
 
 I trowe that countenance cannot lie. 
 Whose thoughts are legible in the eie. 
 
 " Was never eie did see that face. 
 Was never eare did heare that toug, 
 Was never minde did ininde his grace, 
 That ever thought the travell long ; 
 But eies, and eares, and ev'ry thought, 
 Were with his sweete perfections caught. 
 
 FULKE GREVILLE, LORD 
 BROOKE. 
 
 1554-1638. 
 
 CONSTITUTIONAL GOVEKNMENT. 
 
 Ckowns, therefore keep your oatlis of coronation. 
 Succession frees no tyranny from those ; 
 Faith is the balance of power's reputation ; 
 That circle broken, where can man repose ? 
 Since sceptre pledges, which shoidd be sincere. 
 By one false act grow Ijankrupt every where. 
 Make not men's conscience, wealth, and liberty, 
 Servile, without book, to unbounded will ; 
 Procrustes like he racks humanity. 
 That in power's own mould easts their good wiU; 
 And slaves men must be by the sway of time, 
 Wlien tyranny continues thus sublime. 
 * + * 
 
 Yet above all these, tyrants must have care 
 To cherish these assembUes of estate 
 \^^lich iu great monarchies true glasses are. 
 To show men's grief, excesses to abate. 
 
 Brave moidds for laws, a medium that in one 
 Joins with content a people to the throne. 
 
 EEALITY OF A TRUE RELIGION, 
 
 For sure in all kinds of hypocrisy 
 
 No bodies yet are found of constant being ; 
 
 No uniform, no stable mystery, 
 
 No inward nature, but an outward seeming ; 
 No solid truth, no virtue, holiness. 
 But types of these, which time makes more 
 or less. 
 
 And, 
 
 springs, 
 
 strange inundations 
 
 ^ 
 
 from these 
 flow. 
 
 To drown the sea-marks of humanity. 
 With massacres, conspiracy, treason, woe, 
 By sects and schisms profaning Deity: 
 
 Besides, with furies, fiends, earth, air, and hell. 
 They fit, and teach confusion to rebel. 
 
 But, as there lives a true God iu the heaven. 
 
 So is there true reKgiou here on earth ; 
 
 By nature ? No, by grace ; not got, but given ; 
 
 Inspir'd, not taught ; from God a second birth ; 
 God dwelleth near about us, even within. 
 Working the goodness, censuring the sin. 
 
 Such as we arc to him, to us is he. 
 Without God there was no man ever good ; 
 Divine the author and the matter be, 
 Where goodness must be wrought in flesh and 
 blood : 
 Religion stands not in corrupted things. 
 But virtues that descend have heavenly wings. 
 
 o>IKo 
 
 NICHOLAS BRETON. 
 
 1555(0- 1634 (!). 
 A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORIDON, 
 
 On a hill there grows a flower. 
 Pair bcfal the dainty sweet ; 
 By that flower there is a bower, 
 Where the heavenly Muses meet. 
 
 In that bower there is a chair, 
 Fringed all about with gold. 
 Where doth sit the fairest fair 
 That ever eye did yet behold. 
 
 It is Phillis fair and bright, 
 She that is the shepherd's joy. 
 She that Venus did despite. 
 And did bUud her little boy. 
 
 This is she, the wise, the rich, 
 That the world desires to see ; 
 This is ipsa qua;, the which 
 There is none but oidy she. 
 
 Wlio would not this face admire ? 
 Wlio would not this saint adore ? 
 Who would not this sight desire, 
 Though he thought to see no more ? 
 
 fair eyes, yet let me see 
 One good look, and I am gone : 
 Look on me, for I am he, 
 Thy poor silly Coridon. 
 
 Thou that art the shepherd's queen. 
 Look upon thy sUly swain ; 
 By thy comfort have been seen 
 Dead men brought to life again. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 58 
 
 CONSTABLE. 
 
 PEELE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. 
 
 PubUshed in 1594. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 To live in hell, aud heaven to behold. 
 To welcome life, and die a living death. 
 To sweat ■nith heat, and yet be freezing cold, 
 To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath. 
 To tread a maze that never shall have end, 
 To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears, 
 To climb a liill, and never to descend, 
 Giants to kill, aud quake at childish fears, 
 To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree, 
 To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, 
 To live aceurs'd, whom men hold blest to be. 
 And weep those wrongs which never creature saw ; 
 If this be love, if love in these be founded, 
 My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. 
 
 oj*:o 
 
 GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 1562 (?) - 1598 (I). 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Illusteioxjs England, ancient seat of kings. 
 
 Whose chivalry hath royahs'd thy fame. 
 
 That, sounding bravely through terrestrial vale. 
 
 Proclaiming conquests, spoils, and victories. 
 
 Rings glorious echoes through the farthest world ! 
 
 What warUke nation, traui'd in feats of arms, 
 
 Wliat barbarous people, stubborn, or untamed. 
 
 What chmate under the meridian signs. 
 
 Or frozen zone vmder his brumal stage. 
 
 Erst have not quak'd and trembled at the name 
 
 Of Britain and her mighty conquerors ? 
 
 Her neighbour realms, as Scotland, Denmark, 
 
 France, 
 Awed with their deeds, and jealous of her arms, 
 Have begged defensive and offensive leagues. 
 Thus Europe, rich and mighty in her kings. 
 Hath fear'd brave England, dreadful in her kuigs. 
 And now, to eternise iVlbion's champions. 
 Equivalent with Trojan's ancient fame, 
 Comes lovely Edward from Jerusalem, 
 Veering before the wind, ploughing the sea; 
 His stretched sails fiU'd with the breatli of men. 
 That through the world admire his manliness. 
 And lo, at last arrived in Dover road, 
 Longshank, your king, your glory, and our son, 
 With troops of conquering lords and warhkc 
 
 knights, 
 Like bloody -crested Mars, o'erlooks his host, 
 Higher than all his army by the head, 
 
 Marching along as bright as Phcebus' eyes ! 
 And we, his mother, shall behold our son. 
 And England's peers shall see their sovereign. 
 
 DAVID AND BETHSABE. 
 
 Bright Beths.abe shall wash in David's bower 
 In water mixed with pm'cst almond flower. 
 And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; 
 Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires. 
 Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers. 
 To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings. 
 That carries pleasures to the hearts of kings. 
 * * * 
 
 Now comes my lover tripping like the roe. 
 And brings my longings tangled in her hair : 
 To 'joy her love I '11 build a kingly bower, 
 Seated in hearLug of a himdred streams, 
 That, for their homage to her sovereign joys, 
 Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests, 
 In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves 
 About the circles of her curious walks. 
 And with their murmur summon easeful sleep. 
 To lay his golden sceptre on her brows. 
 
 THE AGED MAN-AT-ARMS. 
 
 His golden locks time hath to silver turned ; 
 
 O time too swift, swiftness never ceasing ! 
 His youth 'gainst time aud age hath ever spurned. 
 But spurned in vain; youth waneth by en- 
 creasing. 
 Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading 
 
 seen ; 
 Duty, faith, love, ai'e roots, and ever green. 
 
 His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, 
 And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms ; 
 
 A nian-at-arms must now serve on his knees. 
 And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms : 
 
 But though from coui't to cottage he depart. 
 
 His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 
 
 And when he saddest sits in homely cell, 
 He '11 teach his swains this carol for a song : 
 
 " Bless'd be the hearts that msh my Sovereign 
 ■ well, 
 Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong." 
 
 Goddess, allow this aged man his right, 
 
 To be your beadsman now that was your knight. 
 
 CUPID'S AKKOWS. 
 
 At Venus' entreaty for Cupid her son 
 
 These arrows by Vulcan were cunningly done. 
 
 The first is Ijovc, as here you may behold. 
 
 -Eb 
 
a- 
 
 SAMELA. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING. 
 
 -^ 
 
 59 
 
 fr 
 
 His feathers, Iieacl, aud body, are of gold ; 
 The second shaft is Hate, a foe to love, 
 And bitter are liis torments for to prove ; 
 The third is Hope, from whence our comfort 
 
 springs. 
 His feathers [they] are pulled from Fortune's 
 
 wings : 
 Fourth Jealousy in basest minds doth dwell. 
 Tills metal Vulcan's Cyclops sent from hell. 
 
 ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 1560(?)-159i8. 
 
 SAMELA. 
 
 Like to Diana in her summer weed. 
 Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, 
 
 Goes fair Samela ; 
 "Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, 
 Wlien washed by Arethusa faiut they lie, 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 As fair Aurora in her morning gray, 
 Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, 
 Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, 
 
 Shines fair Samela ; 
 Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams. 
 Her teeth are peai'l, the breasts are ivory 
 
 Of fair Samela ; 
 Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams. 
 Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony ; 
 
 Thus fair Samela 
 Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, 
 And Juno in the show of majesty. 
 
 For she 's Samela : 
 Pallas in ■nit, all three, if you will view. 
 For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity 
 
 Yield to Samela. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ; 
 The quiet mind is richer than a crown : 
 Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; 
 The poor estate sconis Fortune's angry frown. 
 Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
 
 such bhss, 
 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 
 The homely house that harbours quiet rest. 
 The cottage that affords no pride nor care, 
 The mean, that 'grees with country music best. 
 The sweet consort of mirth's and music's fare. 
 Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ; 
 A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 
 
 A MOTHEE'S SONG TO A CHILD, 
 
 Mothek's wag, pretty boy. 
 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
 
 When thy father first did see 
 
 Such a boy by him and me. 
 
 He was glad, I was woe. 
 
 Fortune changed made him so ; 
 
 When he had left his pretty boy. 
 
 Last his sorrow, first his joy. 
 Weep not, my wanton, smde upon my knee ; 
 When thou art old, there 's grief enough for 
 thee. 
 
 The wanton smiled, father wept. 
 
 Mother cried, baby leap'd ; 
 
 More he crow'd, more he cried, 
 
 Nature coidd not sorrow hide ; 
 
 He must go, he must kiss 
 
 ChUd and mother, baby bless ; 
 
 For he left his pretty boy, 
 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
 When thou art old, there 's grief enough for thee. 
 
 A YOUNG MAIDEN, 
 
 An, when she sings, all music else be still. 
 For none must be compared to her note ; 
 Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, 
 Nor from the morning singer's swcUing throat. 
 And wlien she riseth from her blissful bed, 
 She comforts all the world, as dotli the sun. 
 
 PEODIGALITT, 
 
 Th.\t which gilded over his imperfections, 
 Is wasted and consumed, even like ice, 
 TOiich by the vehemence of heat dissolves, 
 And glides to many rivers ; so his wealth. 
 That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense. 
 Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers 
 Ean like a violent stream to other men's. 
 
 THE SHEPHEKD AND THE KING. 
 
 Ah ! what is love ! It is a pretty thing, 
 As sweet unto a shepherd as a king. 
 
 And sweeter too : 
 For kings have cares that wait upon a crown. 
 And cares can make the sweetest cares to frown : 
 
 All then, ah then. 
 If cormtry loves such sweet desires gain, 
 Wliat lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 60 
 
 LODGE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
 As merry as a king iu his deUght, 
 
 And merrier too : 
 For kings bethink them what the state require, 
 Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire : 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
 
 His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat. 
 
 And blither too : 
 For kings have often fears when they sup, 
 Where shepherds dread no poison in theii' cup : 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If counti'y loves such sweet desires gain, 
 WTiat lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
 As doth the king upon liis beds of down. 
 
 More sounder too : 
 For cares cause kings fuU oft their sleep to spill. 
 Where weary shepherds Ke and snort their fill : 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Thus with his vdk he spends the year as blithe 
 As doth the kiug at every tide or syth, 
 
 And blither too : 
 For kings have wars and broils to take iu hand. 
 When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land : 
 
 Ah theu, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady woidd not love a shepherd swain? 
 
 THOMAS LODGE. 
 
 1555 (!) - 1625. 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere 
 Where all imperial glory shines ; 
 Of selfsame color is her hair. 
 Whether unfolded, or in twines : 
 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosalme ! 
 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow. 
 Resembling Heaven by every wuik ; 
 The Gods do fear whereas they glow. 
 And I do tremble when I think 
 
 Heigh ho, would she were muie ! 
 
 Her cheeks arc like the blushing cloud 
 That bca\difies Aurora's face, 
 Or like the silver crimson shroud 
 
 That Phcebus' smiling looks doth grace ; 
 
 Heigh ho, fair Kosaliue ! 
 Her hps are like two budded roses 
 Whom ranks of hlies neighbor nigh, 
 AVithin ^'luch bounds she balm encloses 
 Apt to entice a deity : 
 
 Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Her neck is like a stately tower 
 Where Love himself imprisoned lies, 
 To watch for glances every hour 
 From her divine aud sacred eyes : 
 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Her paps are centres of delight. 
 Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, 
 Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
 To feed perfection with the same : 
 
 Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 With orient pearl, with ndjy red, 
 With marble white, with sappliire blue. 
 Her body every way is fed, 
 Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : 
 
 Heigh ho, fair RosaUue ! 
 Nature herself her shape admires ; 
 The Gods are wounded in her sight ; 
 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires. 
 And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
 
 Heigh ho, woidd she were mine ! 
 
 Then muse not. Nymphs, though I bemoan 
 The absence of fair Rosaline, 
 Since for a fair there 's fairer none, 
 Nor for her virtues so divine : 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Heigh ho, my heart ! woidd God that she were 
 mine ! 
 
 KOSADER'S SONETTO. 
 
 Turn I my looks unto the skies. 
 
 Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ; 
 
 If so I look upon the ground. 
 
 Love then iu every flower is found ; 
 
 Search I the shade to flee my pain. 
 
 Love meets me in the shades again ; 
 
 Want I to walk in secret grove. 
 
 E'en there I meet with sacred love ; 
 
 If so I bathe me in tlie spring, 
 
 E'en on the brink I hear him slug ; 
 
 If so I meditate alone, 
 
 He will be partner of my moan ; 
 
 If so I mourn, he weeps with luc 
 
 And where I am there will he be ; 
 
 When as I talk of Rosalind, 
 
 The God from coyness waxcth kind. 
 
 And seems in selfsame frame to fly. 
 
 Because he loves as well as I. 
 
 U- 
 
 ■W 
 
LOVE IN MY BOSOM, LIKE A BEE. — SEEING. 
 
 61 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue, 
 For why, than love 1 am more true : 
 He, if he speed, will quickly fly. 
 But in thy love I live aud die. 
 
 LOVE IN MY BOSOM, LIKE A BEE. 
 
 Love in my bosom, like a bee. 
 Doth suck his sweet ; 
 Now with his wings he plays with me, 
 Now with his feet. 
 Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
 His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
 My kisses are his daily feast. 
 And yet he robs me of my rest : 
 Ah, wanton, will ye ? 
 
 And if I sleep, then percheth he 
 With pretty (light, 
 And makes his pillow of my knee, 
 The livelong night. 
 Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; 
 He music plays if so I sing ; 
 He lends me every lovely thing, 
 Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : 
 WTiist, wanton, still ye ? 
 
 Else I with roses every day 
 Will whip you hence, 
 And bind you, when you long to play, 
 For your offence ; 
 
 I '11 shut mine eyes to keep you in, 
 I 'U make you fast it for your sin, 
 I '11 cormt your power not worth a pin ; 
 Alas ! what hereby shall I win. 
 If he gainsay me ? 
 
 Wliat if I beat the wanton boy 
 With many a rod ? 
 He will repay me with annoy, 
 Because a god. 
 
 Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
 And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
 Lurk ui mine eyes, I like of thee, 
 Cupid ! so thou pity me. 
 Spare not, but play thee. 
 
 THOMAS NASH. 
 
 1564 (?)- 1601 (!) 
 THE DECAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts 
 
 therefore. 
 So fair a summer look for never more : 
 
 AH good things vanish less than in a day. 
 Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. 
 
 Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year, 
 The earth is liell when thou leavest to appear. 
 What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland 
 
 erst. 
 Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed ? 
 trees consume your sap in sorrow's source. 
 Streams turn to tears your tributary course. 
 Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year, 
 The earth is heU when thou leavest to appear. 
 
 DESPAIR OF A POOR SCHOLAR, 
 
 Why is 't damnation to despair and die. 
 When life is my true happiness' disease ? 
 My soul, my soul, thy safety makes me fly 
 The faulty means that might my pain appease : 
 Divines and dying men may talk of hell. 
 But in my heart her several torments dwell. 
 
 Ah, worthless wit ! to train me to this woe : 
 Deceitful arts ! that nourish discontent : 
 I '11 thrive the folly that bewitched me so ! 
 Vain thoughts, adieu ! for now I will repent, — 
 And yet my wants persuade me to proceed. 
 For none take pity of a scholar's need. 
 
 Forgive me, God, although I curse my birth, • 
 And ban the air wherein I breathe a wretch. 
 Since misery hath daunted all my mirth. 
 And I am quite undone through promise breach ; 
 Ah, friends ! — no friends that then ungentle frown, 
 Wlien changing fortune casts us headlong down. 
 
 Without redress complains my careless verse, 
 And Midas' cars relent not at my moan. 
 In some far land will I my griefs rehearse, 
 'Mougst them that wUl be moved when I shall 
 
 groan. 
 England, adieu ! the soil that brought me forth. 
 Adieu ! unkind, where skill is nothing worth. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant 
 
 king ; 
 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a 
 
 ring, 
 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. 
 Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
 
 The palm and may make country houses gay, 
 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day. 
 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
 Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 62 
 
 CHAPMAN. 
 
 -05 
 
 ^ 
 
 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our 
 
 feet, 
 Young lovers meet, old ■srives a sunning sit. 
 In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
 Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
 Spring, the sweet Spring. 
 
 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 1557 - 1634. 
 
 THE MASTER SPIKIT. 
 
 Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea 
 Loves to have his sails fiU'd with a lusty wind, 
 Even tin his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, 
 And his rapt ship run on her side so low. 
 That she driuks water, and her keel ploughs 
 
 air. 
 There is no danger to a man, that knows 
 What life and death is : there 's not any law 
 Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful 
 That he should stoop to any other law : 
 He goes before them, and commauds them all. 
 That to himself is a law rational. 
 
 FALL OF A WAERIOE nGHTMG. 
 
 Then, as iu Arden I have seen an oak 
 Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top 
 Bent to his root, which being at length made loose 
 (Even groaning with lus weight) he 'gan to nod 
 This way and that, as loth his curled brows 
 (Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms) 
 Should stoop ; and yet, his radical fibres burst, 
 Storm-Uke he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth. 
 
 INSINUATING MANNERS, 
 
 We must have these lures, when we hawk for 
 
 friends : 
 And wind about them like a subtle river. 
 That, seeming only to run on his course. 
 Doth search yet, as he runs, and still finds out 
 The easiest parts of entry on the shore, 
 Ghding so slyly by, as scarce it touch'd, 
 Yet still eats something in it. 
 
 PASSION AND REASON. 
 
 When our diseas'd affections 
 Harmful to human freedom, and storm-like 
 Inferring darkness to th' infected mind. 
 Oppress our comforts ; 't is but letting in 
 
 The light of reason, and a purer spirit 
 Take in another way ; like rooms that fight 
 With windows 'gainst the wind, yet let in light. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie. 
 And lovers kindling your enraged fires 
 At Cupid's bonfires burnmg m the eye. 
 Blown with the empty breath of vain desires ; 
 You, that prefer the painted cabinet 
 Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye. 
 That all your joys in dying figures set. 
 And stain the hving substance of your glory ; 
 Abjure those joys, abhor their memory ; 
 And let my love the honour'd subject be 
 Of love and honour's complete history ! 
 Your eyes were never yet let in to see 
 The majesty and riches of the mind. 
 That dwell in darkness ; for your god is blind. 
 
 VIRTnE, 
 
 Man is a torch borne in the wind ; a dream 
 But of a shadow, summed with all his substance ; 
 And as great seamen, using all their wealth 
 And skills in Neptune's deep invisible paths, 
 In tall ships richly built and ribbed witli brass. 
 To put a girdle round about the world. 
 When they have done it (coming near their haven) 
 Are fain to give a warning piece, and call 
 A poor strayed fisherman, that never past 
 His country's sight, to waft and guide them in : 
 So when we wander furthest through the waves 
 Of glassy glory and the gulfs of state. 
 Topped with all titles, spreading all our reaches. 
 As if each private arm would sphere the earth, 
 We must to Virtue for her guide resort. 
 Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port. 
 
 A KING. 
 
 In a king 
 All places are contained. His words and looks 
 Are like the flashes and the bolts of Jove ; 
 His deeds inimitable, hkc the sea 
 That shuts still as it opes, and leaves no tracks. 
 Nor prints of precedent for mean men's acts. 
 
 A GREAT HEART, 
 
 His great heart will not down : 't is like the sea. 
 That partly by his own internal heat. 
 Partly the stars' daily and nightly motion, 
 Their heat and light, and partly of tlie place 
 The divers frames, but chiefly by the moon 
 
 -9^ 
 
a- 
 
 INVOCATION TO REST. — LOOK HOME. 
 
 G3 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Bristled with surges, never will be won, 
 
 (No, not when th' hearts of aU those powers are 
 
 burst,) 
 To make retreat into his settled home, 
 Till he be crowned with his own quiet foam. 
 
 INVOCATION TO REST. 
 
 Now, all ye peacefid regents of the night, 
 Silently gliding exhalations, 
 Languishing winds, and murmurmgfaUs of waters, 
 Sadness of heart, and ominous seeureness. 
 Enchantments, dead sleeps, aU the friends of rest 
 That ever wrought upon the life of man 
 Extend your utmost strengths ; and this charmed 
 
 hour 
 Fix like the centre. 
 
 OMNISCIENOE. 
 
 Theke is One 
 That wakes above, whose eye no sleep can bind : 
 He sees through doors and darkness and our 
 thoughts. 
 
 sm. 
 
 O, THE dangerous siege 
 Sin lays about us ! and the tyrarmy 
 He exercises when he hath expugned : 
 Like to the horror of a wmtcr's thunder. 
 Mixed with a gushing storm, that suffer nothing 
 To stir abroad on earth but their o-rni rages, 
 Is sin, when it hath gathered head above us. 
 
 INVOCATION TO LIGHT. 
 
 Terroe, of darkness ! thou king of flames ! 
 That with thy music-footed horse doth strike 
 The clear hght out of crystal, on dark earth, 
 And hurl'st instinctive fire about the world. 
 Wake, wake, the drowsy and enchanted night. 
 That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle : 
 thou great prince of shades, where never sun 
 Sticks his far-darted beams, whose eyes are made 
 To shine in darkness, and see ever best 
 WHiere men are blindest ! open now the heart 
 Of thy abashed oracle, that for fear 
 Of some iU it includes would feign Ue hid. 
 And rise thou with it in thy greater Ught. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF HOMER. 
 
 0, 'tts wondrous much 
 Though nothing prosed, that the right virtuous 
 touch 
 
 Of a well written soul to virtue moves. 
 
 Nor have we souls to purpose, if theii" loves 
 
 Of fitting objects be not so inflamed. 
 
 How much, then, were this kingdom's main soul 
 
 maimed 
 To want this great inflamer of all powers 
 That move in hmnau soids ! All realms but 
 
 yours 
 Are honored with them, and hold blest (hat 
 
 state 
 That have his works to read and contemplate, 
 In which humanity to her height is raised ; 
 Wliich aU the world, yet none enough hath 
 
 praised. 
 Seas, earth, and heaven, he did in verse com- 
 prise, 
 Outsung the Muses, and did equalize 
 Their King ApoUo ; being so far from cause 
 Of princes' Hght thoughts, that their gravest 
 
 laws 
 May find stuff to be fashioned by his lines. 
 Through all the pomp of kingdoms still he shines. 
 And graceth all his graeers. Then let Ue 
 Your lutes and viols, and more loftUy 
 Make the heroics of your Homer sung ; 
 To drums and tnunpets set his angel tongue ; 
 And, w'ith the princely sport of hawks you use. 
 Behold the kingly flight of his high muse. 
 And see how, like the Phoenix, she renews 
 Her age and starry feathers in your sun. 
 Thousands of years attending ; every one 
 Blowing the holy fire, throwing in 
 Their seasons, kingdoms, nations, that have been 
 Subverted in them ; laws, rehgions, aU 
 Offered to change, and greedy funeral. 
 Yet stiU your Homer lasting, hving, reigning. 
 And proves how firm Truth builds in poets 
 
 feigning. 
 A prince's statue, or in marble carved. 
 Or steel, or gold, and shrined, to be preserved 
 Aloft on pillars and pyramides. 
 Time into lowest ruins may depress ; 
 But, drawn with all his virtues in learned verse. 
 Fame shall resound them on Oblivioii's hearse, 
 Till graves gasp with their blasts, and dead men 
 
 rise. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 1560 - 1595. 
 
 LOOK HOME, 
 
 E.ETIEED thoughts enjoy their own deUghts, 
 As beauty doth in self-beholding eye : 
 Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, 
 A brief wherein aU miracles summed Ue ; 
 
 ■# 
 
cfi- 
 
 64 
 
 HAREINGTON. 
 
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 Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, 
 Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them 
 more. 
 
 The mind a creature is, yet can create, 
 To nature's patterns adding higher skill 
 Of fmest works ; wit better could the state. 
 If force of wit had equal power of will. 
 Devise of man in working hath no end ; 
 What thought can think, another thought can 
 mend. 
 
 Man's soul of endless beauties image is. 
 Drawn by the work of endless skill and might : 
 This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss. 
 And, to discern tliis bhss, a native Ught, 
 To frame God's image as his worth required ; 
 His might, his skill, his word and wiU conspired. 
 
 All that he had, his image should present ; 
 AU that it should present, he could afford ; 
 To that lie coidd afford his will was bent ; 
 His will was followed with performing word. 
 Let this suffice, by tliis conceive the rest. 
 He should, he could, he would, he did the best. 
 
 LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 
 
 Love mistress is of many minds. 
 Yet few know whom they serve ; 
 
 They reckon least how httle hope 
 Their service doth deserve. 
 
 The will slie robbeth from the wit. 
 The sense from reason's lore ; 
 
 She is delightful in the rind. 
 Corrupted iu the core. 
 
 She shroudeth vice iu virtue's veil. 
 
 Pretending good in iU ; 
 She offereth joy, but bringeth grief ; 
 
 A kiss — where she doth kill. 
 
 Her watery eyes liave burning force, 
 Her floods and flames conspire ; 
 
 Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are. 
 And sighs but fan the Are. 
 
 A honey shower i-ains from her hps, 
 Sweet hghts shine in her face ; 
 
 She hath the blush of virgui mmd. 
 The mind of viper's race. 
 
 She makes thee seek, yet fear to find ; 
 
 To find, but nought enjoy ; 
 In many frowns, some passing smiles 
 
 She yields to more aimoy. 
 
 She letteth fall some luring baits. 
 For fools to gather up ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 Now sweet, now sour, for every taste 
 She tempereth her cup. 
 
 * * * 
 
 May never was the month of love ; 
 
 Tor May is fidl of flowers; 
 But rather April, wet by kind ; 
 
 For love is full of showers. 
 
 With soothing words inthraUed souls 
 
 She chains in servile bands ! 
 Her eye in silence hath a speech 
 
 Which eye best understands. 
 
 Her Uttle sweet hath many sours, 
 
 Short hap, immortal harms ; 
 Her loving looks are murdering darts. 
 
 Her songs bewitching charms. 
 
 Like winter rose, and summer ice, 
 
 Her joys are stUl untimely ; 
 Before her hope, beliind remorse. 
 
 Fair first, in fine unseenJy. 
 
 Plough not the seas, sow not the sands. 
 
 Leave off your idle pain ; 
 Seek other mistress for your minds, 
 
 Love's service is in vain. 
 
 SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. 
 
 1661-161S. 
 
 A PRECISE TAHiOK. 
 
 A TAILOR, thought a man of upright dealing — 
 True, but for lying — honest, but for stealing — 
 Did fall one day extremely sick by chance. 
 And on the sudden was in wondrous trance ; 
 The fiends of hell mustering in fearful manner, 
 Of sundry colour'd silks display'd a banner 
 Wliich lie had stolen, and wish'd, as they did 
 
 tcU, 
 That he might find it all one day in hell. 
 The man, affrighted with this apparition, 
 Upon recovery grew a great precisian : 
 He bought a Bible of the best translation. 
 And in his life he show'd great reformation ; 
 He walked mamierly, he talked meekly. 
 He heard three lectures and two sermons 
 
 weekly ; 
 lie vow'd to shun all company unruly. 
 And in liis spooch he used no oath but truly ; 
 And zealously to keep the Sabbatli's rest, 
 His meat for that day on the eve was drcst ; 
 And lest the custom which he had to steal 
 Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal. 
 He gives his journeyman a special charge. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 TREASON. —AN EPISTLE. 
 
 65 
 
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 fr 
 
 That if the stuff, allowance being large, 
 
 He found liis fingers were to filch inclined. 
 
 Bid him to have the banner in his mind. 
 
 This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter) 
 
 A captain of a ship came three days after. 
 
 And brought three yards of velvet and three 
 
 quarters. 
 To make Venetians down below the garters. 
 He, that precisely knew what was enough, 
 Soon slipt aside three quarters of the stuff ; 
 His man, espying it, said in derision, 
 " Master, remember how you saw the vision ! " 
 " Peace, knave ! " quoth he, "I did not see one rag 
 Of such a colour'd silk in all the flag." 
 
 TREASON. 
 
 Treason doth never prosper : what 's the reason ? 
 Per if it prosper, none dare call it treason. 
 
 FORTUNE, 
 
 PoMUNE, men say, doth give too much to many. 
 But yet she never gave enough to any. 
 
 WRITERS WHO CAEP AT OTHER MEN'S BOOKS. 
 
 The readers and the hearers like my books. 
 But yet some writers cannot them digest ; 
 But what care I ? for when I make a feast 
 I would my guests should praise it, not the 
 cooks. 
 
 JOSHUA SYLVESTER. 
 
 1563-1618. 
 
 TO RELIGION. 
 
 Religion, O thou life of life. 
 How worldlings, that profane thee rife. 
 Can wrest thee to their appetites ! 
 How princes, who thy power deny, 
 Pretend thee for their tyranny. 
 And people for their false delights ! 
 
 Under thy sacred name, all over, 
 
 The vicious all their vices cover ; 
 
 The insolent their insolence. 
 
 The proud their pride, the false their fraud, 
 
 The thief his theft, her filth the bawd, 
 
 The impudent their impudence. 
 
 Ambition under thee aspii-es. 
 And Avarice under thee desires ; 
 Sloth under thee her ease assumes, 
 Lux under thee all overflows, 
 Wrath luidcr thee outrageous grows, 
 All evil under thee presumes. 
 
 Religion, erst so venerable. 
 What art tliou now but made a fable, 
 A holy mask on Polly's brow, 
 Where under lies Dissimulation, 
 Lined with all abomination. 
 Sacred Rehgion, where art thou ? 
 
 Not in the church with Simony, 
 Not on the bench with Bribery, 
 Nor in the court ■nith Machiavel, 
 Nor in the city with deceits, 
 Nor in the country with debates ; 
 Por what hath Heaven to do with Hell ? 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 1563-1619. 
 
 EPISTLE TO THE COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 He tliat of such a height hath built his mind, 
 And rear'd the dweUing of his thoughts so strong. 
 As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
 Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
 Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
 His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; 
 What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
 
 The boundless wastes and wilds of man suri 
 
 •eyr 
 
 And with how free an eye doth he look down 
 Upon these lower regions of turmoil ? 
 Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
 On flesh and blood : where honour, power, renown, 
 Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
 Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet, 
 As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
 To little minds, who do it so esteem. 
 
 He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 
 But only as on stately robberies ; 
 Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
 Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars 
 The fairest and the best fae'd-enterprise. 
 Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : 
 Justice, he sees, (as if seduced) still 
 Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. 
 
 He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
 As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 06 
 
 DANIEL. 
 
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 fr 
 
 Wlio puts it in all colours, all attires, 
 To serve liis ends, and make his courses hold. 
 He sees, that let deceit work what it can, 
 Plot and contrive base ways to high desires ; 
 That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
 All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit. 
 
 Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes : 
 Charg'd with more crying sins than those he 
 
 checks. 
 The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times, 
 Appal not liim that hath no side at all, 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous aud distress'd mortality, 
 That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
 Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon imbecility : 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run. 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 
 
 And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
 And is encompass'd ; whilst as craft deceives, 
 And is deceiv'd : whilst man doth ransack man, 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
 And th' inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great-expecting hopes : he looks thereon. 
 As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
 And bears no venture in impiety. 
 
 Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepar'd 
 A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
 Beneath him ; and hath learn'd this book of man, 
 Pidl of the notes of frailty ; and compar'd 
 The best of glory with her sufferings : 
 By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
 To plant your heart ; and set your thoughts as near 
 His glorious mansion, as your pow'rs can bear. 
 
 Wliich, madam, arc so soundly fashioned 
 
 By that clear judgment, that liath carry'd you 
 
 Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, 
 
 As they can stand against the strongest head 
 
 Passion can make ; inur'd to any hue 
 
 The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind 
 
 Out of her form of goodness, that doth see 
 
 Both what the best and worst of earth can be 
 
 T^liioh makes, that whatsoever here befalls. 
 You in the region of yourself remain : 
 Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests. 
 That hath secur'd within the brazen walls 
 Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) 
 Rises in peace, in innocency rests ; 
 
 Whilst all what Malice from without procures. 
 Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. 
 
 And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, 
 Than women use to do ; yet you well know. 
 That wrong is better check'd by being contemn'd. 
 Than being pursu'd ; leaving to him t' avenge, 
 To whom it appertains. Wherein you show 
 How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd 
 Base malediction, hving in the dark. 
 That at the rays of goodness still doth bark. 
 
 Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
 The centre of this world, about the which 
 These revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll ; where all th' aspects of misery 
 Predominate : whose strong effects are such, 
 As he must bear, being pow'riess to redress : 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 
 
 And how turmod'd they are that level lie 
 With earth, and cannot lift themselves from 
 
 thence ; 
 That never are at peace with their desires. 
 But work beyond their years ; and ev'n deny 
 Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
 With death; that when abiUty expires, 
 Desri'e Uvcs still : so much delight they have. 
 To carry toil and travel to the grave. 
 
 '^^liose ends you see ; and what can be the best 
 They reach unto, when they have cast the sum 
 And reck'nings of their glory. And you know. 
 This floating life hath but this port of rest, 
 A heart prepar'd, that fears no ill to come. 
 And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
 Tiie best of all whose days consumed are. 
 Either in war, or peace-conceiving war. 
 
 This concord, madam, of a wcll-tun'd mind 
 Hath been so set by that all-working hand 
 Of Heaven, that though the world hath done his 
 
 worst 
 To put it out by discords most unkind ; 
 Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
 W^ith God and man ; nor ever will be forc'd 
 From that most sweet accord ; but still agree. 
 Equal in fortune's inequality. 
 
 And this note, raadam, of your worthiness 
 Remains recorded in so many hearts, 
 As time nor malice cannot wrong your right, 
 In tir inheritance of fame you must possess : 
 You tliat have built you by your great deserts 
 (Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
 And glorious dwelling for your honour'd name, 
 Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. 
 
 -0 
 
<&■ 
 
 SONNETS. — THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 -a. 
 
 SONITETS. 
 
 I MUST not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read 
 Lines of deliglit, whereon her youth might smile ; 
 Flowers have time before they come to seed, 
 And she is young, and now must sport the wlule. 
 And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, 
 And learn to gather flowers before they wither ; 
 And where the sweetest blossom first appears, 
 Let love and youth eonduct thy pleasures thither, 
 Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air. 
 And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise ; 
 Pity and smiles do best become the fair ; 
 Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. 
 Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, 
 Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one. 
 
 Fair is my love, and cruel as she 's fair ; 
 Her brow shades frown, altho' her eyes are sunny. 
 Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair ; 
 And lier disdains are gall, her favours honey. 
 A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, 
 'Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love ; 
 The wonder of all eyes that look upon her : 
 Sacred on earth ; design'd a saint above ; 
 Chastity and Beauty, wliich are deadly foes, 
 Live reconciled friends within her brow ; 
 And had she Pity to conjoin with those. 
 Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
 For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, 
 My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind. 
 
 Care-charmee Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 
 ReHeve my anguish, and restore the light, 
 With dark forgetting of my care, return. 
 And let the day be time enough to mourn 
 The shipwreck of my Ul-advised youth ; 
 Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
 TVithout the torments of the night's luitruth. 
 Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
 To model forth the passions of to-morrow ; 
 Never let the rising sun prove you Uars, 
 To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
 iVnd never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
 fr 
 
 Restore thy tresses to the golden ore ; 
 Yield Cytherea's son those arcs of love ; 
 Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore ; 
 And to the orient do thy pearls remove. 
 Yield thy hand's pride unto the ivory wliite ; 
 To Arabian odors give thy breathing sweet ; 
 Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright ; 
 To Thetis give the honour of thy feet. 
 Let Venus have thy graces, her resigned ; 
 And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres ; 
 
 But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind 
 To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears ; 
 Yield to the marble thy hard heart again ; 
 So shalt thou cease to plague and I to pain. 
 
 EAKLT LOVE 
 
 Ah, I remember well (and how can I 
 But evermore remember well ?) when first 
 Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
 The flame we felt ; when as we sat and sigh'd 
 And look'd upon each other, and conceived 
 Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail, 
 And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
 And what was our disease we could not tell. 
 Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : and thus 
 In that first garden of our simpleness 
 We spent our childhood. But when years began 
 To reap the fruit of knowledge, — ah, how then 
 Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, 
 Check my presumption and my forwardness ! 
 Yet still would give me flowers, still would show 
 What she would have me, yet not have me know. 
 
 oXKo 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 1563-1631. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF AGMCOtlET. 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France, 
 Wlien we our sails advance. 
 Nor now to prove our chance 
 
 Longer wiU tarry ; 
 But putting to the main, 
 At Kause, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his martial train. 
 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort, 
 Furnished in warlike sort, 
 Marched toward Agiacourt 
 
 In happy hour ; 
 Skirmishing day by day 
 With those that stopped liis way, 
 Wbere the French gen'ral lay 
 
 With all his power. 
 
 Which in his height of pride, 
 King Henry to deride, 
 His ransom to provide 
 
 To the king sending ; 
 Which he neglects the while. 
 As from a nation vile, 
 
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 68 
 
 DRAYTON. 
 
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 Yet, with an angry smile. 
 Their fall portending. 
 
 And turning to Ms men, 
 Quoth our brave Henry then : 
 Though they to one be ten. 
 
 Be not amazed ; 
 Yet liave we well begun. 
 Battles so bravely won 
 Have ever to the sun 
 
 By fame been raised. 
 
 And for myself, quoth he. 
 This my full rest shall be ; 
 England ne'er mourn for me, 
 
 Nor more esteem me. 
 Victor I wiU remain, 
 Or on this earth lie slain ; 
 Never shall she sustain 
 
 Loss to redeem me. 
 
 Poitiers and Cressy teU, 
 
 When most their pride did swell. 
 
 Under our swords they fell. 
 
 No less our skill is 
 Than when our grandsire great. 
 Claiming the regal seat. 
 By many a warhke feat 
 
 Lopped the Trench lilies. 
 
 The Duke of York so dread 
 The eager vaward led ; 
 With the main Henry sped 
 
 Amongst his henchmen. 
 Excester had the rear, 
 A braver man not there ; 
 Lord ! how hot they were 
 
 On the false Frenchmen ! 
 
 They now to fight arc gone ; 
 Armour on armour shone ; 
 Drum now to drum did groan. 
 
 To hear was wonder ; 
 That with the cries they make 
 The very earth did shake. 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake. 
 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 O noble Erpiugham ! 
 Which did the signal aim 
 
 To our hid forces ; 
 When, from a meadow by, 
 Like a stoi-m suddenly. 
 The English archery 
 
 Struck the French horses. 
 
 With Spanish yew so strong. 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
 
 That like to serpents stung, 
 Piercing the weather ; 
 
 None from his fellow starts, 
 
 But playing manly parts. 
 
 And like true EngUsh hearts, 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 Wien down their bows they threw. 
 And forth their bilbows drew, 
 And on the French they flew, 
 
 Not one was tardy : 
 Arms were from shoulders sent ; 
 Scalps to the teeth were i-ent ; 
 Down tlie French peasants went ; 
 
 Our men were hardy. 
 
 This while our noble king. 
 His broadsword brandishing, 
 Down the French host did ding. 
 
 As to o'eiTvlielm it ; 
 And many a deep wound rent 
 His arms with blood besprent. 
 And many a cruel dent. 
 
 Bruised his helmet. 
 
 Glo'ster, that duke so good. 
 Next of the royal blood, 
 For famous England stood. 
 
 With his brave brother 
 Clarence, in steel so bright. 
 Though but a maiden knight. 
 Yet in that furious fight 
 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 Warwick in blood did wade ; 
 Oxford the foe invade, 
 And cruel slaughter made, 
 
 Still as they ran up. 
 Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
 Beaumont and Willoughby 
 Bare them right doughtily, 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 
 Upon Saint Crispin's day 
 
 Fought was this noble fray. 
 Which fame did not delay 
 
 To England to carry. 
 O, when shall Englishmen 
 With such acts fill a pen, 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Such a King Harry ? 
 
 QTIEEN ISABELLA AND MOKTIMEE. 
 
 The night wax'd old (not dreaming of these 
 
 things) 
 And to her chamber is the queen withdrawn. 
 
 -g^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 MOKNING IN WAEWICKSHIRE. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 G'j 
 
 ^ 
 
 To whom a choice musician plaj'S and sings. 
 Whilst she sat under an estate of lawn, 
 In night-attire more god-like glittering, 
 Thau any eye had seen the cheerful dawn, 
 Leaning upon her most-loved Mortimer, 
 T\liose voice, more than the music, pleased her 
 ear. 
 
 TVTiere her fair breasts at Uborty were let, 
 Wliose violet veins Ln branched riverets flow, 
 And Venus' swans and milky doves were set 
 Upon those swelling mounts of driven snow ; 
 ^Vhereon whUst Love to sport Idmself doth get. 
 He lost his way, nor back again coidd go. 
 But with those banks of beauty set about. 
 He wander'd stUl, yet never could get out. 
 
 Her loose hair look'd like gold (O word too base ! 
 Nay, more than sin, but so to name her hair) 
 Declining, as to kiss her fairer face, 
 No word is fair enough for tiling so fair. 
 Nor ever was there epithet could grace 
 That, by much praising wliich we much impair ; 
 And where the pen fails, pencils cannot show it, 
 Oidy the soul may be supposed to know it. 
 
 She laid her fingers on his manly cheek, 
 The Gods' pure sceptres and the darts of Love, 
 That with their touch miglit make a tiger meek. 
 Or might great Atlas from his seat remove; 
 So white, so soft, so delicate, so sleek, 
 As she had worn a lily for a glove ; 
 
 As might beget life where was never none. 
 And put a spirit into the hardest stone. 
 
 The fire of precious wood ; the light perfume, 
 Which left a sweetness on each thing it shone, 
 As everything did to itself assume 
 The scent from them, and made the same their 
 
 own: 
 So that the painted flowers within the room 
 Were sweet, as if they naturally had grown ; 
 The liglit gave colours, wliich upon them fcU, 
 And to the colours the perfume gave smell. 
 
 MORNING IN WAEWICKSHIRE. 
 
 When Phoebus lifts his head out of the win- 
 ter's wave. 
 No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave. 
 At such time as the year brings on the pleasant 
 
 spring, 
 But hunts-up to the morn the feath'red sylvans 
 
 sing : 
 And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole, 
 Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole, 
 Those quiristers are percht, with many a speckled 
 breast. 
 
 Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'riug 
 
 east 
 Gilds every lofty top, which late tlie humorous 
 
 night 
 Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morn- 
 ing's sight ; 
 On which the mirthful qiurcs, with their clear 
 
 open throats, 
 Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling 
 
 notes, 
 Thathills and valleys ring, andcven the echoingair 
 Seems all composed of sounds, about them every- 
 
 wliere. 
 The throstle, with shrill sharps ; as purposely he 
 
 song 
 T' awake the listless sun ; or chiding, that so long 
 He was in comuig forth, that should the thickets 
 
 thrill; 
 The ouzel near at hand, that hath a golden bill, 
 As nature him had luarkt of purpose, t' let us see 
 That from all other birds his tunes should dif- 
 ferent be : 
 For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleas- 
 ant May ; 
 Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play. 
 Wlien in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by 
 In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply. 
 As though the other birds she to her tunes would 
 
 draw. 
 And, but that nature (by her all-coustraining law) 
 Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite. 
 They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night, 
 (The more to use their ears,) their voices sure 
 
 would spare. 
 That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare. 
 As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her. 
 
 To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer ; 
 And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place 
 
 we then. 
 The red-sparrow, the nope, the rcd-brcast, and the 
 
 wren. 
 The yellow-pate ; which though she hurt the 
 
 blooming tree. 
 Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. 
 And of these chaunting fowls, the goldfinch not 
 
 behind, 
 That hath so many sorts descending from her 
 
 kind. 
 The tydy for her notes as delicate as they, 
 The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay. 
 The softer with the shrill (some hid among the 
 
 leaves, 
 Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves) 
 Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun, 
 Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath 
 
 run, 
 And through the twisted tops of our close covert 
 creeps ' 
 
 ■^ 
 
(0- 
 
 70 
 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 --^ 
 
 <&- 
 
 To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly 
 
 sleeps. 
 And near to these our thicks, the wild and 
 
 frightful herds, 
 Not hearing other noise but this of chattering 
 
 birds. 
 Feed fairly on the lawns ; both sorts of seasoned 
 
 deer : 
 Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow 
 
 there : 
 The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals 
 
 strew'd. 
 As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multi- 
 tude. 
 
 TO HIS COT LOVH. 
 
 I PSAY thee, love, love me no more. 
 
 Call home the heart you gave me ; 
 I but in vain that saint adore. 
 
 That can, but will not save me : 
 These poor half kisses kill me quite ; 
 
 Was ever man thus served ? 
 Amidst an ocean of delight, 
 
 For pleasure to be starved. 
 
 Show me uo more those snowy breasts. 
 
 With azure rivers branched. 
 Where whilst mine eye with plenty feasts. 
 
 Yet is my thirst not staunched. 
 Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell ! 
 
 By me thou art prevented ; 
 'T is nothing to be plagued in hell. 
 
 But thus in heaven tormented. 
 
 Clip me no more in tliose dear arms 
 
 Nor thy life's comfort call me ; 
 0, these are but too powerful charms. 
 
 And do but more enthral me. 
 But see how patient I am grown. 
 
 In all this cod about thee ; 
 Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone, 
 
 I cannot live without thee. 
 
 SONUET. 
 
 In pride of wit, when high desire of fame 
 Gave life and courage to my labouring pen. 
 And first the sound and virtue of my name 
 Won grace and credit in the ears of men ; 
 With those the thronged theatres that press, 
 I in the circuit for the laurel strove. 
 Where the full praise, I freely must confess, 
 In heat of blood, a modest mind might move. 
 With shouts and claps, at every little pause, 
 When the proud round on every side hath rung, 
 
 Sadly I sit unmoved with the applause, 
 As though to me it nothing did belong : 
 No public glory vainly I pursue ; 
 The praise I strive, is to eternize you. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 1564-1593. 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHEED TO HIS LOVE, 
 
 Come live with me and be my love. 
 And we will all the pleasures prove, 
 That hill and valley, grove and field. 
 And all the craggy mountains yield. 
 There will we sit upon the rocks, 
 And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 There will I make thee beds of roses, 
 W'ith a thousand fragrant posies ; 
 A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
 Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ; 
 A gown made of the finest wool 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Slippers liu'd choicely for the cold. 
 With buckles of the purest gold ; 
 A belt of straw, and ivy buds. 
 With coral clasps and amber studs. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May mornuig ; 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Then live with me and be my love. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF TAMBUKLAINE, 
 
 Of stature tall, and straightly fashioned ; 
 
 Like his desire, lift upwards and divine. 
 
 So large of limbs, his joints so strongly knit. 
 
 Such breadth of shoulders, as might mainly bear 
 
 Old Atlas' burthen. 'T wixt his manly iiitch 
 
 A pearl more worth than all tlie world is placed 
 
 ^Vherein by curious sovcrainty of art 
 
 Are fixed his piercing instruments of sight : 
 
 Whose fiery circles bear encompassed 
 
 A heaven of heavenly bodies in their spheres : 
 
 That guides his steps and actions to the throne 
 
 Wliere Honour sits invested royally. 
 
 Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion 
 
 Thirsting with soverainty and love of arms. 
 
 His lofty brows in folds do figure death ; 
 
 And in their smoothness amity and life. 
 
 About them hangs a knot of amber hair. 
 
 Wrapped in curls, as fierce Achilles' was ; 
 
 -s> 
 
a- 
 
 RICHES. —DESCRIPTION OF HERO AND LEANDER. 71 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 On which the breath of heaven delights to 
 
 play. 
 Making it dance with wanton majesty. 
 His arms and fingers long and sinewy, 
 Betokening valor and excess of strength ; 
 In every part proportioned like the man 
 Should make the world subdue to Tamburlaine. 
 
 EICHES. 
 
 Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, 
 
 That trade in metal of the purest mould ; 
 
 The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rooks 
 
 Without control can pick his riches up, 
 
 And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones ; 
 
 Receive them free and sell them by the weight. 
 
 Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts. 
 
 Jacinths, hard topas, grass-green emeralds, 
 
 Beauteo\is rubies, sparkling diamonds. 
 
 And seld-seen costly stones of so great price 
 
 As one of them, indifferently rated. 
 
 And of a caract of this quality, 
 
 May serve in peril of calamity 
 
 To ransome great kings from captinfy. 
 
 This is the ware wherein consists my wealth : 
 
 And thus methinks should men of judgment 
 
 frame 
 Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, 
 And, as their wealth iucreaseth, so inclose 
 Infinite riches in a little room. 
 
 FAUST'S VISION OF HELENA. 
 
 Was this the face that launoh'd a thousand 
 
 ships. 
 And burnt the topmost towers of Ilium ? 
 Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. — 
 Her lips suck forth my soul ! see where it 
 
 flies. 
 Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. 
 Here will I dwell, for heav'n is in these lips, 
 And all is dross that is not Helena. 
 I will be Paris ; and for love of thee. 
 Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack'd ; 
 And I will combat with the weak Menelaus, 
 And wear my colors on my plumed crest ; 
 Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel. 
 And then return to Helen for a kiss. 
 O, thou art fairer than the evening air. 
 Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars ; 
 Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter, 
 When he appear'd to hapless Semele ; 
 More lovely than the monarch of the sea. 
 In wanton Arethusa's azure arms ; 
 And none but thou shaft be my paramour ! 
 
 BEAUTY BEYOND EXPRESSION. 
 
 If aU the pens that ever poet held 
 Had fed the feeling of their master's thoughts. 
 And ev'ry sweetness that inspired their hearts, 
 And minds, and muses on admired themes ; 
 If all the heavenly quintessence they still 
 Erom their iunnortal flowers of poesy, 
 Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive 
 The highest reaches of a human wit ; 
 If these had made one poem's period, 
 And all combin'd in beauty's worthiness. 
 Yet should there hover in their restless heads. 
 One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the 
 
 best, 
 WTiich into words no virtue can digest. 
 
 DESCBIPTION OF HERO AND LEANDER, 
 
 On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood. 
 In view and opposite two cities stood. 
 Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might ; 
 The one Abydos, the other Sestos bight. 
 At Sestos Hero dwelt ; Hero the fair, 
 "Wliom young Apollo courted for her hair. 
 And offered .as a dower his burning throne, 
 Wliere she should sit, for men to gaze upon. 
 The outside of her g.arments were of lawn, 
 The Uning purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ; 
 Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a 
 
 grove. 
 Where Venus in her naked glory strove 
 To please the careless and disdainful eyes 
 Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ; 
 Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain, 
 Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. 
 Upon her head she wai'c a myrtle wreath. 
 From whence her veil reached to the ground be- 
 neath : 
 Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, 
 "VMiose workmanship both man and beast de- 
 ceives : 
 Many would praise the sweet smell as she past. 
 When 't was the odour which her breath forth 
 
 cast; 
 And there for honey bees have sought in vain, 
 And, beat from thence, have hghted there agaui. 
 About her neck himg chains of pebble-stone, 
 'Wliich, lightened by her neck, like diamonds 
 
 shone. 
 She ware no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind 
 Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her 
 
 mind. 
 Or warm or cool them, for they took delight 
 To play upon those hands, they were so white. 
 Buskins of shells, aU silvered, usM she. 
 And branched with blushing coral to the knee ; 
 
 -* 
 
C&- 
 
 72 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and 
 
 gold, 
 Such as the world woidd wonder to behold : 
 Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fdls, 
 ■Which, as she went, would cherup through the 
 
 bills. 
 Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined, 
 And, loolcing in her face, was strooken bhud. 
 But this is true ; so like was one the other. 
 As he imagined Hero was his mother ; 
 And oftentimes into her bosom flew. 
 About her naked neek his bare arms threw. 
 And laid his childish head upon her breast, 
 And, with still panting rock, there took his rest. 
 So lovely fair was Hero, Venus' nun. 
 As Nature wept, thinking she was undone. 
 Because she took more from her than she left. 
 And of such wondrous beauty her bereft : 
 Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack, 
 Smce Hero's time hath half the world been 
 black . 
 Amorous Leander, beautiful and young, 
 (Whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung,) 
 Dwelt at Abydos ; since him dwelt there none 
 For whom succeeding times make greater moan. 
 His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, 
 Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne. 
 Would liave allured the venturous youth of 
 
 Greece 
 To hazard more than for the golden fleece. 
 Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her 
 
 sphere ; 
 Grief makes her pale, because she moves not 
 
 there. 
 His body was as straight as Circe's wand ; 
 Jove might have sipt out nectar from Ids hand. 
 Even as deUeious meat is to the taste. 
 So was his neck in toucliing, and surpast 
 The white of Pelops' shoulder : I could tell ye, 
 How smooth his breast was, and how white his 
 
 belly. 
 And whose immortal fingers did imprint 
 That heavenly path with many a curious dint, 
 That runs along his back ; but my rude pen 
 Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men. 
 Much less of powerful gods : let it suffice 
 That my slack Muse sings of Leandcr's eyes ; 
 Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his 
 That leapt into the water for a kiss 
 Of his own shadow, and, despising many, 
 Died ere he coidd enjoy the love of any. 
 Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen. 
 Enamoured of his beauty had he been : 
 His presence made the rudest ])casant melt, 
 That in the vast outlandish country dwelt ; 
 The barbarous Thraeian soldier, moved with 
 
 naught, 
 Was moved with liim, and for Ills favour sought. 
 
 AVILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.* 
 
 1564 - 1616. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 
 Tliou art more lovely and more temperate ; 
 Rough wuids do shake the darling buds of May, 
 And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
 Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. 
 And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; 
 And every fair from fair sometimes declines, 
 By chance, or nature's changing course, un- 
 
 trimm'd : 
 But thy eternal summer shall not fade. 
 Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; ■ 
 Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, 
 Wlieu in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
 So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see. 
 So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 
 
 Let those who are in favour witii their stars 
 Of public honour and proud titles boast, 
 Wiilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, 
 Unlook'd-for joy in tliat I honour most. 
 Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread. 
 But as the marigold at the sun's eye. 
 And in themselves their pride lies buried; 
 For at a frown they in their glory die. 
 The painful warrior famoused for fight. 
 After a thousand victories once foil'd. 
 Is from the book of lionour razed quite, 
 And all the rest forgot for whieli he toil'd -. ■ 
 Then happy I, that love and am belov'd. 
 Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd. 
 
 When, m disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
 I all alone bewecp my outcast state. 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate ; 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
 Featur'd like him, like him witli friends possess'd. 
 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope. 
 With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising ; 
 Haply I think on thee, and then my state. 
 Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate : 
 For thy sweet love remcmbcr'd such weaUh 
 
 brings. 
 That tiien I scorn to change my slate with 
 
 kings. 
 
 * On being sliown n hook oallcd " Beauties of Shake- 
 speare," a lover of the poet asked, " Where are the otlier 
 eleven volumes?" The editors of this work have, in the 
 spirit of that question, eoucluded that it would he nerdless to 
 cite passages from plays in everyljody'a hands, and have luu- 
 ited their selections to Shakespeare's songs and poems. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -w 
 
J^Mh^ (^f^j>^^ 
 
cQ— 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 73 
 
 -Q) 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent tliought 
 I suinmou up rcinembrauce of things past, 
 I sigh the laclc of many a tiling I sought, 
 And with old woes newwailmy dear time's waste : 
 Then can I drown an eye, uuus'd to flow. 
 For precious friends liid in death's dateless night, 
 And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe, 
 And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight. 
 Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
 AVhich I new pay as if not paid before. 
 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
 AU losses are restor'd, and sorrows end. 
 
 Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
 Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye. 
 Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
 GUding p;Je streams with heavenly alchemy ; 
 Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
 With ugly rack on his celestial face, 
 iVud from the forlorn world his visage hide. 
 Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
 Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 
 AVith all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; 
 But, out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ; 
 The region cloud hath mask'd him from me 
 
 now. 
 Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
 Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun 
 
 staineth. 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 
 Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; 
 
 But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
 
 Thanunswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. 
 
 ^Micn wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
 
 And broils root out the work of masonry. 
 
 Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn 
 
 The living record of your memory. 
 
 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
 
 Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall stiU find 
 
 room, 
 Even in the eyes of all posterity 
 That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
 So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
 You Uve in tliis, and dwell in lovers' eves. 
 
 Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry ; ■ 
 As, to behold desert a beggar bom. 
 And needy nothing trimm'd in jolhty, 
 And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
 And gilded honour shamefully niisplae'd. 
 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. 
 And ricjht jicrfeetion wrongfully disgrao'd. 
 And strength by Umping sway disabled. 
 And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
 
 ^^ — 
 
 And foUy (doctor-like) controlling skill, 
 And simple truth miscalled simplicity, 
 And captive good attending captain ill ; 
 Tir'd with all these, from these woidd I be gone, 
 Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 
 
 That thou art blani'd shall not be thy defect, 
 For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; 
 The ornament of beauty is suspect, 
 A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. 
 So thou be good, slander doth but apitrove 
 Thy worth the greater, bemg woo'd of time ; 
 For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love. 
 And thou present' st a pure, unstained prime. 
 Tliou hast pass'd by the ambush of yoiuig days. 
 Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd ; 
 Y'et tins thy praise cannot be so thy praise. 
 To tie up envy, evermore erdarg'd : 
 If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, 
 Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. 
 
 No longer mourn for me when I am dead, 
 Tiian you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
 Give warning to the world that I am fled 
 From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell. 
 Nay, if you read this hue, remember not 
 The hand that writ it ; for I love you so. 
 That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
 If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
 Oh ! if (I say) you look upon this verse. 
 When I perhaps compounded am with clay. 
 Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. 
 But let your love even with my life decay ; 
 Lest the wise world should look into your moan. 
 And mock you with me after I am gone. 
 
 From you have I been absent in the spring, 
 When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing 
 That heavy Saturn laugh'd and Icap'd with 
 
 him: 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 Of different flowers in odour and in hue. 
 Could make me any summer's story tell. 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 
 
 grew : 
 Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
 They were but sweet, but figures of delight. 
 Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those. 
 Yet seeni'd it winter still, and, you away. 
 As with your shadow I with these did play. 
 
 WuERE art thou. Muse, that thou forget'st so 
 
 long 
 To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ? 
 
 ■w 
 
a- 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, 
 Dai'keniiig thy power, to lend base subjects light ? 
 Kcturu, forgetful Muse, aud straight redeem 
 In gentle numbers time so idly spent ; 
 Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, 
 Aud gives thy pen both skill and argument. 
 Rise, restive Muse ! my love's sweet face survey, 
 If Time have any wrinkle graven there ; 
 If any, be a satire to decay. 
 And make Time's spoils despised every where. 
 Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life ; 
 So thou prevcut'st liis scythe and crooked kuife 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time 
 
 I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 
 
 And beauty making beautiful old rliyme. 
 
 In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 
 
 Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best. 
 
 Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
 
 I see their antique pen would have express'd 
 
 Even such a beauty as you master now. 
 
 So aU their praises are but prophecies 
 
 Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
 
 Aud, for they look'd but with dlviniug eyes, 
 
 They had not skill enough your worth to sing: 
 
 for we, which now behold these present days, 
 
 Have eyes to wouder, but lack tongues to praise. 
 
 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
 Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, 
 Can yet the lease of my true love control, 
 Suppos'd as forfeit to a eonfin'd doom. 
 The mortal moon hath her ecUpse endur'd. 
 And the sad augurs mark their own presage ; 
 Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, 
 Aud peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
 Now with the drops of this most balmy time 
 My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes. 
 Since, spite of him, I '11 live in this poor rhyme, 
 While he insults o'er dull aud speechless tribes : 
 And thou in this shall find thy monument. 
 When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are 
 spent. 
 
 Alas, 't is true I have gone here and there, 
 
 And made myself a motley to the wew ; 
 
 Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is 
 
 most dear. 
 Made old offences of affections new : 
 Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth 
 Askance and strangely ; but, by all above. 
 These blenches gave my heart anotluT youth, 
 And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love. 
 Now all is done, save what shall have no end : 
 Mine appetite I never more will grind 
 On newer proof, to try an older friend, 
 A god in love, to whom I am eonfin'd. 
 
 Then give me welcome, next my heaven the 
 
 best, 
 Even to thy pure, and most, most loving breast. 
 
 Oh ! for my sake do you with fortune cliide. 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
 That did not better for my life provide. 
 Than public means, which public mamiers breeds. 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
 Aud almost thence my nature is subdued 
 To what it works in, Kke the dyer's hand. 
 Pity me, then, and wish I were renew'd. 
 Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
 Potions of eysell 'gainst my strong infection : 
 No bitterness that I will bitter think, 
 Nor double penauee, to correct correction. 
 Pity me, then, dear friend, aud I assure ye, 
 Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 
 
 Let me not to the maniage of tme minds 
 
 Admit impediments : love is not love, 
 
 WTiich alters when it alteration finds, 
 
 Or bends with the remover to remove ; 
 
 O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark. 
 
 That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 
 ^Vhose worth 's unknown, although his height be 
 
 taken. 
 Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 
 
 cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
 If this be error, aud upon me prov'd, 
 I never writ, nor no nuui ever lov'd. 
 
 Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame 
 Is lust in action ; and, till action, lust 
 Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, fidl of blame. 
 Savage, extreme, nide, cruel, not to trust ; 
 Eujoy'd no sooner but despised straiglit, 
 Past reason hunted, aud, no sooner had. 
 Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait. 
 On purpose laid to make the taker mad : 
 Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; 
 Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; 
 A bhss in proof, and, prov'd, a very woe ; 
 Before, a joy propos'd ; behind, a dream : 
 All this the world well knows ; yet none knows 
 
 weU 
 To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 
 
 Those lips that Love's own hand did make 
 Brcath'd fortli the sound that said, " I hate," 
 To me that languisii'il for her sake ; 
 But when slie saw my woful state, 
 
 —9^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE PHCENIX AND THE TUKTLE. 
 
 75 
 
 -fi) 
 
 Straight in her heart did mercy come, 
 Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet 
 Was us'd in giving gentle doom ; 
 And taught it thus anew to greet : 
 " I hate," she alter'd with an end, 
 That follow'd it as gentle day 
 Doth follow night, who, like a fiend. 
 From heaven to hell is flown away : 
 " I hate " from hate away she threw, 
 And sav'd my life, saying, — "not you." 
 
 SO ON THE TIP OF HIS SUBDUING TONGUE. 
 
 So on the tip of liis subduing tongue 
 All kind of arguments and question deep, 
 Al\ replication prompt, and reason strong. 
 For his advantage still did wake and sleep : 
 To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep. 
 He had the dialect and different skill, 
 Catcliing all passions in his craft of will : 
 
 Tliat he did iu the general bosom reign 
 Of young, of old ; aud sexes both enchanted, 
 To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain 
 In personal duty, following whei'e he haunted : 
 Consents, bewitch'd, ere he desire have granted ; 
 Aud dialogued for him what he would say, 
 Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey. 
 
 !Many there were that did his picture get, 
 To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind ; 
 Like fools that iu th' imagiuation set 
 The goodly objects wliich abroad they find 
 Of lands aud mansions, theirs in thought as- 
 
 sigu'd ; 
 And labouring in more pleasures to bestow them. 
 Than the true gouty landlord, which doth owe 
 
 them. 
 
 So, many have, that never toueh'd his hand. 
 Sweetly suppos'd them mistress of his heart. 
 j\ly woeful self, that did in freedom stand. 
 And was my own fee-simple, (not in paii;,) 
 "S^liat with his art in youth, and youth in art.. 
 Threw my affections in his charmed power, 
 lleserv'd the stalk, and gave liim all my flower. 
 A Lover's Complaint. 
 
 THE PHCENIX AlTD THE TUETLE. 
 
 Let the bird of loudest lay. 
 
 On the sole Ai'abian ti-ee. 
 
 Herald sad and trumpet be. 
 
 To whose sound chaste wings obey. 
 
 <e- 
 
 But, thou shrieking harbinger, 
 Foul precurrer of the fiend. 
 
 Augur of the fever's end. 
 
 To this troop come thou not near. 
 
 From this session interdict 
 Every fowl of tyrant wing. 
 Save the eagle, feather'd king : 
 Keep the obsequy so strict. 
 
 Let the priest in surpUee white. 
 That defuuctive music can. 
 Be the death-divining swan. 
 Lest the requiem lack his right : 
 
 And thou, treble-dated crow. 
 That thy sable gender mak'st 
 With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 
 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. 
 
 Here the anthem doth commence : 
 Love and constancy is dead ; 
 Phcenix and the turtle fled 
 Li a mutual flame from hence. 
 
 So they lov'd, as love in twain 
 Had the essence but iu one ; 
 Two distincts, division none : 
 Number there in love was slain. 
 
 Hearts remote, yet not asunder ; 
 Distance, and no space was seen 
 'Twixt the turtle and his queen : 
 But in them it were a wonder. 
 
 So between them love did slune. 
 That the turtle saw his right 
 Flaming iu the phcenix's sight : 
 Either was the other's mine. 
 
 Property was thus appall' d. 
 That the seK was not the same ; 
 Single nature's double name 
 Neither two nor one was call'd. 
 
 Reason, in itself confounded. 
 Saw division grow together ; 
 To themselves yet either neither. 
 Simple were so well compoimded ; 
 
 That it cried, — How true a twain 
 Seemeth this concordant one ! 
 Love hath reason, reason none. 
 If what parts can so remain. 
 
 Whereupon it made this threue'^ 
 To the phoenix and the dove, 
 Co-supremes and stars of love. 
 As chorus to their tragic scene : 
 
 1 A funeral song. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Beauty, ti-utli, and rarity, 
 Grace in all simplicity. 
 Here onclos'd in cinders lie. 
 
 Death is now the phoenix' nest ; 
 And the turtle's loyal breast 
 To eternity doth rest, 
 
 Leaving no posterity : 
 'T was not their infirmity ; 
 It was married chastity. 
 
 Truth may seem, but cannot be ; 
 Beauty brag, but 't is not she : 
 Truth and bea\ity buried be. 
 
 To this urn let those repair. 
 That are either true or fair : 
 Por these dead birds sigh a prayer. 
 
 DESCKIPTION OF A HORSE. 
 
 Look, when a painter would surpass the life. 
 In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, 
 His art with nature's workmanship at strife, 
 As if the dead the living should exceed; 
 So did this horse excel a common one, 
 In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone. 
 
 Round-hoof'd, short-joiuted, fetlocks shag and 
 long. 
 
 Broad breast, full eye, small head, and uostrd 
 wide. 
 
 High crest, short ears, straight legs, and pass- 
 ing strong, 
 
 Tliiu mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender 
 hide: 
 
 Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack. 
 
 Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 
 
 Venus and Adonis. 
 
 THE BEAUTY OF ADONIS. 
 
 But if thou fall, O then imagine this : 
 
 The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips. 
 
 And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. 
 
 Rich preys make true men thieves ; so do thy 
 
 lips 
 Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, 
 Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn. 
 
 Now, of this dark night 1 perceive the reason : 
 Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, 
 Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason. 
 For stealing moulds from heaven that were di- 
 
 Wherein she fram'd thee, in high heaven's 
 
 despite. 
 To shame the sun by day, and her by night. 
 
 Venus and Adonis. 
 
 THE LAEK. 
 
 Lo ! here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 
 Prom liis moist cabinet mounts up on high. 
 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast 
 The Sim ariseth in his majesty ; 
 Who doth the world so gloriously behold. 
 That cedar-tops and liills seem bumish'd gold. 
 
 Venus and Adonis. 
 
 LUCKECE SLEEPING. 
 
 Her Uly hand her rosy cheek lies under. 
 Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss ; 
 Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, 
 ■Swelling on either side, to want his bhss. 
 Between whose hills her head entombed is ; 
 Wiere, like a idrtuous monument, she lies, 
 To be admii^'d of lewd, unhallow'd eyes. 
 
 Without the bed her other fair hand was. 
 On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white 
 Show'd Uke an April daisy on the grass. 
 With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night. 
 Her eyes, Uke marigolds, had sheath'd their Kght, 
 And cano])ied in darkness sweetly lay. 
 Till they might open to adorn the day. 
 
 Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her 
 
 breath ; 
 0, modest wantons ! wanton modesty ! 
 Showing life's triumph in the map of death. 
 And death's dim look in life's mortality : 
 Each in her sleep themselves so beautify. 
 As if between them twain there were no strife. 
 But that life Kv'd in death, and death in life. 
 
 The Rape of Lucrece. 
 
 OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 Unkuly blasts wait on the tender spring ; 
 Unwholesome weeds take root ■with precious 
 
 flowers ; 
 The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ; 
 AMiat virtue breeds iniquity devours : 
 We have no good that we eau say is ours. 
 But ill-annexed Opjiortunity 
 Or kills his life, or else his quality. 
 
 <fe- 
 
 O Opportunity ! thy guilt is great : 
 
 'T is thou that execut'st the traitor's treason : 
 
 -^^ 
 
a- 
 
 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 77 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 Thou sett'st the wolf where he the lamb may 
 
 get; 
 Wlioever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season : 
 'T is thoii that spum'st at right, at law, at reason; 
 And in thy sliady cell, where none may spy him, 
 Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. 
 
 Thou mak'st the vestal violate her oath ; 
 Tliou blow'st tile fire when temperance is thaw'd; 
 Thou smother'st honesty, thou raurder'st troth : 
 Thou foul abettor ! thou notorious bawd ! 
 Tlio\i plantest scandal, and displaoest laud : 
 Thou ravishor, thou traitor, thou false thief, 
 Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief ! 
 
 Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame ; 
 
 Thy private feasting to a public fast; 
 
 Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name ; 
 
 Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste : 
 
 Thy violent vanities can never last. 
 
 How comes it, then, vile Opportunity, 
 
 Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ? 
 
 "When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, 
 And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd ? 
 When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end. 
 Or free that sovd which wretchedness hath chain'd ? 
 Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd? 
 The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for 
 
 thee; 
 But they ne'er meet with Opportunity. 
 
 The patient dies while the physician sleeps ; 
 The orpiian pines while the oppressor feeds ; 
 Justice is feasting while the widow weeps ; 
 Advice is sporting while infection breeds : 
 Thou grant'st no time for charitalile deeds. 
 ^Vratli, envy, treason, rape, and murder rages. 
 The heinous hours wait on them as their pages. 
 « * * 
 
 Misshapen Time, copesmate of ugly night. 
 Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care ; 
 Eater of youth, false slave to false delight. 
 Base watch of woes, sin's packhorse, virtue's 
 
 snare ; 
 Thou nursest all, and murder'st all that are. 
 O, hear me, then, injurious, sliifting Time ! 
 Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. 
 
 Wliy hath thy servant. Opportunity, 
 Betray'd the hours thou gav'st me to repose ? 
 Canccll'd my fortunes, and enchained me 
 To endless date of never-ending woes ? 
 Time's ofiice is to fine the hate of foes ; 
 To eat up errors by opinion bred. 
 Not spend the dowry of a la fid bed. 
 
 Time's glory is to calm contending kings ; 
 
 To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light ; 
 
 To stamp the seal of time in aged things ; 
 To wake the morn, and sentinel the night ; 
 To wrong the wronger tiU he render right ; 
 To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours. 
 And smear with dust their gUttering golden 
 towers ; 
 
 To fiU with worm-holes stately monuments ; 
 
 To feed oblivion with decay of tilings ; 
 
 To blot old books, and alter their contents ; 
 
 To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings ; 
 
 To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs ; 
 
 To spoil antiquities of haramer'd steel. 
 
 And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel ; 
 
 To show the beldame da\igliters of her daughter ; 
 To make the child a man, the man a child ; 
 To slay the tiger that doth hve by slaughter ; 
 To tame the unicorn and lion wild ; 
 To mock the subtle, in themselves beguil'd ; 
 To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops. 
 And waste huge stones with little water-drops. 
 
 Wliy work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage. 
 Unless thou coiddst return to make amends ? 
 One poor retiring minute in an age 
 Would purchase thee a thousand thousand 
 
 friends. 
 Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends ; 
 O, tlus dread night, wouldst thou one hour 
 
 come back, 
 I could prevent this storm, and shun thy 
 
 wi'ack. 
 
 The Rape of Lucrece. 
 
 CKABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 Crabbed age and youth 
 
 Cannot live together : 
 Youth is full of pleasance, 
 
 Age is full of care ; 
 Youth like summer mom, 
 
 Age like winter weather ; 
 Youth like summer brave. 
 
 Age like winter bare : 
 Youtli is full of sport, 
 Age's breath is short ; 
 
 Youth is nimble, age is lame ; 
 Youth is hot and bold. 
 Age is weak and cold ; 
 
 Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
 Age, I do abhor thee ; 
 Youth, I do adore thee : 
 
 O, my love, my love is young ! 
 Age, I do defy thee: 
 O, sweet shepherd ! hie thee. 
 
 For methinks thou stay'st too long. 
 
 The Passionate Pi/f/rhn. 
 
 -0> 
 
a- 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 FOESWOEN FOR LOVE, 
 
 On a day, (alack the day !) 
 Love, whose month was ever May, 
 Spied a blossom passing fair, 
 Playing in the wanton air : 
 Through the velvet leaves the wind, 
 All unseen, 'gan passage find ; 
 That the lover, sick to death, 
 Wish'd liimsclf the heaven's breath. 
 Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow : 
 Air, woidd I might triumph so ! 
 But, alas ! my hand hath sworn 
 Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : 
 Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ; 
 Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. 
 Do not call it sin in nie, 
 lliat I am forsworn for thee : 
 Thou, for whom Jove would swear 
 Juno but an Ethiop wei'e ; 
 And deny himself for Jove, . 
 Turning mortal for thy love. 
 
 SONGS FKOM THE DEAMAS, 
 SILVIA. 
 
 Who is Silvia ? What is she, 
 That all our swains commend her ? 
 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she. 
 
 The heavens such grace did lend her. 
 
 That she might admired be. 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair ? 
 
 Por beauty Uves \rith kindness : 
 Love doth to her eyes repair, 
 
 To help him of his blindness ; 
 And, being helped, iuliabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing, 
 
 That Silvia is excelhug ; 
 She excels each mortal thing, 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands brmg. 
 
 Ttoo Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 fr 
 
 WHITE AND RED. 
 
 If she be made of white and red, 
 
 Her faults wiU ne'er be known ; 
 Por blushing cheeks by faults ai-e bred, 
 
 And fears by pale-white shown ; 
 Then, if she fear, or be to blame. 
 
 By this you shall not know ; 
 Per still her checks possess the same, 
 
 Wliich native she doth ovn\. 
 
 Lovers Labour Lost. 
 
 SPRING AND WINTER. 
 
 When daisies pied, and violets blue. 
 And lady-smocks all silver-white, 
 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. 
 Do paint the meadows with delight, 
 
 The cuckoo then, on every tree. 
 
 Mocks maiTied men, for thus sings he. 
 Cuckoo ; 
 
 Cvickoo, cuckoo, ■ — word of fear, 
 
 Uupleasuig to a married ear ! 
 
 Wlien shepherds pipe on oaten straws. 
 And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, 
 
 When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws. 
 And maidcus bleach their summer smocks, 
 
 The cuckoo then, on every tree. 
 
 Mocks married men, for thus sings he. 
 Cuckoo ; 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, 
 
 Unpleasing to a married ear ! 
 
 Wlien icicles hang by the wajl, 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
 And Tom bears logs into the hall. 
 
 And milk comes frozen home m pail, 
 TVHien blood is nipped, and ways be foul. 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To-who; 
 Tu-wliit, to-who, a men'y note. 
 While greasy Joan doth keel' the pot. 
 
 Wlien all around the wind doth blow. 
 
 And coughmg drowns the parson's saw. 
 And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
 
 And Marian's nose looks red and raw. 
 When roasted crabs hiss in the howl, 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To-who ; 
 Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
 Love's Labour Lost. 
 
 SONG OF THE FAIRY. 
 
 Over hill, over dale. 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
 Over park, over pale. 
 
 Thorough flood, tliorough fire, 
 I do wander everywhere. 
 Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
 And I serve the fairy queen. 
 To dew her orbs' upon the green ; 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
 In their gold coats spots you see. 
 These be rubies, fairy favours. 
 In those freckles live their savours : 
 
 1 Skim. 
 
 * The rinfrs on the sward, dried up by the feet of the fairies 
 in dancitiLC their roimdA. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 TITANIA IN THE WOOD. 
 
 INCONSTANCY OF MEN. 
 
 79 
 
 ■ft 
 
 I must go seek some dewdrops here, 
 And Lang a pearl in every eowslip's ear. 
 
 A 3Iidsummer Nir/hl'3 Dream. 
 
 TITANIA IN THE WOOD. 
 
 You spotted snakes, with double tongue, 
 Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen ; 
 
 Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong ; 
 Come not near our fairy queen : 
 
 Philomel, with melody, 
 Sins iu our sweet lullaby; 
 LuUa, lulla, lullaby; lulla, luUa, lullaby; 
 Never harm, nor spell nor charm. 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So, good night, with lullaby. 
 
 "Weaving spiders, come not here : 
 
 Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence : 
 
 Beetles black, approach not near ; 
 Worm, nor snail, do no offence. 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 Philomel, with melody, etc. 
 
 A Midsiimyner Night's Dream. 
 
 BIRDS. 
 
 The woosel-cock,' so black of hue. 
 
 With orange -tawny biU, 
 The throstle with his note so true. 
 
 The wren with little quill ; 
 The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, 
 
 The plain-song cuckoo gray. 
 Whose note full many a man doth mark. 
 
 And dares not answer, nay. 
 
 A Iliclsummer Nighfs Dream. 
 
 THE DEAD OF NIGHT, — APPROACH OF THE 
 FAIRIES. 
 
 Now the hungry Kon roars, 
 
 And tlie wolf behowls the moon ; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 
 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow, 
 
 Wliilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud. 
 Puts the wretch that lies in woe, 
 
 Li remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide. 
 Every one lets forth his sprite. 
 
 In the churchway paths to glide : 
 And we fairies, that do run 
 
 By the triple Hecate's team. 
 
 <Q-^ 
 
 1 Tlie blackWrtL 
 
 Prom the presence of the sun, 
 
 Following darkness like a dream. 
 Now are frolic ; not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallowed house : 
 I am sent with broom before. 
 To sweep the dust behind the door. 
 
 Tlirough the house give glimmering hght. 
 By the dead and drowsy fire ; 
 
 Every elf, and fairy sprite. 
 
 Hop as light as bird from brier ; 
 
 And this ditty after me. 
 
 Sing, and dance it, trippingly. 
 
 First, rehearse this song by rote ; 
 
 To each word a warbling note. 
 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace. 
 
 We will sing, and bless this place. 
 
 Now, until the break of day, 
 
 Throiigh this house each fairy stray. 
 
 To the best bride-bed will we. 
 
 Which by us shall blessed be ; 
 
 And the issue there create 
 
 Ever shall be fortunate. 
 
 So sliall all tlie couples tliree 
 
 Ever true in loving be ; 
 
 And the blots of nature's liand 
 
 Sliall not in their issue stand ; 
 
 Never mole, hare-hp, nor scar. 
 
 Nor mark prodigious, such as are 
 
 Despised in nativity, 
 
 Shall upon their children be. 
 
 With this field-dew consecrate. 
 
 Every fairy take his gait ; 
 
 And each several chamber bless. 
 
 Through this palace with sweet peace : 
 
 Ever shall iu safety rest. 
 
 And tlie owner of it blessed. 
 
 Trip away ; 
 
 Make no stay : 
 Meet me all by break of day. 
 
 A Midsummer Nif/Jifs Dream. 
 
 INCONSTANCY OF MEN. 
 
 SiGn no more, ladies, sigh no more ; 
 
 Men were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot in sea, and one on shore ; 
 To one thing constant never : 
 Then sigh not so, 
 But let them go, 
 And be you bhthe and bonny ; 
 Converting all your sounds of woe 
 Into, hey nonny, nomiy. 
 
 Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 
 Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 80 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 The fraud of men was ever so 
 Since summer first was leavy, 
 
 Then sigh not so, etc. 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 HERO'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Done to death by slanderous tongues 
 
 Was the Hero tliat here lies ; 
 Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, 
 
 Gives her fame which never dies : 
 So the life that died with shame, 
 Lives in death with glorious fame. 
 Haug thou there upon the tomb, 
 Praising her when I am dumb. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 HYMN AT THE TOMB. 
 
 Pardon, goddess of the night, 
 Those that slew thy virgin knight ; 
 For the which, with songs of woe. 
 Round about her tomb they go. 
 Midnight, assist our moan ; 
 Help us to sigh and groan. 
 Heavily, hea\nly: 
 Graves yawn, and yield your dead, 
 Till death be utterk. 
 Heavenly, heavenly. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 ONE GOOD WOMAN IN TEN. 
 
 Was this fair face the cause, quoth she. 
 
 Why the Grecians sacked Troy ? 
 Pond done, done fond. 
 
 Was this King Priam's joy ? 
 With that she sighed as she stood. 
 With that she sighed as she stood. 
 
 And gave this sentence then : 
 Among nine bad if one be good, 
 Among nine bad if one be good. 
 
 There 's yet one good in ten. 
 
 All's Well that Rids Well. 
 
 THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF FANCY.> 
 
 Tell me where is fancy bred. 
 Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
 How begot, how nourished? 
 Reply, reply. 
 
 It is engendered in the eyes. 
 With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
 In tha cradle where it lies : 
 Let us all ring fancy's knell ; 
 I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 
 Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 . * Fancy is constantly used by Slmkcspcavc and hia con- 
 temporaries in the sense of love. 
 
 SWEET-AND-TWENTY. 
 
 O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ? 
 O, stay and hear ; your true love 's coming. 
 
 That can sing both high and low : 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 TVhat is love ? 't is not hereafter ; 
 Present mirth hath present laughter ; 
 
 What 's to come is still unsure : 
 In delay there hes no plenty ; 
 Then come kiss me, sweet-aud-twenty, 
 
 Youth 's a stuff wUl not endure. 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 SLAIN BY LOVE. 
 
 Come away, come away, death. 
 And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
 
 Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
 I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
 My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 
 O, prepare it ; 
 My part of death no one so true 
 Did share it. 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 On my black coffin let there be strown ; 
 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save. 
 
 Lay me, O where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave, 
 To weep there. 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 THE RAIN IT RAINETH EVERY DAY. 
 
 When that I was and a little tiny boy, 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 
 A foolish thing was but a toy. 
 For the rant it raineth every day. 
 
 But when I came to man's estate. 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 
 'Gainst knave and thief men shut their gate. 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 But when I came, alas ! to wive. 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 
 By swaggering could I never thrive. 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 But when I came unto my bed, 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 
 With toss-pots still had drunken head. 
 For the rain it raineth cver_> day. 
 
 A great while ago the world begun, 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 
 ^ 
 
 -# 
 
cfi: 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF HOPELESS LOVE. 
 
 81 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 But that's all one, our play is done, 
 And we "11 strive to please you every day.' 
 Twelfth Kir/ht. 
 
 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE, 
 
 Under the greenwood tree, 
 Wlio loves to lie with me. 
 And tune ^ his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come liitlier, come hither ; 
 Here shall we see 
 No enemy 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 TVTio doth ambition sliun, 
 And loves to live in tlie sun, 
 Seeking the food he cats. 
 And pleased vni\\ what he gets, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 If it do come to pass, 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leaving his wealth and ease, 
 A stubborn will to please, 
 Ducdame, ducdiime, duedame ; 
 Here shall he see. 
 Gross fools as he, 
 An if he will come to me. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 ■ Thou art not so unkind 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Altliougli tliy breath be rude. 
 Heigh lio ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green 
 
 holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 
 folly: ^ 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp,' 
 
 * The Fool in K'uig Lear sings a snatch of a ballad with the 
 same burthen : — 
 
 " He that has anil a little tiny wit, 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
 Though the rain it raineth every day." 
 
 2 In some editions turn. 
 
 3 Tliercwas an old Saxon proverb, Winter shall warp water. 
 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 As friend remembered not. 
 
 Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! etc. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 THE HOMILY OF LOVE. 
 
 Why should this desert silent be ? 
 
 For it is unpeopled ? No ; 
 Tongues I '11 hang on every tree. 
 
 That shall civil sayings shew. 
 Some, how brief tlic life of man 
 
 Runs his erring pilgrimage ; 
 That the stretching of a span 
 
 Buckles in his sura of age. 
 Some, of violated vows 
 
 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend : 
 But upon the fairest boughs. 
 
 Or at every sentence' eud. 
 Will I Rosalinda write : 
 
 Teaching all that read to know 
 The quintessence of every sprite 
 
 Heaven would in httle show. 
 Tlicrcfore heaveu nature charged 
 
 That one body should be filled 
 Witli all graces wde enlarged : 
 
 Nature presently distilled 
 Helen's cheek, but not her heart ; 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty ; 
 Atalanta's better part ; 
 
 Sad Lucretia's modesty. 
 Thus Rosalind of many parts 
 
 By heavenly synod was devised; 
 Of many faces, eyes, and hearts. 
 
 To have the touches dearest prized. 
 Heaven would that she these gifts sliould have, 
 Aud I to live and die her slave. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF HOPELESS LOVE. 
 
 Art thou god to shepherd turned. 
 That a maiden's heart hath burned ? 
 Wliy, thy godhead laid apart, 
 Warrest thou with a woman's heart ? 
 'Rniilcs the eye of man did woo me. 
 That coidd do no vengeance to iTie. 
 If the scorn of your bright eyne 
 Have power to raise such love in mine, 
 Alack, in me what strange effect 
 Would they work in mild aspect ? 
 Whiles you chid me, I did love ; 
 How then miglit your prayers move ? 
 He that brings this love to thee. 
 Little knows this love in me ; 
 And by him seal up tliy mind ; 
 Whether that by youth and kind 
 Will the faithful oifer take 
 Of me, and all that I can make ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 82 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Or else by liim my love deny. 
 And then I '11 study how to die. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 Then is there mirth in heaven, 
 When earthly tilings made even 
 
 Atone together. 
 Good duke, receive thy daughter. 
 Hymen from heaven brouglit her, 
 
 Yea, brought her hither ; 
 That thou mightst join her hand with his. 
 Whose heart within her bosom is. 
 
 M You Like It. 
 
 WEDLOCK. 
 
 Wedding is great Juno's crown ; 
 
 blessed bond of board and bed ! 
 'Tis Hymen peoples every town; 
 
 High wedlock then be honoured : 
 Honour, high honour and renown, 
 To Hymen, god of every town ! 
 
 As You Like If. 
 
 TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 
 
 Take, O, take those lips away. 
 
 That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 
 Lights that do mislead the morn ; 
 But my kisses bring again. 
 
 Bring again. 
 Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 
 
 Sealed in vain. 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 THE SWEET O' THE TEAR. 
 
 When daffodils begin to peer. 
 
 With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, 
 
 Wliy, then comes in the sweet o' the year ; 
 For the red blood reigns in the winter's 
 pale. 
 
 The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, 
 
 With heigh! the sweet birds, 0, how they 
 sing ! 
 
 Doth set thy pugging tooth on edge ; 
 For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 
 
 The lark, that tirra-lirra chants. 
 
 With heigh! with hey! the thrush and the 
 
 J'i.Y ■■ 
 Are summer songs for me and my aunts, 
 While we lie tumbling in the hay. 
 
 fr 
 
 But shall I go mourn for that, my dear ? 
 The pale moon shines by night ; 
 
 And when I wander here and there, 
 I then do most go right. 
 
 If tinkers may have leave to live, 
 And bear the sow-skin bowget ; 
 
 Then my account I well may give, 
 And in the stocks avouch it. 
 
 A irinter's Tale. 
 
 A MERRY HEART FOR THE ROAD. 
 
 Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 
 
 And merrily lient the stile-a : 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a. 
 
 A Winter's Tale. 
 
 THE PEDLER AT THE DOOR. 
 
 Lawn, as white as driven snow ; 
 
 Cypress, black as e'er was crow ; 
 
 Gloves, as sweet as damask roses ; 
 
 Masks for faces, and for noses ; 
 
 Bugle-bracelet, necklace-araber, 
 
 Perfume for a lady's chamber : 
 
 Golden quoifs and stomachers, 
 
 For my lads to give their dears ; 
 
 Pins and poking-sticks of steel. 
 
 What maids lack from head to heel : 
 
 Come, buy of me, come ; come buy, come buy; 
 
 Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry : 
 
 Come, buy, etc. 
 -/ Winter's Tale. 
 
 COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS. 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands. 
 
 And then take hands : 
 Courtesied when you have, and kissed. 
 
 The wild waves whist, 
 Foot it featly here and there ; 
 And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
 Hark, hark ! 
 
 Bowgh, wowgh. 
 Tlie watch-dogs bark : 
 
 Bowgh, wowgh. 
 Hark, hark ! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticleer 
 Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo. 
 
 T/ie Tempest. 
 
 FULL FATHOM FIVE THY FATHER LIES. 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies ; 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Notliing of him that doth fade. 
 But doth sutler a sea-ehange 
 Lito something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his kn(^ll : 
 Hark! now I hear them, — ding-dong, bell. 
 
 Tlie Tempest. 
 
 ^-^ 
 
a- 
 
 HARK! HAEK! THE LARK AT HEAVEN'S GATE SINGS! 83 
 
 -Q) 
 
 t 
 
 THE WARNING 
 
 While you here do snoring lie, 
 
 Open-eyed Conspiracy 
 His time doth take ; 
 If of Ufe you keep a care, 
 Shake off slumber, and beware : 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 
 The Tempest. 
 
 THE BLESSING OF JUNO AND CERES. 
 
 HoxouR, riches, marriage-blessing. 
 Long continuance, and encreasing, 
 Hourly joys be still upon you ! 
 Juno sings her blessings on you. 
 
 Earth's increase, and foison' plenty. 
 Barns and garners never empty ; 
 Vines w'lth clustering bunches growing ; 
 Plants with goodly burthen bowing ; 
 
 Spring come to you, at the farthest. 
 In the very end of harvest ! 
 Scarcity and want sliall shun you ; 
 Ceres' blessing so is on you. 
 
 The Tempest. 
 
 ARIEL SET FREE. 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
 There I couch when owls do cry ; 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 After summer merrily : 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 The Tempest. 
 
 INFUTENCE OF MUSIC. 
 
 Orpheus with his lute made trees, 
 And the mountain-tops that freeze, 
 
 Bow tlieraselves, when he did sing : 
 To his music, plants and flowers. 
 Ever sprung ; as sun, and showors 
 
 There had made a lasting spring. 
 
 Everything that heard him play, 
 Even the billows of the sea. 
 
 Hung their heads, and then lay by — 
 In sweet music is such art : 
 Killing care, and grief of heart. 
 
 Fall asleep, or, hearing, die. 
 
 King Henry VIII. 
 
 OPHELIA'S SONGS. 
 
 How should I your true love know 
 From another one ? 
 
 1 AbunJaiice. 
 
 By his cockle hat and staff. 
 And his sandal shoon. 
 
 He is dead and gone, lady. 
 
 He is dead and gone ; 
 At his head a grass-green turf. 
 
 At his heels a stone. 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow. 
 Larded all with sweet flowers, 
 
 Whieli bewcpt to the grave did go. 
 With true-love showers. 
 
 11. 
 And will he not come agam ? 
 And will he not come again ? 
 
 No, no, he is dead, 
 
 Go to thy death-bed. 
 He never will come again. 
 
 His beard was as white as snow, 
 All flaxen was his poll : 
 
 He is gone, he is gone. 
 
 And we cast away moan; 
 God 'a' mercy ou his soul I 
 
 Uainlrt. 
 
 HARK I HARK! THE LARK AT HEAVENS GATE 
 SINGS! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With everything that pretty bin ; ' 
 
 My lady sweet, arise ; 
 
 Arise, arise. Ci/mbeline. 
 
 THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN. 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 
 Tliou thy worldly task hast done. 
 Home art gone and ta'eu thy wages : 
 
 Golden lads and girls all must. 
 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
 To tliee the reed is as the oak : 
 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone. 
 
 Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 Thou hast flnished joy and moan : 
 
 1 Printed Is in tlie folio, cliaiif^ecl hy Ilaumer to bin. 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 .s-t 
 
 VERE. — BACON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thee, aud come to dust. 
 
 No exorciser harm thee : 
 Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
 Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
 Nothing ill come near thee ! 
 
 Quiet consummation have ; 
 
 And renowned be thy grave ! 
 
 Cymheline. 
 
 THE WILLOW SONG. 
 
 fr 
 
 The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree, 
 
 Sing all a green willow ; 
 Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee. 
 
 Sing wiUow, willow, vrillow : 
 The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her 
 
 moans ; 
 Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the 
 stones ; 
 Sing willow, willow, willow ; 
 Sing all a green willow must be my garland. 
 
 Othello. 
 
 THE FOOL'S SONG. 
 
 Fools had ne'er less grace in a year ; 
 
 For wise men are grown foppish ; 
 And know not how their wits to wear. 
 
 Their mamiers are so apish. 
 
 Then they for sudden joy did weep, 
 
 And I for sorrow sung. 
 That such a king should play bo-peep. 
 
 And go the fool among. 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 A CYNIC'S GRACE. 
 
 Immortal gods, I crave no pelf; 
 
 I pray for no man but myself : 
 
 Grant I may never prove so fond, 
 
 To trust man on his oath or bond ; 
 
 Or a harlot for her weeping ; 
 
 Or a dog that seems a sleeping ; 
 
 Or a keeper with my freedom ; 
 
 Or my friends, if I should need 'em. 
 
 Amen. So fall to 't : 
 
 Rich meu sin, and I eat root. 
 
 Timnn of Athens. 
 
 BACCHANALIAN EOTTND. 
 
 Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
 Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne : 
 In thy vats our cares be drowned ; 
 With tliy grapes our hairs be crowned ; 
 Cup us, till the world go round ; 
 Cup us, till the world go round ! 
 
 Antonij and Cleopatra. 
 
 EDWARD VERE, EARL OF OXFORD. 
 
 1534 (?) - 1604. 
 
 A EENUNCUTION. 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond. 
 Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, 
 I would not marvel that they make men bond 
 By ser\-ice long to purchase their good-will ; 
 But when I see how frail those creatures are, 
 I muse that men forget themselves so far. 
 
 To mark the choice they make, and how they 
 
 change, 
 How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan ; 
 Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range. 
 These gentle birds that fly from man to man ; 
 TVTio would not scorn and shake them from the 
 
 fist. 
 And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? 
 
 Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, 
 To pass the time when nothing else can please, 
 And train them to our lure with subtle oath, 
 Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease ; 
 And then we say when we their fancy try. 
 To play with fools, O, what a fool was I ! 
 
 FRANCIS BACON, 
 
 BARON VERULAM, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS. 
 
 1561-16S6. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 The World 's a bubble, and the Life of Man 
 
 Less than a span : 
 In his conception wretched, from the womb 
 
 So to the tomb ; 
 Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years 
 
 With cares and fears. 
 Wiio then to frail mortality shall trust. 
 But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 
 
 Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest. 
 
 What life is best ? 
 Courts are but only superficial schools 
 
 To dandle fools : 
 The rural parts are tuni'd into a den 
 
 Of savage men : 
 And where 's a city from all vice so free. 
 But may be term'd the worst of all the three ? 
 
 Domestic cares afllict the husband's bed. 
 
 Or ])ains his head : 
 Those that hvc single, take it for a curse, 
 
 Or do things worse : 
 
a- 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. — NIGHT IS NIGH GONE. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 85 
 
 ^ 
 
 Some would have children; those that have them, 
 moan 
 Or wish them gone : 
 What is it, tlieu, to have, or have no wife, 
 But single thraldom, or a double strife ? 
 
 Our own affection still at, home to please 
 
 Is a disease : 
 To cross the seas to any foreign soil, 
 
 Peril and toil : 
 Wars with their noise affright us : when they cease. 
 
 We are worse in peace. 
 What then remains, but that we still should cry 
 Not to be bom, or, being born, to die ? 
 
 RICHARD BARNFIELD. 
 
 About 1570. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE, 
 
 As it fell upon a day, 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 
 Sitting in a pleasant shade 
 
 Which a grove of myrtles made ; 
 
 Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 
 
 Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 
 
 Everytliing did banish moan. 
 
 Save the nightingale alone. 
 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 
 Leau'd her breast np-till a thorn ; 
 
 And there sung the dolefuU'st ditty, 
 
 That to hear it was great pity. 
 
 Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; 
 
 Teru, teru, by and by ; 
 
 Tliat, to hear her so complain. 
 
 Scarce I could from tears refrain; 
 
 For her griefs, so lively shown. 
 
 Made me tliink npon mine own. 
 
 Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st m vain ; 
 
 None takes pity on thy pain : 
 
 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 
 
 Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee : 
 
 King Pandion he is dead ; 
 
 All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; 
 
 All thy fellow-birds do sing, 
 
 Careless of thy sorrowing ! 
 
 Wlulst as fickle Fortune sniil'd. 
 
 Thou and I were both beguil'd. 
 
 Every one that flatters thee 
 
 Is no friend in misery. 
 
 Words are easy, like the wind ; 
 
 Faithful friends are hard to find. 
 
 Every man will be thy friend 
 
 Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend : . 
 
 Bvit, if store of crowns be scant. 
 
 No man will supply thy want. 
 If that one be prodigal. 
 Bountiful they will liim call ; 
 And with such-hke flattering, 
 " Pity but he were a king." 
 If he be addict to vice. 
 Quickly him they will entice ; 
 But if fortune once do frown. 
 Then farewell his great renown : 
 They that fawn'd on him before 
 Use his company no more. 
 He that is thy friend indeed. 
 He will help thee in thy need; 
 If thou sorrow, he will weep, 
 If thou wake he cannot sleep : 
 Thus, of every grief in heart 
 He with thee doth bear a part. 
 These are certain signs to know 
 Faitliful friend from flattering foe. 
 
 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. 
 
 - 1607 ( ). 
 
 NIGHT IS NIGH GONE. 
 
 Hey, now the day 's dawning ; 
 The jolly cock 's crowing ; 
 The eastern sky 's glowing ; 
 Stars fade, one by one ; 
 The thistle-cock 's crying 
 On lovers long lying. 
 Cease vowing and sighing ; 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 The fields are o'erflowing 
 With gowaus all glowing. 
 And white lilies growing, 
 A thousand as one ; 
 The sweet ring-dove cooing. 
 His love-notes renewing. 
 Now moaning, now suing ; 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 Tlie season excelling, 
 In scented flowers smelling. 
 To kind love compelling 
 Our hearts every one ; 
 With sweet ballads moving 
 The maids we are loving. 
 Mid musing and roving 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 Of war and fair women 
 The young knights are dreaming, 
 'V^'ith bright breastplates gleaming. 
 And plumed helmets on ; 
 
 -* 
 
(fr 
 
 8G 
 
 JAMES VI. —ALISON. — CAMPION. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The barbed steed neighs lordly, 
 And shakes his nianc ])roudly, 
 For war-trumpets loudly 
 Say night is nigh gone. 
 
 I see the flags flowing, 
 The warriors all glowing. 
 And, snorting and Ijlowing, 
 The steeds rushing on ; 
 The lances are crashing. 
 Out broad blades come flasliing, 
 Mid shouting and dashing, — 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 KING JAMES VI., OF SCOTLAND, 
 AT THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN. 
 
 1566 - 16S5. 
 
 ANE SCHOBT POEME OF TYME. 
 
 As 1 was pausing in a morning aire. 
 
 And could not sleip nor uawyis take me rest, 
 
 Furth for to walk, the morning was so faire, 
 Athort the fields, it seemed to me the best. 
 Tlie Bast was cleare, whereby belyve I gest 
 
 That fyrie Titan cumming was in sight. 
 
 Obscuring chaste Diana by his Uglit. 
 
 Who by liis rising in the azure skyes, 
 
 Did dewlie helse all thame on earth do dwell. 
 
 The balmie dew through birning drouth he dryis, 
 Which made the soile to savour sweit andsmell, 
 By dew that on the night before downe fell. 
 
 Which then was soukit up by the Delphienus heit 
 
 Up in the aire : it was so light and weit. 
 
 Whose hie ascending in liis purpour chere 
 Provokit all from Morpheus to flee : 
 
 As beasts to feid, and birds to sing with beir. 
 Men to their labour, bissie as the bee : 
 Yet idle men devysing did I see. 
 
 How for to drive the tyme that did them irk. 
 
 By sindric pastymes, quhile that it grew mirk. 
 
 Then woundrcd I to see them seik a wyle, 
 So willingly tlic precious tyme to tine ; 
 
 And how tiiey did thcmselfis so farr begyle. 
 To fushe of tyme, wliich of itself is fyne. 
 Fra tyme bo past to call it backwart sync 
 
 Is l)ot in vaino : therefore men sould be warr. 
 
 To sleuth the tyme tliat flees fra them so farr. 
 
 For what liath man hot tyme into this Ivfe, 
 Which gives hi)ii dayis his God aright to know? 
 
 Wliereforc tlicn sould we be at sic a stryfe. 
 So spedelie our selfis for to withdraw 
 
 U- 
 
 Evm from the tyme, which is on nowayes slaw 
 To flic from us, suppose we fled it noght ? 
 More wyse we were, if we the tyme had soght. 
 
 But sen that tyme is sic a precious tiling, 
 I wald we sould bestow it into that 
 
 Which were most pleasour to our heavenly King. 
 Flee ydilteth, wliich is the greatest lat; 
 Bot, sen that death to all is destinat. 
 
 Let us employ that tyme that God hath send us. 
 
 In doing weill, that good men may commend us. 
 
 RICHARD ALISON. 
 
 About 1606. 
 CHEERY EIPE 
 
 There is a garden in her face. 
 
 Where roses and white lilies blow ; 
 
 A lieaveuly paradise is that place, 
 Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
 
 There cherries grow that none may buy. 
 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Those cherries fairly do inclose 
 
 Of orient pearl a double row, 
 Which when her lovely laughter shows. 
 
 They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow : 
 Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 
 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 Threat'uing with piercing frowns to kiU 
 
 AU that approach with eye or hand 
 These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 jiii Hour's Recreation in Music. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPION. 
 
 1540 CO- 1633 (-). 
 DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SYLVAN AND AN HOUE. 
 
 Sylvan. Tell me, gentle Hour of Night, 
 Wherein dost thou most delight ? 
 Hour. Not in sleep. 
 Syl. Wlierein, then? 
 
 Hour. In the frolic view of men. 
 Syl. Lov'st thou nuisic ? 
 Hour. O, 't is sweet. 
 
 Syl. Wliiit 's dancing ? 
 
 ^ 
 
cfr 
 
 VOLPONE (THE FOX) AND HIS DUPES. 
 
 87 
 
 -n> 
 
 Hour. Ei>en (he mirth of feet. 
 
 Syl. Joy you iii fairies aud in elves ? 
 
 Hour. We are of that sort ourselves : 
 But, Sylvan, say, why do you love 
 Only to frequent the grove ? 
 
 Syl. Life is fullest of content. 
 Where delitflit is innocent. 
 
 Houu. Pleasure must vary, not be long ; 
 Come, then, let 's close aud end our song. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 1574 -1637. 
 
 VOLPONE (THE FOX) AND HIS DUPES. 
 
 Scene, a room in Volpone's house. 
 Enter VoLPONE and MoscA. 
 VoLPONE. Grood morning to the day : and next, 
 my gold ! — 
 Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. 
 
 MosCA li'ithtlraws the curtain, and discovers piles 
 of (fold, plate, jewels, etc. 
 
 Hail the world's soul, and mine ! more glad than is 
 The teeming earth to sec the long'd-for sun 
 Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram, 
 Am I, to view thy splendor darkening his ; 
 That, lying here, amongst my other hoards, 
 Show'st like a flame by night, or like the day 
 Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled 
 Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol, 
 But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, 
 Witli adoration thee and every relic 
 Of sacred treasure in this blessed room. 
 Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name. 
 Title that age wiiich they would have the best ; 
 Tliou being the best of things, aud far transcend- 
 ing 
 All style of joy, in cliildren, parents, friends, 
 Or any other waking dream on earth. 
 Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe, 
 They should have given her twenty thousand 
 
 Cupids ; 
 Such are thy beauties and our loves ! Dear saint. 
 Riches, the dumb god, that giv'st all men tongues. 
 Thou canst do naught, and yet mak'st men do all 
 
 things ; 
 The price of souls ; even hell, with thee to boot. 
 Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame. 
 Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee. 
 He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise — 
 MosCA. And what he will, sir. Riches are in 
 fortune 
 A greater good than wisdom is in nature. 
 
 VoLP. True, my beloved Mosea. Yet I glory 
 
 ^ 
 
 More in the cunning purchase of my wealth, 
 Than in the glad possession, since I gain 
 No common way ; I use no trade, no venture ; 
 I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no beasts 
 To feed the shambles ; have no mills for iron, 
 Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder : 
 I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships 
 To tlireat'nings of the furrow-faced sea ; 
 I turn no moneys in the public bank, 
 Nor usure private. 
 
 Mos. No, sir, nor devour 
 
 Soft prodigals. You shall have some will 
 
 swallow 
 A melting heir as glibly as your Dutch 
 Will pills of butter; 
 Tear forth the fathers of poor families 
 Out of their beds, and coffin them alive 
 In some kind clasping prison, where tlieir bones 
 May be forthcoming, when the flesh is rotten : 
 But your sweet nature doth abhor these courses ; 
 You lothe the widow's or the orphan's tears 
 Should wash your pavements, or their piteous 
 
 cries 
 R ing in your roofs, aud beat the air for vengeance. 
 
 VoLP. Right, Mosca ; I do lothe it. 
 
 Mos. And Ijesides, sir. 
 
 You are not like the thresher that doth stand 
 With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, 
 And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, 
 But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs ; 
 Nor like the merchant, who halh fill'd his vaults 
 With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines. 
 Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar : 
 You will Ke not in straw, whilst moths and worms 
 Feed on your sumjjtuous haugings and soft beds ; 
 You know the use of riches, and dare give now 
 From that bright lieap, to me, your poor observer. 
 
 VoLP. {giues him money). Take of my hand; 
 thou strik'st on truth in all. 
 And they are envious term thee parasite. 
 I have no wife, no parent, child, ally, 
 To give my substance to ; but whom I make 
 Must be my heir ; and this makes men observe 
 
 me : 
 This draws new clients daily to my house, 
 '\'\'omcn and men of every sex and age. 
 That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, 
 
 jewels, 
 With hope that when I die (which they expect 
 Each greedy minute) it shall then return 
 Tenfold upon them ; whilst some, covetous 
 Above the rest, seek to engross me whole, 
 And counter-work tlie one unto the other. 
 Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love : 
 All which I suffer, playing with their hopes. 
 And am content to coin them iuto profit, 
 And look upon their kindness, and take more. 
 And look on that ; still bearing them in baud. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 88 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Letting the cherry knock against their lips, 
 And draw it by their mouths, and back again. 
 (Knoekiny without) 
 
 VOLP. Wlio 's that ? 
 
 Mos. 'T is Signior Voltore, the advocate ; 
 I know him by his knock. 
 
 VoLP. Fetch me my gown, 
 
 My furs and night-caps ; say, my couch is chang- 
 ing- 
 And let him entertain himself awhile. 
 Without i' the gallery. {Exit Mosca.) Now, 
 
 now, my clients 
 Begin their visitation ! Vulture, kite. 
 Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey. 
 That think me turning carcase, now they come ; 
 I am not for them yet — 
 
 Re-enter MoscA with the gown, etc. 
 
 How now ! the news ? 
 
 Mos. A piece of plate, sir. 
 
 VoLP. Of what bigness ? 
 
 Mos. Huge, 
 
 Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed. 
 And arms engraven. 
 
 VoLP. Good ! and not a fox 
 
 Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights. 
 Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca ! 
 
 Mos. Sharp, sir. 
 
 VoLP. Give me my furs. (Puts on his sick 
 dress.) Why dost thou laugh so, man ? 
 
 Mos. I cannot choose, sir, when I ajjpreliend 
 What thoughts he has without now, as he walks : 
 That this might be the last gift he should give ; 
 That this would fetch you ; if you died to-day, 
 And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow ; 
 Wliat large return would come of all his ventures ; 
 How he should worsliipp'd be, and reverenced; 
 Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths ; waited on 
 By herds of fools, and clients ; have clear way 
 Made for his mule, as lettcr'd as himself ; 
 Be eall'd the great and learned advocate : 
 And then concludes, there 's naught impossible. 
 
 VoLP. Yes, to be learned, Mosca. 
 
 Mos. O, no : rich 
 
 Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple. 
 So you can hide his two ambitious ears 
 And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor. 
 
 VoLP. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Peteh 
 him in. 
 
 Mos. Stay, sir ; your ointment for your eyes. 
 
 VoLP. That 's true ; 
 
 Dispatch, dispatch : I long to have possession 
 Of my new present. 
 
 Mos. That, and thousands more, 
 
 I hope to sec you lord of. 
 
 Voi.p. Thanks, kind Mosca. 
 
 Mos. And that, when I am lost in blended dust. 
 And hundred such as I am, in succession — 
 
 VoLP. Nay, that were too much, ^losca. 
 
 Mos. You shall live, 
 
 Still, to delude these harpies. 
 
 VoLP. Lo\ing Mosca ! 
 
 'T is well : my pillow now, and let him enter. 
 
 [i>(> MoscA. 
 Now, my feign'd cough, my phthisic, and my gout. 
 My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs. 
 Help, with your forced functions, this my posture, 
 Wljerein, this three year, I have milk'd their 
 
 hopes. 
 He comes; I hear him — Uh ! {coughing) uh ! uh ! 
 
 uh! O — 
 Re-enter MosCA, introducing Voltore, with a piece 
 of plate. 
 
 Mos. (/o Voltore). You still are what you were, 
 sir. Only you. 
 Of all the rest, are he commands his love ; 
 And you do wisely to preserve it thus. 
 With early visitation, and kind notes 
 Of your good meaning to him, which, I know, 
 Cannot but come most grateful. Patron ! sir ! 
 Here 's Signior Voltore is come. 
 
 {Spealcing loudly in his ear.) 
 
 N01.V. (faintly). What say you? 
 
 Mos. Sir, Signior Voltore is come this morning 
 To visit you. 
 
 VoLP. I thank him. 
 
 Mos. And hath brcmght 
 
 A piece of antique plate, bought of St. Mark, 
 'With which he here presents you. 
 
 VoLP. He is welcome. 
 
 Pray him to come more often. 
 
 Mos. Yes. 
 
 Volt. Wliat says he ? 
 
 Mos. He thanks you, and desires you see him 
 often. 
 
 VoLP. Mosca. 
 
 Mos. My patron ! 
 
 VoLP. Bring him near, where is he ? 
 
 I long to feel his baud. 
 
 Mos. The ])latc is here, sir. 
 
 Volt. How fare you, sir? 
 
 VoLP. I thank you, Siguier Voltore ; 
 
 Where is the plate ? mine eyes are bad. 
 
 Volt, (putting it into his hands). I 'm sorry 
 To see you still thus weak. 
 
 Mos. (aside). That he 's not weaker. 
 
 VoLP. You arc too munificent. 
 
 Volt. No, sir ; would to Hijaven, 
 
 I could as well give health to you, as that plate ! 
 
 VoLP. You give, sir, what you can : I thank 
 you. Your love 
 Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswered : 
 I pray you see mc often. 
 
 Volt. Y'es, I shall, sir. 
 
 VoLP. Be not far from me. 
 
 Mos. Do you observe that. 
 
 <8— 
 
 ::i^ 
 
a- 
 
 VOLPONE (THE FOX) AND HIS DUPES. 
 
 89 
 
 -Q) 
 
 VoLP. Hearken unto me still ; it will concern 
 you. 
 
 Mos. You are a liappy man, sir; know your 
 good. 
 
 VoLP. I cannot now last long — 
 
 Mos. You are his heir, sir. 
 
 Volt. Am I ? 
 
 YoLP. I feel me going ; Uh ! uh ! uh ! 
 
 I 'm sailing to my port. Uh ! uh ! uh ! uh ! 
 And I am glad I am so near my haven. 
 
 Mos. Alas, kind gentleman ! Well, we must 
 all go — 
 
 Volt. But, Mosea — 
 
 Mos. Age will conquer. 
 
 Volt. 'Pray thee, hear me : 
 
 Am I inscribed liis heir for certaui ? 
 
 Mos. Are you ! 
 
 I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe 
 To write me in your family. All ]ny hopes 
 Depend upon your worsliip : I am lost. 
 Except the rising sun do shine on me. 
 
 Volt. It shall both shine and warm thee, 
 Mosea. 
 
 Mos. Sir, 
 
 I am a man that hath not done your love 
 All the worst offices ; here I wear your keys, 
 See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd. 
 Keep the poor inventory of your jewels. 
 Your plate and moneys ; am your steward, sir, 
 Husband your goods here. 
 
 Volt. But am I sole heir ? 
 
 Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this 
 mornuig ; 
 The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry 
 Upon the parchment. 
 
 Volt. Happy, happy, me! 
 
 By what good chance, sweet Mosea ? 
 
 Mos. Your desert, sir ; 
 
 I know no second cause. 
 
 Volt. Thy modesty 
 
 Is not to know it ; well, we shall requite it. 
 
 Mos. He ever Uked your course, sir; that 
 first took him. 
 I oft have heard him say, how lie admired 
 Men of your large profession, that could speak 
 To every cause, and tlrings mere contraries, 
 Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law ; 
 That, with most quick agility could tvim, 
 And [re-] return ; [could] make knots, and un- 
 do them; 
 Give forked counsel ; take provoking gold 
 On either hand, and put it up : these men, 
 He knew, would thrive with their humility. 
 And, for his part, he thought he should be blest 
 To have his heir of such a suffering spirit. 
 So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue. 
 And loud withal, that would not wag, nor 
 
 ^- 
 
 Lie still, without a fee : when every word 
 Your worship but lets fall, is a ehequin ! 
 
 {Knocking without.) 
 Who 's tliat ? one knocks ; I would not have you 
 
 seen, sir. 
 And yet — pi-etend you came, and went in haste: 
 I 'U fashion an excuse — and, gentle sir. 
 When you do come to swim in golden lard, 
 Up to the arms in honey, that your chin 
 Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood. 
 Think on your vassal ; but remember me : 
 I have not been your worst of clients. 
 
 Volt. Mosea — 
 
 Mos. When will you have your inventory 
 brought, sir? 
 Or see a copy of the wiU ? — Anon ! — 
 I '11 bring them to you, sir. Away, begone. 
 Put business in your face. {Exit Voltore. 
 
 Volp. (spriiiffiiig up). Excellent Mosea ! 
 Come hither, let me kiss thee. 
 
 Mos. Keep you still, sir. 
 
 Here is Corbaccio. 
 
 Volp. Set the plate away ; 
 
 The vulture 's gone, and the old raven 's come ! 
 
 Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your 
 sleep. 
 Stand there and multiply. (Putting the jilate to 
 
 the rest.) Now shall we see 
 A wretch who is indeed more impotent 
 Than this can feign to be ; yet hopes to hop 
 Over his grave — 
 
 Enter Corbaccio. 
 
 Signior Corbaccio ! 
 You 're very welcome, sir. 
 
 Corbaccio. How does your patron? 
 
 Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends. 
 
 CoRB, What ! mends he ? 
 
 Mos. No, sir ; he 's rather worse. 
 
 Core. That 's weU. Where is he? 
 
 Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. 
 
 CoRB. Does he sleep well ? 
 
 Mos. No wink, sir, all this night. 
 
 Nor yesterday ; but slumbers. 
 
 CoRB. Good ! he should take 
 
 Some counsel of physicians : I have brought him 
 An opiate here, from mine own doctor. 
 
 Mos. He will not hear of drugs. 
 
 CoRB. Why I myself 
 
 Stood by while it was made, saw all the ingre- 
 dients : 
 And know, it cannot but most gently work : 
 My life for his, 't is but to make him sleep. 
 
 Volp. (aside). Ay, his last sleep, if he would 
 take it. 
 
 Mos. Sir, 
 
 He has no faith in physic. 
 
 CoRB. Say you, say you ? 
 
 Mos. He has no faith in physic : he docs think 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 90 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Most of your doctors are tlie greater danger, 
 And worse disease, to escape. I often have 
 Heard him protest, tliat your physician 
 Sliould never be his heir. 
 
 CoRB. Not I his heir ? 
 
 Mos. Not your physician, sir. 
 
 CoRB. O, no, no, no, 
 
 I do not mean it. 
 
 Mos. No, sir, nor their fees 
 
 He cannot brook : he says, they flay a man 
 Before they kill him. 
 
 CoRB. Right, I do conceive you. 
 
 Mos. And then they do it by experiment ; 
 For wliich the law not only doth absolve them. 
 But gives them great reward : and he is loth 
 To hire his death, so. 
 
 CoRB. It is true, they kill 
 
 With as much license as a judge. 
 
 Mo.s. Nay, more ; 
 
 For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns. 
 And these can kill him too. 
 
 CoRB. Ay, or me ; 
 
 Or any man. How does his apoplex ? 
 Is that strong on him still ? 
 
 Mos. Most violent. 
 
 His speech is broken, and his eyes are set. 
 His face drawn longer than 't was wont ? 
 
 CoRB. How ! how ! 
 
 Stronger than he was wont ? 
 
 Mos. No, sir : his face 
 
 Drawn longer than 't was wont. 
 
 CoRB. O good ! 
 
 Mos. His mouth 
 
 Is ever gaping, and liis eyelids hang. 
 
 CoRB. Good. 
 
 Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his 
 joints. 
 And makes the color of his flesh like lead. 
 
 CoRB. 'T is good. 
 
 Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. 
 
 CoRB. Good symptoms still. 
 
 Mos. And from his brain — 
 
 CoRB. I do conceive you ; good. 
 
 Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual 
 rheum. 
 Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. 
 
 CoRB. Is 't possible ? Yet I am better, ha ! 
 How docs he, with the swimming of his head ? 
 
 Mos. O, sir, 't is past the scotomy ;' he now 
 Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort : 
 You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes. 
 
 CoRB. Excellent, excellent ! sure I shall out- 
 last him : 
 This makes me young again, a score of years. 
 
 Mos. I was a-coming for you, sir. 
 
 CoRB. Has he made his willi' 
 
 What has he given me ? 
 
 ' P.irknC39 coming over the eyes. 
 
 Mos. No, sir. 
 
 Core. Nothing ! ha ? 
 
 Mos. He has not made his will, sir. 
 
 CoRB. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here ? 
 
 Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but 
 heard 
 My master was about his testament ; 
 As I did urge him to it for your good — 
 
 GoRB. He came unto him, did he ? I thought 
 so. 
 
 Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of 
 plate. 
 
 CoRB. To be his heir ? 
 
 Mos. I do not know, sir. 
 
 CoRB. True : 
 
 I know it too. 
 
 Mos. {aside). By your own scale, sir. 
 
 CoRB. Well, 
 
 I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look. 
 Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, 
 WiU quite weigh down his plate. 
 
 Mos. {taking the bag). Yea, maiTy, sir. 
 This is true physic, this your sacred medicine ; 
 No talk of opiates to this great elixir ! 
 
 CoRB. 'T is aurum palpabile, if not potabite. 
 
 Mos. It shall be minister'd to him, in his 
 bowl. 
 
 CoRB. Ay, do, do, do. 
 
 Mos. Most blessed cordial ! 
 
 This will recover him. 
 
 CoRB. Yes, do, do, do. 
 
 Mos. I think it were not best, sir. 
 
 CoRB. What? 
 
 Mos. To recover him. 
 
 Core. O, no, no, no; by no means. 
 
 Mos. Why, sir, this 
 
 Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it. 
 
 Core. 'T is true, therefore forbear ; I '11 take 
 my venture : 
 Give me it again. 
 
 Mos. At no hand ; pardon me : 
 
 You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I 
 Will so advise you, you shall have it all. 
 
 Core. How? 
 
 Mos. All, sir; 'tis your right, your own: no 
 man 
 Can claim a part : 't is yours, without a rival, 
 Decreed by destiny. 
 
 CoEB. How, how, good Mosca ? 
 
 Mos. I '11 1«11 you, sir. This fit he shall re- 
 cover. 
 
 CoRB. I do conceive you. 
 
 Mos. And on first advantage 
 
 Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him 
 Unto the making of his testament : 
 And show him this. {Poititiiii? to the monei/.) 
 
 Core. Good, good. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 VOLPONE (THE FOX) AND HIS DUPES. 
 
 91 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Mos. 'T is better yet, 
 
 If you will hear, sir. 
 
 CoRB. Yes, with all my heart. 
 
 Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home 
 with speed ; 
 There, frame a will ; whereto you shall inscribe 
 My master your sole heir. 
 
 CoRB. And disinherit 
 
 My son ! 
 
 Mos. 0, sir, the better : for that colour 
 
 Shall make it much more taking. 
 
 CoRB. 0, but colour ? 
 
 Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. 
 Now, when I come to iuforce, as I will do, 
 Your cares, your watchings, and your many 
 
 prayers, 
 Your more than many gifts, your this day's present. 
 And last, produce your will ; where, without 
 
 thought. 
 Or least regard, unto your proper issue, 
 A son so brave, and highly meriting, 
 The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you 
 Upon my master, and made him your heir ; 
 He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, 
 But out of conscience, and mere gratitude — 
 
 CoRB. He must pronounce me his ? 
 
 Mos. 'T is true. 
 
 Core. This plot 
 
 Did I think on before. 
 
 Mos. I do beUcve it. 
 
 CoRB. Do you not believe it ? 
 
 Mos. Yes, sir. 
 
 CoRB. Mine own project. 
 
 Mos. Which, when he hath done, sir — 
 
 CoRB. Publish'd me his heir ? 
 
 Mos. And you so certain to survive him — 
 
 CoRB. Ay. 
 
 Mos. Being so lusty a man — 
 
 CoRB. 'T is true. 
 
 Mos. Yes, sir — 
 
 CoRB. I thought on that too. See, how he 
 should be 
 The very organ to express my thoughts ! 
 
 Mos. You have not only done yourself a good — 
 
 CoKB. But multiplied it on my son. 
 
 Mos. 'T is right, sir. 
 
 CoRB. Still, my mvention. 
 
 Mos. 'Las, sir ! Heaven knows. 
 
 It hath been all my study, all my care, 
 (I e'en grow gray withal) how to work things — 
 
 CoRB. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. 
 
 Mos. You are he. 
 
 For whom I labor here. 
 
 Cobb. Ay, do, do, do: 
 
 I '11 straight about it. (Going?) 
 
 Mos. Rook go with you, raven ! 
 
 CoRB. I know thee honest. 
 
 ^- 
 
 Mos. (aside). 
 
 Yor 
 
 I do Me, su' 
 
 CoRB. And — 
 
 Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your 
 ears, sir. 
 
 CoRB. I do not doubt to be a father to thee. 
 
 Mos. Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing. 
 
 Core. I may have my youth restored to me, 
 why not ? 
 
 Mos. (in an undertone). Your worship is a pre- 
 cious ass ! 
 
 Core. What say'st thou ? 
 
 Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, 
 sir. 
 
 CoRB. 'Tis done, 'tis done ; I go. {Exit. 
 
 VoLP. (leaping from his couch). O, I shall 
 burst ! 
 Let out my sides, let out my sides — 
 
 Mos. Contain 
 
 Your flux of laughter, sir -. you know this hope 
 Is such a bait, it covers any hook. 
 
 VoLP. O, but thy working, and thy placing it ! 
 I cannot hold ; good rascal, let mc kiss thee : 
 I never knew thee in so rare a humour. 
 
 Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught ; 
 Follow your grave instructions ; give them words ; 
 Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence. 
 
 VoLP. 'T is true, 't is true. What a rare pun- 
 ishment 
 Is avarice to itself ! 
 
 Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. 
 
 VoLP. So many cares, so many maladies, 
 So many fears attending on old age, 
 Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish 
 Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint. 
 Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going. 
 All dead before them ; yea, their very teeth. 
 Their instruments of eating, fading them; 
 Yet this is reckon'd life ! nay, here was one, 
 Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! 
 Feels not his gout, nor palsy : feigns himself 
 Younger by scores of years, flatters his age 
 With confident belying it, hopes he may, 
 Witli cliarms, hke jEson, have his youth restored : 
 And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate — 
 Would be as easUy cheated on, as he. 
 And all turns air ! (Knocking within.) Who 's 
 that there, now ? a third ! 
 
 Mos. Close, to your couch again ; I hear his 
 voice : 
 It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. 
 
 VoLP. (ties down as be/ore). Dead. 
 
 Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. 
 [Anointing them.) — Who 's there ? 
 
 Enter CoEVINO. 
 
 Siguier Corvino ! come most wish'd for ! 0, 
 How happy were you, if you knew it, now ! 
 
 CoBV. Wliy? what? wherein? 
 
 Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir. 
 
 ■# 
 
cfi: 
 
 92 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 CoRV. He is not dead ? 
 
 Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good : 
 
 He knows no man. 
 
 CoRV. How shall I do then ? 
 
 Mos. Why, sir ? 
 
 CoRV. I have brought •liim here a pearl. 
 
 Mos. Perhaps he has 
 
 So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir : 
 He still calls on you ; nothing but your name 
 Is in his mouth. Is your pearl orient, sir ? 
 
 CoRV. Venice was never owner of the like. 
 
 VoLP. {Jaintlif). Signior Corvino ! 
 
 Mos. Hark. 
 
 VoLP. Signior Corvino ! 
 
 Mos. He calls you; step and give it him. — 
 He 's here, sir, {Bawling to Volpone.) 
 And he has brought you a rich pearl. 
 
 CoRv. How do you, sir ? 
 
 Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract. 
 
 Mo.s. Sir, 
 
 He cannot luiderstand, his hearing 's gone ; 
 And yet it comforts liim to see you — 
 
 CoRV. Say, 
 
 I have a diamond for liim, too. 
 
 Mos. Best show it, sir ; 
 
 Put it into his hand ; 't is only there 
 He apprehends : he has his feeling, yet. 
 See how he grasps it ! 
 
 Cory. 'Las, good gentleman ! 
 
 How pitiful the sight is ! 
 
 Mos. Tut ! forget, sir, 
 
 Tlie weeping of an heir should still be laughter 
 Under a visor. 
 
 CoRV. Why, am I his heir? 
 
 Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not show the 
 will 
 Till he be dead : but here has been Coi'baccio, 
 Here has been Voltore, here were others too, 
 I cannot number 'em, they were so many ; 
 All gaping here for legacies ; but I, 
 Taking the vantage of liis naming you, 
 Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino, took 
 Paper, aud pen, and ink, and there I asked 
 
 liim, 
 Wiiom he would have his heir ? Corvino. Who 
 Shoukl l)e executor ? Corvino. Aud, 
 To any question he was silent to, 
 I still interpreted the nods he made, 
 Tiirough weakness, for consent ; and sent home 
 
 th' others, 
 Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse. 
 
 CoRV. 0, my dear Mosca I {They embrace.) 
 Does he not perceive us ? 
 
 Mos. No min-e than a blind harper. He 
 knows no man, 
 No face of friend, nor name of any servant, 
 "VMio 'twas that fed him last, or gave him 
 drink ; 
 
 fr 
 
 Not those he liatli begotten, or brought up. 
 Can he remember. 
 
 CoBV. Has he children ? 
 
 Mos. Bastards ; 
 
 Some dozen, or more ; but he has given them 
 nothing. 
 CoRV. That 's well, that 's well ! Art sure 
 
 he does not hear us? 
 Mos. Sure, sir ! why, look you, credit your 
 own sense. {Shouts in Volpone's ear.) 
 
 The approach, and add to your diseases. 
 
 If it would send you hence the sooner, sir, 
 For your inconthience, it hath deserv'd it 
 Thoroughly, and thoroughly, and the plague to 
 
 boot ! — 
 You may come near, sir. — Would you would 
 
 once close 
 Those fdthy eyes of yours, tliat flow with slime. 
 Like two frog-pits ; aud those same hanging 
 
 cheeks, 
 Cover'd with hide instead of skin — Nay, help, 
 
 sir — 
 Tliat look like frozen dish-clouts set on end ! 
 CoRV. {aloud). Or like an old smoked wall, 
 on which the rain 
 Ran down in streaks I 
 
 Mos. Excellent ! I could stifle him. 
 
 CoRV. Do as you will ; but I '11 be gone. 
 Mos. Be so : 
 
 It is your presence makes him last so long. 
 CoRV. I pray you, use no violence. 
 Mos. No, sir ! why ? 
 
 Why should you be thus scru])ulous, pray you, 
 sir? 
 CoRV. Nay, at your discretion. 
 Mos. Well, good sir, begone. 
 
 CoRV. I will not trouble him now, to take my 
 
 pearl. 
 Mos. Pull ! nor your diamond. Wuit a need- 
 less care 
 Is this afflicts you ! Is not all here yours ? 
 Am not I here, whom you have made your crea- 
 ture. 
 That owe my being to you ? 
 
 CoRV. Grateful Mosca ! 
 
 Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, 
 My partner, and shalt share iu all my fortunes. 
 
 [Erii Couvixo. 
 Mos. Now is he gone : we had no other 
 means 
 To shoot him hence, but this. 
 
 VoLP. {leaping from his couch). My divine 
 Mosca ! 
 Tliou hast to-day outgone thyself. — Prepare 
 Me music, dances, banquets, all delights ; 
 Tlie Turk is not more sensual in his pleasures, 
 Than will A'olpone. 
 
 From The E>.r. 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 THE PALL OF CATILINE. 
 
 93 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 TOWERING SENSUALITY. 
 
 SiE Epicure Mammon, exjiecting to obtain the 
 Philosoplier's Stone, riots in the anticipation of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Enter Mammon and Sukly. 
 Mammon. Come on, sir. Now, you set your 
 foot on shore 
 In Novo Orbe : here 's the rich Peru : 
 And there within, sir, are the golden wines, 
 Great Solomon's Ophir ! he was sailing to 't 
 Thi-ee years ; but we have reaeh'd it in ten 
 
 months. 
 Tliis is the day, wherein to all my friends, 
 I will pronounee the happy word, Be kich. 
 
 « * * 
 
 Wliere is my Subtle there ! Within ! 
 
 Enter Face. 
 
 How now ? 
 
 Do we succeed? Is our day come? and holds it? 
 
 Pace. The evening will set red upon you, sir; 
 
 You have color for it, crimson : the red ferment 
 
 Has done his office : three hours hence prepare 
 
 you 
 To see projection. 
 
 Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, 
 
 Again I say to thee, aloud. Be rich. 
 Tliis day thou shalt have ingots ; and to-morrow 
 Give lords the affront. — Is it, my Zcphyrus, 
 right ? — 
 
 * « « 
 
 Thou 'rt sure thou saw'st it blood ? 
 
 Pace. Both blood and spirit, sir. 
 
 Mam. I will have all my beds blown up, not 
 stuff'd : 
 Do^vn is too hard. — My mists 
 I '11 have of perfume, vapored 'bout the room 
 To lose ourselves in ; and my baths, like pits. 
 To fall into : from whence we will come fortli. 
 And roll us dry in gossamer and roses. 
 Is it arriv'd at ruby ? — And my flatterers 
 Shall be the pui-e and gravest of divines, 
 That I can get for money. 
 
 * * * 
 
 And they shall fan me with ten estrich tails 
 
 Apiece, made in a plume to gather wind. 
 
 We will be brave, Putfe, now we have the med- 
 
 'cine. 
 My meat siiall all come in in Indian shells. 
 Dishes of agate, set in gold, and studded 
 With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies, 
 The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' iieels, 
 Boil'd in the spirit of sol, and dissolv'd pearl, 
 Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy : 
 And I will cat these broths with spoons of amber, 
 Headed with diamond and carbuncle. 
 My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, ealver'd salmons. 
 Knots, godwits, lampreys : I myself will have 
 
 The beards of barbels serv'd, instead of salads ; 
 Oil'd mushrooms ; and the swelhng, unctuous 
 
 paps 
 Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off, 
 Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce, 
 Por which I '11 say unto my cook, " There 's gold ; 
 Go forth, and be a knight." 
 
 Pace. Sir, I '11 go look 
 
 A little, how it heightens. \_E.vit Pace. 
 
 Mam. Do. My shirts 
 
 I 'U have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light 
 As cobwebs ; and for all my other raiment. 
 It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, 
 Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
 My gloves of fishes and birds' skins, perfum'd 
 With gums of Paradise and eastern air. 
 
 Surly. And do you thiidc to have the stone 
 with this ? 
 
 Mam. No ; I do tliink t' have all this with 
 the stone ! 
 
 Sue. Why, I have heard he must be homo 
 frugi, 
 A pious, holy, and religious man, 
 One free from mortal sin, a very virgin. 
 
 Mam. That makes it, Sir ; he is so ; but I 
 
 BUY IT. 
 
 Abridged from The Alchijmist. 
 
 THE FALL OF CATILINE. 
 
 Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline 
 being such. 
 As lie must fight with one of the two armies 
 Tiiat tlien had near inclosed him, it plcas'd fate 
 To make us the object of his desperate choice, 
 Wherein the danger almost pois'd the honour : 
 And, as he rose, the day grew black with him, 
 And fate descended nearer to the earth. 
 As if she meant to hide the name of things 
 Under her wings, and make the world her quarry. 
 At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay 
 Had left it to be inquired what Rome was ; 
 And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence 
 Of our great cause, in form of battle stood, 
 Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face 
 Of any man, but of a public ruin : 
 His countenance was a civil war itself; 
 And all his host had, standing in tlieir looks. 
 The paleness of tiie death that was to come ; 
 Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on, 
 As if they would precipitate our fates. 
 Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself 
 Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life, 
 Wliieh out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land 
 Had broke between two mighty seas, and either 
 Plow'd into other ; for so did the slaughter ; 
 And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides 
 
 ^ 
 
e 
 
 ot 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 ^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Meet and not yield. The Furies stood on liills, 
 Circling the place, and trembling to see men 
 Do more than they ; wliilst pity left the field, 
 Gricv'd for that side, that in so bad a cause 
 They knew not what a crime their valour was. 
 The sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud 
 The battle made, seen sweating, to drive up 
 His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove 
 
 backward : 
 And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame, 
 Cousum'd all it could reach, and then itself. 
 Had not the fortune of the commonwealth. 
 Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought ; 
 Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops 
 Cover'd the earth they 'ad fought on with their 
 
 trunks. 
 Ambitious of great fame, to crown his ill, 
 Collected all his fury, and ran in 
 (Arm'd with a glory liigh as his despair) 
 Into our battle, like a Libyan lion 
 Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons, 
 Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about 
 
 him. 
 Till he had circled in himself with death : 
 Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay. 
 And as in that rebellion 'gainst the gods, 
 Minerva holding forth Medusa's head. 
 One of the giant brethren felt Iiimself 
 Grow marble at the killing sight ; and now. 
 Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint, 
 What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs ; 
 And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd : 
 So Catiline, at tlie sight of Rome in us. 
 Became his tomb ; yet did his look retain 
 Some of his fierceness, and his hands still mov'd. 
 As if he labour'd yet to grasp the state 
 With those rebellious parts. 
 
 Cato. a brave bad death ! 
 
 plad this been honest now, and for his country. 
 As 't was against it, who had e'er i'all'n greater? 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE 
 HATH LEFT US. 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, 
 Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; 
 While I confess thy writings to bo such 
 As neither man nor Muse can praise too much 
 'T is true, and all men's suffrage. But tliese 
 
 ways 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
 T"or silliest ignorance on these would light. 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; 
 Or blind affection, whicli doth ne'er advance 
 T'hc truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance ; 
 ( )r crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
 
 And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise 
 
 But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 
 Above the iU fortune of them, or the need. 
 I tlierefore will begin : Soul of the age ! 
 The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! 
 My Shakespeare, rise ! I ■will not lodge thee by 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little further off, to make thee room : 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb. 
 And art alive still, while thy book doth live. 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, 
 I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses ; 
 For if I thought my judgment were of years, 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine. 
 Or sporting Kyd or Marlowe's mighty line. 
 And tliough thou had small Latin and less Greek, 
 From thence to honour thee I will not seek 
 For names ; but call forth thund'ring Esehylus, 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 
 To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, 
 And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 Of all, that insolent Greece or liaughty Rome 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 
 To whom all scenes of Europe hbmage owe. 
 He was not of an age. but for all time ! 
 And all the Muses still were in their prime. 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury, to eliarm ! 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs. 
 And joy'd to wear tlie dressing of his lines ! 
 Wbich were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, Jiow not please ; 
 But antiquated and deserted lie, 
 As they were not of nature's family. 
 Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art. 
 My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
 For tliough the poet's matter nature be. 
 His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he 
 Who easts to write a living, line, must sweat 
 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
 Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same. 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 
 Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; 
 For a good poet 's made as well as bom. 
 And such wert thou ! Look how the father's 
 
 face 
 Lives in liis issue, even so the race 
 Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly 
 
 sliincs 
 Tn his well turned and true filed lines : 
 In caeli of whieli ho seems to sliake a lanee. 
 
 --^ 
 
cft- 
 
 A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. 
 
 95 
 
 -^ 
 
 As braudish'd at the eyes of ignorance. 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our water yet appear, 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
 Tliat so did take EUza and our James ! 
 But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, 
 Or influence, ehide, or cheer the drooping stage 
 "Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned 
 
 like night. 
 And despairs day, but for thy volume's light ! 
 
 ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 This figure tliat thou here seest put. 
 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, 
 
 Wlit'rein the graver had a strife 
 
 With nature, to outdo the life : 
 
 could he but have drawn his wit, 
 
 As well in brass, as he hath hit 
 
 His I'ace ; the print would then surpass 
 
 All that was ever writ in brass : 
 
 But since he cannot, reader, look. 
 
 Not on his picture, but his book. 
 
 TO THE HOLT TRINITT. 
 
 Holy, blessed, glorious Trinity 
 Of Persons, still one God in unity. 
 The faithful man's beUeved mystery. 
 
 Help, help to Uft 
 Myself up to thee, harrow'd, torn, and bruised 
 By sin and Satan, and my flesh misused 
 As my heart lies in pieces, all confused, 
 
 0, take my gift. 
 
 All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice, 
 
 A broken lieart thou wert not wont despise ; 
 
 But, 'hove the fat of rams and bulls, to prize — 
 
 An ofi'ering meet 
 For tliy acceptance. 0, behold me right. 
 And take compassion on my grievous plight ! 
 Wliat odour can be than a heart contrite 
 
 To thee more sweet ? 
 
 Eternal Father, God, who didst create 
 This all of nothing, gav'st it form and fate, 
 And brcath'st into it life and light, and state 
 
 To worship thee ! 
 Eternal God, the Son, who not denied'st 
 To take our nature ; beeam'st man, and died'st 
 To pay our debts, upon thy cross, and eried'st — 
 
 "All 's done in me ! " 
 
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 Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding. 
 Father and Son — the Comforter, in breeding 
 
 Pure thoughts in man ; with fiery zeal them feeding 
 For acts of grace ! 
 
 Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity 
 
 Of Persons, still one God in Unity ; 
 
 TiU I attain the longed-for mystery 
 
 Of seeing your face. 
 
 Beholding One in Three, and Three in One, 
 
 A Trinity to shine in Union ; 
 
 The gladdest light dark man can think upon. 
 
 O, grant it me ! 
 Father and Son, and Holy Ghost, you three 
 All co-eternal in your Majesty, 
 Distinct in Persons, yet in Unity — 
 
 One God to see. 
 
 My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier ! 
 To hear, to meditate, sweeten my desire 
 With grace, and love, with cherishing entire ; 
 
 O, then how blest ! 
 Among thy saints elected to abide. 
 And with thy angels placed, side by side. 
 But in thy presence truly glorified. 
 
 Shall I there rest. 
 
 A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS, 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love, 
 
 Wlierein my lady rideth ! 
 Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 
 
 And well the car Love guideth. 
 As she goes all hearts do duty 
 
 Unto her beauty ; 
 And, enamour'd, do wish, so they might 
 
 But enjoy such a sight. 
 That they still were to run by her side, 
 Through swords, through seas, whither she would 
 ride. 
 
 Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
 All that Love's world compriseth ! 
 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 As Love's star when it riseth ! 
 
 Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother 
 Than words that soothe her ! 
 
 And from her arched brows such a grace 
 Sheds itself through the face. 
 
 As alone there triumplis to the life 
 
 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 Before rude hands have touch 'd it? 
 
 Have you mark'd but the fall o' the snow 
 Before the soil hath smuteh'd it ? 
 
 Have you felt the wool of beaver ? 
 Or swan's down ever ? 
 
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f 
 
 90 
 
 .lONSON. 
 
 -9) 
 
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 Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ? 
 
 Or the uard in the fire ? 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
 O so white ! so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 
 
 FOLLOW A SHADOW, IT STILL PLIES YOU, 
 SONG. 
 
 Follow a shadow, it still flics you ; 
 
 Seem to fly it, it will pursue : 
 So court a mistress, she denies you ; 
 
 Let her alone, she will court you. 
 Say are not women truly, then. 
 Styled but the shadows of us men ? 
 
 At morn and even sliades are longest ; 
 
 At noon they are or short or none : 
 So men at weakest they are strongest. 
 
 But grant us perfect, they 're not known. 
 Say are not women truly, then. 
 Styled but the shadows of us men ? 
 
 SONG TO CELU. 
 
 Drink to me only with thiue eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 
 
 And I 'U not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine : 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 
 
 Not so much lionouring thee, 
 As giving it a hope that there 
 
 It could not wither'd be. 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
 
 And sent'st it back to me : 
 Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 THE PKOCLAMATION OF THE GRACES AGAINST 
 CUPID, THE KDNAWAY. 
 
 FIRST GRACE. 
 
 BisAUTiES, have you seen this toy, 
 
 Called love, a little boy, • 
 
 Almost naked, wanton, blind ; 
 
 Cruel now, and then as kind ? 
 
 If he be amongst ye, say ; 
 
 He is Venus' runaway. 
 
 SECONn GRACE. 
 
 She that will but now discover 
 Where the winged wag doth hover. 
 
 Shall to-night receive a kiss, 
 How or wliere herself would wish ; 
 But who brings him to his mother, 
 Shall have that kiss, and another. 
 
 THIRD GRACE. 
 
 He hath marks about him plenty ; 
 You shall know liim among twenty. 
 All his body is a fire, 
 And his breath a flame entire. 
 That, being shot like lightning in, 
 Wounds the heart but not the skin. 
 
 FIRST GRACE, 
 
 At his sight the sun hath turn'd, 
 Neptune in the waters burn'd ; 
 Hell hath felt a greater heat ; 
 Jove himself forsook his seat ; 
 From the centre to the sky 
 Are his trophies reared high. 
 
 SECOND GRACE. 
 
 Wings he liath, which though ye clip, 
 He will leap from lip to lip. 
 Over liver, lights, and heart, 
 But not stay in any part ; 
 And if chance his arrow misses. 
 He wiU slioot himself in kisses. 
 
 THIRD GRACE. 
 
 He doth bear a golden bow, 
 And a quiver hanging low, 
 Full of arrows, that outbrave 
 Dian's shafts ; where, if he have 
 Any head more sharp than other. 
 With that first he strikes his mother. 
 
 FIRST GRACE. 
 
 Still the fairest are his fuel. 
 When his days are to be cruel. 
 Lovers' hearts are all his food. 
 And his baths their warmest blood ; 
 Nought but wounds his hand doth season. 
 And he hates none like to Reason. 
 
 SECOND GRACE. 
 
 Trust him not ; his words, though sweet, 
 
 Seldom with liis heart do meet. 
 
 All his practice is deceit ; 
 
 Every gift it is a bait ; 
 
 Not a kiss but poison bears ; 
 
 And most treason in his tears. 
 
 THIRD GRACE. 
 
 Idle minutes are his reign ; 
 
 Tlien the straggler makes his gain, 
 
 By presenting maids with toys. 
 
 And would liiive ye think them joys ; 
 
 'T is the ambition of the elf 
 
 To have all childish as himself. 
 
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 LOVE WHILE WE CAN. 
 
 97 
 
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 riRST GRACE. 
 
 If by these ye please to know him, 
 Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 
 
 SECOND GKACE. 
 
 Though ye had a will to hide him. 
 Now, we hope, ye '11 not abide him. 
 
 THIRD GRACE. 
 
 Since you hear his falser play. 
 And that he 's Venus' runaway. 
 
 ECHO MOURNDTa THE DEATH OF NABCISSTJS. 
 
 Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt 
 tears ; 
 Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle springs : 
 List to the heavy part the music bears, 
 
 Woe weeps out her division when she sings. 
 Droop herbs and flowers ; 
 Tall grief in showers. 
 Our beauties are not ours ; 
 0, I could still, 
 Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, 
 
 Drop, drop, drop, drop, 
 Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil. 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 0, THAT joy SO soon should waste ! 
 
 Or so sweet a bUss 
 
 As a kiss 
 Might not forever last ! 
 So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious. 
 
 The dew that lies on roses, 
 
 When the morn herself discloses. 
 Is not so precious. 
 rather than I would it smother. 
 Were I to taste such another ; 
 
 It should be my wishing 
 
 That I might die kissing. 
 
 THE GLOVE OF THE DEAD LADY. 
 
 Thou more than most sweet glove, 
 
 Unto my more sweet love. 
 Suffer me to store with kisses 
 This empty lodging that now misses 
 The pure rosy hand that wore thee. 
 Whiter than the kid that bore thee. 
 Thou art soft, but that was softer ; 
 Cupid's self hath kissed it offer 
 Than e'er he did his mother's doves. 
 Supposing her the queen of loves. 
 That was thy mistress, 
 Best of gloves. 
 
 HTlOf TO DIANA. 
 
 Queen, and huntress, chast^e and fair. 
 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep. 
 Seated in thy silver chair. 
 
 State in wonted manner keep : 
 Hesperus entreats thy light, 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Earth, let not thy envious shade 
 
 Dare; itself to iutei'pose ; 
 Cynthia's shining orb was made 
 
 Heaven to clear when day did close : 
 Bless us then with wished sight. 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 
 
 And thy crystal shining quiver ; 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 
 Space to breathe, how short soever : 
 Thou that mak'st a day of night. 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 WANTON CUPID. 
 
 Love is blind, and a wanton ; 
 
 In the whole world, there is scant [one] 
 
 One such another : 
 
 No, not Ills mother. 
 He hath plucked her doves and sparrows. 
 To feather his sharp arrows. 
 
 And alone prevaileth, 
 
 While sick Venus waileth. 
 But if Cypris once recover 
 The wag ; it shall behove her 
 
 To look better to him. 
 
 Or she will undo him. 
 
 WAKE! MUSIC AND WINE, 
 
 Wake, our mirth begins to die. 
 Quicken it with tunes and wine, 
 Raise your notes ; you 're out -. fie, fie ! 
 This drowsiness is an ill sign. 
 We banish him the quire of gods. 
 
 That droops again : 
 
 Then all are men, 
 Tor here 's not one but nods. 
 
 LOVE WHILE WE CAN. 
 
 Come, my Celia, let us prove, 
 A^Hiile we can, the sports of love ; 
 Time will not be ours for ever, 
 He, at length, our good will sever ; 
 
 ^ 
 
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 98 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 — ^ 
 
 <s- 
 
 Spend not then his gifts in vaia, 
 Suns that set may rise agam : 
 But if once we lose this Kght, 
 'T is •with us perpetual night. 
 Why should we defer our joys ? 
 Fame and rumour are but toys. 
 Cannot we delude the eyes 
 Of a few poor household spies ? 
 Or his easier ears beguile. 
 Thus removed by our wile ? 
 'T is no sin love's fruits to steal ; 
 But the sweet thefts to reveal : 
 To be taken, to be seen, 
 These have crimes accounted been. 
 
 THE BIKTH OF LOVE. 
 
 So beauty on the waters stood. 
 When love had severed earth from flood ; 
 So when he parted air from fire. 
 He did with concord all inspire ; 
 And there a matter he then taught 
 That elder than liimself was thought ; 
 Which thought was yet the child of earth, 
 For Love is older than liis birth. 
 
 CUPIDS SHOOTING AT EAlflOM. 
 
 If all these Cupids now were bhnd, 
 As is their wanton brother. 
 
 Or play should put it in their mind 
 To shoot at one another. 
 
 What pretty battle they would make, 
 
 If they their object should mistake, 
 And each one wound his mother. 
 
 THE GEACE OF SIMPLICITT. 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest. 
 
 As you were going to a feast ; 
 
 Still to be powdered, still perfumed : 
 
 Lady, it is to be presumed. 
 
 Though art's hid causes are not found. 
 
 All is not sweet, all is not sound. 
 
 Give me a look, give me a face. 
 
 That makes simplicity a grace ; 
 
 Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 
 
 Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 
 
 Than all the adulteries of art ; 
 
 They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
 
 A VISION OF BEAUTY. 
 
 It was a beauty that I saw 
 
 So pure, so perfect, as tlie frame 
 
 Of all the universe was lame, 
 To that one figure could I draw. 
 Or give least Une of it a law ! 
 
 A skein of silk without a knot ! 
 A fair march made without a halt! 
 A curious form without a fault ! 
 
 A printed book without a blot ! 
 
 All beauty, and without a spot ! 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 Though I am young and cannot tell 
 Either what death or love is weU, 
 Yet I have heard they both bear darts. 
 And both do aim at luiman hearts ; 
 And then again, I have been told, 
 Love wounds with heat, as death with cold ; 
 So that I fear they do but bring 
 Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. 
 
 As in a ruin we it call. 
 One thing to be blown up, or fall ; 
 Or to our end, like way may have, 
 By a flash of lightning, or a wave : 
 So love's inflamed shaft or brand 
 May kill as soon as death's cold hand ; 
 Except love's fires the virtue have 
 To fright the frost out of the grave. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S LOVE. 
 
 Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and 
 
 here ! 
 Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow : 
 The world may find the Spring by following 
 
 her; 
 For other print her airy steps ne'er left : 
 Her treading would not bend a blade of grass. 
 Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ! 
 But Uke the soft west-wind she shot along, 
 And where she went the flowers took thickest 
 
 root, 
 As she had sowed them with her odorous foot ! 
 
 0, DO NOT WANTON 'WITH THOSE EYES, 
 
 0, DO not wanton with those eyes, 
 
 Lest I be sick with seeing; 
 Nor cast them down, but let them rise. 
 
 Lest shame destroy their being. 
 
 0, be not angry with those fires, 
 For then their threats will kill me ; 
 
 Kor look too kind on my desires. 
 For then my hopes will spill me. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE MORNING OF A CONSPIRACY. 
 
 99 
 
 -Q) 
 
 O, do not steep them in thy tears, 
 For so will sorrow slay me ; 
 
 Nor spread them as distract with fears ; 
 Mine own enough betray me. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF RUTLAND. 
 
 TiiEKE, like a rich and golden pyramid. 
 Borne up by statues, shall I rear your head 
 Above your under-carved ornaments, 
 And show how to the life my soul presents 
 Your form imprest there, not with tickling 
 
 rhymes 
 Or commonplaces filched, that take these times, 
 But high and noble matter, such as flies 
 From brains entranced, and filled with ecstasies, 
 ]\[oods which the godUke Sidney oft did 
 
 prove, 
 And your brave friend and mine so well did love. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 TJndernkath this stone doth lye 
 
 As much beauty as could dye ; 
 
 Which in hfe did harbor give 
 
 To more virtue than doth live. 
 
 If at all she had a fault. 
 
 Leave it buried in tliis vault. 
 
 One name was Elizabeth — 
 
 The other, let it sleep with death : 
 
 Fitter, where it dyed to tell, 
 
 Thau that it Uved at all. Farewell ! 
 
 EPIGRAM ON SIR FRANCIS DRAKE, 
 
 The stars above will make thee known, 
 
 If man were silent here : 
 The sun himself cannot forget 
 
 His fellow-traveller. 
 
 FANTASY. 
 
 Break, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud, 
 
 And s])read thy purple wings. 
 
 Now all thy figures are allowed, 
 
 And various shapes of things ; 
 
 Create of airy forms a stream. 
 
 It must have blood, and naught of phlegm. 
 
 And, though it be a waking dream. 
 
 Yet let it hke an odour rise 
 
 To all the senses here, 
 
 And fall like sleep upon their eyes. 
 
 Or music in their ear. 
 
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 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 Undeuneath this sable herse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; 
 Death ! ere thou hast slain another, 
 Learn'd and fair, and good as she. 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 
 
 CHARACTER OF A POET. 
 
 His learning savours not the school-like gloss. 
 That most consists in echoing words and terms : 
 And soonest wins a man an empty n.ame : 
 Nor any long or far-fetch'd circumstance, 
 Wrapt in the curious general" ties of arts ; 
 But a direct and analytic sum 
 Of all the worth and first efi'ects of arts. 
 And for his poesy, 't is so ramm'd with life. 
 That it shall gather strength of Ufe, with being. 
 And live hereafter more admired than now. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 TnEBE is no Kfe on earth, but being in love ! 
 There are no studies, no delights, no business. 
 No intercourse, or trade of sense, or sold. 
 But what is love ! I was the laziest creature, 
 The most unprofitable sign of nothing. 
 The veriest drone, and slept away my life 
 Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love ! 
 And now I can out-wake the nightingale, 
 Out-watch an usurer, and out-walk him too. 
 Stalk like a ghost that haunted 'bout a treasure ; 
 And all that fancied treasure, it is love ! 
 
 BOUNTY. 
 
 He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge, 
 Thenshowei-'d his bounties on me, hke the Hours, 
 That open-handed sit upon the clouds, 
 And press the liberahty of heaven 
 Down to the laps of thankful men ! 
 
 THE MORNING OF A CONSPIRACY, 
 
 It is mcthinks a morning fuU of fate. 
 
 It riseth slowly, as her suUen car 
 
 Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. 
 
 She is not rosy-finger'd, but swoln black. 
 
 Her face is like a water turn'd to blood. 
 
 And her sick head is bound about with clouds. 
 
 As if she threatcn'd night ere noon of day. 
 
 It does not look as it would have a hail 
 
 Or health wish'd in it, as on other moms. 
 
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 100 
 
 DEKKER. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 GOOD LIFE, LONG LITE. 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 
 
 111 bulk, doth make man better be, 
 
 Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
 
 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear. 
 
 A lily of a day 
 
 Is fairer far, in May, 
 
 Although it fall aiid die that night. 
 
 It was the plant and liower of light ! 
 
 In small proportions we just beauties see : 
 
 And in short measures life may perfect be. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MT FIKST DAUGHTEE. 
 
 Heke Ues, to each her parents ruth, 
 
 Mary, the daughter of their youth : 
 
 Yet all Heaven's gifts being Heaven's due. 
 
 It makes the father less to rue. 
 
 At six 'months' end she parted hence 
 
 With safety of her innocence ; 
 
 Whose soul Heaven's queen (whose name she 
 
 bears) 
 In comfort oi lier mother's tears, 
 Hath placed amongst her virgin train : 
 Where, while that, sever'd, doth remain, 
 This grave partakes the fleshly birth; 
 ■niiich cover lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 THOMAS DEKKER. 
 
 1574 (?)- 1641(0. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN LADY AND HER ANGEL, 
 
 J/i Angel, hi the guise of a Page, attends on 
 Dorothea. 
 
 DoKOTHEA.. My book and taper. 
 
 Angel. Here, most holy mistress. 
 
 Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that 
 I never 
 Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. 
 Were every servant in tlif world like thee, 
 So full of goodness, angels would come down 
 To dwell with us -. thy name is Angelo, 
 And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest ; 
 Tliy youth with too much watching is opprest. 
 
 Ang'. No, my dear lady ; I could weaiT stars. 
 And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes. 
 By my late watching, but to wait on you. 
 When at your prayers you kneel before the 
 
 altar, 
 Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven. 
 So blest I hold me in your company : 
 Tliercfore, my most lov'd mistress, do not bid 
 
 Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; 
 For then you break his heart. 
 
 Dor. Be nigh me still then. 
 
 In golden letters down I '11 set that day 
 Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope 
 To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself. 
 This little, pretty body, when I, coming 
 Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy. 
 My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an 
 
 alms. 
 Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand ! 
 And when I took thee home, my most chaste 
 
 bosom 
 Methought was filled with no hot wanton fire. 
 But with a holy flame, mounting since higher. 
 On wings of cherubims, tlian it did before. 
 
 Ang. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye 
 So likes so poor a servant. 
 
 Dor. I have offer'd 
 
 Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. 
 I would lea\'e kingdoms, were I queen of some 
 To dwell with thy good father ; for, the son 
 Bewitching me so deeply with his presence. 
 He that got him must do it ten times more. 
 I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents ; 
 Be not asham'd. 
 
 Ang. I am not : I did never 
 
 Know who my mother was ; but by yon palace, 
 FUl'd with bright heavenly courts, I dare assure 
 
 you, 
 And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand. 
 My father is in heaven ; and, pretty mistress. 
 If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand. 
 No worse than yet it does, upon my life. 
 You and I both shall meet my father there. 
 And he shall bid you welcome ! 
 
 Dor. blessed day ! 
 
 We aU long to be there, but lose the way. 
 
 \Iixeunt. 
 Dorothea is executed ; and the .Angel visits The- 
 opniLUS, the Judge that condemned her. 
 
 TuEOPHiLrs {alone). This Christian slut was 
 weU, 
 A pretty one ; but let such horror follow 
 The next I feed with tormeuts, that when Home 
 Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound 
 j\Iay feel an earthquake. How now ? (Music.) 
 
 AxG. Are you amazed, sir? 
 
 So great a Boman spirit, and doth it trenible ? 
 
 Theoph. How cam'st thou in? to whom thy 
 business ? 
 
 AxG. To you. 
 
 I had a mistress, late sent hence by you 
 U])on a bloody errand ; you entreated, 
 That, when she came into that blessed garden 
 Whither slie knew she went, and where, now 
 
 happy, 
 She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you 
 
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a- 
 
 VIRTUE AND VICE. 
 
 -- Q) 
 
 101 
 
 Are my gates shut ? 
 
 And guarded. 
 Saw you uot 
 
 fr 
 
 Some of tliat garden fruit aud flowers ; whieh here. 
 To Iiave her promise sav'd, are brought by me. 
 
 Theopu. Cannot I see this garden? 
 
 Ang. Yes, if the master 
 
 Will give you entrance. (lie vanishes.) 
 
 Theopu. 'T is a tempting fruit, 
 
 And the most bright-cheek'd child I ever view'd ; 
 Sweet-smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are 
 
 these ? 
 lu Dioclesian's gardens, the most beauteous 
 Compar'd with these are weeds : is it not Febru- 
 ary, 
 The second day she died ? frost, ice, and snow 
 Hang on the beard of winter : where 's the sun 
 That gilds this summer ? pretty, sweet boy, say. 
 In what country shall a man find tiiis garden ? — 
 J[y delicate boy, — gone ! vanish'd ! within 
 
 there, 
 Julianus ! Gcta ! 
 
 Both. My lord. 
 
 Theopu. 
 
 Geta. 
 
 Theopu. 
 A boy y 
 
 Julianus. Wliere? 
 
 Theopu. Here he enter'd, a young lad; 
 
 A thousand blessings danc'd upon his eyes ; 
 A smooth-fac'd glorious thing, that brought this 
 basket. 
 
 Geta. No, sir. 
 
 TuEOPU. Away ! but be in reach, if my voice 
 calls you. The Virgin Martyr, 
 
 hy Dekkcr and JIassi>/(/er. 
 
 FORTUNATUS CHOOSES AMONG THE GIFTS OF 
 FORTUNE. 
 
 0, wuiTUEB, am I wrapt beyond myself? 
 More violent conflicts fight in every thought 
 Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall 
 
 wrought. 
 Shall I contract myself to wisdom's love? 
 Then I lose riches ; and a wise man poor 
 Is like a sacred book that 's never read ; 
 To liimself he lives and to all else seems dead. 
 This age thinks better of a gilded fool, 
 Thau of a threadbare saint in Wisdom's school. 
 1 will be strong : then I refuse long life ; 
 And though mine arm should conquer twenty 
 
 worlds, 
 Tliere 's a lean fellow beats all conquerors : 
 The greatest sti'cngth expires with loss of breath, 
 The mightiest in one minute stoop to death. 
 Then take long life, or healtli ; should I do so, 
 I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll 
 Of months and years much misery might enroll : 
 Therefore I '11 beg for beauty ; yet I will not : 
 
 The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul 
 Leprous as sin itself, than hell more funl. 
 The wisdom of this world is idiotism ; 
 Strength a weak reed ; health sickness' enemy, 
 And it at length will have the victory. 
 Beauty is but a painting ; and long life 
 Is a long journey in December gone, 
 Tedious aud full of tribulation. 
 Therefore, dread sacred Empress, make me ricii : 
 My choice is store of gold ; the rich are wise, 
 He that upon his back rich garments wears 
 Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears. 
 Gold is the strength, the sinews of tlic world, 
 The health, the soul, tlie beauty most diviue ; 
 A mask of gold hides all deformities ; 
 Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative ; 
 O, therefore make me rich. 
 
 THE SUMMER'S QUEEN. 
 
 O, THE month of May, the merry month of May, 
 So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so 
 
 green, 
 O, and then did I unto my tnie love say. 
 Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen. 
 
 Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale. 
 The sweetest singer in all the forest's quire. 
 Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true 
 
 love's tale : 
 Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier. 
 
 But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo ; 
 See where she sitteth ; come away, my joy : 
 Come away, I prithee, 1 do not like the cuckoo 
 Should sing where my Peggy aud I kiss and toy. 
 
 O, the month of May, the merry month of May, 
 So froUe, so gay, and so green, so green, so 
 
 green ; 
 Aud then did I unto my true love say. 
 Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Q.ueeu. 
 
 VIRTUE AND VICE, 
 
 Virtue's branches wither, virtue pines, 
 O pity ! pity ! and alack the time ! 
 Vice doth flourish, vice in glory sliines. 
 Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb. 
 
 Vice hath golden cheeks, pity, pity ! 
 Slie in every land doth monarchize : 
 Virtue is exiled from evei'y city, 
 Virtue is a fool, Vice oidy wise. 
 
 O pity, pity ! Virtue weeping dies ! 
 
 Vice laughs to see her faint, alack the time ! 
 
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 102 
 
 DEKKER. 
 
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 fr 
 
 This sinks ; with painted wings the other Hies ; 
 Alack, that best should fall, aud bad should chrab. 
 
 O pity, pity, pity ! mourn, not sing ; 
 Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling ; 
 Vice doth flourish, Vice iu glory shines, 
 Virtue's branches wither. Virtue pines. 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 Golden slumbers kiss your eyes. 
 Smiles awake you when you rise. 
 Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, 
 And I will sing a lullaby ; 
 Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 
 
 Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; 
 You are care, and care must keep you. 
 Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, 
 And I will sing a lullaby : 
 Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 Patience, my lord ! why, 't is the soul of peace ; 
 Of all the virtues 't is nearest kin to heaven ; 
 It makes men look like gods. Tlie best of men 
 That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, 
 A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, 
 The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. 
 The stock of patience then cannot be poor ; 
 All it desires, it has ; wliat award more ? 
 It is the greatest enemy to law 
 That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs,. 
 And so chains up lawyers' and women's tongues : 
 'T is the perpetual prisoner's hberty, 
 His walks and orchards : 't is the bond-slave's 
 
 freedom. 
 And makes him seem proud of his iron chain, 
 As though he wore it more for state than pain : 
 It is the beggar's music, and thus sings, — 
 Although tlieir bodies beg, their souls are kings. 
 O, my dread liege ! it is the sap of bliss, 
 Bears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss ; 
 And last of all, to end a household strife. 
 It is the honey 'gainst a waspish wife. 
 
 BEAUTY, AEISE! 
 
 Beauty, arise, show forth thy glorious shining ; 
 Thine eyes feed love, for them he standeth pining. 
 Honour and youth attend to do their duty 
 To thee, their only sovereign beauty. 
 Beauty, arise, whilst we, thy servants, sing, 
 lo to Hymen, wedlock's jocund king. 
 
 lo to Hymen, lo, lo, sing, 
 
 Of wedlock, love, and youth, is Hymen king. 
 
 Beauty, arise, thy glorious lights display. 
 Whilst we sing lo, glad to see this day. 
 
 lo, lo, to Hymen, lo, lo, sing. 
 
 Of wedlock, love, and youth, is Hymen king. 
 
 SWEET CONTENT. 
 
 Am thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? 
 O, sweet content ! 
 Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? 
 
 O, punishment ! 
 Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
 To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? 
 C), sweet content ! O, sweet, etc. 
 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
 Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
 Then hey nouey, noney, hey noney, noney. 
 
 Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 
 O, sweet content ! 
 Swimmest thou in wealth, yet sinkest in thine 
 own tears ? 
 O, punishment ! 
 Then he that patiently want's burden bears. 
 No burden bears, but is a king, a king I 
 O, sweet content ! etc. 
 Work apace, apace, etc. 
 
 THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.* 
 
 An old song made by an aged old pate 
 
 Of an old worshipful gentlemau, who had a great 
 
 estate, 
 That kept a brave old house at a bountifid rate, 
 And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; 
 
 Like an old courtier of the queen's. 
 
 And the queen's old courtier. 
 
 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages, 
 That every quarter paid their old servants their 
 
 wages, 
 And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, 
 
 footmen, 7ior pages. 
 But kept twenty old fellows i\ith blue coats and 
 
 badges ; 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 With an old study fill'd full of learned old books ; 
 With an old reverend chaplain, you might know 
 him by his looks ; 
 
 • Tliis celebnited sonn lias no nuthor's name attached to it. 
 Leifrli Hunt dt-rlares he " should not wonder if it Imd been 
 written by Dekker," as *• it has all his humor, moral sweetness, 
 and flow." 
 
 ^ 
 
eft- 
 
 THE OLD AND YOUNG COUETIEE. 
 
 103 
 
 ■^ 
 
 With an old butter}' liatch, worn quite off the 
 
 hooks ; 
 And an old kitchen, that niaiutain'd half a dozen 
 
 old cooks ; 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, 
 
 and bows ; 
 With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne 
 
 many shrewd blows, 
 And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's 
 
 trunk hose ; 
 And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper 
 
 nose; 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was 
 
 come. 
 To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and 
 
 drum, 
 With good cheer enough to furnish every old 
 
 room. 
 And old liquor able to make a cat speak and a 
 
 man dumb ; 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 AV'ith an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel 
 
 of hounds. 
 That never hawk'd, nor hunted, but in his own 
 
 grounds. 
 Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his 
 
 own bounds. 
 And when he died, gave every child a thousand 
 
 good pounds ; 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 But to his eldest son his house and land he 
 assign'd. 
 
 Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful 
 mind. 
 
 To be good to his old tenants, and to his neigh- 
 bours be kind ; 
 
 But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he 
 was inclin'd : 
 Like a young courtier of the king's, 
 And the king's young courtier. 
 
 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to 
 
 his land, 
 Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his 
 
 command. 
 And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's 
 
 ' land. 
 And gets drunk in a tavern, till be can neither 
 go nor stand ; 
 Like a young courtier, etc. 
 
 With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, 
 and spare, 
 
 (^ 
 
 Who never knew what belong'd.to good house- 
 keeping, or care, 
 
 Wlio buys gaudy-color'd fans to play with a 
 wanton air. 
 
 And seven or eight different dressings of other 
 women's hair; 
 Like a young courtier, etc. 
 
 With a new-fashiou'd hall, budt where the old 
 
 one stood. 
 Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor 
 
 no good ; 
 With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns 
 
 neither coal nor wood. 
 And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no 
 
 victuals ne'er stood; 
 Like a young courtier, etc. 
 
 With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and 
 plays. 
 
 And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he 
 prays ; 
 
 With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in 
 four or five days. 
 
 And a new French cook, to devise fine kick- 
 shaws and toys ; 
 Like a young courtier, etc. 
 
 With a new fasliion, when Christmas is drawing 
 on, 
 
 On a new journey to London straight we all 
 must be gone. 
 
 And leave none to keep house but our new por- 
 ter John, 
 
 Wlio relieves the poor with a thump on the back 
 with a stone, 
 Like a young courtier, etc. 
 
 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is 
 
 complete ; 
 With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to 
 
 carry up the meat ; 
 With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is 
 
 very neat, 
 Who, when her lady has din'd, lets the servants 
 
 not eat ; 
 Like a young courtier, etc. 
 
 With new titles of honour bought with his father's 
 
 old gold, 
 For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors 
 
 are sold ; 
 And this is the course most of our new gallants 
 
 hold, 
 Wliich makes that good house-keeping is now 
 
 grown so cold, 
 Among our young courtiers of the king. 
 Or the king's young courtiers. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 104 
 
 MIDDLETON. 
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 —^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 THOMxVS MIDDLETON. 
 
 1570 (») - 1637 ('). 
 
 HAPPINESS OF MAEEIED LITE. 
 
 How near am I now to a happiness 
 That earth exceeds not ! not another like it : 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious, 
 As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
 Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ! 
 The violet bed 's not sweeter. Honest wedlock 
 Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, 
 On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight 
 To cast their modest odours ; when base lust. 
 With all her powders, paintings, and best pride, 
 Is but a fair house built by a ditch side. 
 
 Now for a welcome. 
 
 Able to draw men's envies upon man ; 
 A kiss now that wdl hang upon my lip 
 As sweet as morning dew upon a rose. 
 And full as long ! 
 
 VIBTUODS POVEETT. 
 
 'Life, had he not his answer? what strange 
 
 impudence 
 Governs in man, when lust is lord of him ! 
 Thinks he me mad ? 'cause I have no moneys on 
 
 earth, 
 That I 'U go forfeit my estate in heaven. 
 And live eternal beggar ? he shall pardon me ; 
 That 's my soul's jointure ; I '11 starve ere I sell 
 
 that. 
 
 DEATH, 
 
 When the heart 's above, the body walks here 
 But like an idle serving-man below. 
 Gaping and waiting for his master's coming. 
 He tliat lives fourscore years, is but like one 
 That stays here for a friend ; when death comes, 
 
 then 
 Away he goes, and is ne'er seen again. 
 
 THE THKEE STATES OF WOMAN. 
 
 In a maiden-time professed, 
 Then we say that life is blessed ; 
 Tasting once the married life. 
 Then we only praise the wife ; 
 There 's but one state more to try, 
 Which makes women laugh or cry, — 
 Widow, widow : of these three 
 The middle 's best, and that give me. 
 
 THE PAKTIBQ OF L0VEK8, 
 
 Weep eyes, break heart ! 
 
 My love and I must part. 
 
 Cruel fates true love do soonest sever; 
 
 O, I shall see thee never, never, never ! 
 
 O, happy is the maid whose life takes end 
 Ere it knows parent's frown or loss of friend ! 
 Weep eyes, break heart ! 
 My love and I must part. 
 
 ■WHAT LOTE IS LIXE. 
 
 Love is like a lamb, and love is like a lion ; 
 Fly from love, he fights ; fight, then does he ily on; 
 Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing ; 
 Love is much in winning, yet is more in leesiug: 
 
 Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying ; 
 Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying ; 
 Love does doat in liking, and is mad in loathing ; 
 Love indeed is anything, yet indeed is nothing. 
 
 PITY, PITT, PITT I 
 
 Pity, pity, pity ! 
 Pity, pity, pity ! 
 That word begins that ends a true-love ditty. 
 Your blessed eyes, like a pair of suns. 
 
 Shine in the sphere of smiling ; 
 Your pretty lips, like a pair of doves. 
 Are kisses still compiling. 
 Mercy hangs upon your brow like a precious jewel : 
 O, let not then. 
 Most lovely maid, best to be loved of men. 
 Marble lie upon your heart, that will make you cruel ! 
 Pity, pity, pity ! 
 Pity, pity, pity ! 
 That word begins that ends a true-love ditty. 
 
 JOHN M.'VRSTON. 
 
 - 1603 (!). 
 
 MISERY ALMOST WITHOUT HOPE, 
 
 Andrvgio, Dif/i:e of Genoa, banished his countrt/^ 
 unih the loss of a son, supposed drowned^ is cast 
 upon the territory of his ntortat enemy the Duke 
 or Venice with no attendants but Lvcio, an old 
 nobleman, and a Vage. 
 
 Andrugio. Is not yon gleam the shudd'ring 
 Mom that flakes 
 With silver tiuchire the east verge of heaven ? 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 WHEEEIN FOOLS ARE HAPPY. 
 
 105 
 
 -0) 
 
 Lucio. I tliiuk it is, so please your Excellence. 
 Andr. Away, I liave no Excellence to please. 
 
 Prithee observe the custom of the world ; 
 
 That only t'atters greatness, states exalts. 
 
 And please my Excellence ! O Liicio, 
 
 Thou hast been ever held respected, dear. 
 
 Even precious to Audrugio's inmost love : 
 
 Good, flatter not. 
 
 My thoughts are fixt in contemplation 
 
 Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal 
 
 That eats her children, should not have eyes and 
 ears. 
 
 Philosophy maintains that Nature 's wise, 
 
 And forms no useless nor unperfect tluug. 
 
 Did Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature ? 
 
 For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the 
 man. 
 
 Moulds me up honour, and, like a cunning Dutch- 
 man, 
 
 Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath, 
 
 And gives a sot appearance of a soul. 
 
 Go to, go to ; thou ly'st, Pliilosophy. 
 
 Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain. 
 
 Why made she not the earth with eyes and 
 ears? 
 
 That she might see desert and hear men's plaints ; 
 
 That when a soid is splitted. sunk with grief. 
 
 He might fall thus upon the breast of Earth, 
 
 And in her ear halloo his misery. 
 
 Exclaiming thus ; O thou all bearing Earth, 
 
 Which men do gape for tUl thou cramm'st their 
 mouths 
 
 And choak'st their throats with dust : open thy 
 breast. 
 
 And let me sink into thee : look who knocks ; 
 
 Andrugio calls. But O, she 's deaf and blhid. 
 
 A wretch but lean relief on earth can find. 
 Luc. Sweet Lord, abandon passion ; and dis- 
 arm. 
 
 Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea 
 
 We are roU'd up upon the Venice marsh. 
 
 Let 's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fate — 
 Andr. More low'ring fate I O Lucio, choke 
 that breath. 
 
 Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath 
 frown'd. 
 
 Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend : 
 
 Her venom's spit. Alas I what country 'rests. 
 
 What son, what comfort, that she can deprive ? 
 
 Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ? 
 
 Gapes not my native country for my blood ? 
 
 Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main ? 
 
 And in more low'ring fate ? There 's nothing 
 left 
 
 Unto Andrugio but Andrugio : 
 
 And that 
 
 Nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take : 
 
 Fortune my fortunes not my mind shall shake. 
 
 Luc. Speak like yourself: but give me leave, 
 my Lord, 
 To wish you safety. If you are but seen. 
 Your arms display you; therefore put them oft', 
 And take — 
 
 Andk. Wouldst have me go uiiarm'd among 
 my foes ? 
 Being besieg'd by Passion, entering lists 
 To combat with Despair and mighty Grief : 
 My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength 
 Of sharp Lnpatience. Ha, Lucio ; go unarm'd ? 
 Come, soul, resume the valor of thy birth ; 
 Myself myself will dare all opposites : 
 1 'U muster forces, an uuvanquish'd power : 
 Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth : 
 This hoUow-wombcd mass shall inly groan 
 And murmur to sustain the weight of arms : 
 Ghastly Amazement, with upstarted hair. 
 Shall hurry on before, and usher us, 
 Wlulst trumpets clamor with a sound of death. 
 Histori/ of Aiitoiiio and MvUida, 
 
 THE SCHOLAE AND HIS DOG. 
 
 I WAS a schohir : seven useful springs 
 Did 1 deflower in quotations 
 Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man ; 
 The more I leanit, the more I learn to doubt. 
 Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I haus'd leaves, 
 Toss'd o'er tlie dunces, pored on the old jirint 
 Of titled words : and stiU my spaniel slept. 
 Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, 
 Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept. 
 And still I held converse with ZabareU, 
 Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 
 Of antick Donate : still "my spaniel slept. 
 Still on went I ; first, an sit anima ; 
 Then, an it were mortal. O, hold, hold ; at that 
 They 're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain 
 Pell-mell together ; still my spaniel slept. 
 Then, whether 't were corporeal, local, fixt. 
 Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will 
 Or no, hot philosophers 
 Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt, 
 I staggcr'd, knew not which was firmer part. 
 But thought, quoted, read, observ'd and pryed, 
 Stufft noting-books : and still my spaniel slept. 
 At length he wak'd, and yawned ; and by yon 
 
 sky. 
 For aught I know he knew as nmch as I. 
 
 ■WHEREIN FOOLS ARE HAPPY, 
 
 Even in that, note a fool's beatitude ; 
 He is not capable of passion ; 
 W^anting the power of distinction. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 lOG 
 
 HEYWOOU. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 He bears an untuni'd sail with every wind : 
 Blow cast, blow west, he steers his course 
 
 alike. 
 I never saw a fool lean : the chub-faced fop 
 Shines sleek with full crain'd fat of happi- 
 ness : 
 Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice 
 From wisard's cheeks, who making curious 
 
 search 
 For nature's secrets, the First Innating Cause 
 Laughs them to scorn, as mau doth busy apes 
 When they will zany men. 
 
 DAT BREAKINa. 
 
 See, the dapple gray coursers of the mom 
 Beat up the light with their bright silver 
 
 hoofs. 
 And chase it through the sky. 
 
 ONE WHO DIED, SLAUDEEED, 
 
 Look on tliose lips. 
 Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender soft- 
 ness 
 Chaste modest Speech, stealing from out his 
 
 breast. 
 Had wont to rest itself, as loth to post 
 From out so fair an inn : look, look, they seem 
 To stir. 
 And breatlie defiance to black obloquy. 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 15701) - 
 
 GO, PBETTT BIEDS. 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing 
 
 Amidst the shady valleys. 
 And see how PhiUis sweetly walks, 
 
 Within her garden-alleys ; 
 Go, pretty birds, about her bower ; 
 Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower ; 
 Ah, me ! melhiuks T see her frown ! 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go, tell her, through your ehii-piug bills. 
 
 As you by me are bidden, 
 To her is only kno\vn my love, 
 
 Wiioh from the world is hidden. 
 Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; 
 See that your notes strain not too low. 
 
 For still, methinks, I see her frown. 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go, tune your voices' harmony, 
 
 And sing, I am her lover ; 
 Strain loud and sweet, that every note 
 
 With sweet content may move her. 
 And she that hath the sweetest voice. 
 Tell her I wUI not change my choice ; 
 Yet still, metliinks, I see her frown. 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 0, fly ! make haste ! see, see, she falls 
 
 Into a pretty slumber. 
 Slug round about her rosy bed, 
 
 That, waking, she may wonder. 
 Say to her, 't is her lover true 
 That sendeth love to you, to you ; 
 And when you hear her kind reply, 
 
 Return with pleasant warblings. 
 
 THE LAKK. 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day. 
 
 With night we banish sorrow : 
 Sweet air blow soft, mount, lark, aloft. 
 
 To give my love good-morrow : 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
 
 Notes from the lark I '11 borrow : 
 Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 
 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 To give my love good-mon-ow. 
 Notes from them all I '11 borrow. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin rcd-brcast. 
 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love good-morrow. 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
 
 Stare, liimet, and cock-sparrow. 
 You pretty elves, amongst yourselves. 
 
 Sing my fair love good-raorrow. 
 To give my love good-morrow, 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow. 
 
 THE DEATH BELL, 
 
 Come, list and hark, the bell doth toll 
 For some but now departing soul. 
 And was not that some ominous fowl. 
 The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owl ? 
 To these I hear the wild wolf howl. 
 In this black nii;ht that seems to scowl. 
 All these my black-book death enroll. 
 For hark, still, still, the bell doth toll 
 For some but now departing soul. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE INCOIIRUPTIBLE MAID. 
 
 107 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 CYRIL TOURNEUR. 
 
 About 1680. 
 
 VDJDICI ADDEESSES THE SKULL OF HIS DEM) 
 LADY, 
 
 Here 's an eye. 
 Able to tempt a great man — to serve God; 
 A pretty hanging lip, tliat has forgot now to dis- 
 semble. 
 Methinks this mouth should make a swearer 
 
 tremble ; 
 A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em. 
 To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em, 
 Here 's a cheek keeps her color let the wind go 
 
 whistle ; 
 Spout rahi, we fear thee not : be hot or cold, 
 All 's one with us : and is not lie absurd, 
 Whose fortunes are upon their faces set, 
 That fear no other God but wind and wet ? 
 Does the silk-worm expend her yellow labors 
 For thee ? for thee does slie undo herself ? 
 Are lordships sold to maintain ladysliips, 
 For the poor benefit of a bewitching minute ? 
 Why does yon feDow falsify highways, 
 And put his Ufe between tlie judge's lips, 
 To refine such a thing ? keep his horse and 
 
 men, 
 To beat their valours for her ? 
 Surely we 're aU mad people, and they 
 Whom we think are, are not. 
 Does every proud and sclf-afl'ecting dame 
 Camphire her face for this? and grieve her 
 
 maker 
 In sinful baths of milk, when many an infant 
 
 starves. 
 For her superfluous outside, for all this ? 
 
 EVIL KEPOKT ATTER DEATH. 
 
 WiiAT is it to have 
 A flattering false insculption on a tomb. 
 And in men's hearts reproach ? the 'bowel'd 
 
 corps 
 May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I 
 
 speak) 
 The faidts of great men through tlieir sear- 
 clothes break. 
 
 LOTE AND COUEAOE. 
 
 0, DO not wrong him. 'Tis a generous mind 
 That led his disposition to the war ; 
 For gentle love and noble courage are 
 So near allied, that one begets another : 
 
 Or love is sister, and courage is the brother. 
 
 Could I atfect him lietter than before, 
 
 His soldier's iieart would make me love liim 
 
 THE DfCOEEUPTIBLE MAID, 
 
 ViNDICI, the brother o/'Castiza, bears to her feigned 
 dishonorable proposals from the Duke's son, and is 
 sustained in his suit by her mother. 
 
 Gastiza. Madam, what makes yon evil-ofiic'd 
 man 
 In presence of you ? 
 
 MoTUEK. Why ? 
 
 Cast. He lately brought 
 
 Immodest writing sent from the duke's son, 
 To tempt me to dishonourable act. 
 
 MoTU. Dishonourable act? — good honoura- 
 ble fool. 
 That wouldst be honest, 'cause thou wouldst be so. 
 Producing no one reason but thy wUl ; 
 And it has a good report, prettily commended. 
 But pray by whom ? poor people : ignorant 
 
 people ; 
 The better sort, I 'm sure, cannot abide it. 
 And by what rule should we square out our lives 
 But by our l)etters' actions ? O, if thou knew'st 
 What 't were to lose it, thou wouldst never keep 
 
 it; 
 But there 's a cold curse laid upon all maids, 
 Whilst others clip the sun, they clasp tlie shades. 
 Deny advancement ! treasure ! tlie duke's son ! 
 
 Cast. I cry you mercy, lady, I mistook you ; 
 Pray did you see my mother ? which way went 
 
 you? 
 Pray God I have not lost her. 
 
 ViNDici. Prettily put by. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Moth. Are you as proud to me, as coy to liim ? 
 Do you not know me now ? 
 
 Cast. Why, are you she ? 
 
 The world 's so chang'd, one shape into another, 
 It is a wise child now that knows lier mother. 
 
 ViN. Most right, i' faith. [^l,s7V/e. 
 
 !M(iTH. I owe your cheek my hand 
 
 For that presumption now, but I '11 forget it ; 
 Come, you shall leave those childish 'haviours. 
 And understand your time. Fortunes flowto you. 
 W\\at will you be a girl ? 
 If all fear'd drowning that spy waves ashore, 
 Gold would grow rich, and all the merchants poor. 
 
 Cast. It is a pretty saying of a wicked one, 
 but nietliinks now 
 It does not show so well out of your mouth ; 
 Better in his. 
 
 ViN. Faith, bad enougli in both, 
 
 Were I in earnest, as I '11 seem no less. \_Aside. 
 I wonder, lady, your own mother's words 
 
 -^ 
 
cfr 
 
 108 
 
 WEBSTER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Canuot be taken, nor stand in full force. 
 
 'T is honesty you urge ; 'wliat 's honesty ? 
 
 'T is but heaven's beggar ; and what woman is so 
 
 foolish to keep honesty. 
 And be not able to keep herself? no, 
 Times are grown wiser, and will keep less charge. 
 A maid that has small portion now, intends 
 To break up house, and live upon her friends. 
 How t)lest are you ! you have ha])piness alone : 
 Others must fall to thousands, you to one; 
 Sufficient in himself to make your forcliead 
 Dazzle the world with jewels, and petitionary 
 
 people 
 Start at your presence. 
 O, think upon the pleasure of the palace ! 
 Secured ease and state ! the stirring meats. 
 Ready to move out of the dishes, that e'en now 
 
 quicken when they 're eaten ! 
 Banqiiets abroad by torehUglit ! music! sports! 
 Bare-headed vassals, tliat had ne'er the fortune 
 To keep on their own hats, but let horns wear 'era ! 
 Nine coaches waiting — hurry, hurry, hurry — 
 Cast. Aye, to the devil — 
 ViN. Aye, to the devil ! to the duke, by my 
 
 faith. 
 JloTU. Aye, to the duke. Daughter, you 'd 
 scorn to think 
 Of the devil, and you were there once. 
 
 ViN. Wlio 'd sit at home in a neglected room. 
 Dealing her short-liv'd beauty to the pictures, 
 That are as useless as old men, when those 
 Poorer in face and fortune than lierself 
 Walk with a hundred acres on their backs, 
 Fair meadows cut into green fore-parts ? — 
 Fair trees, those comely foretops of the field. 
 Are cut to maintain liead-tires : — much untold — 
 All thrives but Cliastity, she lies cold. 
 Nay, sliall I come near to you ? mark but this : 
 Why are there so few honest women, but because 
 't is the poorer profession? that 's ac- 
 counted best, that 's best followed ; least 
 in trade, least in fashion ; and that 's not 
 honesty, believe it ; and do but note the 
 low and dejected price of it : 
 Lose but a pearl, we searcli and cannot brook it : 
 But that once gone, who is so mad to look it ? 
 Moth. Troth, he says true. 
 Cast. False : I defy you botli. 
 
 1 have endur'd you with an ear of fire ; 
 Your tongues have struck hot irons on my face. 
 Mother, come from that poisonous woman there. 
 Moth. Where? 
 
 C.\sT. Do you not see her? she 's too inward 
 
 th-u. " 
 
 Slave, perish in thy office. You heavens please. 
 
 Henceforth to make tlic mother a disease, 
 
 Which first begins witli me ; yet I 've outgone 
 
 you. [Exit. 
 
 ViN. O angels, clap your wings upon the skies. 
 
 And give this virgin crystal plaudities ! \_Aside. 
 
 Moth. Peevish, coy, foohsh ! — but return 
 
 this answer. 
 
 My lord shall be most welcome, when his 
 
 pleasure 
 Conducts him this way ; I will sway mine own ; 
 Women with women can work best alone. [Exit. 
 ViN. Forgive me, heaven, to call my mother 
 wicked ! 
 0, lessen not my days upon the earth. 
 I cannot hononr her. 
 
 The Hevevger s Tragedy. 
 
 JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 1585 (•)- 1654 (?). 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF MALFT, 
 
 The Duchess is kept awake bt/ noises of madmen ; 
 and, at tost, is strangled by executioners. 
 
 Duchess. Cariola. 
 
 Duchess. What hideous noise was that? 
 
 Cariola. 'T is the wild consort 
 Of madmen. Lady : which your tyrant brother 
 Hath placed about your lodging : this tyranny 
 I think was never praetis'd till this hour. 
 
 DucH. Indeed I thank liim ; nothing but 
 noise and folly 
 Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason 
 And silence make me stark mad ; sit down, 
 Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 
 
 Car. 0, 't will increase your melancholy. 
 
 Ducn. Thou art deceived. 
 To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. 
 This is a prison ? 
 
 Car. Y'es : but thou shall live 
 To shake this durance off. 
 
 DucH. Thou art a fool. 
 The Robin-redbreast and the Nightingale 
 Never live long in cages. 
 
 Car. Pray, dry your eyes. 
 TMiat think you of, ^ladam ? 
 
 Drcii. Of nothing: 
 When I muse thus, I sleep. 
 
 Car. Like a madman, with yo\ir eyes open ? 
 
 DncH. Dost thou think we shall know one 
 another 
 In the other world ? 
 
 Car. Yes, out of question. 
 
 Dvrii. 0, that it were possible we might 
 But hold some two days' conference with the 
 
 dead. 
 From them I should learn somewhat I am sure 
 I never shall know here. I '11 tell thee a miracle ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. 
 
 109 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. 
 
 Th' lieaven o'er my head seems made of molten 
 
 brass, 
 The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad : 
 I am acquainted with sad misery, 
 As the tauu'd galley-slave is with his oar ; 
 Necessity makes me suffer constantly. 
 And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like 
 now? 
 
 Car. Like to your picture in the gallery ; 
 A deal of life in show, but none in practice : 
 ( )r rather, Kke some reverend monument 
 Whose ruins are even pitied. 
 
 DucH. Very proper: 
 Aud Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, 
 To behold my tragedy : how now, 
 What noise is that ? 
 
 A Servant enters. 
 
 Servant. I am come to tell you. 
 Your brother hath intended you some sport. 
 \ great physician when the Pope was sick 
 0( a deep melancholy, presented him 
 With several sorts of madmen, which wild object 
 (Being fuU of change and sport) forc'd him to 
 
 laugli, 
 And so th' imposthume broke : the selfsame cure 
 The duke intends on you. 
 
 DucH. Let them come in. 
 
 Here follmes a Dance nf Madmen, with 3Iiisic an- 
 swerable thereto : after which BosoLA {like an 
 old Man) enters. 
 
 DuciJ. Is he mad too ? 
 
 BosoLA. I am come to make thy tomb. 
 
 DucH. Ha : my tomb ? 
 Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed : 
 Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick ? 
 
 Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since 
 thy sickness is insensible. 
 
 Ducii. Thou art not mad sure : dost know 
 me? 
 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 DucH. Who am I ? 
 
 Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed ; at best 
 but a salvatory of green mummy. What 's this 
 ilesh ? a little crudded milk, fantastical puft'-paste. 
 Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons 
 boys use to keep flies in, more contemptible ; 
 since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst 
 thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is the 
 soul in the body : this world is like her little 
 turf of grass ; and the heaven o'er our heads 
 hke her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable 
 knowledge of the small compass of our prison. 
 
 Ducn. Am not I thy duchess? 
 
 Bos. Thou art some great woman sure, for 
 riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in gray 
 hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk- 
 
 maid's. Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse 
 should be forced to take up her lodging in a 
 cat's ear : a little infant that breeds its teeth, 
 should it lie with thee would cry out, as if thou 
 wert the more unquiet bedfellow. 
 
 DucH. I am Duchess of Malfy still. 
 
 Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : 
 Glories, like glow-worms, afar oif shine bright ; 
 But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light. 
 
 Ducii. Thou art very plain. 
 
 Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the 
 living. I am a tomb-maker. 
 
 DucH. And thou comest to make my tomb ? 
 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 DucH. Let me be a little merry. 
 Of what stuff' wilt thou make it ? 
 
 Bos. Nay, resolve me first ; of what fashion ? 
 
 Ducn. Wliy, do we grow fantastical in our 
 death-bed ? 
 Do we affect fasliion in the grave ? 
 
 Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on 
 their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seem- 
 ing to pray up to heaven : but with tlieir hands 
 under their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth- 
 ache) : they are not carved with their eyes fixed 
 upon the stars ; but, as their minds were wholly 
 bent upon the world, the same way they seem 
 to turn their faces. 
 
 Ducn. Let me know fully therefore the effect 
 Of this thy dismal preparation, 
 This talk, fit for a charuel. 
 
 Bos. Now I shall. 
 
 {A Coffin, Cords, and a Bell, produced.) 
 
 Here is a present from your princely brothers ; 
 And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 
 Last benefit, last sorrow.. 
 
 Ducn. Let me see it, 
 I have so much obedience in my blood, 
 I wish it in their veins to do them good. 
 
 Bos. This is your last presence chamber. 
 
 Car. my sweet lady. 
 
 Ducn. Peace, it affrights not me. 
 
 Bos. I am the common bell-man. 
 That usually is sent to condemn'd persons 
 The night before they suffer. 
 
 Ducn. Even now thou saidst. 
 Thou wast a tomb-maker. 
 
 Bos. 'T was to bring you 
 By degrees to mortification : Listen 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Hnrk, now everything is still; 
 
 This screech-owl, and the whistler shriU 
 
 Call npon our dame aloud. 
 
 And hid her quickly don her shroud. 
 
 Much you had of land and rent; 
 
 Your length in clay 's now competent. 
 
 A long war disturb'd your mind ; 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 10 
 
 WEBSTER. 
 
 -S) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 
 
 Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping ? 
 
 Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping : 
 
 Their life, a general mist of error. 
 
 Their death, a hideous storm of terror. 
 
 Strew your hair with powders sweet, 
 
 Don clean linen, bathe your feet : 
 
 And (the foul fiend more to check) 
 
 A crucifix let bless your neck. 
 
 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: 
 
 End your groan, and come away. 
 
 Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas! 
 What will you do with my lady ? Call for help. 
 
 Ditch. To whom; to our next neighbors? 
 They are mad folks. 
 Farewell, Cariola. 
 
 I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy 
 Some syrup for his cold ; and let the girl 
 Say her pray'rs ere she sleep. — Now what you 
 
 please ; 
 Wliat death ? 
 
 Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 
 
 Ducii. I forgive them. 
 The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
 Would do as much as they do. 
 
 Bos. Doth not death friglit you ? 
 
 DucH. W^ho would be afraid on 't. 
 Knowing to meet such excellent company 
 In th' other world. 
 
 Bos. Yet methinks. 
 The manner of your death should much afflict 
 
 you; 
 This cord should terrify you. 
 
 DucH. Not a whit. 
 What would it pleasure me to have my throat 
 
 cut 
 AVith diamonds? or to'be smothered 
 With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? 
 I know, death hath ten thousand several doors 
 For men to take their exits ; and 't is found 
 They go on such strange geometrical hinges. 
 You may open them both ways : any way : (for 
 
 heav'u sake) 
 So I were out of your whispering : tell my 
 
 brothers, 
 That I perceive, death (now I 'm well awake) 
 Best gift is, they can give or I can take. 
 I would fain put off my last woman's fatdt ; 
 I 'd not be tedious to you. 
 Pidl, and pull strongly, for yotir able strength 
 Must pull down heaven upon me. 
 Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd 
 As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 
 Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, 
 Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. 
 Go tell my brotliers ; when I am laid out. 
 They then may feed in quiet. 
 
 (Tliei/ strangle her kneeling) 
 
 Fekdinand enters. 
 
 Feed. Is she dead ? 
 
 Bos. She is what you would have her. 
 Fix your eye here. 
 
 Ferd. Constantly. 
 
 Bos. Do you not weep ? 
 Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. 
 The element of water moistens the earth. 
 But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. 
 
 Ferd. Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle : she 
 died young. 
 
 Bos. I think not so : her infeUcity 
 Seem'd to have years too many. 
 
 Ferd. She and I were twins ; 
 And shoidd I die this instant, I had lived 
 Her time to a minute. 
 
 Duchess of Malfg. 
 
 SDieLE LITE, 
 
 O, FIE upon this single Ufe : forego it. 
 "We read how Daphne, for her peevish flight, 
 Became a fruitless bay -tree : Syrinx turn'd 
 To the pale empty reed : Anaxarate 
 Was frozen into marble ; whereas those 
 ^Miich married, or prov'd kind imto their friends, 
 Were, by a gracious influence, trans-shap'd 
 Into the olive, ])omegranate, midberry ; 
 Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent 
 stars. 
 
 REPUTATION, LOVE, AND DR4.TH. 
 
 Upox a time, Reputation, Love, and Death 
 
 Would travel o'er the world ; and 't was con- 
 cluded 
 
 That they should part, and take three several 
 ways. 
 
 Death told them, they shoidd find him in great 
 battles. 
 
 Or cities plagued with plagues : Love gives' Ihcm 
 counsel 
 
 To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shep- 
 herds, 
 
 Wliere dowries were not talked of; and some- 
 times, 
 
 'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left 
 
 By their dead parents : Stay, quoth Reputation ; 
 
 Do not forsake me, for it is my nature, 
 
 If once I part from any man I meet, 
 
 I am never found aeain. 
 
 FUNERAL DIRGE. 
 
 C.\LL for the robin-redbreast and the wren. 
 Since o'er shady groves they hover, 
 And with leaves and flowers do cover 
 
a- 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF KICKS AND BEATINGS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 -^ 
 
 The friendless bodies of unburied nieu. 
 
 Call unto his funeral dole 
 
 The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 
 
 To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 
 
 And (when gay tombs are robb'dj sustain no 
 
 harm ; 
 But keep the wolf far thence, tliat 's foe to men. 
 For witli his nails he '11 dig them up again. 
 
 HONOUEABLE EMPLOYMENT. 
 
 MY lord, lie not idle : 
 
 The chiefest action for a man of great spirit 
 
 Is never to be out of action. We should think; 
 
 Tiie soul was never put into the body, 
 
 Which has so many rare and curious pieces 
 
 Of mathematical motion, to stand still. 
 
 Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds : 
 
 In the trenches for the soldier ; in the wakeful 
 
 study 
 For the scholar ; in the furrows of the sea 
 For m.en of our profession : of all which 
 Arise and spring up honour. 
 
 NATURAL DEATH. 
 
 O Tiiou soft natural dcatli ! that art joint twin 
 To sweetest slumber ! — no rough-bearded comet 
 Stares on thy mild departure ; the dull owl 
 Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse wolf 
 Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse, 
 Whilst horror waits on princes. 
 
 VOW OF MUEDEK REBUKED. 
 
 Miserable creature, 
 If thou persist in this 't is damnable. 
 Dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood, 
 And not be tainted with a shameful fall ? 
 Or like the black and melancholic yew-tree, 
 Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves 
 And yet to prosper ! 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 FRA.NCIS BEAUMONT, 1586-1616. 
 JOHN FLETCHER. 1576- 16S5. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF KICKS AND BEATINGS. 
 
 " Bessus, a beaten poltroon, applies to a couple of professional 
 bullies, also poltroons, to sit in judgment on his case, and 
 testify to his character for valor. Tlicy accompany him to the 
 house of Bacurius to do so, and bring an unexpected certifi- 
 cate on the whole party. '* — Leigh Hunt. 
 
 fr 
 
 Scene, a room in the house of Bessus. 
 
 Enter Bessus, two Swordmen, and a Boy. 
 
 Bessus. You're very welcome, both! — Some 
 stools there, boy ; 
 And reach a table. — Gentlemen o' th' sword. 
 Pray sit, \rithout more compliment. — Begone, 
 
 child ! — 
 I have been curious in the searching of you, 
 Because I understand you wise and valiant. 
 1st Swordman. We understand ourselves, sir. 
 Bes. Nay, gentlemen, and dear friends o' the 
 sword, 
 No compliment, I pray ; but to the cause 
 I hang upon, which, in few, is my honor. 
 
 2d Swordman. You cannot hang too much, sir, 
 for your honour. 
 But to your cause. 
 
 Bes. Be wise and speak the truth. 
 
 My first doubt is, my beating by my prince. 
 1st Sw. Stay there a little, sir ; do you doubt 
 a beating ? 
 Or have you had a beating by your prince ? 
 Bes. Gentlemen o' th' sword, my prince has 
 
 beaten me. 
 2d Sw. Brother, what think you of this case ? 
 1st Sw. If lie has beaten him, the case is 
 
 clear. 
 2d Sw. If he have beaten him, I grant the 
 case. 
 But how ? we cannot be too subtle in this busi- 
 ness. 
 I say, but how ? 
 
 Bes. Even with his royal hand. 
 
 1st Sw. Was it a blow of love, or indigna- 
 tion ? 
 Bes. 'T was twenty blows of indignation, gen- 
 tlemen ; 
 Besides two blows o' th' face. 
 
 2d Sw. Those blows o' th' face have made a 
 new cause on 't ; 
 The rest were but an honorable rudeness. 
 1st Sw. Two blows o' th' face, and given by 
 a worse man, 
 I must confess, as the swordmen say, had turn'd 
 The business : Jlark me, brother, by a worse 
 
 man : 
 But, being by his prince, had they been ten. 
 And those ten drawn ten teeth, besides the haz- 
 ard 
 Of his nose for ever, all this had been but 
 
 favors. 
 This is my flat opinion, which I'll die in. 
 
 2d Sw. The king may do much, captain, 
 believe it ; 
 For had he craok'd your skuH through, like a 
 
 bottle. 
 Or broke a rib or two with tossins of von, 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 112 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 i^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Yet you liad lost no honour. This is strange, 
 You may imagine ; but this is truth now, cap- 
 tain. 
 Bes. I will he glad to embrace it, gentlemen. 
 But how far may he strike me ? 
 
 1st Sw. There 's another ; 
 
 A new cause rising from the time and distance. 
 In which I will deUver my opinion. 
 He may strike, beat, or cause to be beaten ; 
 For these are natural to man : 
 Your prince, I say, may beat you so far forth 
 As his dominion reaches; that's for the dis- 
 tance ; 
 Tlic time, ten miles a day, I take it. 
 
 2d Sw. Brother, you err, 't is fifteen miles a 
 day; 
 His stage is ten, his beatings are fifteen. 
 
 Bes. 'T is of the longest, but we subjects 
 
 must — 
 1st Sw. Be subject to it. You are wise and 
 
 virtuous. 
 Bes. Obedience ever makes that noble use 
 on 't, 
 To which I dedicate my beaten body. 
 I must trouble you a little further, gentlemen o' 
 th' sword. 
 2d Sw. No trouble at all to us, sir, if we may 
 Profit your understanding. We are bound, 
 By virtue of our calling, to utter our opinion 
 Shortly and discreetly. 
 
 Bes. My sorest business is, I 've been kick'd. 
 2d Sw. How far, sir ? 
 Bes. Not to flatter myself, all over : 
 
 My sword lost, but not forced ; for discreetly 
 I render'd it, to save that imputation. 
 
 1st Sw. It show'd discretion, the best part of 
 
 valour. 
 2d Sw. Brother, tlus is a pretty cause ; pray 
 ponder on 't : 
 Our friend here has been kick'd. 
 
 1st Sw. He has so, brother. 
 
 2d Sw. Sorely, he says. Now, had he set 
 down here 
 Upon the mere kick, 't Iiad been cowardly. 
 1st Sw. I think, it had been cowardly, in- 
 deed. 
 2d Sw. But our friend has redeem'd it, in 
 delivering 
 His sword without compulsion; and that man 
 That took it of him, 1 pronounce a weak one, 
 And his kicks nullities. 
 
 He should have kick'd him after the deliver- 
 ing. 
 T\'lnch is the confirmation of a coward ? 
 
 1st Sw. Brother, I take it you mistake the 
 q\iestion; 
 For say, that I were kick'd. 
 
 2n Sw. I must not say so: 
 
 Nor I must not hear it spoke by th' tongue of 
 
 man. 
 You kick'd, dear brother ! You are merry. 
 1st Sw. But put the case, I were kick'd. 
 2d Sw. Let them jmt it. 
 
 That are things weary of their lives, and know 
 Not honour ! Put the case, you were kick'd I 
 1st Sw. I do not say I was kick'd. 
 
 2d Sw. No ; nor no siUy creature that wears 
 liis head 
 Without a case, his soul in a skin coat. 
 You kick'd, dear brother ! 
 Bes. Nay, gentlemen, let us do what wc 
 shall do, 
 Truly and honestly. Good sirs, to the question. 
 1st Sw. Why, then, I say, suppose your boy 
 
 kick'd, captain. 
 2d Sw. The boy, may be supposed, is liable. 
 But, kick my brother ! 
 
 1st Sw. a foolish forwai'd zeal, sir, in my 
 friend. 
 But to the boy: Suppose the boy were kick'd. 
 Bes. I do suppose it. 
 
 1st Sw. Has your boy a sword ? 
 
 Bes. Surely, no ; I pray, suppose a sword 
 
 too. 
 1st Sw. I do suppose it. You grant, your 
 
 boy was kick'd then. 
 2d Sw. By no means, captain; let it be sup- 
 posed still. 
 The word "gi'aut" makes not for us. 
 1st Sw. I say, this must be granted. 
 2d Sw. This must be granted, brother? 
 1st Sw. Ay, this must be granted. 
 2d Sw. Still, this must? 
 1st Sw. I say, this must be granted. 
 2d Sw. Ay ! give me the must again! Brother, 
 
 you palter. 
 1st Sw. I will not hear you, wasp. 
 2d Sw. Brother, 
 I say you palter ; the must three times to- 
 gether I 
 I wear as sharp steel as another man, 
 And my fox bites as deep. Musted, my dear 
 
 brother ! 
 But to the cause again. 
 
 Bes. Nay, look you, gentlemen ! 
 2d Sw. In a word, I ha' done. 
 1st Sw. a tall man, but iutcmpcrat* ; 't is 
 great pity. 
 Ouce more, suppose the boy kick'd. 
 2d Sw. Forward. 
 1st Sw. And, being thoroughly kick'd, 
 
 laughs at the kicker. 
 2d Sw. So much for us. Proceed. 
 1st Sw. And in this beaten sconi, as I may 
 call it. 
 Delivers up his weapon; where lies the error P 
 
 -# 
 
(Qr 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OP KICKS AND BEATINGS. 
 
 113 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Bes. It lies i' the beating, sir; I found it 
 
 four days since. 
 2d Sw. The error, and a sore one, as I take it, 
 Lies in the thing kicking. 
 Bes. I understand that well ; 'tis sore indeed, 
 
 sir. 
 1st Sw. That is according to the man that did it. 
 2d Sw. There springs a new branch : Whose 
 
 was the foot ? 
 Bes. a lord's. 
 
 1st Sw. The cause is mighty ; but, had it been 
 two lords, 
 And both had kick'd you, if you laugh'd, 'tis 
 clear. 
 Bes. I did laugh ; but how will that help me, 
 
 gentlemen ? 
 2d Sw. Yes, it shall help you, if you laugh'd 
 
 aloud. 
 Bes. As loud as a kick'd man could laugh, I 
 
 laugh'd, sir. 
 1st Sw. My reason now : The valiant man is 
 known 
 By suffering and contemning : you have had 
 Enough of both, and you are valiant. 
 
 2d Sw. If he be sure he has been kick'd enough ; 
 For that brave sufferance you speak of, brother. 
 Consists not iu a beating and away, 
 But in a cudgell'd body, from eighteen 
 To eight and thirty ; in a head rebuked 
 With pots of all size, daggers, stools, and bed- 
 staves : 
 Tliis shows a valiant man. 
 
 Bes. Then I am valiant, as valiant as the 
 proudest ; 
 For these are all familiar things to me : 
 Familiar as my sleep, or want of money ; 
 All my whole body 's but one bruise, with beating. 
 I tliiuk I have been cudgell'd with all nations, 
 And almost all religions. 
 
 2d Sw. Embrace him, brother ! this man is 
 valiant ; 
 I know it by myself, he 's valiant. 
 
 1st Sw. Captain, thou art a valiant gentleman, 
 To bide upon, a very valiant man. 
 
 Bes. My equal friends o' th' sword, I must 
 request 
 Your hands to this. 
 
 2d Sw. 'T is fit it should be. 
 
 Bes. Boy, 
 
 Get me some wine, and pen and ink, within. — 
 Am I clear, gentlemen ? 
 
 1st Sw. Sir, when the world 
 
 Has taken notice of what we have done. 
 Make much of your body ; for I '11 pawn my steel, 
 Men will be coyer of their legs hereafter. 
 
 Bes. I must request you gu along, and testify 
 To the lord Bacurius, whose foot has struck me, 
 How you find my cause. 
 
 2d Sw. We win ; and tell that lord he must be 
 ruled; 
 Or there be those abroad will nile his lordship. 
 A Kitiff and Ko King. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Scene, the house of Bacurius. 
 Enter Bacurius and a Servant. 
 Bacubius. Three gentlemen without, to speak 
 
 with me ? 
 Sekvant. Yes, sir. 
 Bac. Let them come in. 
 
 Enter Bessus with the two Swoedmen. 
 
 Sekv. They are enter'd, sir, already. 
 
 Bac. Now, fellows, your business ? Are these 
 the gentlemen ? 
 
 Bes. My lord, I have made bold to bring 
 these gentlemen, 
 My friends o' th' sword, along with me. 
 
 Bac. I am 
 
 Afraid you '11 fight, then. 
 
 Bes. My good lord, I wUl not ; 
 
 Your lordship is mistaken ; fear not, lord. 
 
 Bac. Sir, I am sorry for 't. 
 
 Bes. I ask no more 
 
 In honour. — Gentlemen, you hear my lord 
 Is sorry. 
 
 Bac. Not that I have beaten you. 
 But beaten one tliat will be beaten ; 
 One whose dull body will rcqiure a lamming, 
 As surfeits do the diet, spring and fall. 
 Now, to your swordmen : 
 What come they for, good Captain Stockfish ? 
 
 Bes. It seems your lordship has forgot my 
 name. 
 
 Bag. No, nor your nature neither; though 
 they are 
 Things fitter, I must confess, for anything 
 Than my remembrance, or any honest man's : 
 What shall these billets do ? be piled up in my 
 wood-yard ! 
 
 Bes. Your lordship holds your mirth still, 
 heaven continue it ! 
 But, for these gentlemen, they come — 
 
 Bac. To swear you are a coward? Spare 
 your book ; 
 I do believe it. 
 
 Bes. Your lordship still draws wide ; 
 
 They come to vouch, under their valiant hands, 
 I am no coward. 
 
 Bac. That would be a show, indeed, worth 
 seeing. Sirs, 
 Be wise and take money for this motion, travel 
 
 with 't : 
 And where the name of Bessus has been kno'mi, 
 Or a good coward stin-ing, 't will yield more than 
 A tilting. This will prove more beneficial to you, 
 If you be thrifty, than your captaiuship, 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 114 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEK. 
 
 —^ 
 
 <U- 
 
 And more natural. Men of most valiant hands, 
 Is tliis true ? 
 
 2d Sw. It is so, most renowned. 
 Bac. 'T is somewhat strange. 
 
 1st Sw. Lord, it is strange, yet true. 
 We have examined, from your lordship's foot 
 
 there 
 To this man's head, the nature of the beatings ; 
 And we do find liis honour is come off 
 Clean and sufficient. This, as our swords shall 
 help us. 
 B.^c. You are much bounden to your bilbo- 
 men ; 
 I am glad you 're straight again, captain. 'T were 
 
 good 
 You would thuik some way how to gratify 
 
 them ; 
 They have undergone a labour for you, Bessus, 
 Would have puzzled Hercules with all his valour. 
 2d Sw. Your lordship must understand we are 
 no men 
 Of the law, that take pay for our opinions ; 
 It is sufficient we have cleared our friend. 
 Bac. Yet there is something due, which I, as 
 touch'd 
 In conscience, will discharge. — Captain, I '11 pay 
 This rent for you. 
 
 Bes. Spare vourseK, my good lord ; 
 My brave friends aim at nothing but the virtue. 
 Bac. That 's but a cold discharge, sir, for the 
 
 pains. 
 2d Sw. lord ! my good lord ! 
 Bac. Be not so modest ; I will give you 
 
 something. 
 Bes. They shall dine with your lordship, 
 
 that 's sufficient. 
 Bac. Something in hand the while. You 
 rogues, you apple-squires. 
 Do you come hither, with your bottled valour. 
 Your wiudy froth, to limit out my beatings ? 
 
 (Kids t/mn.) 
 
 1st Sw. I do beseech your lordship. 
 2d Sw. O good lord ! 
 
 Bag. 'Sfoot, what a bevy of beaten slaves are 
 here ! — 
 Get me a cudgel, sirrah, and a tough one. 
 
 lEjrii Servant. 
 2d Sw. More of your foot, I do beseech your 
 
 lordship. 
 Bac. You shall, you shall, dog, and your 
 
 fellow beagle. 
 1st Sw. 0' tins side, good my lord. 
 Bac. Off with your swords ; 
 
 For if you hurt my foot, I '11 have you flead, 
 You rascals. 
 1st Sw. Mine 's off, my lord. 
 
 (They take off' their swords.) 
 
 2d Sw. I beseech your lordship, stay a little ; 
 my strap 's tied. 
 Now, when you please. 
 
 Bac. Captain, these are your valiant friends ; 
 You long for a little too ? 
 
 Bes. I am very well, I humbly thank your 
 
 lordship. 
 Bac. What 's that in your pocket hurts my 
 
 toe, you mungrel ? 
 2d Sw. (takes out a pistol). Here 't is, sir ; a 
 small piece of artillery, 
 That a gentleman, a dear friend of your lord- 
 ship's. 
 Sent me with to get it mended, sir ; for, if you 
 
 mark, 
 The nose is somewhat loose. 
 
 Bac. a friend of mine, you rascal ? 
 I was never wearier of doing nothing, 
 Than kicking these two foot-balls. 
 Enter Servant. 
 Serv. Here 's a good cudgel, sir. 
 Bac. It comes too late ; I am weary ; pr'ythee. 
 Do thou beat them. 
 
 2d Sw. My lord, this is foul play, 
 I' faith, to put a fresh man upon us : 
 Men are but men, sir. 
 
 Bac. That jest shall save your bones. — 
 Captain, rally up your rotten regiment, and be- 
 gone. — I had rather thresh than be bound to 
 kick these rascals, till they cried, " Ho ! " Bes- 
 sus, you may put your hand to them now, and 
 then you are quit. Farewell ! as you like this, 
 pray visit me again; 'twill keep me in good 
 health. [Exit. 
 
 2d Sw. He has a devilish hard foot; 1 never 
 
 felt the like. 
 1st Sw. Nor I ; and yet, I am sure, I have 
 
 felt a hundred. 
 2d Sw. If he kick thus i' the dog-days, he will 
 be dry-foundred. 
 Wliat cure now, captain, besides oil of hays ? 
 Bes. Wliy, well enough, I warrant you : you 
 
 can go ? 
 2d Sw. Yes, Heaven be thank'd ! but I feel a 
 shrewd ache ; 
 Sure, he 's sprang my huckle-bone. 
 1st Sw. I ha' lost a haunch. 
 
 Bes. a little butter, friend, a little butter ; 
 Butter and parsley is a sovereign matter ; 
 Probatum est. 
 
 2d Sw. Captain, we must request 
 
 Y'our hand now to our honours. 
 
 Bes. Y'cs, maiTv, shall ye. 
 
 And then let all the world come ; we are val- 
 iant 
 To ourselves, and there 's an end. 
 
 1st Sw. Nay, then, we must be valiant. 0, 
 my ribs ! 
 
 -55 
 
a- 
 
 PHILASTEE'S FIRST MEETING WITH BELLARIO. 
 
 115 
 
 -ft) 
 
 2d Sw. O,— 
 A plague upou these sharp-toed shoes ; they 're 
 murderers. [E-reunt. 
 
 A King and No King. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF ASPATU. 
 
 This lady 
 Walks discontented, with her watry eyes 
 Bent on the earth : the unfrequented woods 
 Are her delight ; and when she sees a bank 
 Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell 
 Her servauts wliat a pretty place it were 
 To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
 Phick 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 
 She carries with her an infectious grief 
 That strikes all her beholders, she will sing 
 The mourufuU'st things that ever ear have heard. 
 And sigh, and sing again ; and when the rest 
 (.)f our young ladies in their wanton blood, 
 Tell mirthful tales in course that fill the room 
 With laughter, she will with so sad a look 
 Bring forth a story of the sdent death 
 Of some forsaken virgin, wliieh her grief 
 AViU put in such a phrase, that, ere she end, 
 She 'U send them weeping one by one away. 
 
 The Maid's Tragechj. 
 
 THE GRIEF OF ASPATIA. 
 Asp.tTiA. Antiphila. Olvmpias. 
 
 AsPATiA. Come, let 's be sad, my girls, 
 That down-cast of thine eye, Olympias, 
 Shows a fine sorrow ; mark, Antiphila, 
 Just such another was the nymph ffinone, 
 When Paris brought home Helen : now a tear, 
 And then th(ni art. a piece expressing fully 
 The Carthage Queen, when from a cold sea rock, 
 Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes 
 To the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them. 
 Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear, Antiphila. 
 Wliat woidd this weneh do, if she were Aspatia ? 
 Here she would stand, till some more pitting 
 
 god 
 Turn'd her to marble : 't is enough, my wench ; 
 Show me the piece of needlework you wrought. 
 
 Antiphila. Of Ariadne, madam ? 
 
 Asp. Yes, that piece. 
 This should be Theseus, h' as a cozening face ; 
 Yon meant him for a man ? 
 
 Akt. He was so, madam. 
 
 Asp. T\niy then 't is well enough. Never look 
 back. 
 Yon have a fidl wind, and a false heart, Theseus. 
 Does not the story say, his keel was spUt, 
 Or his masts spent, or some kind rock or other 
 Met with Ids vessel ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 Ant. Not as I remember. 
 
 Asp. It should ha' been so : could the gods 
 know this. 
 And not of all their number raise a storm ? 
 But they are all as iU. This false smile was wcU 
 
 exprest. 
 Just such another caught me ; yon shall not go 
 
 so, Antipliila; 
 In this place work a quicksand, 
 And over it a shallow smding water. 
 And his ship ploughing it, and then a fear. 
 Do that fear to the Kfe, wench. 
 
 Ant. 'T will wi-ong the story. 
 
 Asp. 'T will make the story, wrong'd by 
 wanton poets, 
 Live long and be beUev'd ; but where 's the lady? 
 
 Ant. There, madam. 
 
 Asp. Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila, 
 You are much mistaken, wench ; 
 These colors are not dull and pale enough. 
 To show a soul so full of misery 
 As this sad lady's was ; do it by me, 
 Do it again by me the lost Aspatia, 
 And you shall fiud all true but the wild island. 
 I stand upon the sea-beach now, and think 
 Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the 
 
 wind. 
 Wild as that desert, and let all about me 
 Tell that I am forsaken, do my face, 
 (If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow) 
 Thus, thus, Antipliila, strive to make me look 
 Like Sorrow's monument; and the trees about 
 
 me. 
 Let them be dry and leaveless ; let the rocks 
 Groan with continual surges, and behmd me 
 Make all a desolation ; look, look, wenches, 
 A miserable life of this poor picture. 
 
 Olympias. Dear madam I 
 
 Asp. I have done, sit down, and let ns 
 Upon that point fix all our eyes, that point there ; 
 Make a dull silence, till you feel a sudden sadness 
 Give us new souls. 
 
 The Maid's Traijedg. 
 
 PHILASTEE'S FIEST MEETING WITH BELLAKIO, 
 
 Hunting the buck, 
 I found him sitting by a fountain-side. 
 Of which he borrow'd some to quench his tliirst, 
 And paid the nymph again as much in tears. 
 A garland lay him by, made by himself, 
 Of many several flowers, bred in the bay. 
 Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness 
 Dehghted me : but ever when he tum'd 
 His tender eyes upon them he would weep. 
 As if he meant to make them grow again. 
 Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 
 Dwell in Ids face, I ask'd him all Ids story. 
 
 -P 
 
<&- 
 
 IIG 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 He told me that Ins parents gentle died, 
 Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, 
 TMiicli gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, 
 Wliich did not stop their courses ; and the sun, 
 Wliich stUl, he thank'd liini, yielded Inm his light. 
 Then took he up liis garland, and did show 
 ■Rliat every flower, as country people hold, 
 Did signify ; and how all, order'd thus, 
 Express'd his grief: and to- my thoughts did read 
 The prettiest lecture of his country art 
 That could be wish'd ; so that mcthought I could 
 Have studied it. I gladly entertaiu'd him 
 Who was as glad to follow. 
 
 P/alasler. 
 
 BELLARIO'S LOVE FOE PEILASTEK, 
 
 My father oft woidd speak 
 Your worth and virtue ; and, as I did grow 
 More and more apprehensive, I did thirst 
 To see the man so prais'd ; but yet all tliis 
 Was but a maiden longing, to be lost 
 As soon as found ; tUl, sitting in my window, 
 Printuig my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, 
 I thought (but it was you), enter our gates. 
 My blood flew out, and back again as fast 
 As I had pufi"d it forth and suck'd it iu 
 Like breath. Then was I called away in haste 
 To entertain you. Never was a man 
 Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre raised 
 So high in thoughts as I : you left a kiss 
 Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep 
 From you forever. I did hear you talk, 
 Far above singing ! After you were gone, 
 I grew acquainted with my heart, aud search'd 
 Wliat stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love ; 
 Yet far from lust ; for could I but have lived 
 In presence of you, I had had ]ny end. 
 For this I did delude my noble father 
 With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself 
 In habit of a boy ; and for I knew 
 My birth no match for you, I was past hope 
 Of having you. And, understanding well 
 That when I made discovery of my sex, 
 I could not stay with you, I made a vow, 
 By all the most religious things a maid 
 Could call together, never to be kno^vn, 
 Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes, 
 For other than I secm'd, that I might over 
 Abide with you : then sat I by the I'oiuit 
 Where first you took me up. 
 
 r/ii/as/er. 
 
 CffiSAR'S LAMENTATION OVER POMPET. 
 
 THOU Conqueror, 
 Thou glory of the world once, now the pity ; 
 Tliou awe of nations.wherefore didst thou fall thus ? 
 
 TVliat poor fate followed thee and plucked thee on 
 To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? — 
 The life and light of Rome to a bhnd stranger 
 That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness. 
 Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man 
 
 was ? — 
 That never heard thy name sung but in banquets 
 And loose lascivious pleasures :' — to a boy 
 That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness. 
 No study of thy life to know thy goodness ? — 
 And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend, 
 Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with 
 
 thee, — 
 In soft relenting teai's ? Hear me, great Pompey, 
 If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee. 
 Thou hast most uunobly robbed me of my \'ic- 
 
 tory. 
 My love and mercy. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Egyjitians, dare ye think your highest pyramids. 
 Built to outdure the sun, as you suppose. 
 Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes. 
 Are monuments fit for him ? No, brood of Nilus, 
 Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven ; 
 No pyramids set off his memories. 
 But the eternal substance of Ids greatness. 
 To which I leave him. 
 
 Fletcher's False One. 
 
 CAKATACH ON THE ROMANS, 
 
 I LOVE au enemy, I was bom a soldier ; 
 And he that in the head of 's troop defies me, 
 Bending my manly body with his sword, 
 I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed Hymen 
 Ne'er tied a longing virgin with more joy, 
 Tiian I am married to that man that wounds me : 
 And are not all these Romans ? Ten struck 
 
 battles 
 I suck'd tliese honor'd sears from, and all Roman. 
 Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches, 
 IMieu many a frozen storm sung through my 
 
 cuirass, 
 And made it doubtful whether that or I 
 Were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought 
 
 through. 
 And all to try these Romans. Ten times a night 
 I have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome 
 Shot at me as I floated, and the billows 
 Tumbled their watry ruins on my shoidders, 
 Ciiargiiig my batter'd sides with troops of agues, 
 And still to try these Romans; wiiom I found 
 (And if 1 lie, my wouiuls be lienccforth backward. 
 Ami be you witness, gods, and all my dangers) 
 As ready, and as full of tliat I brougiit 
 (Whicli was not fear nor flight) as valiant, 
 As vigilant, as wise, to do and sutler. 
 Ever advanc'd as forward as the Britons ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE SATYR'S LEAVE-TAKING. 
 
 117 
 
 -ft 
 
 Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours. 
 Aye, aud as subtle. Lady. 'T is dishonour, 
 Aud foUow'd will be impudence, Bouduca, 
 Aud grow to no beKef, to taint these Romans. 
 Fletcher's Bouduca. 
 
 ADDRESS OF SUETONIUS TO HIS SOLDIEKS. 
 
 AsD, gentlemen, to you now : 
 To bid you fight is needless ; ye are Romans, 
 The name wiU fight itself. 
 
 * « * 
 
 Go on in full assurance : draw your swords 
 As daring and as confident as justice ; 
 Tlie gods of Rome fight for ye ; loud Fame calls 
 
 ye, 
 
 Pitched on the topless Apennine, and blows 
 To all the under-world, aU nations, the seas. 
 And unfrequented deserts where the snow 
 
 dwells ; 
 Wakens the ruined monuments ; and there, 
 AVhere nothing but eternal deatii and sleep is. 
 Informs again the dead bones with your virtues. 
 Go on, I say ; valiant and wise ride heaven. 
 And all the great aspects attend 'em. Do but 
 
 blow 
 Upon this enemy, who, but that we want foes. 
 Cannot deserve that name ; and like a mist, 
 A lazy fog, before your burning valours 
 You '11 find him fly to nothing. This is all. 
 We have swords, and are the sons of ancient 
 
 Romans, 
 Heirs to their endless valours ; fight and con- 
 
 quer 
 
 Fletcher's Bondiica. 
 
 THE MUTUAL LOVE OP TWO YOUNG GIRLS. 
 
 Emili.v. I was acquainted 
 
 Once with a time, when 1 eujoy'd a playfellow ; 
 
 You were at wars, wlieu she the grave enrich'd, 
 
 Wlio made too proud the bed, took leave o' th' 
 moon 
 
 ("Wbich then look'd pale at parting) when our 
 count 
 
 Was each eleven. 
 
 HiPPOLYTA. 'T was Flavinia. 
 Emil. Yes. 
 
 You talk of Perithous and Theseus' love ; 
 
 Theirs has more ground, is more maturely sea- 
 son'd. 
 
 More buckled with strong judgment, and their 
 needs 
 
 Tlie one of th' otlier may be said to water 
 
 Their intertangled roots of love ; but I 
 
 iViid she (I sigh and spoke of) were things inno- 
 cent. 
 
 Loved for we did, and like the elements. 
 
 fr 
 
 Tliat know not what, nor why, yet do effect 
 Rare issues by their operance, our souls 
 Did so to one another ; what she Uked, 
 Was then of me approved ; what not condemned, 
 No more arraigmnent ; the flower that I would 
 
 pluck, 
 And put between my breasts (O, then but begin- 
 ning 
 To swell about the blossom) slie woidd long 
 TiU she had such another, and commit it 
 To the like innocent cradle, where phcenix-Uke 
 They died in perfume ; on my head no toy 
 But was her ]>attern ; her affections (pretty. 
 Though happily her careless wear) 1 followed 
 For my most serious decking ; bad mine ear 
 Stolen some new air, or at adventure hunnn'd one 
 From musical coinage, why it was a note 
 Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell 
 
 on) 
 And sing it in her slumbers ; tins rehearsal 
 (Wliich every innocent wots well comes in 
 Like old Importment's bastard) has tliis end : 
 That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be 
 More than in sex dividual. 
 
 Fletcher's Two Noble Kinsmen. 
 
 SONG TO PAN. 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bowers. 
 All ye virtues and ye powers 
 That inhabit in the lakes, 
 In the pleasant springs or brakes, 
 
 Move your feet 
 To our sound. 
 
 Whilst we greet 
 AU this ground 
 With his honour aud his name 
 That defends our flocks from blame. 
 
 He is great, and lie is just. 
 He is ever good, and nuist 
 Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, 
 Roses, pinks, and loved lilies. 
 
 Let us fling, 
 
 Whilst wo slug. 
 
 Ever holy. 
 
 Ever holy. 
 Ever honoured, ever young ! 
 Thus great Pan is ever sung. 
 
 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. 
 
 THE SATTE'S LEAVE-TAKINO. 
 
 Thou diviucst, fairest, brightest. 
 Thou most powerfiJ maid, and whitest, 
 Tiiou most virtuous and most blessed. 
 Eyes of stars, and golden tressed 
 
 W 
 
a- 
 
 118 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^- 
 
 Like Apollo ! tell me, sweetest. 
 What new service now is meetest 
 For the Satyr ? Shall I stray 
 In the middle air, and stay 
 The sailing rack, or nimbly take 
 Hold by the moon, and gently make 
 Suit to the pale queen of night 
 For a beam to give thee Ught ? 
 Shall I dive into the sea, 
 And bring thee coral, makuig way 
 Through the rising waves that fall 
 In snowy fleeces ? Dearest, shall 
 I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies 
 Whose woven wings the summer dyes 
 Of many colours 't get thee fruit. 
 Or steal from Heaven old Orpheus' lute ? 
 AU these I '11 venture for, and more. 
 To do her service all these woods adore. 
 
 Holy virgin, I will dance 
 Round about tliese woods as quick 
 As the breaking light, and prick 
 Down the lawns and down the vales 
 Faster than the wind-mill sails. 
 So I take my leave, and pray 
 All the comforts of the day, 
 Such as Phccbus' heat doth send 
 On the earth, may still befriend 
 Thee and this arbour ! 
 
 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismal yew ; 
 Maidens, willow branches bear ; 
 
 Say, I died true. 
 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 From my hour of birth. 
 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 Lightly, gentle earth ! 
 
 THE STUDENT AWAKENED BT LOVE. 
 
 Beauty clear and fair, 
 Wliere the air 
 
 Rather Uke a perfume dweUs ; 
 Wiicre the violet and the rose 
 Their blue veins in blush disclose, 
 
 And came to honour nothing else. 
 
 Where to live near. 
 
 And ])lantcd there, 
 Is to live, and still live new ; 
 Whore to gain a favour is 
 
 More than light, perpetual bhss, — 
 Make rae Kve by serving you. 
 
 Dear, again back recall 
 To this light, 
 
 A stiianger to himself and all ; 
 Both tiie wonder and the story 
 Shall be yours, and eke the glory : 
 
 I am your servant, and your tliraU. 
 
 nCKLENESS. 
 
 I COULD never have the power 
 To love one above an hour. 
 But my head would prompt mine eye 
 On some other man to fly. 
 Venus, fix thou mine eyes fast, 
 Or if not, give me all that I shall see at last. 
 
 THE LO?E PHILTER, 
 
 Rise from the shades below, 
 
 All you that prove 
 The helps of loose love ! 
 Rise, and bestow 
 Upon this cup whatever may compel. 
 By powerful charm and unresisted spell, 
 A heart unwarmed to melt in love's desires ! 
 Distil into liquor all your fires ; 
 Heats, longings, tears ; 
 But keep back frozen fears ; 
 That she may know, that has all power defied, 
 Art is a power that will not be denied. 
 
 THE DfTITATION. 
 
 Come hither, you that love, and hear me sing 
 
 Of joys still growing, 
 Green, fresh, and lusty as the pride of spring, 
 
 And ever blowing. 
 Come hither, youths that blush, and dare not 
 know 
 
 What is desire ; 
 And old men, worse than you, that cannot blow 
 
 One spai'k of fire ; 
 And with the ]iower of my enchanting song. 
 Boys shall be able men, and old men young. 
 
 Come hither, you that ho]ip, and you that cry ; 
 
 Leave olT complaining; 
 Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die. 
 
 Are here remaining. 
 Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so long 
 
 From being blessed ; 
 
 ! ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 
 
 119 
 
 -Q^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 And mad men, worse than you, that suffer 
 
 wrong. 
 Yet seek no rest ; 
 And in an hour, with my enchanting song, 
 You shall be ever pleased, and young maids 
 
 long. 
 
 THE PRAISES OF PAN. 
 
 Sing his praises that doth keep 
 
 Our flocks from harm, 
 Pan, the father of our sheep ; 
 
 And arm in arm 
 Tread we softly in a round. 
 Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground 
 Fills the music with her sound. 
 
 Pan, O great god Pan, to thee 
 
 Thus do we sing ! 
 Thou that keep'st us chaste and free 
 
 As the young spring ; 
 Ever be thy honour spoke. 
 Prom that place the morn is broke. 
 To that place day doth unyoke ! 
 
 DIBGE FOR THE FAITHFUL LOVER. 
 
 Come, you whose loves are dead, 
 
 And, whdes I sing. 
 
 Weep, and wring 
 Every hand, and every head 
 Bind with cypress and sad yew ; 
 Ribbons black and candles blue 
 Por him that was of men most true ! 
 
 Come with heavy moaning, 
 
 And on his grave 
 
 Let him have 
 Sacrifice of siglis and groaning ; 
 Let him have fair flowers enow. 
 White and purple, green and yellow, 
 Por him that was of men most true ! 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 FAIR sweet face ! eyes celestial bright, 
 Twin stars in heaven, that now adorn the 
 
 night ! 
 fruitful lips, where cherries ever grow. 
 And damask cheeks, where all sweet beauties 
 
 blow ! 
 O fhou, from head to foot divinely fair ! 
 Cupid's most cunning net 's made of that hair ; 
 And, as he weaves himself for curious eyes, 
 " me, O me, I 'm caught myself ! " lie cries : 
 Sweet rest about thee, sweet and golden sleep, 
 
 Soft peaceful thoughts your hourly watches 
 
 keep. 
 Whilst I in wonder sing this sacrifice. 
 To beauty sacred, and those angel eyes ! 
 
 WHAT WOMEN MOST DESIRE. 
 
 Cii:ESTION. 
 
 Tell me what is that only thing 
 For which all women long; 
 
 Yet having what they most desire. 
 To have it does them wrong ? 
 
 'T is not to be chaste, nor fair, 
 (Such gifts malice may impair,) 
 Richly trimmed, to walk or ride, 
 Or to wanton unespied ; 
 To preserve an honest name. 
 And so to give it up to fame : 
 These are toys. In good or ill 
 They desire to have their will ; 
 Yet, when they have it, they abuse it. 
 For they know not how to use it. 
 
 HEAR WHAT LOVE CAN DO. 
 
 Hear, ye ladies that despise. 
 
 What the mighty love has done ; 
 Fear examples, and be wise : 
 
 Fair Calisto was a nun ; 
 Leda, sailing on the stream 
 
 To deceive the hopes of man, 
 Love accounting but a dream, 
 
 Doated on a silver swan ; 
 Danae, in a brazen tower. 
 Where no love was, loved a shower. 
 
 Hear, ye ladies that are coy, 
 
 Wliat the mighty love can do ; 
 Pear the fierceness of the boy : 
 
 The chaste moon he makes to woo ; 
 Vesta, kindling holy fires. 
 
 Circled round about with spies. 
 Never dreaming loose desires. 
 
 Doting at the altar dies ; 
 
 Ilion, in a short hour, higher 
 He can build, and once more fire. 
 
 TAKE, 0, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.* 
 
 Take, O, take those Kps away. 
 That so sweetly were forsworn, 
 
 * "The first stanza of this song is found in Shakespeare's 
 Measure for Measure. — The orinfin of hoth verses niay be 
 traced to the fragment Ad tyJiam, ascribed to Cornelius 
 Callus." — R. Bell. 
 
 -F 
 
cQ- 
 
 120 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 ■fO 
 
 fr 
 
 And those eyes, like break of day, 
 
 Lights that do mislead the morn ! 
 But my kisses bring again, 
 Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 
 
 Hide, 0, hide those hills of snow, 
 TMiich thy frozen bosom bears. 
 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow 
 Are yet of those that April wears ! 
 
 But first set my poor heart free. 
 
 Bound in those icy ehains by thee. 
 
 TO THE BLEST EVANTHE. 
 
 Let those complain that feel Love's cruelty. 
 
 And in sad legends write their woes ; 
 With roses gently h' has corrected me, 
 My war is without rage or blows : 
 My mistress' eyes sliine fair on my desires. 
 And hope springs up inflamed with her new 
 fires. 
 
 No more an exile will I dwell, 
 
 With folded arms, and sighs all day. 
 Reckoning the torments of my hell, 
 And flinging my sweet joys away : 
 I am called home again to quiet peace ; 
 My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease. 
 
 Yet, what is living in her eye. 
 
 Or being blessed with her sweet tongue, 
 K these no other joys imply ? 
 
 A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong : 
 To be your own but one poor month, I 'd give 
 My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live. 
 
 A BRIDAL SONa. 
 
 Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 
 Not royal in their smells alone, 
 
 But in their hue ; 
 Maiden-pinks of odour faint, 
 Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint. 
 
 And sweet thyme true ; 
 
 Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
 Merry spring-time's harbinger. 
 
 With her bells dim ; 
 Oxlips in tlieir cradles growing, 
 Marigolds on death-beds blowing. 
 
 Lark-heels trim. 
 
 All, dear Nature's children sweet. 
 Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet. 
 
 Blessing their sense ! 
 Not an angel of the air. 
 Bird melodious, or bird fair, 
 
 Be absent hence ! 
 
 The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
 The boding raven, nor chough hoar. 
 
 Nor chattering pie, 
 May on our bride-house perch or sing. 
 Or with them anv discord bring. 
 
 But from it fly ! 
 
 MELANCHOLT. 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights. 
 As short as ai'e the nights 
 
 Wherein you spend your folly ! 
 There 's naught in this life sweet, 
 If man were wise to see 't. 
 
 But only melancholy, 
 
 O, sweetest melancholy ! 
 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 A sight that piercing mortifies, 
 A look that 's fastened to the ground, 
 A tongue chained up without a so\md ! 
 Fountain heads, and pathless groves. 
 Places which pale passion loves ! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ! 
 
 A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
 
 These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
 Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley. 
 Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 
 
 LOOK OUT, BEIGHT EYES, AND BLESS THE ATE, 
 
 Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ! 
 Even in shadows yon are fair. 
 Shut-up beauty is like fire, 
 That breaks out clearer still and higher. 
 Though your beauty be confin'd. 
 
 And soft Love a prisoner boiind, 
 Yet the beauty of your mind. 
 
 Neither check nor chaiu hath found, 
 Look out nobly, tlien, and dare 
 Ev'n the fetters tliat you wear ! 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Care-charming Sleep, thou cascr of all woes. 
 Brother 'to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
 On this afllietcd prince : fall Uke a cloud 
 Li gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud 
 Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, light, 
 And as a purling stream, thou son of night. 
 Pass by his troubled senses, sing his jiain 
 Like hollow munuuring wind or gentle rain. 
 Into this prince, gently, O, gently slide. 
 And kiss him into slumbers Uke a bride ! 
 
 ■^ 
 
f 
 
 THE BATTLE OF PELUSIUM. 
 
 121 
 
 -Q> 
 
 A LOVER'S LEGACY TO HIS CKtTEL MISTRESS. 
 
 Go, happy heart ! for thou shalt lie 
 Iiitombed in her for whom I die, 
 Example of her cruelty. 
 
 Tell her, if she chance to chide 
 Me for slowness, in her pride. 
 That it was for her I died. 
 
 If a tear escape her eye, 
 'T is not for my memory. 
 But thy rites of obsequy. 
 
 The altar was my loving breast. 
 My heart the sacrificed beast, 
 And I was myself the priest. 
 
 Your body was the sacred shrine, 
 Your cruel mind the power divine. 
 Pleased with the hearts of men, not kiue. 
 
 THE ■WARNING OF ORPHEUS, 
 
 Orpheus I am, come from the deeps below, 
 To tiiee, fond man, the plagues of love to show. 
 To the fair fields where loves eternal dwell 
 There 's none that come, but first they pass 
 
 through hell : 
 Hark, and beware ! unless thou hast loved, 
 
 ever 
 Beloved again, thou shalt see those joys never. 
 
 Hark ! how they groan that died despairing ! 
 
 O, take lieed, then ! 
 Hark, how they howl for over-daring ! 
 
 All these were men. 
 
 They that be fools, and die for fame, 
 They lose their name ; 
 And they that bleed 
 Hark how they speed. 
 Now ill cold frosts, now scorching fires 
 Tiiey sit, and curse their lost desires ; 
 Nor shall these souls be free from pains and 
 
 fears, 
 TiU women waft them over in their tears. 
 
 TO VENUS, 
 
 FAIR sweet goddess, queen of loves, 
 Soft and gentle as thy doves. 
 Humble-eyed, and ever ruing 
 These poor hearts, their loves pursuing ! 
 O thou mother of delights, 
 Crowner of all happy nights, 
 Star of dear content and pleasure. 
 Of mutual loves the endless treasure ! 
 
 k 
 
 Accept this sacrifice we bring, 
 Thou continual youth and spring ; 
 Grant this lady her desires, 
 And every hour we '11 crown thy fires. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF PELUSIUM. 
 
 Arm, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in ; 
 Keep your ranks close, and now your honours 
 
 win. 
 Behold from yonder hiU the foe appears ; 
 Bows, bills, glaves, arrows, shields, and spears ! 
 Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pomlng ; 
 0, view the wings of horse the meadows scour- 
 ing. 
 The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums ! 
 
 Dub, dub. 
 They meet, they meet, and now the Ijattle comes : 
 See how the arrows fly. 
 That darken all the sky ! 
 Hark how the trumpets sound. 
 Hark how the hills rebound, 
 
 Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara. 
 
 Hark how the horses charge ! in, boys, boys, in ! 
 The battle totters ; now the wounds begin : 
 
 O, how they cry ! 
 
 O, how they die ! 
 Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with 
 thunder ! 
 See how he breaks the ranks asunder ! 
 They fly ! they fly ! Eumenes has the chase. 
 And brave Polybius makes good his place. 
 
 To the plains, to the woods. 
 
 To the rocks, to the floods. 
 They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow ! 
 Hark how the soldiers hollow ! Hey, hey ! 
 
 Brave Diodes is dead. 
 
 And all his soldiers fled ; 
 
 Tlio battle 's won and lost. 
 
 That many a life hath cost. 
 
 A SATYR PRESENTS A BASKET OF FRUIT TO 
 CLORIN, 
 
 By that heavenly form of thine, 
 Brightest fair, thou art divine. 
 Sprung from great immortal race 
 Of the gods, for in thy face 
 Shines more awful majesty 
 Than dull weak mortality 
 Dare with misty eyes behold. 
 And live : therefore on this mould 
 Lowly do I bend my knee 
 In worship of thy deity. 
 Deign it, goddess, from my hand 
 To receive wliate'er this land 
 
 -P 
 
122 
 
 BEAUMONT AND PLETCHEE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 From her fertile womb doth send 
 
 Of lier choice fruits : and but lend 
 
 Belief to that the Satyr tells, 
 
 Fairer by the famous wells 
 
 To tliis present day ne'er grew, 
 
 Never better, nor more true. 
 
 Here be grapes whose lusty blood 
 
 Is the learned poet's good. 
 
 Sweeter yet did never crown 
 
 The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown 
 
 Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them : 
 
 Deign, O fairest fair, to take them : 
 
 For these, black-eyed Driope 
 
 Hatli oftentimes commanded me 
 
 With my clasped knee to climb. 
 
 See how well the lusty time 
 
 Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red. 
 
 Such as on your lips is spread. 
 
 Here be berries for a queen, 
 
 Some be red, some be green. 
 
 These are of that luscious meat 
 
 The great god Pan himself doth eat : 
 
 All these, and what the woods can yield. 
 
 The hanging mountain, or the field, 
 
 I freely offer, and ere long 
 
 "Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; 
 
 Till when, humbly leave I take, 
 
 Lest the great Pan do awake 
 
 That sleeping lies in a deep glade, 
 
 Under a broad beech's shade. 
 
 I must go, I must run. 
 
 Swifter than the fiery sun. 
 
 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. 
 
 CLOE TO MENOT. 
 
 Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells ; 
 Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines ; caves and 
 
 dells ; 
 Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing. 
 Or gather rushes, to make many a ring 
 For thy long fingers ; tell thee tales of love ; 
 How tlie ])ale Phrebe, hunting in a grove. 
 First saw the boy Eudymion, from whose eyes 
 She took eternal fire that never dies ; 
 How she conveyed him softly in a sleep, 
 His temples bound with poppy, to the steep 
 Head of old Latnius, where she stoops each night, 
 Gilding the mountain with her brother's fight. 
 To kiss her sweetest. 
 
 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. 
 
 THE MERMAID TAVEEN. 
 
 AVuAT things have we seen 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have 
 been 
 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame. 
 
 As il' that every one from whence they came 
 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest. 
 
 And had resolved to five a fool the rest 
 
 Of his dull hfe : then when there hath been 
 
 thrown 
 Wit able enough to justify the town 
 For three days past; wit that might warrant 
 
 be 
 For the whole city to talk foolishly 
 Till that were cancelled; and when that was 
 
 gone. 
 We left an air behind us, which alone 
 Was able to make the two next companies 
 (Right witty, though but downright fools) more 
 wise. 
 
 Francis Beaumont to Ben Jonson. 
 
 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTEE. 
 
 MoKTALlTY, behold and fear ! 
 
 Wliat a charge of flesh is here ! 
 
 Think how many royal bones 
 
 Sleep within this heap of stones : 
 
 Here tiiey lie, had realms and lands, 
 
 Who now want strength to stir their hands; 
 
 Wliere, from their puljjits soil'd w'\\\\ dust. 
 
 They preacli — in greatness is no trust. 
 
 Here 's an acre sown indeed 
 
 With the richest, royal'st seed, 
 
 That the earth did e'er suck in 
 
 Since the first man died for sin : 
 
 Here the bones of birth have cried, 
 
 " Though gods they were, as men they died " : 
 
 Here are sands, ignoble things, 
 
 Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. 
 
 Here 's a world of pomp and state 
 
 Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 
 
 Francis Beaumont. 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Here she lies whose spotless fame 
 
 Invites a stone to learn her name : 
 
 The rigid Spartan that denied 
 
 An epitaph to all that died, 
 
 Unless for war, in charity 
 
 Would here vouchsafe an elegy. 
 
 She died a wife, but yet her mind, 
 
 Beyond virginity refined. 
 
 From lawless fire rcmain'd as free 
 
 As now from heat her ashes be : 
 
 Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest ; 
 
 Till it be call'd for let it rest ; 
 
 For wliile this jewel here is set. 
 
 The grave is like a cabinet. 
 
 Francis Beaumont. 
 
 -# 
 
a- 
 
 MARCELIA TEMPTED BY FEANCISCO. 
 
 123 
 
 -Q) 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 1584 - 1640. 
 
 SIR GILES OVEKKEACH AND LORD LOVEL. 
 
 Overreach. To my wisli we are private. 
 I come not to make offer with my daugliter 
 A certain portion ; tliat were poor and trivial : 
 In one word, I pronounce all that is mine, 
 In lands or leases, ready coin or goods. 
 With her, my lord, comes to you ; nor shall you 
 
 have 
 One motive to induce you to believe 
 I live too long, since every year I '11 add 
 Something unto the heap, which shall be yours 
 too. 
 
 LovEL. You are a right kind father. 
 
 Over. You shall liave reason 
 To think me such. How do you like this seat ? 
 It is well-wooded and well-water'd, the acres 
 Fertile and rich : would it not serve for change. 
 To entertain your friends in a summer's progress ? 
 What thinks my noble lord ? 
 
 Lev. 'T is a wholesome air, 
 And well built, and she that is mistress of it 
 ^V'orthy the large revenue. 
 
 Over. She the mistress ? 
 It may be so for a time ; but let my lord 
 Say only that he but like it, and would have it ; 
 I say, ere long 't is iiis. 
 
 Lev. Impossible. 
 
 Over. You do conclude too fast ; not knowing 
 me. 
 Nor the engines that I work by. 'T is not alone 
 The Lady AUworth's lands ; but point out any 
 
 man's 
 In all the shire, and say they lie convenient 
 And useful for your lordship ; and once more, 
 I say aloud, they are yours. 
 
 Lev. I dare not own 
 Wlat 's by unjust and cruel means extorted : 
 My fame and credit are more dear to me 
 Than so to expose 'em to be censured by 
 Tlie pubhc voice. 
 
 Over. You run, my lord, no hazard : 
 Your reputation shall stand as fair 
 In all good men's opinions as now : 
 Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for iU, 
 Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. 
 For though I do coutemn report myself 
 As a mere sound, I stiU will be so tender 
 Of what concerns you in all points of honour. 
 That the immaculate whiteness of your fame. 
 Nor your unquestion'd integrity. 
 Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot 
 That may take from your innocence and candour. 
 All my ambition is to have my daughter 
 Right honourable ; which my lord can make her ; 
 
 And might I Hve to dance upon my knee 
 A young Lord Lovel, born by her unto you, 
 I TVTite nil ultra to my proudest hopes. 
 As for possessions and aimual rents, 
 Eqmvalent to maiutain you in the port 
 Your noble birth and present state require, 
 I do remove that burden from your shoulders, 
 And take it on mine own ; for though I ruin 
 The country to supply your riotous waste. 
 The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find 
 you. 
 
 Lot. Are you not frighted ■with the impreca- 
 tions 
 And curses of whole families, made wretched 
 By your sinister practices ? 
 
 Over. Yes, as rocks are 
 Wlien foamy billows split themselves against 
 Tlieir flinty ribs ; or as the moon is moved 
 WTien wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her 
 
 brightness. 
 I am of a solid temper, and, like these. 
 Steer on a constant course : with urine own sword, 
 If caU'd into the field, I can make that right 
 Wliich fearful enemies munnur'd at as wrong. 
 Now, for those other piddluig complaints, 
 Breath'd out in bitterness ; as, when they call me 
 Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder 
 On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser 
 Of what was common to my private use ; 
 Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries. 
 And undone orphans wash with tears my thresh- 
 old, 
 I only think what 't is to have my daughter 
 Right honourable ; and 't is a powerful charm, 
 Makes me insensible of remorse or pity, 
 Or the least sting of conscience. 
 
 Lov. I admire 
 The toughness of your nature. 
 
 Over. 'T is for you, 
 My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. 
 A New Way to pay Old Debts. 
 
 MAKCELIA TEMPTED BY EKABCISCO. 
 
 Francisco. Let them first know themselves, 
 and how you are 
 To be served and honour'd; wliich, when they 
 
 confess. 
 You may again receive them to your favour : 
 And then it will show nobly. 
 
 Marcelia. With my thanks 
 The duke shall pay you his, if he return 
 To bless us with his presence. 
 
 Fran. There is notliing 
 That can be added to your fair acceptance ; 
 That is the prize, indeed ; all else are blanks. 
 And of no value. As, in virtuous actions. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 124 
 
 MASSINGER. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 The undertaker finds a full reward, 
 Although eonferr'd upon unthankfid men; 
 So, any service done to so much sweetness, 
 However dangerous, and subject to 
 An ill construction, in your favour finds 
 A wish'd and glorious end. 
 
 Makc. Trom you, I take this 
 As loyal duty ; but, in any other, 
 It would appear gross flattery. 
 
 Pran. Flattery, madam ! 
 You are so rare and excellent in all things, 
 And raised so high upon a rock of goodness, 
 As that vice cannot reach you ; who but looks on 
 This temple, built by nature to perfection. 
 But must bow to it ; and out of that zeal. 
 Not only learn to adore it, but to love it ? 
 
 !Marc. Whither will this fellow ? (Aside.) 
 
 Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam. 
 If an excess in me of humble duty. 
 Teach me to hope, and though it be not in 
 The power of man to merit such a blessing. 
 My piety, for it is more than love, 
 May find reward. j 
 
 Marc. You have it in my tlianks ; 
 And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall 
 
 take' 
 A full possession of it : but, take heed 
 That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it ; 
 If you do, it will prove fatal. 
 
 Fran. Be it death. 
 And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out, 
 Yet I must say, I love you. 
 
 Marc. As a subject ; 
 And 't will become you. 
 
 Fran. Farewell, circumstance ! 
 Aud since you are not pleased to understand me, 
 But by a plain and usual form of speech ; 
 AH superstitious reverence laid by, 
 I love you, lady, \\1iy do you start., and fly me ? 
 I am no monster, and you but a woman, 
 A woman made to yield, aud by example 
 Told it is lawful : favours of this nature 
 Are, in our age, no mii'aeles in the greatest ; 
 And, therefore, lady — ■ 
 
 ^Iarc. Keep oft! — you Powers ! — 
 Libidinous beast ! and, add to that, unthankful ! 
 A crime which creatures wanting reason fly fnim. 
 Ai-e all the princely bounties, favours, honours, 
 Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom. 
 Thy lord and raiser hath eonferr'd upon thee. 
 In three days' absence buried? Hath he made 
 
 thee, 
 A thing obscure, almost without a name, 
 The envy of great fortunes ? Have I graced thee. 
 Beyond thy rank, and entei-tain'd thee, as 
 A friend, and not a servant ? and is this, 
 This impudent attempt to taint mine liono\ir. 
 The fair return of both our ventured favours ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 Fran. Hear my excuse. 
 
 Marc. The devil may plead mercy. 
 And with as much assurance, as thou yield one. 
 Is passion so mad in thee ? or is thy pride 
 Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess, 
 No woman can content thee ; and, add to it. 
 His wife and princess, to whom thou art tied 
 In all the bonds of duty ? — Read my life ; 
 And find one act of mine so loosely carried. 
 That could invite a most self-loving fool. 
 Set off with all that fortune could throw on him. 
 To the least hope to find way to my favour. 
 
 Fran. 'T is acknowledged, madam. 
 That your whole course of life hath bceu a pat- 
 tern 
 For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty, 
 Which I first saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, 
 I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ! 
 And while the duke did prize you to your value. 
 Could it have been in man to pay that duty, 
 I well might envy him, but durst not hope 
 To stop you in your full career of goodness : 
 Bat now I find that he 's fall'n from liis fortime. 
 And, howsoever he would appear doting. 
 Grown cold in liis affection : I presume. 
 From his most barbarous neglect of you. 
 To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound. 
 To look back on the courtesies of him, 
 That, of all living men, is most unthankful. 
 
 Marc. Unheard-of impudence ! 
 
 Fran. You '11 say I am modest, 
 ^\lien I have told the story. Can he tax me. 
 That have received some worldly trifles from him. 
 For being ungrateful ; when he, that first tasted. 
 And hath so long enjoy'd, your sweet affection. 
 In which all blessings that our frail condition 
 Is capable of, are wholly comprehended. 
 As cloy'd with happiness, contonins the giver 
 Of liis felicity ; and, as he rcach'd not 
 The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at 
 Unless he pay those favours he stands bomid to, 
 With fell and deadly hate ! — You think he loves 
 
 you 
 With unexampled fervour, nay, dotes on you, 
 As there were something in you more than woman : 
 '\Mien, on my knowledge, he long since hath 
 
 wisird 
 You were among the dead ; — and I, you scorn so, 
 Perhaps, am your preserver. 
 
 Marc. Bless me, good angels. 
 Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked, 
 And fashion'd to so damnable a purpose, 
 Caimot be spoken by a human tongue. 
 My husband liate me ! give thyself the lie, 
 False aud accurs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any. 
 Can witness, never lady stood so bound 
 To the unfcign'd affection of her lord. 
 As I do to my Sforza. If thou woiJdst work 
 
 ^ 
 
(&- 
 
 THE APPEAL OP ATHENAIS TO PULCHEEIA. 
 
 125 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather, 
 
 That the earth moves ; the sim and stars stand 
 
 still; 
 The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that 
 There 's peace between the hon and the lamb ; 
 Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove 
 Keep in one aerie, and bring up their young ; 
 Or any tlung that is averse to nature : 
 And I will sooner credit it, than that 
 My lord can think of me but as a jewel 
 He loves more than himself, and all the world. 
 
 Fran. O innocence abused! simplicity coz- 
 en'd ! 
 It were a sin, for which we have no name. 
 To keep you longer in this wilfid error. 
 Read his alfection here (ffiees her a paper), and 
 
 then observe 
 How dear lie holds you ! 'T is his character, 
 Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. 
 
 Marc. 'T is his hand, I 'm resolved of it. I'll 
 
 try. 
 
 Wliat the inscription is. 
 
 Fran. Pray you, do so. 
 
 Marc, {reads). 
 
 "You know my pleasure, and the hour of Marcelia's 
 death, which fail not to execute, as you will answer 
 the contrary, not with your head alone, but with the 
 ruin of your whole family. And this, written with 
 mine own hand, and signed with my privy siijnet, 
 shall be your sufficient warrant. 
 
 "LoDovico SroRZA." 
 
 I do obey it ! every word 's a poniard, 
 And reaches to my heart. (Swoons.) 
 
 Fkan. Wlmt have I done ? 
 Madam ! for Heaven's sake, madam ! — O my fate ! 
 I '11 bend her body forward. Dearest lady ! — 
 She stirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's 
 sake — 
 
 M.tRC. Sforza's! stand off! though dead, I 
 will be his, 
 And even my ashes shall abhor the foucli 
 Of any other. — unkind and cruel ! 
 Learn, women, learn to trust in one another ; 
 There is no faith in man : Sforza is false, 
 False to Marcelia ! 
 
 Fran. But I am true. 
 And live to make you happy. All the pomp. 
 State, and observance you had, being his, 
 Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine, 
 Shall be no more remember'd. Lose his memory, 
 And look with oheerfid beams on your new crea- 
 ture ; 
 And know, what he hath plotted for your good. 
 Fate cannot alter. If the emperor 
 Take not his life, at his return he dies. 
 And by my hand ; my wife, that is his heir. 
 Shall quickly follow: — then we reign alone ! 
 For with this arm I 'U swim through seas of blood, 
 
 Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men. 
 But I will grasp my aims ur you, my dearest. 
 Dearest, and best of women ! 
 
 Marc. Thou art a villain ! 
 All attributes of arch-vUlains made into one 
 Camiot express thee. I prefer the hate 
 Of Sforza, though it mark me for the grave. 
 Before tliy base affection. I am yet 
 Pure and imspotted in my true love to him ; 
 Nor shall it be corrupted, though he 's tainted : 
 Nor will I part with innocence, because 
 He is found guilty. For thyseU", thou art 
 A thing, that, equal with the devil himself, 
 I do detest and scorn. 
 
 Fran. Thou, then, art nothing : 
 Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman ! 
 Think on 't and tremble. 
 
 Marc. No, though thou wert now 
 To jilay thy hansman's part. — Thou well mayst 
 
 be 
 My executioner, and art only fit 
 For such employment ; but ne'er hope to have 
 The least grace from me. I will never see thee. 
 But as the shame of men : so, with my curses 
 Of horror to thy conscience in this life, 
 And pains in hell hereafter, I spit at thee ; 
 And, making haste to make my peace with Heaven, 
 Expect thee as my hangman. [Krit. 
 
 The Duke of Milan. 
 
 THE APPEAL OF ATHENAIS TO PULCHEEIA. 
 
 Athenais {kneeling). As low as misery 
 Can fall, for proof of my humility, 
 A poor distressed virgin bows her head, 
 And lays hold on your goodness, the last altar 
 Calamity can fly to for protection. 
 Great minds erect their never-falling trophies 
 On the firm base of mercy ; but to triumph 
 Over a suppliant, by proud fortune captived. 
 Argues a bastard conquest : — 't is to you 
 I speak, to you, the fair and just Pidcheria, 
 The wonder of the age, your sex's honour ; 
 And as such deign to hear me. As you have 
 A soul moidded from heaven, and do desire 
 To have it made a star there, make the means 
 Of your ascent to that celestial height 
 Virtue, wing'd with brave action : they draw 
 
 near 
 The nature and the essence of the gods, 
 Wlio imitate their goodness. 
 
 PuLCHERiA. If you Were 
 A subject of the empire, which your habit 
 In every part denies — 
 
 Athen. O, fly not to 
 Such an evasion ! "Wliate'er I am, 
 Beuig a woman, in humanity 
 
 ^^ 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 126 
 
 MASSINGER. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 You are bound to right me. Tliough the differ- 
 
 euce 
 Of my rcMgiou may seem to exclude me 
 From your defence, which you would have con- 
 fined, 
 The moral virtue, wliich is general. 
 Must know no limits. By these blessed feet. 
 That pace the paths of equity, and tread boldly 
 On the stiff neck of tyrannous oppression, 
 By these tears by which I bathe them, I conjure 
 
 you 
 With pity to look on me ! 
 
 PuL. Pray you, rise; 
 And, as you rise, receive tliis comfort from me. 
 Beauty, set off with such sweet language, never 
 Can want an advocate ; and you must bring 
 More than a guilty cause if you prevail not. 
 You shall have hearing, and as far as justice 
 WUl warrant me, my best aids. 
 
 T/ie Emperor of the East. 
 
 LCTKE GLOETING OVER HIS WEALTH, 
 
 Thou dumb magician {to the key), that without 
 
 a charm 
 Didst make my entrance easy to possess 
 What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' 
 
 Moly, 
 Sybilla's golden bough, the great elixir 
 Imagin'd only by the alchyniist, 
 Compar'd witli thee, are shadows, thou the sub- 
 stance 
 And guardian of felicity. No marvel. 
 My brother made tliy place of rest his bosom, 
 Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress 
 To be hugg'd ever. In by-corners of 
 This sacred room, silver, in bags heap'd up 
 Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire, 
 Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold, 
 That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself. 
 There needs no artificial light, the splendour 
 Makes a perpetual day there, night and darkness 
 By that still-burning lamp forever banish'd. 
 But when, guided by that, my eyes had made 
 Discovery of the caskets, and they open'd. 
 Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth 
 A ])yramid of flames, and in the roof 
 Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place 
 Heaven's abstract, or epitome ; rubies, sap- 
 phires, 
 And robes of orient pearl, these seen, I coidd not 
 But look on gr)ld with contempt. And yet I 
 
 found, 
 What weak credulity could have no faith in, 
 A treasure far exceeding these. Here lay 
 A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment ; 
 The wax continuing hard, the acres melting. 
 
 Here a sure deed of gift for a market town, 
 
 If not redeem'd this day ; which is not in 
 
 The unthrift's power. There being scarce one 
 
 shire 
 In Wales or England, where my moneys are not 
 Lent out at usury, the certain hook 
 To draw in more. 
 
 The City Madam. 
 
 A WIFE PARTING FROM HEE HUSBAND. 
 
 Since you are not 
 To be diverted, sir, from what you purpose, 
 AU arguments to stay you here are useless. 
 Go when you please, sir. Eyes, I charge you, 
 
 waste not 
 One drop of sorrow ; look you hoard all up, 
 Till in my widow'd bed I call upon you : 
 But then be sure you fail not. You blest angels. 
 Guardians of human life, I at tliis instant 
 Eorbear t' invoke you at our parting ; 't were 
 To personate devotion. My soul 
 Shall go along with you ; and wlien you are 
 Circled with death and horror, seek and find you; 
 And then I will not leave a saint unsued to 
 For your protection. To tell you what 
 I will do in your absence, would show poorly ; 
 My actions shall speak me. 'T were to doubt 
 
 you. 
 To beg I may hear from you where you are ; 
 You cannot live obscure : nor shall one post, 
 By night or day, pass unexamin'd by me. 
 If I dwell long upon your lips, consider 
 After this feast the griping fast that follows ; 
 And it will be excusable ; pray, turn from me : 
 All that I can is spoken. 
 
 The Pirlure. 
 
 TJNWITHHOLDING LOVE, 
 
 Not far from where my father lives, a lady, 
 A neighbour by, blest with as great a beauty 
 As Nature durst bestow without undomg, 
 Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then. 
 And bless'd the house a thousand times she 
 
 dwelt in. 
 This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, 
 ^Mien my first fire knew no adulterate incense. 
 Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, 
 In all the l)ravcry my friends could show me. 
 In all the faith my innocence coukl give me, 
 In the best language my true tongue could fell 
 
 me, 
 And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me, 
 I sued, and serv'd. Long did I love this lady, 
 Long was my travail, long my trade, to win her : 
 With all the duty of my soul I serv'd her. 
 
 A Very JFonian, 
 
 ^ 
 
eft- 
 
 DEATH. — DEATH OF CALISTA. 
 
 12 
 
 ■^ 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death, 
 
 To stop a wretch's breath, 
 That calls on thee, and offer* her sad heart 
 
 A prey unto thy dart ? 
 I am nor young nor fair ; be, therefore, bold : 
 
 Sorrow hath made me old, 
 Deform'd, and wrinkled ; all that I can crave 
 
 Is q.uiet in my grave. 
 Such as live happy hold long life a jewel ; 
 
 But to me thou art cruel. 
 If thou end not my tedious misery ; 
 
 And I soon cease to be. 
 Strike, and strike home, then ; pity unto me, 
 
 In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. 
 
 JOHN FORD. 
 
 1586- 1639 (!). 
 
 CONTENTION OF A NIGHTINGALE WITH A 
 MUSICL4N.* 
 
 Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 
 
 Which poets of an elder time have feign'd 
 
 To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 
 
 Desire of visiting that paradise. 
 
 To Thessaly I came, and living private. 
 
 Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 
 
 Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
 
 I day by day frequented silent groves, 
 
 And solitary walks. One morning early 
 
 This accident encounter'd me : I heard 
 
 The sweetest and most ra^'ishing contention 
 
 That art or nature ever were at strife in. 
 
 A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather 
 
 Indeed cntranc'd my soul : as I stole nearer. 
 
 Invited by the melody, I saw 
 
 Tiiis youth, this fair-fac'd youth, upon his lute 
 
 With strains of strange variety and harmony 
 
 Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge 
 
 To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds. 
 
 That as they ilocked about him, all stood silent, 
 
 Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too. 
 
 A Nightingale, 
 
 Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes 
 
 The challenge ; and, for every several strain 
 
 The well-shap'd youth could touch she sung her 
 
 down ; 
 He could not run division with more art 
 Upon his quaking instrument, than she 
 The nightingale did with her various notes 
 Reply to 
 
 * Lamb declares that this description " almost equals the 
 strife it celebrates." 
 
 fr 
 
 Some time thus spent, the young man grew at 
 
 last 
 Into a pretty anger ; that a bird, 
 Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or 
 
 notes, 
 Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 
 Had busied many hours to perfect practice ; 
 To end the controversy, in a rapture. 
 Upon Ills instrument he plays so swiftly. 
 So many voluntaries, and so quick. 
 That there was curiosity and cunning, 
 Concord in discord, hues of diff'ring method 
 Meeting in one full centre of dehght. 
 The bird (ordained to be 
 Music sjirst martyr) strove to imitate 
 These several sounds : which when her warbling 
 
 throat 
 Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute 
 And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sad- 
 ness. 
 To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
 To weep a funeral elegy of tears. 
 He looks upon the trophies of iiis art, 
 Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, 
 
 and cried, 
 " Alas, poor creature, I wiU soon revenge 
 This cruelty upon the author of it. 
 Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood. 
 Shall never more betray a harmless peace 
 To an untimely end " : and in tliat sorrow. 
 As he was pashing it against a tree, 
 I suddenly stept in.* 
 
 The Lover's Mehnclioli/. 
 
 DEATH OF CALISTA, 
 
 Calista. Now I turn to thee, thou shadow 
 {to the dead body lylTHOCLEs) 
 Of my contracted Lord : bear witness all, 
 I put my mother's wedding-ring upon 
 His finger ; 't was my father's last bequest : 
 Tlius I new marry him, whose Tiife I am ; 
 Deatli sh.all not separate us. O my lords, 
 I but deceiv'd your eyes with antick gesture. 
 When one news straight came huddhng on 
 
 another. 
 Of death ! and death ! and death ! still I danc'd 
 
 forward ; 
 But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
 Be such mere women, who with shrieks and 
 
 outcries 
 Can vow a present end to all their sorrows ; 
 Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them. 
 They are the silent griefs which cut the heart- 
 strings : 
 Let rae die smiling. 
 
 * Crashaw has imitated this story in his " Music's Duel.' 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 128 
 
 WALTON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Neaechcs. 'T is a truth too ominous. 
 Calista. One kiss on these cold lips; my 
 last. Crack, crack. 
 Argos now 's Sparta's King. (Dies.) 
 
 The Broken Heart. 
 
 IKKEVEKENT KEASONING, 
 
 Dispute no more in this, for know, young man. 
 These are no scliool-points ; nice philosophy 
 May tolerate unlikely arguments. 
 But heaven admits no jests ! wits that presumed 
 On wit too nuich, by striving how to prove 
 There was no God, with foolish grounds of art, 
 Discover'd first the nearest way to hell ; 
 And fiU'd the world with devihsh atheism. 
 Such questions, youth, are fond ; far better 't is 
 To bless the sun, than reason why it slunes ; 
 Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun. 
 No more ; I may not hear it. 
 
 THE BEAL AND THE IDEAL. 
 
 Fancies are but streams 
 
 Of vain pleasure ; 
 They, who by their dreams 
 True joys measure, 
 Feasting starve, laughing weep, 
 Playing smart ; wliilst in sleep 
 Fools, with shadows smiling, 
 Wake and find 
 Hopes like wind. 
 Idle hopes, beguiling. 
 Thoughts ily away ; Time hath passed them : 
 Wake now, awake ! see and taste them ! 
 
 FLY HENCE, SHADOWS! 
 
 Fly hence, shadows, tlirvt do keep 
 Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep ! 
 Tliough the eyes be overtaken. 
 Yet the heart doth ever waken 
 Thoughts, chained up in busy simres 
 Of continual woes and cares : 
 Love and griefs are so exprest, 
 As they rather sigh than rest. 
 Fly hence, shadows, that do keep 
 Watchfid sorrows, charmed in sleep. 
 
 A DIBGE. 
 
 Glokies, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease, 
 
 Can but please 
 The outward senses, when the mind 
 Is or untroubled or by peace refined. 
 Crowns may flourish and decay, 
 
 Beauties sliine, but fade away. 
 Youth may revel, yet it must 
 Lie down in a bed of dust. 
 Eartlily honours flow and waste. 
 Time alone doth change and last. 
 Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare 
 
 Rest for care ; 
 Love only reigns in death ; though art 
 Can find no comfort for a broken heart. 
 
 BIRDS' SONGS. 
 
 Wuat bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 
 
 'T is Philomel, the nighting<ile ; 
 
 Jugg, jugg, jugg, terue she cries. 
 
 And, hating earth, to heaven she flies. 
 
 Ha, ha ! hark, hark ! the cuckoos sing 
 Cuckoo ! to welcome in the spring. 
 
 Brave prick-song ! who is 't now we hear ? 
 
 'T is the lark's silver leer-a-leer. 
 
 Chirrup the sparrow flies away ; 
 
 For he fell to 't ere break of day. 
 
 Ha, ha ! hark, hark ! the cuckoos sing 
 Cuckoo ! to welcome in the spring. 
 
 IZAAK WALTON. 
 
 1693-1683. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S WISa 
 
 I IN these flowery meads would be. 
 
 These crystal streams should solace me ; 
 
 To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 
 
 I wish ray Angle would rejoice. 
 Sit here, and sec the turtle-dove, 
 Court his chaste mate to acts of love : 
 
 Or on that bank, feel the west-wuid 
 Breathe health and plenty, please my mind 
 To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers. 
 And then wash off by April showers : 
 Here hear my Kenna sing a song, 
 Tliere see a blackbird feed her young. 
 
 Or a leverock build her nest ; 
 Here give my weary spirits rest. 
 And raise my low-piteh'd thoughts above 
 Earth, or what poor mortals love : 
 Thus free from lawsuits, and tlie noise 
 Of princes' courts, I would rejoice : 
 
 Or with my Bryan and a book. 
 
 Loiter long days near Sliawford Brook ;• 
 
 • Slmwfonl Rrook is the name of Hint part of the r"vcr Sow, 
 that runs throiv^h the Itind wliieh Walton bequeathed to ttu' 
 Corporation of Stafford to find coals for the poor. 
 
 -^ 
 
JOY FOLLOWING GRIEF. 
 
 129 
 
 -ft) 
 
 There sit by liim, and eat my meat, 
 
 There see the siui both rise and set ; 
 
 There bid good moniiug to next day ; 
 
 There meditate my time away ; 
 And angle on, and beg to have 
 A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 1596 - 1666. 
 
 THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE, 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 There is no armour against fate ; 
 Deatli lays his icy hand on kings : 
 Sceptre and crown 
 Must tumble down, 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the fickl, 
 And )ilaut frcsli laurels where they kill ; 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
 They tame but one another still : 
 Early or late. 
 They stoop to fate. 
 And must give up their murmuring breath, 
 When they, pale captives, creep to death. 
 
 The garlapds wither on your brow. 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 Upon Death's purple altar now 
 
 See where the victor-victim bleeds : 
 Your heads must come 
 To the cold tomb ; 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 
 
 THE COMMON DOOM. 
 
 Victorious men of eartli, no more 
 Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 
 
 Though you bind in every sliore, 
 And your triumphs reach as far 
 
 As night or day. 
 Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey. 
 
 And mingle with forgotten aslies, wlien 
 
 Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 
 
 Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 
 
 Each able to undo mankind. 
 Death's servile emissaries are ; 
 
 Nor to these alone confined. 
 
 He hath at will 
 More quaint and subtle ways to kill ; 
 A smQe or kiss, as he wiU use tlie art. 
 Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 
 
 LOVE'S HUE AND CRT. 
 
 In Love's name you are charged liereby 
 
 To make a speedy hue and cry, 
 
 Al'ter a face, who t' other day. 
 
 Came and stole my heart away ; 
 
 For your directions in brief 
 
 These are best marks to know the thief: 
 
 Her hair a net of beams would prove, 
 
 Strong enough to captive Jove, 
 
 Playing the eagle ; her clear brow 
 
 Is a comely field of snow. 
 
 A sparkUng eye, so pure a gray 
 
 As when it shines it needs no day. 
 
 Ivory dwellcth on her nose ; 
 
 Ijilies, married to tlie rose, 
 
 Have made her cheek the nuptial bed ; 
 
 Her lips betray their virgin red, 
 
 As they only blushed for this. 
 
 That they one another kiss ; 
 
 But observe, beside the rest. 
 
 You shall know this felon best 
 
 By her tongue ; for if your ear 
 
 Shall once a heavenly music hear. 
 
 Such as neither gods nor men 
 
 But from that voice shall liear again. 
 
 That, that is she, O, take lier t' ye. 
 
 None can rock licaven asleep but she. 
 
 JOY FOLLOWING GRIEF, 
 
 Cleona and lirr Paije DuLCINO. 
 
 Cleona. The day breaks glorious to my 
 
 darken'd thoughts. 
 
 He lives, he lives yet ! Cease, ye amorous fears, 
 
 More to perplex me. Prithee speak, sweet 
 
 youth ; 
 How fares my lord? Upon my virgin heart 
 I 'U build a flaming altar, to offer up 
 A thankful sacrifice for his return 
 To life and me. Speak, and increase my com- 
 forts. 
 Is he in perfect health ? 
 
 DuLciNo. Not perfect, madam, 
 Until you bless liim with the knowledge of 
 Your constancy. 
 
 Cle. O, get thee wings and fly then ; 
 Tell him my love dotli burn like vestal fire. 
 Which, with his memory richer than all spices, 
 Disperses odours round about my soul. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 130 
 
 RANDOLPH. 
 
 -n> 
 
 fr 
 
 And did rel'resli it when 't was dull and sad, 
 •With thinking of his absence. 
 
 Yet stay. 
 Thou goest away too soon ; where is he ? speak. 
 DuL. He gave me no commission for that, 
 lady ; 
 He will soon save that question by his presence. 
 Cle. Time has no feathers ; he walks now on 
 crutches. 
 Relate his gestures when he gave thee this. 
 What other words? Did mirth smUe on his 
 
 brow ? 
 I woidd not for the wealth of this great world 
 He should suspect my faith. What said he, 
 prithee ? 
 DuL. Ho said what a warm lover, when desire 
 Makes eloquent, could speak ; he said you were 
 Both star and pilot. 
 
 Cle. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his 
 yellow curtain 
 When he dcclineth, opens it again 
 At his fair rising ; with my parting lord 
 I clos'd all my dchght ; till his approach 
 It shall not spread itself. 
 
 FBrENDSHIP. 
 
 WouLDST thou be more tlian friend ? it is a name 
 Virtue can only answer to ; couldst thou 
 Unite into one all goodness whatsoe'er 
 Mortality can boast of, thou shalt find 
 The circle narrow-bounded to contain 
 Tins swelhng treasure ; every good admits 
 Degrees, but this being so good, it cannot ; 
 For he 's no friend is not superlative. 
 Indulgent parents, brethren, kindred, tied 
 By the natural flow of blood, alliances. 
 And what you can imagine, are too light 
 To weigh with name of friend : they execute 
 At best but wluit a nature prompts them to ; 
 Are often less than friends, when tliey remain 
 Our kinsmen still : but friend is never lost. 
 
 A TEAS AND A SMILE. 
 
 Her eye did seem to labour with a tear, 
 Wliieii siuldenly took birtii, but overweigh'd, 
 With its own swelling, dropt upon her bosom, 
 Which, by reflection of her light, appcar'd 
 As nature meant licr sorrow for an ornament. 
 After, her looks grew clieerful, and I saw 
 A smile shoot grnceful upward from her eyes, 
 As if they had griin'd a victory o'er grief; 
 And with it many beams twisted tiiemselves. 
 Upon whose golden threads the angels walk 
 To and again from heaven. 
 
 THOMAS RANDOLPH. 
 
 160S-1634. 
 
 FEAR, RASHNESS, AND FLATTERY. 
 
 These (jualitii-s are iiiipeisonatcd in the follfjwinj;; dialogue, 
 under the Greek names of Deilus, Aphobus, and Colax. 
 
 Deilus. Good Aphobus, no more such terri- 
 ble stories ; 
 I would not for a world lie alone to-night : 
 I shall have such strange dreams ! 
 
 AruoBus. What can there be 
 
 That I should fear? The gods? if they be 
 
 good, 
 'T is sin to fear them : if not good, no gods ; 
 And then let them fear me. Or are they devils 
 That must aff'right me ! 
 
 Deil. Devils! where, good Aphobus ? 
 
 I thought there was some conjuring abroad ; 
 'Tis such a terrible wind ! O, here it is; 
 Now it is here again ! 0, still, still, still. 
 Apho. Wlat is the matter ? 
 Deil. Still it follows me ! 
 
 The thing in black, behind ; soon as the sun 
 But shines, it haunts me ? Gentle spirit, leave 
 
 me ! 
 Cannot you lay him ? "Rliat ugly looks it has ! 
 With eyes as big as saucers, nostrils wider 
 Tlian barbers' basons ! 
 
 Apho. It is nothing, Deilus, 
 
 But your weak fancy that from every object 
 Draws arguments of fear. This terrible black 
 thing — 
 Deil. Where is it, Aphobus ? 
 Apho. Is but your shadow, Deilus. 
 
 Deil. And should we not fear shadows ? 
 Apho. No, why should we ? 
 
 Deil. Who knows but they come leering 
 after us, , 
 To steal away the substance ? Watch him, 
 Aphobus. 
 Apho. I fear nothing. 
 
 Colax (aside to Aphobus). I do commend 
 your valour. 
 That fixes your great soul fast as a centre. 
 Not to be mov'd with dangers. Let shght cock- 
 boats 
 Be shaken with a wave, while you stand firm 
 Like an undaunted rock, whose constant hard- 
 ness 
 Bobcats the fury of the raging sea. 
 Dashing it into froth. Base fear doth argue 
 A low degenerate soul. 
 Deil. (in answer to Aphobus). Now I fear 
 
 everything. 
 Col. (aside to Deilus) . 'T is your diserct ion. 
 Everything has danger. 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 PEAR, RASHNESS, AND FLATTERY. 
 
 131 
 
 -Q> 
 
 And therefore everything is to be fear'd. 
 I do applaud this wisdom. 'T is a symptom 
 Of wary providence. His too confident rashness 
 
 {Secretly making a gesture towards Aphobus) 
 Argues a stupid ignorance in the soul, 
 A blind aud senseless judgment. Give me 
 fear 
 
 . To man the fort ; 't is such a circumspect 
 And wary sentinel ; but daring valour, 
 Uiicapable of danger, sleeps securely, 
 And leaves an open entrance to his enemies. 
 
 Deil. What, are they landed? 
 
 Apho. Who? 
 
 Deil. The enemies 
 
 That Colax talks of. 
 
 Ariio. If they be, I care not ; 
 
 Though they be giants all, and arm'd with 
 thunder. 
 
 Deil. Why, do you not fear tluinder ? 
 
 Apho. Thunder ? No ! 
 
 No more than squibs and crackers. 
 
 Dkil. Squibs and crackers ! 
 
 1 hope there be none here ! s'lid, squibs and 
 
 crackers ! — 
 The mere epitomes of the gunpowder treason ! 
 Faux iu a lesser volume ! 
 
 Apho. Let fools gaze 
 
 At bearded stars. It is all one to me, 
 As if they had been shav'd. Thus, thus would I 
 Outbeard a meteor ; for I might as well 
 Name it a prodigy when my candle blazes. 
 
 Deil. Is thei'e a comet, say you? Nay, I 
 saw it ; 
 It reach'd from Paul's to Charing, and por- 
 tends 
 Some certain imminent danger to the inhabi- 
 tants 
 'Twixt those two places. I '11 go get a lodg- 
 ing 
 Out of its influence. 
 
 Col. Will that serve ynu ? — I fear 
 
 It threatens general ruin to the kingdom. 
 
 Deil. I' U to some other country. 
 
 Col. There is danger 
 
 To cross the seas. 
 
 Deil. Is there no way, good Colax, 
 
 To cross the sea by land ? the situation. 
 The horrible situation of an island ! 
 
 Col. {aside to Aphobus). You, sir, are far 
 above such frivolous thoughts. 
 You fear not death. 
 
 Apho.. Not I. 
 
 Col. Not sudden death. 
 
 Apho. No more than sudden sleeps. Sir, I 
 dare die. 
 
 Deil. I dare not. Death to me is terrible. 
 I will not die. 
 
 Apho. IIow can you, sir, prevent it ? 
 
 <^ ^ 
 
 Deil. Why, I will kill myself. 
 
 Col. a valiant course ; 
 
 And the right way to prevent death indeed. 
 Your spirit {aside to Deilus) is true Roman ! — 
 
 But yours {aside to Aphobus) greater, 
 That fears not death, nor yet the manner of it. 
 {Aloud.) SLoidd heaven fall — 
 
 Apho. W'hy, then we should have larks. 
 
 Deil. I shall never eat larks again while I 
 breathe. 
 
 Col. Or should the earth yawn like a sepul- 
 chre, 
 And with an open throat swallow you quick ? 
 
 Apho. 'T would save me the e.xpenses of a 
 grave. 
 
 Deil, I had rather trouble my executors by 
 th' half. 
 
 Apho. Cannons to me are popguns. 
 
 Deil. Popguns to me 
 
 Are cannons. The report wiU strike me dead. 
 
 Apho. A rapier 's but a bodkin. 
 
 Deil. But a bodkin ! 
 
 It 's a most dangerous weapon. Since I read 
 Of Julius Cffisar's death, I durst not venture 
 Into a tailor's shop for fear of bodkins. 
 
 Apho. O that the vahant giants should again 
 Rebel against the gods, and besiege heaveu. 
 So I might be their leader. 
 
 Col. {aside to Aphobus). Had Enceladus 
 Been half so valiant, Jove had been his pris- 
 oner. 
 
 Apho. Why should we think there be such 
 things as dangers ? 
 Scylla, Charybdis, Python, are but fables ; 
 Medea's bull and dragon very tales ; 
 Sea-monsters, serpents, all poetical figments; 
 Nay, hell itself, aud Acheron, mere inven- 
 tions ; 
 Or were they true, as they are false, should I 
 
 be 
 So tim'rous as to fear these bugbear Har- 
 pies, 
 Medusas, Centaurs, Gorgons ? 
 
 Deil. good Aphobus, 
 
 Leave conjuring, or take me into the circle. 
 What shall I do, good Colax ? 
 
 Col. Sir, walk in. 
 
 There is, they say, a looking-glass, a strange 
 
 one 
 Of admirable virtues, that will render you 
 Free from enchantments. 
 
 Deil. How ! a looking-glass ? 
 
 Dost think I can endure it ? Wliy, there lies 
 A man within 't in ambush to entrap me. 
 I did but lift my hand up, and he presently 
 Catch'd at it. 
 
 Col. 'T was the shadow, sir, of yourself; 
 
 Trust me, a mere reflection. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 132 
 
 BROME. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Deil. {mustering up all his forces). I will trust 
 
 thee. 
 Apiio. What glass is that ? 
 Col. (aside to Aphobus). A trick to friglit the 
 idiot 
 Out of his wits ; a glass so full of dread, 
 Kend'ring to the eye such horrid spectacles 
 As would amaze even you, sir. I do think 
 Your optic nerves would shrink in the behold- 
 ing. 
 Tliis if your eye endure, I will confess you 
 The prince of eagles. 
 
 Apuo. Look to it, eyes : if ye refuse tliis 
 right. 
 My nails sliall damn you to eternal night. 
 Col. (aside to himself). Seeing no hope of gain, 
 I pack them hence. 
 'T is gold gives flattery all her eloquence. 
 
 Muses' Looking-Gtass. 
 
 TO A LADY ADMIEDIG HEKSELr IN A LOOKING- 
 GLASS. 
 
 Fair lady, when you see the grace 
 Of beauty in your looking-glass ; 
 A stately forehead, smooth and high, 
 And full of princely majesty ; 
 A sparkling eye no gem so fair, 
 Whose lustre dims tlie Cyprian star ; 
 A glorious cheek, divinely sweet. 
 Wherein both roses kindly meet; 
 A cherry lip that would entice 
 Even gods to kiss at any price ; 
 You think no beauty is so rare 
 That with your shadow might compare ; 
 That your reflection is alone 
 Tlie tiling that men most dote upon. 
 Madam, alas I your glass doth lie. 
 And you are much deceived ; for I 
 A beauty know of richer grace 
 ("Sweet, be not angry), 'tis your face. 
 Hence, then, O, learn more mild to be, 
 .^nd leave to lay your blame on me : 
 If me your real substance move. 
 When you so much your shadow love. 
 Wise nature would not let your eye 
 Look on her own bright majesty ; 
 Which, had you once but ga/.od upon, 
 Y'ou could, except yourself, love none : 
 "What then you cannot love, let me. 
 That face I can, you cannot see. 
 
 Now you have what to love, you '11 say, 
 Wliat then is left for me, I pray ? 
 My face, sweet heart, if it ))lease thee ; 
 That which you can, I cannot see : 
 So cither love shall gain his due, 
 ours, sweet, in me, and mine in you. 
 
 .^ 
 
 RICHARD BROME. 
 
 FATHEKS, OBEY YOUE CHILBKEN. 
 
 English Traveller, Son, Servant, Gentle.m.\n, 
 and Lady, natives of the Antipodes. 
 
 Servant {to his young master). How weU 
 you saw 
 Your father to school to-day, knowing how apt 
 He is to play the truant ! 
 
 Son. But is he not 
 
 Yet gone to school ? 
 
 Serv. Stand by, and you shall see. 
 
 Enter three Old Men, Kith satchels. 
 
 All Three (sing). Domine, domiue, duster; 
 
 Three knaves in a cluster. 
 
 Son. 0, this is gallant pastime! Nay, come 
 
 on. 
 
 Is this your school ? was that your lesson, hay ? 
 
 1st Old Man. Pray now, good son, indeed, 
 
 indeed, — 
 Son. Indeed 
 
 You shall to school. Away with him ; and take 
 Their wagships with him, the whole cluster of 
 'em. 
 2d Old Man. You sha' n't send us now, so 
 
 you sha' n't — 
 3d Old Man. We be none of your father, so 
 
 we be n't. 
 Son. Away with 'em, I say ; and tell their 
 schoolmistress 
 Wliat truants they are, and bid her pay 'cm 
 soundly. 
 All Three. Oh! oh I oh! 
 Lady. Alas ! will nobody beg pardon for 
 The poor old boys ? 
 
 English Tr.weller. Do men of sucli fair 
 years 
 Here go to school ? 
 
 Gentleman. They woidd die dunces else. 
 These were great scholars in their youth; but 
 
 when 
 Age grows upon men licre, their learning wastes. 
 And so decays, that if they live until 
 Threescore, their sons send them to school again ; 
 They 'd die as speechless else as new-born chil- 
 dren. 
 Eng. Trav. 'T is a wise nation : and the piety 
 Of the young men most rare and commendable. 
 Yet give me, a-s a stranger, leave to beg 
 Their liberty this day. 
 
 Son. 'T is granted. 
 
 Hold up your heads, and thank the gentleman 
 Like scholars, with your heels now. 
 
 All Three. Gratias, gratias. 
 
 From The Antipodes. 
 
 ^ 
 
<e- 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 133 
 
 -Q) 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 1568-1639. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.* 
 
 Farewell, yc gilded follies ! pleasing troiil)les ; 
 Farewell, ye lionour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles ; 
 Fame 's but a hollow eclio, gold pure clay, 
 Honour the darling but of one sliort day, 
 Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin. 
 State but a golden prison to live in 
 And torture free-born minds ; embroider'd trains 
 Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ; 
 And blood, allied to greatness, is alone 
 Inherited, not purchased, nor our own : 
 Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and 
 
 birth. 
 Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 
 
 I would be great, but that the sun doth still 
 Level his rays against the rising hill ; 
 I would be high, but see tiie proudest oak 
 Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke ; 
 1 woidd be ricli, but see men, too unkind, 
 Dig in the bowels of tlie richest mind ; 
 I would be wise, but that I often see 
 The fox suspected while the ass goes free ; 
 I would be fair, but see the fair and proud 
 Like the bright sun oft setting in a cloud ; 
 I would be poor, but know the humble grass 
 Still trampled on by each unworthy ass ; 
 Rich, hated ; wise, suspected ; scorn'd if poor ; 
 Great, fear'd ; fair, tempted ; high, still envied 
 
 more ; 
 I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither; 
 (ireat, high, rich, wise, uor fair, — poor I '11 be 
 rather. 
 
 Would the world now adopt me for her heir, 
 Woidd beauty's queen entitle me " the fair," 
 Fame speak me fortune's minion, eould I vie 
 Augcls with India ; with a speaking eye 
 Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice 
 
 dumb 
 As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue 
 To stones by epitaphs ; be call'd great master 
 lu the loose rhymes of every poetaster ; 
 Could I be more than any man that lives, 
 Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives ; 
 Yet I more freely would tiiese gifts resign. 
 Than ever fortune would have made them mine ; 
 And hold one minute of this holy leisure 
 Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 
 
 A\'eleome, pure thoughts ! welcome, ye silent 
 
 groves ! 
 These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly 
 
 loves. 
 
 U-^ 
 
 * Also ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing 
 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring ; 
 A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass. 
 In which I will adore sweet virtue's face ; 
 Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares. 
 No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears : 
 Then here I '11 sit, and sigh my hot love's folly. 
 And learn to affect a holy melancholy ; 
 And if Contentment be a stranger, then 
 I 'U ne'er look for it but in heav'n again. 
 
 CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 How happy is he born and taught, 
 Tiiat serveth not another's will ; 
 Whose armour is his honest thought. 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
 Wiose passions not his masters are. 
 Whose sold is still prepared for death, 
 Untied unto the worldly care 
 Of public fame, or private breath; 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
 Or vice ; who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 
 
 Wlio hath his life from rumours freed. 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 
 Nor nun make oppressors great; 
 
 Wlio God doth late and early pray. 
 More of Ins grace than gifts to lend ; 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a religious book or friend ; 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands, 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, vet hath all. 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 O THOTT great Power ! in whom we move, 
 By whom we hve, to whom we die. 
 
 Behold me through thy beams of love, 
 Whilst on this couch of tears I lie, 
 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 
 By thy Christ's blood, tlie bath of sin. 
 
 No hallow'd oils, no gums I need. 
 No new-born drams of purging fire ; 
 
 One rosy drop from David's seed 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire ; 
 
 precious ransom ! which once paid, 
 
 That Consummaium est was said. 
 
 ■# 
 
cfi- 
 
 134 
 
 WOTTON. 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 And said by him, that said no more. 
 But seal'd it with liis sacred breath : 
 
 Thou then, that hast dispurged our score. 
 And dying vrert the death of death. 
 
 Be now, whilst on thy name we call. 
 
 Our life, our strength, our joy, our all ! 
 
 FALL OF THE EAKL OF SOMEKSET. 
 
 Dazzled tiius with lieight of ])lacL", 
 Whilst our hopes our wits beguile. 
 No man marks the narrow space 
 'Twixt a prison and a smile. 
 
 Yet since Fortune's favours fade. 
 You that in her arms do sleep, 
 Learn to swim and not to wade, 
 Tor the hearts of kings are deep. 
 
 But if greatness be so blind 
 As to trust in towers of air, 
 Let it be with goodness hned. 
 That at least the fall be fair. 
 
 Then though dark and you shall say. 
 When friends fail and princes frown. 
 Virtue is the roughest way. 
 But proves at night a bed of down. 
 
 ni PRAISE OF AUSLma. 
 
 Qditering fears, heart-tearing cares, 
 Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 
 
 Fly, fly to courts, 
 
 Fly to fond worldlings' sports, 
 Wliere strained sardonic smiles are glosing still. 
 And grief is forced to laugh against her will, 
 
 Wliere mirth 's but mummery. 
 
 And sorrows oidy real be. 
 
 Fly from our country pastimes, fly. 
 Sad troops of human misery. 
 
 Come, serene looks, 
 
 Clear as the crystal brooks. 
 Or the pure azurcd heaven that smiles to see 
 The rich attendance on our poverty ; 
 
 Peace and a secure mind. 
 
 Which all men seek, we only find. 
 
 Abused mortals ! did you know 
 
 Where joy. heart's ease, and comforts grow. 
 You 'd scorn proud towers, 
 And seek thcni in these bowers, 
 
 Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps 
 may shake, 
 
 But blustering care could never tempest make ; 
 
 Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. 
 Saving of fountains that glide by us. 
 
 Here 's no fantastic mask nor dance, 
 But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 
 
 Nor wars are seen, 
 
 Uidess upon the green, 
 Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 
 Which done, both bleating run, each to his 
 mother ; 
 
 And wounds arc never found. 
 
 Save what the ploughshare gives the 
 ground. 
 
 Here are no entrapping baits 
 To hasten to too hasty fates ; 
 
 Unless it be 
 
 The fond creduhty 
 Of silly fish, which (worldling like) still look 
 Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 
 
 Nor envy, 'less among 
 
 The birds, for prize of their sweet song. 
 
 Go, let the diving negro seek 
 
 For gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; 
 
 We all pearls scorn. 
 
 Save what the dewy mom 
 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
 W^hieh careless shepherds beat down as they 
 pass; 
 
 And gold ne'er liere appears. 
 
 Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 
 
 Blest silent groves, O, may you be 
 Forever mirth's best nursery ! 
 
 May pure contents 
 
 Forever pitch their tents 
 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, 
 
 these mountains. 
 And peace still slumber by tliese purUng foun- 
 tains, 
 
 Wliich we may every year 
 
 Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 
 
 TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night, 
 
 Tliat poorly satisfy our eyes 
 More by your number tliau your light ! 
 
 You common people of the skies ! 
 
 What are you, when tlie sun shall rise ? 
 
 Y'o\i curious chanters of the wood, 
 That warhlo forth dame Nature's lays. 
 
 Thinking your voices understood 
 
 I!y your weak accents ! what 's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 
 
 -^ 
 
THE SOUL'S RECOIL UPON HERSELF. 
 
 135 
 
 -n> 
 
 You violets that first appear, 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known, 
 Lilce tlie proud virgius of the year, 
 
 As if tlie spring were all your own ! 
 
 What are you, when the rose is blown ? 
 
 So, when my mistress shall be seen 
 In form and beauty of her mind ; 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, a Queen ! 
 Tell me, if she were not design'd 
 Th' ecUpse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 He first deceased ; she for a little tried 
 To live without him, liked it not, and died. 
 
 SIR ROBERT AYTON. 
 
 1570-1638. 
 
 ON WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 
 
 I lov'd thee once, I'll love no more, 
 Thine be the grief as is the blame ; 
 Thou art not what thou wast before. 
 What reason I should be the same ? 
 He that can love unlov'd again. 
 Hath better store of love tlian brain : 
 God send me love my debts to pay, 
 IMiile unthrifts fool their love away. 
 
 Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. 
 
 If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
 Yea, if tliou hadst remain'd thy own, 
 I might perchance have yet been thine. 
 But thou thy freedom did recall. 
 That if thou might clsewiiere inthral ; 
 And then how could I but disdain 
 A captive's captive to remain ? 
 
 When new desires had conquer'd tiiee. 
 
 And chaug'd the oljject of tliy will. 
 It had been lethargy in me, 
 Not constancy, to love thee still. 
 Yea, it liad been a sin to go 
 And prostitute affection so, 
 Since we are taught no prayers to say 
 To sucli as must to others pray. 
 
 Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 
 
 Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
 
 I '11 neither grieve nor yet rejoice. 
 To see him gain what I have lost ; 
 
 The height of my disdain shall be, 
 To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
 
 To love thee still, but go no more 
 
 A begging to a beggar's door. 
 
 A nCKLE WOMAN. 
 
 I DO confess tliou 'rt sweet, yet find 
 Thee sueii an uuthrift of thy sweets, 
 
 Thy favours are but like the wind, 
 Tluit kisses everything it meets. 
 
 And since thou can with more than one. 
 
 Thou 'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. 
 
 The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
 Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly smells! 
 
 But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands. 
 Her sweet no longer witli her dwells ; 
 
 But scent and beauty both are gone, 
 
 And leaves fall from her, one by one. 
 
 oJ«Ko 
 
 SIR JOHN DAVIES. 
 
 1570- 1G36. 
 
 THE SOUL'S RECOIL UPON HERSELF, 
 
 No, doubtless ; for the mind can backward cast 
 Upon iierself, her understanding's light. 
 
 But she is so corrupt, and so defae'd. 
 As her own image doth herself affright. 
 
 As is the fable of the lady fair. 
 
 Which for her lust was turn'd into a cow, 
 Wien thirsty to a stream she did repair. 
 
 And saw herself trausform'd she wist not 
 _how: 
 
 At first she startles, then she stands amazed ; 
 
 At last with terror she from thence doth fly, 
 And loathes the wat'ry glass wherein she gazed. 
 
 And shuns it still, though she for thirst doth 
 die: 
 
 E'en so man's soul which did God's im.ige bear. 
 And was at first fair, good, and spotless pure, 
 
 Since with her sins her beauties blotted were. 
 Doth of all sights lier own sight least endure : 
 
 For e'en at first reflection she espies 
 
 Such strange chimeras, and such monsters 
 there. 
 Such toys, such antics, and such vanities. 
 
 As she retires, and shrinks for shame and fear. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 136 
 
 DAVIES. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 And as the man loves least at home to be, 
 That hatii a sluttish house haunted with sprites ; 
 
 So siie impatient her own faults to see, 
 
 Turns from herself, and in strange things de- 
 lights. 
 
 For this few know themselves : for merchants 
 broke 
 
 View their estate with discontent and pain. 
 And seas are troubled, when they do revoke 
 
 Their flowing waves into themselves again. 
 
 And while the face of outward things we find, 
 Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet. 
 
 These tilings transport, and carry out the mind, 
 That with herself the mind can never meet. 
 
 Yet if Affliction once her wars begin, 
 
 And threat the feebler sense with sword and 
 fire. 
 
 The mind contracts herself, and shrinketh in. 
 And to herself she gladly doth retire -. 
 
 As spiders touch'd, seek their web's inmost part; 
 
 As bees in storms back to their hives return; 
 As blood in danger gathers to the heart ; 
 
 As men seek towns, when foes the country 
 burn. 
 
 THE SOUL IS MORE THAN A PEEFECTION OR 
 REFLECTION OF THE SENSE. 
 
 Ark they not senseless, then, that think the soul 
 Naught but a fine perfection of the sense. 
 
 Or of the forms which fancy doth enroU ; 
 A quick resulting, and a consequence ? 
 
 ^Vhat is it, then, that doth the sense accuse, 
 Both of false judgment, and fond appetites ? 
 
 What makes us do what sense doth most refuse. 
 Which oft in torment of the sense delights ? 
 
 Sense thinks the planets' spheres not much 
 asunder : 
 What tells us, then, the distance is so far ? 
 Sense thinks the lightning born before the 
 thunder : 
 What tells us, then, they both together arc ? 
 
 When men seem crows far ofi' upon a tow'r, 
 Sense saith, they 're crows : what makes us 
 think them men ? 
 When we in agues think all sweet things sour. 
 What makes us know our tongue's false judg- 
 ment then ? 
 
 What pow'r was that, whereby Jlcdea saw, 
 And well approv'd, and ]irais'd the better 
 course ; 
 
 AVhen her rebellious sense did so withdraw 
 Her feeble pow'rs, that she pursu'd the worse ? 
 
 Did sense persuade Ulysses not to hear 
 
 The mermaid's songs which so liis men did 
 please. 
 
 That they were all persuaded, through the car. 
 To quit the ship and leap into the seas ? 
 
 Could any pow'r of sense the Roman move. 
 To burn his own right liand with courage stout? 
 
 Could sense make Marius sit unbound, and prove 
 The cruel lancing of the knotty gout ? 
 
 Doubtless, in man there is a nature found, 
 Besides the senses, and above them far ; 
 
 " Thougli most men being in sensual pleasures 
 drown'd. 
 It seems their souls but in their senses arc." 
 
 If we had naught but sense, then oidy they 
 Should have sound minds which have their 
 senses sound ; 
 
 But wisdom grows, when senses do decay ; 
 And folly most in quickest sense is found. 
 
 If we had naught but sense, each living wight. 
 Which we call brute, would be more sharp 
 than we ; 
 
 As having sense's apprehensive might 
 In a more clear and excellent degree. 
 
 But they do want that quick discoursing pow'r. 
 Which doth in us tlie erring sense correct ; 
 
 Therefore the bee did suck the painted flow'r, 
 And birds, of grapes, the cuiuiing shadow 
 peck'd. 
 
 Sense outsides knows, the soul through aU things 
 sees : 
 Sense, circumstance ; she doth the substance 
 view : 
 Sense sees the bark, but slie the life of trees ; 
 Sense hears the sounds, but she the concords 
 true. 
 
 But why do I the soul and sense divide. 
 
 When sense is but a pow'r, which she extends; 
 
 Which being in divers parts diversify 'd. 
 The divers forms of objects apprehends ? 
 
 This pow'r spreads outward, but the root doth 
 grow 
 
 In th' inward soul, which only doth perceive; 
 Tor til' eyes and ears no more their objects kiu)w, 
 
 Than glasses know what faces they receive. 
 
 For if we chauce to fix our thoughts elsewhere. 
 Though our eyes open be, we cannot see : 
 
 And if one pow'r did not both sec and hear. 
 Our siijlitsand sounds would always doul)le be. 
 
 -9> 
 
a— 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 -n> 
 
 137 
 
 Then is the soul a nature, which contaius 
 The pow'r of sense, within a greater pow'r ; 
 
 Which doth employ and use the sense's pains, 
 But sits and rules withm her private bow'r. 
 
 THE SOUL IS MOKE THAN THE TEMPERATURE 
 OF THE HUMOURS OF THE BODY. 
 
 If she doth then the subtle sense excel, 
 How gross are they that drown her in the 
 blood y 
 
 Or in the body's humours teniper'd well ; 
 As if in them sueh iiigh perfection stood ? 
 
 As if most skill in that musician were. 
 
 Which had the best, and best tun'd iustni- 
 meut ? 
 
 As if the ])cncil neat, and colours clear, 
 Had pow'r to make the painter excellent ? 
 
 Wliy doth not beauty then refine the wit, 
 And good complexion rectify the will ? 
 
 Why doth not health bring wisdom still with it? 
 Why doth not sickness make men brutish 
 stiU':' 
 
 Wio can iu memory, or wit, or will, 
 Or air, or fire, or earth, or water find ':" 
 
 What alchymist can draw, with all his skill, 
 The quintessence of these out of the mind ? 
 
 If th' elements which have nor life, nor sense. 
 Can breed in us so great a pow'r as this. 
 
 Why give they not themselves like excellence, 
 Ur other things wherein their mixture is ':■ 
 
 If she were but the body's quaUty, 
 
 Then she would be with it sick, maim'd, and 
 blind : 
 But we perceive where these privations be. 
 
 An healtliy, perfect, and sharp-sighted mind. 
 
 If she the body's nature did partake. 
 
 Her strength would with the body's strength 
 decay : 
 
 But when the body's strongest sinews slake, 
 Then is the soul most active, quick, and gay. 
 
 If she were but the body's accident, 
 And her sole being did in it subsist. 
 
 As white in snow, slie might herself absent, 
 And iu the body's substance not be niiss'd. 
 
 But it on her, not she on it depends ; 
 
 For she the body doth sustain and cherish ; 
 Suoli secret pow'rs of life to it slie lends. 
 
 That when they fail, then doth the body per- 
 ish. 
 
 k^ 
 
 Since then the soul works by herself alone. 
 Springs not from sense, nor humours well 
 agreeing, 
 
 Her nature is pecidiar, and her own ; 
 She is a substance, aud a perfect being. 
 
 IN WHAT MANNER THE SOUL IS UNITED TO 
 THE BODY. 
 
 But how shall we this union well express ? 
 
 Naught ties the soul, her subtlety is such ; 
 She moves the body, which she doth possess ; 
 
 Yet no part toucheth, but by virtue's touch. 
 
 Then dwells she not therein, as in a tent ; 
 
 Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit ; 
 Nor as the spider in his web is pent ; 
 
 Nor as the wax retains the print in it ; 
 
 Nor as a vessel water doth contain ; 
 
 Nor as one liquor in anotlier shed ; 
 Nor as the lieat doth in the fire remain ; 
 
 Nor as a voice throughout the air is spread : 
 
 But as the fair and cheerful morning light 
 Doth here and tiiere her silver beams im- 
 part, 
 
 And in an instant doth herself unite 
 
 To the transparent air, in all and ev'ry part : 
 
 Still resting whole, when blows the air divide ; 
 
 Abiding pure, wlien th' air is most corrupted ; 
 Throughout the air, her beams dispersing wide ; 
 
 And when the air is toss'd, not interrupted. 
 
 So doth the piercing soul the body fill, 
 Being all in all, and all in part dilfus'd ; 
 
 Indivisible, incorruptible still ; 
 
 Not fore'd, eucounter'd, troubled, or eonfus'd. 
 
 And as the sun above flie light dotli bring. 
 Though we behold it in the air below ; 
 
 So from th' Eternal Light the soul doth spriug, 
 Though in the body she her pow'rs do sjiow. 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL, 
 
 Again, how can she but immortal be, 
 
 When with the motions of both will ami Avit, 
 
 She still aspircth to eternity, 
 
 And never rests, till she attain to it ? 
 
 Water in conduit pipes can rise no higher 
 Than the well-head from whence it first doth 
 spring : 
 
 Then since to eternal God she doth aspire, 
 She cannot be but an eternal thing. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 138 
 
 DAVIES. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 " All moving things to other tilings do move, 
 Of the same kind which shews their nature 
 such " : 
 
 So earth falls down, and fire dotii mount above. 
 Till both their proper elements do touch. 
 
 And as the moisture, which the thirsty earth 
 Sucks from the sea, to lill her empty veins, 
 
 From out her womb at last doth take a birth, 
 And runs a lymph along the grassy plains : 
 
 Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land. 
 From whose soft side she first did issue make : 
 
 She tastes all places, turns to every hand, 
 Her ttow'ry banks unwilhng to forsake : 
 
 Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry, 
 As that her course doth make no final stay, 
 
 Till she lierself unto the ocean marry. 
 Within whose wat'ry bosom first she lay. 
 
 E'en so tlie soul, which in tiiis earthly mould 
 The spirit of God doth secretly infuse. 
 
 Because at first she doth the earth behold. 
 And only this material world she views : 
 
 At first her mother earth slie holdeth dear. 
 And doth embrace the world, and worldly 
 things; 
 
 She flies close by the ground, and hovers here, 
 And mounts not up with her celestial wings : 
 
 Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught 
 That with licr heav'nly nature doth agree ; 
 
 She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought. 
 She cannot in this world contented be. 
 
 For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth, 
 Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find? 
 
 AVho ever ceas'd to wish, when he had health ? 
 Or having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind ? 
 
 Then as a bee which among weeds doth fall. 
 Which seem sweet flow'rs, with lustre fresh 
 and gay: 
 She lights on that, and tliis, and tasteth all ; 
 But, pleas'd with none, doth rise and soar 
 away ; 
 
 So, when the soul finds here no true content, 
 And, lik(^ Noah's dove, can no sure footing 
 take, 
 
 She dotli return from whence she first was sent. 
 And flies to him that first her wings did make. 
 
 Wit, seeking trutli, from cause to ea\ise ascends. 
 And never rests, till it the first attain : 
 
 Will, seeking good, finds many middle ends ; 
 Hut never stays, till it the last do gain. 
 
 Now God the truth, and first of causes is ; 
 
 God is the last good end, which lasteth still ; 
 Being Alpha and Omega nam'd for this ; 
 
 Aljjha to wit, Omega to the wLU. 
 
 Since then her heavenly kind she doth display. 
 In that to God she dotli directly move ; 
 
 And on no mortal thing can make her stay. 
 She cannot be from iience, but from above. 
 
 And yet this first true cause, and last good end. 
 She cannot here so well and truly see ; 
 
 For tliis perfection she must yet attend. 
 Till to her Maker she espoused be. 
 
 As a king's daughter, being in person sought 
 Of divers princes, ^\'lio do neighbour near. 
 
 On none of them can fix a constant thought. 
 Though she to all do lend a gentle ear : 
 
 Yet can she love a foreign emperor. 
 
 Whom of great worth and pow'r she hears 
 to be. 
 If she be woo'd but by ambassador, 
 
 Or but his letters, or his pictures see : 
 
 For well she knows, that when she sliall he 
 brought 
 
 Into the kingdom wliere her spouse doth reign. 
 Her eyes shall see what slie eoneeiv'd in thought. 
 
 Himself, his state, his glory, and his train. 
 
 So while the virgin soul on earth doth stay. 
 
 She woo'd and tempted in ten thousand ways. 
 By these great powers which on eartli bear 
 sway ; 
 The wisdom of the world, wealth, pleasure, 
 praise : 
 
 With these sometimes she doth her time beguile, 
 These do by fits her fantasy possess ; 
 
 But she distastes them all witliin a while. 
 And in the sweetest finds a tediousness ; 
 
 But if upon the world's Almighty King 
 
 She once doth fix iior humble loving thought, 
 
 WHio by liis picture drawn in every thing 
 And sacred messages, her love hath sought ; 
 
 Of liim she thinks she cannot think too jnuch; 
 
 This lioney tasted still, is ever sweet; 
 The plcasiire of her ravish'd thought is such. 
 
 As almost here she with her bliss doth meet. 
 
 But wlicn in heaven she shall his essence see, 
 Tliis is her sov'reign good, and perfect bliss; 
 
 Her longing, wishiugs, hopes, all finish'd be ; 
 Her joys are full, her motions rest in this : 
 
 There is she erowu'd with garlands of content; 
 There doth she manna cat, and nectar drink 
 
 —Q> 
 
a- 
 
 THE DIGNITY OP MAN. — TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE. 139 
 
 -Q) 
 
 TImt presence doth such higli delights present. 
 As never tongue could speak, nor heai-t could 
 think. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Were she a body, how could she remain 
 Within the body which is less than she ? 
 
 Or how could she the world's great shape contain, 
 And in our narrow breasts contained be ? 
 
 All bodies are confined within some place. 
 But she all place within hersclt' confines ; 
 
 All bodies have their measure and their space; 
 But who shall draw the soul's dimensive lines ? 
 
 THE DIGNITY OF MAN. 
 
 0, WHAT is man, great Maker of mankind ! 
 
 That thou to him so great respect dust bear ; 
 That thou adorn'st him with so bright a mind, 
 
 Mak'st him a king, and even an angel's peer ? 
 
 0, what a lively life, what heav'nly pow'r, 
 Wliat spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire. 
 
 How great, how plentiful, how rich a dow'r 
 Dost thou within this dying flesh inspire ! 
 
 Thou leav'st thy print in other works of tliine. 
 But tliy whole image thou in man hast writ ; 
 
 There cannot be a creature more divine. 
 Except, like thee, it should be infinite : 
 
 But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high 
 God hath rais'd man, since God a man became ; 
 
 The angels do admire tins mystery. 
 
 And are astouish'd when they view the same : 
 
 Nor hath he given these blessings for a day. 
 Nor made them on the body's life depend ; 
 
 The soul, though made in time, survives for aye ; 
 And though it hath beginning, sees no end. 
 
 THE DANCING OF THE ATE. 
 
 And now behold your tender nurse, the air. 
 
 And common neighbour, that aye runs around, 
 How many pictures and impressions fair 
 Within her empty regions are there found, 
 Wliicli to your senses dancing do propound ; 
 For what are breath, speech, echoes, music, 
 
 winds, 
 But dancings of the air in sundry kinds ? 
 
 For when you breathe, the air in order moves, 
 Now in, now out, in time and measure true ; 
 And when you speak, so well slie dancing loves. 
 That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new. 
 With thousand forms she doth herself endue : 
 For all the words that from your lips repair, 
 'Are nauglit but tricks and turnings of the air. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Hence is her prattUng daughter, Echo, born, 
 
 That dances to all voices she can hear •.• 
 There is no sound so harsh that she doth scorn, 
 Nor any time wherein she will forbear 
 The airy pavement with her feet to wear : 
 And yet her hearing sense is nothing quick. 
 For after time she endeth ev'ry trick. 
 
 And thou, sweet Music, dancing's only life, 
 
 Tlic ear's sole happiness, the air's best speech, 
 
 Loadstone of fellowship, charming rod of strife, 
 
 The soft mind's paradise, the sick mind's leech. 
 
 With thine own tongue thou trees and stones 
 
 can teach. 
 
 That when the air doth dance her finest 
 
 measure. 
 Then art thou born, the gods' and men's sweet 
 pleasure. 
 
 Lastly, wlieve keep the Winds their revelry. 
 
 Their violent turnings, and wild whirling hays. 
 But in the air's translucent gallery ? 
 
 Where she herself is turn'd a hundred ways, 
 Wilde with those maskers wantonly she plays : 
 Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace. 
 As two at once encumber not the place. 
 
 THE DANCING OF THE SEA. 
 
 For lo, the sea that fleets about the land. 
 And like a girdle clips her solid waist, 
 Music and measure both doth understand : 
 For Ids great crystal eye is always cast 
 Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast : 
 And as she danocth in her jiallid sphere 
 So danceth he about the ceutre here. 
 
 Sometimes his proud green waves in order set. 
 
 One after other flow into the shore, 
 Wliich when they have with many kisses wet. 
 They ebb away in order as before ; 
 And to make known his courtly love the more, 
 He oft doth lay aside his three-fork'd mace, 
 And with his arms the timorous earth em- 
 bi-ace. 
 
 JOHN DONNE. 
 
 1573 - 1631. 
 
 TO SIR HENET GOODYEEE. 
 
 So had your body her morning, hafh her noon, 
 And shall not better ; her next change is night : 
 
 But her fair larger guest, to whom sun and moon 
 Are sparks, and short-lived,claims another right. 
 
 -9^ 
 
(0- 
 
 uo 
 
 PONNE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 The noble soul by age grows lustier. 
 
 Her appetite and lier digestion mend ; 
 We must not starve, nor hope to pamper her 
 
 With woman's milk and pap unto the end. 
 * » « 
 
 Our soul, whose country 's Heaven, and God her 
 father. 
 
 Into this world, corruption's sink, is sent ; 
 Yet so much in her travel she doth gather, 
 
 That she returns home wiser than she went. 
 
 KELIGION. 
 
 If our souls have stained their first white, yet we 
 May clothe them with faith and dear honesty. 
 Which God imputes as native purity. 
 
 There is no virtue but religion : 
 
 \Vise, valiant, sober, just, are names which none 
 
 Want, which want not vice-covering discretion. 
 
 FROM "THE PKOGKESS OF THE SOUL.'' 
 
 She,* of whose soul if we may say, 't was gold, 
 Her body was the electrum, and did hold 
 Many degrees of that ; we understood 
 Her by her sight ; her pure and eloquent blood 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
 Tiiat one might almost say her body thought. 
 
 * * * 
 
 She who in the art of knowing Heaven was grown 
 
 Here upon earth to such jierfeetion, 
 
 That she hath, ever since to heaven she came. 
 
 In a far fairer print but read the same ; 
 
 She, she not satisfied with all this weight 
 
 (For so much knowledge as would overfreight 
 
 Another, did but ballast her), is gone 
 
 As well to enjoy, as got, perfection, 
 
 And calls us after her, in that she took 
 
 (Taking herself) our best and worthiest book, 
 
 * * * 
 
 She, who being to herself a state, enjoyed 
 
 All royalties, which any state employed ; 
 
 For she made wars, and triumphed ; reason still 
 
 Did not o'ertlirow, but rectify her will ; 
 
 And she made peace ; for no peace is like this. 
 
 That bea\ity and chastity together kiss; 
 
 She did high justice ; for she erucified 
 
 Every first motion of rebellious ]n-ide ; 
 
 And she gave pardons, and was liberal, 
 
 For, only herself except, she pardoned all ; 
 
 She coined ; in this, that her impression gave 
 
 To all our actions all the worth they have ; 
 
 She gave protections ; the thoughts of her breast 
 
 Satan's rude ofiiccrs could ne'er arrest. 
 
 As these prerogatives being met in one, 
 
 ^ 
 
 MistiTss Eli/abctli Druvv. 
 
 Made her a sovereign state, religion 
 
 Made her a church ; and these two made lier all. 
 
 * * * 
 
 AMio by a faithful coufideuce was here 
 Betrothed to God, and now is married there ; 
 Whose twilights were more clear than our mid- 
 day ; 
 Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray ; 
 
 * * * 
 
 She, who left such a body, as even she 
 Only in heaven could learn, how it can be 
 Made better ; for she rather was two souls. 
 Or like to full on-both-sides-written rolls. 
 Where eyes might read upon the outward skin 
 As strong records for God, as minds within ; 
 She, who, by making full perfection grow, 
 Pieces a circle, and still keeps it so, 
 Longed for, and longing for 't, to heaven is 
 
 gone. 
 Where she receives and gives addition. 
 
 ON THE BLESSED VIKaiN MABT. 
 
 In that, O Queen of queens, thy birth was free 
 From that wliieh others doth of grace bereave. 
 When in their mother's womb they life receive, 
 
 God, as his sole-born daughter, loved thee. 
 
 To match thee like thy birth's nobility. 
 
 He thee liis Spirit for his spouse did leave. 
 By whom thou didst his only Son conceive. 
 
 And so wast linked to all the Trinity. 
 
 Cease then, O queens, that earthly crowns do 
 wear. 
 To glory in tlic pomp of earthly things ; 
 If men such liigh respects unto you bear, 
 
 Which daughters, wives, and mothers are of 
 kings, 
 AMiat iionour can unto that Queen be done. 
 Who had your God for Father, Spouse, and Son ? 
 
 ON THE SACRAMENT, 
 
 He was tlic Word, that s]iakc it; 
 Tie took the bread and brake it; 
 And what that Word did make it, 
 I do believe and take it. 
 
 A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away. 
 And wliis]icr to their souls to go. 
 
 Whilst some of their sad friends do say 
 The breath goes now, and some say iw 
 
 -^ 
 
cQr 
 
 LOVE'S DEITY. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 ^-Q) 
 
 141 
 
 fr 
 
 So let us melt, and make no noise, 
 
 No tear-floods, nor sigh-tiMnpests move, 
 
 'T were profanation of our joys, 
 To teU the laity our love. 
 
 Moving of the earth brings liarms and fears, 
 Men reckon wliat it did and meant ; 
 
 But trepidation of the spheres. 
 Though greater far, is innocent. 
 
 Dull sublunary lovers' love 
 
 (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 
 Absence, because it doth remove 
 
 Those things which elemented it. 
 
 But we by a love so much refined, 
 That ourselves know not what it is. 
 
 Inter-assured of the mind. 
 
 Care less eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 
 
 Our two souls, therefore, which are one. 
 Though I must go, endure not yet 
 
 A brcacli, but an expansion. 
 Like gold to airy thinness beat. 
 
 If they be two, they are two so 
 As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
 
 Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show 
 To move, but doth if the other do. 
 
 And though it in the centre sit, 
 Yet when the other far doth roam, 
 
 It leans and hearkens after it. 
 
 And grows erect, as that comes home. 
 
 Such wilt thou be to mc, who must. 
 Like the other foot, obliquely run. 
 
 Thy firmness makes my circle just, 
 And makes me end where I begun. 
 
 LOVE'S DEITY. 
 
 I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost, 
 Wlio died before the god of Love was born : 
 
 I cannot think that he, who then loved most. 
 Sunk so low, as to love one which did scorn. 
 
 But since this god produced a destiny, 
 
 And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, 
 I must love her that loves not me. 
 
 Sure they, which made him god, meant not so 
 much, ■ 
 
 Nor he in his yotmg godhead practised it ; 
 But when an even flame two hearts did touch. 
 
 His oflice was indulgently to fit 
 Actives to passives, correspondency 
 Only his subject was ; it cannot be 
 
 Love, if I love who loves not me. 
 
 But every modern god will now extend 
 His vast prerogative as far as Jove ; 
 
 To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, 
 All is the purlieu of the god of Love. 
 
 O, were we wakened by this tyranny 
 
 To ungod tills child again, it coidd not be 
 I should love her, who loves not me. 
 
 Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I 
 
 As though I felt the worst that love could do ? 
 
 Love may make me leave loving, or might try 
 A deeper plague, to make her love me too, 
 
 Which, since she loves before, I 'm loath to see ; 
 
 Falsehood is worse than hate ; and that must be. 
 If she whom I love should love me. 
 
 BISHOP VALENTINE. 
 
 Hail, Bishop Valentine, whose day this is, 
 
 AH the air is thy diocese. 
 
 And all the chirping choristers 
 And other bird are thy parishioners : 
 
 Thou marriest every year 
 The lyric lark, and the grave whispering dove; 
 The sparrow, that neglects his life for love ; 
 The household bird with the red stomacher ; 
 
 Thou niak'st the blackbird speed as soon 
 As doth the goldfinch or the halcyon ; 
 The husband cock looks out, and straight is sped, 
 And meets his wife, which brings her feather-bed ; 
 This day more cheerfully than ever shine. 
 This day, which might inflame thyself, old Val- 
 entine. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, 
 Great Love, some legacies : here I bequeathe 
 Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see ; 
 If they be blind, then. Love, I give them tlicc ; 
 My tongue to Fame ; to embassadors mine cars ; 
 To women, or the sea, my tears ; 
 Tliou, Love, hast taught me heretofore 
 By iiiakiug me serve her who had twenty more, 
 That I should give to none, but such as had too 
 much before. 
 
 My constancy I to the planets give ; 
 My truth to them who at the court do Uve ; 
 Mine ingenuity and openness 
 To Jesuits ; to buffoons my pensiveness ; 
 My silence to any who abroad have been ; 
 My money to a Capuchin. 
 Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me 
 To love there, where no love received can be. 
 Only to give to such as have an incapacity.* 
 
 1 No good capncity. 
 
 ^ 
 
<? 
 
 U2 
 
 HALL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 My faith I give to Roman Catholics ; 
 All my good works unto the sciiismatics 
 Of Amsterdam ; my best civility 
 And co\irtship to a University ; 
 My modesty I give to soldiers bare ; 
 
 My patience let gamesters share ; 
 Thou, Love, taught' st me, by making me 
 Love her, that holds my love disjjarity. 
 Only to give to those that count ray gilts indig- 
 nity. 
 
 I give my reputation to those 
 Which were my friends ; mine industry to foes ; 
 To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfidness ; 
 My sickness to physicians, or excess ; 
 To Nature all, that I in riiyme have writ; 
 And to my compauy my wit. 
 Thou, Love, by making me adore 
 Her, who begot this love in me before, 
 Taught'st me to make, as though I gave, when I 
 do but restore. 
 
 To him, for whom the passing-bell next tolls, 
 I give my physic-books ; my written rolls 
 Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give : 
 My brazen medals unto them which live 
 In want of bread ; to them wiiich pass among 
 All foreigners, mine English tongue ; 
 Thou, Love, by making me love one 
 Who thinks her fricndsiiip a fit portion 
 For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus dispro- 
 portion. 
 
 Therefore I '11 give no more, but I '11 undo 
 The world by dying; because love dies too. 
 Tiien all your beauties will be no more worth 
 Tiian gold in mines, where none doth draw it 
 
 forth ; 
 And all your graces no more use shall have, 
 Tlian a sundial in a grave. 
 Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me 
 Love her, who doth neglect both me and 
 thee, 
 To invent and practise this one way to annihilate 
 all three. 
 
 A HYMN TO CHRIST, AT THE ATJTHOE'S LAST 
 GOING INTO QEEMANT. 
 
 In what torn ship soever I embark. 
 That ship shall be my emblem of thy Ark ; 
 What sea soever swallow me, that flood 
 Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood. 
 Tliough tliou with clouds of anger do disg\iisc 
 Thy face, yet through that mask I know those 
 eyes, 
 Wliich, though they turn away sometimes, 
 They never wiU despise. 
 
 I sacrifice this island mito thee, 
 And all whom I love here, and who love me ; 
 When I have put tliis flood 'twixt them and me, 
 Put thou thy blood betwixt my sins and thee. 
 As the tree's sap doth seek the root below 
 In winter, in my winter now I go 
 
 Wiere none but tiiee, tlie eternal root 
 Of true love, I may know. 
 
 Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost control 
 Tlie amorousness of a liarmonious soul ; 
 But thou wouldst have that love thyself : as tliou 
 Art jealous. Lord, so I am jealous now. 
 Tliou lov'st not, tdl from loving more tliou free 
 My soul : whoever gives, takes liberty : 
 O, if thou car'st not whom I love, 
 Alas, thou lov'st not me. 
 
 Seal then this bill of my divorce to all 
 On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ; 
 Marry tiiose loves, which in youth scattered be 
 On face, wit, hopes (false mistresses) to thee. 
 Churches are best for prayer that have least light; 
 To see God only, I go out of sight ; 
 And to 'scape stormy days, I choose 
 An everlasting niffht. 
 
 CONJUGAL AFFECTION. 
 
 Thou art not gone being gone ; where'er thou art. 
 Thou leav'st in him tiiy watchful eyes, in liim thy 
 loving lieart. 
 
 JOSEPH HALL. 
 
 1574-1656. 
 
 A PRIVATE TUTOR, 
 
 « 
 
 A GENTLE squire would gladly entertain 
 Into his house some trcncher-ehapclain : 
 Some willing man that miglit instruct his sons. 
 And that would stand to good conditions. 
 First that he lie upon the truckle-bed. 
 While his young master lietli o'er his head. 
 Second, that he do, on no default. 
 Ever presume to sit above the salt. 
 Third, that he never change his trcnehcr twice. 
 Fourth, that he use all common courtesies ; 
 Sit bare at meals, and one lialf rise and wait. 
 Last, that he never Ids young master beat, 
 But he must ask his mother to define. 
 How many jerks he would his brcecli should line. 
 All these observed, he could contented be, 
 To give five marks aiul winter livery. 
 
 V> 
 
a- 
 
 A POOR GALLANT. 
 
 PSALM XLIL 
 
 143 
 
 -Q) 
 
 A POOR GALLANT. 
 
 Seest thou liow gayly my young master goes, 
 Vaunting himself upon his rising toes ; 
 And pranks liis hand upon his dagger's side ; 
 And picks liis glutted teeth since late noon- 
 tide? 
 'T is Ruflio; Trow'st thou where he dined to- 
 day ? 
 In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey. 
 Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, 
 Keeps he for every straggling cavalier ; 
 An open house, haunted with great resort ; 
 Long service mixt with musical disport. 
 Many fair younker with a feather'd crest. 
 Chooses much rather be his shut-free guest. 
 To fare so freely with so little cost, 
 Thau stake his twelvepence to a meaner host, 
 riadst thou not told me, I should surely say 
 He touch'd no meat of all this live-long day. 
 For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, 
 His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollowness. 
 But could he have (as I did it mistake) 
 So little in his purse, so much upon his back ? 
 So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his 
 
 belt, 
 That his gauut gut no too much stuffing felt, 
 Secst thou how side it hangs beneath his hip ? 
 Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. 
 Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, 
 All trapped in the new-found bravery. 
 Tlie nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent. 
 In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. 
 What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain, 
 His grandame could have lent with lesser pain? 
 Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd tlie English 
 
 shore. 
 Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. 
 His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted 
 
 head. 
 One lock amazon-like dishevelled. 
 As if he meant to wear a native cord. 
 If chance his fates should him that bane afford. 
 .Vll British bare upon the bristled skin. 
 Close notched is his beard, both lip and chin ; 
 His hnen collar labyrinthian set. 
 Whose thousand dfiuble turnings never met : 
 His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, 
 As if he meant to fly with linen \nngs. 
 But when I look, and cast mine eyes below. 
 What monster meets mine eyes in human show? 
 So slender waist with such an abbot's loin. 
 Did never sober nature sure conjoin. 
 Lik'st a strawu scarecrow in the new-sowm 
 
 field, 
 Rear'd on some .stick, the tender corn to shield, 
 Or, if that semblance suit not every deal, 
 Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. 
 
 ^ 
 
 GEORGE SANDYS. 
 
 1577-1G44. 
 
 PSALM XLH. 
 
 Lord ! as the hart embost with heat 
 Brays after the cool rividet. 
 
 So sighs my soul for thee. 
 My soul thirsts for the living God : 
 When shall I enter his abode. 
 
 And there his beauty see ? 
 
 Tears are my food both night and day ; 
 While Where's thy God? they daily say; 
 
 My soul in plaints I shed ; 
 When I remember how in throngs 
 We fiU'd thy house with praise and songs ; 
 
 How I their dances led. 
 
 My soul, why art thou so deprcst ? 
 Why, oh ! thus troubled in my breast. 
 
 With grief so overthrown ? 
 With constant hope on God await : 
 I yet his name sliall celebrate. 
 
 For mercy timely shown. 
 
 My fainting heart within me pants ; 
 My God, consider my complaints ; 
 
 My songs shall praise thee still. 
 Even from the vale w-|icre Jordan flows. 
 Where Hermon his high forehead shows. 
 
 From Mitzar's humble hill. 
 
 Deeps unto deeps enraged call, 
 When thy dark spouts of waters fall. 
 
 And dreadful tempest raves : 
 For all thy floods upon me burst. 
 And billows after billows thrust 
 
 To swallow in their graves. 
 
 But yet by day the Lord will eliarge 
 His ready mercy to enlarge 
 
 My soul, surprised witli cares ; 
 He gives my songs their argument ; 
 God of my life, I will present 
 
 By night to thee my prayers. 
 
 And say, my God, my rock, O, why 
 Am I forgot, and mourning die. 
 
 By foes reduced to dust? 
 Their words, like wcajions, pierce my bones. 
 While still they echo to my groans, 
 
 Wiere is the Lord thy trust ? 
 
 My soul, why art thou so depx-est ? 
 O why so troubled in my breast ? 
 
 Sunk underneath thy load ! 
 With constant hope on God await ; 
 For I his name shall celebrate, 
 
 My Saviour and my God. 
 
 J 
 
a- 
 
 U4 
 
 STIRLING. — PAIRPAX. 
 
 --^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF 
 STIRLLXG. 
 
 1580 (!)- 1640. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I SWEAR, Aurora, by thy starry eyes, 
 
 And by tl\ose golden locks, whose lock none slips, 
 
 And by the coral of thy rosy lips, 
 
 And by the naked snows which beauty dyes ; 
 
 I swear by all the jewels of thy mind, 
 
 Wiose like yet never worldly treasure bought, 
 
 Tliy solid judgment, and thy generous thought, 
 
 Wniich in this darken'd age have clearly shin'd ; 
 
 I swear by those, and by my spotless love, 
 
 And by my secret, yet most fervent tires, 
 
 That I have never nurst but chaste desires, 
 
 Aud such as modesty might well approve. 
 
 Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee, 
 
 Shouldst thou not 1 )ve this virtuous mind in me? 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 O, IF thou kuew'st how tliou thyself dost harm, 
 Aud dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest ; 
 Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy breast 
 And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. 
 O, if thy pride did not our joys control. 
 What world of loving wonders shouldst thou see ! 
 For if I saw thee once transform'd in me. 
 Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul ; 
 Then all my tlioughts should in thy visage shine, 
 Aud if that aught misohanced thou shouldst not 
 
 moan 
 Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone ; 
 No, I would have my share in what were tliine ; 
 And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, 
 This happy harmony would make them none. 
 
 o»<t> 
 
 EDWARD FAIRFAX. 
 
 1580 0- 1638 (!). 
 
 SATAN SUMMONING HIS PEERS TO PLOT 
 AfiAINST THE CHEISTIANS, 
 
 While thus their work went on with lucky speed. 
 And reared rams their horned fronts advance. 
 
 The ancient foe to man and mortal seed 
 His waunish eyes upon them bent askance; 
 
 And when be saw their labors well succeed. 
 He wept for rage, and threat'ned dire mis- 
 chance. 
 
 He chok'd his curses, to himself he spake, 
 
 Such noise wild bulls that softly bellow make. 
 
 At last, resolving in his damned thought 
 To find some let to stop their warlike feat, 
 
 He gave eonunand liis princes should be brought 
 Before the throne of bis infernal seat. 
 
 fool ! as if it were a thing of naught 
 
 God to resist, or change his ])urpose great. 
 
 Who on bis foes dotli thunder in his ire, 
 
 AV'hose arrows hailstones be and coals of fire. 
 
 The dreary trumpet blew a dreadful blast. 
 And rumbled through the lands and kingdoms 
 under. 
 Through wasteness wide it roar'd, and hollows 
 vast, 
 And lill'd the deep with horror, fear, and won- 
 der; 
 Not half so dreadful noise the tempests cast, 
 That fall from skies with storms of hail and 
 thunder. 
 Nor half so loud the whistling winds do sing. 
 Broke from thi^ earthen prisons of their king. 
 
 TraTisfatioii of Ta.iso, Book IV. 
 
 THE COMBAT OF AEGANTES AND TANCEED, 
 
 These sons of Mavors bore, instead of spears. 
 Two knotty masts, which none but they could 
 lift; 
 Each foaming steed so fast his master bears. 
 
 That never beast, bird, shaft, flew lialf so swift: 
 Such was their fury, as when Boreas tears 
 The shatter'd crags from Taurus' northern 
 elift; 
 Upon their helms their lances long they broke, 
 Aud up to heav'n flew splinters, sparks, aud 
 smoke. 
 
 The shook made all the towers and turrets quake, 
 And woods and mountains all nigh-hand re- 
 sound ; 
 Yet could not all that force and fury shake 
 The valiant champions, nor their persons 
 wound ; 
 Together hurtled both their steeds, and brake 
 
 Each other's neck ; the riders lay on ground : 
 But they (great masters of war's dreadful art) 
 Pluck'd forth their swords, and soon from earth 
 upstart. 
 
 Close at his surest ward each warrior lieth ; 
 
 He wisely guides his hand, his foot, his eye ; 
 This blow he proveth, that defence he trietb ; 
 
 He traverseth, retireth, preaseth nigh ; 
 Now strikes he out, and now he falsifieth ; 
 
 This blow he wardeth, that lie lets slip by ; 
 And for advantage oft he lets some part 
 Discover'd seem ; thus art deludeth art. 
 
 Translation of Tasso, Book VI. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE GARDEN OF ARMIDA. 
 
 145 
 
 -Q) 
 
 AEMIDA IN THE CHEISTIAN CAMP. 
 
 AViTHiN few days the nymph arrived there, 
 Where puissaut Godfrey had his tents ypight; 
 
 Upon her strange attire, and visage clear, 
 Gazed each soldier, gazed every knight : 
 
 As when a comet doth in skies appear, 
 The people stand amazed at the light. 
 
 So wonder'd tlicy, and each at other sought, 
 
 What mister wight she was, and whence ybrought. 
 
 Yet never eye to Cupid's service vow'd 
 Beheld a face of such a lovely pride ; 
 
 A tinsel vcU her amber locks did shroud. 
 That strove to cover what it could not hide ; 
 
 The goldeu sun, behind a silver cloud, 
 
 So streameth out his beams on every side ; 
 
 The marble goddess, set at Guido's, naked, 
 
 She seem'd, were she uncloth'd, or that awaked. 
 
 The gamesome wind among her tresses plays, 
 And curleth up those glowing riches short; 
 
 Her spareful eye to spread his beams deuays. 
 But keeps his shot where Cupid keeps his fort; 
 
 The rose and lily on her cheek assays 
 
 To paint true fairness out ui bravest sort ; 
 
 Her Ups, where blooms naught but the single 
 rose. 
 
 Still blush, for still they kiss while still they 
 close. 
 
 Her breasts, two lulls o'erspread with purest snow. 
 Sweet, smooth and supple, soft and gently 
 swelUng, 
 Between them lies a milken dale below, 
 
 Wliere love, youth, gladness, whiteness, make 
 their dwelling ; 
 Her breasts half hid, and half were laid to show; 
 
 Her envious vesture greedy sight repelling : 
 So was the wanton clad, as if thus much 
 Should please the eye, the rest unseen the touch. 
 Translation of Tasso, Book IV. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF AKMIDA. 
 
 When they had passed all those troubled ways, 
 The garden sweet spread forth her green to 
 show. 
 The moving crystal from the fountains plays, 
 Fair trees, liigh plants, strange herbs, and 
 flow'rets new. 
 Sunshiny hills, dales hid from Phoebus' rays. 
 
 Groves, arbors, mossy caves, at once they view ; 
 And that which beauty most, most wonder 
 
 brought. 
 Nowhere appear'd the art which all this wrought. 
 
 So with the rude the polish'd mingled was, 
 That natural seem'd all, and every part 
 
 ^ 
 
 Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass, 
 
 And imitate her imitator art. 
 Mdd was the air, the skies were clear as glass, 
 The trees no whirlwind felt nor tempest's 
 smart, 
 But ere their fruit drop off the blossom comes ; 
 This springs, that falls, that rip'neth, and this 
 blooms. 
 
 The leaves upon the selfsame bough did hide. 
 Beside the young, the old and ripened fig ; 
 
 Here frait was green, there ripe with vermeil 
 side. 
 The apples new and old grew on one twig ; 
 
 The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide, 
 That bended underneath their clusters big ; 
 
 The grapes were tender here, hard, young, and 
 sour. 
 
 There purple, ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour. 
 
 The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade. 
 Sung merry notes on every branch and bough ; 
 
 The wind, that in the leaves and waters play'd. 
 With murmur sweet now sang, and whistled 
 now; 
 
 Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made, 
 And while they sung it rumbled soft and low : 
 
 Thus, were it hap or cunning, chance or art. 
 
 The wind in this strange music bore his part. 
 
 With party-color'd plumes and purple bill, 
 A wondrous bird among the rest there flew, 
 
 That in plain speech sung lovelays loud and shrill. 
 Her leden was like liuman language true ; 
 
 So much she talk'd, and with such wit and skill, 
 That strange it seemed how much good she 
 knew ; 
 
 Her fcather'd fellows all stood hush'd to hear. 
 
 Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were. 
 
 The gently-budding rose (quoth she) behold. 
 The first scant peeping forth with virgin beams. 
 
 Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfold 
 In their dear leaves, and less seen fairer seems. 
 
 And after spreads them forth more broad and 
 bold. 
 Then languisheth and dies in last extremes : 
 
 For seems the same that decked bed and bow'r 
 
 Of many a lady late and paramour : 
 
 So in the passing of a day doth pass 
 The bud and blossom of the life of man. 
 
 Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the grass 
 Cut dovrn, becometh withered, pale, and wan; 
 
 0, gather then the rose while time thou has. 
 Short is the day, done when it scant began ; 
 
 Gather the rose of love while yet thou mayst. 
 
 Loving be lov'd, embracing be embrac'd. 
 
 She ceas'd ; and as approving all she spoke 
 The choir of birds their heav'nly tunes renew; 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 U6 
 
 OVERBUEY. 
 
 -ft 
 
 The turtles sigh'cl and sighs with kisses broke, 
 The fowls to shades uuseeu by pairs withdrew; 
 
 It seem'd tlic laurel chaste aud stubborn oak, 
 And all the gentle trees on earth that grew, 
 
 It seem'd the laud, the sea, aud heav'n above. 
 
 All breath'd out fancy sweet aud sigh'd out love. 
 Traiislalion of Tasso, Book XVI. 
 
 AEMIDA AND RINALDO. 
 
 Sue turns, and, ere she knows, her lord she spies, 
 Wliose coming was unwish'd, unthought, un- 
 known ; 
 
 She shrieks, and twines away her 'sdeignful eyes 
 From his sweet face ; she falls dead in a swoon ; 
 
 Palls as a flow'r half cut that bending lies : 
 He held her up, and, lest she tumble down, 
 
 Under her tender side his arm he plac'd. 
 
 His hand her girdle loos'd, her gown uidac'd ; 
 
 And her fair face, fair bosom, he bedews 
 
 With tears, tears of remorse, of ruth, of sorrow. 
 
 As the pale rose her color lost renews 
 
 With the fresh drops fall'n from the silver 
 morrow ; 
 
 So she revives, and cheeks empurpled shows. 
 Moist with their own tears, and with tears they 
 borrow ; 
 
 Thrice look'd she up, her eyes thrice closed she. 
 
 As who say, let me die ere look on thee. 
 
 And his strong arm, with weak and feeble hand. 
 She would have thrust away, loos'd, and un- 
 twin'd : 
 Oft strove she, but m vain, to break that band, 
 
 For he the hold he got not yet resign'd ; 
 Herself fast bound in those dear knots she fand, 
 Dear, though she feigned scorn, strove, and 
 rcpiu'd, 
 At last she speaks, she weeps, complains, and 
 
 cries. 
 Yet durst not, did not, would not see his eyes : — 
 
 Cruel at thy departure, at return 
 
 As cruel ! say, what chance thee hither guideth ? 
 Wouldst thou prevent her death, whose heart 
 forlorn 
 
 For thee, for thee death's strokes each hour 
 dividcth ? 
 Com'st thou to save my life ? alas ! what scorn, 
 
 Wluit torment for Armida poor abideth ! 
 No, no ; tliy crafts and slciglits I will descry, 
 But she can little do that cannot die. 
 
 Thy triumph is not great, nor well array'd. 
 Unless in chains thou lead a captive dame ; 
 
 A dame now ta'en by force, before betray'd, 
 This is thv greatest glory, greatest fame : 
 
 Time was that thee of love and life I pray'd. 
 
 Let death now end my love, my life, my shame ; 
 Yet let not thy false hand bereave this breath. 
 For if it were thy gift, hateful were death. 
 
 Cruel ! myself an hundred ways can find 
 To rid me from thy malice, from thy hate ; 
 
 If weapons sharp, if poisons of all kind. 
 If fire, if strangling fail in that estate. 
 
 Yet ways enough I know to stop this wind, 
 A thousand entries hath the house of fate. 
 
 Ah, leave these flatt'ries ! leave weak hope to 
 move ; 
 
 Cease, cease ! my hope is dead, dead is my love. 
 
 Thus mounied she, and from her watery eyes 
 Disdain and love dropt down, roU'd up in tears. 
 
 From his pure fountains ran two streams likewise. 
 "VMierein chaste pity and mild ruth appears. 
 
 Thus with sweet words the Queen he pacifies: 
 Madam, appease your grief, your wrath, your 
 fears. 
 
 For to be crown'd, not scorn'd, your life I save : 
 
 Your foe nay, but your friend, your knight, your 
 slave. 
 
 But if you trust no speech, no oath, no word. 
 Yet in mine eyes my zeal, my truth behold ; 
 
 For to that throne, whereof thy sire was lord, 
 I will restore thee, crown thee with that gold; 
 
 And if high heav'n would so much grace aft'ord 
 As from thy heart this cloud, this veil unfold 
 
 Of Paganism, in all the East no dame 
 
 Should equaUze thy fortune, state, aud fame. 
 
 Thus plaineth he, thus prays, and his desire 
 Endears with sighs that fly, and tears that fall; 
 
 That, as against the warmth of Titan's fire 
 Snow-drifts consume on tops of mountains tall, 
 
 So melts her wratli, but love remains entire : 
 Behold (she says) your handmaid and your 
 thrall. 
 
 My life, my crown, my wealth, use at your 
 pleasure. 
 
 Thus death her life became, loss prov'd her 
 
 treasure. 
 
 Translation of Tasso, Book XX. 
 
 SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. 
 
 1S81-1613. 
 
 THE WITE, 
 
 Then may I trust her body with her mind, 
 And, thereupon secure, need never know 
 Tiie pangs of jealousy : and love doth find 
 lilore pain to doubt her false than find her so ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 * 
 
ca- 
 
 ON MY DEAR SON, GERVASE BEAUMONT. 
 
 147 
 
 -ft 
 
 For Patience is, of evils that are known. 
 The certain remedy ; but doubt hath none. 
 
 And be tliat thought once stirr'd, 'twill never 
 
 die. 
 Nor will the grief more mild by custom prove, 
 Nor yet amendment can it satisfy ; 
 The anguish more or less is as our love ; 
 This misery doth from jealousy ensue, 
 Tliat we may prove her false, but cannot true. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Give me, next good, an understanding wife. 
 By nature wise, not learned by much art ; 
 Some knowledge on her part will, all her life. 
 More scope of conversation impart ; 
 Besides her inborn virtue fortify ; 
 They are inost firmly good that best know 
 why. 
 
 A passive understanding to conceive. 
 And judgment to discern, I wish to find ; 
 Beyond that all as hazardous 1 leave ; 
 Learning and pregnant wit, in womankind, 
 Wliat it finds malleable (it) makes frail. 
 And doth not add more ballast, but more sail. 
 
 Books are a part of man's prerogative ; 
 In formal ink they thoughts and voices hold. 
 That we to them our solitude may give. 
 And make time present travel that of old ; 
 Our life fame picceth longer at the end, 
 And books it farther backward do extend. 
 ♦ * * 
 
 So fair at least let me imagine her ; 
 That thought to me is truth. Opinion 
 Cannot in matters of opinion err ; 
 And as my fancy her conceives to be, 
 Ev'n such my senses both do feel and see. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Beauty in decent shape and colour lies ; 
 Colours the matter are, and shape the soul ; 
 The soul — which from no single part doth 
 
 rise. 
 But from the just proportion of the whole ; — 
 And is a mere spiritual harmony 
 Of every part united in the eye. 
 
 No circumstance doth beauty foi-tify 
 Like graceful fashion, native comeliness ; 
 
 * * * 
 
 But let that fashion more to modesty 
 Tend than assurance — Modesty doth set 
 The face in her just place, from passion free ; 
 'T is both the mind's and body's beauty met. 
 
 fr 
 
 All these good parts a perfect woman make ; 
 Add love to me, they make a perfect wife ; 
 
 Without her love, her beauty I should take 
 As that of pictures dead — • that gives it hfe ; 
 Till then her beauty, like the sun, doth shine 
 Alike to all ; — that only makes it mine. 
 
 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. 
 
 1588-1638. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 TVnY should vain sorrow follow him with tears. 
 Who shakes off burdens of declining years ? 
 Wliose thread exceeds the usual boimds of life, 
 And feels no stroke of any fatal knife ? 
 The destinies enjoin their wheds to run. 
 Until the length of his whole course be spun. 
 No envious clouds obscure his struggling light, 
 WHueh sets contented at the point of night : 
 Yet this large time no gi'cater profit brings. 
 Than every little moment whence it springs ; 
 Unless cmploy'd in works deserving praise, 
 Must wear out many years and live few days. 
 Time flows from instants, and of these each one 
 Should be esteem'd as if it were alone 
 The shortest space, wliieh we so lightly prize 
 When it is coming, and before our eyes : 
 Let it but slide into the eternal main. 
 No realms, no worlds, can purchase it again: 
 Remembrance only makes the footsteps last, 
 IMien winged time, which fixed the prints, is 
 past. 
 
 ON MY DEAR SON, GERVASE BEAUMONT, 
 
 Can I, who have for others oft compiled 
 The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, 
 "Which Uke a flower crush'd with a blast is 
 
 dead. 
 And ere full time hangs down his smiling head, 
 Expecting with clear hope to live anew. 
 Among the angels fed with heavenly dew ? 
 We have this sign of joy, that many days. 
 While on the earth his struggling spirit stays, 
 Tiie name of Jesus in his mouth contains 
 His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. 
 O, may that .sound be rooted in my mind, 
 Of which in him such strong efffect I find ! 
 Dear Lord, receive my son, whose vrinning love 
 To me was like a friendship, far above 
 The course of nature, or his tender age ; 
 Wliose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage : 
 Let his pure soul — ordain'd seven years to be 
 In that frail body, which was part of me — 
 Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show 
 How to this port at every step I go. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 148 
 
 CORBET. 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 ■fo 
 
 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 1583-1635. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE PAIfilES. 
 
 Farewell rewards and fairies. 
 
 Good housewifes now may say, 
 Tor now foul sluts in dairies 
 • Do fare as well as they. 
 And though they sweep their hearths no less 
 
 Than maids were wont to do ; 
 Yet who of late, for eleanliness, 
 
 rinds sixpence in her shoe ? 
 
 Lament, lament, old Abbeys, 
 
 The fairies' lost conmiand ; 
 They did but change priests' babies, 
 
 But some have changed your land ; 
 And all your cliildreii sprung from thence 
 
 Are now grown Puritans ; 
 Wio live as changelings ever since, 
 
 For love of your domains. 
 
 At morning and at evening both. 
 
 You merry were and glad, 
 So httle care of sleep or ;loth 
 
 These pretty ladies riad ; 
 Wlien Tom came home from labour. 
 
 Or Cis to milking rose. 
 Then merrily went their tabor, 
 
 And nimbly went their toes. 
 
 Witness those rings and roundelays 
 
 Of theirs, which yet remain, 
 Were footed in Queen Mary's days 
 
 On many a grassy plain ; 
 But since of late Elizabeth, 
 
 And later, James came in, 
 Tliey never danc'd on any heath 
 
 As when the time hath been. 
 
 By which we note the fairies 
 
 Were of the old profession, 
 Tlieir songs were Ave-Maries, 
 
 Tlieir dances were procession : 
 But now, alas ! they all are dead, 
 
 Or gone beyond the seas ; 
 Or farther for religion fled. 
 
 Or else they take their ease. 
 
 A tell-tale in their company 
 
 Tlicy never could endure, 
 And whoso kept not secretly 
 
 Their mirth, was punish'd sure; 
 It was a just and Christian deed. 
 
 To pinch such black and blue : 
 O, how the commonwealth doth need 
 
 Such justices as you ! 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 1685-1649. 
 
 TO HIS LUTE, 
 
 My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
 With thy green mother in some shady grove, 
 When immelodious winds but made thee move. 
 And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. 
 Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds ap- 
 prove, 
 Which wont in such hamionious strains to flow, 
 Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, 
 WHiat art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 
 Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more. 
 But orphan wailings to the fainting ear, 
 Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a 
 
 tear ; 
 For which be silent as in woods before : 
 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
 Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. 
 
 SPEDfO. 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly 
 
 train. 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with 
 
 flowers, 
 The zephyrs curl the green Tocks of the plain, 
 The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their 
 
 showers. 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st — -but, ah! my 
 
 pleasant hours. 
 And happy days, with thee come not again ; 
 The sad memorials only of my pain 
 Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to 
 
 sours. 
 Thou art the same which still thou wert before, 
 Delicious, lusty, ami;ible, fair ; 
 But she whose breath eiubalm'd thy wholesome 
 
 air 
 Is gone ; nor gold nor gems can her restore. 
 Neglected \irtue, seasons go and come. 
 When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb ! 
 
 LOVE AND MUTABILITT. 
 
 I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays, 
 And what by mortiils in this world is brought 
 In Time's great periods, sliall return to nought ; 
 The fairest states have fatal nights and days. 
 I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays 
 With toil of sprite which arc so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; 
 That there is nothing ligiiter than vain praise. 
 I know frail beauty like tlie ]iurple flower. 
 To whieli one nuirn oft birth and death affords. 
 
 t&- 
 
 -9> 
 
(&r 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE. — SUMMONS TO LOVE. 
 
 149 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 That, love a jarring is of mind's accords, 
 Where sense and will bring under Reason's 
 
 power : 
 Know what I list, all this cannot me move, 
 But that, alas ! 1 both must write and love. 
 
 TO A NIGHTIHGALE. 
 
 Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the early hours 
 Of winters past, or coming, void of care ; 
 Well pleased with delights which present are. 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling 
 
 flowers : 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
 And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
 A stain to human sense iu sin that lowers. 
 Wiat soul can be so siclc which by thy songs 
 (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
 Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and 
 
 wrongs. 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? 
 Sweet artless songster ! thou my mind dost 
 
 raise 
 To airs of spheres, — yes, and to angels' lays. 
 
 JOHN TEE BAPTIST. 
 
 The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King, 
 Girt with rougli skins, hies to the deserts wild. 
 Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
 WTiich he more harmless found than man, and 
 
 mild ; 
 His food was locusts, and what there doth 
 
 spi'ing. 
 With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ; 
 Pareli'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing, 
 Made him appear, long since from earth exUed, 
 There burst he forth ; all ye whose hopes rely 
 On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn. 
 Repent, repent, and from old errors turn ! 
 Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry ? 
 Only the echoes, which he made relent. 
 Rung from their flinty caves. Repent, Repent ! 
 
 THE LESSONS OF NATURE. 
 
 Of tliis fair volume which we World do name 
 If we the sheets and leaves could turn with 
 
 care. 
 Of him who it corrects, and did it frame. 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom rare ; 
 Find out his power which wildest powers doth 
 
 tame. 
 His providence extending everywhere, 
 
 His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 
 
 In every page, no period of the same. 
 
 But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
 
 Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of 
 
 gold. 
 Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best. 
 On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
 It is some picture on the margin wrought. 
 
 SUMMONS TO LOVE 
 
 Phcebus, arise ! 
 
 And paint the sable skies 
 
 With azure, white, and red : 
 
 Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, 
 
 Tliat she may thy career with roses spread : 
 
 The nightingales thy coming each where sing : 
 
 Make an eternal spring ! 
 
 Give life to this dark world which lieth dead ; 
 
 Spread forth thy golden hair 
 
 In larger locks than thou wast wont before. 
 
 And emperor-like decore 
 
 With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 
 
 Chase hence the ugly night 
 
 Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. 
 
 — This is that happy mom. 
 That day, long-wished day 
 Of all my life so dark, 
 
 (If cruel stars have not my rain sworn 
 
 And fates my hopes betray,) 
 
 Which, purely white, deserves 
 
 An everlasting diamond should it mark. 
 
 This is the morn should bring unto this grove 
 
 My Love, to hear and recompense my love. 
 
 Fair King, who all preserves, 
 
 But show thy blushing beams, 
 
 Aud thou two sweeter eyes 
 
 Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 
 
 Did once thy heart surprise. 
 
 Now, Flora, deck thyself iu fairest guise : 
 
 If that ye winds would hear 
 
 A voice surpassing far Aniphiou's lyre. 
 
 Your furious chiding stay ; 
 
 Let Zephyr only breathe. 
 
 And with her tresses play. 
 
 — The winds all silent are. 
 And Phoebus in his chair 
 Ensaffroning sea and air 
 Makes vanish every star : 
 Night like a drunkard reels 
 
 Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels : 
 The fields with flowers are deck'd in every 
 
 hue, 
 The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ; 
 Here is the pleasant place — 
 And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! 
 
 -9^ 
 
<&- 
 
 150 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 -n> 
 
 ^ 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 1588 (I) - 1633. 
 
 MEEOT BEIGHTENING THE RAINBOW. 
 
 High in the airy element there hung 
 Another cloudy sea, that did disdain, 
 As though his purer waves from heaven sprung, 
 To crawl on earth, as doth the sluggish main : 
 But it the earth would water with his raiu, 
 That ebb'd and llow'd as wind and season would ; 
 And oft the sun would cleave the limber mould 
 To alabaster rocks, that in the liquid roll'd. 
 
 Beneath those sunny banks a darker cloud. 
 Dropping with thicker dew, did melt apace, 
 And bent itself into a hoUow shroud. 
 On which, if jNIercy did but cast her face, 
 A thousand colours did the bow enchase, 
 That wonder was to see the silk distain'd 
 "With the resplendence from her beauty gaiu'd. 
 And Iris paint her locks with beams so lively 
 fcign'd. 
 
 About her head a cypress heaven she wore. 
 Spread hko a veil, upheld with silver wire. 
 In which the stars so burnt in golden ore. 
 As seem'd the azure web was all on fire : 
 But hastily, to quench their sparkhng ire, 
 A flood of mUk came roEing up the shore. 
 That on liis curded wave swift Argus wore. 
 And the immortal swan, that did her Kfe deplore. 
 
 Yet strange it was so many stars to see, 
 Witliout a sun to give their tapers light ; 
 Yet strange it was not that it so should be ; 
 For, where the sun centres himself by right. 
 Her face and locks did flame, that at the sight 
 The heaveuly veil, that else should nimbly move, 
 Forgot his flight, and all incensed with love. 
 With wonder and amazement, did her beauty 
 prove. 
 
 Over her hung a canopy of state. 
 Not of rich tissue nor of spangled gold, 
 But of a substance, though not animate. 
 Yet of a heavenly and spirit\ial mould. 
 That only eyes of spirits might behold : 
 Such light as from main rocks of diamond, 
 Shooting their sparks at Phrcbus, would rebound, 
 And Utile angels, holding hands, danced all 
 around. 
 
 THE SOECEEESS OF VAIN DELIGHT. 
 
 The garden like a lady fair was cut, 
 
 Tliat lay as if she slumber'd in delight, 
 
 And to the open skies her eyes did shut : 
 
 Tlie azure fields of Heaven were 'scndjlcd right 
 
 In a large round, set with the flowers of light : 
 The flowers-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew 
 That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew 
 Like twinkhng stars, that sparkle in the evening 
 blue. 
 
 Upon a hilly bank her head she cast, 
 On which the bower of Vain Dehght was built. 
 Wiite aud red roses for her face were plac'd. 
 And for her tresses marigolds were spdt : 
 Them broadly she display'd, like flaming gQt, 
 Till in the ocean the glad day was drown'd : 
 Then up again her yellow locks she wound, 
 And with green fillets in their pretty cauls them 
 bound. 
 
 What should I here depaint her lily hand. 
 Her veins of violets, her ermine breast. 
 Which there in orient colours living stand : 
 Or how her gown with silken leaves is drcst. 
 Or how her watchman, arm'd with boughy crest, 
 A wall of prim hid in Ids bushes bears 
 Shaking at every wind their leafy spears, 
 While she supinely sleeps, nor to be waked fears. 
 
 Over the hedge depends the graping elm, 
 Whose greener head, empurpled in wine. 
 Seemed to wonder at his bloody helm. 
 And half suspect the bunches of the vine. 
 Lest they, perhaps, his wit should undermine ; 
 For well he knew such fruit he never bore : 
 But her weak arms embraced him the more. 
 And she with raby grapes laugh'd at lier para- 
 mour. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The roof thick clouds did paint, from which three 
 
 boys. 
 Three gaping mermaids with their ewers did feed, 
 Whose breasts let fall the stream, with sleepy 
 
 noise. 
 To Hons' mouths, from whence it leap'd with 
 
 speed ; 
 And in the rosy laver seem'd to bleed ; 
 The naked boys unto the water's fall 
 Their stony nightingales had taught to call, 
 TVlieu Zephyr brcath'd iuto their watery interall. 
 
 And all about, embayed in soft sleep, 
 
 A herd of cliarmed beasts aground were spread. 
 
 Which the fair witch in golden chains did keep. 
 
 And them in wilhng bondage fettered : 
 
 Once men they liv'd, but now the men were dead. 
 
 And turn'd to beasts ; so fabled Homer old, 
 
 Tliat Circe with lier potion, charm'd in gold. 
 
 Used manly souls in beastly bodies to immould. 
 
 Through tliis false Eden, to liis leman's bower, 
 (Wliom thousand souls devoutly idolize,) 
 Our first destroyer led our Saviour; 
 There, in the lower room, in solenni wise. 
 
 ■#• 
 
a- 
 
 HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE. 
 
 151 
 
 -fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 Tliey danc'd a round and ponr'd their sacrifice 
 To plump LyiEus, and among the rest. 
 The jolly priest, in ivy garlands drest. 
 Chanted wild orgials, in honour of the feast. 
 
 High over all, Panglorie's blazing throne, 
 In her bright turret, all of crystal wrought. 
 Like Phoebus' lamp, in midst of heaven, slione : 
 Whose starry top, with pride infernal fraught, 
 Self-arching columns to uphold were taught. 
 In which her image still reflected was 
 By the smooth crystal, that, most like her glass 
 In beauty and in frailty did all others pass. 
 
 A silver wand the sorceress did sway. 
 
 And, for a crown of gold, her hair she wore ; 
 
 Only a garland of rose-buds did play 
 
 About her locks, and in her hand she bore 
 
 A hollow globe of glass, that long before 
 
 She full of emptiness had bladdered, 
 
 And all the world therein depictured : 
 
 Whose colours, like the rainbow, ever vanished. 
 
 Such watery orbicles young boys do blow 
 Out from their soapy shells, and much admire 
 The swimming world, which tenderly they row 
 With easy breath till it be raised higher ; 
 But if they chance but roughly once aspire. 
 The painted bubble instantly doth fall. 
 Here wlicn she came she 'gan for music call, 
 And sung this wooing song to welcome him 
 withal : 
 
 " Love is the blossom where there blows 
 
 Everything that lives or grows : 
 
 Love doth make the heavens to move, 
 
 Ami the sun doth burn in love ; 
 
 Like the strong and weak doth yoke, 
 
 And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
 
 Under whose shadows lions wild 
 
 Softcn'd by love grow tame and mild: 
 
 Love no medicine can appease, 
 
 He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
 
 Not aU the skill his wounds can stench, 
 
 Not all the sea his fire can quench ; 
 
 Love did make the bloody spear 
 
 Once a leafy coat to wear. 
 
 While in his leaves there shrouded lay 
 
 Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play : 
 
 And of all love's joyful flame 
 
 I the bud and blossom am. 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
 " See, see, the flowers that below 
 Now as fresh as morning blow, 
 And of all the virgin rose. 
 That as bright Aurora shows : 
 How they all uideaved lie 
 
 Losing their virginity ; 
 
 Like unto a summer shade. 
 
 But now bom and now they fade. 
 
 Everything doth pass away, 
 
 There is danger in delay ; 
 
 Come, come, gather then the rose, 
 
 Gather it, or it you lose. 
 
 All the sands of Tagus' shore 
 
 Into my bosom casts his ore : 
 
 All the valleys' swimming corn 
 
 To my house is yearly borne ; 
 
 Every grape of every vine 
 
 Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine ; 
 
 Wlule ten thousand kings as proud 
 
 To carry up my train have bow'd. 
 
 And a world of ladies send me 
 
 In my eiiambers to attend me ; 
 
 All tlie stars in heaven that shine. 
 
 And ten thousand more are mine : 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be." 
 
 Thus sought the dire enchantress in his mind 
 Her guileful bait to have embosomed : 
 But he her charms dispersed into wind. 
 And her of insolence admonished. 
 And all her optic glasses shattered. 
 So with her sire to hell she took her flight 
 (The starting air flew from the danmcd sprite), 
 Where deeply both aggriev'd plunged themselves 
 in night. 
 
 But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, 
 A heavenly volley of light angels flew. 
 And from his fatlier him a banquet brought 
 Through tlie fine element, for well they knew, 
 After his Lenten fast, he hungry grew : 
 And as he fed, the holy choirs combine 
 To sing a hymn of the celestial Trine ; 
 All thought to pass, and each was past all thought 
 divine. 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 1684 (••)- 1650 (■'). 
 
 HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LITE, 
 
 Thrice, 0, thrice happy, shepherd's life and 
 
 state ! 
 When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns ! 
 His cottage low and safely humble gate 
 Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and 
 
 fawns : 
 No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 
 Singing all day, his flocks lie learns to keep ; 
 Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 152 
 
 WITHER. 
 
 :^ 
 
 No Sj'rian worms he knows, that with their thread 
 Draw out their silkeu lives : nor silken pride : 
 His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need, 
 Not in that proud Sidoruan tincture dyed : 
 No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright ; 
 Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite : 
 But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
 
 Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, 
 Wliich wait to first salute my lord's uprise ; 
 The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
 And birds' sweet wliistling notes unlock his eyes : 
 In country plays is all the strife he uses ; 
 Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses ; 
 And but in music's sports all difference refuses. 
 
 His certain life, that never can deceive him, 
 Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content : 
 The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him 
 With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent; 
 His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas 
 Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease : 
 Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God 
 can please. 
 
 His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps. 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; 
 His little son into his bosom creeps. 
 The lively picture of his father's face : 
 Never his humble house nor state torment him : 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent him ; 
 And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, 
 content him. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love is tlic sire, dam, nui'sc, and seed 
 Of all that air, earth, waters breed. 
 All these, — earth, water, air, and fire, — 
 Tiiough contraries, in love conspire. 
 Tond ])ainters, love is not a lad 
 With bow, and shafts, and feathers clad, 
 As he is fancied in the brain 
 Of some loose loving idle swain. 
 Much sooner is he felt than seen ; 
 Substance subtle, slight and thin. 
 Oft leaps lie from the glancing eyes ; 
 Oft in some smooth mount he lies ; 
 Soonest he wins, the fastest flies ; 
 Oft lurks he 'twixt the nuldy lips. 
 Thence, while the heart his neetar sips, 
 Down to the soul the poison slips ; 
 Oft in a voice creeps down the ear ; 
 Oft hides his darts in golden hair ; 
 Oft blushing cheeks do light his fires ; 
 Oft in a smooth soft skin retires ; 
 Often in smiles, often in tears, 
 His flaming heat in water bears ; 
 When notliiug else kindles desire, 
 
 fr 
 
 Even virtue's self shall blow the fire. 
 
 Love with a thousand darts abounds, 
 
 Surest and deepest virtue wounds. 
 
 Oft himself becomes a dart. 
 
 And love with love doth love impart. 
 
 Thou painful pleasure, pleasing pain. 
 
 Thou gainful Ufe, thou losing gain. 
 
 Thou bitter sweet, easing disease. 
 
 How dost thou by displeasing please ? 
 
 How dost thou thus bewitch the heart, 
 
 To love in hate, to joy in smart. 
 
 To think itself most bound when free, 
 
 And freest in its slavery r" 
 
 Every creature is thy debtor ; 
 
 None but loves, some worse, some better. 
 
 Oidy in love they happy prove 
 
 Who love what most deserves their love. 
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 1588 - 1667. 
 
 THE COMPANIONSHIP OF THE MUSE. 
 
 See'st thou not, in clearest days. 
 
 Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays ; 
 
 And the vapours that do breathe 
 
 From the earth's gross womb beneath. 
 
 Seem they not with tiicir black steams 
 
 To pollute the sun's brigiit beams, 
 
 And yet vanish into air. 
 
 Leaving it, unblemish'd, fair ? 
 
 So, my Willy, shall it be 
 
 With Detraction's breath and thee : 
 
 It shall never rise so high, 
 
 As to stain thy poesy. 
 
 As that sun doth oft exhale 
 
 Vapours from each rotten vale ; 
 
 Poesy so sometime drains 
 
 Gross conceits from muddy brains ; 
 
 !Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 
 
 'Twixt men's judgments and her light : 
 
 But so much her power may do, 
 
 That she can dissolve them too. 
 
 If thy verse do bravely tower. 
 
 As she makes wing she gets power ; 
 
 Yet the higher she doth soar. 
 
 She 's affi'onted stiU the more ; 
 
 Till she to the liigh'st hath past, 
 
 Then she rests with fame at last : 
 
 Let nauglit therefore thee afiVight, 
 
 But make forward in lliy fligl\t ; 
 
 For, if I could match thy rhyme, 
 
 To the very stars I 'd climb ; 
 
 There begin again, anil fly 
 
 Till I rcaeh'd eternity. 
 
 But, alas ! mv muse is slow ; 
 
 —u> 
 
a- 
 
 THE STEADFAST SHEPHEED. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 153 
 
 <^ 
 
 For thy page she flags too low : 
 
 Yea, the more 's her hapless fate, 
 
 Her short wings were chpt of late ; 
 
 Aiid poor I, her fortune ruing. 
 
 Am myself put up a-mewing : 
 
 But if I my cage can rid, 
 
 I "11 fly wbere I never did : 
 
 And though for her sake I 'm crest, 
 
 Though my best hopes I have lost. 
 
 And knew she would make my trouble 
 
 Ten times more than ten times double : 
 
 I should love and keep her too, 
 
 Spite of all the world could do. 
 
 For, though banish'd from my flocks, 
 
 And confin'd within these rocks. 
 
 Here I waste away the light, 
 
 And consume the sullen night, 
 
 She doth for my comfort stay. 
 
 And keeps many cares away. 
 
 Though I miss the flowery fields. 
 
 With those sweets the springtide yields, 
 
 Thougli I may not see those groves, 
 
 Where the shepherds chant their loves. 
 
 And the lasses more excel 
 
 Tlian the sweet-voiced Pliilomel. 
 
 Though of all those pleasures past. 
 
 Nothing now remains at last. 
 
 But Remembrance, poor relief. 
 
 That more makes than mends my grief. 
 
 She 's my mind's companion still, 
 
 Maugre Envy's evil ^vill. 
 
 (Wlieuce she would be driven, too. 
 
 Were 't in mortal's power to do.) 
 
 She doth tell me where to borrow 
 
 Comfort in the midst of sorrow : 
 
 Makes the desolatest place 
 
 To her pi'esence be a grace ; 
 
 And the blackest discontents 
 
 Be her fairest ornaments. 
 
 In my former days of bliss. 
 
 Her divine skill taught me this. 
 
 That from everything I saw, 
 
 I could some invention draw : 
 
 And raise pleasure to her height, 
 
 Tlirough the meanest object's sight. 
 
 By the murmur of a spring, 
 
 Or the least bough's rustleing. 
 
 By a daisy, whose leaves spread. 
 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed; 
 
 Or a shady bush or tree, 
 
 She could more infuse in me. 
 
 Than aU Nature's beauties can 
 
 In some other wiser man. 
 
 By her help I also now 
 
 Make this churlish place allow 
 
 Some things that may sweeten gladness. 
 
 In the very gall of sadness. 
 
 The loue dullness, the black shade, 
 
 That these hanging vaults have made ; 
 
 The strange music of the waves. 
 
 Beating on these hollow caves ; 
 
 This black den which rocks emboss. 
 
 Overgrown with eldest moss : 
 
 The rude portals that give Ught 
 
 More to teiTor than delight : 
 
 This my chamber of neglect, 
 
 Wall'd about with disrespect. 
 
 From all these, and this dull air, 
 
 A fit object for despair. 
 
 She hath taught me by her might 
 
 To draw comfort and delight. 
 
 Therefore, thou best eartlily bliss, 
 
 I wQl cherish thee for this. 
 
 Poesy, thou sweet' st content 
 
 That e'er heaven to mortals lent : 
 
 Though they as a trifle leave thee. 
 
 Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee. 
 
 Though tlion be to them a scorn, 
 
 That to naught but earth are born. 
 
 Let my life no longer be 
 
 Than I am in love with thee. 
 
 Though our wise ones call thee madness. 
 
 Let me never taste of gladness, 
 
 If I love not thy madd'st fits 
 
 Above all their greatest wits. 
 
 And thougli some, too seeming holy. 
 
 Do account thy raptures folly. 
 
 Thou dost teach me to contemn 
 
 Wliat make knaves and fools of them. 
 
 THE STEADPAST SHEPHEED. 
 
 Hence away, thou Syren, leave me. 
 
 Pish ! unclasp these wanton arms ; 
 Sugar'd words can ne'er deceive me 
 
 (Though thou prove a thousand charms). 
 
 Fie, fie, forbear; 
 
 No common snare 
 Can ever my affection chain : 
 
 Thy painted baits. 
 
 And poor deceits. 
 Are all bestowed on me in vain. 
 
 I 'm no slave to such as you be ; 
 
 Neither shall that snowy breast. 
 Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, 
 Ever rob me of my rest ; 
 
 Go, go, display 
 
 Thy beauty's ray 
 To some more-soon enaniour'd swain : 
 
 Those common wiles, 
 
 Of sighs and smiles, 
 Are all bestowed on me in vain. 
 
 I have elsewhere vow'd a duty ; 
 Turn away thy tempting eye : 
 
 -95 
 
a- 
 
 1.5-t 
 
 BROWNE. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Show not me a painted beauty, 
 These impostures I defy : 
 
 My spirit loathes 
 
 Where gaudy clothes 
 And feigned oaths may love obtain : 
 
 I love her so 
 
 Whose look swears No, 
 That all your labours will be vain. 
 
 Can he prize the tainted posies, 
 
 Which on every breast are worn, 
 Tiiat may ]iluck the virgin roses 
 From their never-touched thorn? 
 
 I can go rest 
 
 On her sweet breast, 
 Tliat is the pride of Cynthia's train ; 
 
 Then stay thy tongue ; 
 
 Thy mermaid song 
 Is all bestow'd on me in vain. 
 
 He 's a fool, that basely dallies, 
 
 Where each peasant mates with him : 
 Shall I haunt the thronged valleys. 
 Whilst there 's noble hills to climb ? 
 
 No, no, thougli clowns 
 
 Ai-e sear'd with frowns, 
 I know the best can but disdain : 
 
 And those I '11 prove, 
 
 So will thy love 
 Be all bestow'd on me in vain. 
 
 I do scorn to vow a duty. 
 
 Where each lustful lad may woo; 
 Give me her, whose sunUke beauty, 
 Buzzards dare not soar unto : 
 
 She, she, it is 
 
 Affords that bliss, 
 For which I would refuse no pain ; 
 
 But such as you, 
 
 Fond fools, adieu, 
 You seek to captive me in vain. 
 
 Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me ; 
 
 Seek no more to work my harms ; 
 Crafty wiles cannot deceive me. 
 
 Who am proof against your charms : 
 You labour may 
 To lead astray 
 Tiie heart, that constant shall remain ; 
 Aiul I the while 
 Will sit and smile 
 To sec you spend your time in vain. 
 
 SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS. 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 
 Which, waking, kept )ny boldest thoughts in awe ; 
 And free access unto tliat sweet lij) lies. 
 From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. 
 
 ]\Ictliinks no wrong it were, if I should steal 
 Fi-om those two melting rubies one poor kiss ; 
 None sees the theft that would the theft reveal, 
 Nor rob I her of aught what she can miss : 
 Nay, should I twenty kisses take away. 
 There would be little sign I would do so ; 
 Wliy then should I this robbery ^elay ? 
 O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! 
 Well, if she do, I 'U back restore that one. 
 And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 
 1590-1645. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 By tills had chanticleer, the village cock, 
 Bidden the goodwife for her maids to knock ; 
 Andtheswart ploughman forhisbreakfast stayed, 
 That he might till those lands were fallow hiid; 
 The hiUs and valleys here and there resound 
 With the re-echoes of the deep-mouth'd hound; 
 Each shepherd's daughter with her cleanly pail 
 Was come a-field to milk the morning's meal ; 
 And ere the sun had cUmbed the eastern hills. 
 To gild the mvittering bounis and pretty rills, 
 Before the labouring bee had left the hive, 
 And nimble fishes, which in rivers dive. 
 Began to leap and catch the drowned fly, 
 I rose from rest, not infelicity. 
 
 INVOCATION TO HIS NATIVE SOIL. 
 
 Hail thou, my native soil ! thou blessed plot 
 Whose equal aU the world affordeth not I 
 Show me who can ? so many crystal rills, 
 Such sweet-clothed valleys, or aspiring lulls. 
 Such wood-ground, i)astures, quarries, wealthy 
 
 mines. 
 Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines : 
 And if the earth can show the like again, 
 Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men. 
 Time never can produce men to o'ertake 
 The fames of Grenville, Davis, Gilbert, Drake, 
 Or worthy Hawkins, or of thousands more, 
 That by tlu'ir ])owcr made the Devonian shore 
 Mock the in-oiul Tagus ; for whose richest spoil 
 The lioasting Spaniard left the Indian soil 
 Bankrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost 
 By wimiing this, though aU the rest wore lost. 
 
 THE SYRENS' SONG. 
 
 Stkkii hither, steer your winged pines, 
 All beaten mariners, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 155 
 
 -fl) 
 
 t 
 
 Here lie undiscover'd mines 
 
 A prey to passengers ; 
 Perfumes far sweeter than the best 
 Which make the phreuix urn and uest ; 
 
 Fear not your ships, 
 Nor any to oppose you save our Ups ; 
 
 But come on shore, 
 Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. 
 
 For swelling waves our panting breasts, 
 
 Where never storms arise. 
 Exchange ; and be awlule oru- guests ; 
 
 For stars, gaze on our eyes. 
 The compass, love shall hourly sing. 
 And as he goes about the ring. 
 
 We wUl not miss 
 To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. 
 
 PASTOEAL ENJOYMENTS. 
 
 But since her stay was long : for fear the sun 
 Should find them idle, some of them begun 
 To leap and wrestle, others threw the bar, 
 Some from the company removed are 
 To meditate the songs they meant to play, 
 Or make a new round for next holiday ; 
 Some, tales of love their love-sick fellows told ; 
 Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold. 
 This, all alone, was mendmg of his pipe ; 
 That, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most 
 
 ripe. 
 Here (from the rest), a lovely shepherd's boy 
 Sits piping on a hiU, as if his joy 
 Would still endure, or else that age's frost 
 Should never make him think what he had lost, 
 Yonder a shepherdess knits by the springs, 
 Her hands still keeping time to what she sings ; 
 Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands 
 Were comforted m working. Near the sands 
 Of some sweet river sits a musing lad, 
 That moans the loss of wliat he sometime had. 
 His love by death bereft : when fast by him 
 An aged swain takes place, as near the briiu 
 Of 's grave as of the river. 
 
 HENRY KING. 
 
 1591 - 1669. 
 
 SIC VITA.* 
 
 Like to the falUng of a star. 
 Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
 Or like the fresh sprmg's gaudy hue. 
 Or silver drops of morning dew ; 
 
 * This poem, of wliich there are nine imitations, is claimetl 
 for I'raucis Beaumont by some autliorities. 
 
 Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
 Or bubbles which on water stood : 
 Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light 
 Is straight caU'd in, and paid to-night. 
 The wind blows out, the bubble dies ; 
 The spring entomb'd in autumn hes ; 
 The dew dries up, the star is shot ; 
 The iiight is past — ■ and man forgot. 
 
 THE DIEGE, 
 
 What is the existence of man's life 
 But open war or slumber'd strife ? 
 Where sickness to his sense presents 
 The combat of the elements, 
 And never feels a perfect peace 
 Till death's cold hand signs his release. 
 
 It is a storm — where the hot blood 
 Outvies in rage the boiling flood; 
 And each loud passion of the mind 
 Is like a furious gust of wind. 
 Which beats the bark with many a wave, 
 Till he casts anchor in the grave. 
 
 It is a flower — which buds, and grows. 
 And withers as the leaves disclose ; 
 Wiose spring and fall faint seasons keep. 
 Like fits of waking before sleep, 
 Then shrinks into that fatal moidd 
 Where its first bemg was enroll' d. 
 
 It is a dream — whose seeming truth 
 Is moralized in age and youth ; 
 Wliere all the comforts he can share 
 As wand'ring as his fancies are, 
 TiU in a mist of dark decay 
 The dreamer vanisli quite away. 
 
 It is a dial — which points out 
 The sunset as it moves about ; 
 And shadows out in lines of night 
 The subtle stages of Time's flight. 
 Till all-obscuring earth hath laid 
 His body in perijctual shade. 
 
 It is a weary interlude — 
 Which doth short joys, long woes, include : 
 The world the stage, the prologue tears ; 
 The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; 
 The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
 And leaves uo epilogue but Death ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed. 
 Never to be disquieted ! 
 My last good night I Thou wilt not wake, 
 Till I thy fate sliall overtake : 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 156 
 
 BROWNE. — CHALKHILL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 i 
 
 Till age or grief or sickness must 
 
 Marry my body to that dust 
 
 It so much loves ; and fill the room 
 
 My heart keeps empty in thy Tomb. 
 
 Stay for me there ; I will not faile 
 
 To meet thee in that hollow Vale : 
 
 And think not much of my delay ; 
 
 I am already on the way, 
 
 And follow thee with all the speed 
 
 Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 
 
 Each minute is a short degree. 
 
 And ev'ry houre a step towards thee. 
 
 At night, when I betake to rest, 
 
 Next morn I rise neerer my West 
 
 Of life, almost by eight houres saile 
 
 Then when sleep breath'd his drowsie gale. 
 
 Thus from the Sun my Bottom stears, 
 And my dayes Compass downward bears ; 
 Nor labour I to stemme the tide. 
 Through which to Thee I swiftly gHde. 
 
 'T is true, with shame and grief I yield, 
 
 Tliou, like the Vanu, first took'st the field, 
 
 And gotten hast the victory. 
 
 In thus adventuring to dy 
 
 Before me, whose more years might crave 
 
 A just precedence in the grave. 
 
 But heark ! My Pulse, like a soft Drum, 
 
 Beats my approeh, tells Thee I come; 
 
 And slow howere my marches be, 
 
 I shall at last sit down by Thee. 
 
 The thought of this bids me go on, 
 
 And wait my dissolution 
 
 With hope and comfort. Dear, (forgive 
 
 Tlic crime,) I am content to live 
 
 Divided, with but half a heart. 
 
 Till we shall meet and never part. 
 
 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 
 
 1606 - 168S. 
 
 BEFOKE SLEEP. 
 
 The night is come like to the day, — 
 Depart not thou, great God, away ; 
 Let not my sins, black as the uight, 
 Eclipse the lustre of thy light. 
 Keep still in my horizon ; for to me 
 Tlie sun makes not the day, but Thee. 
 Thou, whose nature cannot sleep, 
 On my temples sentry keep ; 
 fiuard me 'gainst those watchfiJ foes 
 \Vhose eyes are open while mine close. 
 Let no dreams my head infest 
 
 But such as Jacob's temples blest. 
 While I do rest, my soul advance, 
 Make my sleep a holy trance. 
 That I may, my rest beiug wrought. 
 Awake into some holy thought. 
 And with as active vigor run 
 My course, as doth the nimble sun. 
 Sleep is a death : O, make me try 
 By sleeping, what it is to die ; 
 And as gently lay my head 
 On my grave, as now my bed. 
 Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
 Awake again at least with tliee ; 
 And thus assui'cd, behold I lie 
 Secure, or to awake or die. 
 These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
 I do now wake to sleep again ; — 
 O, come that hour, when I shall never 
 Sleep again, but wake forever. 
 
 JOHN CHALKHILL. 
 
 Born about 1675. 
 
 THE WITCffS CAVE. 
 
 Hee cell was hewn out of the marble rock, 
 By more than human art ; she need not knock ; 
 The door stood always opeu, large and wide. 
 Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side. 
 And interwove with ivy's flattering twines. 
 Through whicli the carbuncle and diamond shines, 
 Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown 
 At the world's birth, so star-like bright they 
 
 shone. 
 They serv'd instead of tapers, to give light 
 To the dark entry, where perpetual night. 
 Friend to black deeds, and sire of ignorance. 
 Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance 
 Might bring to light her follies : in they went. 
 The grouud was strew'd with flowei-s, whose 
 
 sweet scent, 
 Mix'd with the choice perfumes from India 
 
 brought. 
 Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught 
 Ills rrodulinis sense ; the walls were gilt, and set 
 With precious stones, and all the roof was fret 
 With a gold vine, whose straggling branches 
 
 spread 
 All o'er the arch ; the swelling grapes were red ; 
 This, Art had made of rubies, cluster'd so. 
 To the quick'st eye they more than secm'd to 
 
 grow ; 
 About the walls lascivious pictures hung. 
 Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung. 
 On either side a crew of dwarfish elves 
 Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves : 
 
 — 9> 
 
a- 
 
 A SESSION OF THE POETS. 
 
 157 
 
 ■^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Yet so well-shap'd unto their little stature, 
 So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature ; 
 Their rich attire so diff' ring ; yet so well 
 Becoming her that wore it, none could teU 
 Which was the fairest, which the handsomest 
 
 dcck'd, 
 Or wliich of them desire would soon'st affect. 
 After a low salute, they all 'gan sing. 
 Aid circle in the stranger in a ring. 
 Orandra to her charms was stepp'd aside, 
 Leaving her guest half won and wantou-ey'd. 
 He had forgot his herb : cunning delight 
 Had so bewitch'd his ears, and blear'd his sight. 
 And captivated all his senses so, 
 That he was not himself : nor did he know 
 Wliat place he was in, or bow he came there. 
 But greedily he feeds his eye and ear 
 With what would ruin him. 
 
 * * + 
 
 Next unto his view 
 She represents a banquet, usher'd in 
 By such a shape as she was sure would win 
 His appetite to taste ; so like she was 
 To his Clarinda, both in shape and face. 
 So voic'd, so habited, of the same gait 
 And comely gesture ; on her brow in state 
 Sat such a princely majesty, as he 
 Had noted in Clarinda ; save that she 
 Had a more wanton eye, that here and there 
 RoU'd up and down, not settUng anywhere. 
 Down on the ground she falls liis hands to kiss, 
 And with her tears bedews it ; cold as ice 
 He felt her lips, that yet inflam'd him so. 
 That he was all on fire the truth to know, 
 Whether she was the same she did appear. 
 Or whether some fantastic form it were, 
 Fashion'd in his imagination 
 By his still working thoughts ; so fix'd upon 
 His lov'd Clarinda, that his fancy strove, 
 Even with her shadow, to express his love. 
 
 THE PRIESTESS OF DIANA. 
 
 Within a little silent grove hard by, 
 
 Upon a small ascent he might espy 
 
 A stately chapel, richly gilt without, 
 
 Beset with shady sycamores about : 
 
 And ever and anon he might weU hear 
 
 A sound of music steal in at liis ear 
 
 As the wind gave it being: — so sweet an air 
 
 Would strike a syren mute. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A hundred virgins there he might espy 
 
 Prostrate before a marble deity, 
 
 Which, by its portraiture, appear'd to be 
 
 The image of Diana : — on their knee 
 
 They tender'd their devotions : with sweet airs. 
 
 Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. 
 
 Their garments all alike ; beneath their paps 
 Buckled together with a silver claps ; 
 And cross their snowy silken robes they wore 
 An azure scarf, with stars embroider'd o'er. 
 Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, 
 Crown'd with a silver crescent on the top. 
 A silver bow their left hand held ; their right, 
 For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight, 
 Drawn from their 'broider'd quiver, neatly tied 
 In silken cords, and fasten'd to their side. 
 Under their vestments, something short before. 
 White buskins, lac'd with ribanding, they wore. 
 It was a catching sight for a young eye, 
 That love had fir'd before : — he might espy 
 One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, 
 Wliose head was with a golden ehaplet crown'd. 
 He coidd not see her face, oidy his ear 
 Was blest with the sweet words that came from 
 her. 
 
 THE VOTARESS OF DIANA. 
 
 Clakinda came at last 
 With all her train, who, as along she pass'd 
 Thorough the inward court, did make a lane, 
 Opening their ranks, and closing them again 
 As she went forward, witii obsequious gesture. 
 Doing their reverence. Her upward vesture 
 Was of blue silk, ghstering with stars of gold, 
 Girt to her waist by serpents, that enfold 
 And wrap themselves together, so well wrought 
 And fashion'd to the life, one would have thougiit 
 They had been real. Underneath she wore 
 A coat of silver tinsel, short before. 
 And fring'd about with gold : white buskins hide 
 The naked of her leg ; they were loose tied 
 With azure ribands, on whose knots were seen 
 Most costly gems, fit only for a queen. 
 Her hair bound up like to a coronet, 
 With diamonds, rubies, and rich sapphires set ; 
 And on the top a silver crescent plac'd. 
 And all the lustre by such beauty grac'd. 
 As her reflection made them seem more fair ; 
 One would have thought Diana's self were there ; 
 For in her hand a silver bow she held, 
 And at her back there hung a qmver fiU'd 
 With turtle-feather'd arrows. 
 
 Theabna and Clearchus. 
 
 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 1609 - 1648 (!). 
 
 A SESSION OF THE POETS. 
 
 A SESSION was held the other day. 
 And Apollo himself was at it, they say. 
 
 -P 
 
ca- 
 
 158 
 
 SUCKLING. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 The Laurel, that had beeu so long reserv'd, 
 Was now to be given to him best deserv'd ; 
 
 And therefore the wits of the town came thitlier, 
 'T was strange to see how they flock'd together ; 
 Each, strongly confident of his own way, 
 Thought to bear the laurel away that day. 
 
 There was Selden, and he sat close by the 
 
 chair ; 
 Wenman, not far off, which was very fair. 
 Sands with Townsend, for they kept no order, 
 Digby and Chillmgworth a httle further. 
 
 There was Lucau's translator too,* and he 
 That makes God speak so big in his poetry ; 
 Selwin, and Waller, and Bartlets, both the 
 
 brothers ; 
 Jack Vaughau and Porter, and divers others. 
 
 The first that broke silence was good old Ben, 
 Prcpar'd before with Canary wine ; 
 And he told them plainly he deserv'd the bays, 
 For his were eall'd " Works," where others were 
 but Plays. 
 
 And bid them remember how he had purg'd the 
 stage 
 
 Of errors that had lasted many an age ; 
 
 And he hop'd they did n't think, the Silent Wo- 
 man, 
 
 The Fox and the Alchymist, outdone by no man. 
 
 Apollo stopt him there, and bid liim not go on ; 
 'T was merit, he said, and not presumption 
 ]Must carry it ; at which Ben tum'd about. 
 And in great choler offered to go out. 
 
 But those that were there, thought it not fit 
 To discontent so ancient a wit ; 
 And therefore Apollo eall'd him back again, 
 And made him mine host of his own New Iim. 
 
 Tom Carew f was next, but he had a faidt 
 That would n't well stand with a Laureat ; 
 His muse was hard bound, and the issue of 's 
 
 brain 
 Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and 
 
 pain ; 
 
 And all that were present there did agree 
 A Laurcat-nmsc should be easy and free. 
 Yet sure 't was n't that ; but 't was thought that 
 
 his grace 
 Consider'd he was well he had a cup-bearer's 
 
 place. 
 
 AViU Davenant, asham'd of a foolish mischance 
 That he had got lately travelling in Trance, 
 
 t- 
 
 Mny. 
 
 + Pronoiinccil Carey. 
 
 Modestly hoped the handsomeness of 's muse 
 flight any deformity about him excuse. 
 
 And surely the company would have been con- 
 tent 
 If they could have found any precedent ; 
 But in all their records, either iu verse or prose. 
 There was not one Laureat without a nose. 
 
 To Will Bartlet sure all the wits meant wcU, 
 But first they would see how his " Snow" would 
 
 sell; 
 Will smil'd, and swore m their judgments they 
 
 went less 
 That concluded of merit upon success. 
 
 Suddenly taking his place again, 
 He gave way to Selwin, who straight stept in ; 
 But alas ! he had been so lately a wit. 
 That Apollo himself scarce knew liim yet. 
 
 Toby Matthews (plague on him, how came he 
 
 there ?) 
 Was wliispering notliing in somebody's ear. 
 When he had the honour to be nam'd in court ; 
 But, sir, you must thank my Lady Carlisle for 't ; 
 
 For had not her " Character" fumish'd you ovit 
 With something of handsome, without alliloubt 
 You and your sorry lady-muse had been 
 Iu the number of those that were not let in. 
 
 In haste from the court, two or three came in, 
 And they brought letters, forsooth, from the 
 
 Queen ! 
 'T was discreetly done, too, for if they had come 
 Without them, they had scarce been let into the 
 
 room. 
 
 This made a dispute ; for 't was plain to be seen 
 Each man had a mind to gratify the Queen ; 
 But Apollo himself could not thuik it fit ; 
 There was difference, he said, betwixt fooling 
 and wit. 
 
 Suckling next was eall'd, but did not appear ; 
 But straight one whisper'd Apollo i' th' car. 
 That of all men living he car'd not for 't ; 
 He lov'd not the Muses so well as his sport ; 
 
 And priz'd black eyes, or a lucky liit 
 At bowls, above all the trophies of wit ; 
 But Apollo was angry, and jniblicly said 
 'T were fit that a fine were set on 's head. 
 
 Wat Jloutagvi next stood forth to his trial, 
 And did not so much as suspect a denial ; 
 But witty Apollo ask'd him first of all 
 If he understood liis own " Pastoral." 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. 
 
 -^ 
 
 159 
 
 fr 
 
 For if he cou'd do it, 'twould plainly appear 
 He understood more than any man there. 
 And did merit the bays above all the rest. 
 But the Monsieur was modest, and silence con- 
 test. 
 
 During these troubles in the court was hid 
 One that Apollo soon miss'd, — little Cid ; 
 And having spy'd him, caU'd him out of the 
 
 throng, 
 And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong. 
 
 Murray was summon'd; but 'twas urg'd, that 
 
 'he 
 Was chief already of another company. 
 
 Hales, set by himself, most gravely did smile 
 To see them about nothing keep such a coil ; 
 Apollo had spy'd him, liut knowing his mind 
 Past by, and call'd Falkland, that sat just be- 
 hind : 
 
 But he was of late so gone with divinity. 
 That he had almost forgot liis poetry ; 
 Though to say the truth, and Apollo did know it, 
 He might have been both his priest and liis poet. 
 
 At length who but an Alderman did appear, 
 At which WiU Davenaut began to swear ; 
 But wiser Apollo bade liim draw nigher, 
 And, when he was mounted a little higher, 
 
 He openly declar'd, that the best sign 
 
 Of good store of wit was to have good store of 
 
 coin ; 
 And without a syllable more or less said, 
 lie put the laurel on the Alderman's head. 
 
 At this all the wits were in such amaze, 
 
 That, for a good while, they did nothing but 
 
 gaze 
 One upon another ; not a man in the place 
 But had discontent writ at large in his face. 
 
 Only the small Poets cheer'd up again 
 
 Out of hope, as 't was thought, of boiTowmg ; 
 
 But sure they are out; for he forfeits liis 
 
 " crown," 
 Wlien he lends to any Poet about the town. 
 
 A BALLAD UPON A •WEDDUfS. 
 
 I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been. 
 Where I the rarest things have seen : 
 
 0, things without compare I 
 Such sights again cannot be found 
 In any place on English ground. 
 
 Be it at wake, or fair. 
 
 At Charing-Cross, hard by the way 
 Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay. 
 
 There is a house with stairs : 
 And there did I see coming down 
 Such folks as are not in our town, 
 
 Vorty at least, in pairs. 
 
 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent flue, 
 (His beard no bigger though than thine,) 
 
 Walk'd on before the rest : 
 Our landlord looks like u(jthing to him : 
 The king (God bless him) 't woidd undo him, 
 
 Should he go stiU so drest. 
 
 At Course-a-park, without all doubt. 
 He should have first been taken out 
 
 By all the maids i' the town : 
 Though lusty Roger there had been, 
 Or little George upon the Green, 
 
 Or Vincent of the Crown. 
 
 But wot you what ? the youth was going 
 To make an end of all his wooing ; 
 
 The parson for him staid : 
 Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
 He did not so much wish all past 
 
 (Perchance) as did the maid. 
 
 The maid — and thereby hangs a tale — 
 For such a maid no Wliitson ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce : 
 No grape that 's kindly ripe could be 
 So round, so plump, so soft as she, 
 
 Nor half so fuU of juice. 
 
 Ilcr finger was so small, the ring 
 Would not stay on which they did bring. 
 
 It was too wide a peck : 
 And to say truth (for out it must) 
 It look'd like the great collar (just) 
 
 About our yoimg colt's neck. 
 
 Her feet beneath her petticoat 
 Like little mice stole in and out. 
 
 As if they fear'd the hght : 
 But 0, she dances such a way I 
 No sun upon an Easter day 
 
 Is half so fine a sight. 
 * * * 
 
 Her cheeks so rare a white was on. 
 No daisy makes comparison 
 
 (Wlio sees them is undone) ; 
 For streaks of red were mingled there. 
 Such as are on a Katherine pear. 
 
 The side that 's nest the sun. 
 
 Her lips were red, and one was thin. 
 Compared to that was next her chin, 
 
 Some bee had stung it nearly. 
 
 -^ 
 
cfl- 
 
 160 
 
 SUCKLING. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 k 
 
 But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze, 
 Than on the sun in July. 
 
 Her mouth so small, when she does speak. 
 Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 
 
 That they might passage get ; 
 But she so handled still the matter. 
 They came as good as ours, or better, 
 
 And are not spent a whit. 
 
 * * * 
 Passion o' me ! how I ran on ! 
 
 There 's that that would be thought upon, 
 
 I trow, besides the bride : 
 The business of the kitchen 's great, 
 Tor it is fit that men should eat ; 
 Nor was it there denied. 
 
 Just in the nick the cook knock'd tlirice. 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving-man with dish in hand, 
 March'd boldly up, like our train'd baud. 
 
 Presented, and away. 
 
 When all the meat was on the table, 
 
 What man of knife, or teetli, was able 
 
 To stay to be entreated : 
 And this the very reason was. 
 Before the parson could say grace. 
 The company were seated. 
 
 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; 
 Healths first go round, and then the house. 
 
 The bride's came thick and tliick ; 
 And when 't was named another's health, 
 Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, 
 
 And who could help it, Dick ? 
 
 O' the sudden up they rise and dance ; 
 Then sit again, and sigh and glance : 
 
 Then dance again and kiss. 
 Thus several ways the time did pass, 
 Wiilst every woman wish'd her place. 
 
 And every man wish'd liis. 
 
 * * * 
 
 LOVE AND HONOOB. 
 
 'T TS now, since I sat down before 
 
 That foolish fort, a heart, 
 (Time strangely spent !) a year, and more ; 
 
 And still I did my part, — 
 
 Made my approaches, from her hand 
 
 Unto her lip did rise ; 
 And did already understand 
 
 The language of her eyes ; 
 
 Proceeded on with no less art. 
 
 My tongue was engineer ; 
 I thought to undermine the heart 
 
 By whispering in the ear. 
 
 When this did nothing, I brought down 
 
 Great eannon-oaths, and shot 
 A thousand thousand to the town. 
 
 And still it yielded not. 
 
 I then resolv'd to starve the place 
 
 By cutting oft' all kisses. 
 Praising and gazing on her face. 
 
 And all such little blisses. 
 
 To draw her out, and from her strength, 
 
 I drew all batteries in : 
 And brought myself to lie at length. 
 
 As if no siege had been. 
 
 When I had done what man could do, 
 And thought the place mine own, 
 
 The enemy lay quiet too. 
 And smil'd at all was done. 
 
 I sent to know from wbence, and where. 
 
 These hopes, and this relief ? 
 A spy inform'd, Honour was there, 
 
 And did command in chief. 
 
 March, march (quoth I) ; the word straight give. 
 Let 's lose no time, but leave her ; 
 
 That giant upon air will live. 
 And hold it out for ever. 
 
 To such a place our camp remove 
 
 As will no siege abide ; 
 I hate a fool that starves for love, 
 
 Only to feed her pride. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 Out upon it, I have lov'd 
 Three whole days together ; 
 
 And am like to love three more. 
 If it prove fair weather. 
 
 Time shall moult away his wings. 
 
 Ere he shall discover 
 In the whole wide world again 
 
 Such a constant lover. 
 
 But the spite on 't is, no praise 
 
 Is duo at all to me ; 
 Love with me had made no stays. 
 
 Had it any been but she. 
 
 Had it any been but she 
 
 And that very face. 
 There had been at least ere tliis 
 
 A dozen in her place. 
 
 -g> 
 
cQ- 
 
 I PRYTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. 
 
 l(jl 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I PRYTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEAET- 
 
 I PRYTIIEE send me back my heart. 
 
 Since I caiiuot have thine ; 
 For if from yours you will not part, 
 
 Why then shouldst thou have mine ? 
 
 Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, 
 
 To find it were in vain ; 
 For thou 'st a thief in either eye 
 
 Would steal it back again. 
 
 Wliy should two hearts in one breast lie, 
 And yet not lodge together ? 
 
 love ! where is thy sympathy. 
 If thus our breasts thou sever ? 
 
 But love is such a mystery, 
 
 I cannot find it out ; 
 For when I think I 'm best resolv'd, 
 
 I then am in most doubt. 
 
 Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 
 
 I will no longer pine ; 
 For I 'U believe I have her heart 
 
 As much as she has mine. 
 
 WHY SO PALE AHD WAN, FOND LOVER I 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover ! 
 
 Prythee why so pale 'i 
 Will, when looking well can't move her. 
 
 Looking ill prevail ? 
 
 Prythee why so pale ? 
 
 Wliy so duU and mute, young sinner ! 
 
 Prj'thee why so muto ? 
 Will, when speaking well can't win her. 
 
 Saying nothing do 't ? 
 
 Prythee why so mute ? 
 
 Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move. 
 
 This cannot take her ; 
 II' of herself she will not love, 
 
 Nothing can make her : — 
 
 The devil take her ! 
 
 A WOMAN'S FACE. 
 
 Her face is like the milky way i' the sky, 
 A meeting of gentle lights without a name. 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 1589(0-1639(1). 
 
 ASK ME NO MORE WHERE JOVE BESTOWS. 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
 "Wlien June is past, the fading rose ; 
 
 For in your beauties' orient deep 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
 
 Ask me no more whither do stray 
 The golden atoms of the day ; 
 For in pure love heaven did prepare 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth haste 
 The nightingale when ]\Iay is past ; 
 For in your sweet dividing throat 
 She winters, and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more if east or west 
 The PluEnix builds her spicy nest ; 
 For unto you at last she flies, 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies ! 
 
 THE COMPLIMENT. 
 
 I DO not love thee for that fair 
 Rich fan of thy most curious hair ; 
 Though the wires thereof be drawn 
 Finer than the threads of lawn. 
 And are softer than the leaves 
 On which the subtle spider weaves. 
 
 I do not love thee for those flowers 
 Growing on thy cheeks (love's bowers) ; 
 Though such cunning them hath spread, 
 None can paint them white and I'cd : 
 Love's golden arrows thence are shot. 
 Yet for them I love thee not. 
 
 I do not love thee for those soft 
 Red coral lips I 've kiss'd so oft ; 
 Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard 
 To speech, whence music still is heard ; 
 Though from those Ups a kiss being taken. 
 Might tyrants melt, and death awaken. 
 
 I do not love thee, my fairest ! 
 For that richest, for that rarest 
 Silver pillar, which stands under 
 Thy sound head, that globe of wonder ; 
 Though that neck be winter far 
 Than towers of polish'd ivory are. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Would you know what 's soft ? I dare 
 Not bring you to the down or air ; 
 Nor to stars to show what 's bright, 
 Nor to snow to teach you white. 
 
 Nor, if you would music liear, 
 Call the orbs to take your ear ; 
 Nor to please your sense bring forth 
 Bruised nard or what 's more worth. 
 
 ^ 
 
ca- 
 
 162 
 
 CAREW. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Or on food were your thoughts plao'd, 
 Bring you nectar, for a taste : 
 Would you have all these in one, 
 Name my mistress, and 't is done. 
 
 DISDAIN RETURNED. 
 
 He that loves a rosy elieek. 
 
 Or a coral lip admires. 
 Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
 Gentle tlioughts and cahn desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combiued. 
 Kindle never-dying fires. 
 
 Wiere these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
 
 No tears, Celia, now shall win 
 My resolv'd heart to return ; 
 
 I have searcli'd thy soul within, 
 
 And find naught but pride and scorn ; 
 
 I have learn'd tliy arts, and now 
 
 Can disdain as much as thou. 
 
 Some power, in my revenge, convey 
 
 That love to her I cast away. 
 
 GIVE ME MORE LOVE, OR MORE DISDAIN. 
 
 Give me more love, or more disdain; 
 
 The torrid or the frozen zone 
 Brings equal ease unto my pain ; 
 
 The temperate affords me none ; 
 Either extreme, of love or hate. 
 Is sweeter than a calm estate. 
 
 Give me a storm ; if it be love. 
 
 Like Danae in a golden shower. 
 I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
 
 Disdain, tliat torrent will devour 
 My vulture-hopes ; and he 's possess'd 
 Of heaven that 's but from heU released : 
 Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
 Give me more love, or more disdain. 
 
 LET FOOLS GREAT CUPID'S YOKE DISDAIN. 
 
 Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain, 
 Ijoving their own wild freedom better ; 
 
 Whilst, proud of my triumpliant eiiain, 
 I sit and court my beauteous fetter. 
 
 Her murdering glances, snaring hairs. 
 And her bewiteliing smiles so please me. 
 
 As /w brings ruin, //in/ repairs 
 
 Tlie sweet aflliet inns that disease me. 
 
 Hide not those panting balls of snow 
 With envious veOs from my beholding ; 
 
 Unlock those Hps, their pearly row 
 In a sweet smile of love unfolding. 
 
 And let those eyes, whose motion wheels 
 
 The restless fate of every lover. 
 Survey the pains my sick heart feels, 
 
 And wounds, themselves have made, discover. 
 
 APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 Now tliat the winter's gone, the earth hath lost 
 Her suow-wiiite robes, and now no more the frost 
 Candies the grass, or calls an icy cream 
 Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream ; 
 But the warm sun thaws the beuumb'd earth. 
 And makes it tender ; gives a sacred birth 
 To the dead swallow ; wakes in hollow tree 
 The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee ; 
 Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring 
 In triumph to the world the youthful spring. 
 The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich aiTay, 
 Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May. 
 Now all things smile. 
 
 PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 
 
 Think not, 'cause men flatt'riug say, 
 
 Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May, 
 
 Bright as is the morning star. 
 
 That you are so ; or, though you are. 
 
 Be not therefore proud, and deem 
 
 All men unworthy your esteem ; 
 
 Nor let brittle beauty make 
 
 You your wiser thoughts forsake : 
 
 For that lovely face will fail ; 
 
 Beauty 's sweet, but beauty 's frail ! 
 
 'T is sooner past, 't is sooner done. 
 
 Than summer's rain or winter's sun ; 
 
 Most fleeting when it is most dear; 
 
 'T is gone while we but say — 't is here. 
 
 These curious locks, so aptly twin'd. 
 
 Whose every hair a soul doth bind. 
 
 Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
 
 White and cold as winter's snow. 
 
 That eye. which now is Cui)id's nest. 
 
 Will prove his grave, and all the rest 
 
 Will follow; in the check, chin, nose. 
 
 Nor lily shall be found, nor rose; 
 
 And what will then become of all 
 
 Those whom now you servants call? 
 
 Like swallows, when your .summer's done, 
 
 They '11 fly, and seek some wanner sun. 
 
 Then wisely choose one to your friend 
 
 Wiose love may (when your beauties end) 
 
 Remain still firm ; be provident, 
 
 And (hink, before the summer's spent. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 AN EPITAPH UPON A CHILD. 
 
 163 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Of following winter ; like the ant, 
 
 In plenty hoard for time of scant. 
 
 Fur when the storms of Time have moved 
 
 Waves on that cheek which was beloved ; 
 
 When a fair lady's face is pin'd, 
 
 And yellow spread where red once shin'd ; 
 
 A\'licn beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her, 
 
 Love may return, but lovers never : 
 
 And old folks say there are no pains 
 
 Like itch of love in aged veins. 
 
 C) love me then, and now begin it, 
 
 Let us not lose this present minute ; 
 
 For time and age will work that wrack 
 
 AVliich time or age shall ne'er call back. 
 
 The snake each year fresh skin resumes, 
 
 And eagles change their aged plumes ; 
 
 The faded rose, each spring, receives 
 
 A fresh red tincture on her leaves : 
 
 But if your beauties once decay, 
 
 You never know a second May. 
 
 ( ), then, be wise, and whilst your season 
 
 Allbrds you days for sport, do reason ; 
 
 Spend not in vain your life's short hour. 
 
 But crop in time your beauties' flower. 
 
 Which will away, and doth together 
 
 Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 1591-1674. 
 
 DPON JULIA'S KECOVEET. 
 
 Droop, droop no more, or hang the head, 
 Ye roses almost withered I 
 Now strength, and newer purple get, 
 Each here declining violet ! 
 Primroses ! let this day be 
 A resurrection unto ye ; 
 And to all flowers ally'd in blood, 
 Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood : 
 For health on Julia's cheek hath shed 
 Clarrct and creame commingled : 
 And those her lips doe now appeare 
 As beames of oorrall, but more cleare. 
 
 THE ROCK OF EUBIES i AND THE QUAEEIE OF 
 
 PEARLS, 
 
 Some ask'd me where the rubies grew. 
 
 And nothing I did say, 
 But with my finger pointed to 
 
 The lips of Julia. 
 
 Si)me nsk'd how pearls did grow, and where. 
 Then spoke I to my girlo, 
 
 To part her Ups, and shew'd them there 
 The quarelets of pearl. 
 
 One ask'd me where the roses grew, 
 
 I bade him not go seek ; 
 But forthwith bade my Julia show 
 
 A bud in either check. 
 
 TO ROBIN RED-BREST. 
 
 Laid out for dead, let thy last kinduesse be 
 With leaves and mosse-work for to cover me ; 
 And while the wood-uimphs my cold coi-ps inter, 
 Sing thou my dirge, sweet- warbling chorister ! 
 For epitaph, in foUage, next write this : — 
 Here, here the tomb of Robin Herrick is. 
 
 DELIGHT DT DISORDER. 
 A SWEET disorder in the dresse 
 Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse. 
 A lawne about the shoulders tlirown 
 Into a fine distraction ; 
 An erring lace, which here and there 
 Entliralls the crimson stomacher ; 
 A cuffe neglectful!, and thereby 
 Ribbands to flow confusedly ; 
 A winning wave (deserving note) 
 In the tempestuous petticote ; 
 A carelesse shooe-string, in whose tye 
 I see a wilde civility ; — 
 Doe more bewitch me then when art 
 Is too precise in every part. 
 
 THE BAG OF THE BEE. 
 
 About the sweet bag of a bee, 
 
 Two cupids fell at odds ; 
 And whose the pretty prize shu'd be, 
 
 They vow'd to ask the gods. 
 
 Wliich Venus hearing, thither came, 
 And for their boldness stript them ; 
 
 And taking thence from each his flame. 
 With rods of myrtle wliipt them. 
 
 Which done, to still their wanton cries, 
 Wlien quiet grown sh'ad seen them. 
 
 She kist and wip'd their dove-like eyes, 
 And gave the bag between them. 
 
 AH EPITAPH UPON A CHILD. 
 
 Virgins promis'd when I dy'd. 
 That they wo'd each primrose-tide, 
 Duely, morne and ev'ning, come, 
 And with flowers dresse my tomb. 
 Having promis'd, pay your debts. 
 Maids, ami here strew violets. 
 
 -g^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 1(J4 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 COKINNA'S GOING A MAYING. 
 
 Get np, get up for shame, the blooming raorne 
 Upon her wings presents the god unshorue. 
 See how Aurora throwes her fuire 
 Fresh-quilted colours through the aire ! 
 Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, aud see 
 The dew-bespaugling herbe aud tree. 
 Eaeh flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, 
 Above an houre since ; yet you not drest. 
 Nay ! not so much as out of bed ? 
 When all the birds have mattens seyd, 
 And sung their thankful hyinnes, 't is sin, 
 Nay, profanation to keep in, 
 When as a thousand virgins on tliis day. 
 Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 
 
 Rise, and put on your foliage, aud be scene 
 To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh aud 
 greene 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 For jewels for your gowne or haire. 
 Feare not ; the leaves will strew 
 Gemms in abundance upon you. 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. 
 Against you come, some orient pearls \mwept : 
 Come, and receive them while the hght 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, 
 And Titan on the eastern liill 
 Retires himselfe, or else stands still 
 Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be bricfe 
 
 in praying : 
 Few beads are best, when once we goe a Maying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come ; and comming, marke 
 
 How each field turns a street, each street a parke 
 Made green, and triram'd with trees : see 
 
 how 
 Devotion gives eaeh house a bough 
 Or branch : each poreh, eaeh doore, ere this, 
 An arke, a tabernacle is. 
 
 Made up of white-thorn neatly enterwove ; 
 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 Can such delights be in the street 
 And open fields, and we not sec 't ? 
 Come, we '11 abroad ; and let 's obay 
 The proclamation made for May, 
 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; 
 
 ]5ut, my Corinna, come, let 's goe a Maying. 
 
 There's not a budding boy, or girlc, this day. 
 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
 A dcalc of youth, ore this, is come 
 Back, and with white-tliom laden home. 
 Some have dispatcht their cakes and creame. 
 Before that we have left to drcamc : 
 
 And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted 
 troth, 
 
 And chose their priest, ere wc can cast off sloth. 
 
 Many a greene-gown has been given ; 
 
 Many a kisse, both odde and even ; 
 
 Many a glance too has been sent 
 
 From out the eye, love's firmament ; 
 Many a jest told of the keyes betraying 
 This night, and locks pickt, yet w' are not a 
 Maying. 
 
 Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime, 
 And take the harnilesse foUie of the time. 
 We shall grow old apace, and die 
 Before we know our liberty. 
 Our hfe is short, and our dayes run 
 As fast away as do's the sunne ; 
 And as a vapour, or a drop of raine. 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found againe. 
 So when or you or I are made 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 
 All love, all liking, all delight, 
 Lies drown'd with us in endlessc night. 
 Then while time serves, and we are but decay- 
 ing; _ 
 Come, my Corinna, come, let 's goe a Maying. 
 
 UPON A CHILD THAT DYED, 
 
 Here she hes, a pretty bud. 
 Lately made of flesh and blood : 
 Who as soone fell fast asleep. 
 As her little eyes did peep. 
 Give her strewings, but not stir 
 The earth that lightly covers her. 
 
 TO MUSIQtJE, TO BECALME HIS FEVEE. 
 
 Charm me asleep, and melt me so. 
 
 With thy dehcious numbers. 
 That being ravisht, hence 1 goe 
 Away in easie slumbers. 
 Ease my sick head. 
 And make my bed. 
 Thou power that eanst sever 
 From me this ill. 
 And quickly still, 
 Though thou not kill. 
 My fever. 
 
 Thou sweetly eanst convert the saiue 
 
 From a consuming fire, 
 Lito a gentle-licking flame. 
 And make it thus expire. 
 Then make mc weep 
 My paines asleep. 
 And give me such reposes. 
 That I, poorc I, 
 May think thereby, 
 I hve and die 
 'Mongst roses. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 TO VIOLETS. — TO MEDDOWES. 
 
 165 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Fall on me like a silent dew, 
 
 Or like those maiden showrs, 
 Wliieh, by tlie peepe of day, doe strew 
 A baptisme o're the llowers. 
 Melt, melt my paiues, 
 With thy soft straines, 
 That having ease me given, 
 With full deUght, 
 I leave tliis light. 
 And take my flight 
 Per heaven. 
 
 TO VIOLETS. 
 
 Welcome, maids of honour ! 
 
 You doe bring 
 
 In the Spring, 
 And wait upon her. 
 
 She has virgins many 
 
 Fresh and faire ; 
 
 Yet you are • 
 
 More sweet than any. 
 
 Y'are the maiden posies, 
 
 And so grac't. 
 
 To be plac't 
 'Fore damask roses. 
 
 Yet though thus respected, 
 
 By and by 
 
 Ye doe he, 
 Poore girles ! neglected. 
 
 TO MUSICK, A SONG. 
 
 MusicK, thou queen of heaven, care-cliarming 
 spel, 
 That striketh stiUnesse into hell ; 
 Thou that tam'st tygers, and fierce storms that 
 rise, 
 With thy soule-melting luUabies ; 
 Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming 
 
 spheres, 
 To charme our soules as thou enchant'st our eares. 
 
 TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME, 
 
 Gatuee ye rose-buds while ye may. 
 
 Old time is still a flying. 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day. 
 
 To-morrow will be dying. 
 
 The glorious lamp of Heaven, the sun. 
 
 The higher he 's a getting. 
 The sooner will his race be run. 
 
 And neerer he 's to setting. 
 
 That age is best which is the first, 
 When youth and blood are warmer ; 
 
 But being s])eut, the worse, and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time, 
 And while ye may, goe marry ; 
 
 For having lost but once your prime, 
 You may for ever tarry. 
 
 TO PRIMKOSES FILL'D WITH MORNING DEW. 
 
 WuY doe ye weep, sweet balies? can tears 
 Speak griefe in you, 
 Who were but borne 
 Just as the modest morne 
 Teem'd her refreshing dew ? 
 ALos, you have not known that shower 
 That niarrcs a flower ; 
 Nor felt th' unkind 
 Breath of a blasting wind ; 
 Nor are ye worne with yeares, 
 
 Or warpt, as we. 
 Who think it strange to see 
 Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young 
 To speak by teares before ye have a tongue. 
 
 Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known 
 The reason why 
 Ye droop and weep. 
 Is it for want of sleep. 
 Or childish lullabie ? 
 Or that ye have not seen as yet 
 The violet? 
 Or brought a kisse 
 From that sweet-heart to this ? — 
 No, no, this sorrow shown 
 
 By your teares shed, 
 Wo'd have this lecture read : 
 That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
 Couceiv'd with grief are and with teares brought 
 forth. 
 
 TO MEDDOWES. 
 
 Ye have been fresh and green. 
 Ye have been fill'd with flowers ; 
 
 And ye the walks have been 
 
 'WTiere maids have spent their houres. 
 
 You have beheld how they 
 With wicker arks did come, 
 
 To kisse and beare away 
 The richer couslips home. 
 
 Y'ave heard them sweetly sing, 
 And seen them in a round : 
 
 Each virgin, like a spring. 
 With hony-succles crown'd. 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 IGG 
 
 HERE.ICK. 
 
 ■*-85 
 
 4 
 
 But now ■vre see uone lie re 
 Wliose silv'rie feet did tread, 
 
 And with dislievcll'd hairc, 
 Adoni'd tliis smoother mead. 
 
 Like unthrifts, having spent 
 Your stock and needy grown, 
 
 Y' are left here to lament 
 Y'our poor estates, alone. 
 
 TO AUTHEA, WHO MAT COMMAND HIM ASY 
 THINQ. 
 
 Bid me to live, and I will hve 
 
 Thy protestant to be : 
 Or bid me love, and I will give 
 
 A loving heart to thee. 
 
 A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 
 
 A heart as sound and free 
 As in the whole world thou eanst find. 
 
 That heart I '11 give to thee. 
 
 Bid that heart stay, and it wiU stay. 
 
 To honour thy decree : 
 Or bid it languish quite away. 
 
 And 't shall doc so for thee. 
 
 Bid me to weep, and I will weep, 
 
 IVhile I have eyes to see : 
 And having none, yet I will keep 
 
 A heart to weep for thee. 
 
 Bid me despaire, and I 'U dcspaire. 
 
 Under that cypresse tree : 
 Or bid me die, and I will dare 
 
 E'en death, to die for thee. 
 
 Thou art my Ufe, my love, my heart. 
 
 The very eyes of me. 
 And hast eommand of every part, 
 
 To hve and die for thee. 
 
 UPON A CHILD. AN EPITAPH. 
 
 But borne, and hke a short delight, 
 I gUded by my parents sight. 
 Tliat done, the liardcr fates deny'd 
 My longer stay, and so I dy'd. 
 If, pittying my sad parents tearcs. 
 You '1 spil a tear or two with theirs. 
 And with some tlowrs my grave bestrew, 
 Love and they '1 thank you for 't. Adieu. 
 
 TO DAFFADILLS. 
 
 Eaibe Daffadills, we weep to see 
 I'ou liastc away so soone : 
 
 As yet the early-rising sim 
 Has not attain'd his noone. 
 
 Stay, stay. 
 Until the hasting day 
 
 Has run 
 But to the even song ; 
 And, having pray'd together, we 
 Will goe with you along ! 
 
 We have short time to stay as you. 
 
 We have as short a spruig ; 
 As quiek a growth to meet decay, 
 As you, or any thing. 
 We die, 
 As your hours doe, and drie 
 
 Away 
 Like to the summers raine. 
 Or as the pearles of morning's dew 
 Ne'r to be found againe. 
 
 TO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Faire pledges of a fruitful! tree, 
 
 •Why do yee fall so fast ? 
 
 Your date is not so past, 
 But you may stay yet here a while, 
 
 To blush and gently smile, 
 And go at last. 
 
 Wliat, were yee borne to be 
 An houre or half's delight. 
 And so to bid goodnight ? 
 
 'T was pitie nature brought yee forth 
 Meerly to shew your worth. 
 And lose you quite. 
 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne'r so brave ; 
 
 And after they have shown tlieir pride. 
 Like you, a wliile, they glide 
 Into the grave. 
 
 UPON HER FEET. 
 
 Her pretty feet 
 Like snailcs did creep 
 
 A httle out, and then, 
 As if they played at l)o.pocp, 
 
 Did soon draw in ngen. 
 
 THE PEIMEOSE 
 
 AsKE me why I send you here 
 This sweet infanta of the yeere? 
 
 Aske mc why I send U) you 
 This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew' 
 
 I wdl whisper to your cares, 
 1 he sweets of love arc niixt with tears. 
 
 # 
 
a- 
 
 THE NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA. — TO EINDE GOD. 
 
 1G7 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 Ask me why this flower do's show 
 So yellow-green, and sickly too ? 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak 
 And heudiug, yet it doth not break ? 
 
 I will answer, these discover 
 What fainting hopes are in a lover. 
 
 THE NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULU, 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 
 The shooting starres attend thee ; 
 
 And the elves also, 
 
 ^Vhose httle eyes glow 
 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 
 
 No Will o' th' Wispe mis-light thee, 
 Nor snake or slow-worme bite thee ; 
 
 But on, on thy way. 
 
 Not making a stay. 
 Since ghost ther's none to affright thee. 
 
 Let not the darke thee cumber 
 What though the moon do's slumber ? 
 The starres of the night. 
 Will lend thee their light, 
 Like tapers cleare without number. 
 
 Then Julia let me wooe thee, 
 Thus, tluis to come unto me ; 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silv'ry feet. 
 My soule I 'U pour into thee. 
 
 UPON A CHILD, 
 
 Here a pretty baby lies 
 Sung asleep with lullabies : 
 Pray be silent, and not stirre 
 Th' easie earth that covers her. 
 
 UPON JULIl'S CLOTHES. 
 
 When as in silks my Julia goes, 
 
 Then, then, me tliinks, how sweetly flowes 
 
 That liquefaction of her clothes. 
 
 Next, when I east mine eyes and see 
 That brave vibration, each way free, 
 O how that glittering taketh me ! 
 
 UPON BEN JONSON. 
 
 Here lyes Jonson with the rest 
 
 Of the poets, b.ut the best. 
 
 Reader, wo'dst thou more have known ? 
 
 Aske his story, not this stone. 
 
 That will speake what this can't teU 
 
 Of his glory : so farewell. 
 
 A BACCHANALLiN VEESE. 
 
 Fill me a mighty bowle 
 Up to the brim. 
 That I may drink 
 
 Unto my Jonsons soule. 
 
 Crowne it agen, agen, 
 
 And thrice repeat 
 That happy heat. 
 
 To drink to thee, my Ben. 
 
 Well I can quaffe, I see. 
 To th' number five. 
 Or nine ; but thrive 
 
 In frenzie ne'r Uke thee. 
 
 AN ODE rOR HIM. 
 An Ben! 
 Say how or when 
 Shall we thy guests 
 Meet at those lyrick feasts 
 
 Made at the Sun, 
 
 The Dog, the triple Tunne ? 
 
 Where we such clusters had 
 
 As made us nobly wild, not mad ; 
 
 And yet each verse of thine 
 
 Out-did the meate, out-did the frolick wine. 
 
 My Ben ! 
 Or come agen. 
 Or send to us 
 Thy wits great over-plus ; 
 
 But teach us yet 
 
 Wisely to husband it ; 
 
 Lest we that tallent spend. 
 
 And having once brought to an end 
 
 That precious stock, the store 
 
 Of such a wit the world sho'd have no more. 
 
 TO FINDE GOD. 
 
 Weigh me the fire ; or canst thou find 
 A way to measure out the wind ; 
 Distinguish all those floods that are 
 Mixt in that watrie theater. 
 And fast thou them as saltlesse there. 
 As in their ehannell first they were ; 
 Tell me the people that do keep 
 Within the kingdomes of the deep ; 
 Or fetch me back that cloud agauie, 
 Beshiver'd into seeds of raine ; 
 Tell me tlie motes, dust, sands, and speares 
 Of corn, when summer sliakes his eares ; 
 Shew me that world of starres, and whence 
 They noiselessc spill their influence : 
 This if thou canst, then shew me him 
 That rides the glorious cherubim. 
 
 ■w 
 
eft- 
 
 1G8 
 
 QUAllLE; 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 -^-05 
 
 HIS PRAYER rOE, ABSOLUTION, 
 
 For those ray uubaptized rhimes, 
 
 Writ in my wild unhallowed times ; 
 
 ror every sentence, clause, and word, 
 
 That 's not inlaid witli Thee, my Lord, 
 
 Torgive me, God, and blot each line 
 
 Out of my book, that is not thine. 
 
 But if, 'mongst all, thou fmd'st here one 
 
 Worthy thy benediction. 
 
 That one of all the rest shall be 
 
 The glory of my work and me. 
 
 FRANCIS aUARLES. 
 
 1693-1644. 
 
 MORS TUA. 
 
 Can he be fair, that witliers at a blast? 
 Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast? 
 Can lie.be wise, that kuows not how to Uve? 
 Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give? 
 Can he be young, that 's feeble, weak, and wan? 
 So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man. 
 So fair is man, tliat death fa parting blast) 
 Blasts his fair llowcr, and makes him earth at last; 
 So strong is man, that with a gasping breath 
 He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death ; 
 So wise is man, that if with death he strive, 
 His wisdom caimot teach him how to hve ; 
 So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid) 
 His wealth 's the winding-sheet wherein he 's laid ; 
 So young is man, that, broke with care and soitow, 
 He 's old enough to-day, to die to-morrow : 
 Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five feet 
 
 long? 
 Thou 'rt lU'itiier fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor 
 
 rich, nor young. 
 
 DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. 
 
 I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the eai-th ; 
 She is my Maker's creature ; therefore good ; 
 She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
 She is my tender nurse — she gives mc food ; 
 
 But what 's a creature. Lord, compared with 
 thee? 
 
 Or what 's my mother, or my nurse to me ? 
 
 1 love the air : her dainty sweets refresh 
 
 My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite mc ; 
 
 Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains mc with their 
 flesh. 
 
 And with their polyphonian notes dehght. mo : 
 But what 's the air or all the sweets that she 
 Can bless my soul withal, compared to tlicc ? 
 
 In having aU things, and not thee, what have I ? 
 
 Not having thee, what have my labours got ? 
 
 Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? 
 
 And having thee alone, what have I not ? 
 1 wish nor sea nor land ; nor would I be 
 Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 And what 's a life ? — a weary pilgrimage, 
 Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
 With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 
 
 And what 's a life ? — the flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
 Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. 
 
 Read on this dial, how the shades devour 
 
 My short-lived winter's day ! hour eats up hour ; 
 
 Alas ! the total 's but from eight to four. 
 
 Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made, 
 
 Fair copies of my Ufe, and open laid 
 
 To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade ! 
 
 Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon ; 
 My non-aged day already points to noon ; 
 How simple is my suit ! — how small my boon ! 
 
 Nor do I beg this slender inch to wde 
 The time away, or falsely to beguile 
 My thoughts with joy: here 's nothing worth a 
 smile. 
 
 oXKo 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 1593-1633. 
 
 THE CHURCH PORCH. 
 
 PERIKRHANTERIUM. 
 
 Thotj whose sweet youth and early hopes inhance 
 Tliy rate and price, and mark thee Un a treasure, 
 Hearken unto a Verser, who may chance 
 Rvme thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure : 
 
 A verse may flnde him who a sermon flies. 
 
 And turn dcliglit into a sacrifice. 
 » * • 
 
 Yet, if thou sinne in wine or wantonnessc. 
 Boast not thereof; nor make thy sliame tliy glorie. 
 Fraillic gets pardon by submissiveiicsse ; 
 But he that boasts, shuts tliat out of his storic; 
 
 He m,-ikes flat warrc wilh.fiod, and dotli defie 
 
 Willi Ills poore clod of eartb the spacious sky. 
 
 Take not His name, wlio made thy mouth, in vain : 
 It gets thee nothing, and liath no excuse. 
 
 fr 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE CHUKCH PORCH. 
 
 169 
 
 ■fO 
 
 Lust and wine plead a pleasure ; avarice, gain ; 
 
 Hut the cheap swearer, tlirough his open shice, 
 Lets liis soul runne for nought, as little fearing : 
 Were I an epicure, I eould bate swearing. 
 
 When tliou dost tell anothers jest, therein 
 Omit the oathes, which true wit cannot need : 
 Pick out of tales the mirth, but not the sirme. 
 He pares his apple, that will cleanly feed. 
 Play not away the vertue of that name,* 
 Which is the best stake, when griefs make thee 
 tame. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Wlien thou dost purpose ouglit (witliiu thy 
 
 power), 
 Be sure to doe it, though it be but small : 
 Constancie knits the bones, and makes us stowre, 
 Wlien wanton pleasures beckon us to tin-all. 
 Who breaks his own bond, forfeitetli himself: 
 Wliat nature made a sliip, he makes a shelf. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Slight those who say, amidst tlieir sickly licalths. 
 Thou liv'st by rule. Wliat doth not so, but man ? 
 Houses are built by rule, and common-wealths. 
 Entice the trusty sunne, if that you can. 
 
 From his ecliptick line ; beoken the skie. 
 
 Who lives by rule, then, keeps good companie. 
 
 Wlio keeps no guard upon himself is slack, 
 Ajid rots to nothing at the next great tliaw. 
 Man is a shop of rules, a well-truss'd pack. 
 Whose every parcell under-writes a law. 
 
 Lose not thyself, nor give thy humours way : 
 God gave them to thee under lock and key. 
 
 By all means use sometimes to be alone. 
 
 Salute thyself : see what thy soul doth wear. 
 
 Dare to look in thy chest ; for 't is thine own ; 
 
 And t\imble up and down what thou find'st tlicre. 
 Wiio cannot rest tiU he good fellows finde, 
 He breaks up house, turns out of doores his 
 minde. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Never exceed thy income. Youth may make 
 Ev'n witli the yeare ; but age, if it will hit, 
 Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stake. 
 As the day lessens, and his life with it. 
 
 Tliy children, kmdred, friends, upon thee call; 
 
 Before thy journey, fairly part with all. 
 
 Yet in thy thriving still misdoubt some evil ; 
 Lest gaining gain on thee, and make thee dimme 
 To all things els. Wealth is the conjurer's 
 
 devil ; 
 Whom when he thinks he hath, the devil hath 
 liim. 
 Gold tliou niayst safely touch ; but, if it stick 
 Unto thy hands, it woundeth to the quick. 
 * That of a Christian. 
 
 ^- 
 
 Wliat skills it, if a bag of stones or gold 
 
 About tliy neck do drown thee? raise thy licad; 
 
 Take starres for money ; starres not to be told 
 
 By any art, yet to be purchased. 
 
 None is so wastefidl as the scrajiing dame : 
 She loseth tliree for one ; her soul, rest, fame. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Pick out of mirth, like stones out of thy ground, 
 
 Profanenesse, fllthinesse, abusivcncssc. 
 
 These are the scumme, with whicli coarse wits 
 
 abound : 
 The fuie may spare these well, yet not go lesse. 
 AU things are bigge with jest: nothing that 's 
 
 plain 
 But may be wittie, if thou hast the vein. 
 
 Wit 's an unruly engine, wildly striking 
 Sometimes a friend, sometimes the engineer : 
 Hast thou the knack ? pamper it not with liking: 
 But, if thou want it, buy it not too deerc. 
 Many, affecting wit beyond their power. 
 Have got to be a deare fool for an houre, 
 
 * * * 
 Towards great persons use respective boldnesse : 
 That temper gives them theirs, and yet dotli take 
 Notliing from thine ; in service, care or colduesse 
 Doth ratably tliy fortmies marre or make. 
 
 Feed no man in his sinnes ; for adulation 
 Doth make thee parcell-devil in damnation. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Thy friend put in thy bosome : wear his eies 
 Still in thy heart, that he may see what 's there. 
 If cause require, thou art his sacrifice ; 
 Thy drops of bloud must pay down all his fear; 
 
 But love is lost ; the way of friendship 's gone ; 
 
 Tiiough David had his Jonatliau, Clirist his 
 John. 
 
 Yet be not surety, if thou be a father. 
 Love is a pcrsonall debt. I cannot give 
 My cliiklreiis right, nor ought he take it : rather 
 Both friends should die, tlian hinder tliem to 
 live. 
 
 Fathers first enter bonds to natures ends ; 
 
 And are her sureties, ere they are a friend's. 
 
 * * * 
 
 !Man is God's image ; but a poore man is 
 Christ's stamp to boot ; both images regard. 
 God reckons for him, counts the favour his ; 
 Write, So much giv'n to God; thou shalt be 
 heard. 
 Let thy almes go before, and keep lieav'ns 
 
 gate 
 Open for thee ; or both may come too late. 
 
 * * * 
 
 When once thy foot enters the church, be bare. 
 God is more there than thou ; for thou art tliere 
 Onely by his permission. Then beware, 
 And make thyself all reverence and fear. 
 
 * 
 
(&■ 
 
 170 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Kuceliag ne're spoil'd silk stocking : quit thy 
 
 state. 
 All cquall are within the churches gate. 
 
 Resort to sermons, but to prayers most : 
 Praying 's the end of preaching. O be drest ; 
 Stay not for th' other pin : why thou hast lost 
 A joy for it worth worlds. Tims hell doth jest 
 Away thy blessings, and extreamly flout thee, 
 Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose 
 about thee. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Judge not the preacher ; for he is thy judge : 
 If thou mislike Iiim, tliou eonceiv'st him not. 
 God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge 
 To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. 
 
 The worst speak sometliing good : if all want 
 sense, 
 
 God takes a text, and preacheth patience. 
 
 SINNE, 
 
 LoKD, with what care liast thou begirt us round ! 
 Parents first season us ; then schoolmasters 
 Deliver us to laws ; they send us bound 
 
 To rules of reason, holy messengers, 
 
 Pidpits and Sundayes, sorrow dogging sinne, 
 Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes. 
 Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, 
 
 Bibles laid open, miUions of surprises. 
 
 Blessings beforehand, tyes of gratefulnesse. 
 The sound of gloric ringing in our eares ; 
 Without, our shame; within, our consciences; 
 
 Angels and grace, eternall hopes and fears. 
 
 Yet all these fences, and their whole aray, 
 One cunning bosorae-sinne blows quite away. 
 
 PEATER, 
 
 Prater, the churches banquet, angels age, 
 Gods breath in man returning to his liirth, 
 Tlie soul in ])araplirase, heart in pilgrimage. 
 
 The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and 
 earth ; 
 
 Engine against th' Almightie, sinner's to'\vrp, 
 Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear. 
 The six-daies-world transposing in an houre, 
 
 A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear; 
 
 Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and hiissc. 
 Exalted manna, gladnesse of the best. 
 Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest. 
 
 The milkic way, the bird of Paradise, 
 
 Chureh-bels beyond the stars heard, the souls 
 
 bloud, 
 The land of spices, something understood. 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 O DAY most calm, most bright ! 
 The fruit of this, the next worlds bud ; 
 Th' indorsement of supreme delight. 
 Writ by a friend, and with Ids bloud ; 
 The couch of time ; cares balm and bay ; — 
 The week were dark, but for thy light ; 
 
 Thy torch doth show the way. 
 
 The other dayes and thou 
 Make up one man ; whose face thou art, 
 Knocking at heaven with thy brow : 
 The worky-daies are the back-part ; 
 The burden of the week lies there, 
 Making the whole to stoup and bow, 
 
 Till thy release appeare. 
 
 Man had straight forward gone 
 To endlesse death : but thou dost pull 
 And turn us round to look on one, 
 Whom, if we were not very dull. 
 We could not choose but look on still ; 
 Since there is no place so alone 
 
 The which he dotii not flU. 
 
 Sundaies the pillars are. 
 On which heav'ns palace arched lies : 
 The other dayes fill up the spare 
 And hollow room with vanities. 
 They are the fruitfull beds and borders 
 In Gods rich garden : that is bare 
 
 Which parts their ranks and orders. 
 
 The Sundaies of mans life, 
 Thredded together on times string. 
 Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
 Of the eternall, glorious King. 
 On Sunday, heavens gate stands ope ; 
 Blessings are plentifull and rife. 
 
 More plentifull than hope. 
 
 This day my Saviour rose. 
 And did inclose this light lor his : 
 That, as each beast his manger knows, 
 Jlan might not of his fodder misse. 
 Christ hath took in this pii'ce of ground. 
 And made a garden there for those 
 
 Who want herbs for their wound. 
 
 VANiriE. 
 
 The fleet astronomer can bore 
 And tliread the spheres witli his quick-piercing 
 miude ; 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 VEKTUE. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 171 
 
 -tb 
 
 He views their stations, walks from doore to 
 doore. 
 Surveys, as if he had design'd 
 To make a purchase there : he sees their dauces. 
 
 And knoweth, long before, 
 Both their fuU-ey'd aspects and secret glances. 
 
 The nimble diver with his side 
 Cuts through the working waves, that he may 
 
 fetch 
 His dearely-earned pearl, which God did hide 
 
 On purpose from the ventrous wretch ; 
 That he might save his life, and also hers 
 
 Who with excessive pride 
 Her own destruction and liis danger wears. 
 
 Tlie subtil chymick can devest 
 And strip the creature naked, till he finde 
 The callow' principles within their nest: 
 
 There he imparts to them his minde. 
 Admitted to their bed-chamber, before 
 
 They appeare trim and drest 
 To ordiuarie suitours at the doore. 
 
 What hath not man sought out and found. 
 But his deare God ? who yet his glorious law 
 Embosomes in us, mellowing the ground 
 
 With showers and frosts, with love and aw ; 
 So that we need not say. Where 's this co?Timand? 
 
 Poore man ! thou searchest round 
 To finde out death, but missest life at hand. 
 
 VEETUE. 
 
 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 
 The bridal of the earth and skie ; 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Rose, whose hue, angrie and brave. 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
 Thy root is ever in its grave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
 My musick shows ye have your closes, 
 And all inust die. 
 
 Onely a sweet and vertuous soul. 
 Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
 But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 I 
 
 My God, I heard this day, 
 That none doth build a stately habitation 
 
 I Uiifeathered. 
 
 But he that means to dwell therein. 
 Wliat house more stately hath there been. 
 Or can be, than is IVIan ? to whose creation 
 All things are in decay. 
 
 For Man is every thing 
 And more : lie is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 
 A beast, yet is, or should be, more : 
 Reason and speech we onely bring. 
 PaiTats may thank us, if they are not mute. 
 They go upon the score. 
 
 Man is all symmetric. 
 Full of proportions, one limbe to another. 
 And all to all the world besides : 
 Each part may call the farthest, brotlicr : 
 For head with foot hath private amitie. 
 And both with moons and tides. 
 
 Notliing hath got so farre. 
 But Man hath eauglit and kept it as his prey. 
 His eyes dismount the highest starre : 
 He is in little all the sphere. 
 Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 
 Finde their acquaintance there. 
 
 For us the windes do blow. 
 The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains 
 flow. 
 Nothing we see but means our good, 
 As our delight, or as our treasure : 
 The whole is either our cupboard of food, 
 Or cabinet of pleasure. 
 
 The starres have us to bed ; 
 Night draws the curtain, which the sunne with- 
 draws : 
 Musick and light attend our head. 
 All things unto our flesh are kinde 
 In their descent and being ; to our minde 
 In their ascent and cause. 
 
 Each thing is full of dutie : 
 Waters united are our navigation ; 
 Distinguished, our habitation ; 
 Below, our drink ; above, our meat : 
 Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such 
 beautie ? 
 Then how are all tilings neat ! 
 
 More servants wait on Man, 
 Tiian he '1 take notice of : in every path 
 
 He treads down that which doth befriend him, 
 When sicknesse makes him pale and wan. 
 O mightie love ! Man is one world, and hath 
 Another to attend him. 
 
 Since then, my God, thou hast 
 
 So brave a palace built, O dwell in it. 
 
 That it may dwell with thee at last ! 
 
 -^ 
 
c8— 
 
 172 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Till then, aiford us so much wit ; 
 That, as tlie world serves us, we may serve thee, 
 Aud butii thy servauts be. 
 
 LITE. 
 
 I MADE a posie, while the day ran by ; 
 Here wiU I smell my remnant out, and tie 
 
 My life withiu this band. 
 But time did becken to the flowers, and they 
 By noou most cunningly did steal away, 
 
 Aud wither'd in my hand. 
 
 My hand was next to them, aud then my heart ; 
 I took, without more thinking, in good part 
 
 Times gentle admonition ; 
 Who did so sweetly deaths sad taste convey, 
 Making my minde to smell my fatall day, 
 
 Yet sugring the suspicion. 
 
 Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye 
 
 spent, 
 Tit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament. 
 
 And after death for cures. 
 I follow straight without complaints or grief; 
 Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 
 
 It be as short as yours. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell ? I hum- 
 bly crave, 
 Let me once know. 
 I sought thee in a secret cave. 
 
 And ask'd if Peace were there. 
 A hollow wiude did seem to answer, No : 
 Go, seek elsewhere. 
 
 I did ; and, going, did a rainbow note : 
 Surely, tliought I, 
 This is the laee of Peaces coat : 
 I will search out the matter. 
 But, while 1 lookt, the clouds immediately 
 Did break and scatter. 
 
 Then weut I to a garden, and did spy 
 A gallant flower, 
 The crown imperiall : Sure, said I, 
 Peace at the root must dwell. 
 But, when I digg'd, I saw a worme devoure 
 What show'd so well. 
 
 At length I met a rev'rend good old man ; 
 Whom when for Peace 
 I did demand, he thus began : — 
 There was a Prince of old 
 At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase 
 Of flock and fold. 
 
 He sweetly liv'd ; yet sweetnesse did not save 
 His life from foes. 
 But, after death, out of his grave 
 
 There sprang twelve stalks of wheat : 
 Which many wondring at, got some of those 
 To plant aud set. 
 
 It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse 
 Through all the earth : 
 For they that taste it do rehearse. 
 That vertue lies therein ; 
 A secret vertue, bringing peace and mirth 
 By flight of sinne. 
 
 Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, 
 And grows for you : 
 Make bread of it ; and that r^-pose 
 And peace, which ev'ry where 
 With so much carnestnesse you do pursue. 
 Is only there. 
 
 THE PULLEY. 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 Having a glasse of blessings standing by, 
 Let lis, said he, poure on him all we can : 
 Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie. 
 
 Contract into a span. 
 
 So strength first made a way ; 
 Then beautie flow'd; then wisdome, honour, 
 
 pleasure : 
 TMien almost all was out, God made a stay, 
 Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure. 
 
 Rest in the bottome lay. 
 
 For if I should, said he. 
 Bestow this jewell also on my creature. 
 He would adore my gifts in stead of mc. 
 And rest in nature, not the God of nature ; 
 
 So both should losers be. 
 
 Yet let him keep the rest, 
 But keep them with repining restlessnesse : 
 Let him be rich and wearie, that at least. 
 If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse 
 
 May tosse him to my breast. 
 
 THE FLOWER, 
 
 How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean 
 Are thy returns ! ev'n as the flowers in spring; 
 
 To which, besides (lieir own demean. 
 The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
 Grief melts away 
 Like snow in May, 
 As if there were no such cold thing. 
 
 Wlio would have thought my shrivel'd heart 
 Could have rccover'd greennesse ? It was gone 
 
 -^-8^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE ELIXER. — MUSIC. 
 
 173 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Quite under ground ; as flowers depart 
 To see their mother-root, when they have blown ; 
 
 Whei-e they together, 
 
 All the hard weather, 
 Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 
 
 These are thy wonders, Lord of power, 
 Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell 
 
 And up to heaven in an houre ; 
 Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 
 We say amisse. 
 This or tliat is : 
 Thy word is all, if we could spell. 
 
 that I once past changing were, 
 
 Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither ! 
 
 Many a spring I shoot up fair, 
 Offring at heav'n, growing and groning tMther ; 
 Nor doth my flower 
 Want a spriug-showre, 
 My sinnes and I joining together. 
 
 But, while I grow in a straight line. 
 Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own. 
 
 Thy anger comes, and I decline : 
 What frost to that ? what pole is not the zone 
 Where all things burn, 
 "Wlien thou dost turn. 
 And the least frown of thine is shown ? 
 
 And now in age I bud again. 
 After so many deaths I live and write ; 
 
 1 once more smell the dew and rain. 
 And relish versing : O my onely light. 
 
 It cannot be 
 That I am he 
 On whom thy tempests fell all night. 
 
 These are thy wonders, Lord of love. 
 To make us see we are but flowers that glide ; 
 'HTiich when we once can finde and prove, 
 Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 
 Who would be more, 
 SweUuig through store, 
 Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 
 
 THE ELIXEE, 
 
 Teach me, my God and King, 
 In all things thee to see. 
 And wliat I do in any thing. 
 To do it as for thee : 
 
 Not rudely, as a beast, 
 To runne into an action ; 
 But still to make thee prepossest, 
 And give it his perfection. 
 
 A man that looks on glasse. 
 On it may stay his eye ; 
 Or, if he pleaseth, through it passe, 
 And then the heav'n espie. 
 
 AU may of thee partake : 
 Nothing can be so mean, 
 Which with liis tincture (for thy sake) 
 Will not grow bright and clean. 
 
 A servant with this clause 
 Makes drudgerie divine : 
 Wlio sweeps a room as for thy laws. 
 Makes that and th' action fine. 
 
 This is the famous stone 
 That turneth all to gold : 
 For that wliich God doth touch and own 
 Cannot for lesse be told. 
 
 WILLIAM STRODE. 
 
 1600-1644. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 When whispering strains with creeping wind 
 Distil soft passions through the heart; 
 And when at every touch we fmd 
 Our pulses beat and bear a part ; 
 
 When threads can make 
 
 A hcartstriug ache. 
 
 Philosophy 
 
 Can scarce deny 
 
 Our souls are made of harmony. 
 
 When unto heavenly joys we faine 
 Whate'er the soul affecteth most. 
 Which only thus we can explain 
 By music of the heavenly host ; 
 
 Wliose lays we tliink 
 
 Make stars to wink. 
 
 Philosophy 
 
 Can scarce deny 
 
 Our souls consist of harmony. 
 
 O, luU me, lull me, charming air ! 
 My senses rock with wonder sweet ; 
 Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
 Soft like a spirit's are thy feet ! 
 
 Grief who needs fear 
 
 That hath an ear ? 
 
 Down let him lie. 
 
 And slumbering die. 
 
 And change his soul for harmony. 
 
 ^ 
 
cfr 
 
 174 
 
 HABINGTOX. — DAVENANT. 
 
 -fb 
 
 fr 
 
 WILLIAM HABINGTON. 
 
 1605 - 1645. 
 
 DESCKIPTION OF CASTARA. 
 
 Like the violet which, alone, 
 
 Prospers in some happy shade, 
 
 My Castara lives unknown. 
 
 To no looser eye bctray'd. 
 For she 's to herself untrue, 
 Who delights i' the public view. 
 
 Such is her beauty, as no arts 
 Have enricli'd with borrow'd grace ; 
 Her high birth no pride imparts, 
 For she blushes in her place. 
 
 Folly boasts a glorious blood. 
 
 She is noblest, being good. 
 
 Cautious, she knew never yet 
 
 What a wanton courtsliip meant ; 
 
 Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit ; 
 
 In her silence eloquent : 
 Of herself survey she takes. 
 But 'tween men no difference makes. 
 
 She obeys with speedy will 
 Her grave parents' wise commands ; 
 And so innocent, that ill 
 She nor acts, nor understands : 
 Women's feet run still astray, 
 If once to ill they know the way. 
 
 She sails by that rock, the court. 
 Where oft honour spUts her mast ; 
 And retiredness thinks the port, 
 Where her fame may anchor cast : 
 Virtue safely cannot sit. 
 Where vice is enthron'd for wit. 
 
 She holds that day's pleasure best, 
 Wliere sin waits not on delight ; 
 Without masque, or ball, or feast. 
 Sweetly spends a winter's night : 
 O'er that darkness, whence is thrust 
 Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 
 
 She her throne makes reason climb. 
 While wild passions captive lie : 
 And, each article of time. 
 Her pure thoughts to heaven fly : 
 All her vows religious be. 
 And iier love she vows to me. 
 
 IMPARTIAL CONTEMPLATION OF LIFE. 
 
 Bi.oon is, too, 
 A price for glory : honour doth appear 
 To statesmen like a vision iu the night, 
 
 And juggler-like works o' the deluded sight. 
 
 The uubusied only wise : for no respect 
 
 Endangers them to error; they affect 
 
 Truth in her naked beauty, and behold 
 
 Man with an equal eye, nor briglit in gold 
 
 Or tall in title ; so much liim they weigh 
 
 As virtue raiseth him above his clay. 
 
 Thus let us value tilings: and since we find 
 
 Time bends us toward death, let 's in our niiiul 
 
 Create new youth ; and arm against tlu- nule 
 
 Assaults of age ; that no dull solitude 
 
 O' the country dead our thoughts, nor busy 
 
 care 
 O' the towne make us not thiuk, where now we 
 
 are 
 And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot 
 His journey, though his steps we numbered not. 
 
 TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTABA, 
 
 Ye blushing virgins happy are 
 In the chaste nunnery of her breasts, 
 For he 'd profane so chaste a fair, 
 ^\'hoc'er should call them Cupid's nests. 
 
 Transplanted thus how bright ye grow. 
 How rich a perfume do ye yield? 
 In some close garden, cowslips so 
 Are sweeter than i' the open field. 
 
 In tiiose white cloisters live secure 
 From the rude blasts of wanton breath, 
 Each hour more innocent and pure, 
 Till you shall wither into death. 
 
 Then that which living gave you room, 
 Your glorious sepulchre shaD be : 
 There wants no marble for a tomb, 
 Whose breast hath marble been to me. 
 
 o»io 
 
 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 
 
 1605-1668. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE TIRQDJ BIRTHA. 
 
 To Astragon, heaven for siiccession gave 
 One oidy l)ledge, and Birtha was her name, 
 
 Wliose mother slept where flowers grew on her 
 grave. 
 And she succeeded her in face and fame. 
 
 Her beauty princes durst not hope to use. 
 Unless, like poets, for their morning theme ; 
 
 And her mind's beauty they would nit her choose, 
 Which did the light in beauty's lanthorn seem 
 
 -w 
 
a- 
 
 TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 175 
 
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 fr 
 
 Slic ue'er saw courts, yet courts could have un- 
 done 
 
 With untaught looks, and an unpractised heart ; 
 Her nets, the most prepar'd could never shun, 
 
 Por nature spread them in the scorn of art. 
 
 She never had in busy cities been, 
 
 Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay'd with 
 fears ; 
 Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin ; 
 
 And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. 
 
 But here her father's precepts gave her skill. 
 Which with incessant business fiU'd the hours ; 
 
 In spring she gather'd blossoms for the still ; 
 In autumn, berries; and in summer, flowers. 
 
 And as kind nature, with calm diligence. 
 Her own free virtue silently employs. 
 
 Whilst she unheard, does ripening growth dis- 
 pense, 
 So were her virtues busy without noise. 
 
 Whilst her great mistress. Nature, thus she tends. 
 The busy household waits no less on her ; 
 
 By secret liiw, each to her beauty bends, 
 Tiiough all her lowly mind to that prefer. 
 
 Ciracious and free she breaks upon them all 
 With morniug looks ; and they, when she does 
 rise. 
 Devoutly at her dawn in homage fall, 
 
 And droop like flowers when evening shuts her 
 eyes. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Beneath a myrtle covert she does spend. 
 
 In maid's weak wishes, her whole stock of 
 thought ; 
 Fond maids ! who love with mind's fine stuff would 
 mend. 
 Which nature purposely of bodies wrought. 
 
 She fashions him she loved of angels' kind ; 
 
 Such as in holy story were employ'd 
 To the tirst fathers from the Eternal Mind, 
 
 And in short vision only are enjoy'd. 
 
 As eagles, then, when nearest heaven they fly. 
 Of wild impossibles soon weary grow ; 
 
 Feeling their bodies find no rest so high, 
 And therefore perch on earthly things below ; 
 
 So now she yields ; him she an angel deem'd 
 Shall be a man, the name which virgins fear ; 
 
 Yet the most harmless to a maid he seem'd, 
 That ever yet that fatal name did bear. 
 
 Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart. 
 
 Affection turns to faith ; and then love's fire 
 
 To heaven, though bashfully, she does impart. 
 And to her mother in the heaveiJy qidre. 
 
 " If I do love," said she, " that love, O Heaven! 
 
 Your o\ni disciple. Nature, bred in me ; 
 Why should I hide the passion you have given. 
 
 Or blush to show effects which you decree ? 
 
 "And you, my alter'd mother, grown above 
 Great Nature, which you read and revcrenc'd 
 here, 
 
 Chide not such kindness as you once call'd love, 
 When you as mortal as my father were." 
 
 This said, her soul into her breast retires ; 
 
 With love's vain diligence of heart she dreams 
 Herself into possession of desires. 
 
 And trusts unanehor'd hopes inflectingstreams. 
 
 She thinks of Eden-life ; and no rough wind 
 In their pacific sea shaU wrinkles make ; 
 
 That still her lowliness shall keep him kind, 
 Her ears keep him asleep, her voice awake. 
 
 She thinks, if ever anger in him sway 
 
 (The youthful warrior's most excus'd disease). 
 
 Such chance her tears shall calm, as showers allay 
 The accidental rage of winds and seas. 
 
 GotK^/hert. 
 
 THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WATEKT NEST. 
 
 The lark now leaves his watery nest. 
 And climbing shakes his dewy wings ; 
 
 He takes your window for the east, 
 And to implore your light, he sings, 
 
 Awake, awake, the morn will never rise. 
 
 Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 
 
 The merchant bows unto the seaman's star. 
 The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; 
 
 But still the lover wonders what they are, 
 Who look for day before his mistress wakes ; 
 
 Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn ! 
 
 Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. 
 
 TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 Fair as unshaded light, or as the day 
 In its first birth, when all the year was May ; 
 Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new 
 Unfolded bud, swell'd by the early dew; 
 Smooth as the face of waters first appcar'd. 
 Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard ; 
 Kind as the willing saints, and calmer far 
 Thau in their sleeps forgiven hermits are ; 
 You that are more than our disereeter fear 
 Dares praise, with such full art, wliat make you 
 
 here ? 
 Here, where the summer is so little seen. 
 That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach at 
 
 green ; 
 
 ■^ 
 
a— 
 
 176 
 
 CAREW. — WALLER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 You come, as if the silver planet were 
 Misled a while from her much injured sphere ; 
 And, t' ease the travels of her beams to-night. 
 In this small lauthoru would contract her liffht. 
 
 THE COQUET. 
 
 'T IS, in good truth, a most wonderful thing 
 
 (I am even ashamed to relate it) 
 That love so many vexations should bring, 
 
 And yet few have the wit to hate it. 
 
 Love's weather in maids should seldom hold fair ; 
 
 Like April's mine shall quickly alter ; 
 1 '11 give him to-night a lock of my hair, 
 
 To whom next day I '11 send a halter. 
 
 I cannot abide these malapert males, 
 Pirates of love, who know no duty ; 
 
 Yet love with a storm can take down their sails. 
 And they must strike to Admiral Beauty. 
 
 GEIEVE NOT TOK THE PAST. 
 
 Weep no more for what is past. 
 
 For time in motion makes such haste 
 
 He hath no leisure to descry 
 
 Those errors which he passeth by. 
 
 If wo consider accident, 
 
 And how repugnant unto sense 
 
 It pays desert with bad event. 
 We shall disparage Providence. 
 
 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 
 
 About 1613. 
 
 EEVEN&E OF DfJUKIES. 
 
 The fairest action of our human life 
 Is scorning to revenge an injury. 
 For who forgives without a further strife, 
 His adversary's heart to him doth tie. 
 And 't is a firmer conquest truly said, 
 To win the heart than overthrow the head. 
 
 If we a worthy enemy do find. 
 
 To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; 
 But if of baser metal be his mind. 
 
 In base revenge there is no honour won. 
 Who would a worthy courage overthrow. 
 And who wovdd wrestle with a worthless foe ? 
 
 i 
 
 Wo say our hearts are great, and cannot yield ; 
 ]5ecause tliey cannot yield, it proves them 
 
 Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, 
 liut seld ; 
 The weakest lion will the loudest roar. 
 Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, 
 High-heartedncss doth sometimes teach to bow. 
 
 A noble heart doth teach a virtuous sconi. 
 
 To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; 
 To scorn to be for benefits forborne; 
 To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong. 
 To scorn to bear an injury in mind; 
 To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. 
 
 But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have. 
 Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind ; 
 Do we his body from our fury save, 
 
 And let our hate prevail agaiust our mind r 
 What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be. 
 Than make his foe more worthy far than he ? 
 
 Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, 
 
 Slie woidd to Herod then have paid her love. 
 And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. 
 To fix her thoughts all injury above 
 Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, 
 Long famous life to her had been allow'd. 
 
 llariam. 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 1605-1687. 
 
 A PANEGYRIC TO THE LORD PBOTECTOE 
 I CROMWELL). 
 
 While with a strong and yet a gentle hand, 
 You bridle faction, and our hearts command, 
 Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, 
 Make us unite, and make us conquer too : 
 
 Let partial spirits still aloud complain, 
 Think tlicmselvcs injur'd that they cannot reign, 
 And own no liberty, but where they may 
 Without control upon their fellows prey. 
 
 Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face. 
 To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race ; 
 So has your highness, rais'd above the rest. 
 Storms of ambition, tossing us, represt. 
 
 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, 
 Rcstor'd by you, is made a glorious state ; 
 The scat of empire, where the Irish come. 
 And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom. 
 
 The sea 's our own : aiul now all nations greet, 
 ^Vith bending sails, each vessel of our ilect : 
 Your power extends as far as winds can blow. 
 Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. 
 
 -S^ 
 
f 
 
 A PANEGYRIC TO THE LORD PROTECTOR. 
 
 17 
 
 ;:^ 
 
 <e- 
 
 Heaven (that hath plac'd this island to give law, 
 To balance Europe, and her states to awe) 
 In this conjunction doth on Britain smile, 
 The greatest leader, and the greatest isle ! 
 
 Wliether this portion of tlie world were rent, 
 By the rude ocean, from the continent, 
 Or thus created ; it was sure design'd 
 To be the sacred refuge of mankind. 
 
 Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resort. 
 Justice to crave, and succour, at your court; 
 And then your higlmess, not for ours alone. 
 But for the world's protector shall be known. 
 
 Fame, swifter than your winged navy, flies 
 Through every land, tliat near the ocean lies ; 
 Sounding your name, and teUiug dreadful news 
 To all that piracy and rapine use. 
 
 With such a chief the meanest nation blest, 
 Might hope to lift her head above the rest: 
 What may be thought impossible to do 
 By us, embraced by the sea and you ? 
 
 Lords of tlie world's great waste, the ocean, we 
 Whole forests send to reign upon the sea ; 
 And every coast may trouble, or relieve : 
 But none can visit us without your leave. 
 
 Angels and we have tliis prerogative, 
 That none can at our happy seats amve : 
 While we descend at pleasure, to invade 
 The had with vengeance, and the good to aid. 
 
 Our little world, the image of the gi'eat. 
 Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set. 
 Of her own growth hath all that nature craves. 
 And all that 's rare, as tribute from the waves. 
 
 As Egypt does not on the clouds rely. 
 But to the Nile owes more than to the sky ; 
 So, what our Earth, and what our Heaven, de- 
 nies. 
 Our ever-constant friend, the sea, supplies. 
 
 The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know. 
 Free from the scorcliing sun that makes it grow : 
 Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine ; 
 And, without planting, drink of every vine. 
 
 To dig for wealth, we weary not our limbs ; 
 Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. 
 Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow. 
 We plough the deep, and reap what others sow. 
 
 Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds. 
 Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds : 
 Rome, though her eagle through the world had 
 
 flown. 
 Could never make this island all her own. 
 
 Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince 
 
 too, 
 France-conquering Henry flourish'd, and now 
 
 you; 
 For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state. 
 Till Alexander came to urge their fate. 
 
 When for more worlds the Macedonian cry'd. 
 He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide 
 Auother yet : a world reserv'd for you. 
 To make more great than that he did subdue. 
 
 He safely might old troops to battle lead. 
 Against th' unwarlike Persian and the Mede, 
 Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field, 
 More spoils than honour to the victor yield. 
 
 A race unconquer'd, by their chme made bold, 
 The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold. 
 Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame. 
 Been from all ages kept for you to tame. 
 
 Whom tlie old Roman wall so ill confin'd. 
 With a new chain of garrisons you bind : 
 Here foreign gold no more shall make them 
 
 come ; 
 Our English iron holds them fast at home. 
 
 They, that henceforth must be content to know 
 No warmer region than their hills of snow, 
 May blame the sun ; bnt must extol your grace. 
 Which in our senate hath allow'd them place. 
 
 Prefer'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown, 
 FaUing they rise, to be with us made one : 
 So kind dictators made, when they came home. 
 Their vanqnish'd foes free citizens of Rome. 
 
 Like favour find the Irish, with like fate 
 Advanced to be a portion of our state ; 
 While by your valour, and your bounteous mind. 
 Nations divided by the sea are join'd. 
 
 Holland to gain your friendship, is content 
 To be our out-guard on the continent : 
 She from her fellow-provinces would go. 
 Rather than hazai-d to have you lier foe. 
 
 In onr late fight, when cannons did difi'use, 
 Preventing posts, the terronr and the news. 
 Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar ; 
 But our conjunction makes them tremble more. 
 
 Your never-failing sword made war to cease. 
 And now you heal us with the acts of peace ; 
 Our minds with bounty and with awe engage. 
 Invite afi'ection, and restrain our rage. 
 
 Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, 
 Than in restoring such as are undone : 
 Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear. 
 But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare. 
 
 -g> 
 
cg- 
 
 178 
 
 WALLER. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 To pardon, willing, and to puuisli, lotli, 
 
 You strike with one hand, but you heal with 
 
 both ; 
 Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve 
 You cannot make tlie dead again to live. 
 
 AVHieu Fate or errour bad our age misled, 
 And o'er tliis nation such conliision spread ; 
 The only cure, which coidd from Heaven come 
 
 down, 
 Was so much power and piety in one. 
 
 One ! whose extraction from an ancient line 
 Gives hope again, that well-born men may 
 
 shine ; 
 The meanest in your nature, mild and good : 
 The noblest rest secured iu your blood. 
 
 Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace 
 A. mind proportion'd to such tilings as these ; 
 How such a ruling spirit you could restrain, 
 And practise first over yourself to reign. 
 
 Your private life did a just pattern give. 
 How fathers, husbands, pious sons, should live; 
 Born to command, your princely virtues slept. 
 Like humble David's, while the flock he kept. 
 
 But when your troubled country call'd you forth. 
 Your flaming courage and your matchless worth. 
 Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend, 
 To fierce contention gave a prosperous end. 
 
 Still, as you rise, the state, exalted too. 
 Finds no distemper while 't is chang'4 by you ; 
 Chaiig'd like the world's great scene ! when with- 
 out noise. 
 The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys. 
 
 Had you, some ages past, this race of glory 
 Hun, with amazement we should read your story : 
 But living virtue, all aciiievemcnts past. 
 Meets envy still, to grajiple with at last. 
 
 This Csosar found ; and that ungrateful age. 
 With losing him, went back to blood and rage ; 
 Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke. 
 But cut the bond of union with that stroke. 
 
 That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars 
 Gave a dim light to violence and wars ; 
 To such a tempest as now threatens all. 
 Did not your mighty arm prevent tiie fall. 
 
 If Rome's great senate could not wield that 
 
 sword, 
 Which of the conquer'd world had made tliem 
 
 lord ; 
 What hope had ours; while yet their power was 
 
 new, 
 To rule victorious armies, but bv vou ''. 
 
 You ! that had taught them to subdue their foes. 
 Could order teach, and their liigli spirits com- 
 pose : 
 To every duty could their minds engage. 
 Provoke their courage, and command their rage. 
 
 So, when a lion shakes his dreadful mane. 
 And angry grows, if he that first took pain 
 To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast. 
 He bends to him, but frights away the rest. 
 
 As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last 
 Itself into Augustus' arms did cast ; 
 So England now does, with like toil opprest. 
 Her weary head upon your bosom rest. 
 
 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these. 
 Instruct us what belongs unto our peace ! 
 Your battles they hereafter shall indite. 
 And draw the image of our Mars in fight ; 
 
 Tell of to\;ais storm'd, of armies over-run. 
 And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won ; 
 How, while you thunder' d, clouds of dust did 
 
 choke 
 Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke. 
 
 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, 
 
 And every conqueror creates a Muse : 
 
 Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing : 
 
 But there, my lord ! we'll bays and olive bring, 
 
 To crown your head, while you in triumph ride 
 O'er vanquisird nations, and the sea beside ; 
 Wliile all your neighbour princes unto you, 
 Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow. 
 
 ON LOVE. 
 
 Angkr, in hasty words or blows, 
 Itself discharges on our foes ; 
 And sorrow, too, finds some relief 
 In tears, which wait upon our grief: 
 So ev'ry passion, but fond love. 
 Unto its own redress does move ; 
 But tliat alone the wreteli inclines 
 To what prevents bis own designs ; 
 Makes liim lament, and sigh, and weep, 
 Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep ; 
 Postures which render him despised, 
 'RHicrc he endeavours to be prized. 
 For women (born to be controll'd) 
 Stoop to the forward and the bold ; 
 AITect the hanghly and the proud, 
 Tlie gay, the frolic, and the loud, 
 Wlio first the gen'rous steed opprest, 
 Not kneeling did salute llie beast; 
 But with high courage, life, and force, 
 Approaeliing, tam'd th' unruly horse. 
 
 ^ 
 
a: 
 
 AT PENSHUEST. — THE BUD'. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 179 
 
 fr 
 
 Unwisely we the wiser East 
 Pity, supposing them opprest 
 With tyrants' force, whose law is will, 
 By which they govern, spoil, and kill ; 
 Each nymph, but moderately fair, 
 Commands with no less rigour here. 
 Siiould some brave Turk, that walks among 
 His twenty lasses, bright and youug, 
 Behold as many gallants here, 
 With modest guise and silent fear, 
 All to one female idol bend, 
 While her high pride does scarce descend 
 To mark tlieir follies, he would swear 
 That these her guard of eunuchs were. 
 And that a more majestic queen. 
 Or humbler slaves, he liad not seen. 
 
 iUl this with indignation spoke. 
 In vain I struggled with the yoke 
 Of mighty Love : that conquering look, 
 WHien uext beheld, like lightning strook 
 Jly blasted soul, and made me bow 
 Lower than those I pitied now. 
 
 So the tall stag, upon the brink 
 Of some smooth stream, about to drink, 
 Surveying there his armed head, 
 IVith shame remembers that he fled 
 The scorned dogs, resolves to try 
 The combat next ; but if their cry 
 Invades again his trembling ear, 
 He straight resumes his wonted care ; 
 Leaves the untasted spring behind. 
 And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind. 
 
 AT PENSHUEST. 
 
 While in this park I sing, the listening deer 
 Attend my passion, and forget to fear ; 
 When to the beeches I report my flame. 
 They bow their heads, as if they felt the same. 
 To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers 
 With loud complaints, they answer me in 
 
 showers. 
 To thee a wild and cruel soul is given. 
 More deaf than trees, and prouder than the 
 
 heaven ! 
 Love's foe profess'd ! why dost thou falsely 
 
 feign 
 Thyself a Sidney ? from which noble strain 
 He sprung, that could so far exalt the name 
 Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame ; 
 That all we can of love or high desire. 
 Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire. 
 Nor call her mother who so well does prove 
 One breast may hold both chastity and love. 
 Never can she, that so exceeds the spring 
 In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring 
 One so destnictive. To no human stock 
 We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock ; 
 
 That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side 
 
 Nature, to recompense the fatal pride 
 
 Of such stem beauty, placed those healing 
 
 springs 
 Wliich not more help than that destruction 
 
 brings. 
 Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone, 
 I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous 
 
 moan 
 Melt to compassion ; now my traitorous song 
 With thee conspires to do the singer wrong ; 
 While thus I suffer not myself to lose 
 The memory of what augments my woes ; 
 But with my own breath still foment the fire, 
 Which flames as high as fancy can aspire ! 
 This last complaint the indulgent ears did 
 
 pierce 
 Of just ApoUo, president of verse ; 
 Highly conceniedthat the Muse should bring 
 Damage to one whom he had taught to sing : 
 Thus he advised me : " On yon aged tree 
 Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea, 
 That there with wonders thy diverted mind 
 Some truce, at least, mav with this jjassion 
 
 find." 
 Ah, cruel nymph ! from whom her humble 
 
 swain 
 Flies for rehef unto the raging main. 
 And from the winds and tempests does expect 
 A milder fate than from her cold neglect ! 
 Yet there he 'U pray that the unkind may prove 
 Blest in her choice ; and vows this endless 
 
 love 
 Springs from no hope of what she can confer. 
 But from those gifts which Heaven has hcap'd on 
 
 her. 
 
 ON A GIRDLE. 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 
 Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
 It was my heaven's extrcmcst sphere, 
 The pale which held that lovely deer ; 
 My joy, ray grief, ray hope, my love, 
 Did all within this circle move ! 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair. 
 Give me but what this ribbon bound. 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round. 
 
 THE BUD. 
 
 L.4TELT on yonder swelling bush, 
 Big M-ith many a coming rose. 
 This early bud began to blush. 
 And did but half itself disclose ; 
 I pluck'd it though no better grown. 
 And now you sec how full 't is blowni. 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ: 
 
 ISO 
 
 WALLEE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Still, as I did the leaves inspire, 
 With such a purple light they shone, 
 As if they had been made of lire. 
 And s])rcading so woidd flame auon. 
 All that was meant by air or sun. 
 To tiie young flower my breath has done. 
 
 If our loose breath so much can do, 
 What may the same in forms of love, 
 Of purest love and music too, 
 When riavia it aspires to move ? 
 When {hat which lifeless buds persuades 
 To wax more soft, her youth invades ? 
 
 GO, LOVELY KOSEI 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That now she knows. 
 
 When I resemble her to thee. 
 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her, that 's young, 
 
 And sliuns to have her graces spied. 
 
 That, hadst thou sprung 
 
 In deserts, where no men abide. 
 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth. 
 
 Sutler herself to be desired. 
 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die ! that she 
 
 Tlie common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in tliee. 
 
 How small a part of time they share 
 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 
 
 OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; 
 So calm are we wlicu passions are no more. 
 For then we know how vain it was to boast 
 Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
 Clouds of afi'ectiou from our younger eyes 
 Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 
 
 The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and dccay'd, 
 Lets in new light through chinks that time has 
 
 made: 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view. 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
 TO AMOEET. 
 
 Fair ! that you may truly know. 
 What you unto Thyrsis owe ; 
 I will tell you how I do 
 Sacharissa love, and you. 
 
 Joy salutes me, when I set 
 My blest eyes on Anioret : 
 But with wonder I am strook. 
 While I on the other look. 
 
 If sweet Amoret complains, 
 I have sense of all her pains : 
 But for Sacharissa I 
 Do not only grieve, but die. 
 
 All that of myself is mine. 
 Lovely Amoret ! is thine, 
 Sacharissa's captive fain 
 Would untie his iron chain ; 
 And, those scorching beams to shun. 
 To tliy gentle shadow run. 
 
 If the soul had free election 
 To dispose of her attection ; 
 I would not thus long have borne 
 Haughty Sacliarissa's scorn : 
 But 't is sure some power above. 
 Which controls our wills in love ! 
 
 If not a love, a strong desire 
 To create and spread that fire 
 In my breast solicits me. 
 Beauteous Amoret ! for thee. 
 
 'T is amazement more than love, 
 Wliich her radiant eyes do move : 
 If less sjilcndour wait on tlune. 
 Yet they so benignly shine, 
 I would turn my dazzled sight 
 To behold their milder light. 
 But as liard 't is to destroy 
 That high flame, as to enjoy : 
 Which liow easily I may do. 
 Heaven (as easily scaled) does know ! 
 
 Amoret ! as sweet and good 
 As the most delicious food. 
 Which, but tasted, does impart 
 Life and gladness to the heart. 
 
 Sacharissa's beauty 's wine, * 
 
 Which to madness doth incline : 
 Such a liquor, as no brain 
 That is mortal can sustain. 
 
 Scarce can I to Heaven excuse 
 The devotion, which I use 
 Unto tliat adored dame : 
 For 't is not \inlike the same, 
 Wiiieh I tliither ought to send. 
 So that if it could take end, 
 'T would to Heaven itself be due. 
 To siieeecd her, and not you : 
 "Who already have of me 
 All that 's not idolatry: 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 TO PHYLLIS. —TO A LADY. 
 
 — 9^ 
 
 181 
 
 fr 
 
 Wliich, though not so fierce a flame, 
 Is longer like to be the same. 
 Then smile on me, and I will prove 
 Wonder is shorter-lived than love. 
 
 TO PHYLLIS. 
 
 Phyllis ! why should we delay 
 Pleasures shorter than the day ? 
 Could we (which we never can !) 
 Stretch our lives beyond their span, 
 Beauty like a shadow flies. 
 And our youtli before us dies. 
 Or, would youth and beauty stay. 
 Love hath wings, and will away. 
 Love hatli swifter wings than Time ; 
 Change in love to Heaven does climb. 
 Gods, tliat never change their state, 
 Vary oft their love and hate. 
 
 Phyllis ! to this truth we owe 
 All the love betwixt us two ; 
 Let not you and I inquire. 
 What has been our jiast desire ; 
 On what sheplierd you have smiled. 
 Or what nymphs I have beguiled : 
 Leave it to the plauets too. 
 What we shall hereafter do : 
 For the joys we now may pi-ove, 
 Take advice of present love. 
 
 OF THE QUEEN. 
 
 The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build 
 Her humble nest, lies silent in the field ; 
 But if (the promise of a cloudless day) 
 Aurora, smiling, bids her rise and play. 
 Then straiglit she shows 't was not for want of 
 
 voice 
 Or power to climb she made so low a choice : 
 Singing slie mounts ; her airy wings are stretch'd 
 Towards heaven, as if from heaven her note she 
 
 fetch'd. 
 
 So we, retiring from the busy throng. 
 Use to restrain the ambition of our song ; 
 But since the light which now informs our age 
 Breaks from the court, indulgent to her rage. 
 Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies. 
 To hght her torch at Gloriana's eyes. 
 * * * 
 
 For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen. 
 No sweeter look than this propitious queen. 
 Such guard and comfort the distressed find. 
 From her large power, and from lier larger mind, 
 That whom ill Fate wotdd ruin, it prefers, 
 For all the miserable are made hers. 
 So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds. 
 
 Poor sheep from tempests, and their sheplicrds, 
 
 sliields : 
 The royal bird possesses all the boughs, 
 But shade and shelter to the flock allows. 
 
 ON MY LADY SYDNEY'S PICTURE, 
 
 Such was Philoelea, aud such Dorus' flame ! 
 The matchless Sydney, that immortal frame 
 Of perfect beauty, on two pillars placed. 
 Not his high I'lUicy could one pattern, graced 
 With such extremes of excellence, compose 
 Wonders so distant ui one face disclose ! 
 Such cheerful modesty, such humble state. 
 Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate 
 As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see 
 Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree. 
 All the rich flowere through his Arcadia found. 
 Amazed we see in this one garland bound. 
 Had but tliis copy (which the artist took 
 From the fair picture of that noble book) 
 Stood at Kalauder's, the brave friends had 
 
 jarr'd; 
 And, rivals made, the ensuing story marr'd. 
 Just Nature, first instructed by his thought. 
 lu his own house thus practised what he taught. 
 This gloiions piece trausoeuds what he could 
 
 tliink. 
 So much liis blood is nobler than his iidc ! 
 
 OF UY LADY ISABELLA PLAYING THE LUTE, 
 
 Such moving sounds from such a careless 
 
 touch ! 
 So nnconeern'd herself, and we so much I 
 What art is this, that with so little pams 
 Transports us thus, aud o'er our spirits reigns ? 
 The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, 
 Aud tell their joy for every kiss aloud. 
 Small force there needs to make them tremble so ; 
 Toueh'd by that hand, who would not tremble 
 
 too'? 
 Here love takes stand, and while she charms the 
 
 ear. 
 Empties his quiver on the listening deer. 
 Music so softens and disarms the mind. 
 That not an arrow does resistance find. 
 Tims the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, 
 Aud acts herself the triumph r)f her eyes ; 
 So Nero once, with harp in hand, survcy'd 
 His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd he play'd. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 SINGING A SONG OP HIS COMPOSING. 
 
 CnLORis, yourself you so excel. 
 
 When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought. 
 
<&- 
 
 182 
 
 WALLER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I 
 
 That, like a spirit, with this spell 
 Of my own teaching, I am cauglit. 
 
 That eagle's fate and mine are one, 
 
 Which, on the shaft that made him die, 
 
 Espy'd a feather of his own, 
 
 \\lierewith he wont to soar so liigh. 
 
 Had Echo with so sweet a grace 
 Narcissus' loud complaints return'd. 
 
 Not for reflection of his face, 
 
 But of his voice, tlie boy had bum'd. 
 
 LOVE'S FAIIEWELL. 
 
 Treading the path to nobler ends, 
 
 A long farewell to love I gave, 
 Resolved my country and my friends 
 
 All that remain'd of me should have. 
 
 And this resolve no mortal dame. 
 
 None but tliose eyes could have o'erthrown ; 
 The nymph I dare not, need not name, 
 
 So liigh, so like herself alone. 
 
 Thus the tall oak, which now aspires 
 
 Above the fear of private fires. 
 Grown and desigu'd for nobler use, 
 
 Not to make warm ; but build tlie house. 
 Though from our meaner flauies secure. 
 Must that which falls from heaven endure. 
 
 ON LOVING AT FIRST SiaHT. 
 
 Not caring to observe the wind. 
 Or the new sea explore, 
 Snateh'd from myself how far behind 
 Already I behold tlie shore ! 
 
 May not a thousand dangers sleep 
 In the smooth bosom of this deep ? 
 No : 't is so reckless and so clear, 
 Tliat the rich bottom docs appear 
 Paved all with precious things ; not torn 
 From sliipwreck'J vessels, but there born. 
 
 Sweetness, truth, and every grace, 
 Wliioh time and use are wont to teach, 
 Tlie eye may in a moment reach 
 And read distinctly in her face. 
 
 Some other nymphs with colours faint. 
 And pencil slow, may Cupid jiaint, 
 And a weak heart in time destroy ; 
 She has a stamp, and jirints the boy ; 
 Can with a single look inflame 
 The coldest breast, the rudest tame. 
 
 APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFOEE, 
 
 TiiLY that never had the use 
 Of the grape's surprismg juice, 
 To the tirst delicious cup 
 All their reason render up ; 
 Neither do, nor care to, know, 
 Wiether it be best or no. 
 
 So they that are to love inclined, 
 Sway'd l)y chance, nor choice or art, 
 
 To the first that 's fair or kind 
 Make a present of their heart : 
 
 'T is not she that first we love. 
 
 But whom dying we approve. 
 
 To man, that was in the evening made. 
 Stars gave the first delight ; 
 
 Admiring in the gloomy shade 
 Those little drops of hght. 
 
 Then, at Aurora, wliose fair hand 
 Removed them from the skies. 
 
 He gazing toward the east did stand. 
 She entertained his eyes. 
 
 But wlien the bright sun did appear. 
 
 All those he 'gan despise ; 
 His wonder was determin'd there. 
 
 And could no higher rise. 
 
 He neither might nor wished to know 
 
 A more refulgent light ; 
 Eor that ("as mine your beauties now) 
 
 Employed his utmost sight. 
 
 THE SELF-BANISHED. 
 
 It is not that I love you less. 
 
 Than when before your feet I lay ; 
 But to prevent the sad increase 
 
 Of hopeless love, I keep away. 
 
 In vain, alas ! for everything 
 
 T^'hieh I have known belong to you 
 
 Your form docs to my fancy bring. 
 And makes my old wounds bleed anew. 
 
 Wlio in the spring, from the new sun. 
 
 Already has a fever got. 
 Too late begins those shafts to shun. 
 
 Which Phrebus through his veins has shot. 
 
 Too late he would the pain assuage. 
 And to thick shadows docs retire; 
 
 About with liini he bears the rage. 
 And in his tainted blood tlie fire. 
 
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cft- 
 
 A ROSE. 
 
 183 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 But vow'd I have, and never must 
 Your banish'd servant trouble you ; 
 
 For if I break, you may mistrust 
 The vow I made — to love you too. 
 
 THE NIGHT-PIECE, OE A PICTURE DRAWN IN 
 THE DARK. 
 
 Darkness, which fairest nymplis disarms. 
 Defends us ill from Mira's charms : 
 Mira can lay her beauty by. 
 Take no advantage of the eye. 
 Quit all that Lely's art can take. 
 And yet a thousand captives make. 
 
 Her speech is graced with sweeter sound 
 Than in another's song is found ; 
 And all her well-placed words are darts. 
 Which need no light to reach our heaxis. 
 
 As the bright stars and Milky-way, 
 Show'd by the night, are hid by day ; 
 So we, in that accomplish'd mind, 
 Help'd by the night, new graces find, 
 Which by tiie splendour of her view, 
 Dazzled before, we never knew. 
 
 Wliile we converse with her, we mark 
 No want of day, nor tliiuk it dark : 
 Her sliining image is a liglit 
 Fix'd in our hearts, and conqiiers night. 
 
 Like jewels to advantage set. 
 Her beauty by the shade does get ; 
 There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain, 
 All that our passion might I'estrain, 
 Is hid, and our indulgent mind 
 Presents the fair idea kind. 
 
 Yet friended by the night, we dare 
 Oidy in wliispers tell our care : 
 He that on her his bold hand lays, 
 "With Cupid's pointed arrows plays ; 
 They with a touch (they are so keen !) 
 Wound us unshot, and she unseen. 
 All near ajiproaches threaten death ; 
 We may be shipwreck'd by her breath : 
 Love favour'd once with that sweet gale, 
 Doubles his liaste, and fills liis sail. 
 Till he arrive where she must prove 
 The haven or the rock of love. 
 
 So we the Arabian coast do know 
 At distance, when the spices blow ! 
 By the rich odour taught to steer. 
 Though neither day nor stars appear. 
 
 THE BRITISH NAVY, 
 
 When Britain, looking with a just disdain 
 Upon this gilded m.ajesty of Spain, 
 And knowing well that empire must decline 
 Whose chief support and sinews are of coin, 
 
 Our nation's solid virtue did oppose 
 
 To the rich troublers of the world's repose. 
 
 And now some months, encampmg on the 
 main. 
 Our naval army had besieged Spain : 
 Tliey that the whole world's monarchy design" d, 
 Are to their ports by our bold fleet oonfin'd, 
 From whence our Red Cross they triumphant 
 
 see, 
 Riding without a rival on the sea. 
 
 Others may use the ocean as their road. 
 Only the English make it their abode, 
 Wliose ready sails with every wind can fly. 
 And make a covenant with the inconstant sky : 
 Our oaks secure, as if they there took root. 
 We tread on billows with a steady foot. 
 
 SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. 
 
 1607 - 1666. 
 
 A RICH FOOL. 
 
 Thee, senseless stock, because thou 'rt richly 
 
 gilt, 
 Tlie blinded people without cause admire, 
 And superstition impiously bath built 
 Altars to that which should have been the fire. 
 
 Where shall my tongue consent to worship 
 
 thee. 
 Since all 's not gold that glisters and is fair ; 
 Carving but makes an image of a tree : 
 But gods of images are made by prayer. 
 
 Sabean incense in a fragrant cloud 
 Illustriously suspended o'er tliy crown 
 Like a king's canopy, makes thee allow'd 
 For more than man. But let them take thee 
 
 down. 
 And thy true value be once understood. 
 Thy dull idolaters will find thou 'rt wood. 
 
 A ROSE, 
 
 Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves 
 
 The wanton wind to sjiort himself presumes, 
 Wliilst from tlicir rifled wardrobe he receives 
 For his wings purple, for his breatli perfumes ! 
 
 Blown in the morning, thou sbalt fade ere noon : 
 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes 
 
 thee ? 
 Thou 'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon : 
 -And passing proud a little colour makes thee. 
 
 -05 
 
ce- 
 
 184 
 
 TAYLOR. — MILTON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, 
 
 Know, then, the tiling tliat swells thee is tliy 
 
 bane ; 
 For the same beauty dotli in bloody leaves 
 Tlie sentence of thy early death contain. 
 
 Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet 
 
 flower. 
 If by tlie careless plougli tliou slialt be torn : 
 And many Ilerods lie in wait eaeli hour 
 To murder thee as soon as tliou art born ; 
 Nay, force thy bud to blow; their tyrant 
 
 breatli 
 Anticipating Ufe, to hasten death. 
 
 oXKo 
 
 JOHN TAYLOR, THE WATER POET. 
 
 1580- 1654. 
 
 DEDICATION OF " THAME ISIS " TO " ANYBODY." 
 
 I Til.vT ne'er tasted the Castalian fount. 
 Or came in ken of tiie Tlicssalian mount ; 
 I tliat could ne'er attain to wet my lips 
 Witli Tcmpe's liquor, or sweet Aganipps, 
 Wlio never yet liave so much favor won 
 To purchase one carouse from Helicon, 
 Who witli good poets dare compare no way 
 But one, whicli is in being poor as tliey ; 
 And liaving never seen the Muses' hill, 
 Am plentifully stored with want of skill, 
 Then Fount, or Mount, nor sacred treble trine. 
 Are no assistants in this work of mine ; 
 But ancient Isis' current, crystal spring 
 Inspires my brain, and I her praises sing, 
 And Tiuime witli Lsis joins his pearly streams, 
 Wliose combination are my ample tliemes. 
 
 FROM TAYLOK ON "THAME ISIS." 
 
 Our patron Pha-bus, whose sweet inlliieuee_ 
 Doth quicken all our reason, life, and sense, 
 'T is he makes grass to grow, and rivers 
 
 spring; 
 lie makes my songs, my pubject, and me sing; 
 His beams tlie waters do extenuate 
 To vapors, and tliose vapors elevate 
 Into tlie micklle region, wliere they tumble, 
 .\iul meh, and tlien descend and are made lium- 
 
 blc, 
 Moist^'iiing the face of many a spacious hill, 
 Wiiere soaking deep the hollow vaults they 
 
 fill, 
 VVlierc into rivers they again break out : 
 So nature in a circle runs about. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 1608- 1C74. 
 
 SPEECH OF THE GENIUS OF THE WOOD. 
 
 Stay, gentle Swains, for though in this dis- 
 guise, 
 I see briglit lionour sparkle through your eyes ; 
 Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung 
 Of that renowned flood, so often sung. 
 Divine Alpheus, wlio by secret sluice 
 Stole under seas to meet iiis Arethuse; 
 And ye, tlie breathing roses of tlio wood. 
 Fair silver-buskined Nymphs, as great and good, 
 I know tliis quest of yours, and free intent 
 Was all in liouour and devotion meant 
 To tlie great mistress of yon ])riiicely shrine, 
 W^hom with low reverence I adore as mine, 
 And with all helpful service will comply 
 To further tliis night's glad solemnity ; 
 And lead ye where ye may more near behold 
 What shallow-searching Fame has left untold; 
 Which I full oft amidst these shades alone 
 Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon : 
 For know, by lot from Jove I am the Power 
 Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower. 
 To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove 
 With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings 
 
 wove ; 
 And all my plants I save from nightly ill 
 Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill: 
 And from the boughs brush otf the evil dew. 
 And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue. 
 Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites. 
 Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites. 
 When evening gray doth rise, I fetch my round 
 Over the mount, and all this hallowed ground ; 
 And early, ere the odorous breath of morn 
 Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tasselled horn 
 Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, 
 Number my ranks, and visit every sprout 
 With puissant words, and muriiuirs made to 
 
 bless ; 
 But else, in deep of night when drowsiness 
 Hath locked u]) mortal sense, then listen I 
 To the celestial Sirens' harmony. 
 That sit upon the nine infolded spheres. 
 And sing to those that hold the vital shears. 
 And turn the adamantine spindle round. 
 On which tlic fate of gods and men is wound. 
 Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie. 
 To lull the daughters of Necessity, 
 And keep unsteady Nature to her law. 
 And the low world in measured motion draw 
 After the heavenly tune, which none can hear 
 .Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -g> 
 
ff/W (/uCiti^cnv 
 
^ 
 
 IL PENSER.OSO. 
 
 185 
 
 -9) 
 
 n, PENSEROSO. 
 
 Hence, viiiu deluding joys, 
 
 Tlic brood o( folly without father bred, 
 How little yoti bestead, 
 
 (3r nil tlie fixcid mind with all your toys ! 
 Dwell ill some idle brain. 
 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. 
 As thick and numberless 
 
 As the gay iriotes that people the sunbeams. 
 Or likest hovering dreams 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
 But hail tliou goddess, sage and holy. 
 Hail divinest Melancholy, 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 To hit the sense of human sight, 
 And therel'ore to our weaker view 
 O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue ; 
 Black, but such as in esteem 
 Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 
 Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
 To set her beauty's praise above 
 The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended : 
 Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
 Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore. 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 His daughter she (in Saturn's reign. 
 Such mixture was not held a stain). 
 Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
 He met lier, and in secret shades 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 "While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
 All in a robe of darkest grain. 
 Flowing with majestic train, 
 And sable stole of Cyprus lawn, 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
 With even step, and musing gait. 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 • Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
 There held in holy passion still, > 
 
 Forget thyself to marble, till 
 W^ith a sad leaden downward cast 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
 And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
 Spare Fast, tliat oft with gods doth diet, 
 And hears the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing: 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 
 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring. 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
 Guiding the fiory-whceled throne, 
 The cherub Contemplation; 
 .\nd the nuitc Silence hist along, 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song, 
 
 In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
 
 Smoothing tlio rugged brow of night, 
 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 
 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak ; 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 
 Thee, chautress, oft the woods among 
 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
 
 And missing thee, I walk unseen 
 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green. 
 
 To behold the wandering moon. 
 
 Riding near her highest noon. 
 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 
 Tlirough the heaven's wide pathless way ; 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
 
 I hear the far-oft' curfew sound. 
 
 Over some wide-watered shore. 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
 
 Or if tlie air wUl not permit. 
 
 Some still removed place will fit. 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth. 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm. 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm : 
 
 Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower. 
 
 Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 
 
 With thrice-great Hermes, or uusphere 
 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 
 What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
 
 The inuuortal mind, that hatli forsook 
 
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
 
 And of those Demons that are found 
 
 Li fire, air, flood, or under groimd, 
 
 Whose power hath a true consent 
 
 With planet, or with element. 
 
 Sometime let gorgeous tragedy 
 
 In sceptred pall come sweeping by. 
 
 Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. 
 
 Or the tale of Troy divine, 
 
 Or what (though rare) of later age 
 
 Ennobled hath the Ijuskincd stage. 
 
 But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
 
 Might raise Musa?us from liis bower. 
 
 Or l)id the soul of Orpheus sing 
 
 Such notes as warbled to the string. 
 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
 
 And made Hell grant what Love did seek. 
 
 Or call uji him tliat left half told 
 
 The story of Cambuscan bold. 
 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 
 And who had Canace to wife. 
 
 That owned the virtuous ring and glass. 
 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -9^ 
 
cfr 
 
 18G 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 fr 
 
 Oa wliicli the Tartar king did ride ; 
 
 And if auijlit else great bards beside 
 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
 
 ()(' tourneys and of trophies hung, 
 
 or forests, and enchantments drear. 
 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 Tims night oft see me in thy pale career, 
 
 Tdl civil-suited morn appear, 
 
 Not tricked and frounced as she was wont 
 
 With the Attic boy to hunt, 
 
 lint kerchiefed in a comely cloud, 
 
 Wiiile rocking winds are piping loud, 
 
 Or ushered witli a shower still, 
 
 When the gust hath blown his fill, 
 
 Ending on the rustling leaves. 
 
 With minute drops from off the eaves. 
 
 And wlicn the sun begins to fling 
 
 His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 
 
 To arched walks of twilight groves. 
 
 And shadows brown that Sylvan loves 
 
 Of pine, or monumental oak. 
 
 Where the rude axe with lieaved stroke 
 
 Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt. 
 
 Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
 
 There in close covert by some brook. 
 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 
 
 Hide me from day's garish eye, 
 
 Wliile the bee with honeyed thigh. 
 
 That at her flowery work doth sing, 
 
 Aiul tlie waters murnniring 
 
 AVith such consort as they keep. 
 
 Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; 
 
 And let some strange mysterious dream 
 
 Wave at his wings in aery stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture displayed. 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid. 
 
 And as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by some Spirit to mortals good. 
 
 Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fad 
 
 To walk the studious cloisters pale. 
 
 And love the high endiowed roof, 
 
 W'ith .antic ])illars massy proof. 
 
 And storied wiiulows richly dight, 
 
 C'asling a dim religions liglit: 
 
 Tliere let tlie pe;ding organ blow, 
 
 To the full-voiced choir below. 
 
 In service high, and anthems clear. 
 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
 
 And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last, my weary age 
 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 
 The liairy gown and mossy cell, 
 
 Wlu^re I may sit and rightly spell 
 
 Of every star that heaven doth show. 
 
 And every herb that sips the dew ; 
 
 Till old experience do attain 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 These pleasures, Mclanchcdy, give, 
 And I with thee will choose to Live. 
 
 L' ALLEGED. 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born ! 
 In Stygian cave forlorn, 
 
 'Mongst hon'id shapes, and shrieks, and sights 
 unholy, 
 Find out some uncouth cell, 
 
 AVhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 
 wings. 
 And the night raven sings ; 
 
 There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks. 
 As ragged as thy locks. 
 
 In dark Cinnnerian desert ever dwell. 
 But come thou goddess fair and free. 
 In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, 
 And by Men heart-easing Mirth, 
 Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
 With two sister Graces more. 
 To ivy -crowned Bacchus bore ; 
 Or whether (as some sages sing) 
 The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
 Zephyr with Aurora playing. 
 As he met her once a Maying ; 
 There on beds of violets blue, 
 And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
 Eillfd her with thee a daughter fair. 
 So buxom, Idithe, and debonair. 
 
 Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee 
 Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
 Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
 Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
 And Laughter holding both his sides. 
 Come, and trip it as you go, * 
 
 On the liglit fantastic toe ; 
 And in thy riglit hand lead with thee 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
 And if I give thee honour dn ', 
 Mirlli, admit me of tliy crew. 
 To live with her, and live with thee, 
 In nnreiiroved pleasures free; 
 To liear the lark begin his flight. 
 And singing startle the didl night. 
 From his watcli-towcr in the skies. 
 Till the dapjilcd dawn doth rise ; 
 Then to come in spite of sorrow. 
 And at my window bid good morrow, 
 Through the sweet-brier, or the vine. 
 Or the twisted eglantine: 
 While the cock with livclv din 
 
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a- 
 
 AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. 
 
 187 
 
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 ^8-^ 
 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
 
 And to tlie stack, or the barn-door, 
 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 
 Oft listening how tlie hounds and horn 
 
 Cheorly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 
 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 
 Sometime walking, not unseen, 
 
 By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
 
 Right against the eastern gate. 
 
 Where the great sun begins his state. 
 
 Robed in flames, and amber light. 
 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 
 While the ploughman near at hand 
 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed laud. 
 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray. 
 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 
 The laboring clouds do often rest ; 
 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
 
 Where perhaps some Beauty lies. 
 
 The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 
 
 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 
 Wliere Corydon and Thyrsis met, 
 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 
 Of herbs, and other country messes, 
 
 AVhich the neat-handed Phillis di'esses ; 
 
 And then in liaste her bower she leaves. 
 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 Or, if the earlier season lead, 
 
 To the tanned haycock iu the mead, 
 
 Sometimes with secure delight 
 
 The upland hauilets will invite. 
 
 When the merry bells ring round, 
 
 And the jocund rebecks sound 
 
 To many a youth, and many a maid. 
 
 Dancing iu the checkered shade ; 
 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 
 On a sunshine holiday. 
 
 Till the livelong daylight fail ; 
 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
 
 With stories told of many a feat. 
 
 How fairy Mab the junkets eat ; 
 
 She was pinched, and pidled, she said. 
 
 And he by friars' lanthora led, 
 
 Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat. 
 
 To earn his cream-bowl didy set, 
 
 Wlien in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 
 His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn. 
 That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
 Then lies him down the lubber fiend. 
 And stretched out all the chimney's length. 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
 And crop-fvdl out of doors he fhngs. 
 Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
 By whisperiug winds soon lulled asleep. 
 Towered cities please us then. 
 And the busy hum of men. 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
 In weeds of peace high triumphs hold. 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
 To win her grace, whom all coninicnd. 
 There let Hymen oft appear 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 With mask, and antique pageantry. 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
 Or sweetest Shakespeai'c, Fancy's child, 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 And ever against eating cares. 
 Lap me in soft Lydiau airs, 
 ^Married to immortal verse. 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
 In notes, with many a windiug Ijout 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
 With wanton heed and giddy eumring, 
 The melting voice through mazes running. 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
 Prom golden slumber on a bed 
 Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
 His half-regained Eurydice. 
 
 These delights if thou canst give. 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to Uve. 
 
 AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. 
 
 Blest pair of sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, 
 Sphei"e-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse I 
 Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ 
 Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ; 
 And to our high-raised phantasy present 
 That undisturbed song of pure concent 
 Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne 
 
 To Him that sits thereon. 
 With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
 
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 188 
 
 MILTON. 
 
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 Where the bright serapliim in burning row 
 Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow ; 
 And the cherubic host iu tliousand choirs 
 Touch tlieir immortal harps of golden wires, 
 Witli those just spirits that wear victorious palms 
 
 Hymns devout and holy psalms 
 
 Singing everlastingly : 
 That we on eartli, witli uudiscording voice 
 May riglitly answer that melodious noise ; 
 As once we did, till disproportioned sin 
 Jarred against nature's ehime, and with harsh 
 
 din 
 Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
 To their great Lord, whose love their motion 
 
 swayed 
 Li perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
 In first obedience, and their state of good. 
 0, may we soon again renew that song. 
 And keep in tunc with Heaven, till God erelong 
 To his celestial concert us unite, 
 To live with him, and sing in endless morn of 
 light ! 
 
 ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY, 
 
 This is the montli, and this the ha])]>y morn. 
 Wherein the Son of heaven's eternal king, 
 Of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, 
 Our great redemption from above did bring; 
 For so the holy sages once did sing. 
 
 That he our deadly forfeit should release. 
 And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 
 
 That glorious form, that light unsuiferable, 
 And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 
 \Vherewitli he wont at heaven's high council-table 
 To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
 He laid aside ; and here witii us to be. 
 
 Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 
 And chose with us a darksome house of mortal 
 clay. 
 
 Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
 Aft'ord a present to the Infant God ? 
 Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain 
 To welcome him to tliis his new abode, 
 Now while the heaven by the sun's team untrod, 
 Hath took no print of the approaching liglit. 
 And all tlie spangled host keep watch iu squad- 
 rons bright ':" 
 
 See liow from far upon tbe eastern road 
 
 The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet : 
 
 O, run, prevent them witli thy iiumble ode. 
 
 And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 
 
 Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet. 
 
 And join thy voice unto the Angel choir, 
 From out his secret altar touclicd with hallowed 
 lire. 
 
 THE HYMN. 
 
 It was the winter wild, 
 While the heaven-born child 
 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; 
 Nature in awe to him 
 Had dofft her gaudy trim, 
 
 With her great Master so to sympathize : 
 It was no season then for her 
 To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 
 
 Only with speeches fair 
 She woos the gentle air 
 
 To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, 
 And on her naked shame, 
 Pollute with sinful blame, 
 
 The saintly veil of maiden white to throw. 
 Confounded that her Maker's eyes 
 Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
 
 But he her fears to cease. 
 
 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 
 
 She, crowned with olive green, came softly 
 sliding 
 Down through the turuing sphere 
 His ready harbinger, 
 
 With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 
 And waving wide her myrtle wand. 
 She strikes a universal peace through sea and 
 land. 
 
 Nor war, or battle's sound 
 Was heard the world around : 
 
 The idle spear and shield were high up hung, 
 The hooked chariot stood 
 Unstained with hostile blood. 
 
 The trum]iet spake not to the armed throng. 
 And kings sat still with awful eye. 
 As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord 
 was by. 
 
 But peaceful was the night, 
 Wherein the Prince of light 
 
 His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
 The winds with wonder wliist 
 Smoothly the waters kist. 
 
 Whispering new joys to tbe mild ocean. 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed 
 wave. 
 
 The stars with deep amaze 
 Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 
 
 Bending one way their precious influence, 
 And will not take their fiight, 
 For all the morning light. 
 
 Or Lucifer tbat often warned them thence ; 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
 Until their Lord himself besjiake, and bid them 
 
 ^ 
 
a— 
 
 ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 
 
 lyy 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And tliough the shady gloom 
 Had given day her room. 
 
 The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
 And hid his head for shame, 
 As his inferior flame • 
 The new enUghteucd world no more should 
 
 need; 
 He saw a greater sun appear 
 Thau his bright throne, or bui'ning axletree could 
 
 bear. 
 
 The shepherds on the lawn. 
 Or e'er the point of dawn, 
 
 Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 
 FuU little thought tlicy then 
 That the mighty Pan 
 
 Was kindly come to live with theiii below ; 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 
 
 'When such music sweet 
 Their hearts and ears did greet, 
 
 As never was by mortal finger strook, 
 Divinely-warbled voice 
 .Answering the stringed noise. 
 
 As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
 The air such pleasure loath to lose, 
 With thousand echoes still prolongs each heav- 
 enly close. 
 
 Nature that heard such sound, 
 Beneath the hollow round 
 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling. 
 Now was almost won 
 To think her part was done. 
 
 And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
 She knew such harmony alone 
 Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 
 
 At last surrounds their sight 
 
 A globe of circular light, 
 
 That with long beams the shamefaced niglit 
 arrayed ; 
 
 Tiie helmed Cherubim, 
 
 And sworded Seraphim, 
 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis- 
 played, 
 
 Harping in loud and solemn clioir, 
 
 With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born 
 Heir. 
 
 Such music (as 't is said) 
 Before was never made, 
 
 But when of old the sons of moruing sung, 
 Wliile the Creator great 
 His constellations set, 
 
 And the wuU-balauced world on hinges hung, 
 And cast the dark foundations deep, 
 And bid the weltering waves their oozy cliannel 
 keep. 
 
 Ring out, ye crystal spheres, 
 Once bless our human ears. 
 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
 And let your silver cliime 
 Jlove in melodious time, 
 
 And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; 
 And with your ninefold harmony 
 Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 
 
 For if such holy song 
 Inwrap our fancy long. 
 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, 
 And speckled Vanity 
 Will sicken soon and die. 
 
 And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould ; 
 And Hell itself will pass away, 
 And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering 
 day. 
 
 Yea, Truth and Justice tlien 
 Will down return to men. 
 
 Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 
 Mercy will sit between. 
 Throned in celestial sheen, 
 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down 
 steering : 
 And heaven, as at some festival, 
 T\'ill open wide the gates of her high palace 
 hall. 
 
 But wisest Fate says, no. 
 Tills must not yet be so, 
 
 The babe yet Ues in smiling infancy. 
 That on the bitter cross 
 Must redeem our loss ; 
 
 So both himself and us to glorify; 
 Yet first to those ychained in sleep, ■ 
 The wakeful ti-umpof doom must tliunder through 
 the deep, 
 
 ^Vith such a horrid clang 
 As on Mount Sinai rang. 
 
 While the red fire, and smouldering clouds 
 out brake : 
 The aged earth aghast, 
 With terror of that blast, 
 
 Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; 
 Wiien at the world's last session. 
 The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread 
 his throne. 
 
 And then at last our bliss 
 Full and perfect is. 
 
 But now begins ; for from this happy day 
 The old Dragon under ground 
 In straiter limits bound, 
 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway. 
 And wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
 Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
 
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 190 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 -9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 The oracles are dumb : 
 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 
 Huns through tlie arched roof in words deceiv- 
 ing. 
 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 
 Can uo more divine, 
 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leav- 
 ing. 
 
 No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
 
 Inspires tiie pale-eyed priest from the prophetic 
 cell. 
 
 The lonely mountains o'(ir. 
 And the resounding shore, 
 
 A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 
 From haunted spring, and dale 
 Edged with poplar pale. 
 
 The parting genius is with sighing sent; 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
 The Nymphs iu twilight shade of tangled thickets 
 mourn. 
 
 In consecrated earth. 
 And on the holy hearth, 
 
 The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight 
 plaint ; 
 In urns, and altars round, 
 A drear and dying sound 
 
 Affrights tlie Flamens at their service quaint ; 
 And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
 WhUe each peculiar Power foregoes liis wonted 
 seat. 
 
 Peor and Baalim 
 Forsake their temples dim. 
 
 With that twice-battered God of Palestine ; 
 And mooned Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother both, 
 
 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; 
 Tlie Lybic Hammon shrinks liis horn. 
 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Tham- 
 muz mourn. 
 
 And sullen Moloch fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 
 His burniiig idol all of blackest hue ; 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 They call tlie grisly king, 
 
 In dismal d.incc about the furnace blue : 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
 Isis and Or\is, and the dog Anubis haste. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 
 In Mcmphian grove or green, 
 
 Tranqiling the unshowcred grass withlowings 
 loud : 
 Nor can ho be at rest 
 Within his sacred chest. 
 
 Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; 
 
 In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 
 The sablc-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped 
 ark. 
 
 He feels from Juda's land 
 The dreaded Infant's hand, 
 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
 Nor all the gods beside, 
 Longer dare abide. 
 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
 Our babe, to show his Godhead true. 
 Can in his swaddling bands control the dannieil 
 
 So when the sun in bed, 
 Curtained with cloudy red. 
 
 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
 The flocking shadows pale 
 Troop to the infernal jail. 
 
 Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave : 
 And the yellow-skirted Fayes 
 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon- 
 loved maze. 
 
 But see the Virgin blest 
 Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
 
 Time is our tedious song should here have 
 ending ; 
 Heaven's youngest teemed star 
 Hath fixed her polished car, 
 
 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attend- 
 in"" • 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 
 
 LTOIDAS. 
 
 Tn this Monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfor- 
 tunately drowned in his passaa:e from Chester on tlie Irish 
 seas, 1GS7 ; and by oreasion foretells the ruin of our corru|)led 
 clergy, then in their height. 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 I come to pluek your berries harsh and crude. 
 And with forced fingers rude. 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. 
 Compels me to disturb your season due: 
 For Lyeidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
 Young Lyeidas, and hath not left his peer : 
 Who would not sing for Lyeidas? He knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well. 
 That from beneath tlie seat of Jove doth spring. 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 
 ■^ 
 
c&- 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 .191 
 
 -^ 
 
 Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 
 
 So may some gentle Muse 
 
 With lucky words favour my destined ura. 
 
 And as he passes turn, 
 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
 
 For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, 
 Fed the same flock by fountain, sliade and rill. 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
 Under the opening eyelids of the morn. 
 We drove afield, and both together heard 
 What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
 Oft till the star that rose, at evening bright, 
 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering 
 
 wheel. 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute. 
 Tempered to tlie oaten flute. 
 Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven 
 
 heel 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long, 
 And old Danifetas loved to hear our song. 
 
 But, O tiie lieavy change, now thou art gone. 
 Now tiiou art gone, and never must return I 
 Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
 And all their celioes mourn. 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
 Shall now no more be seen. 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 As killing as the canker to the rose, 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
 Wlien first the white-thorn blows ; 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
 
 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorse- 
 less deep 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep. 
 Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Moua high, 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
 Ay me I I fondly dream ! 
 Had ye been there, for whatcotdd that have done? 
 What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. 
 The Muse herself for her enchanting son, 
 Wliom universal nature did lament, 
 Wlien by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
 His goary visage down the stream was sent, 
 Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 
 
 Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
 To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
 Were it not better done as others use, 
 To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 
 Or with the tangles of Nesra's hair ? 
 Fame is the spiir that the clear spirit doth raise 
 (That last infirmity of noble minds) 
 To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
 Comes the bUnd Fury with the abhorred shears. 
 And slits the thin-spun -life. But not the praise, 
 Phosbus repKed, and touched my trembling ears ; 
 Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies ; 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
 Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. 
 
 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood. 
 Smooth-sliding ^lincius, crowned with vocal 
 
 reeds ! 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
 But now my oat proceeds, 
 And listens to the herald of the sea 
 That came in Neptune's plea ; 
 He asked tlie waves, and asked the felon winds. 
 What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle 
 
 swain ? 
 And questioned every gust of nigged wings 
 That blows from ott' each beaked promontory : 
 They knew not of his story. 
 And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
 Built in the eclipse, and rigged W'ith curses dark. 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 
 Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on tlie edge 
 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
 Ah I who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? 
 Last came, and last did go, 
 The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) 
 He shook his mitred locks, and stem bcspake ; 
 How well could I have spared for thee, young 
 
 swain, 
 Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ? 
 Of other care they little reckoning make. 
 Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast. 
 And shove away the w-orthy bidden guest ; 
 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how 
 
 to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
 Mliat recks it them ? What need they ? They 
 
 are sped ; 
 And w-hen they list, their lean and flashy songs 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of ivretched straw ; 
 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 
 
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cfi- 
 
 192 
 
 MILTON. 
 
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 But swolii with wind, and the rank mist they 
 
 draw, 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
 Besides wliat the grim wolf with privy paw 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 
 But that two-handed engine at the door 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 
 
 Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 
 
 brooks. 
 On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks : 
 Throw liitlier all your quamt euamell'd eyes. 
 That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers. 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 
 The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 
 Tlie glowing violet. 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
 And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
 Bid amarantus all his beauty shed. 
 And dafladiUies fill their cups with tears. 
 To strow the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 
 For so to interpose a little ease. 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
 Ay me ! whilst thee the shores, and sounding 
 
 seas 
 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, 
 Wiiether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
 Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
 Visit'st tlie bottom of the monstrous world ; 
 Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, 
 Slccp'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
 Where the great vision of the guarded mount 
 Looks toward Namaneos and Bayona's hold ; 
 Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with rnth ; 
 And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
 Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no 
 
 more, 
 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
 And yet anon repairs liis drooping head. 
 And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
 So Lyeidas sunk low, but mounted liigli. 
 Through tiie dear might of Ilim that walked the 
 
 waves, 
 Where other groves, and other streams along. 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song. 
 In the lilest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 Tliere entertain him all the saints above. 
 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
 Tliat sing, and singing in their glory move, 
 And wipe the tears for ever from iiis eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds wee]) no more ; 
 Henceforth thou art the Genius of tlie shore. 
 In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
 
 Thus sang the uncouth swain to tlie oaks and 
 rills, 
 Wliile the still morn went out with sandals gray ; 
 He touched the tender stops of various quills. 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric l;iy ; 
 And now the sun had stretched out all the hills. 
 And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
 At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; 
 To-raorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC 
 POET, W, SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 WiiAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured 
 
 bones, 
 The labour of an age in piled stones ? 
 Or that his hallowed relics sliould be hid 
 Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 Wiat need'st thou such weak witness of thy 
 
 name ? 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 Hast built tiiyself a livelong inonuineiit. 
 For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art 
 Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 
 Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; 
 And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, 
 Tliat kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 
 
 ON THE NEW PORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER 
 THE LONG PARLUMENT, 
 
 Becau.se you have thrown ofl' yiuir Prelate Lord, 
 
 And with stiff' vows renounced his Liturgy, 
 
 To seize the widowed whore Plurality 
 
 From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred, 
 
 Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword 
 
 To force our consciences that Christ set free. 
 
 And ride us with a classic hierarchy 
 
 Tauglit ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ? 
 
 Men whose life, learning, faith, and jiure intent 
 
 Would have been licid in high esteem with 
 
 Paul. 
 Must now lie named and printed Heretics 
 By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'-ye-call : 
 But we do hope to find out all your tricks. 
 Your plots and packing worse than those of 
 
 Trent, 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 
 
 193 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Tliat so the Parliament 
 May with their wholesome and preventive shears 
 CUp your phylacteries, though bank your ears, 
 
 And succour our just fears, 
 When they shall read this clearly in your charge. 
 New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
 Thou with fresh liope the lover's heart dost fill, 
 AVhile the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 
 Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 
 First iicarJ before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
 Portend success in love ; if Jove's will 
 llave link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
 As tliQU from year to year hast sung too late 
 For my relief, yet liadst no reason why : 
 Whether the Muse orLoveeaU thee his mate, 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
 ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF 
 TWENTY-THREE. 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. 
 Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year ! 
 My hasting days fiy on with full career. 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom show'th. 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth. 
 Than I to manhood am arrived so near, 
 An<l inward ripeness doth much less appear. 
 That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th. 
 Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 
 To that same lot_, however mean or high, 
 Toward whieli Time leads me, and the will of 
 
 Heaven : 
 All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
 As ever in my great task-master's eye. 
 
 WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE 
 CITY. 
 
 C.vPTAlN or Colonel, or Knight in arms, 
 ^Vhose ehance on these defenceless doors may 
 
 seize. 
 If deed of honour did thee ever please. 
 Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
 Ho can requite thee, for he knows the charms 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 
 And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 
 Wliatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 
 
 Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower ; 
 The gx-eat Emathian conqueror bid spare 
 The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
 Went to the ground : and the repeated air 
 Of sad Eleetra's poet had the power 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 
 
 TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. 
 
 Dauguter to that good Earl, once President 
 Of England's Council, and her Treasury, 
 Who lived in both, unstained with gold or fee, 
 And left them both, more in himself content. 
 Till sad the breaking of that Parliament 
 Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
 At Cha;ronca, fatal to Liberty, 
 Killed with report that old man eloquent. 
 Though later born than to have known the days 
 Wherein your father flourished, yet by you. 
 Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; 
 So well your words his noble virtues praise. 
 That all both judge you to relate them true, 
 And to possess them, honoured Margaret. 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. 
 
 Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe 
 
 rings. 
 Filling each mouth with envy or with praise. 
 And all her jealous mouarchs with amaze 
 And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings. 
 Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings 
 Victory home, though new rebellions raise 
 Their Hydra heads, and the false North dis- 
 plays 
 Her broken league to imp their serpent wings. 
 O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand, 
 (For what can war, but endless war still breed ?) 
 Till truth and right from violence be freed. 
 And public faith cleared from the shameful brand 
 Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed, 
 Wliile avarice and I'apine share the land. 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 
 
 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 
 
 cloud 
 Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
 Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
 To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 
 
 ploughed. 
 And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 
 Hast reared God's trophies, and liis work pur- 
 sued, 
 Wliile Darwen stream with blood of Scots im- 
 brued, 
 And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 
 
 ^- 
 
 -W 
 
(Q- 
 
 194 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And Worcester's laureat ■wreath. Yet much 
 
 re mains 
 To conquer still ; peace hath her victories 
 No less renowned than war : new foes arise 
 Threatening to bind our soids with secular 
 
 chains : 
 Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
 Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 
 
 TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER. 
 
 Vane, J'oung in years, but in sage counsel old, 
 Thau whom a better senator ne'er held 
 The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms re- 
 pelled 
 The fierce Epirot and the African bold, 
 Whether to settle peace, or to unfold 
 The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled, 
 Then to advise how war may best upheld 
 Move I)T lier two main nerves, iron and gold. 
 In all her equipage : besides to know 
 Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, 
 What severs each, thou hast learned, which few 
 
 have done : 
 The bounds of either sword to thee we owe : 
 Therefore on thy firm hand Rehgion leans 
 In peace, and reckons thee her eldest sou. 
 
 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whoso 
 
 bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
 Wlien all our fathers worshipped stocks and 
 
 stones. 
 Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
 Who were tliy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 
 
 moans 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and tliey 
 To Heaven. Their martyred blooil and ashes 
 
 sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 The triple tyrant ; tliat from these may grow 
 A hundred fold, who having learned thy way 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
 And tliat one talent which is deatli to hide, 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more 
 
 bent 
 To serve therewitli my Maker, and (iresent 
 My tnie account, lest he returning eliide ; 
 " i)oth God exact day-labour, light denied ? " 
 
 I fondly ask : But Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
 Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him Ijcst : his 
 
 state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand aud wait." 
 
 TO CYRIAC SKINNER. 
 
 Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though 
 
 clear 
 To outward view of blemish or of spot. 
 Bereft of hght their seeing have forgot. 
 Nor to their idle orbs dotli sigiit appear 
 Of sun or moon or star, throughout the year. 
 Or man or woman. Yet I argue not 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope ; but still bear up aud steer 
 Right onward. What supports me, dost thou 
 
 ask ? 
 The conscience, Erieud, t' have lost them over- 
 
 pUed 
 In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
 Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
 This thought might lead me through the 
 
 world's vain mask 
 Content though blind, had I no better guide. 
 
 ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 
 
 Metiiought I saw my late espoused saint 
 Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, 
 Wiom Jove's great son to her glad husband 
 
 gave. 
 Rescued from death by force though pale and 
 
 faint. 
 Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed 
 
 taint 
 Purification in the old Law did save. 
 And such, as yet once more I trust to liave 
 Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, 
 Came, vested all in white, pure as lier mind : 
 Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
 So clear, as in no face with more delight. 
 But O, as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I waked, she fled, and day brought back my 
 
 night. 
 
 LADY AND COMUS. 
 T/w Lady enters. 
 Lady. A thousand fantasies 
 
 Begin to throng into my memory. 
 Of calling shapes, and beckoning sliadows dire. 
 And airy tongues, that syllable men's names 
 On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 
 
 ^0— 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 CHASTITY. — TO THE OCEAN NOW I FLY. 
 
 195 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 
 The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
 By a strong-siding champion. Conscience. — 
 
 welcome, pure-eyed Faitli, white-handed Hope, 
 Thou hovering angel girt witli gohlen wings. 
 And thou unblemished form of Chastity ! 
 
 1 see ye visibly, and now believe 
 
 That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill 
 Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, 
 Woidd send a glistering guardian, if need were, 
 To keep my life and honour unassailed. 
 Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 
 Turn forth her silver lining on the night ? 
 I did not err, there does a sable cloud 
 Turn fortli her silver lining on the night, 
 And casts a gleam over this tufted grove : 
 I cannot halloo to my brothers, but 
 Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest 
 I '11 venture, for my new eidivcned spirits 
 Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far off. 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 
 
 Within thy airy shell, 
 By slow Meander's margent green. 
 And in the violet-embroidered vale. 
 
 Where the love-lorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song raourncth well ; 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
 That likcst thy Narcissus arc ? 
 0, if thou have 
 Hid them in some flowery cave, 
 Tell me but where, 
 Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere ! 
 So mnyst tliou he translated to the skies, 
 And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. 
 
 Enter Coiius. 
 CoMus. Canany mortal mixture of earth's mould 
 Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? 
 Sure something holy lodges in that breast. 
 And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
 To testify his hidden residence : 
 How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
 Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night. 
 At every fall smoothing the raven down 
 Of darkness till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
 Jly mother Circe with the Sirens three. 
 Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 
 Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, 
 Wlio, as tliey sung, would take the prisoned soid, 
 And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept, 
 And chid her barking waves into attention. 
 And fell Charybdis munnured soft applause : 
 Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled tlie sense, 
 And in sweet madness robbed it of itself ; 
 But such a sacred and home-felt delight. 
 Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 I never heard till now. 
 
 Comiis. 
 
 CHASTITY. 
 
 So dear to heaven is saintly chastity, 
 
 That when a soid is found sincerely so, 
 
 A thousand liveried angels lacky her. 
 
 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt. 
 
 And in clear dream and solemn vision. 
 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear. 
 
 Till oft converse with heaveidy habitants 
 
 Begin to cast a beam on the outward sliape. 
 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
 
 And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence. 
 
 Till all be made immortal : but M'hen lust. 
 
 By unchaste looks, loose- gestures, and foid talk, 
 
 But most by lewd and lavish act of sin. 
 
 Lets in defilement to the inward parts, 
 
 The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
 
 Imbodies, and inibrutes, till she quite lose 
 
 The divine property of her first being. 
 
 C'owiis. 
 
 TO THE OCEAN NOW I FLY. 
 
 To the ocean now I fly. 
 Aid those happy climes tiiat lie 
 Where day never shuts liis eye. 
 Up in the broad fields of the sky: 
 There I suck the liquid air 
 All amidst the gardens fair 
 Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
 That sing about the golden tree : 
 Along file crisped shades and bowers 
 Revels the spruce and jocund Spring; 
 The Graces, and the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
 Thither all their bounties bring ; 
 There eternal Summer dwells. 
 And west-winds, with musky wing, 
 About the cedarn alleys fling 
 Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 
 Iris tliere with humid bow 
 Waters the odorous banks, that blow 
 Flowers of more mingled hue 
 Than her pnrlled scarf can shew, 
 And drenches with Elysian dew 
 (List, mortals, if your ears be true) 
 Beds of hyacinth and roses. 
 Where young Adonis oft reposes, 
 Waxing well of his deep wound 
 In slumber soft, and on the ground 
 Sadly sits the Assyrian queen ; 
 But far above in spangled sheen 
 Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced. 
 Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced. 
 After her wandering labours long. 
 Till free consent the gods among 
 Make her ids eternal bride. 
 And from her fair unspotted side 
 Two blissful twins are to be born. 
 Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 196 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 But. now my task is smoothly doue, 
 I can fly, or I can run 
 Quickly to the green earth's end, 
 Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend, 
 And from thence can soar as soon 
 To the corners of the moon. 
 
 Mortals, that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue, she alone is free ; 
 Slie can teach ye liow to climb 
 Higher tlian the sphery chime : 
 Or, if Virtue feeble were. 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her. 
 
 Comus. 
 
 SABEINA FAIE. 
 
 Sabkina fair, 
 
 Listen where tliou art sitting 
 Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 
 
 In twisted braids of liHes knitting 
 The loose train of tliy amber-dropping hair ; 
 
 Listen for dear honour's sake. 
 
 Goddess of the silver lake. 
 Listen, aiul save. 
 Listen, and appear to us 
 In name of great Oecanus : 
 By the earth-sliaking Neptune's mace. 
 And Tethys' grave majestic pace ; 
 By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look. 
 And the Carpatliian wizard's liook ; 
 By scaly Triton's winding shell, 
 And old sootlisaying Glaueus' spell ; 
 By Leueothea's lovely hands. 
 And her son that rules the strands ; 
 By Thetis' tinsel.slipi)ered feet. 
 And tlie songs of Sirens sweet ; 
 By dead Parthenope's dear tomb. 
 And fair Ligea's golden comb, 
 Wlierewitli she sits on diamond rocks, 
 Sleeking lier soft alluring locks ; 
 By all the nymphs tiiat nightly dance 
 Upon thy streams witli wily glance, — 
 Rise, rise, and heave tliy rosy head 
 From thy eoral-pavcn bed, 
 And bridle in thy headlong wave, 
 Till thou our summons answered have. 
 
 Listen, and save. 
 «» Comus. 
 
 VrRTUE. 
 
 Virtue could see to do what Virtue would 
 By iier own radiant hght, though sun and moon 
 Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self 
 Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, 
 Where, with her best nurse. Contemplation, 
 Slie plumes her feathers, and lets grow her 
 
 wings. 
 That in the various bustle of resort 
 Were all-to ruffled, and sometimes impaired. 
 
 He that has light within his own clear breast 
 May sit i' tlie centre, and enjoy bright day : 
 But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts 
 Benighted walks under the midday sun ; 
 Himself is his own dungeon. Comus. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 How charming is divine philoso])liy ! 
 
 Not liarsh and crabbed, as didl fools suppose, 
 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute. 
 
 And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, 
 
 Where no crude surfeit reigns. Comus. 
 
 THE SUPREMACY OF VIRTUE. 
 
 Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt ; 
 
 Surprised by unjust force, but not inthralled ; 
 
 Yea, even that wliich mischief meant most harm 
 
 Sliall in the happy trial prove most glory : 
 
 But e\'il on itself shall back recoU, 
 
 And mix no more witli goodness, when at last, 
 
 Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, 
 
 It sliall be in eternal restless change 
 
 Self-fed and self-consumed : if this fail. 
 
 The pillared firmament is rottenness. 
 
 And earth's base built on stubble. Comus. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE HEAVENLY MUSE, 
 
 Of ]\Ian's first disobedience and tlie fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into tlie world and aU our woe, 
 With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
 Restore us and regain tlie blissful seat, 
 Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top 
 Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
 That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, 
 111 the beginning how the heavens and earth 
 Rose out of Chaos ; or if Sion hill 
 Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that llowed 
 Fast by the oracle of God ; I tlieiiee 
 Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, 
 That with no middle fiiglit intends to soar 
 Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues 
 Tilings unatteinpted yet in jirose or rhyme. 
 
 And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
 Before all temples the upright heart and imre. 
 Instruct me, for thou know'st ; thou from the first 
 Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread 
 Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss. 
 And mad'st it pregnant : what in mc is dark 
 Illumine, what is low raise and suiijiort ; 
 That to the height of this great argument 
 I may assert eternal Providence, 
 And justify the ways of God to men. 
 
 Pnritdisn Losf, Bo(»k I. 
 
 fr 
 
 -s^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 CONFERENCE OF SATAN AND BEELZEBUB. 
 
 197 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 CONFEKEHCE OF SATAN AND BEELZEBCB IN 
 THE FIERT GULF. 
 
 Say first, for lieavcu hides notliiiig from thy 
 view. 
 Nor the deep tract of hell ; say first, what cause 
 Moved our grand parents in that happy state, 
 Favoured of heaven so highly, to fall off 
 From their Creator, and transgress his will 
 For one restraint, lords of the world besides ? 
 Who first seduced them to that foul revolt ? 
 The infernal serpent ; he it was, whose guile, 
 Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived 
 The mother of mankind, what time his pride 
 Had cast him out from heaven, with all his host 
 Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring 
 To set himself in glory above his peers, 
 He trusted to have equalled the Most High, 
 If he opposed ; and with ambitious aim 
 Against the throne and monarchy of God 
 Kaised impious war iu heaveu and battle proud, 
 With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power 
 Hurled lieadlong flaming from the ethereal sky, 
 With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
 To bottomless perdition, tliere to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
 Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
 Nine times the space that measures day and night 
 To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
 Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf. 
 Confounded though immortal : but his doom 
 Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 Torments hini ; roimd he throws his baleful eyes, 
 That witnessed huge afflictinn and dismay. 
 Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate. 
 At once, as far as angels ken, he views 
 The dismal situation waste and wild ; 
 A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, 
 As one great furnace, fiamed ; yet from tliose flames 
 No light, but ratlier darkness visible 
 Served only to discover sights of woe, 
 Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
 And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, 
 That comes to all ; but torture without end 
 Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
 ^Vitl\ ever-burning sulphur unconsiimed. 
 Such place eternal justice had prepared 
 For those rebellious ; here their prison ordained 
 In utter darkness, and their portion set 
 As far x-cmoved from God and light of heaven, 
 As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole. 
 O how unlike the place from whence they fell ! 
 Tliere the companions of his fall, o'erwhelnied 
 With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, 
 He soon discerns, and weltering by his side 
 One next liimself in power, and next in crime. 
 Long after known in Palestine, and named 
 Beelzebub : To whom the arch-encmv. 
 
 And thence in heaven called Satan, with bold words 
 Breaking the liorrid silence, thus began. 
 
 If thou becst he — But O how fallen ! how 
 
 changed 
 From him, who in tlie happy realms of light. 
 Clothed with transcendent briglitness, didst out- 
 
 shme 
 Myriads, though bright ! If he, whom mutual 
 
 league. 
 United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
 And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
 Joined with me once, now misery hath joined 
 In equal ruin : into what pit thou seest 
 From what height fallen, so much the stronger 
 
 proved 
 He with liis thunder ; and till then who knew 
 The force of those dire arms ? yet not for those, 
 Nor wliat the potent victor in liis rage 
 Can else inflict, do I repent, or change. 
 Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed mind 
 And high disdain from sense of injured merit, 
 That witli the Mightiest raised me to contend. 
 And to the fierce contention brought along 
 Innumerable force of spirits armed, 
 That durst dislike his reign ; and, me preferring. 
 His utmost power with adverse power opposed 
 In dubious battle on the plains of heaven. 
 And shook his throne. Wliat though the field 
 
 be lost ? 
 All is not lost ; the unconquerable will. 
 And study of revenge, immortal hate 
 And courage never to submit or yield. 
 And what is else not to be overcome ; 
 That glory never shall his wrath or might 
 Extort from me : to bow and sue for grace 
 With suppliant knee, and deify his power, 
 Who from the terror of this arm so late 
 Doubted his empire, that were low indeed. 
 That were an ignominy and shame beneath 
 Tills downfall ; since by fate the strength of gods 
 And this empyreal substance cannot fail; 
 Since through experience of this great event, 
 In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced, 
 We may with more successful liope resolve 
 To wage by force or guile eternal war. 
 Irreconcilable to our grand foe. 
 Who now triumphs, and in tiie excess of joy 
 Sole reigning holds the tyranny of heaven. 
 
 So spake the apostate angel, though in pain. 
 Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair : 
 And him thus answered soon his bold compeer. 
 
 O Prince, chief of many throned Powers, 
 That led the imbattled seraphim to war 
 Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds 
 Fearless, endangered heaven's perpetual King, 
 And put to proof his high supremacy; 
 Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate. 
 Too well I see and rue tlie dire event, 
 
 -9> 
 
(&- 
 
 198 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 That \rith sad overthrow and foul defeat 
 
 Hath lost us heaveu, and all this mighty host 
 
 In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
 
 As far as gods and heaveidy essences 
 
 Can perish : for the mind and spirit remains 
 
 Invincible, and vigour soon returns. 
 
 Though all our glory extinct, and happy state 
 
 Here swallowed up in endless misery. 
 
 But what if he our conqueror, whom I now 
 
 Of force believe almighty, since no less 
 
 Than such coidd have o'erpowered such force as 
 
 ours. 
 Have left us this our spirit aud strength entire, 
 Strongly to suffer and support our pains. 
 That we may so sufiice liis vengeful ire. 
 Or do iiim mightier service, as his thralls 
 By right of war, whate'er liis business be, 
 Here in the lieart of hell to work in fire, 
 Or do his errands in the gloomy deep: 
 What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
 Strength uudiniinished, or eternal being 
 To undergo eternal punishment ? 
 Whereto with speedy words the arch-fiend replied. 
 
 Tallen cherub, to be weak is miserable. 
 Doing or suffering ; but of this be sure. 
 To do aught good never will be our task. 
 But ever to do ill our sole delight ; 
 As being the contrary to his high will. 
 Whom we resist. If then his providence 
 Out of our evil seek to bring forth good. 
 Our labour must be to pervert that end. 
 And out of good still to find means of evil ; 
 Which oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps 
 Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 
 His inmost counsels from their destined aim. 
 But sec ! the angry victor hath recalled 
 His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 
 Back to the gates of heaven : the sulphurous bail. 
 Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid 
 The fiery surge, that from the precipice 
 Of heaven received us falling, and the thunder. 
 Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage. 
 Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now 
 To hollow through the vast and boundless deep. 
 Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn 
 Or satiate fury yield it from oiir foe. 
 Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild. 
 The scat of desolation, void of light. 
 Save what the glimmering of these livid flames 
 Casts pale and dreadful ? thither let us tend 
 From off the tossing of these fiery waves ; 
 There rest, if any rest can harbour there. 
 And, reassembling o\ir afflicted powers, 
 Consult how we may lieneeforth most offend 
 Our enemy; our own loss how repair; 
 How overcome this dire calamity; 
 Wliat reinforcement we may gain from hope; 
 If not, wliat resolution from despair. 
 
 Thus Satan talking to his nearest mate. 
 With head uplift above the wave, and eyes 
 That sparkling blazed ; his other parts besides 
 Prone on the flood, extended long and large. 
 Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
 As whom the fables name of monstrous size, 
 Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on Jove, 
 Briareiis, or Typhou, whom the den 
 By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 
 Leviathan, which God of all his works 
 Created hugest that swim the ocean stream : 
 Him haply slumbering on the Norway foam 
 The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff 
 Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 
 With fixed anchor in his scaly rind 
 Moors by Ins side under the lee, while night 
 Invests the sea, and wished morn delays: 
 So stretched out huge in length the arch-flend lay. 
 Chained on the burning lake, nor ever thence 
 Had risen or heaved his head, but that the will 
 And high permission of all-ruling heaven 
 Left him at large to his own dark designs ; 
 That with reiterated crimes he might 
 Heap on himself damnation, while he sought 
 Evil to others, and enraged might see 
 How all his maUce served but to bring forth 
 Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy shown 
 On man by him seduced; but on himself 
 Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured. 
 Eorthwith upright he rears from off the pool 
 His mighty stature ; on each hand the flames 
 Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and 
 
 rolled 
 In billows leave i' the midst a horrid vale. 
 Then with expanded wiugs he steers his flight 
 Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air. 
 That felt unusual weight, till on dry land 
 He lights, if it were land that ever burned 
 With solid, as the lake with liquid, fire ; 
 And such appeared in hue, as when the force 
 Of subterranean wind transports a hill 
 Tom from Pelorus, or the shattered side 
 Of tliundering Etna, whose combustible 
 And fuelled entrails thence conceiving fire. 
 Sublimed with n\ineral fury, aid the winds. 
 And leave a singed bottom, all involved 
 With stench and smoke : such resting found the 
 
 sole 
 Of unblessed feet. Him followed his next mate, 
 Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood, 
 As gods, aiul by their own recovered strength, 
 Not by the sufl'erance of su]iernal jiowcr. 
 
 Is this the region, this tlie soil, the ehme, 
 Said then the lost archangel, this the seat 
 That we must change for heaven, this mournful 
 
 gloom 
 Eor that celestial light ? be it so, since he, 
 W]w now is Sovereign, can dispose and bid 
 
 -9> 
 
ce— 
 
 SATAN ROUSES AND ASSEMBLES THE REBEL ANGELS. 199 
 
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 What shall be right : farthest ft-om liim is best, 
 Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made 
 
 supremo 
 Above Ills equals. Farewell, happy fields, 
 Where joy for ever dwells : hail horrors ; haU 
 lufcrual world ; and thou profoundest hell 
 Receive thy new possessor ; one who brings 
 A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
 The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. 
 What matter where, if I be still the same, 
 And what I should be, all but less than he 
 Whom thunder hath made greater ? here at least 
 We shall be free ; the Almighty hath not built 
 Here for liis envy, will not drive us hence : 
 Here we may reign secure, and in my choice 
 To reign is worth ambition, though in hell : 
 Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven. 
 But wherefore let we then our faithful friends. 
 The associates and copartners of our loss. 
 Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool, 
 And call them not to share with us their part 
 Li this unhappy mansion ; or once more 
 With rallied arms to try what may be yet 
 Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell ? 
 
 So Satan spake, and lum Beelzebub 
 Thus answered ; Leader of those armies bright. 
 Which but the Omnipotent none could iiave foiled. 
 If once they hear that voice, tlieir hveliest pledge 
 Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft 
 In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
 Of battle when it raged, in all assaults 
 Their surest signal, they will soon resume 
 New courage and revive, though now they lie 
 Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fii'c, 
 As we erewhile, astounded and amazed, 
 No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book I. 
 
 SATAN EOTJSES AND ASSEMBLES THE REBEL 
 ANBELS. 
 
 He scarce had ceased, when the superior fiend 
 Was moving toward the shore ; his ponderous 
 
 shield, 
 Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round. 
 Behind hiin cast ; the broad circumference 
 Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
 At evening, from the top of Fesole 
 Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands. 
 Rivers or mountains in their spotty globe. 
 His spear, to equal which the tallest pine. 
 Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast 
 Of some great ammiral, were but a wand, 
 He walked with to support uneasy steps 
 Over the burning marie, not like those steps 
 On heaven's azure, and the torrid clime 
 
 ^5— 
 
 Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. 
 Natliless he so indured, till on the beach 
 Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 
 His legions, angel forms, who lay entranscd. 
 Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks 
 lu Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades 
 High overarched embower ; or scattered sedge 
 Afloat, when with fierce ■ninds Orion armed 
 Hath vexed the Red-sea coast, whose waves o'er- 
 
 threw 
 Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, 
 TYhile with perfidious hatred they pursued 
 The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
 From the safe shore their floating carcases 
 And broken chariot wheels : so tliick bestrown 
 Abject and lost lay these, covering the flood. 
 Under amazement of their hideous change. 
 He called so loud, that all the hollow deep 
 Ot hell resounded : Princes, Potentates, 
 Warriors, the flower of heaven, once yours, now 
 
 lost. 
 If such astonishment as tliis can seize 
 Eternal spirits ; or have ye chosen this place 
 After tiie toil of battle to repose 
 Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 
 To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven ? 
 Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
 To adore the conqueror ? who now beholds 
 Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood 
 With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 
 His swift pursuers from heaven gates discern 
 The advantage, and descending tread us down 
 Thus drooping, or with hnked thunderbolts 
 Transfix us to the bottom of this gidf. 
 Awake, arise, or be forever fallen ! 
 
 They heard, and were abashed, and up they 
 
 sprung 
 Upon the wijig, as when men wont to watch 
 On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread. 
 Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. 
 Nor did tiiey not perceive the evil plight 
 In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; 
 Yet to tlieir General's voice they soon obeyed, 
 Innumerable. As when the potent rod 
 Of Amram's Son, in Egypt's evil day. 
 Waved round the coast up called a pitchy cloud 
 Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 
 That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung 
 Like night, and darkened all the land of Kile : 
 So numberless were those bad angels seen 
 Hovering on wing under the cope of hell, 
 'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires; 
 Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spear 
 Of their great Sultan waving to direct 
 Their course, in even balance down they light 
 On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain ; 
 A multitude like which the populous north 
 Poured never from her frozen loins, to ])ass 
 
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 200 
 
 MILTON. 
 
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 Rheue or the Danaw, wlien her barbarous sons 
 Came hke a deluge on the south, and spread 
 Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands, 
 rortlnvitli from every squadron and each band 
 The heads and leaders thither haste, where stood 
 Their great commander; God-hke shapes and 
 
 forms 
 ExcelUng human, princely dignities. 
 And powers, that erst in heaven sat on thrones ; 
 Though of their names in heavenly records now 
 Be no racmori;d, blotted out and razed 
 By their rebellion from the books of hfe. 
 Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve 
 Got them new names ; till wandering o'er the earth 
 Through God's high sufl'e ranee for the trial of man. 
 By falsities and hes the greatest pai-t 
 Of mankind they corrupted to forsake 
 God their creator, and the invisible 
 Glory of him that made them to transform 
 Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 
 With gay rehgions full of pomp and gold. 
 And devils to adore for deities : 
 Then were they known to men by various names, 
 And various idols through the. heatlieu world. 
 Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, 
 
 who last. 
 Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch 
 At their great emperor's call, as next in worth. 
 Came singly where he stood on the bare strand, 
 Wliile the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof? 
 The cliief were those, who, from the pit of hell 
 Roaming to seek their prey on earth, durst fi.t 
 Their seats long after next the seat of God, 
 Tiieir altars by his altar, gods adored 
 Among the nations round, and durst abide 
 Jehovah thuiiileriiig out of Sion, throned 
 Between the clierubim ; yea, often placed 
 Within his sanctuary itself their shrines. 
 Abominations ; and witli cursed things 
 His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. 
 And with their darkness durst affront his light. 
 First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood 
 Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears. 
 Though for tlie noise of drums and timbrels loud 
 Tiieir ehildreu's cries uidieard, that past through 
 
 fire 
 To liis grim idol. Him the Ammonite 
 Worshii)])cd in Rabba and her watery plain, 
 In Argob, and in Basan, to the stream 
 Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such 
 Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart 
 Of Solomon he led l)y fraud to build 
 His tein])lc riglit against the temple of God, 
 On tliat opjirobrious hill, and made his grove 
 The |)leasant valley of Ilinnom, Tophet thence 
 And black Gehenna called, the type of hell. 
 Next Chcmos, the obscene dread of Moab's sons, 
 From Arocr to Ncbo, and the wild 
 
 Of southmost Abarim ; in Hesebon 
 And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond 
 The fiowery dale of Sibma clad with vines. 
 And Eleiile, to the Asphaltie pool : 
 Peor his other name, when he enticed 
 Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile, 
 To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe. 
 Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 
 Even to that hUl of scandal, by the grove 
 Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate ; 
 Tni good Josiah drove them thence to hell. 
 With these came they, who, from the bordering 
 
 flood 
 Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 
 Egvpt from Syrian ground, had general names 
 Of Baahm and Ashtaroth, those male. 
 These feminine : for spirits when they please 
 Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft 
 And uncompounded is their essence pure ; 
 Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, 
 Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones. 
 Like cumbrous flesh ; but in what shape they 
 
 choose. 
 Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure. 
 Can execute their airy purposes. 
 And works of love or enmity fulfil. 
 For those the race of Israel oft forsook 
 Their hving strength, and unfrequented left 
 His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 
 To bestial gods ; for which their heads as low 
 Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear 
 Of despicable foes. With these in troop 
 Came Astoreth, whom the Pliajnicians called 
 Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns ; 
 To whose bright image nightly by the moon 
 Sidonian virgins paid their \o\vs and songs ; 
 In Sion also not unsung, where stood 
 Her temple on the offensive mountain, built 
 By that uxorious king, whose lieart tliougli large, 
 Beguiled by fair idolatresses, i'ell 
 To idols foul. Thanunuz came next behind, 
 Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured 
 The Syrian damsels to lament, liis fate 
 In amorous ditties all a summer's d.ay. 
 While smooth Adonis from his natix'C rock 
 Ran i)urple to the sea, svipposcd with blood 
 Of Tliamnniz yearly wcninded : the love-tale 
 Infected Sion's daughters with like heat. 
 Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch 
 Ezekiel saw, when by the vision led 
 His eyes surveyed the dark idolatries 
 Of alienated Judah. Next, came one 
 Wlio mourned in earnest, when the eajitive ark 
 Maimed his brute image, head and hands loi)t off 
 In his own temple, on the grunsel edge. 
 Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshippers: 
 Dagon his name; sea monster, upward man 
 .And downward fish; yet had his temple liigli 
 
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 SATAN BOUSES AND ASSEMBLES THE REBEL ANGELS. 201 
 
 ^ 
 
 Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast 
 Of Palestine, iu Gath, and Asoalon, 
 And Accaron, and Gaza's frontier bounds. 
 Him followed Rimmon, whose dehglitful seat 
 Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks 
 Of Abbana and Pharpliar, lucid streams. 
 He also against the house of God was bold : 
 A leper once he lost, and gained a king, 
 Aliaz his sottish conqueror, whom he drew 
 God's altar to disparage, and displace 
 For one of Syrian mode, whereon to bum 
 His odio\is otferings, and adore the gods 
 Whom he had vanquished. After these appeared 
 A crew, who under names of old renown, 
 Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train. 
 With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused 
 Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek 
 Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms. 
 Rather than human. Nor did Israel 'scape 
 The infection, when their borrowed gold composed 
 The calf iu Oreb ; and the rebel king 
 Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, 
 Likening his Maker to the grazed ox, 
 Jehovah, who in one night, when he passed 
 From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke 
 Both her first-born and all her bleating gods. 
 Belial came last, than whom a spirit more lewd 
 Fell not from heaven, or more gross to love 
 Vice for itself : to him no temple stood 
 Or altar smoked ; yet who more oft than he 
 In temples and at altars, when the priest 
 Turns atheist, as tlid Eh's sons, who filled 
 With lust and violence the house of God ? 
 In courts and palaces he also reigns. 
 And in luxurious cities, where the noise 
 Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers. 
 And injury, and outrage : and when night 
 Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons 
 Of Behal, flown with insolence and wine. 
 Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night 
 In Gibeah, when the hospitable door 
 Exposed a matron to avoid worse rape. 
 
 These were the prime in order and in might ; 
 The rest were long to tell, though far reno^vned, 
 The Ionian gods, of Javan's issue, held 
 Gods, yet confessed later than heaven and earth. 
 Their boasted parents. Titan, heaven's first-born. 
 With his enormous brood and birthright seized 
 By younger Saturn, he from mightier Jove, 
 His own and Rhea's son, Uke measure found ; 
 So Jove usurping reigned : these first in Crete 
 And Ida known ; thence on the snowy top 
 Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air. 
 Their highest heaven ; or on the Delphian cliff. 
 Or in Dodona, and tiirough all the bounds 
 Of Doric laud ; or who with Saturn old 
 Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields 
 And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost isles. 
 
 *- 
 
 AH these and more came flocking ; but with 
 
 looks 
 Downcast and damp, yet such wherein appeared 
 Obscure some gUmpse of joy, to have found their 
 
 chief 
 Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost 
 In loss itself; wdiich on his countenance cast 
 Like doubtful hue : but he, his w-onted pride 
 Soon reeoUeotiug, with high words, that bore 
 Semblance of worth not substance, gently raised 
 Tlieir fainting courage, and dispelled their fears. 
 Then straightcomnuxnds, that at the warhke sound 
 Of trumpets loud and clarions be upreared 
 His mighty standard : that proud honour claimed 
 Azazel as his right, a cherub tall ; 
 Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurled 
 The imperial ensign, wliieh, full higli advanced. 
 Shone hke a meteor, streaming to tlie wind, 
 With gems and golden lustre rich inililazed. 
 Seraphic arms ami trophies ; all the while 
 Sonorous metal blowing martial souuds : 
 At which the universal host up sent 
 A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the rcigu of Chaos and old Night. 
 All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
 Ten thousand banners I'ise into the air 
 With orient colours waving : with them rose 
 A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
 Appeared, and serried shields in thick array 
 Of depth immeasurable : anon they move 
 In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
 Of flutes and soft recorders ; such as raised 
 To height of noblest temper heroes old 
 Arming to battle ; and instead of rage 
 Dehbcrate valour Ijreathed, firm, and unmoved 
 AVith dread of death to flight or foul retreat ; 
 Nor wanting pon-er to mitigate and swage 
 With solemn touelies troubled thoughts, and chase 
 Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain, 
 From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they. 
 Breathing united force, with fixed thought, 
 !Moved on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed 
 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil ; and now 
 Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front 
 Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 
 Of warriors old with ordered spear and shield, 
 Awaiting what command their mighty chief 
 Had to impose : he throngh the armed files 
 Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse 
 The whole battalion views ; their order due. 
 Their visages and stature as of gods ; 
 Their, mimber last he sums. And now liis heart 
 Distends with pride, and hardening in his strength 
 Glories ; for never, since created man, 
 Met such imbodied force, as named with these 
 Could merit more than that small infantry 
 Warred on by ci'anes ; though all tlie giant brood 
 Of Pldegra with the heroic race were joined 
 
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 202 
 
 MILTON. 
 
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 That fouglit at Thebes aud Ilium, ou each side 
 Mixed with auxiliar gods ; and what resounds 
 In fable or romance of Uther's son, 
 Begirt with British and Armoric knights ; 
 Aud all wlio since, baptized or infidel, 
 Jousted in Aspramont or Montalban, 
 Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond, 
 Or whom Biscrta sent from Afric shore. 
 When Charlemain with all liis peerage fell 
 By Tontarabia. Thus far these beyond 
 Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed 
 Their dread commander : he, above the rest 
 In shape aud gesture proudly eininent. 
 Stood lilce a tower ; his form had yet not lost 
 All her original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined, and the excess 
 Of glory obscured : as when the sun new-risen 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air. 
 Shorn of his beams ; or from behind tlie moon. 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On hah' the nations, and witli fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs : darkened so, yet shone 
 Above them all the arcliangel : but his face 
 Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care 
 Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
 Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride 
 Waiting revenge : cruel his eye, but cast 
 Signs of remorse and passion to behold 
 The fellows of his crime, the followers rather. 
 Far other once beheld in bUss, condemned 
 For ever now to have their lot in pain ; 
 ilillions of spirils for his fault amerced 
 Of heaven, and from eternal splendors flung 
 For his revolt, yet faithful how they stood. 
 Their glory withered : as when heaven's fire 
 Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines, 
 "With singed top their stately growth, though bare. 
 Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared 
 To speak ; whereat their doubled ranks they bend 
 From wing to wing, aud half cucloso him round 
 AVith all his peers : attention held them mute. 
 Thrice he assayed, and thrice in spite of scorn 
 Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth ; at last 
 "Words interwove with sighs found out their way. 
 
 myriads of immortal spirits, powers 
 Matchless, but with the Almighty, and that strife 
 Was not inglorious, though the event was dire, 
 As this place testifies, and this dire change 
 Hateful to utter: but what power of mind, 
 Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
 Of knowledge past or present, could have feared. 
 How such united force of gods, how such 
 As stood like these, could ever know repiUse ? 
 For who can yet believe, though after loss. 
 That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
 Hath emptied heaven, shall fail to reascend 
 Self-raised, and repossess their native scat? 
 For nie, be witness all the host of heaven. 
 
 If counsels different or danger shunned 
 
 By me have lost our hopes : but he, who reigns 
 
 Monarch in heaven, till then as one secure 
 
 Sat ou his throne, upheld by old repute. 
 
 Consent, or custom, and his regal state 
 
 Put forth at full, but still his strength concealed, 
 
 Wliich tempted our attempt, aud wrought our fall. 
 
 Henceforth his might we know, and know our 
 
 own. 
 So as not either to provoke, or dread 
 New war, provoked ; our better part remauis 
 To work in close design, by fraud or gude, 
 What force effected not ; that he no less 
 At length from us may find, who overcomes 
 By force hath overcome but half liis foe. 
 Space may produce new worlds, whereof so rife 
 There went a fame in heaven, that he erelong 
 luteuded to create, aud therein plant 
 A generation, whom his choice regard 
 Should favour equal to the sons of heaven : 
 Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 
 Our first eruption, thither or clsewliere ; 
 For this infernal pit shall never hold 
 Celestial spirits in bondage, nor tlie abyss 
 Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 
 Full eoiuisel must mature : peace is despaired ; 
 For who can think submission ? war then, war 
 Open or understood, must be I'esolvcd. 
 
 He spake : and to confirm liis words outflow 
 ]\Iillions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
 Far round illumined hell : highly they raged 
 Against the highest, and fierce with grasjied arms 
 Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 Ihirling defiance toward the vault of heaven. 
 
 Tlierc stood a hill not far, whose grisly top 
 Belched fire and rolling smoke ; the rest entire 
 Shone witli a glossy scurf, undoubted sign 
 That in his womb was hid metallic ore. 
 The work of sulphur. Thither, winged willi speed, 
 A numerous brigade hastened : as when liauds 
 Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed, 
 Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. 
 Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on. 
 Mammon, the least erected sjiirit that fell 
 From heaven ; for even in heaven Ids looks and 
 
 thoughts 
 Were always downward bent, admiring more 
 The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold, 
 Thau aught iliviue or holy ehse enjoyed 
 In vision beatific. By him first 
 Men also aud by his suggestion taught 
 Kansackcd the centre, aud with im|)ious hands 
 Bifled the bowels of their mother earth 
 For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew 
 Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 
 And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire 
 That riches grow in hell ; that soil may best 
 
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 SATAN HOUSES AND ASSEMBLES THE REBEL ANGELS. 203 
 
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 h 
 
 Deserve the precious bane. And here let those 
 Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell 
 Of Babel and the works of Mempliian kings, 
 Learn how their greatest monuments of fame 
 In strength and art are easily outdone 
 By spirits reprobate, and in an hour 
 What in an age they with incessant toil 
 And hands innumerable scarce perform. 
 Nigh on the plain in many cells prepared, 
 That imderneath had veins of liquid fire 
 Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude 
 With wondrous art founded the massy ore. 
 Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion 
 
 dross. 
 A third as soon had formed within the ground 
 A various mould, and from the boiling cells 
 By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook : 
 As in an organ from one blast of wind » 
 To many a row of pipes the soimd-board breathes. 
 Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 
 Rose, like an exhalation, with the sound 
 Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet. 
 Built like a temple, where pilasters round 
 Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid 
 With golden architrave ; nor did there want 
 Cornice or frieze with bossy sculptures graven ; 
 Tiie roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon, 
 Nor great Alcairo such magnificence 
 Ecpialled in all their glories, to enshrine 
 Bolus or Serapis their gods, or seat 
 Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove 
 In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile 
 Stood fixt her stately height, and straight the 
 
 doors, 
 0])ening their brazen folds, discover, wide 
 Within, her ample spaces, o'er the smooth 
 And level pavement : from the arched roof. 
 Pendent by subtle magic, many a row 
 Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed 
 With naptha and asphaltus, yielded light 
 As from a sky. The hasty multitude 
 Admiring entered, and the work some praise. 
 And some the arclutect : his hand was known 
 lu heaven by many a towered structure high. 
 Where sceptred angels held their residence, 
 And sat as princes ; whom the supreme King 
 Exalted to such power, and gave to rule. 
 Each in his hierarchy, the orders briglit. 
 Nor was Ills name milieard or unadored 
 In ancient Greece ; and in Ausonian land 
 Men called him Mnlciber ; and how he fell 
 From heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove 
 Sheer o'er the crystal battlements ; from morn 
 To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, 
 A summer's day ; and with the setting sun 
 Dropt from the Zenith like a falling star, 
 On Lemnos the jEgean isle ; thus they relate. 
 Erring ; for he with this rebellious rout 
 
 Fell lung before ; nor aught availed him now 
 To have built in heaven high towers ; nor did he 
 
 'scape 
 By all his engines, but was headlong sent 
 With his industrious crew to buUd in hell. 
 
 jMeauwhUe the winged heralds by command 
 Of sovereign power, with awful ceremony 
 And trumpets' sound, throughout the host pro- 
 claim 
 A solenni council forthwith to be held 
 At Pandemonium, the high capital 
 Of Satan and his peers : their summons called 
 From every baud and squared regiment 
 By place or choice the worthiest ; they anon 
 With hundreds and with thousands trooping 
 
 came 
 Attended : all access was thronged, the gates 
 And porches wide, but chief the s])acious hall. 
 Though Uke a covered field, where champions bold 
 Wont ride in armed, and at tlie Soldan's chair 
 Defied the best of Panim chivalry 
 To mortal combat or career with lance, 
 Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the 
 
 air. 
 Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees 
 In springtime, when the sun with Taurus rides. 
 Pour forth their populous youth about the hive 
 In clusters ; they among fresh dews and flower 
 Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed ])lauk. 
 The suburb of their straw-built citadel. 
 New rubbed with b[\lm, expatiate, and confer 
 Tlieir state att'airs : So thick the aery crowd 
 Swarmed and were straitened; till, the signal 
 
 given. 
 Behold a wonder ! they, but now who seemed 
 In bigness to surpass earth's giant sons. 
 Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room 
 Throng numberless, like that Pygmean race 
 Beyond tlie Indian mount, or fairy elves, 
 Wliose midnight revels, by a forest side. 
 Or fountain, some belated peasant sees. 
 Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon 
 Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth 
 Wheels her pale course ; they, on their mirth 
 
 and dance 
 Intent, with jocund music charm his ear ; 
 At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds. 
 Thus incorporeal spirits to smallest forms 
 Reduced their shapes immense, and were at 
 
 large, 
 Though without number still, amidst the hall 
 Of that infernal court. But far within. 
 And in their own dimensions like themselves. 
 The great seraphic lords and cherubim 
 In close recess and secret conclave sat, 
 A thousand demigods on golden seats, 
 Frequent and full. After shoi-t silence tlicn 
 And summons read, the great considt began. 
 
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 204 
 
 MILTON. 
 
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 ^ 
 
 THE CONCLAVE OF THE REBEL ABGELS IN 
 HELL. 
 
 High on a throne of royal state, whicli far 
 
 Outshone the wealth of Onnus and of Ind, 
 
 Or where the gorgeous east with riehest hand 
 
 Showers on her kings barharie pearl and gold, 
 
 Satan exalted sat, by merit raised 
 
 To that bad eminence ; and, from despair 
 
 Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires 
 
 Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue 
 
 Vain war with heaven, and by success untaught 
 
 His proud imaginations thus displayed. 
 
 Powers and Dominions, Deities of heaven. 
 For since no deep within her gulf can hold 
 Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen, 
 I give not heaven for lost ; from this descent 
 Celestial virtues rising will appear 
 More glorious and more dread, than from no fall, 
 And trust themselves to fear no second fate. 
 Me though just right and the fixed laws of heaven 
 Did first create your leader, next free choice. 
 With what besides, in council or in fight. 
 Hath been achieved of merit ; yet this loss. 
 Thus far at least recovered, hath much more 
 Established in a safe unenvied throne. 
 Yielded with full consent. The happier state 
 In heaven, which follows dignity, might draw 
 Envy from each inferior ; but who here 
 Will envy whom the highest place exposes 
 Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim 
 Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share 
 Of endless pain ? Where there is then no good 
 For which to strive, no strife can grow up there 
 From faction ; for none sure will claim in hell 
 Precedence, none, whose portion is so small 
 Of present pain, that with ambitious mind 
 Will covet more. With this advantage then 
 To union, and firm faith, and firm accord. 
 More than can be in heaven, we now return 
 To claim our just inheritance of old. 
 Surer to prosper than prosperity 
 Could have assured us ; and by what best way, 
 Whether of open war or covert guile, 
 We now debate ; who can advise, may speak. 
 
 He ceased ; and next him Moloch, sceptred 
 king. 
 Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest spirit 
 That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair: 
 His trust was with the Eternal to be deemed 
 Equal in strength, and rather than be less 
 Cared not to be at all ; with that care lost 
 Went all his fear : of God, or hell, or worse. 
 He recked not ; and these words thereafter spake : 
 
 My sentence is for open war : of wiles. 
 More nnexpcrt, I boast not : them let those 
 Contrive who need, or when they need, not now : 
 For while they sit contriving, shall the rest. 
 Millions that stand in arms and longing wait 
 
 The signal to ascend, sit lingering here 
 Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place 
 Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame. 
 The prison of his tyranny who reigns 
 By our delay ? no, let us rather choose, 
 Anned with hell flames and fury, all at once 
 O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way. 
 Turning our tortui'es into horrid arms 
 Against the torturer ; when to meet the noise 
 Of his almighty engine he shall hear 
 Infernal thunder, and for lightning see 
 Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
 Among his angels ; and his throne itself 
 Mixt with Tartarean sidphur and strange fire. 
 His own invented tornients. But perhaps 
 The way seems diflicult and steep to scale 
 ^Vith upriglit wing against a higher foe. 
 Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench 
 Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 
 That in our proper motion we ascend 
 Up to our native seat: descent and fall 
 To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 
 When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear 
 Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, 
 Vi'hh what compulsion and laborious fiight 
 We sunk thus low ? the ascent is easy then ; 
 The event is feared ; shoidd we again provoke 
 Our stronger, some worse way his wrath niav 
 
 find 
 To our destruction, if there be in hell 
 Fear to be worse destroyed : "What can be worse 
 Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, con- 
 demned 
 In this abhorred deep to utter woe ; 
 Where pain of uncxtinguishable fire 
 Must exei'cise us without hope of end, 
 The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 
 Inexorable, and the torturing liour 
 Call us to penance ? more destroyed than thus 
 ^Vc should be quite abolished and expire. 
 ^V'hat fear we then ? what doubt we to incense 
 His utmost ire ? which, to the height enraged, 
 Will either quite consume us, and reduce 
 To nothing this essential ; ha])pier far, 
 Than miserable to have eternal being. 
 Or, if our substance be indeed divine. 
 And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 
 On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel 
 Our power snlfieient to disturb his heaven, 
 And with perpetual inroails to alarm. 
 Though inaccessible, his fatal throne : 
 Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. 
 
 He ended frowning, and his look denounced 
 Desperate revenge and battle dangerous 
 To less than gods. On the other side up rose 
 Belial, in act more graceful and humane ; 
 A fairer person lost not heaven ; he seemed 
 For dignity composed and high exploit : 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE CONCLAVE OF THE REBEL ANGELS IN HELL. 
 
 205 
 
 -n> 
 
 But all was false and hollow ; though his tongue 
 Dropped manna, and could make the worse ajipear 
 The better reason, to perplex and dash 
 Maturest counsels ; for his thoughts were low ; 
 To vice industrious, l)ut to nobler deeds 
 Timorous and slothfid : yet he pleased tlie car, 
 And Avith persuasive accent thus began. 
 
 I should be much for open war, O Peers, 
 As not behind in liate, if what was urged. 
 Main reason to persuade immediate war, 
 Did not dissuade me most, and seem to east 
 Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 
 When he, who most excels in fact of arms, 
 Li what he counsels and in what excels 
 Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair 
 And utter dissolution, as the scope 
 Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
 First, what revenge ? the towers of heaven are 
 
 filled 
 Witli armed watch, that render all access 
 Lupregnable ; oft on the bordering deep 
 Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing 
 Scout far and wide into the realm of night. 
 Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way 
 By force, and at our heels all hell should rise, 
 AVith blackest insurrection to confound 
 Heaven's purest light, yet our great enemy 
 All inciHTuptible would on liis throne 
 Sit unpolluted ; and the ethereal mould 
 Incapable of stain would soon expel 
 Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire. 
 Victorious. Thus rcjndsed, our final hope 
 Is flat despair : we must exasperate 
 The almighty Victor to spend aU his rage. 
 And that must end us, that must be our cure. 
 To be no more : sad cure ! for who would lose. 
 Though full of pain, tliis intellectual being. 
 Those thoughts that wander through eternity. 
 To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
 In the wide womb of uncreated night, 
 Devoid of sense and motion ? and who knows, 
 Let tliis be good, wlicther our angry foe 
 Can give it, or will ever ? how he can, 
 Is doul)tful ; that he never will, is sure. 
 Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire. 
 Belike through impotence or unaware. 
 To give his enemies their wish, and cud 
 Tliem in his anger whom his anger saves 
 To punish endless ? T\1ierefore cease we tlien ? 
 Say tliey who counsel war ; — We are decreed. 
 Reserved, and destined to eternal woe ; 
 Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, 
 miat can we suffer worse ? — Is this then worst. 
 Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 
 Wliat, when we fled amain, pursued and struck 
 With heaven's afilietiug thunder, and besought 
 The deep to shelter us ? this hell then seemed 
 A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay 
 
 Cliained on the bui'uing lake? that sure was 
 
 worse. 
 AVhat if the breath that kindled those grim fires 
 Awaked should blow them into sevenfold rage, 
 And plunge us in the flames ? or from above 
 Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
 His red right hand to plague us ? what, if all 
 Her stores were opened and this firmament 
 Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire. 
 Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall 
 One day upon our heads ; wliile we, perhaps 
 Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
 Cauglit in a fiery tempest shall be hurled 
 Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey 
 Of racking whirlwind ; or for ever sunk 
 Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains ; 
 Tliere to converse witli everlasting groans, 
 Unrespited, unpitied, unrcprieved. 
 Ages of hopeless end ? this would be worse. 
 War therefore, open or concealed, alike 
 My voice dissuades ; for what can force or guile 
 With liim, or who deceive his mind, whoso eye 
 Views all tilings at one view ? He from heaven's 
 
 height 
 All these our motions vain sees and derides ; 
 Not more almighty to resist our might. 
 Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. 
 Shall we then live thus vile, the race of heaven, 
 Tlius trampled, thus expelled, to suffer here 
 Cliains and these torments ? better these than 
 
 worse 
 By my advice ; since fate inevitable 
 Subdues us, and onniipotent decree. 
 The victor's will. To suffer, as to do, 
 Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust 
 Tliat so ordains : this was at first resolved. 
 If we were wise, against so great a foe 
 Contending, and so doubtful what might fall. 
 I laugh, when those, who at the spear arc bold 
 And venturous, if that fail them, shrink and fear 
 What yet tliey know must follow, to endure 
 Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain. 
 The sentence of their conqueror : this is now 
 Our doom ; which if we can sustain and bear, 
 Our supreme foe in time may much remit 
 His anger, and perhaps tlius far removed 
 Not mind us not offending, satisfied 
 With what is punished : wlience these raging fires 
 Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames. 
 Our purer essence then will overcome 
 Their noxious vapour, or inured not feel ; 
 Or changed at length, and to the place conformed 
 In temper and in nature, will receive 
 Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain ; 
 Tills horror will grow mild, this darkness light : 
 Besides what hope the never-ending flight 
 Of future days may bring, what chance, what 
 
 change 
 
 <Q-- 
 
 ^ 
 
c^ 
 
 206 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 *- 
 
 Worth waiting, since our present lot appears 
 For happy though but ill, for ill not worst. 
 If we procure not to ourselves more woe. 
 
 Thus Belial with words clothed in reason's gai'b 
 Counselled ignoble case, and peaceful sloth. 
 Not peace : and after him thus Mammon spake. 
 
 Either to disinthroue the King of heaven 
 We war, if war be best, or to regain 
 Our own right lost : him to unthrone we then 
 May hope, when everlasting Fate shall yield 
 To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge tlie strife : 
 The former vain to hope argues as vain 
 The latter : for what place can be for us 
 Witliin heaven's bound, unless heaven's Lord 
 
 supreme 
 ^Ve overpower ? suppose he should relent 
 And publish grace to all, on promise made 
 Of new subjection ; with wliat eyes could we 
 Stand in his presence humble, and receive 
 Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne 
 With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead sing 
 Forced hallelujahs ; whUe he lordly sits 
 Our envied Sovereign, and his altar breathes 
 Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers, 
 Our servUe offerings ? This must be our task 
 In heaven, tliis our deliglit ; how wearisome 
 Eternity so spent in worship paid 
 To whom we hate ! Let us not then pursue 
 By force impossible, by leave obtained 
 Unacceptable, though in heaven, our state 
 Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek 
 Our own good from ourselves, and from our own 
 Live to ourselves, tiiough in tiiis vast recess, 
 Free, and to none accountable, preferring 
 Hard hberty before the easy yoke 
 Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear 
 Then most conspicuous, when great things of 
 
 small, 
 Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse. 
 We can create ; and in what place so e'er 
 Tiirive under evil, and work ease out of pain 
 Through labour and endurance. This deep world 
 Of darkness do we dread r how oft amidst 
 Thick clouds and dark doth heaven's all-i-iiling 
 
 Sire 
 Choose to reside, his glory unobscured. 
 And with the majesty of darkness round 
 Covers his throne ; from whence deep thunders 
 
 roar 
 Mustering their rage, and heaven resembles hell ? 
 As he our darkness, cannot we his light 
 Imitate when we please ? this desert soil 
 Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold ; 
 Nor want wc skill or art, from whence to raise 
 ^Maguiflcence ; and what can heaven show more ? 
 Our torments also may in length of time 
 Become our elements, these piercing fires 
 As soft as now severe, our temper changed 
 
 Into their temper ; which must needs remove 
 The sensible of pain. All things invite 
 To peaceful counsels, and the settled state 
 Of order, how in safety best wc may 
 Compose our present evils, with regard 
 Of what we are and where, dismissing quite 
 All thoughts of war. Ye have what I advise. 
 He scarce had finished, when such murmur 
 
 filled 
 The assembly, as when hollow rocks retain 
 The sound of blustering winds, which all night 
 
 long 
 Had I'oused the sea, now with hoarse cadence lull 
 Sea-faring men o'er-watohed, whose bark by 
 
 chance 
 Or pinnace anchors in a craggy bay 
 After the tempest : such applause was heard 
 As JIammon ended, and his sentence pleased. 
 Advising peace : for such another field 
 They dreaded worse than hell : so much the fear 
 Of thunder and the sword of Michael 
 Wrought still within them ; and no less desire 
 To found this nether empire, which might rise, 
 By poUcy and long process of time, 
 In emulation opposite to heaven. 
 Which when Beelzebub perceived, than whom, 
 Satan except, none higher sat, with grave 
 Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed 
 A pillar of state : deep on his front engraven 
 Deliberation sat and public care ; 
 Ajid princely counsel in his face yet shone. 
 Majestic tliough in ruin : sage he stood. 
 With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear 
 The weight of mightiest monarcliies ; his look 
 Drew audience and attention still as night 
 Or summer's nooutide air, while thus he spake. 
 Thrones and imperial Powers, offspring of 
 
 heaven. 
 Ethereal Virtues; or these titles now 
 Must we renounce, and changing style be called 
 Princes of hell ? for so the popular vote 
 Inclines, here to continue, and build up here 
 A growing empire; doubtless; while we dream. 
 Arid know not tliat tiie King of heaven hath 
 
 doomed 
 This place our dungeon, not our safe retreat 
 Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt 
 From heaven's high jurisdiction, in new league 
 Banded against his throne, but to remain 
 In strictest bondage, tliougii tlius far removed. 
 Under tlie inevitable curb, reserved 
 His captive multitude : for he, be sure. 
 In height or depth, still first and last will reign 
 Sole King, and of his kingdom lose no part 
 By our revolt, but over hell extend 
 His cmi)ire, and with iron sceptre rule 
 Us Iiere, as with his golden those in lieavcn. 
 What sit we then projecting peace and war ? 
 
 ■^ 
 
c0— 
 
 THE CONCLAVE OF THE REBEL ANGELS IN HELL. 207 
 
 -^ 
 
 War hath determiuod us, and foiled with loss 
 Irreparable ; terms of peace yet none 
 Vouchsafed or sought ; for what peace will be 
 
 given 
 To us enslaved, bnt custody severe. 
 And stripes, and arbitrary punishment 
 Lillictcd? and what peace can we return, 
 But to our power hostility and hate. 
 Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow. 
 Yet ever plotting how the conqueror least 
 May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice 
 lu doing what we most in suffering feel ? 
 Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need 
 With dangerous expedition to invade 
 Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault, or 
 
 siege. 
 Or ambush from the deep. Wliat if we find 
 Some easier enterprise ? There is a place, 
 If ancient and prophetic fame in lieaven 
 Err not, another world, the happy seat 
 Of some new race called Man, about this time 
 To be created Uke to us, though less 
 In power and excellence, but favoured more 
 Of liim who rules above ; so was his will 
 Pronounced among the gods, and by an oath 
 That shook heaven's whole circumference, cou- 
 
 firmed. 
 Tiiither let ns bend all our thoughts, to Icam 
 AVliat creatures there inliabit, of what mould. 
 Or substance, how endued, and what their power. 
 And where their weakness, how attempted best. 
 By force or subtilty. Though heaven be shut, 
 .\nd heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure 
 In his own strength, this place may lie exposed, 
 Tlic utmost border of his kingdom, left 
 To their defence who hold it : here perhaps 
 Some advantageous act may be achieved 
 By sudden onset, either with hell fire 
 To waste his whole creation, or possess 
 All as our own, and drive as we were driven 
 The puny habitants ; or if not drive. 
 Seduce tliem to our party, that their God 
 May prove their foe, and with repenting hand 
 Abolish his own works. This woidd surpass 
 Common revenge, and interrupt his joy 
 In our confusion, and our joy upraise 
 In his disturbance ; when his darling sons. 
 Hurled headlong to partake ■\vith us, shall curse 
 Tlicir frail original, and faded bliss, 
 Faded so soon. Advise if this be worth 
 Attempting, or to sit in darkness here 
 Hatching vain empires. — Thus Beelzebub 
 Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devised 
 By Satan, and in part proposed ; for whence, 
 But from the author of all ill, could spring 
 So deep a mahce, to confound the race 
 Of mankind in one root, and earth with hell 
 To mingle and involve, done all to spite 
 
 The great Creator ? but their spite still serves 
 His glory to augment. The bold design 
 Pleased highly those infernal states, and joy 
 Sparkled in all their eyes ; with full assent 
 They vote : whereat his speech he thus renews. 
 Well have ye jiulged, well ended long debate, 
 Synod of gods, and, Uke to what ye are, 
 Great things resolved; which from the lowest 
 
 deep 
 Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate, 
 Nearer our ancient seat ; perhaps in view 
 Of those bright confines, whence with neighbour- 
 ing arras 
 And opportune excursion we may chance 
 Re-enter heaven ; or else in some mild zone 
 Dwell, not imvisited of heaven's fair ligiit. 
 Secure, and at the brightening orient beam 
 Purge off this gloom ; the soft delicious air 
 To heal the scar of these corrosive fires 
 Shall breathe her balm. But first whom shall we 
 
 send 
 In search of this new world ? whom shall we find 
 Sufiicieut ? who shall tempt with wandering feet 
 Tlic dai'k unbottonied infinite abyss. 
 And through the palpable obscure find out 
 His uncouth way, or spread his airy flight, 
 Upborne with indefatigable icings, 
 Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive 
 The happy isle? what strength, what art can then 
 Sufilce, or what evasion bear him safe 
 Through the strict sentcries and stations thick 
 Of angels wateliing round ? here he had need 
 All circumspection, and we now no less 
 Choice in our suffrage ; for on whom we send 
 The weight of all, and our last hope, relics. 
 
 This said, he sat ; and expectation held 
 His look suspense, awaiting who appeared 
 To second, or oppose, or undertake 
 The perilous attempt : but all sat mute, 
 Pondering the danger with deep thoughts ; and 
 
 each 
 In others' countenance read his own dismay 
 Astonished ; none among the choice and prime 
 Of tliose heaven-warring champions could be 
 
 found 
 So hardy, as to proffer or accept 
 Alone the dreadful voyage ; till at last 
 Satan, whom now transcendent glory raised 
 Above his fellows, with monarchal pride. 
 Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus spake, 
 
 O Progeny of heaven, empyreal Thrones, 
 With reason hath deep silence and demur 
 Seized us, though undismayed : long is the way 
 And liard, that out of hell leads up to light ; 
 Our prison strong; this huge convex of fire, 
 Outrageous to devour, immures us rouiul 
 Ninefold, and gates of burning adamant 
 Barred over us proliibit aU egress. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -95 
 
a- 
 
 208 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 U- 
 
 These passed, if any pass, the void profound 
 Of unessential night receives him next 
 "Wide gaping, and with utter loss of being 
 Threatens liim, plunged in that abortive gulf. 
 If thence he 'scape into whatever world, 
 Or unknown region, what remains him less 
 Than unknown dangers and as hard escajie ? 
 But I shoidd ill become tliis throne, O Peers, 
 And this imperial sovereignty, adorned 
 With splendour, armed with power, if aught pro- 
 posed 
 And judged of public moment, in the shape 
 Of difficulty or danger, could deter 
 Me fr(jm attempting. Wierefore do I assume 
 These royalties, and not refuse to reign. 
 Refusing to accept as great a share 
 Of hazard as of honour, due alike 
 To liim who reigns, and so much to him due 
 Of hazard more, as he above the rest 
 High honoured sits ? Go, tiierefore, mighty 
 
 Powers, 
 Terror of heaven, though fallen, intend at home. 
 While here shall be our home, what best may ease 
 The present misery, and render hell 
 More tolerable ; if there be cure or charm 
 To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain 
 Of this ill mansion. Intermit no watcli 
 Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad 
 Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek 
 Deliverance for us all : this euter])rise 
 None shall partake with me. Thus saying rose 
 The monarch, and prevented all reply ; 
 Prudent, lest from his resolution raised 
 Others among the chief might offer now, 
 Certain to he refused, what erst they feared ; 
 And so refused might in opinion stand 
 His rivals, winning cheap the high repute, 
 Wliieh he through hazard huge must earn. But 
 
 they 
 Dreaded not more the adventure, than his voice 
 Forbiilding ; and at once with him they rose : 
 Their rising all at once was as tiie sound 
 Of thunder heard remote. Towards him they 
 
 bend 
 With awful reverence prone ; and as a god 
 Extol him equal to the highest in heaven : 
 Nor failed they to express how much they praised, 
 That for tiie general safety he despised 
 His own ; for neither do the spirits damned 
 Lose all their virtue, lest bad men should boast 
 Their specious deeds on earth, which glory ex- 
 cites. 
 Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal. 
 Thus they their doubtful consultations dark 
 Ended, rejoicing in tlicir matchless chief: 
 As wlien from mountain to]is the dusky clouds 
 Ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'er- 
 spread 
 
 Heaven's cheerful face, the lowering element 
 Scowls o'er the darkened landscape snow, or 
 
 shower ; 
 If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet 
 Extend his evening beam, the fields revive. 
 The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds 
 Attest their joy, tiiat hill and valley rings. 
 shame to men ! devil with devil damned 
 Firm concord holds, men only disagree 
 Of creatures rational, though under hope 
 Of heavenly grace ; and God pi-oelaiming peace. 
 Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife 
 Among themselves, and levy cruel wars. 
 Wasting the earth, each other to destroy : 
 As if, which might induce us to accord, 
 Man had not hellish foes enow besides, 
 That day and night for his destruction wait. 
 
 The Stygian council thus dissolved ; and forth 
 In order came the grand inferual ])eers ; 
 Midst came their mighty paramount, and seemed 
 Alone the antagonist of heaven, nor less 
 Than hell's dread emperor, with pomp supreme 
 And God-hke imitated state : him round 
 A globe of fiery serapliim inclosed 
 With bright emblazonry and horrent arms. 
 Then of their session ended they bid cry 
 With trumpets regal sound the great result : 
 Toward the four winds four speedy cherubim 
 Put to their mouths the sounding alchemy, 
 By herald's voice explained: the hollow abyss 
 Heard far and wide, and all the host of hell 
 With deafening shout returned them loud acclaim. 
 Thence more at case their niiuds, and some- 
 what raised 
 By false presumptuous hope, the ranged powers 
 Disband, and wandering each his several way 
 Pursues, as inclination or sad choice 
 Leads liim perplexed, where he may likeliest find 
 Truce to his restless thouglits, and entertain 
 The irksome hours, till his great chief return. 
 Part, on the plain or in the air sublime, 
 Upon the wing or in swift race contend. 
 As at the Olympian games, or Pythian fields ; 
 Part curl) their fiery steeds, or shun the goal 
 With ra])id wheels, or fronted brigades form. 
 As wiien to warn proud cities war a])|)ears 
 Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush 
 To battle in the clouds, before each van 
 Prick forth the aery knights, and coueii their 
 
 spears 
 Till tliickest legions close ; with feats of arms 
 From either end of heaven the welkin burns. 
 Others with vast Typhrean rage more fell 
 Rend up boHi rocks and hills, and ride the air 
 In whirlwind ; hell scarce holds tlie wild uproar. 
 As when Aleides from (ICehaha crowned 
 With coutiuest felt the envenomed robe, and tore 
 Through pain up by the roots Thcssalian pines. 
 
 -95 
 
a^- 
 
 SATAN MEETING WITH SIN AND DEATH. 
 
 209 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 And Liclias from the top of ffita threw 
 Into the Euboic sea. Others more mild, 
 Retreated in a silent valley, sing 
 W'itli notes angehcal to many a harp 
 Their own heroic deeds and liapless fall 
 By doom of battle ; and complain that fate 
 Free virtue should enthral to force or chance 
 Their song was partial ; but tlie harmony, 
 TVliat could it less when spirits immortal sing ? 
 Suspended hell, and took with ravishment 
 Tlie thronging audience. In discourse more 
 
 sweet. 
 For eloquence the sold, song charms the sense. 
 Others apart sat on a liiU retired. 
 In thouglits more elevate, and reasoned high 
 Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate. 
 Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute ; 
 And found no end, in wandering mazes lost. 
 Of good and evil much they argued then. 
 Of happiness and final misery, 
 Passion and apathy, and glory and shame. 
 Vain wisdom all, and false ])hilosophy ; 
 Yet •ndth a pleasing sorcery eoidd charm 
 Pain for a wliile or anguish, and excite 
 Fallacious hope, or arm the obdured breast 
 With stubborn patience as with triple steel. 
 Another part in squadrons and gross bands, 
 On bold adventure to discover wide 
 That dismal world, if any clime perliaps, 
 Might yield them easier habitation, bend 
 Four ways their flying march, along the banks 
 Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge 
 Into the burning lake their baleful streams ; 
 Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate ; 
 Sad Aclieron of sorrow, black and deep ; 
 Cocytus, named of lamentation loud 
 Heard on the rueful stream ; fierce Phlegeton, 
 Wliose waves of torrent Are inflame with rage. 
 Far off from these a slow and silent stream, 
 Lethe the river of oblivion, rolls 
 Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks, 
 Fortliwitli his former state and being forgets, 
 Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure, and pain. 
 Beyond this flood a frozen continent 
 Lies, dark and wild, beat with perpetual storms 
 Of whirlwind and dire hail ; which on firm land 
 Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems 
 Of ancient pile ; all else deep snow and ice ; 
 A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog 
 Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, 
 Wlierc armies whole have sunk : the parching air 
 Burns frore, and cold performs the effect of fire. 
 Thither by harpy -footed Furies lialed 
 At certain revolutions all the damned 
 Are brought ; and feel by turns the bitter change 
 Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more 
 
 fierce. 
 From beds of raging fire to starve in ice 
 
 Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine 
 Immovable, mflxed, and frozen round. 
 Periods of time ; thence hurried back to fire. 
 Tiiey ferry over tliis Lethean sound 
 Botii to and fro, their sorrow to augment. 
 And wisli and struggle, as they pass to reach 
 The tempting stream, with one small drop to lose 
 111 sweet forgetfulncss all paiu and woe, 
 All in one moment, and so near tlie briidc : 
 But fate witlistands, and to oppose tlie attempt 
 Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards 
 The ford, and of itself the water flics 
 All taste of Uving wight, as once it fled 
 The lip of Tantalus. Tlius roving on 
 In confused march forlorn, the adventurous bands. 
 With slmddcring horror pale, and eyes aghast, 
 Viewed first their lamentable lot, and found 
 No rest : through many a dark and dreary vale 
 They passed, and many a region dolorous, 
 O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, 
 Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades 
 
 of death, 
 A universe of death, which God by curse 
 Created e"vil, for evil only good, 
 Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds. 
 Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things. 
 Abominable, inuttcrable, and worse 
 Than fables yet have feigned, or fear conceived, 
 Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimieras dire. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book II. 
 
 SATAN MEETING WITH SIN AND DEATH, 
 
 Meanwhile the adversary of God and man, 
 Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest design. 
 Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates of 
 
 hell 
 Explores his solitary flight ; sometimes 
 He scours the right-hand coast, sometimes the 
 
 left; 
 Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars 
 Up to the fiery concave towering high. 
 As when far off at sea a fleet descried 
 Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
 Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles 
 Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring 
 Their spicy drugs : they on the trading flood 
 Through the wide ^'Ethiopian to the Cape 
 Ply, stemming nightly toward the pole ; so 
 
 seemed 
 Far off the flying fiend. At last appear 
 Hell bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof ; 
 And thrice threefold the gates ; three folds were 
 
 brass. 
 Three iron, three of adamantine rock. 
 Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire. 
 Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat 
 On either side a formidable shajie ; 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 210 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 :i 
 
 The one seemed womaa to the waist, aud fair, 
 But ended foul in many a scaly fold, 
 Yoluminons and vast, a serpent armed 
 "With mortal sting : about her piiddle round 
 A cry of hell-hounds never ceasing barked 
 "With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung 
 A hideous peal : yet, when they List, would creep, 
 If aught disturbed their noise, into her womb, 
 Aud kennel there; yet there still barked and 
 
 howled 
 Williiu unseen. Far less abhorred than these 
 Vexed Scylla batliing in the sea that parts 
 Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore : 
 Nor uglier follow the Night-hag, when called 
 In secret riding through the air she comes. 
 Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance 
 AVith Lapland witches, while the labouring moon 
 Eclipses at their charms. The other shape, 
 If shape it might be called, that shape had none 
 Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb. 
 Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, 
 For each seemed either ; black it stood as night. 
 Fierce as tea furies, terrible as hell, 
 And shook a dreadful dart ; what seemed liis head 
 The Ukeness of a kingly crown had on. 
 Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
 The monster moving onward came as fast, 
 With horrid strides ; hell trembled as he strode. 
 Tlie undaunted fiend wliat this might be admired ; 
 Admired, not feared ; God and his Son except, 
 Created thing naught valued he, nor shmuied ; 
 And with disdainful look thus first began. 
 
 Whence and what art thou, execrable shape. 
 That darest, though grim and terrible, advance 
 Tiiy misereated front athwart my way 
 To yonder gates ? Through them I mean to pass, 
 That be assured without leave asked of thee. 
 Retire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, 
 Hell-boni, not to contend with spirits of heaven. 
 
 To whom the gobUn full of wrath repUed, 
 Art thou that traitor-angel, ai-t thou he. 
 Who first broke peace in heaven and faith, till then 
 Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
 Drew after him the third part of heaven's sons 
 Conjured against the Highest ; for which both 
 
 thou 
 And they, outcast from God, are here condemned 
 To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 
 And reekon'st tlmu thyself with spirits of heaven, 
 Uell-doomed, aud breath' st defiance here and 
 
 scorn, 
 Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more, 
 Thy king and lord ? Back to thy punishment, 
 Faise fugitive, and to thy speed add wings, 
 Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue 
 Tliy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
 Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfclt 
 l)cfore. 
 
 So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape. 
 So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
 More dreadful and deform : on the other side 
 Incensed with indignation Satan stood 
 Unterrified, and Uke a comet burned. 
 That fires the length of Ophiueus huge 
 In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
 Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head 
 Levelled his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 
 No second stroke iuteud, and such a frown 
 Each cast at the other, as when two black clouds, 
 With heaven's ai-tillery fraught, come rattling ou 
 Over the Caspian ; then stand front to front 
 Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
 To join their dark encounter in mid air : 
 So frowned tlie mighty combatants, that hell 
 Grew darker at their frown, so matched they 
 
 stood , 
 For never but once more was either like 
 To meet so great a foe : aiid uow great deeds 
 Had been achieved, whereof all hell had rung, 
 Had not the snaky sorceress that sat 
 Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key. 
 Risen, and with liideous outcry rushed between. 
 Paradise Lost, Book II. 
 
 INVOCATION TO LIGHT. 
 
 Hail holy light! ofl'spring of heaven first-born; 
 Or of the eternal co-eterual beam 
 May I express thee unblamed ? since God is Ught, 
 And never but in unapproaehed liglit 
 Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee. 
 Bright effluence of bright essence iuercate. 
 Or hearest thou rather pure ethereal stream, 
 Wliose fountain who shall tell ? before the sun. 
 Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
 Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
 The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
 Won from the void aud forndcss infinite. 
 Thee I revisit now with bolder wing. 
 Escaped the Stygian pool, (hough long detained 
 In that obscure sojourn, while in my ftight 
 Through utter aud through middle darkness 
 
 borne, 
 W^ith other notes, than to the Orjihcan lyre, 
 I snug of Chaos aud eternal Night, 
 Taugiit by the heavenly Muse to venture down 
 The dark descent, and up to rcascend. 
 Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe. 
 And feel thy sovran vital lamp ; but thou 
 Rcvisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
 So thick a drop serene hath quenched their 
 
 orbs, 
 Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more 
 Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
 
 fr 
 
 -^ 
 
a— 
 
 SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 211 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny liill, 
 Sniit with tlie love of sacred song ; but cluef 
 Tliee, Siou, and the flowery brooks beneath, 
 That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, 
 Nightly I visit ; nor sometimes forget 
 Those other two equalled with me in fate, 
 So were I equalled with them in renown, 
 Blind Thamyris and bUnd Masonides, 
 And Tiresias and Phiueus prophets old. 
 Tiieu feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird 
 Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid 
 Tunes her nocturnal note : thus with the year 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 (Jr flocks, or herds, or human face diWne ; 
 But cloud instead, and ever-duriug dark 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 Of nature's works to me expunged and razed. 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 Shuie inward, and the mind through all her 
 
 powers 
 Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from tlience 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 Faradlse Lost. Book III. 
 
 SATM'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 O THOU that, with surpassing glory crowned, 
 Look'st from thy sole dominion like tlie God 
 Of this new world, at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads, to thee I call. 
 But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 
 
 Sun, to tell thee liow I hate thy beams. 
 That bring to my remembrance from what state 
 
 1 fell, how gloiious once above thy sphere ; 
 Till pride and worse ambition threw me down. 
 Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless 
 
 King. 
 Ah, wherefore ! he deserved no such return 
 From me, whom he created what I was 
 In that bright eminence, and with his good 
 Uijin'aided none ; nor was his service hard. 
 AVhat could bo less than to afford him pi-aise. 
 The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, 
 How due ! yet all his good proted ill in me, 
 And wrought but malice ; lifted up so high 
 I 'sdaiued sul)jection, and thought one step 
 
 liigher 
 Would set me highest, and in a moment quit 
 The debt immense of endless gratitude. 
 So burdensome, still paying, stlU to owe ; 
 Forgetful what from Mm I stiU received, 
 
 And understood not that a grateful mind 
 By owing owes not, but still pays, at once 
 Indebted and discharged ; what burden then ? 
 O, had his powerTul destiny ordained 
 Me some inferior angel, I had stood 
 Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised 
 Ambition ! Yet why not ? some other power 
 As great might have aspired, and me though 
 
 mean 
 Drawn to liis part ; but other powers as great 
 Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
 Or from without, to all temptations armed. 
 Hadst thou the same free wHl and power to 
 
 stand ? 
 Thou hadst : whom hast thou then or what to 
 
 accuse. 
 But heaven's free love dealt equally to all ? 
 Be then his love accursed, since love or hate. 
 To me alike, it deals eternal woe : 
 Nay, cursed be thou ; smce against his thy will 
 Chose freelj what it now so justly rues. 
 Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
 Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? 
 Wiich way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; 
 And in the lowest deep a lower deep 
 Still threaterdng to devour me opens wide ; 
 To which the hcU I suffer seems a heaven. 
 0, then at last relent ; is there no place 
 Left for repentance, none for pardon left ? 
 None left but by submission ; and that word 
 Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
 Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced 
 With other promises and other vaunts 
 Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 
 The Omnipotent. Ay me, they httle know . 
 How dearly I abide that boast so vain, 
 Under what torments inwardly I groan ; 
 Wilde they adore me on the throne of hell. 
 With diadem and sceptre high advanced 
 The lower still I fall, only supreme 
 In misery ; such joy ambition finds. 
 But say I could repent, and could obtain 
 By act of grace my former state ; how soon 
 Would height recall high thoughts, how soon 
 
 unsay 
 Wliat feigned submission swore : ease would re- 
 cant 
 Vows made in pain, as wlent and void ; 
 For never can true reconcilement grow 
 Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so 
 
 deep ; 
 Wliich would but lead me to a worse relapse 
 And hea\ier fall : so should I purchase dear 
 Short intermission bought with double smart. 
 This knows my punisher ; therefore as far 
 From granting he, as I from begging peace : 
 All hope excluded thus, behold instead 
 Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 212 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Mankind, created, aud for him tliis world. 
 So i'areweU hope, and with hope farewell fear, 
 Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost ; 
 EvU, be thou my good ; by thee at least 
 Divided empire with heaven's King I hold, 
 By thee, aud more than half perhaps will reign ; 
 As man ereloug and this new world siiall know. 
 Paradise Lost, Book IV. 
 
 SATAN VIEWING THE GARDEN OF EDEN, 
 
 Bejje.vih him with new wonder now he views 
 To all delight of human sense exposed 
 In narrow room nature's whole wealth, yea more, 
 A heaven on earth : for blissful paradise 
 Of God the garden was, by liim in the east 
 Of Eden planted ; Eden stretched her line 
 From Auran eastward to the royal towers 
 Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings, 
 Or where the sons of Eden long before 
 Dwelt in Telassar. In this pleasant soil 
 His far more pleasant garden God ordained ; 
 Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow 
 All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste ; 
 And all amid them stood the Tree of Life, 
 High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
 Of vegetable gold, and next to Life 
 Our death the Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, 
 Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill. 
 Southward through Eden went a river large. 
 Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy 
 
 hiU 
 Passed midemeath ingulfed ; for God had thrown 
 That mountain as his garden mould, iiigh raised 
 Upon tiie rapid current, which, through veins 
 Of porous earth witii kindly thirst updrawn, 
 Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rUl 
 Watered the garden ; thence united fell 
 Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood. 
 Which from his darksome passage now appears ; 
 Aud now divided into four main streams 
 Kuiis diverte, wandering many a famous realm 
 And country, whereof here needs no account ; 
 But rather to tell how, if art could tell, 
 How from that sapphire fount tlie crisped brooks. 
 Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, 
 With mazy error under pendent shades 
 Ran nectar, visiting eaeli plant, aiul fed 
 Flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art 
 111 lieds and curious knots, but nature boon 
 Poured fortli profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, 
 Both wherc^ the morning sun (irst warmly smote 
 The (jpen field, and where the unpicrced shade 
 1 mbrowned the noontide bowers. Thus was this 
 
 place 
 A happy rural seat of various view : 
 Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and 
 
 balm. 
 
 Others whose fruit burnished with golden rind 
 Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true, 
 If true, here only, and of delicious taste. 
 Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks 
 Grazing the tender herb, were iuterposed, 
 Or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap 
 Of some iiTiguous vaUey spread her store ; 
 Flowers of aU hue, and without thorn tjie rose. 
 Another side, umbrageous grots and caves 
 Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling viue 
 Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps 
 Luxuriant : meanwhile murmuring waters fall 
 Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, . 
 That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned 
 Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. 
 The birds their choir apply ; airs, vernal airs, 
 Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune 
 The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, 
 Knit with the Graces and the Hours ui dance. 
 Led on the eternal spring. Not that fair field 
 Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers. 
 Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
 Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain 
 To seek her through the world ; nor that sweet 
 
 grove 
 Of Daphne by Orontcs and the inspired 
 CastaUan spring might with this paradise 
 Of Eden strive ; nor that Nyseian isle 
 Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham, 
 WTiom Gentiles Aramou call and Lybkn Jove, 
 Hid Amalthea and her florid son 
 Young Bacchus from his stepdame Rhea's eye : 
 Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard. 
 Mount Amara, though this by some supposed 
 True ])aradise, under the Ethiop hue 
 By Nilus' head, enclosed with shiuiug rock, 
 A whole day's journey high, but wide remote 
 From this Assyrian garden, where the fiend 
 Saw undelighted all delight, all kind 
 Of living creatures new to sight and strange. 
 
 Paradise Lost, ]5ook IV. 
 
 WEDDED LOVE, 
 
 n.viL wedded love, mysterious law, true source 
 Of human ofi'spring, sole propriety 
 In paradise of all things cminnon else ! 
 By thee adulterous lust was driven from men 
 Among the bestial herds to range ; by thee 
 Fouiuh'd in reason, loyal, just, and jnirc, 
 Relations dear, and all the charities 
 Of fiitlier, sou, and brother, first were known. 
 Fixr l)c it, tliat I should write thee sin or blame, 
 Or think tliee unbclitting liohest jilace, 
 Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets, 
 Wiose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced, 
 Present, or past, as saints and patriarchs u^cd. 
 Here Love his golden shafts employs, here lights 
 
 4> 
 
a- 
 
 SON OP GOD ASSAILING THE EEBELLIOUS ANGELS. 213 
 
 -fl) 
 
 His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings. 
 Reigns here and revels ; not iu the bought sniile 
 Of harlots, loveless, joyless, uuendeared. 
 Casual fniitiou ; nor in court amours, 
 Mixed dance, or wanton mask, or midnight ball, 
 •Or sereuate, which the starved lover sings 
 To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. 
 These, lulled by nightingales, embracing slept, 
 And on their naked limbs the flowery roof 
 Showered roses, which the morn repaired. Sleep 
 
 on. 
 Blest pair, and 0, yet happiest if ye seek 
 No happier state, and know to know no more ! 
 Paradise Lust, Book IV. 
 
 THE PKAYER OF ADAM AND EVE. 
 
 These are thy glorious works. Parent of good, 
 Alniigiity ; thine this universal frame, 
 Tlius wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens. 
 To us invisible, or dindy seen 
 III these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
 Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
 And choral symplionies, day without night, 
 Circle his tlirone rejoicing ; ye in heaven ; 
 On eai-th join all ye creatures to extol 
 Him first, liini last, him midst, and without end. 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling 
 
 morn 
 Witli thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere 
 A^Hiile day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 TIlou sun, of this great world both eye and soul. 
 Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou 
 
 faU'st. 
 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 
 With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies, 
 And ye five other wandering fires that move 
 In mystic dance not without song, resound 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 
 Air, and ye elements the eldest birth 
 Of nature's womb, that in qviaternion run 
 Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 
 And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 
 Vary to our great ilaker still new praise. 
 Ye nnsts and exhalations that now rise , 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 
 In honour to the world's great author rise, 
 Wliether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky. 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
 Bismg or falling still advance his praise. 
 
 His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow. 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines. 
 With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 Fountains and ye that warble, as ye flow, 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune liis praise ; 
 Join voices, all ye living souls, ye birds. 
 That singing up to heaven-gate ascend, 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise ; 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ; 
 Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
 To lull, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade. 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 
 Hail, universal Ijord ! be bounteous still 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book V. 
 
 THE SON OF GOD ASSAILINQ THE EEBELLIOUS 
 ANOELS, 
 
 FoHTH ruslied with whirlwind sound 
 The chariot of paternal Deity, 
 Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel un- 
 drawn. 
 Itself instinct with spirit, but convoyed 
 By four cherubic shapes ; four faess each 
 Had wondrous, as with stars their bodies all 
 And wings were set with eyes, with eyes the 
 
 wheels 
 Of beryl, and careering fires between ; 
 Over their heads a crystal firmament, 
 Wliereon a sapjdiire throne, inlaid with ]>ure 
 Amber, and colours of the showery arch. 
 He, in celestial panoply all armed 
 Of radiant Urim, work divinely wrought, 
 Ascended ; at his right hand Victory 
 Sate, eagle-winged, beside him hung his bow 
 And quiver with three-bolted thunder stored. 
 And from about liim fierce eff'usion rolled, 
 Of smoke, and bickeriiig flame, and s])arklcs dire. 
 Attended with ten thousand thousand saints 
 He onward came ; far off his coming shone, 
 And twenty thousand, I their number heard. 
 Chariots of God, half on each hand were seen. 
 He on the wings of cherub rode sublime. 
 On the crystalline sky, in sapphire throned. 
 Illustrious far and wide, but by his own 
 First seen ; them unexpected joy surprised, 
 Wlien the great ensign of Messiali Ijlazed, 
 Aloft by angels borne, his sign in heaven : 
 Under whose conduct Michael soon reduced 
 His army, circumfused on either wing, 
 Under their head embodied all in one. 
 Before him power divine his way prepared ; 
 At his command the uprooted hills retired 
 Each to his place, they heard his voice and went 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■^ 
 
cft- 
 
 214 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 -ft 
 
 ' Obsequious ; Heaven liis wonted face renewed, 
 And with tVcsli flowerets liiU and valley smiled. 
 This saw his liapless foes, but stood obdurcd. 
 And to rebeUious fight ralhed tlieir powers 
 Insensate, liope conceiving from despair : 
 In lieavcnly spirits could such perverseuess dwell ? 
 But to convince the proud what signs avail, 
 Or wonders move the obdurate to relent ? 
 They hardened more by what miglit most reclaim, 
 Grieving to see his glory, at the sight 
 Took envy, and, aspiring to his heiglit. 
 Stood reinibattled fierce, by force or fraud 
 Weening to prosper, and at lengtli prevail 
 Against God and Messiah, or to fall 
 In universal ruin last ; and now 
 To final battle drew, disdaming fl.ight. 
 Or faint retreat. 
 
 * * * 
 
 At once the Four spread out tlieir starry wings 
 With dreadful shade contiguous, and tlio orbs 
 Of his fierce chariot rolled, as with tlie sound 
 Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
 He on his impious foes right onward drove. 
 Gloomy as night ; under his burning wheels 
 The steadfast empyrean shook tlirougliout. 
 All but the throne itseU' of God. FuD soon 
 Among them he arrived, in his right liand 
 Grasping teif thousand thunders, which lie sent 
 Before liim, such as in their souls infixed 
 Plagues ; tliey astonished all resistance lost, 
 All courage ; down tlieir idle weapons dropped ; 
 O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode 
 Of thrones and mighty serapliim prostrate, 
 That wished the mountains now might be again 
 Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. 
 Nor less on either side tempestuous fell 
 His arrows, from the fourfold visagcd Four, 
 Distinct with eyes, and from the hving wheels 
 Distinct alike with midtitude of eyes ; 
 One spirit in them ruled, and every eye 
 Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire 
 Among the accurst, that withered all their 
 
 strength, 
 And of their wonted vigour left them drained, 
 Exhausted, spiritless, aSlicted, fallen. 
 Yet half his strength he put not forth, but checked 
 His thunder in mid volley, for he meant 
 Not to destroy, but root them out of heaven. 
 The overthrown he raised, and as a herd 
 Of goats or timorous flock together thronged 
 Drove them before him thundcr-struek, ])ursued 
 With terrors and with furies to the bounds 
 And crystal wall of heaven, which opening -wide 
 Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed 
 Into the wasteful deep ; the monstrous sight 
 Stnick them with lun-ror backward ; but far worse 
 Urged them behind : headlong themselves they 
 llirew 
 
 (y_ 
 
 Down from the verge of heaven, eternal wrath 
 Burned after them to the bottomless pit. 
 HcU heard the unsuft'erable noise, hell saw 
 Heaven ruining from heaven, and would have fled 
 Afl'righted ; but strict fate had cast too deep 
 Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. 
 Nine days they fell ; confounded Chaos roared. 
 And felt tenfold confusion hi their fall 
 Through his wdd anarchy; so huge a rout 
 Incumbered him with ruin : hell at last 
 Yawning received them whole, and on them closed ; 
 Hell their fit habitation, fraught with fire 
 Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain. 
 Disburdened heaven rejoiced, and soon repaired 
 Her mural breach, returning whence it rolled. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book VI. 
 
 ADAM AND EVE EXPELLED FROM EDEN. 
 
 High in front advanced 
 The brandished sword of God before them blazed 
 Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat, 
 xiiid vapour as the Libyan air adust. 
 Began to parch that temperate clime : wlicreat 
 In either hand the hastening angel caught 
 Our lingering jiarents, and to the eastern gate 
 Led them direct, and down the clilf as fast 
 To the subjected plain ; then disa])])eared. 
 They looking back all the eastern side beheld 
 Of paradise, so late their liapjiy scat. 
 Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate 
 With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms : 
 Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them 
 
 soon ; 
 The world was all before them, where to choose 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
 They, hand in hand , with wandering steps and slow. 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book .\1I. 
 
 ATHENS. 
 
 Look once more, ere we leave tliis specular 
 mount, 
 Westward, much nearer by south-west, behold 
 Where on the iEgean shore a city stands 
 Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil, 
 Athens the eye of Greece, mother of arts 
 And eloquence, native to famous wits. 
 Or hospitable, in her sweet recess. 
 City or suburban, studious walks and shades ; 
 See there the olive grove of Academe, 
 Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird 
 Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long ; 
 There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound 
 Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites 
 To studious musing ; there Ilissus rolls 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 CELINDA. — MUSIC'S DUEL. 
 
 215 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 His whispering stream; within tlie walls then 
 
 view 
 The schools of ancient sages ; his who bred 
 Great Alexander to subdue tlie world, 
 Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next : 
 Tliere tliou shalt hear and learn the secret power 
 Of liarmony, in tones and numbers hit 
 By voice or hand, and various-measured verse, 
 iEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes. 
 And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, 
 Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer called, 
 Wliose poem Phcebus challenged for liis own. 
 Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught 
 In Chorus or Iambic, teachers best 
 Of moral prudence, witli delight received, 
 In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 
 Of fate, and cliance, and change in human life ; 
 High actions and liigli passions best describing. 
 Thence to the famous orators repair. 
 Those ancient, wliose resistless eloquence 
 Wielded at wUl that fierce democracie, 
 Shoolc the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece, 
 To IVIacedon, and Artaxerxes' throne : 
 To sage pliilosophy next lend thine ear, 
 From heaven descended to the low-rooft house 
 Of Socrates ; see there his tenement. 
 Whom well inspired the oracle pronounced 
 A'l'isest of men ; from whose mouth issued forth 
 Mellifluous streams that watered all the schools 
 Of Academics old and new, with those 
 Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect 
 Epicurean, and the Stoic severe ; 
 These here revolve, or, as tliou lilc'st, at home. 
 Till time mature thee to a kingdom's weight; 
 These rides will reuder thee a l^ing complete 
 Within thyself, much more witli empire join'd. 
 Paradise Regained, Book IV. 
 
 EDWARD, LORD HERBERT, 
 OF CHEKBURY. 
 
 1581 - 164S. 
 
 CELINDA, 
 
 W.vLKiNG thus towards a pleasant grove, 
 Which did, it seemed, in new delight 
 Tiie pleasures of the time unite 
 To give a triumph to their love, — 
 Tlicy stayed at last, and on the grass 
 Reposed so as o'er his breast 
 Slie bowed her gracious head to rest, 
 Suoli a weight as no burden was. 
 Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent, 
 Unchanged they did never move, 
 As if so great and pure a love 
 No glass but it could represent. 
 
 " These eyes again thine eyes shall sec. 
 Thy hands again these hands infold. 
 And all chaste pleasures can be told 
 Shall with us everlasting be. 
 Let tiicn no doubt, Cclinda, touch, 
 Mucli less your fairest mind invade ; 
 Were not our souls immortal made. 
 Our equal loves can make them sucli." 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 
 1610 (!) - 1650. 
 
 MUSIC'S DUEL. 
 
 Now westward Sol had spent tlie richest beams 
 Of noon's higli glory, wlien, liard by the streams 
 Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat. 
 Under protection of an oak, there sat 
 A sweet lute's master : in whose gentle airs 
 He lost the day's lieat, and liis own liot cares. 
 
 Close in the covert of the leaves there stood 
 A niglitingale, come from the neigiibouring wood ; 
 Tlic sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, 
 Their muse, their Siren, harmless Siren she, — 
 There stood she listening, and did entertain 
 Tlie music's soft report, and mould the same 
 In lier own murmurs, tliat whatever mood 
 His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. 
 The man perceived his rival, and lier art ; 
 Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport, 
 Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come 
 Ini'orms it, in a sweet preeludium 
 Of closer strains ; and ere the war begin 
 He shghtly skirmishes on every string, 
 Ciiarged with a flying touch; and straightway she 
 Carves out lier dainty voice as readily 
 Into a thousand sweet distingiushcd tones ; 
 And reckons up in soft divisions 
 Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know 
 By that shrill taste slie could do something too. 
 
 His nimble liand"s instinct then tauglit each 
 string 
 A capering cheerfulness ; and made them sing 
 To tlicir own dance ; now ucgligcntly rash 
 He throws liis arm, and with a long-drawn dash 
 Blends all together, tlien distinctly trips 
 From tliis to that, then, quick returning, skips 
 And snatches this again, and pauses tliere. 
 She measures every measure, everywliere 
 Meets art with art ; sometimes, as if in doubt — 
 Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out — 
 Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note 
 Througli tlie sleek passage of her open throat : 
 A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she point it 
 With tender accents, and severely joint it 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 216 
 
 CRASHAW. 
 
 ^-Q> 
 
 By short diminutives, that, being reared 
 In controverting warbles evenly shared, 
 With her sweet self she wrangles ; he, amazed 
 That from so small a cliaimel shoidd be raised 
 The torrent of a voiee, whose melody 
 Could melt into sueh sweet variety, 
 Strains higher yet, that tiekled with rare art. 
 The tattluig strings — each breathing in his part — 
 Most kindly do fall out ; the grumbling bass 
 In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ; 
 The high-perched treble chirps at tliis, and cliides 
 Until his finger — moderator — hides 
 And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, 
 Hoarse, shrdl, at once : as when the trumpets call 
 Hot Mars to the harvest of death's field, and woo 
 Men's hearts into their hands; this lesson, too. 
 She gives him back, her supple breast thrUls out 
 Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbhng doubt 
 Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, 
 And folds in waved notes, ■with a trembling bill. 
 The pliant series of her slippery song ; 
 Then starts she sudderdy into a throng 
 Of short thick sobs, whose thundering volleys 
 
 float 
 And roll themselves over her lubric throat 
 In panting murmurs, 'stilled out of her breast, 
 That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest 
 Of her delicious sold, that there does lie 
 Bathing in streams of hquid melody, — 
 Music's best seed-plot ; when iu ripened airs 
 A golden-headed harvest fairly rears 
 His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath. 
 Which there reciprocally laboureth. 
 In that sweet soil it seems a holy choir 
 Founded to tiie name of great Apollo's lyre ; 
 TOiose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes 
 Of sweet-hpped angel-imps, thatswUl their throats 
 In cream of morning Helicon ; and then 
 Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, 
 To woo them from their beds, stiU murmuring 
 That men cau sleep wlule they their matins 
 
 sing; — 
 Most divine service ! whose so early lay 
 Prevents the eyelids of tlie blushing day. 
 There might you hear her kincUo her soft voice 
 In the close murmur of a sparkling noise, 
 And lay the groundw(nk of her hopeful song ; 
 Still kec])ing in the forward stream so long. 
 Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out, 
 Heaves licr soft bosom, wanders round about. 
 And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast ; 
 Till the Hedged notes at length forsake their nest, 
 riuttering iu wanton shoals, and to the sky, 
 Winged witii their own wild echoes, prattling fly. 
 Slie opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide 
 Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride 
 On the waved back of every swelling strain, 
 Rising and fidling in a pompous train ; 
 
 And while she thus discharges a shrill peal 
 Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal 
 With the cool epode of a graver note ; 
 Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat 
 Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse 
 
 bird; 
 Her little soul is ravished : and so poured 
 Into loose ecstasies, that she is ])laced 
 Above herself, — music's enthusiast ! 
 
 Shame now and anger mixed a double stain 
 Iu the musician's face ; yet once again. 
 Mistress, I come. Now reach a strain, my lute. 
 Above her mock, or be forever mute ; 
 Or tune a song of victory to me. 
 Or to thyself sing tiiine own obsequy ! 
 So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, 
 And with a quivering coyness tastes the strings ; 
 The sweet-lipped sisters, musically frighted. 
 Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted : 
 Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs 
 Are fanned and frizzled in tlie wanton airs 
 Of liis own breath, wliieh, married to Ids lyre, 
 Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self 
 
 look higher ; 
 From this to that, from that to this, he flies, 
 Feels music's pulse in all her arteries ; 
 Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads. 
 His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, 
 Following those httle rills, he sinks into 
 A sea of Helicon ; his hand does go 
 Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, 
 Softer than that whieli pants in Hebe's cup : 
 The humourous stringsexpound his learned touch 
 By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch 
 And murmur in a buzzing diu, then jingle 
 In slirill-tongucd accents, striving to be single ; 
 Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke. 
 Gives hfe to some new grace : thus doth he invoke 
 Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus — 
 Fraught with a fury so harmonious — 
 The lute's hght Genius now does proudly rise. 
 Heaved on the surges of swollen rhapsodies, 
 Wiose flo\irisli, meteor-hkc, dotli curl tlie air 
 'With flash of high-born fancies ; here and there 
 Dancing in lofty measures, and anon 
 Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, 
 "Wllose trembUng murmurs, melting in wild airs. 
 Run to and fro, complaining liis sweet cares ; 
 Because those precious mysteries that dwell 
 In music's ravished soul he dare not tell. 
 But whisper to the world : thus do they vary 
 Each string his note, as if they meant to carry 
 Their master's blest soul, snatched out at his cars 
 By a strong ecstasy, through all the spheres 
 Of iinisic's heaven ; and seat it tiierc on high 
 In the empyricum of pure harmony. 
 At length — at'tiT so long, so loud a strife 
 or all the strings, still breathing the bc'st life 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTKESS. 
 
 -ft 
 
 217 
 
 ^ 
 
 Of blest variety, attending on 
 
 His fingers' fairest revolution, 
 
 In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall — 
 
 A full-mouthed diapason swallows all. 
 
 Tliis done, he hsts what she would say to this; 
 And she, although her breath's late exercise 
 Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat. 
 Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. 
 Aliis, in vain ! for whUe, sweet soul, she tries 
 To measure aU those wild diversities 
 Of chattermg strings, by the small size of one 
 Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone. 
 She fails ; and failing, grieves ; and grieving, 
 
 dies; — 
 She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize. 
 Falling upon his lute. 0, fit to have — 
 That hved so sweetly — dead, so sweet a grave ! 
 The Delights of Ihe Muses. 
 
 WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS, 
 
 Wiioe'ek she be, 
 
 That not impossible she. 
 
 That shall connnand my heart and me : 
 
 Where'er she lie. 
 
 Locked up from mortal eye, 
 
 In shady leaves of destiny : 
 
 Till that ripe birth 
 
 Of studied fate, stand forth, 
 
 And teach her fair steps to our earth : 
 
 Till that divine 
 
 Idea take a shrine 
 
 Of crystal flesh, through which to snine : 
 
 Meet you her, ray Wishes, 
 Bespeak her to my blisses. 
 And be ye called my absent kisses. 
 
 I wish her beauty, 
 
 That owes not all its duty 
 
 To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie. 
 
 Sometliing more than 
 Talt'ata or tissue can. 
 Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 
 
 More than the spoil 
 
 Of shop, or'silkworm's toil, ' 
 
 Or a bought blush, or a set snule. 
 
 A face, that 's best 
 
 By its own beauty dressed. 
 
 And can alone command the rest. 
 
 A face, made up 
 
 Out of no other shop. 
 
 Than wliat Nature's white hand sets ope. 
 
 A cheek, where youth 
 
 And blood, with pen of truth, 
 
 W^rite what the reader sweetly rueth. 
 
 A cheek, where grows 
 More than a morning rose. 
 Which to no box his being owes. 
 
 Lips, where all day 
 
 A lover's kiss may play, 
 
 Yet carry nothing thence away. 
 
 Looks, that oppress 
 
 Their richest tires, but dress 
 
 And clothe their simplest nakedness. 
 
 Eyes, that displace 
 
 The neighbour diamond, and outface 
 
 That sunshine by their o'mi sweet grace. 
 
 Tresses, that wear 
 
 Jewels, but to declare 
 
 How much themselves more precious are. 
 
 Whose native ray 
 
 Can tame the wanton day 
 
 Of gems that in their bright shades play. 
 
 Each ruby there. 
 
 Or pearl that dare appear. 
 
 Be its own blush, be its own tear. 
 
 A well-tamed heart. 
 
 For whose more noble smart 
 
 Love may be long choosing a dart. 
 
 Eyes, that bestow 
 
 Fvdl quivers on love's bow, 
 
 Yet pay less arrows than they owe. 
 
 Smiles, that can warm 
 
 The blood, yet teach a charm. 
 
 That chastity shall take no harm. 
 
 Blushes, that bin 
 
 The burnish of no sin. 
 
 Nor flames of aught too hot within. 
 
 Joys, that confess 
 Virtue their mistress, 
 
 And have no other head to dress. 
 
 * « 4 
 
 Days, that need borrow 
 
 No part of their good morrow. 
 
 From a fore-spent night of sorrow. 
 
 Days, that in spite 
 
 Of darkness, by the light 
 
 Of a clear mind, are day all night. 
 
 Nights, sweet as they 
 
 Made short by lovers' play. 
 
 Yet long by the absence of the day. 
 
 ^ 
 
a-^ 
 
 1^18 
 
 CEASHAW. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Life, that dares send 
 
 A challcage to his end, 
 
 And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend ! 
 
 Sydueian showers 
 
 Of sweet discourse, whose powers 
 
 Can crown old winter's head with flowers. 
 
 Soft silken hours, 
 
 Open suns, shady bowers, 
 
 'Bove all — nothmg within that lowers. 
 
 Whate'er delight 
 
 Can make day's forehead bright. 
 
 Or give down to the wings of night. 
 
 In her whole frame, 
 Have Nature all the name, 
 Art and ornament the shame. 
 
 Her flattery. 
 
 Picture and poesy. 
 
 Her counsel her own virtue be. 
 
 I wish her store 
 
 Of worth may leave her poor 
 
 Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 
 
 Now, if Time knows 
 
 That her, whose radiant brows 
 
 "Weave them a garland of my vows ; 
 
 Her, whose just bays 
 
 My future hopes can raise, 
 
 A trophy to her present praise ; 
 
 Her, that dares be 
 
 Wliat these lines wish to see : 
 
 I seek no further, it is she. 
 
 'T is she, and here, 
 Lo, I unclothe and clear 
 My Wish's cloudy ciiaracter ! 
 
 May she enjoy it, 
 
 Wliose merit dare apply it. 
 
 But modesty dares still deny it ! 
 
 Such worth as this is 
 Sliali fix my flying wishes. 
 And dcterniiue them to kisses. 
 
 Let her full glory. 
 
 My fancies, fly before ye. 
 
 Be ye my fictions but — her story. 
 
 AN EPITAPH UPON HTJSBAND AND WIFE, 
 
 WHO DIKD A.ND WEEE BUKIED TOGETnEU. 
 
 To these whom death again did wed. 
 This grave 's the second marriage-bed. 
 
 For though the hand of Fate could force 
 'Twixt soul and body a divorce. 
 It could not sever man and wife. 
 Because they both lived but one life. 
 Peace, good reader, do not weep ; 
 Peace, the lovers are asleep. 
 They, sweet turtles, folded lie 
 In the last knot that love eould tie. 
 Let them sleep, let them sleep on. 
 Till the stormy niglit be gone. 
 And the eternal moiTow dawn ; 
 Then the curtains will be drawn. 
 And they wake into a light 
 Wliose day shall never die in night. 
 
 THE WEEPEK. 
 
 Hail sister springs. 
 Parents of silver-forded rills ! 
 
 Ever-bubbhng things ! 
 Tliawing crystal ! Snowy hills ! 
 Still spending, never spent ; I mean 
 Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. 
 
 Heavens thy fair eyes be ; 
 Heavens of ever-falling stars ; 
 
 'T is seed-time still with thee. 
 And stars thou sow'st, whose harvest dares 
 Promise the earth to countershme 
 Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine. 
 
 But we 're deceived all : 
 Stars they 're indeed too true, 
 
 JFor they but seem to fall 
 As Heaven's other spangles do : 
 It is not for our earth and us. 
 To shine in tlungs so precious. 
 
 Upwards thou dost weep ; 
 Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream. 
 
 Where the milky rivers meet. 
 Thine crawls above and is the cream. 
 Heaven, of sueh fair floods as this, 
 Heaven the crystal ocean is. 
 
 Every mom from hence 
 A brisk cherub something sips, 
 
 Wiose soft influence 
 Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips ; 
 Tlien to his music : and Ids song 
 T;istes of this breakfast all day long. 
 
 Wlien some new bright guest 
 
 Takes up among the st.nrs a room. 
 
 And Heaven will make a feast. 
 
 Angels with their bottles come ; 
 
 And draw from these full eyes of thine 
 
 Their Master's water, their own wine. 
 
 ■^ 
 
(&- 
 
 ON THE BAPTIZED ETHIOPIAN. — TO CHLOE. 
 
 219 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 The dew no more will weep, 
 The primrose's pale cheek to deck ; 
 
 The dew no more vrUl sleep, 
 Nuzzled iu the hly's ueok. 
 Muck rather would it tremble here, 
 And leave them both to be thy tear. 
 
 Not the soft gold which 
 Steals from the amber- weeping tree. 
 
 Makes sorrow half so rich. 
 As the drops distilled from thee. 
 Sorrow's best jewels lie iu these 
 Caskets of which Heaven keeps the keys. 
 
 Wlien Sorrow would be seen 
 In her brightest majesty. 
 
 For she is a queen, 
 Then is she drest by none but thee. 
 Tlieu, and only then, she wears 
 Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears. 
 
 Not in the evening's eyes. 
 When they red with weeping are 
 
 Per the Sun that dies. 
 Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. 
 Nowhere but here did ever meet 
 Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 
 
 ON THE BAPTIZED ETHIOPIAN. 
 
 Let it no longer be a forlorn hope 
 
 To wash an Ethiop : 
 He 's washed, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade 
 
 Por his white soul is made . 
 And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove 
 
 A black-faced house will love. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S MITES, 
 
 Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land, 
 Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand; 
 The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave ; 
 The other cast away, she only gave. 
 
 UPON THE INFANT MAKTYES. 
 
 To see both blended in one flood. 
 The mothers' milk, the children's blood. 
 Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather 
 Roses hence, or hlies rather. 
 
 SAMSON TO HIS DELILAH, 
 
 Crtjel, could not once blinding me suffice ? 
 When first I looked on thee I lost mine eyes. 
 
 TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PEAT. 
 
 Two went to pray ? 0, rather say, 
 One went to brag, the other to pray. 
 
 One stands up close, and treads on high. 
 Where the other dares not lend his eye. 
 
 One nearer to God's altar trod. 
 The other to the altar's God. 
 
 UPON FORD'S TWO TRAGEDIES, 
 love's saceifice, and the bkoken heart. 
 
 Thou cheat' st us, Ford, mak'st one seem two by 
 
 art; 
 What is love's sacrifice but the broken heart ? 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 O, IF Love shall live, O, where 
 But in her eye, or in her ear. 
 In her breast, or in her breath. 
 Shall I hide poor Love from death ? 
 For in the life aught else can give. 
 Love shall die, although he live. 
 
 Or, if Love shall die, O, where, 
 But iu her eye, or in her ear. 
 In her breath, or in her breast. 
 Shall I build his funeral nest ? 
 WliUe Love shall thus entombed lie. 
 Love shall Uve, although he die ! 
 
 WATER TURNED INTO WINE. 
 TuE conscious water saw its God and blushed. 
 
 WILLIAM CARTAVRIGHT. 
 
 1611 - 1643. 
 
 TO CHLOE, 
 
 WHO WISHED HERSELF YOUNG ENOUGH FOE ME. 
 
 Chloe, why wish you that your years 
 
 Would backwards run, till they met mine ? 
 
 That perfect likeness, which endears 
 Things unto things, might us combine. 
 
 Our ages so in date agree. 
 
 That twins do differ more than we. 
 
 There are two births ; the one when light 
 First strikes the new awakened sense ; 
 
 The other when two souls unite ; 
 And we must count our life from thence : 
 
 When you loved me, and I loved you. 
 
 Then both of us were born ancM'. 
 
 -^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 220 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Love then to us did new souls give, 
 
 Aud in those souls did plaut new powers : 
 
 Sinee when another life we live, 
 
 The breath we breathe is his, not ours ; 
 
 Love makes those young whom age doth chill, 
 
 And whom he finds young keeps young still. 
 
 Love, like that angel that shall eaU 
 
 Our bodies from the silent grave. 
 Unto one age dotli raise us all ; 
 
 None too much, none too little have ; 
 Nay, that the difference may be none, 
 He makes two not alike, but one. 
 
 Aud now since you aud I are such, 
 
 Tell me what 's yours, and what is mine ? 
 
 Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, toueh, 
 Do, Uke our souls, in one combine ; 
 
 So, by this, I as well may be 
 
 Too old for you, as you for me. 
 
 x>;<K<x^ 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 1612 - 1680. 
 
 THE ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF HUDIBEAS. 
 
 When eivil dudgeon first grew high, 
 Aud men fell out, they knew not why : 
 Wieu hard words, jealousies, and fears, 
 Set folks together by the ears. 
 And made them fight, like mad or drunk, 
 For Dame lleligiou as for punk ; 
 Whose honesty they all durst swear for, 
 Though not a man of them knew wherefore : 
 When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 
 With long-eared rout, to battle sounded. 
 And puljiit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 Was beat w^ith fist, instead of a stick : 
 Tiien did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
 Aud out he rode a-eolonelling. 
 
 He was in logic a great critic, 
 Profoundly skilled in analytic ; 
 He could distinguish aud divide 
 A hair 'twixt soutli and southwest side ; 
 On eitlier which lie would dispvite. 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute ; 
 He 'd undertake to prove by force 
 Of argument a man 's no horse ; 
 He 'd |u-ovc a Inizzard is no fowl, 
 Aud that a lord may be an owl, 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
 And rooks eommittcc-meu aud trustees. 
 He 'd run in debt by disputation. 
 And pay with ratiocination: 
 All tills by syllogism, true 
 
 speech 
 
 t 
 
 In mood and figure, he would do. 
 
 For rhetoric, he could not ope 
 
 His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; 
 
 Aud when he happened to break off 
 
 I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 
 
 H' had hard words, ready to show why. 
 
 And tell what rules he did it by ; 
 
 Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
 
 You 'd tliink he talked like other folk ; 
 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 
 
 Teach uotliing but to name his tools. 
 
 But, when he pleased to show 't, his 
 
 In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
 
 A Babylonish dialect, 
 
 Wliich learned pedants much affect : 
 
 It was a party-coloured dress 
 
 Of patched aud piebald languages ; 
 
 'T was Enghsh cut on Greek and Latin, 
 
 Like fustian heretofore on satm. 
 
 It had au odd promiscuous tone. 
 
 As if h' had talked three ]iarts in one ; 
 
 Which made some think, when he did gabble, 
 
 Th' had heard tliree labourers of Babel ; 
 
 Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
 
 A leash of languages at once. 
 
 This he as volubly would vent 
 
 As if his stock would ne'er be spent ; 
 
 And truly, to support that charge. 
 
 He had suppUes as vast and large : 
 
 For he could coin or counterfeit 
 
 New words, with little or no wit ; 
 
 Words so debased and hard, iio stone 
 
 AVas hard enough to touch litem on ; 
 
 And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em. 
 
 The ignorant for current took 'cm ; 
 
 That had the orator, who once 
 
 Did fill his mouth with pebble stones 
 
 Wlien he harangued, but known his phrase, 
 
 He would have used no other ways. 
 
 lu mathematics he was greater 
 Than Tyeho Brahe or Erra Pater ; 
 For he, by geometric scale, 
 Could take the size of ))ots of ale ; 
 Ecsolve, by sines and t^uigents, strait, 
 If bread or butter wanted weight : 
 And wisely tell, what lioiir o' th' day 
 The clock does strike, by algebra. 
 
 THE BELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. 
 
 Fon his religiiiu, it was fit 
 To match his learning and his wit. 
 'T was rresbytcrian true blue ; 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
 To be the true church militant ; 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 
 —8^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE TURNS OF FORTUNE. — SYNODS. 
 
 221 
 
 -fi) 
 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 
 Decide all eontroversies by 
 
 Infallible artiUery ; 
 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 
 By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation, 
 
 A godly thorongh reformation, 
 
 Wliieh always must be carried on. 
 
 And still be doing, never done; 
 
 As if religion were intended 
 
 For nothing else but to be mended ; 
 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 
 In odd perverse antipathies ; 
 
 In falling out with that or this, 
 
 xind finding somewhat still amiss ; 
 
 More peevisli, cross, and splenetic, 
 
 Than dog distraught or monkey sick ; 
 
 That with more care keep holiday 
 
 The wrong, than others tlie right way ; 
 
 Compound for sins they are inclined to. 
 
 By damning those they have no mind to. 
 
 Still so perverse and opposite, 
 
 As if they worsi lipped God for spite ; 
 
 The selfsame thing they will abhor 
 
 One way, and long another for ; 
 
 Freewill they one way disavow. 
 
 Another, nothing else allow ; 
 
 All piety consists therein 
 
 In them, in other men all sin ; 
 
 Rather than fail, they will defy 
 
 That which they love most tenderly ; 
 
 Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage 
 
 Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge ; 
 
 Fat pig and goose itself oppose. 
 
 And blaspheme custard through the nose. 
 
 Tiie apostles of tliis fierce religion, 
 
 Like Maliomet's, were ass and widgeon. 
 
 To whom our knight, by fast instinct 
 
 Of wit and temper, was so linked. 
 
 As if hypocrisy and nonsense 
 
 Had got the advowson of his conscience. 
 
 THE TUENS OF FORTUNE, 
 
 Ay me ! what perils do environ 
 
 The man that meddles with cold iron ! 
 
 What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps 
 
 Do dog liim still with after-claps ! 
 
 For though Dame Fortune seem to smile. 
 
 And leer upon him for a while. 
 
 She 'U after shew him, in the nick 
 
 Of all his glories, a dog-trick. 
 
 This any man may sing or say 
 
 I' th' ditty called! What if aDay ? 
 
 For Hiulibras, who tliouglit he 'ad won 
 
 The field, as certain as a gun, 
 
 And having routed the whole troop. 
 
 With victory was cock-a-hoop. 
 Thinking he 'ad done enough to purchase 
 Thanksgiving-day among the Churches, 
 Wherein his mettle and brave worth 
 Might be explained by holder-forth 
 And registered by fame eternal 
 In deathless pages of Diurnal, 
 Found in few minutes, to his cost, 
 He did but count without his host, 
 And that a tunistile is more certain 
 Than, in events of war. Dame Fortune. 
 
 SYNODS. 
 
 Synods are mystical Bear-gardens, 
 
 Where Elders, Deputies, Ciiurch-wardens, 
 
 And other Members of the Court, 
 
 Manage the Babylonish sport ; 
 
 For Prolocutor, Scribe, and Bear-ward, 
 
 Do differ only in a mere word. 
 
 Both arc but several synagogues 
 
 Of carnal men, and Bears and Dogs : 
 
 Both antichristian assembhes. 
 
 To mischief bent as far 's in them lies : 
 
 Both stave and tail, with fierce contests. 
 
 The one with men, the other beasts. 
 
 The difference is, the one fights with 
 
 The tongue, the other with the teeth ; 
 
 And that they bait but Bears in this. 
 
 In the other Souls and Consciences : 
 
 Where Saints themselves are brought to stake 
 
 For Gospel-light and Conscience' sake ; 
 
 Exposed to Scribes and Presbyters, 
 
 Instead of Mastive Dogs and Curs ; 
 
 Than whom they 've less humanity, 
 
 For these at souls of men will fly. 
 
 This to the propliet did appear. 
 
 Who in a vision saw a Bear, 
 
 Prefiguring the beastly rage 
 
 Of Church-rule in this latter age; 
 
 As is demonstrated at full 
 
 By him that baited the Pope's Bull. 
 
 Bears naturally are beasts of prey. 
 
 That live by rapine ; so do they. 
 
 What are their Orders, Constitutions, 
 
 Church-censures, Curses, Absolutions, 
 
 But several mystic chains they make. 
 
 To tie poor Christians to the stake ? 
 
 And then set Heathen oifieers. 
 
 Instead of Dogs, about their ears. 
 
 For to prohibit and dispense. 
 
 To find out, or to make ofl'enee ; 
 
 Of hell aiul heaven to dispose. 
 
 To play with soids at fast and loose ; 
 
 To set what characters they please. 
 
 And mulcts on sin or godliness ; 
 
 Reduce the Church to Gospel-order, 
 
 -g> 
 
cfi- 
 
 222" 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 t-^ 
 
 By rapine, sacrilege, and murder; 
 To make Presbytery supreme, 
 And Kings themselves submit to them ; 
 And force all people, though against 
 Their consciences, to turn Saints; 
 Must prove a pretty thriving trade. 
 When Saiuts monopohsts are made: 
 Wlien pious frauds and holy shifts 
 Are Dispensations and Gifts, 
 There godliness becomes mere ware, 
 And every Synod but a fair. 
 Synods are whelps o' th' Inquisition, 
 A mongrel breed of like pernieion. 
 And, growing up, became the sires 
 Of Scribes, Commissioners, and Triers : 
 Whose business is, by cunning sleight 
 To east a figure for men's hght ; 
 To lind, in hues of beard and face. 
 The physiognomy of Grace ; 
 And by the sound and twang of uose. 
 If all be sound within disclose. 
 Free from a crack or flaw of sinning. 
 As men try pipkins by the ringing ; 
 By black caps underlaid with white 
 Give certain guess at inward light. 
 Which Sergeants at the Gospel wear. 
 To make the Spiritual Calling clear. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The sun grew low and left the skies. 
 Put down (some write) by ladies' eyes. 
 The moon pulled olf her veil of liglit, 
 Tiiat hides her face by day from sight 
 (Mysterious veil, of brightness made. 
 That 's both her lustre and her shade), 
 And in tlie lantern of the night 
 Witii shining horns hung out her light ; 
 For darkness is the proper sphere 
 Where all false glories use to appear. 
 The twinkling stars began to muster, 
 And glitter with their borrowed Instre, 
 While sleep the wearied world relieved. 
 By counterfeiting death revived. 
 
 HTPOORIST, 
 
 WiiY didst thou choose that cursed sin, 
 Hypocrisy, to set up in ? — 
 
 Because it is the thriving'st calling, 
 Tiic only saints'-bell that rings all in ; 
 In wiiicli all Churches are concerned, 
 And is the easiest to be learned : 
 For no degrees, unless they employ 't, 
 Can ever gain much or enjoy 't : 
 A gift that is not only able 
 To domineer among the rabble. 
 But by the laws impowered to roiit 
 
 And awe the greatest that stand out ; 
 Which few hold forth against, for fear 
 Their hands should sUp and come too near ; 
 For no sin else, among the Saints, 
 Is taught so tenderly against. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Quoth he, I am resolved to be 
 Thy scholar in this mystery ; 
 And therefore first desire to know 
 Some principles on which you go. 
 
 Wliat makes a knave a child of God 
 And one of us ? — A Uvelihood. 
 "Wliat renders beating out of brains 
 And murther godliness ? — Great gains. 
 
 What 's tender conscience ? — 'T is a botch 
 That will not bear the gentlest touch ; 
 But, breaking out, dispatches more 
 Than the e])idemicarst plague-sore. 
 
 "What makes y' incroach u])on our trade. 
 And damn all others ? — To l)c ])aid. 
 Wliat 's orthodox and true believing 
 Against a conscience ? — A good living. 
 
 What makes rebelling against kings 
 A good old Cause ? — Administ'rings. 
 
 Wliat makes all doctrines i)lain and clear ? — 
 About two hundred pounds a-year. 
 
 And that which was proved true before 
 Prove false again? — Two hundred more. 
 
 Wliat makes the breaking of all oaths 
 A holy duty ? — Food and clotlies. 
 
 What laws and freedom persecution? — 
 B'ing out of power and contribution. 
 
 What makes a church a den of tliieves? — 
 A dean and Chapter and white sleeves. 
 
 And what would serve, if those were gone, 
 To make it orthodox ? :— Our own. 
 
 Wliat makes moraUty a crime 
 The most notorious of the time ; 
 Morality, which both the Saints 
 And Wicked too cry out against ? — 
 'Cause grace and virtue are within 
 Prohibited degrees of kin ; 
 And therefore no true Saint allows 
 They sliall be suffered to espouse ; 
 For Saints can need no conscience 
 That with morahty dispense ; 
 As virtue 's impious when 'tis rooted 
 In nature only, and not imputed : 
 But why liie AVicked should do so 
 We ncitlier know, nor care to do. 
 
 "What 's liberty of conscience, 
 r th' natural and genuine sense ? — 
 'T is to restore with more security 
 Rebellion to its ancient ])urity ; 
 And Cliristian liberty reduce 
 To the elder practice of the Jews : 
 For a large conscience is all one 
 And signifies the same with none. 
 
 ^ 
 
A WOMAN'S EEPLY. 
 
 223 
 
 -95 
 
 It is enough (quoth he) for ouce, 
 And has reprieved thy forfeit bones : 
 Nick Macliiavel liad ne'er a triek 
 (Thougli he gave his name to our Old Nick) 
 But was below the least of these 
 That pass i' th' world for holiness. 
 
 A WISE AND MASTERLY COWAKDICE. 
 
 And therefore I, with reason, chose 
 
 This stratagem to amuse our foes 
 
 To make an honorable retreat, 
 
 And wave a total sure defeat ; 
 
 For those that fly may fight again. 
 
 Which he can never do that 's slain. 
 
 Hence timely running 's no mean part 
 
 Of conduct in the martial art, 
 
 By which some glorious feats achieve, 
 
 As citizens by breaking thrive. 
 
 And cannons conquer armies, while 
 
 They seem to draw off and recoil; 
 
 Is held the gallant'st course, and bravest. 
 
 To great exploits, as well as safest ; 
 
 That spares the expense of time and pains. 
 
 And dangerous beating out of brains ; 
 
 And, in the end, prevails as certain 
 
 As those that never trust to Fortune ; 
 
 But make their fear do execution 
 
 Beyond the stoutest resolution ; 
 
 As earthquakes kill without a blow. 
 
 And, only trembling, overthrow. 
 
 If the Ancients crowned their bravest men 
 
 That only saved a citizen, 
 
 Wiat victory could e'er be won 
 
 If every one would save but one ; 
 
 Or fight endangered to be lost, 
 
 "Where all resolve to save the most? 
 
 MORN. 
 
 The sun had long since in the lap 
 Of Thetis taken out his nap. 
 And, like a lobster boiled, the morn 
 From black to red began to turn. 
 
 WOMAN'S RIGHT, FROM A HUDrBEASTIO POINT 
 OF VIEW. 
 
 Fob, women first were made for men. 
 Not men for them. — It follows, then, 
 That men have right to every one, 
 And they no freedom of their own ; 
 And therefore men have power to choose, 
 But they no charter to refuse. 
 Hence 't is apparent that, what course 
 Soe'er we take to your amours. 
 Though by the indircotest way. 
 
 'T is no injustice nor foul play ; 
 And that you ought to take that course, 
 As we take you, for better or worse, 
 And gratefully submit to those 
 Who you, before another, choose. 
 
 A WOMAN'S REPLY. 
 
 Though Paradise were e'er so fair. 
 It was not kept so without care. 
 Tile whole world, without art and dress, 
 ^Yoidd be but one great wilderness ; 
 And mankind l)ut a savage herd, 
 For all that Nature has couferred : 
 This does but rough-liew and design. 
 Leaves Art to polish and refine. 
 Though women first were made for men. 
 Yet men were made for them agen : 
 For wlien (outwitted by his wife) 
 Man first turned tenant but for life, 
 If women had not intervened. 
 How soon had mankind had an end ! 
 And that it is in being yet. 
 To us alone you are in debt. 
 And where 's your liberty of choice. 
 And our unnatural No-voice ? 
 Since all the privilege you boast. 
 And falsely usurped, or vainly lost, 
 Is now our right, to whose creation 
 You owe your happy restoration. 
 And if we had not weighty cause 
 To not appear, in making laws. 
 We could, in spite of all your tricks. 
 And shallow formal pohtics. 
 Force you our managements to obey. 
 As we to yours (in show) give way. 
 Hence 't is that, while you vahily strive 
 To advance your high prerogative. 
 You basely, after all your braves. 
 Submit, and own yourselves our slaves ; 
 And 'cause we do not make it known. 
 Nor publicly our interests own. 
 Like sots, suppose we have no shares 
 In ordering you and your affairs. 
 When all your empire and command 
 You have from us, at second-hand ; 
 As if a pilot, that appears 
 To sit still only, while he steers. 
 And does not make a noise and stir. 
 Like every common mariner. 
 Knew nothing of the card, nor star, 
 And did not guide the man-of-war. 
 
 LICENTIOUSNESS OF THE AGE OF CHARLES 
 THE SECOND. 
 
 For tlfcse who heretofore sought private holes, 
 Securely in the dark to damn their souls. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 224 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 -n> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Wore vizards of liypocrisy, to steal 
 And slink away iu masquerade to hell, 
 Now bring their crimes into the open sun, 
 For all mankind to gaze their -n-orst upon, 
 As eagles try their young against his rays, 
 To prove if they 're of generous breed or base ; 
 Call heaven and earth to witness how they 've 
 
 aiiu'd. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Tor 't is not what they do that 's now the sin, 
 But what they lewdly affect and glory iu. 
 As if ]n-ep()stcrously they would profess 
 A forced hypocrisy of wickedness. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Example, that imperious dictator 
 
 Of all that 's good or bad to human nature. 
 
 By wiiich the world 's corrupted and reclaimed, 
 
 Hopes to be saved, and studies to be damned ; 
 
 That reconciles all contrarieties. 
 
 Makes wisdom foolishness, and folly wise, 
 
 Imposes on divinity, and sets 
 
 Her seal alike on tniths and coimterfeits ; 
 
 Alters all characters of virtue and vice, 
 
 And passes one for the other in disguise ; 
 
 Makes all things, as it pleases, understood, 
 
 The good received for bad, and bad for good ; 
 
 That slyly counter-changes wrong and right, 
 
 Like wliite in (ields of black, and black in white ; 
 
 As if tlic laws of Nature liad been made 
 
 Of purpose only to be disobeyed ; 
 
 Or man had lost his niighty interest, 
 
 By having been distinguished from a beast ; 
 
 And had no other way but sin and vice, 
 
 To be restored again to Paradise. 
 
 How copious is our language lately grown, 
 To make blaspheming wit, and a jargon ! 
 And yet how expressive and significant, 
 Li damme at once to curse, and swear, and rant ? 
 As if no way expressed men's souls so well, 
 As damning of them to the pit of hell ; 
 Nor any asseveration were so civil, 
 As mortgaging salvation to the devil ; 
 Or that his name did add a eluirming grace, 
 And blasphemy a purity to our phrase. 
 
 THE DIFFIOTJLTT OF EHTMrHG. 
 
 But, if my Mu.se or I were so discreet 
 
 To endure, for rhyme's sake, one dull epithet, 
 
 I might, like others, easily command 
 
 Words witiiout stiuly, ready and at liand. 
 
 In praising Chloris, moons and stars and skies 
 
 Are quickly made to match her face and eyes. 
 
 And gold and rubies, with as little care. 
 
 To lit the colour of her lips and hair ; 
 
 And, mixing suns and flowers and pearl and 
 
 stones. 
 Make them serve all complexi<5ns at once. 
 
 With these fine fancies, at haphazard writ, 
 I could make verses without art or wit. 
 And, sliifting forty times the verb and noun, 
 With stolen impertinence patch up mine own : 
 But in tlve choice of words my scrupulous wit 
 Is fearful to pass one that is unlit ; 
 Nor can endure to fill up a void place. 
 At a line's end, with one insipid plirase ; 
 And, therefore, when I scribble twenty times, 
 When I have written four, I blot two rhymes. 
 Jlay he be dannied who first found out that 
 
 curse. 
 To imprison and confine his thoughts iu verse ; 
 To hang so didl a clog upon his wit. 
 And make his reason to liis rhyme submit ! 
 
 » * * 
 
 Ilnw hapjiy had I been if, for a curse. 
 The Fates had never sentenced me to verse ! 
 But, ever since this peremptory vein. 
 With restless frenzy, first possessed my brain. 
 And tlrat the devil tempted me, in spite 
 Of my own happiness, to judge and write, 
 Shut up against my will, I waste my age 
 In mending this, and blotting out that page, 
 And grow so weary of the slavish trade, 
 I envy their condition that write bad. 
 happy Scudery ! whose easy quill 
 Can, once a month, a mighty volume fill ; 
 For, though thy works are written in despite 
 Of all good sense, impcrtiftent, and slight, 
 Tliey never have been known to stand in need 
 Of stationer to sell, or sot to read ; 
 For, so the rhyme be at the verse's end. 
 No matter wliithcr all the rest does tend. 
 Unhappy is that man who, spite of 's heart. 
 Is forced to be tied up to rides of art. 
 A fop that scribbles does it with delight. 
 Takes no pains to consider what to write, 
 But, fond of all the nonsense he brings forth. 
 Is ravished with his own great wit and worth ; 
 Wliilc brave and noble writers vainly strive 
 To such a height of glory to arrive ; 
 But, still with all they do unsatisfied. 
 Ne'er please themselves, though all the world be- 
 side : 
 And those whom all mankind admire for wit. 
 Wish, for tlieir own sakcs, they had never writ. 
 Thou, then, that see'st how ill I spend my time. 
 Teach me, for pity, how to make a rhyme ; 
 And, if the instructions chance to prove in vain. 
 Teach — how ne'er to write again. 
 
 SOCRATES. 
 What mad fantastic gambols have been played 
 By the ancient (ireek forefathers of the trade, 
 Tliat were not nuich inferior to the freaks 
 Of all our lunatic fanatic sects? 
 
 ^ 
 
ce— 
 
 SOCRATES. — DESCRIPTION OP HOLLAND. 
 
 -9) 
 
 The first and best philosopher of Athens 
 Was craclct, and ran starlv-stariiig mad with pa- 
 tience. 
 And had no other way to show his wit, 
 But wlien his wife was in lic'r scolding Ct ; 
 AV'as after in the Pagan inquisition. 
 And suffered niartj-rdom for no religion. 
 
 DIOGENES. 
 
 The cynic coined false money, and for fear 
 Of being hanged for 't, turned philosopher ; 
 Yet with his lantern went, by day, to find 
 One honest man i' the heap of all mankind ; 
 An idle freak he needed not have done, 
 If he had known himself to be but one. 
 
 OPINION. 
 
 It is Opinion governs aU mankind. 
 
 As wisely as tlie bhnd that leads the blind : 
 
 For as those surnames are esteemed the best 
 
 That signify in all tilings else the least, 
 
 So men pass fairest in the world's opinion 
 
 That have the least of truth and reason in them. 
 
 Truth would undo the world, if it possest 
 
 The meanest of its right and interest ; 
 
 Is but a titular princess, whose authority 
 
 Is always under age, and in minority ; 
 
 Has all things done, and carried in its name, 
 
 But most of all where it can lay no claim ; 
 
 As far from gayety and complaisance. 
 
 As greatness, insolence, and ignorance ; 
 
 And therefore has surrendered her dominion 
 
 O'er all mankind to barbarous Opinion, 
 
 That in her right usurps the tyrannies 
 
 And arbitrary government of lies. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. 
 
 Should once the world resolve to abolish 
 
 All that 's ridiculous and foolish, 
 
 It would have nothing left to do, 
 
 To apply in jest or earnest to. 
 
 No business of importance, play. 
 
 Or state, to pass its time away. 
 
 TuE truest characters of ignorance 
 
 Are vanity and pride and arrogance ; 
 
 As blind men use to bear their noses higher 
 
 Tlian those that have their eyes and sight entire. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Lions are kings of beasts, and yet their power 
 Is not to nile and govern, but devour : 
 Such savage kings all tyrants are, and they 
 No better than mere beasts that do obey. 
 
 Innocence is a defence 
 For nothing else but patience ; 
 'T will not bear out the blows of Fate, 
 Nor fence against the tricks of state ; 
 Nor from the oppression of the laws 
 Protect the plain'st and justest cause ; 
 Nor keep unspotted a good name 
 Against the obloqiues of Fame ; 
 Feeble as Patience, and as soon. 
 By being blown upon, undone. 
 As beasts are hunted for their furs, 
 Men for their virtues fare the worse. 
 
 Love is too great a happiness 
 For wretched mortals to possess ; 
 For, eould it hold inviolate 
 Against those cruelties of Fate 
 Wliich all felicities below 
 By rigid laws are subject to. 
 It would become a bliss too high 
 For perisliing mortality. 
 Translate to earth the joys above ; 
 For nothing goes to heaven but love. 
 
 Some call it fury, some a Muse, 
 'That, as possessing devils use. 
 Haunts and forsakes a man by fits. 
 And when he 's in, he 's out of 's wits. 
 
 trust 
 
 What else does history use to tell us. 
 But tales of subjects being rebellious ; 
 The vain perfidiousuess of lords. 
 And fatal breach of princes' words ; 
 The sottish pride and insolence 
 Of statesmen, and their want of sense ; 
 Their treachery, that undoes, of custom. 
 Their own selves first, next those who 
 them ? 
 
 In Rome no temple was so low 
 As that of Honor, built to show 
 How humble honor ought to be. 
 Though there 't ■n-as all authority. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND, 
 
 A COUNTRY that draws fifty foot of water. 
 In whicli men live as in the hold of Nature, 
 And when the sea does in upon them break. 
 And drowns a province, does but spring a leak ; 
 That always ply the pump, and never think 
 Tiiey can be safe, but at the rate they stink ; 
 That Uve as if they had been run agrouud. 
 And, when they die, are cast away, and drowned ; 
 Tiiat dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and 
 
 prey 
 Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey ; 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 226 
 
 MARQUESS OF MONTROSE. 
 
 -*-Q) 
 
 And, wlicn tlioir merchuuts are blown up and 
 
 crackt, 
 Wliole towns are cast away in storms, and 
 
 . wreckt ; 
 Tliat feed, like caiuiibals, on other fishes. 
 And serve their cousin-germaus up iu dishes : 
 A land that rides at anchor, and is moored, 
 In which they do not live, but go aboard. 
 
 OBD BHTMES AND IMAGES. 
 
 "GHeavkn !" quotli she, "can that be true!' 
 I do begin to fccar 't is you ; 
 Not by your individual whiskers. 
 But by your dialect and discourse." 
 
 A TORN beard "s like a battered ensign ; 
 That 's bravest which there arc most rents in. 
 
 The extremes of glory and of shame, 
 Like east and west, become the same. 
 No Indian prince has to his palace 
 More followers than a thief to the gallows. 
 
 Wholesale critics, that in coffee- 
 Houses cry down all philosophy. 
 
 Antichristian assemblies 
 
 To mischief bent as far 's in them lies. 
 
 Bruised in body. 
 And conjured into safe custody. 
 
 That proud dame 
 Used him so like a base rascallion. 
 That old Pyg — what d" ye call him - 
 That cut his mistress out of stone, 
 Had not so hard a hearted one. 
 
 - malion, 
 
 It was a question wliether lie 
 
 Or 's horse were of a family 
 
 More worshi])ful ; till antiquaries, 
 
 After they 'd almost pored out their eyes, 
 
 Did very learnedly decide 
 
 The business on the horse's side. 
 
 Have they invented tones to win 
 The women, and make them draw in 
 The men ; as Indians with a female 
 Tame elephant inveigle the male ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 Doctor epidemic. 
 Stored with dclctery med'cines, 
 AMiicli whosoever took is dead since. 
 
 So the Emperor Caligula, 
 Tiiat triumplied o'er the British sea. 
 Took crabs and oysters prisoners. 
 And lobsters 'stead of cuirassiers ; 
 Engaged his legions in fierce bustles 
 With periwinkles, prawns, and mussels. 
 And led his troops, with furious guUops, 
 To charge whole regiments of scallops. 
 
 Madame, I do, as is my duty 
 Honor the shadow of your slide-tie. 
 
 Convened at midnight in outhouses, 
 To appoint new rising rendezvouses. 
 
 'Moxg tlicse there was a pohtician, 
 
 With more lieads than a beast in vision. 
 
 So politic, as if one eye 
 
 Upon the other were a spy 
 
 That to trepan the one to think 
 
 The other blind, both strove to blink. 
 
 Doubtless the pleasure is as great 
 
 Of being cheated as to cheat ; 
 
 As lookers-on feel most delight 
 
 That least perceive a juggler's sleight ; 
 
 And still the less they understand, 
 
 The more they admire his sleight-of-hand. 
 
 EoR what in worth is anything. 
 But so much money as 't will bring r 
 
 Those that write in rhyme still make 
 The one verse for the other's sake ; 
 For (me for sense, and one for rhyme, 
 I think 's sufficient at one time. 
 
 MARQUESS OF MONTROSE. 
 
 1618-1650. 
 
 MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE, I PEAY. 
 
 My dear and only love, I pray 
 
 That little world, of thee, ' 
 Be governed by no other sway 
 
 Than piirest monarchy. 
 For if confusion have a part, 
 
 Which virtuous souls abhor, 
 I '11 call a synod in mine heart. 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 As Alexander I will reign. 
 And 1 will reign alone ; 
 
 -^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 ON PHILLIS WALKING BEFORE SUNRISE. — DEVOTION. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 My thouglits did evermore disdain 
 
 A rival on my throne : 
 He eitlier fears his fate too much, 
 
 Or his deserts are small, 
 That dares not put it to the touch, 
 
 To gain or lose it all. 
 
 But I will reign, and govern stiU, 
 
 And always give the law, 
 And have each subject at my will. 
 
 And all to stand in awe ; 
 But 'gainst my batteries if I find 
 
 Thou kick, or vex me sore. 
 As that thou set me up a bliud, 
 
 I '11 never love thee more. 
 
 And in the empire of thine heart. 
 
 Where I should solely be. 
 If others do pretend a part. 
 
 Or dare to vie with me. 
 Or if committees thou erect. 
 
 And go on such a score, 
 I '11 laugh and sing at thy neglect. 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 But if thou wilt prove faithful then. 
 
 And constant of thy word, 
 I '11 make thee glorious by ray pen, 
 
 And famous by my sword ; 
 I '11 serve thee in such noble ways 
 
 Was never heard before, 
 I '11 crown, and deck thee all, with bays, 
 
 And love thee more and more. 
 
 JOHN CLEVELAND. 
 
 1613- 1659. 
 
 ON PHILLIS WALKING BEFORE SUNEISE, 
 
 The sluggish morn as yet undressed. 
 My PhilUs brake from out her rest, 
 As if she 'd made a match to run 
 With Venus, usher to the sun. 
 The trees (like yeomen of her guard 
 Serving more for pomp than ward. 
 Ranked on each side with loyal duty). 
 Wave branches to enclose her beauty; 
 The plants, whose luxury was lopped. 
 Or age with crutches underpropped, 
 Whose wooden carcasses are grown 
 To be but coffins of their own, 
 Revive, and at her general dole, 
 Each receives his ancient soul. 
 The winged choristers began 
 To chirp their matins ; and the fan 
 Of whistling winds, like organs played 
 Unto their voluntaries, made 
 
 The wakened earth in odors rise 
 To be her morning sacrifice ; 
 The flowers, called out of their beds. 
 Start and raise up their drowsy heads ; 
 And he that for their color seeks 
 May find it vaulting in her cheeks, 
 Where roses mix: no civil war 
 Between her York aud Lancaster. 
 Tlie marigold, whose courtier's face 
 Echoes the sun, and doth uidace 
 Her at his rise, at his full stop 
 Packs and shuts up her gaudy shop, 
 Mistakes her cue, and doth display ; 
 Tims Phillis antedates the day. 
 
 These miracles had cramped the sun, 
 Who, thinking that his kingdom 's won. 
 Powders with light his frizzled locks. 
 To see what saint his lustre mocks. 
 The trembling leaves through which he played, 
 Dapphng the walk witli light and shade 
 (Like lattice windows), give the spy 
 Room but to peep with half an eye, 
 Lest her full orb his sight should dim, 
 And bid us all good night in him : 
 Till she would spend a gentle ray, 
 To force us a new-fashioned day. 
 
 But what new-fashioned palsy 's this. 
 Which makes the boughs divest their bliss ? 
 And that they might her footsteps straw. 
 Drop their leaves with shivering awe ; 
 Phillis perceives, and (lest her stay 
 Shoidd wed October unto May, 
 And as her beauty caused a spring. 
 Devotion might an autumn bring). 
 Withdrew her beams, yet made no night. 
 But left the suu her curate Ught. 
 
 HIS HATRED OF SCOTCHMEN. 
 
 Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed 
 
 his doom ; 
 Not forced him to wander, but confined him 
 
 home. 
 
 HENRY MORE. 
 
 1614-1687. 
 
 DEVOTION, 
 
 God is good, is wise, is strong, — 
 Witness all the creature throng, — 
 Is confessed by every tongue. 
 All things back from whence they sprunc 
 As the thankful rivers pay 
 What they boiTowed of the sea 
 
 -9^ 
 
(Q- 
 
 228 
 
 PENHAM. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 l 
 
 Now, myself I do resign ; 
 Take me whole, I all am thine. 
 Save me, God ! from self-desire, 
 Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire, 
 Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire; 
 Let not lust my soul bemlre. 
 
 Quit from these, thy praise I '11 sing, 
 Loudly sweep the trembling string. 
 Bear a part, O wisdom's sons, 
 Freed from vain religions ! 
 Lo ! from far I you salute, 
 Sweetly warbling on my lute, — • 
 India, Egypt, Araby, 
 Asia, Greece, and Tartary, 
 Carmel-tracts and Lebanon, 
 AVitli tlie JVIouutaius of tlie Jloon, 
 From whence muddy Nile doth run ; 
 Or, wherever else you won, 
 Breathing in one vital air, — 
 One we are, though distant far. 
 
 Rise at once, — let 's sacrifice ! 
 Odors sweet perfume tlie skies. 
 See how heavenly liglitning fires 
 Hearts inflamed witli high aspires; 
 All the substance of our souls 
 Up in clouds of incense rolls ! 
 Leave we nothing to ourselves 
 Save a voice, — what need we else ? 
 Or a hand to wear and tire 
 On tlie tliankful lute or lyre. 
 
 Slug aloud ! His praise rehearse 
 Wfio hath made the universe. 
 
 CHAEITT MD HDMILITT. 
 
 Far have I clambered in my mind, 
 
 But naught so great as love I find ; 
 
 Deep-searcliing wit, mount-moving might. 
 
 Are naught compared to that good sprite. 
 
 Life of delight, and soul of bliss ! 
 
 Sure source of lasting happiness ! 
 
 Higher tlian heaven, lower than hell ! 
 
 What is thy tent? WTicre mayst thou dwell? 
 
 My mansion hight Humility, 
 
 Heaven's vastest capability, — 
 
 The further it doth downward tend. 
 
 The higher uj) it doth ascend ; 
 
 If it go down to utmost uauglit, 
 
 It shall return with that it sought. 
 
 Lord, stretch thy tout in my strait breast, — 
 
 Enlarge it downward, Ihat sure rest 
 
 May there be pight ; for that pure fire 
 
 Wliercwith thou wontest to inspire 
 
 All self-dead souls. My life is gone, — 
 
 Sad solitude 's mv irksome wonne. 
 
 Cut ofl" from men and all this world, 
 
 In Lethe's lonesome ditch I 'm hurled. 
 
 Nor might nor sight doth aught me move, 
 
 Nor do I care to be above. 
 
 O feeble rays of mental light, 
 
 That best be seen in this dark night ! 
 
 VViiat are you? What is any strength 
 
 If it. be not laid in one length 
 
 With pride or love ? I naught desire 
 
 But a new life, or quite to expire. 
 
 Could I demolish with mine eye 
 
 Strong towers, stop the fieet stars in sky. 
 
 Bring down to earth the pale-faced moon. 
 
 Or turn black midnight to bright noon, — 
 
 Tiiough all things were put in my liaud, 
 
 As parched, as dry, as the Libyan sand 
 
 Would be my life, if Charity 
 
 Were wanting. But Humility 
 
 Is more than my poor soul durst crave. 
 
 That lies intombed in lowly grave. 
 
 But if 't were lawful up to send 
 
 My voice to heaven, this should it rend : 
 
 Lord, thrust me deeper into dust, 
 
 That thou mayest raise me with the just ! 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 But souls that of his owm good life partake. 
 He loves as his own self ; dear as his eye 
 Tiicy are to him : he '11 never them forsake : 
 When they shall die, then God liimself shall die; 
 They live, they live in blest eternity. 
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM. 
 
 1616-1668. 
 
 COOPER'S HILL. 
 
 Sure there are poets which did never dream 
 Upon Pariuissus, nor did laste the stream 
 Of Helicon ; we therefore may suppose 
 Tiiose made not poets, but the poets those. 
 And as courts make not kiugs, but kings the 
 
 court. 
 So wfiere the Muses and their train resort, 
 Parnassus stands ; if I can be to thee 
 A poet, thou Parnassus art to me. 
 Nor wonder if (advantaged in my flight. 
 By taking wing from thy aus])ieious lieiglit) 
 Througli unt raped ways ami airy paths 1 Uy, 
 More boundless in my fancy than my eye ; 
 My eye, whieh swift as tln)nght contracts the 
 
 space 
 That lies between, and first salutes the jilare 
 Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so hi 
 
 U 
 
a- 
 
 COOPER'S HILL. 
 
 229 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 That whether 't is a part of earth or sky 
 Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud 
 Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud ; 
 Paul 's the late theme of such a Muse,* whose 
 
 flight 
 Has bravely reached and soared above thy height ; 
 Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, or 
 
 Are, 
 Or zeal, more fierce than they, thy fall conspire, 
 Secure, whilst thee the best of poets sings, 
 Preserved from ruin by the best of kings. 
 Under his proud survey the city Ues, 
 And like a mist beueath a hill doth rise. 
 Whose state and wealth, the business and the 
 
 crowd. 
 Seems at this distance but a darker cloud. 
 And is, to him who rightly things esteems. 
 No other in effect than what it seems ; 
 Where, with Uke haste, though several ways they 
 
 run. 
 Some to undo, and some to be undone ; 
 While luxury and wealth, like war aud peace, 
 Are each the other's ruin and increase ; 
 As rivers lost in seas, some secret veiii 
 Thence reconveys, there to be lost again. 
 O happiness of sweet retired oouteut ! 
 To be at once secure and innocent. 
 Windsor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells. 
 Beauty with strength) above the valley swells 
 Into my eye, and doth itself present 
 With such an easy and unforced ascent, 
 That no stupendous precipice denies 
 Access, no horror turns away our eyes ; 
 But such a rise as doth at once invite 
 A pleasure and a reverence from the sight ; 
 Thy mighty master's emblem, in whose face 
 Sat meekness, heightened with majestic grace ; 
 Such seems thy gentle height, made only proud 
 To be the basis of that pompous load, 
 Tlian which a nobler weight no mountain bears, 
 But Atlas only, wiiicii supports the spheres. 
 When Nature's hand this ground did thus ad- 
 vance, 
 'T was guided by a wiser power than Chance ; 
 Marked out for sucii an use, as if 't were meant 
 To invite the builder, and his choice prevent. 
 Nor can we call it choice, when what we choose 
 Polly or blindness only eoiJd refuse. 
 A crown of such majestic towers doth grace 
 The gods' great mother, when her heavenly race 
 Do homage to her ; yet she cannot boast. 
 Among that numerous and celestial host. 
 More heroes than can Windsor ; nor doth Fame's 
 Immortal book record more noble names. 
 Not to look back so far, to whom this isle 
 Owes the first glory of so brave a pile. 
 Whether to Caesar, Albanaet, or Brute, 
 * Waller. 
 
 The British Arthur, or the Danish C'nutc 
 
 (Though this of old no less contest did move 
 
 Thau when for Homer's birth seven cities strove), 
 
 (Like him in birth, thou shouldst be like in fame, 
 
 As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame) ; 
 
 But whosoe'er it was, Nature designed 
 
 First a brave place, and then as brave a mind. 
 
 Not to recount those several kings to whom 
 
 It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb ; 
 
 But thee, great Edward ! aud thy greater son 
 
 (The lilies which his father wore he won), 
 
 And thy BeUona. who the consort, came 
 
 Not only to thy bed but to thy fame. 
 
 She to thy triumph led one captive king. 
 
 And brought that son which did the second 
 
 bring ; 
 Then didst thou found that Order (whether love 
 Or victory thy royal thoughts did move) : 
 Each was a noble cause, and nothing less 
 Than the design has been tiie great success. 
 Which foreign kings and emperors esteem 
 The second honor to their diadem. 
 Had thy great destiny but given thee skill 
 To know, as well as power to act her will. 
 That from those kings, wdio then thy captives 
 
 were, 
 In after-times should spring a royal pair 
 Wlio should possess all that thy mighty jrower. 
 Or thy desires more mighty, did devour; 
 To W'hom their better fate reserves whate'er 
 The victor hopes for or the vanquished fear ; 
 That blood which thou and thy great grandsire 
 
 shed. 
 And all that since these sister nations bled. 
 Had been mispilt. and happy Edward known 
 That ail the blood he spilt had been his own. 
 When he that patron chose m whom are joined 
 Soldier and martyr, and bis arms confined 
 Within the azure circle, he did seem 
 But to foretell and prophesy of him 
 Who to his realms that azure round hath joined, 
 Wiiieh nature for their bound at first designed ; 
 That bound which to the world's extremest 
 
 ends. 
 Endless itself, its liquid arms extends. 
 Nor doth he need those emblems which wepamt. 
 But is himself the soldier and the saint. 
 Here should my wonder dwell, aud here my 
 
 praise ; 
 But my fixed thoughts my wandering eye betrays. 
 Viewing a neighboring hill, whose top of late 
 A chapel crowned, tUl in the common fate 
 The adjoining abbey fell. (May no such storm 
 Fall on our times, where ruin must reform !) 
 Tell me, my Muse ! what monstrous dire offence. 
 What crime, could any Christian king incense 
 To such a rage ? Was 't luxury or lust ? 
 Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just ? 
 
 J> 
 
cfi- 
 
 230 
 
 DEN HAM. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Were these tlieir crimes ? they were his own 
 
 much more; 
 But wealtli is crime enough to him that 's poor, 
 Wlio, having spent tlie treasures of liis crown, 
 Condemns their luxury to feed his own ; 
 And yet tliis act, to varnish o'er tlie sliame 
 Of sacrilege, must bear devotion's name. 
 No crime so bold but would be understood 
 A real, or at least a seeming good. 
 ^Vlio fears not to do ill, yet fears the name, 
 And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 
 Thus he the church at once protects and spoils ; 
 But prmces' swords are siiarper than their styles ; 
 And thus to the ages past he makes amends, 
 Tlieir charity destroys, their faith defends. 
 Tlieu did Kchgion in a lazy cell, 
 111 empty airy contemplations dwell. 
 And hke the block unmoved lay ; but ours, 
 As much too active, like the stork devours. 
 Is there no temperate region can be known 
 Betwixt their frigid and our torrid zone? 
 Could we not wake from that lethargic dream. 
 But to be restless in a worse extreme? 
 And for tliat lethargy was there no cure 
 But to be cast into a calenture ? 
 Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance 
 So far, to make us wish for igiioraueo, 
 And rather in the dark to grope our way, 
 Tlian led by a false giude to err by day ? 
 Who sees tliese dismal heaps but would demand 
 What barbarous invader sacked the land ? 
 But when he hears no Goth, no Turk, did bring 
 This desolation, but a Christian king; 
 When nothing but the name of zeal appears 
 'Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs ; 
 What does he think our sacrilege would spare, 
 When such the effects of our devotions are ? 
 Parting from thence 'twixt anger, shame, and 
 
 fear. 
 Those for what 's past, and this for what 's too 
 
 near. 
 My eye descending from the Hill, surveys 
 Wliere Thames among the wanton valleys strays. 
 Thames ! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons, 
 By his old sire, to his embraces runs. 
 Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea. 
 Like mortal life to meet eternity ; 
 Tliough with those streams he no resemblance 
 
 " hold. 
 Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold : 
 His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, 
 Search not his l)ottoni, but survey his shore. 
 O'er which he kindly s]u-eads his s])acious wing 
 And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring; 
 Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, 
 Like mothers which their infants overlay ; 
 Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 
 I-ike profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 
 
 No unexpected inundations spoil 
 
 The mower's hopes, nor mock tlie ploughman's 
 
 toil; 
 But godlike his unwearied bounty flows ; 
 First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 
 Nor are his blessings to his banks confined. 
 But free and common as the sea or wind ; 
 When he, to boast or to disperse his stores. 
 Full of the tributes of his grateful shores. 
 Visits the world, and in his flying towers 
 Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours ; 
 Finds wealth where 't is, bestows it where it 
 
 wants, 
 Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. 
 So that to us no thing, no place, is strange. 
 While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 
 O, could I flow hke thee, and make thy stream 
 My great example, as it is my theme ! 
 Though deep yet clear, thougli gentle yet not 
 
 dull; 
 Strong without rage, without o'erflowing fuU. 
 Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast, 
 Wiose fame in thine, like lesser current, 's lost ; 
 Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove's abodes. 
 To shine among the stars, and bathe the gods. 
 Here Nature, whether more intent to please 
 Us for herself with strange varieties 
 (For things of wonder give no less delight 
 To the wise Maker's than beholder's sight ; 
 Though these delights from several causes move. 
 For so our children, thus our friends, we love), 
 Wisely she knew the harmony of things. 
 As well as that of sounds, from discord springs. 
 Such was the discord which did first disperse 
 Form, order, beauty, through the universe; 
 Wliile dryness moisture, coldness heat, resists. 
 All that we have, and that we are, subsists ; 
 While the steep horrid roughness of the wood 
 Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood. 
 Such huge extremes when Nature doth unite. 
 Wonder from thence results, from thence delight. 
 The stream is so transparent, ])ure, and clear. 
 That had the self-enamoured youth gazed here, 
 So fatally deceived he had not been, 
 While he the bottom, not his face had seen. 
 But his proud head the airy mountain hides 
 Among the clouds ; his shoulders and his sides 
 A shady mantle clothes ; his curled brows 
 Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows. 
 While winds and storms his lofty forehead boat ; 
 The common fate of all that 's liigh or great. 
 Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed, 
 Between the mountain and the stream embraced, 
 Which sliade and shelter from the Hill derives, 
 While the kind river wealth and beauty gives. 
 And in the mixture of all these apjiears 
 Variety, which all 1 he rest endears. 
 This scene had some bold Greek or British b: 
 
 r^ 
 
C&- 
 
 COOPEK'S HILL. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 231 
 
 ^ 
 
 Beheld of old, what stories had we lieard 
 Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs their dames. 
 Their feasts, their revels, and their iimorous flames ? 
 'T is sfiU tile same, although their airy shape 
 All but a qnicli poetic sight escape. 
 There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts, 
 And thither all the horned host resorts 
 To graze the ranker mead ; that noble herd 
 On whose sublime and shady fronts is reared 
 Nature's great masterpiece, to show how soon 
 Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 
 Here have I seen the King, when great affairs 
 Gave leave to slacken and unbend his cares, 
 Attended to the chase by all the flower 
 Of youth, whose hopes a nobler prey devour ; 
 Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy. 
 And wish a I'oe that woidd not only fly. 
 The stag now conscious of his fatal growth. 
 At once indulgent to his fear and sloth. 
 To some dark covert his retreat had made. 
 Where nor man's eye nor heaven's should invade 
 llis soft repose ; when the unexpected sound 
 Of dogs and men his wakeful ear does wound. 
 Roused with the noise, he scarce believes his ear, 
 WUling to think the illusions of Ids fear 
 Had given this false alarm, but straight liis view 
 Confirms that more than all he fears is true. 
 Betrayed in all his strengths, the wood beset. 
 All instruments, all arts of ruin met. 
 He calls to mind his strength, and then his speed. 
 His winged heels, and then his armed head ; 
 With these to avoid, with that his fate to meet; 
 But fear prevails, and bids liim trust liis feet. 
 So fast he flics, that his reviewing eye 
 Has lost the chasers, and his ear the cry ; 
 Exulting, till he finds their nobler sense 
 Their disproportioned speed doth recompense ; 
 Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent 
 Betrays that safety which their swiftness lent : 
 Then tries his friends ; among the baser herd. 
 Where he so lately was obeyed and feared. 
 His safety seeks ; the herd, unkindly wise. 
 Or cluises him from thence or from him flies. 
 Like a declining statesman, left forlorn 
 To his friends' pity, and pursuers' seora. 
 With shame remembers, while himself was one 
 Of the same herd, himself the same had done. 
 Thence to tlie coverts and the conscious groves. 
 The scenes of his past triumphs and his loves, 
 Sadly surveying where he ranged alone. 
 Prince of t\w soil, and all the herd his own. 
 And Uke a bold knight-erraut did proclaim 
 Combat to all, and bore away the dame. 
 And taught the woods to echo to the stream 
 His dreadful challenge and his elasliing beam ; 
 Yet faintly now dccUnes the fatal strife. 
 So much his love was dearer than his life. 
 Now every leaf, and every moving breath 
 
 Presents a foe, and every foe a death. 
 Wearied, forsaken, and pursued, at last 
 All safety in despair of safety placed. 
 Courage he thence resumes, I'csolved to bear 
 AU their assaidts, since 't is in vain to fear. 
 And now, too late, he wishes for the fight 
 That strength he wasted in ignoble flight ; 
 But when he sees the eager cliase renewed, 
 Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued. 
 He straight revokes his bold resolve, and more 
 Repents his courage than his fear before ; 
 Finds that uncertain ways unsafest are. 
 And doubt a greater mischief than despair. 
 Then to the stream, when neither friends nor 
 
 force 
 Nor speed nor art avail, he shapes his course ; 
 Thinks not tlieir rage so desperate to essay 
 An element more merciless than they. 
 But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood 
 Quench their dire thirst ; alas I they thirst for 
 
 blood. 
 So towards a ship the oar-finned galleys ply, 
 Which, wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly. 
 Stands but to fall revenged on those that dare 
 Tempt the last fury of extreme despair. 
 So fares the stag ; among the enraged hounds 
 Repels their force, and wounds returns for 
 
 wounds : 
 And as a hero, whom his baser foes 
 In troo])s surround, now these assails, now those. 
 Though prodigal of hfe, disdains to die 
 By common hands ; but if he can descry 
 Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls. 
 And begs his fate, and then contented falls. 
 So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly 
 From his unerring hand, then glad to die. 
 Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood. 
 And stains the crystal with a purple flood. 
 This a more iiuioeent and happy chase 
 Than when of old, but in the selfsame place. 
 Fair Liberty pursued, and meant a prey 
 To lawless power, here turned, and stood at bay ; 
 When in that remedy all hope was placed 
 Which was, or should have been at least, the 
 
 last. 
 Here was that Charter sealed wherein the crown 
 All marks of arbitrary power lays down ; 
 Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear. 
 The happier style of king and subject bear: 
 Happy when both to the same centre move, 
 When kings give liberty and subjects love. 
 Therefore not long in force tliis Charter stood ; 
 Wanting that seal, it must be sealed in blood. 
 The subjects armed, the more their princes gave, 
 The advantage only took the more to crave ; 
 Till kings, by giving, give themselves away, 
 And even that power that should deny betray. 
 " Who gives constrained, but his own fear reviles. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 232 
 
 LOVELACE. 
 
 It 
 
 ^ 
 
 Not thanked, but scorned ; nor are tliey gifts, but 
 
 spoils." 
 Thus kini;s, by grasping more than tliey could 
 
 hold, 
 First made their subjects by oppression bold ; 
 And popular sway, by forcing kings to give 
 More than was fit for subjects to receive, 
 Ran to the same extremes ; and one excess 
 ^lade both, by striving to be greater, less. 
 When a calm river raised with sudden rains, 
 Or snows dissolved, o'erflows the adjoining plains. 
 The husbandmen with high-raised banks secure 
 Tlieir greedy hopes, and this he can endure ; 
 But if with bays and dams they strive to force 
 His channel to a new or narrow course. 
 No longer then within his banks he dwells, 
 First to a torrent, then a deluge, swells ; 
 Stronger and fiercer by restraint, he roars. 
 And knows no bound, but makes his power his 
 
 shores. 
 
 RICHARD LOVELACE. 
 
 1618-1G58. 
 
 ON Sm PETER LELT'S PORTRAIT OF CHARLES 
 THE FIRST. 
 
 See, what an humble bravery doth shine. 
 
 And grief triumjihant breaking through each line, 
 
 How it commands the face ! So sweet a scorn 
 
 Never did happy misery adorn ! 
 
 So sacred a contempt tliat others show 
 
 To this fo' the height of all the wheel) below; 
 
 That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book 
 
 May copy out their proudest, richest look. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF HER FACE. 
 
 0, COULD you view the melody 
 Of every grace. 
 And music of her face. 
 
 You 'd drop a tear ; 
 
 Seeing more harmony 
 
 In her bright eye 
 Tiian now you hear. 
 
 WHY SHOULD YOU SWEAR I AM FORSWORN. 
 
 Why should you swear I am forswoni, 
 
 Shice thine I vowed to be? 
 Lady, it is already morn. 
 
 And 't was last night T swore to thee 
 
 That fond impossibility. 
 
 Have I not loved tlicc much and long, 
 A tedious t welvc hours' space ? 
 
 I must all other beauties wrong. 
 And rob thee of a new embrace, 
 Could I still dote upon thy face. 
 
 Not but all joy in thy browu hair 
 By others may be found ; 
 
 But I must search the black and fair, 
 Like skilful miuerahsts that sound 
 For treasure in unploughed-up ground. 
 
 Then, if when I have loved my round. 
 Thou prov'st the pleasant she ; 
 
 With spoils of meaner beauties crowned, 
 I laden will return to thee. 
 Even sated with variety. 
 
 THE ROSE, 
 
 Sweet, serene, sky-like (lower. 
 Haste to adorn her bower : 
 From thy long cloudy bed 
 Shoot forth thy damask head. 
 
 Vermilion ball that 's given 
 From lip to lip in heaven ; 
 
 Love's couch's coverlid ; 
 
 Haste, haste, to make her bed. 
 
 See ! rosy is her bower. 
 Her floor is all thy flower ; 
 
 Her bed a rosy nest. 
 
 By a bed of roses prest. 
 
 AMARANTHA, SWEET AND FAIfi, 
 
 Amarantha, sweet and fair, 
 
 O, braid no more that shining hair ! 
 
 Let it fly, as uncoufined 
 
 As its culm ravisher, the wind ; 
 
 Who hath left his darliug, the east, 
 
 To wanton o'er that spicy nest. 
 
 Every tress must be confcst 
 
 But neatly tangled, at the best ; 
 
 Like a clew of golden thread 
 
 Most excellently ravelled. 
 
 Do not, then, wind up that light 
 
 In ribands, and o'ercloud in night. 
 
 Like the sun's in early ray ; 
 
 But shake your head, and scatter day 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOXNG TO THE WARS. 
 
 Tici.r. me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 Tliat from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase, 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 
 -g> 
 
THE PEAISE OF POETRY. 
 
 233 
 
 ^ 
 
 Aud with a stronger faith embrace 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such 
 
 As you, too, shall adore ; 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 
 Loved I not honor nioTe. 
 
 TO ALTEEA, FROM PRISON, 
 
 When love with uucoufmed wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates, 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at my grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair. 
 
 And fettered with her eye. 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When flowing cups run swiftly round 
 
 With no allaying Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses crowned. 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
 When tliirsty grief in wine we steep, 
 
 Wiien healths and draughts go free. 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep 
 
 Know uo such liberty. 
 
 Wlien, linnet-like confined, I 
 
 With shriller note shall slug 
 The mercy, sweetness, majesty. 
 
 And glories of my king ; 
 When I shall voice aloud how good 
 
 He is, how great should lie. 
 The enlarged winds, that curl the flood. 
 
 Know uo such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make. 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds, innocent and quiet, take 
 
 That for an hermitage : 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free. 
 Angels alone, that soar above. 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS, 
 
 Ip to be absent were to be 
 Away from thee ; 
 Or that when I am gone 
 You or I were alone ; 
 Then, my Luoasta, might I crave 
 Pity fi-om blustering wind or swallowing wave. 
 
 Though seas and land betwixt us both. 
 Our faith and troth. 
 Like separated souls, 
 All time and space controls : 
 
 Above the highest sphere we meet 
 Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. 
 
 So then we do anticipate 
 Our after-fate. 
 And are alive i' the skies. 
 If thus our lips aud eyes 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 In heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. 
 
 LORD OF HIMSELF. 
 
 Thus richer than untempted kings are we, 
 That, asking nothing, uotliing need ; 
 
 Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he 
 That wants himself is poor indeed. 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 1618-1667. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF POETRY. 
 
 'T i.s not a pyramid of marble stone. 
 
 Though high as our ambition ; 
 
 'T is not a tomb cut out in brass, which can 
 
 Give Ufe to the ashes of a man, 
 
 But verses only ; they shall fresh appear 
 
 ^Vhilst there are men to read or liear ; 
 
 When time shall make the lasting brass decay. 
 
 And cat the pyramid away ; 
 
 Turning that monument wherein men trust 
 
 Tlieir names to what it keeps, poor dust; 
 
 Then shall the epitaph remain, aud be 
 
 New graven in eternity. 
 
 Poets by death are conquered, but the wit 
 
 Of poets triumphs over it. 
 
 What cannot verse ? When Thraeian Orpheus 
 
 took 
 His lyre, aud gently on it strook, 
 The learned stones came dancing all along, 
 And kept time to the charming song. 
 With artificial pace the warlike pine. 
 The elm and his wife the ivy twine. 
 With all the better trees which erst had stood 
 Unmoved, forsook their native wood. 
 The laurel to the poet's hand did bow, 
 Craviug the honor of his brow ; 
 Aud every loving arm embraced, and made 
 With tlieir officious leaves a shade. 
 Tiie beasts, too, strove his auditors to be, 
 Forgetting their old tyranny : 
 The fearful hart next to the lion came, 
 Aud the wolf was shepherd to the lamb. 
 Nightingales, liarmless sirens of the air, 
 And unises of the place, were there ; 
 Who, when their little windpipes theyhad found 
 
 ■^ 
 
cQr 
 
 234 
 
 C0WLE5f. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Unequal to so strauge a sound, 
 
 O'ercoine by art and grief, they did cxjiire, 
 
 And fell upon tlie conquering lyre. 
 
 Happy, O, happy tliey ! whose tomb might be, 
 
 Mausolus ! envied by thee ! 
 
 OF MYSELF. 
 
 This only grant nic, that my means may lie 
 Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 
 
 Some honor I would have, 
 Not fi-om great deeds, but good alone ; 
 The unknown are better than ill known : 
 
 Rumor can ope the grave. 
 Acquaintance I woidd have, but when 't depends 
 Not on tlie number, but the choice, of friends. 
 
 Books should, not business, entertain tlie light, 
 And sleep, as undisturbed as death, tlie night. 
 
 My house a cottage more 
 Tlian palace ; and should fitting be 
 For all my use, no luxury. 
 
 My garden painted o'er 
 With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures 
 
 yield, 
 Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 
 
 Thus would I double my life's fading space ; 
 For he that runs it well twice runs liis race. 
 
 And in this true delight. 
 These unbought sports, tliis happy state, 
 I would not fear, nor wish, iny fate ; 
 
 But boldly say each night. 
 To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
 Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day. 
 
 TEE CHRONICLE. 
 
 A UALL.4D. 
 
 Ma.rga.rita first possest, 
 
 If I remember well, my breast, 
 
 Margarita first of all ; 
 But when awhile the wanton maid 
 With my restless heart had played, 
 
 Martha took the flying ball. 
 
 Martha soon did it resign 
 
 To the beauteous Catharine. 
 Beauteous Catharine gave place 
 (Though loath and angry she to part 
 With the possession of my heart) 
 T'o Ehza's conquering face. 
 
 Eliza till this hour might reign, 
 
 Had she not evil counsels ta'en. 
 Fundamental laws she broke, 
 And still new favorites she chose, 
 Till u|) iu arms my passions rose, 
 .\iid cast away her yoke. 
 
 Mary then, and gentle Anne, 
 
 Both to reign at once began ; 
 Alternately they swayed. 
 And sometimes Mary was the fair. 
 And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, 
 And sometimes both I obeyed. 
 
 Another JIary then arose. 
 
 And did rigorous laws impose ; 
 A mighty tyrant she ! 
 
 Long, alas ! should I have been 
 
 Under that iron-sceptred queen. 
 Had not Rebecca set me free. 
 
 When fair Rebecca set me free, 
 
 'T was then a golden time with me : 
 But soon those pleasures fled : 
 
 For the gracious princess died. 
 
 In her youth and beauty's pride, 
 
 Aaid Judith reigned in her stead. 
 
 One month, three days, and half an hour, 
 Judith held the sovereign power : 
 T^'ondrous beautiful her face ; 
 
 But so weak and small her wit, 
 
 That she to govern was unfit. 
 
 And so Susanna took her place. 
 
 But when Isabella eame. 
 
 Armed witli a resistless flame, 
 And the artillery of her eye; 
 
 Whilst she proudly marched about, 
 
 Greater conquests to find out. 
 
 She beat out Susan by the by. 
 
 But in her place I tlien obeyed • 
 
 Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid. 
 To whom ensued a vacancy : 
 
 Thousand worse passions then possest 
 
 The interregnum of my breast ; 
 
 Bless me from such an anarchy ! 
 
 Gentle Henrietta then, 
 
 Aud a third Mary, next began; 
 
 Then Joan, aud Jane, and Audria; 
 Aud then a pretty Thomasine, 
 Aud then another Catharine, 
 
 And tlieii a long et ctetera. 
 
 But should I now to you relate 
 
 The strength and riches of their state; 
 
 The powder, patelies, aud the iiius, 
 The ribbons, jewels, and the rings. 
 The lace, the paint, and warlike tilings, 
 
 That make up all their magazines; 
 
 If I should tell the politic arts 
 
 To take aud keep men's hearts ; 
 The letters, embassies, and spies. 
 
 The frowns aud smiles aud flatteries. 
 
 CI 
 
 -^ 
 
DRINKING. — HOPE. 
 
 235 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
 
 Numberless, nameless, mysteries ! 
 
 And all the little lime-twigs laid, 
 
 By Machiavel the waiting-maid ; 
 I more voluminous should grow 
 (Cliiefly if I like them should tell 
 All change of weathers that befell) 
 Than Holmshed or Stow. 
 
 But I will briefer with them be. 
 
 Since few of them were long with me. 
 
 An higher and a nobler strain 
 Jly present empress does claim, 
 Hcleonora, first o' th' name ; . 
 
 Whom God grant long to reign ! 
 
 FROM " AJStACREONTIQUES," 
 
 The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 
 And drinks, and gapes for drink again. 
 The plants suck in the earth, and are 
 With constant drinking fresh and fair. 
 The sea itself, which one woidd think 
 Should have but Uttle need of drink. 
 Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up. 
 So filled that they o'erflow the cup. 
 The busy sun (and one would guess 
 By 's drunken fiery face no less) 
 Drinks up the sea, and when he 'as done, 
 Tlie moon and stars drink up the sun. 
 Tliey drink and dance by their own light, 
 They drink and revel all the night. 
 Nothing in nature 's sober found, 
 But an eternal health goes round. 
 Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, 
 rill all the glasses there ; for why 
 Should every creature drink but I ; 
 Why, man of morals, tell me why ? 
 
 GOU). 
 
 A MIGHTY pain to love it is. 
 
 And 't is a pain that pain to miss ; 
 
 But, uf all pain, the greatest pain 
 
 It is to love, but love in vain. 
 
 Virtue now, nor noble blood. 
 
 Nor wit by love is understood ; 
 
 Gold alone does passion move, 
 
 Gold monopolizes love ! 
 
 A curse on her, and on the man 
 
 W.io this traffic fii-st began ! 
 
 A curse on him who found the oi'e ! 
 
 A curse on him who digged the store ! 
 
 A curse on him who did refine it ! 
 
 A curse on him who first did coin it ! 
 
 A curse, all curses else above. 
 
 On him who used it first in love ! 
 
 Gold begets in brethren hate ; 
 Gold in families debate ; 
 Gold does fricndsliips separate ; 
 Gold does civil wars create. 
 These the smallest harms of it ! 
 Gold, alas ! does love beget. 
 
 THE GKASSHOPPEE. 
 
 Happy Insect, what can be 
 
 In happiness compared to thee ? 
 
 Fed with nourishment divine, 
 
 The dewy Morning's gentle wine ! 
 
 Nature waits upon thee still. 
 
 And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
 
 'T is filled wherever thou dost tread. 
 
 Nature's self 's thy Ganymede. 
 
 Thou dost drink and dance aud sing ; 
 
 Ha])|)ier than the happiest king ! 
 
 All the fields which thou dost see, 
 
 All the plants, belong to thee ; 
 
 All that summer hours produce, 
 
 Fertile made with early juice. 
 
 Man for thee does sow and plough ; 
 
 Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 
 
 Thou dost innocently joy ; 
 
 Nor does thy luxury destroy ; 
 
 The shepherd gladly heareth thee. 
 
 More harmonious than he. 
 
 Thee country hinds with gladness hear, 
 
 Prophet of the ripened year ! 
 
 Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; 
 
 Pliffibus is himself thy sire. 
 
 To thee, of all things upon earth. 
 
 Life is no longer than thy mirth. 
 
 Happy insect, happy thou 
 
 Dost neither age nor winter know ; 
 
 But, when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and sung 
 
 Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, 
 
 (Voluptuous, and wise withal. 
 
 Epicurean animal 1) 
 
 Satiated with thy summer feast, 
 
 Thou retir'st to endless rest. 
 
 HOPE 
 
 Hope ! of all ills that men endure, 
 The only cheap and universal cure ! 
 Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's 
 
 health ! 
 Thou loser's victory, and thou beggar's wealth! 
 
 Thou manna, which from Heaven we eat, 
 
 To every taste a several meat ! 
 Thou strong retreat ! thou sure-entailed estate, 
 Wliich naught has power to alienate ! 
 Thou pleasant, honest flatterer ! for none 
 Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone ! 
 ^ 
 
cfl: 
 
 — «^ 
 
 236 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Hope ! thou first-fruits of happiuoss ! 
 Thou gentle fhuvuiug of a bright success ! 
 Thou good preparative, without which our joy 
 Does work too strong, and, wlulst it cures, 
 destroy ! 
 
 Who out of Fortuue's reacli dost stand. 
 
 And art a blessing still in band ! 
 ■Wlulst thee, her earnest-money, we retain. 
 
 We certain are to gain. 
 Whether she iier bargain break or else fulfil ; 
 Thou only good, not worse for ending ill ! 
 
 Brother of Faith ! 'twixt whom and thee 
 The joys of Heaven and Earth divided be ! 
 Thougii Faitli be heir, and liave the flxt estate. 
 Thy portion yet in movables is great. 
 
 Happiness itself 's all one 
 
 In thee, or in possession ! 
 Only the future 's thine, the present his ! 
 
 Thine 's tlie more hard and noble bliss : 
 Best appreheuder of our joys ! which hast 
 So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast ! 
 
 Hope ! thou sad lover's only friend ! 
 Thou Way, that mayst dispute it with the End ! 
 For love, I fear, 's a fruit that does delight 
 The taste itself less than tlie smell and sight. 
 
 Fruition more deceitful is 
 
 Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss ; 
 Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee 
 
 Some other way again to thee ; 
 And that 's a pleasant country, without doubt. 
 To which all soon return that travel out. 
 
 OLAUDIAH'S OLD MAN OF VEKONA 
 
 DE SENE VERONENSl, QUI SUliUHIilUM .NUNCiUAM 
 EGBESSUS EST. 
 
 Happy the man, who his whole time doth bovmd 
 Within tlie enclosure of his bttle ground. 
 Happy tlie man, whom the same humble place 
 (The hereditary cottage of his race) 
 From liis first rising infancy has known. 
 And by degrees sees gently bending down, 
 ^V'ith natural propensiou. to tliat earth 
 Which liotli preserved his life and gave him 
 
 birth. 
 Him no false distant lights, by fortunes sot. 
 Could ever into foolish wanderings get. 
 He never danger either saw or feared ; 
 Tlie dreadful storms at sea he never heard. 
 He never heard the shrill alarms of war. 
 Or tiie worse noises of the lawyers' bar. 
 No change of consuls marks to him the year; 
 The change of seasons is his calendar. 
 Tlie cold and heat, winter and summer shows ; 
 .\u(umn by fruits, and spring by flowers, he 
 
 knows. 
 
 He measures time by landmarks, and has foui.d 
 
 For the whole day the dial of his ground. 
 
 A iieigiiboring wood, born witli himself, he sees, 
 
 And loves liis old coiiteni]K)rary trees. 
 
 He 'as only heard of near Verona's name, 
 
 And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame. 
 
 Does with a like concernment notice take 
 
 Of the Red Sea, and of Benacus' lake. 
 
 Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, 
 
 And sees a long posterity of boys. 
 
 About the spacious world let others roam, 
 
 The voyage, life, is longest made at home. 
 
 THE 'WISH. 
 
 Well, then ; I now do plainly see 
 This busy world and I shall ne'er agree ; 
 The very honey of all earthly joy 
 
 Does of all meats the soonest cloy ; 
 
 And they, methinks, deserve my pity, 
 W[\o for it can endure the stings, 
 Tlie crowd and buzz and murmurings. 
 
 Of tins great hive, the city. 
 
 Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave, 
 Jlay I a small house and large garden have ! 
 And a few friends, and many books, both true. 
 
 Both wise, and both dehghtful too ! 
 
 And, since love ne'er will from me flee, 
 A mistress moderately fair 
 And good, as guardian-angels are. 
 
 Only beloved, and loving me ! 
 
 fountains ! when in you shall I 
 Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts,, espy ? 
 
 O fields ! O woods ! when, when shall I be made 
 The happy tenant of ycjur shade '^ 
 Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood ; 
 
 Where all tlie riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coined and stamped for good. 
 
 Pride and amliition here 
 Only in far-fetched metaphors appear ; 
 Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs 
 scatter, 
 
 And naught but Echo flatter. 
 
 The gods, when tliey descended hitlier 
 From heaven, did always choose their way ; 
 And therefore we may boldly say 
 
 That 't is the way too thither. 
 
 How Iiappy here should I, 
 And one dear she, live, and embracing die ! 
 Slic, who is all the world, and can exclude 
 
 In deserts solitude. 
 
 1 should have then this only fear, — 
 licst men, when (hey my jilcasurcs see, 
 Should hither throng to live like me. 
 
 And so make a city here. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 FEOM THE "HYMN TO LIGHT." 
 
 AxL the world's bravery, tliat delights uur eyes, 
 Is but thy several liveries ; 
 Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st. 
 Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou 
 go'st. 
 
 A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st ; 
 A crown of studded gold thou bcar'st ; 
 The virgin-lilies, in their white, 
 Are chid b\it with the lawn of almost naked light. 
 
 The violet. Spring's little infant, stands 
 Girt in thy purple swaddHng-bands ; 
 On the fair tidip thou dost dote ; 
 Thou clotli'st it in a gay and party-colored coat. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Through the soft ways of heaven and air and 
 sea, 
 Which open all their pores to thee, 
 Like a clear river thou dost glide, 
 And witli thy Uving stream through the close 
 chauncft slide. 
 
 * * * 
 
 But the vast ocean of unbounded day. 
 In the empyrean heaven does stay. 
 Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below, 
 From thence took first their rise, thither at last 
 must flow. 
 
 DESTKIJCTION OF THE FIBST-BORN, IN THE 
 "PLAGUES OF EGYPT." 
 
 It was the time when the stiU moon 
 Was mounted softly to her noon. 
 And dewy sleep, which from night's secret 
 springs arose, 
 Gently as Nile the land o'erflows ; 
 When, lo, from the high countries of refined day, 
 Tlie golden heaven without allay, — 
 Whose dross in the creation pui-ged away, 
 
 Made up the sun's adulterate ray, — 
 Michael, the warlike prmce, does downward fly. 
 Swift as the journeys of the sight. 
 Swift as the race of light, 
 And witli his winged will cuts througli the 
 yielding sky. 
 He passed through many a star, and, as he 
 
 passed, 
 Slioue (like a star in them) more brightly there 
 Tliau they did in their sphere. 
 On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped at 
 last,' 
 And a mild look of sacred pity cast 
 Down on the sinfid land where he was sent 
 To inflict the tardy punishment. 
 "Ah, yet," said he, "yet, stubborn king, 
 repent. 
 
 Wliile thus unarmed I stand, 
 Ere the keen sword of God fill my coiunianded 
 hand. 
 Suffer but yet thyself and thine to hve ; 
 Who would, alas, believe, 
 That it for man," said he, 
 " So hard to be forgiven should be, 
 Aud yet for God so easy to forgive." 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene. 
 Beneath a bower for sorrow made. 
 
 The uncomfortable shade 
 
 Of file black yew's unlucky green, 
 Mixed with the mourning wiUnw's careful gray, 
 Where reverend Cam cuts out his famous way. 
 
 The melancholy Cowley lay ; 
 And, lo ! a Muse appeared to his closed sight 
 (The Muses oft in lands of vision play). 
 Bodied, arrayed, and seen by an internal light : 
 A golden har]) with silver strings she bore, 
 A wondrous hieroglyphic robe she wore, 
 In which all colors and all figures were 
 Tliat Nature or that Fancy can create. 
 
 That Art can never imitate. 
 And with loose pride it wantoned in the air. 
 In such a dress, in such a weU-elotlied dream. 
 She used of old near fair Ismenus' stream 
 Pindar, her Theban favorite, to meet ; 
 A crown was on her head, and wings were on 
 iier feet. 
 
 She touched him with her harp and raised him 
 
 from the ground; 
 The shaken strings melodiously resound. 
 
 " Art thou returned at last," said she, 
 
 " To this forsaken place and me ? 
 Thou prodigal ! who didst so loosely waste 
 Of all J;hy youthful years the good estate ; 
 Art thou returned, here to repent too late ? 
 And gather husks of learning up at last. 
 Now the rich harvest-time of life is past. 
 
 And winter marches on so fast ? 
 But wlicn I meant to adopt thee for my son. 
 And did as learned a portion assign 
 As ever any of the mighty nine 
 
 Had to their dearest children done ; 
 When I resolved to exalt thy anointed name 
 Among the spiritual loi'ds of peaceful fame ; 
 Thou changeling ! thou, bewitched with noise 
 
 and show, 
 Wouldst into courts and cities from me go, 
 Wouldst see the world aln-oad, aud have a share 
 In all the follies and the tumults there ; 
 Thou wouldst, forsooth, be something in a state, 
 And business thou woiddst find, and wouldst 
 create ; 
 
 -* 
 
cQ- 
 
 238 
 
 COWLEY, 
 
 -—Q> 
 
 Business ! the frivolous pretence, 
 Of human lusts, to shake otf innocence ; 
 Business ! the grave impertiucnoe ; 
 Business ! the thing which 1 of all things hate; 
 Business ! the contradiction of th,y fate. 
 
 "Go, rencgado ! cast up thy account, 
 
 And see to what amount 
 Thy foolish gains by quitting me ; 
 The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, 
 The fruits of thy unlearned apostasy. 
 Thou thoughtst, if once the public storm were 
 
 past. 
 All thy remaining life should sunshine be : 
 Behold, the public storm is spent at last, 
 Tiie sovereign is tossed at sea no more, 
 And thou, with all the noble company. 
 
 Art got at last to shore : 
 But whilst thy fellow-voyagers I see. 
 All marched up to possess the promised land, 
 Tliou still alone, alas ! dost gaping stand, 
 Upon tlie naked beach, upon the barren sand. 
 
 "As a fair morning of the blessed spring, 
 
 After a tedious stormy night. 
 Such was the glorious entry of our king ; 
 Enriching moisture dropped on everything ; 
 Plenty he sowed below, and east about him 
 light. 
 
 Bat then, alas ! to thee alone 
 One of old Gideon's miracles was shown. 
 For every tree, and every hand around 
 
 IMth pearly dew was crowned. 
 And upon all the quickened ground 
 The fruitfid seed of heaven did brooding lie. 
 And nothing but tiie rinse's fleecs was dry. 
 
 It did all other threats surpass, 
 When God to liis own people said 
 (The men whom through long wanderings he had 
 led). 
 
 That he would give them even a heaven of 
 brass : 
 They looked up to that heaven in vain, 
 That bounteous heaven ! which God did not 
 
 restrain 
 Upon the most unjust to shine and rain. 
 
 "The Kaehel, for which twice seven years and 
 
 more 
 Tho\i didst with faith and labor sei've, 
 Ami didst I if faith and labor can) deserve, 
 
 Tliough she contracted was to thee, 
 
 Given to another thou didst see, 
 Given to another, wlu) had store 
 Of fairer and of richer wives before, 
 And not a Lcali left, thy recompense to be. 
 Go on, twice seveu years more, thv fortune 
 
 try. 
 Twice seven years more God in his boviuty may 
 
 ^- 
 
 Give thee to fling away 
 Into the court's deceitful lottery : 
 
 But think how likely 'tis that thou, 
 WitJi the dull work of thy unwieldy plough, 
 Shouldst in a hard and barren season thrive, 
 
 Sliouldst even able be to live ; 
 Th{ni ! to whose share so Uttle bread did fall 
 lu the miraculous year, when manua rained on 
 all." 
 
 Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a 
 
 smile. 
 That seemed at once to pity and revile : 
 And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head. 
 
 The melancholy Cowley said : 
 
 " Ah, wanton foe ! dost thou upbraid 
 The iUs which thou thyself hast made ? 
 When in the cradle innocent I lay. 
 Thou, wicked spirit ! stolest me away. 
 
 And my abused soul didst bear 
 Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where, 
 
 Tiiy golden Indies in the air; 
 And ever since I strive in vain. 
 My ravish'd freedom to regain ; 
 Still I rebel, still thou dost reign ; 
 Lo, still in verse, against thee I complain. 
 
 Tliere is a sort of stubborn weeds. 
 Which, if the earth but once it ever breeds. 
 No wiiolesome herb can near them thrive. 
 
 No useful plant can keep alive : 
 The foolish sports I did on thee bestow 
 Make all my art and labor fruitless now ; 
 Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth 
 ever grow. 
 
 " When my new mind had no infusion known. 
 Thou gavest so dee)i a tincture of thine own. 
 
 That ever since I vainly try 
 
 To wash away the inherent dye : 
 Long work, perhaps, may spoil thy colors 
 
 quite. 
 But never will reduce the native w'hite. 
 
 To all the ports of honor and of gaiu 
 
 I often steer my course in vain ; 
 Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back 
 
 again. 
 Tho\i slaekcn'st all my nerves of industry. 
 
 By making them so oft to be 
 
 The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy. 
 AVhoever this world's happiness would see 
 
 Must as entirely east oft' thee. 
 
 As they wlio only heaven desire 
 
 Do from tlie world retire. 
 This was my error, this my gross mistake. 
 Myself a demi-vntary to make. 
 Thus, with Sapphira and licr husband's fate 
 (A fault which I, like them, am taught too late"). 
 Fur all that I gave up I unthing gain, 
 .\iul perish for the part wliieh 1 ri'tain. 
 
 ^J 
 
(Q- 
 
 EPITAPH ON A LIVING AUTHOR. 
 
 23'J 
 
 -a> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Teach iiic not then, O tliou fallacious Muse ! 
 
 The court and better king to accuse ; 
 The heaven under which I live is fair, 
 The fertile soil will a full harvest bear : 
 Thine, tliine is all the barrenness, if thou 
 Mak'st me sit stiU and sing when I should 
 
 plough. 
 When I but think \\q\v many a tedious year 
 
 Our patient sovereign did attend 
 
 His long misfortunes' fatal end, 
 How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear, 
 On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend, 
 I ought to be accurst if I refuse 
 To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse ! 
 Kings have long hands, they say, and though I be 
 So distant, they may reach at length to me. 
 
 However, of all princes thou 
 Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small 
 
 or slow ; 
 Thou, who rewardest but with popular breath. 
 
 And that, too, after death ! " 
 
 PEOM "FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE." 
 
 A THOUSAND pretty ways we '11 think upon 
 
 To mock our separation. 
 
 Alas ! ten thousand will not do ; 
 
 My heart w-Ul thus no longer stay, 
 
 No longer 't wUl be kept from you. 
 
 But knocks against the breast to get away. 
 
 And when no art affords me help or ease, 
 
 I seek with verse my griefs to appease : 
 
 Just as a bird that Hies about. 
 
 And beats itself against the cage, 
 
 Pinding at last no passage out, 
 
 It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage. 
 
 OF SOLITUDE. 
 
 H.viL, old patrician trees, so great and good ! 
 
 Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 
 
 Where the poetic birds rejoice. 
 
 And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 
 
 Pay with their grateful voice. 
 
 Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat ! 
 
 Ye country-houses and retreat, 
 
 Which all the happy gods so love, 
 
 That for you oft they quit their bright and 
 
 great 
 Metropolis above. 
 
 Here Nature does a house for me erect. 
 Nature ! the fairest architect, 
 Who those fond artists does despise 
 That can the fair and living trees neglect, 
 Yet the dead timber prize. 
 
 Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, 
 Hear the soft winds above me flying, 
 "With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
 And the more tuneful birds to both replying, 
 Nor be myself, too, mute. 
 
 A silver stream shall rfill his waters near. 
 Gilt with the sunljcams here and there. 
 On whoso enamelled bank I '11 walk, 
 And see how prettily they smile, 
 And hear how prettily they talk. 
 
 Ah ! wretched, and too solitary he, 
 Who loves not his own company ! 
 He 11 feel tlie weight of it many a day, 
 Unless he calls iu sin or vanity 
 To help to bear it away. 
 
 Solitude ! first state of humankind ! 
 Wliich blessed remained till man did find 
 Even liis own helper's company : 
 
 As soon as two, alas ! together joined, 
 The serpent made up three. 
 
 Though God himself, tlu-ough countless ages, 
 
 thee 
 His sole companion chose to be, 
 Thee, sacred Solitude ! alone. 
 Before the branchy head of number's tree 
 Sprang from the trunk of one ; 
 
 Thou (thougli men think thine an unactive part) 
 Dost break and tame the unruly lieart, 
 Which else would know no settled pace. 
 Making it move, well managed by thy art, 
 With swiftness and with grace. 
 
 Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light 
 
 Dost, like a burning glass, unite, 
 
 Dost multiply the feeble heat. 
 
 And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright 
 
 And noble fires beget. 
 
 Wliilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see 
 The monster London laugh at me ; 
 
 1 should at tlice, too, foolish city ! 
 If it were fit to huigh at misery ; 
 But tliy estate I pity. 
 
 Let b\it thy wicked men from out thee go. 
 And all the fools that crowd thee so. 
 Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, 
 A village less than Islington wilt grow, 
 A solitude almost. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A LIVING AUTHOR. 
 
 Here, stranger, in this humble nest, 
 Here Cowley sleeps ; here lies, 
 
 'Scaped all the toils that life molest, 
 And its superfluous joys. 
 
 -P 
 
(&■ 
 
 240 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 -fo 
 
 fr 
 
 Here, in no sordid poverty, 
 
 And no inglorious ease, 
 He braves the world, and can defy 
 
 Its frowns and flatteries. 
 
 The little earth, he asks, survey ; 
 
 Is he not dend indeed ? 
 " Light lie that earth," good stranger, pray, 
 
 " Nor thorn upon it breed ! " 
 
 With flowers, fit emblem of his fame. 
 
 Compass your poet round ; 
 With flowers of every fragrant name, 
 
 Be his warm ashes crowned ! 
 
 A SUPPLICATION. 
 
 Awake, awake, my Lyre ! 
 And tell thy silent master's humble tale 
 
 In sounds that may prevail ; 
 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
 
 Though so exalted she 
 
 And I so lowly be, 
 Tell her, sueh different notes make all tliy harmony. 
 
 Hark ! how the strings awake : 
 And, though the mo\'ing hand approach not near, 
 
 Themselves with awful fear 
 A kind of numerous trembling make. 
 
 Now all thy forces try ; 
 
 Now all thy charms apply ; 
 Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 
 
 Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 
 Is useless here, since thou art only found 
 
 To cure, but not to wound. 
 And she to wound, but not to cure. 
 
 Too weak too wilt thou prove 
 
 My passion to remove ; 
 Physic to other ills, thou 'rt nourishment to love. 
 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
 For thou canst never tell my humble tale 
 
 In sounds that will prevail. 
 Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
 
 All thy vain mirth lay by. 
 
 Bid thy strings silent lie. 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. 
 
 BACON. 
 
 Bacon at last, a mighty man, arose, 
 Whom a wise king and natui-e chose 
 Lord Clianeellor of both their Laws. 
 « * * 
 
 From these and all long errors of the way. 
 In which our wandering predecessors went. 
 
 And like the old Hebrews many years did stray 
 
 In deserts but of small extent. 
 
 Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last ; 
 
 The barren wilderness he ]iasscd, 
 
 Did on the very border stand 
 
 Of the blest promised land. 
 
 And from the mountain's toj) of his exalted 
 
 wit 
 Saw it himself, and showed ns it. 
 But life did never to one man allow 
 Time to discover worlds and conquer too ; 
 Nor can so short a line sufficient be, 
 To fathom the vast depths of nature's sea : 
 The work he did we ought to admire, 
 And we 're unjust if wc should more require 
 From his few years, divided 'twixt the excess 
 Of low affliction and high happiness ; 
 For who on things remote can fix his sight, 
 That 's always in a triumpli or a light? 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE POET CEASHAW, A 
 ROMAN CATHOLIC. 
 
 An, mighty God, with shame I speak 't and 
 
 grief; 
 Ah. that our greatest faults were in belief! 
 And our weak reason were even weaker yet. 
 Rather than thus our wills too strong for it. 
 liis/aitA, perhaps, in some nice tenets might 
 Be wrong ; his li/e, 1 'm sure, was in the right ; 
 And I myself a Catholic will be, 
 So far, at least, great saint, to pray to thee. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide, 
 No circling motion doth swift time divide ; 
 Nothing is there /o come, and nothing /;««/, 
 But an eternal now does alwavs last. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 What shall we say, since silent now is he. 
 Who when he spoke, all things woidd silent be; 
 Who had so many languages in store, 
 That only fame shall speak of him in more ; 
 Wiiom England now no more returned must see : 
 He "s gone to heaven on his fourth embassy. 
 
 » * • 
 
 So well he understood flic most and best 
 Of tongues, — that Babel sent into the west, — 
 Spoke them so truly, that he had, yovi 'd swear. 
 Not only lived but been born everywhere. 
 
 • » » 
 
 Nor ought the language of that man be less, 
 Who in his breast had all things to express. 
 
 X^ 
 
cfr 
 
 POVERTY AND GENIUS. — BEEMUDAS. 
 
 — •- 
 241 
 
 ^ 
 
 WLLUAM CHAMBERLAYNE. 
 
 1619-1689. 
 
 POVERTY AND GENIUS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 How purblind is the world, that such a monster, 
 
 In a few dirty acres swaddled, must 
 
 Be mounted, in opinion's empty scale, 
 
 Above the noblest virtues that adorn 
 
 Souls that make worth their centre, and to that 
 
 Draw all the lines of action ? Worn with age. 
 
 The noble soldier sits, whilst in his cell 
 
 The scholar stews his catholic brains for food. 
 
 The ti'aveller returned, and poor may go 
 
 A second pilgrimage to farmers' doors, or end 
 
 His journey in a hospital ; few being 
 
 So generous to relieve, where virtue doth 
 
 Necessitate to crave. Harsh poverty. 
 
 That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit, 
 
 Thousands of noble spirits blunts, that else 
 
 Had spun rich threads of fancy from the brain : 
 
 But they are souls too much subUmed to thrive. 
 
 A SUMMEE MORNIN0, 
 
 The morning hath not lost her virgin blush, 
 
 Nor step but mine soiled the earth's tinselled robe. 
 
 How fidl of heaven tliis solitude appears, 
 
 This healthful comfort of the happy swain; 
 
 Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up. 
 
 In 's morning exercise saluted is 
 
 By a full choir of feathered choristers. 
 
 Wedding their notes to the enamored air ! 
 
 Here Nature in her unaffected dress 
 
 Plaited with valleys, and embossed with hiUs, 
 
 Enchased with silver streams, and fringed with 
 
 woods. 
 Sits lovely in her native russet. 
 
 VIRGIN PURITY. 
 
 The morning pearls, 
 Dropt in the lily's spotless bosom, are 
 Less chastely cool, ere the meridian sun 
 Hath kissed them into heat. 
 
 ANDREW MARVELL. 
 
 1680-1678. 
 
 COMMUNION WITH NATURE. 
 
 Tuus I, easy philosopher, 
 Among the birds and trees confer, 
 And httle now to make me wants 
 Or of the fowls or of the plants : 
 
 Give me but wings as they, and I 
 
 Straight floating on the air shall fly ; 
 
 Or turn me but, and you shall see 
 
 I was but an inverted tree. 
 
 Already I begin to call 
 
 In their most learned original, 
 
 And, where I language want, my signs 
 
 The bird upon the bough divines. 
 
 And more attentive there doth sit 
 
 Than if she were with lime-twigs knit. 
 
 No leaf docs tremble in the wind, 
 
 Which I returning cannot find ; 
 
 Out of these scattered Sibyl's leaves 
 
 Strange prophecies my fancy weaves. 
 
 And in one history consumes. 
 
 Like jMexique paintings, all the plumes ; 
 
 Wliat Rome, Greece, Palestine, e'er said, 
 
 I in this light Mosaic read. 
 
 Thrice happy he, who, not mistook. 
 
 Hath read in nature's mystic book ! 
 
 And see how chance's better wit 
 
 Could with a mask my studies hit ! 
 
 The oak-leaves me embroider aU, 
 
 Between which caterpillars crawl ; 
 
 And ivy, with familiar trails. 
 
 Me licks and clasps, and curls and hales. 
 
 Under this Attic cope I move, 
 
 Like some great prelate of the grove ; 
 
 Then, languishing with ease, I toss 
 
 On pallets swoln of velvet moss. 
 
 While the wind, cooling through the boughs, 
 
 Flatters with air my panting brows. 
 
 Thanks for my rest, ye mossy hanks. 
 
 And unto you, cool zephyrs, thanks, 
 
 Wlio, as my hair, my thoughts too shed. 
 
 And winnow from the chaff my head ! 
 
 BEEMUDAS. 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride. 
 In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
 From a small boat, that rowed along. 
 The Ksteuing winds received this song ; 
 
 " Wliat should we do but sing his praise. 
 That led us through the watery maze. 
 Unto an isle so long unknown, • 
 And yet far kinder than our own ? 
 WTiere he the huge sea-monsters wracks. 
 That lift the deep upon their backs. 
 He lands us on a grassy stage. 
 Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. 
 He gave us this eternal spring. 
 Which here enamels everything. 
 And sends the fowls to us in care. 
 On daily visits through the air ; 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright. 
 Like golden lamps in a green night. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 242 
 
 MARVELL. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 And (Iocs in the poTnegmuates close 
 Jewels more rich than Ormus shows ; 
 He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 
 And throws the melons at our feet, 
 But apples plants of such a price. 
 No tree could ever bear them twice ; 
 With cedars cliosen by his hand. 
 From Lebanon, he stores the land. 
 And makes the hollow seas, tliat roar. 
 Proclaim the ambergris on shore ; 
 He east (of which we rather boast) 
 Tlie Gospel's pearl upon our coast, 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound his name. 
 O, let our voice his praise exalt, 
 Till it arrive at heaven's vault, 
 Wiioh, then (perhaps) rebounding, may 
 Echo beyond the Mexlque Bay ! " 
 
 Thus sung they, in the English boat, 
 A holy and a cheerful note. 
 And all the way, to guide their chime. 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 
 
 THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF 
 HER FAWN. 
 
 The wanton troopers riding by 
 Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
 Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 
 Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive 
 Them any harm, alas ! nor could 
 Thy death yet do them any good. 
 I 'ra sure I never wished them ill ; 
 Nor do I for all this, nor will : 
 But, if my simple prayers may yet 
 Prevail with lieaven to forget 
 Thy murder, I will join my tears. 
 Rather than fail. But, O my fears ! 
 It cannot die so. Heaven's king 
 Keeps register of everything. 
 And nothing may we use in vain ; 
 Even beasts must be with justice slain, 
 Else men are made their deodands. 
 Thougli tlu!y should wash their guilty hands 
 lu this warm life-blood which doth jiart 
 From thine and wound mo to the heart. 
 Yet could they not be clean, their stain 
 Is dyed in such a purple grain. 
 There is not svieh another in 
 The world, to offer for their sin. 
 
 Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 
 I had not found liim counterfeit. 
 One morning (I remember well) 
 Tied in tliis silver chain and bell. 
 Gave it to me -. nay, and I know 
 What he said then, I'm sure 1 do; 
 
 Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 
 Hath taught a fami to hunt his deer." 
 But Sylvio soon had me beguiled; 
 This waxed tame, while he grew wild. 
 And quite regardless of my smart. 
 Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 
 
 Thenceforth I set myself to play 
 My solitary time away 
 With this ; and, very well content. 
 Could so mine idle life have spent ; 
 For it was full of sport, and light 
 Of foot and heart, and did invite 
 Me to its game : it seemed to bless 
 Itself iu me ; how could I less 
 Than love it ? O, I cannot be 
 Unkind to a beast that loveth me. 
 
 Had it lived long, I do not kuow 
 Whether it too might have done so 
 As Sylvio did ; his gifts might be 
 Perhaps as false, or more, than he ; 
 But I am sure, for aught that I 
 Could in so short a time espy. 
 Thy love was far more better than 
 The love of false and cruel man. 
 
 With sweetest milk and sugar first 
 I it at my own fingers nursed ; 
 And as it grew, so every day 
 It waxed more white and sweet than they. 
 It had so sweet a. breath ! And oft 
 I blushed to see its foot more soft 
 And white, shall I say than my hand ? 
 Nay, any lady's of the land. 
 
 It is a wondrous thing how llect 
 'T was on those little silver feet ; 
 With what a jn-etty skipping grace 
 It oft would ehallcuge me the race; 
 And, when it had left me far away, 
 'T would stay, and run again, and stay; 
 For it was nimbler much tlian hinds, 
 And trod as if on the four winds. 
 
 I have a garden of my own. 
 But so with roses overgrown. 
 And lilies, that you woidd it guess 
 To be a little wilderness. 
 And all the spriugtiuie of the year 
 It only loved to be there. 
 Among tlie beds of lilies 1 
 Have sought it oft, where it should lie. 
 Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
 Find it, alllidugh before mine eyes ; 
 For, iu the fiaxeu lilies' shade. 
 It like a bank of lilies laid. 
 Upon (lie roses it wo\ild feed, 
 Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed. 
 
 ^g— 
 
 ■# 
 
THE MOWEK AGAINST GARDENS. 
 
 243 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Aud tlien to me 't would boldly trip, 
 And print those roses oil my lip. 
 But all its chief delight was still 
 On roses thus itself to flU, 
 And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
 In whitest sheets of lilies cold : 
 Had it lived long, it would have been 
 Lilies without, roses within. 
 
 help ! O help ! I see it faint 
 And die as calmly as a saint ! 
 
 See how it weeps ! the tears do come 
 Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 
 So weeps tlie wounded balsam ; so 
 Tile holy frankincense doth flow ; 
 The brotherless Heliades 
 Melt iu such amber tears as these. 
 
 1 in a golden \'ial will 
 
 Keep tliese two crystal tears, aud Gil 
 It till it dotli o'erllow with mine, 
 Tlien place it in Diana's slirine. 
 
 Now my sweet fawn is vanished to 
 Whitlier the swans and turtles go ; 
 In fair Elysium to endure. 
 With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 
 0, do not run too fast ; for I 
 WiU but bespeak thy grave, and die. 
 
 First, my unhappy statue shall 
 Be cut in marble ; and withal. 
 Let it be weeping too ; but there 
 The engraver sure his art may spare ; 
 Por I so tridy thee bemoan. 
 That I shall weep, though I be stone, 
 Until my tears, still dropping, wear 
 My breast, themselves engraving there ; 
 Then at my feet slialt thou be laid, 
 Of purest alabaster made ; 
 For I would have thine image be 
 White as I can, though not as thee. 
 
 TO HIS COY MISTEESS. 
 
 Had we but world enough, and time. 
 This coyness, lady, were no crime. 
 We would sit down, and think which way 
 To walk, and pass our long love's day. 
 Thou by the Indian Ganges' side 
 Shouldst rubies find : I by the tide 
 Of Humber would complain. I would 
 Love you ten years before the flood. 
 And you should, if you please, refuse 
 Till the conversion of the Jews ; 
 My vegetable love should grow 
 Vaster than empires, and more slow ; 
 An hundred years should go to praise 
 Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze ; 
 
 Two hundred to adore eacli breast, 
 But thirty thousand to the rest ; 
 An age at least to every part. 
 And the last age should show your 
 For, lady, you deserve this state, 
 Nor would I love at lower rate. 
 
 Iieart. 
 
 But at my back I always hear 
 Time's winged chariot hurrying uear, 
 And yonder all before us lie 
 Deserts of vast eternity. 
 Thy beauty shall no more be found, 
 Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 
 My echoing song : then worms shall try 
 Tliat long-presen'ed virginity. 
 And your quaint honor turn to dust. 
 And into ashes all my lust : 
 Tlie grave 's a fine and private place. 
 But none, I think, do there embrace. 
 
 THE FAIR SIN&EB. 
 
 To make a final conquest of all me. 
 
 Love did compose so sweet an enemy, 
 
 In whom both beauties to my deatli agree. 
 
 Joining themselves in fatal harmony. 
 
 That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind. 
 
 She with her voice might captivate my mind. 
 
 I could liave fled from one but singly fair ; 
 My disentangled soul itself might save. 
 Breaking the curled trammels of her hair ; 
 But how should I avoid to be her slave, 
 WHiose subtle art invisibly can wreathe 
 My fetters of the very air I breathe ? 
 
 It had been easy fighting in some plain, 
 Where victory might hang in equal choice ; 
 But all resistance against her is vain. 
 Who has the advantage both of eyes and voice. 
 And all my forces needs must be undone. 
 She having gained both the wind and sun. 
 
 THE MOWEE AGADfST GARDENS. 
 
 Luxurious man, to bring his vice iu use. 
 
 Did after him the world seduce. 
 And from the fields the flowers and plants allure, 
 
 Wliere nature was most plain and pure. 
 He first enclosed within the gardens square 
 
 A dead and standing pool of air. 
 And a more luscious earth from them did knead, 
 
 Which stupefied them wliile it fed. 
 The pink grew then as double as his mind ; 
 
 The nutriment did change the kuid. 
 With strange perfumes»lie did the roses taint ; 
 
 And flowers themselves were taught to paint 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 244 
 
 MAEVELL. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 The tulip white did for coniplexiou seek, 
 
 Afld learned to interline its cheek ; 
 Its imiou root they then so high did hold. 
 
 That one was for a meadow sold : 
 Anotlier world was searched through oceans new 
 
 To find the marble of Peru, 
 And yet these rarities might be allowed 
 
 To man, that sovereign thing and proud. 
 Had he not dealt between the bark and tree. 
 
 Forbidden mixtures there to see. 
 No plant now knew the stock from which it came ; 
 
 He grafts upon the wild the tame. 
 That the uncertain and adulterate fruit 
 
 Might put the palate in dispute. 
 His green seraglio has its eunuchs too, 
 
 Lest any tyrant him outdo. 
 And in the cherry he does nature vex. 
 
 To procreate without a sex. 
 'T is all enforced, the fountain and the grot. 
 
 While the sweet fields do lie forgot. 
 Where willuig nature docs to all dispense 
 
 A wild and fragrant innocence. 
 And fauns and fairies do the meadows till 
 
 More by their presence than their skill. 
 Their statues, polished by some ancient hand. 
 
 May to adorn the gardens stand. 
 But, howsoe'er the figures do excel. 
 
 The gods themselves with us do dwell. 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Enough ; and leave the rest to fame ; 
 'T is to commend her, but to name. 
 Courtship, which, living, she declined, 
 Wlien dead, to ofifer were unkind. 
 Where never any could speak Ul, 
 Wlio would officious praises spill ? 
 Nor can the truest wit, or friend, 
 Witliout detracting, her commend ; 
 To say, she lived a virgin chaste 
 In this age loose and all unlaced, 
 Nor was, when vice is so allowed. 
 Of virtue or ashamed or proud ; 
 That her soul was on heaven so bent, 
 No minute but it came and went ; 
 That, ready her last debt to pay. 
 She summed her life up every day ; 
 Modest as morn, as midday bright. 
 Gentle as evening, cool as night ; 
 'T is true ; but all too weakly said ; 
 'T was more significant, she 's dead. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM SENECA'S TRAGEDY OF 
 THYESTES. 
 
 Ci.imh, at court, ^r mc, that will, 
 'rottcriiig favor's piiuiacle ; 
 
 AU 1 seek is to lie still : 
 
 Settled in some secret nest. 
 
 In calm leisure let me rest, 
 
 And,*far off the pubUe stage, 
 
 Pass away my silent age. 
 
 Thus, when, without noise, unknown, 
 
 I have lived out all my span, 
 
 I shall die, without a groan. 
 
 An old honest countryman. 
 
 Wlio, exposed to others' eyes. 
 
 Into his own heart never pries. 
 
 Death to him 's a strange surprise. 
 
 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 
 
 Tn.\T majesty which through thy work duth reign 
 Draws tlie devout, deterring the profane ; 
 And things divine thou treat'st of in such state 
 As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. 
 At once delight and horror on us seize. 
 Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease. 
 And above human Ihght dost soar aloft. 
 With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft : 
 The bird named from that pai'adise you sing 
 So never flags, but always keeps on wing. 
 Where couldst thou words of such a compass 
 
 find? 
 Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind 'i 
 Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite. 
 Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. 
 
 THE GARDEN, 
 
 TRANSLATED. 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays. 
 And their incessant labors see 
 Crowned from some single herb, or tree. 
 Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid, 
 Wliile all the flowers and trees do close, 
 To weave the garlands of repose ! 
 
 Pair Quiet, have I found thee here. 
 And Iinioccnce, thy sister dear ? 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 Your sacreil plants, if here below, 
 Only auuuig tlie plants will grow ; 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor ixd was ever seen 
 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 Pond lovers, enud as their flame. 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name : 
 
 -* 
 
-fi) 
 
 A IIORATIAN ODE. 245 \j 
 
 Little, alas ! they know or heed 
 
 A HOEATIAN ODE. 
 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 
 
 Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, 
 
 UPON CROMWELL'S KETUUN FROM IRELAND. 
 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 
 
 The forward youth that would appear, 
 
 'When wc have run our passion's heat, 
 
 Must now forsake his Muses dear. 
 
 Love hither makes his best retreat. 
 
 Nor in tlie shadows sing 
 
 The Rods, who mortal beauty chase, 
 
 His numbers languishing ; 
 
 Still in a tree did end their race ; 
 
 'T is time to leave the books in dust. 
 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so. 
 
 And oil the unused armor's rust. 
 
 Only tliat she might laurel grow ; 
 
 Removing from the wall 
 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
 
 The corselet of tlie hall. 
 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 So restless Cromwell could not cease 
 
 
 Li the inglorious arts of peace, 
 
 W\\a,t wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 
 But through adventurous war 
 
 Eipe apples drop about my head ; 
 
 Urged his active star ; 
 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 
 And, like the three-forked lightning, first 
 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
 
 Breaking the clouds where it was nui'st, 
 
 The nectarine and curious peach 
 
 Did thorougii his own side 
 
 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
 
 His fiery way divide 
 
 Stumljliiig on melons, as I pass, 
 
 (For 't is all one to courage high, 
 
 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 The emulous, or enemy, 
 
 
 And with such to enclose 
 
 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less. 
 
 Is more than to oppose) ; 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness ; — 
 
 Then burning tlirough the air he went, 
 
 The miiul, that ocean where each kind 
 
 And palaces and temples rent; 
 
 Does straight its own resemblance find ; — 
 
 And CcBsar's head at last 
 
 Yet it creates, transcending these. 
 
 Did through his laurels blast. 
 
 Far otlicr worlds, and other seas. 
 
 'T is madness to resist or blame 
 
 Annihilating all that 's made 
 
 The force of angry heaven's flame ; 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 And if we would speak true, 
 
 
 Much to the man is due, 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
 
 Who from his private gardens, where 
 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
 
 He lived reserved and austere, 
 
 Casting tlie body's vest aside, 
 
 As if his highest plot 
 
 My soul into the boughs does glide : 
 
 To plant the bergamot. 
 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
 
 Could by industrious valor climb 
 
 Then wliets and chips its silver wings. 
 
 To ruin the great work of Time, 
 
 And, till prepared for longer flight, 
 
 And cast the kingdoms old 
 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Into another mould. 
 
 
 Though Justice against Fate complain. 
 
 Such was that happy garden-state. 
 
 And plead tlie ancient rites in vain 
 
 While man there walked without a mate : 
 
 (But those do hold or break, 
 
 After a jilace so pure and sweet, 
 
 As men are strong or weak), 
 
 Wiat otlier help could yet be meet ! 
 
 Nature, tliat hateth emptiness. 
 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share • 
 
 Allows of penetration less. 
 
 To wander solitary there : 
 
 And tlierefore must make room 
 
 Two paradises are in one. 
 
 Wliere greater spirits come. 
 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 Wliat field of all the civil war. 
 
 
 '^VTiere his wei'e not the deepest scar ? 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drew 
 
 And Hampton shows what part 
 
 Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new. 
 
 He had of wiser art ; 
 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 
 Wliere, twining subtile fears with hope. 
 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run, 
 
 He wove a net of such a scope 
 
 And, as it works, the industrious bee 
 
 That Charles himself might chase 
 
 Computes its time as well as we ! 
 
 To Carisbrook's narrow case. 
 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 
 That thence the royal actor borne. 
 
 Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ? 
 '?- 
 
 The tragic scaflbld might adom, 
 —1 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 2-k: 
 
 MAllVELL. 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 While rouud the armed bands 
 Did clap their bloody hands ; 
 He notiiiiig eommou did, or mean, 
 Upon that memorable scene, 
 
 But with his keener eye 
 The axe's edge did try ; 
 Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
 To vindicate his helpless right, 
 
 But bowed his comely head 
 Down, as upon a bed. 
 This was that memorable hour, 
 Which first assured the forced power; 
 So, wlien they did design 
 The Capitol's first line, 
 A bleeding head, where they begun. 
 Did fright the architects to run ; 
 And yet in that the state 
 Foresaw its happy fate. 
 And now the Irish are ashamed 
 To see themselves in one year tamed ; 
 So much one man can do, 
 That does both act and know. 
 They can affirm his praises fcest, 
 And have, though overcome, confessed 
 How good he is, how just, 
 And fit for highest trust. 
 Nor yet grown stilTer with command, 
 But still in the repubUc's hand, 
 (How fit he is to sway. 
 That can so well obey !) 
 He to the Commons' feet presents 
 A kingdom for his first year's rents ; 
 And, what he may, forbears 
 His fame, to make it theirs ; • 
 And has his sword and spoils ungirt. 
 To lay them at the public's skirt : 
 So when the falcon high 
 FaUs heavy from the sky. 
 She, having killed, no more doth search, 
 But on the iiext green bough to perch ; 
 Where, when he first does lure, 
 The falconer has her sure. 
 What may not tlien our isle presume, 
 While victory his crest does plume ? 
 AY hat may not others fear, 
 If thus he ex-owns each year ? 
 As Cccsar, lie, erelong, to Gaul, 
 To Italy a Hannibal, 
 
 And to all states not free, 
 Shall climacteric be. 
 The Pict no shelter now shall find 
 Within his party-colored mind. 
 But, from this valor sad. 
 Shrink uuderneatli tlic plaid ; 
 Happy, if in the tufted brake, 
 Tlie English hunter him mistake, 
 Nor lay his hounds in near 
 The Caledonian deer. 
 
 ^ 
 
 But thou, the war's and fortune's son, 
 
 Marcli indefatigably on. 
 
 And for tlie last effect, 
 Still keep the sword erect ; 
 
 Beside the force it has to fright 
 
 The spirits of the shady night, 
 
 The same arts that did gain 
 A power, must it maintain. 
 
 THE CHAEAOTER OF HOLLAND. 
 
 Holland, that scarce deserves the name of 
 land. 
 As but the oif-scourmg of the British sand. 
 And so much earth as was contributed 
 By English pilots when they heaved the lead. 
 Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell 
 Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-sheU, — 
 This indigested vomit of the sea 
 Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. 
 
 Glad then, as miners w-ho have found the ore. 
 They, with mad labor, fished the land to shore. 
 And dived as desperately for each piece 
 Of earth, as if 't had been of ambergris. 
 Collecting anxiously small loads of clay. 
 Less than what buikling swallows bear away, 
 (Jr than those pills which sordid beetles roll, 
 Transfusing into them their duughill soul. 
 
 How did they rivet, with gigantic piles. 
 Thorough the centre their new-catched miles. 
 And to the stake a struggling country bound, 
 Where barking waves still bait the forced ground, 
 Building their watery Babel far more high 
 To reacli the sea than those to scale tiie sky ! 
 
 Yet still his claim tlie injured ocean laid, 
 And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played. 
 As if on purpose it on land had come 
 To show them what 's their mare liberum. 
 iV daily deluge over them does boil ; 
 The earth and water play at level coil. 
 The fish ofttimes the burgher dispossessed. 
 And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest, 
 And oft the Tritons and the sea-nymphs saw 
 Whole shoals of Dutch ser\'cd up for Cabillau, 
 Or, as they over the new level ranged 
 For pickled herring, pickled hivrin changed. 
 Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake. 
 Would throw their land away at duck and drake ; 
 Tlierefore necessity, that first made kings. 
 Something like government among them brings ; 
 For, as with jiygmies, wdio best kills the crane. 
 Among the hungry he that treasures grain. 
 Among the lilind the one-eyed blinkard reigns. 
 So rules among the drowned he that drains : 
 Not who first see the rising .sun, commands. 
 But whf) could first discern the rising lands ; 
 Who best could know to imnip an earth so leak, 
 
cQ- 
 
 A DROP OF DEW. — THE RETREAT. 
 
 247 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Him they their Lord, and Country's Father, 
 
 speak ; 
 To make a bank, was a great plot of state ; 
 Invent a shovel, and be a inagistrate. 
 Henee some small dike-grave, uuperceived, in- 
 vades 
 The power, and grows as 't were a king of 
 
 spades ; 
 But, for less envy, some joined states endures, 
 Wlio look like a commission of the sewers : 
 For these Half-anders, half wet and half dry. 
 Nor bear strict service, nor pure hberty. 
 
 A DROP OF DEW. 
 
 TRANSLATED. 
 
 See liow the orient dew. 
 Shed from the bosom of the morn, 
 Into the blowing roses 
 (Yet careless of its mansion new. 
 For the clear region where 't was born), " 
 Round in itself encloses. 
 And, in its little globe's extent, 
 Frames, as it can, its native element. 
 How it tlie purple flower does slight. 
 
 Scarce touching where it lies ; 
 But gazing back upon the skies, 
 Shines with a mournful Kght, 
 Like its own tear. 
 Because so long divided from the sphere. 
 Restless it rolls, and uuseoure. 
 
 Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
 Till the warm sun pities its pam. 
 And to the skies exhales it back again. 
 
 So the soul, that drop, that ray. 
 Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 
 Coidd it within the luiman flower be seen. 
 
 Remembering still its former height, 
 Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green, 
 
 And, recollecting its own light. 
 Does, in its pure and cir-chug thoughts, express 
 The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
 In how coy a figure wound. 
 Every way it turns away. 
 So the world excluding round. 
 Yet receiving in the day. 
 Dark beneath, l)ut bright above. 
 Here disdaining, there in love. 
 How loose and easy henee to go ; 
 How girt and ready to ascend ; 
 Moving but on a point below. 
 It all about does upwards bend. 
 Such did the manna's sacred dew distU, 
 White and entire, although congealed and 
 
 chill ; 
 Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run 
 Into the glories of the almightv sun. 
 
 MARGARET LUCAS, DUCHESS OF 
 NEWCASTLE. 
 
 1CS4-16T3. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE FAIE,IE!3. 
 
 She on a dewy leaf doth bathe. 
 And as she sits, the leaf doth wave; 
 Tliere like a new-fallen flake of snow 
 Doth her wliite limbs in beauty show. 
 Her garments fair lier maids put on, 
 Made of the pure light from the sun. 
 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 I DWELL in groves that gilt are with the sun; 
 
 Sit on the banks by which clear waters run ; 
 
 In summers hot down in a shade I he ; 
 
 My music is tlie buzzing of a fly ; 
 
 I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green 
 
 grass ; 
 In fields, where corn is high, I often pass ; 
 Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see. 
 Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns 
 
 be; 
 Retnrnmg back, I in fresh pastures go, 
 To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low ; 
 In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on. 
 Then I do live in a small house alone ; 
 Although 't is plain, yet cleanly 't is within, 
 Like to a soid that 's pure, and clear from sin ; 
 And there I dwell in quiet and still peace. 
 Not filled with cares how riches to increase; 
 I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures ; 
 No riches are. but what the mind intreasures. 
 Thus am I solitary, live alone, 
 Yet better loved, the more that I am known ; 
 And though my face ill-favored at first sight. 
 After acquaintance, it will give delight. 
 Refuse me not, for I shall constant be ; 
 Maintain your credit and your dignity. 
 
 HENRY VAUGHAN. 
 
 1621-1695. 
 
 THE RETREAT. 
 
 Happy those early days, when I 
 Shined in my angel-infancy ! 
 Before I understood tliis place 
 Appointed for my second race. 
 Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
 But a white, celestial thought; 
 When yet I had not walkt above 
 A mile or two from my first love. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 248 
 
 VAUGHAN. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 h 
 
 And, looking back, at that short space, 
 Could see a gUiupse of his bright face ; 
 When ou some gilded cloud or flower 
 My gaziug soul woidd dwell au hour, 
 And in those weaker glories spy 
 Some shadows of eternity; 
 Before I taught my tongue to wound 
 My conscience with a sinful sound. 
 Or had the black art to dispense 
 A several sin to every sense, 
 But felt through all this fleshly dress 
 Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
 O, how I long to travel back, 
 And tread again that ancient track ! 
 That I might once more reach that plain. 
 Where first I left my glorious train ; 
 From whence the enlightened spirit sees 
 That shady city of palm-trees. 
 But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
 Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! 
 Some men a forward motion love, 
 But I by backward steps would move ; 
 And when this dust falls to the urn. 
 In that state I came return. 
 
 THE WOKLD. 
 
 I SAW eternity the other night. 
 
 Like a great ring of pure and endless Ught, 
 
 AH calm, as it was bright ; 
 And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years. 
 
 Driven by the spheres 
 Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world 
 
 And all her train were hurled. 
 The doting lover, in his quaintest strain, 
 
 Did there complain ; 
 Near lum, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, 
 
 Wit's sour delights ; 
 With gloves and knots, the sUIy snares of pleas- 
 ure, 
 
 Yet his dear treasure 
 All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour 
 
 Upou a flower. 
 
 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and 
 
 woe, 
 Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow. 
 
 He did nor stay nor go ; 
 Condemning thoughts, like mad eclipses, scowl 
 
 Upon his soul, 
 And clouds of crying witnesses without 
 
 Pursued him with one shout. 
 Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, 
 
 Workt under ground. 
 Where he did clutch his prey ; but one did see 
 
 Tiiat policy ; 
 Churches and altars fed liim ; perjuries 
 Were gnats and flies ; 
 
 It rained about lum blood and tears ; but he 
 Drank them as free. 
 
 The fearful miser, on a heap of rust, 
 
 Sat pining aU his Ufe there ; did scarce trust 
 
 His own hands with the dust ; 
 Yet would not place one piece above, but lives 
 
 In fear of thieves. 
 Thousands there were, as frantic as himself. 
 
 And hugged each one his pelf; 
 The downright epicure placed heaven in sense. 
 
 And scorned pretence ; 
 While others, slipt into a wide excess. 
 
 Said little less ; 
 The weaker sort, slight, tri\ial wares enslave, 
 
 Who think them brave. 
 And poor, despised truth sat counting by 
 
 Their \-ictory. 
 
 Yet some, who all tliis wliile did weep and sing, 
 And sing and weep, soared up into the ring ; 
 
 But most would use no wing. 
 " fools," said I, " thus to prefer dark night 
 
 Before true light ! 
 To live in grots aud caves, and hate the day 
 
 Because it shows the way, — 
 The way which, from this dead and dark abode. 
 
 Leads up to God ; 
 A way where you might tread the sun, and be 
 
 Jlore bright than he ! " 
 But, as I did their madness so discuss. 
 
 One whispered thus, 
 " This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, 
 
 But for his bride." 
 
 SUNDAYS. 
 
 Bright shadows of true rest ! some shoots of 
 bliss ; 
 
 Heaven once a week ; 
 The next world's gladness prepossest in this ; 
 
 A day to seek; 
 Eternity in time ; the steps by which 
 We climb above all ages ; lamps that light 
 Man through his heap of dark days ; and the rich 
 And full redemption of the whole week's flight ! 
 
 The pulleys unto headlong man; time's bower; 
 
 The narrow way ; 
 Transplanted paradise ; God's walking hour; 
 
 The cool o' the day ! 
 Tlie creature's jubilee ; God's parlc with dust ; 
 Heaven hero ; man on those hills of myrrli aud 
 
 flowers ; 
 Angels descending; the returns of trust ; 
 A gleam of glory after six -days-showers ! 
 
 The church's love-feasts ; time's prerogative, 
 
 Aud interest 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 MAN. — THE KNOT. 
 
 --^ 
 
 2 4 'J 
 
 fr 
 
 Deducted from the whole ; the combs and hive, 
 
 And home of rest. 
 The milky way chalkt out with suns ; a clew. 
 That guides through erring hours ; and Lu full 
 
 story 
 A taste of heaven on earth ; the pledge and cue 
 Of a full feast; and the out-courts of glory. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 Weighing the steadfastness and state 
 Of some mean things which here below reside, 
 IVhere birds Kke watchful clocks the noiseless 
 date 
 And intercourse of times divide, 
 Where bees at night get home and hive, and 
 flowers. 
 Early as well as late, 
 Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers ; 
 
 I would, said I, my God woidd give 
 The staiduess of these things to man ! for these 
 To his divine appoiutments ever cleave. 
 
 And no new business breaks their peace ; 
 The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine. 
 
 The flowers without clothes Uve, 
 Yet Solomon was never drest so flue. 
 
 Man hath still either toys or care ; 
 He hath no root, nor to one place is tied. 
 But ever restless and irregular 
 
 About this earth doth ruu and ride. 
 He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows 
 where ; 
 He says it is so far. 
 That he hath quite forgot how to go there. 
 
 He knocks at all doors, strays and roams ; 
 Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have. 
 Which in the darkest nights point to their homes 
 
 By some hid sense their Maker gave ; 
 Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest 
 
 And passage through these looms 
 God ordered motion, but ordained no rest. 
 
 THEY AKE ALL GONE, 
 
 They arc all gone into the world of light. 
 
 And I alone sit lingering here ! 
 Their very memory is fair aud bright. 
 And ray sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 
 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove. 
 Or those faint beams in which tliis hUl is drest 
 After the sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory. 
 Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
 
 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary. 
 Mere glimmering and decays. 
 
 O holy hope ! and high humUity ! 
 
 High as the heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, aud you have showed them 
 me 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous death ; the jewel of the just ! 
 
 Shining nowhere but iu the dark ; 
 
 What mysteries do he beyond thy dust. 
 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may 
 know 
 At flrst sight if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair deU or grove he sings in now. 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams. 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 
 So some sti-ange thoughts transcend our wouted 
 themes. 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 If a star were confined into a tomb. 
 
 Her captive flames must needs bum there ; 
 But, when the baud that loekt her u]) gives room, 
 She 'U shine through all the sphere. 
 
 O Father of eternal life, and all 
 Created glories under thee ! 
 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
 Into true hberty. 
 
 Either disperse these mists, wliich blot and tUl 
 
 My perspective stiU as they pass ; 
 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 THE KNOT. 
 
 Beight queen of heaven ! God's virgin spouse! 
 
 The glad world's blessed maid ! 
 Whose beauty tied life to thy house, 
 
 And brought us saving aid. 
 
 Thou art the tnie loves-knot ; by thee 
 
 God is made our ally; 
 And mau's inferior essence he 
 
 With his did dignify. 
 
 For ooalescent by that band 
 
 We are his body grown. 
 Nourished with favors from his hand 
 
 Whom for our head we own. 
 
 And such a knot what arm dares loose, 
 Wliat life, what death, can sever ? 
 
 Which us in him, and him in us. 
 United keeps forever. 
 
 ^ 
 
(Q- 
 
 250 
 
 Y AUG HAN. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 CX 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Still young and flue ! but what i.s .still in view 
 We slight as old and soiled, though tresh and new. 
 How bright wert thou, when Sheni's admiriug 
 
 eye 
 Thy bumisht, flaming arch did first descry ! 
 When Tcrah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 
 The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot. 
 Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
 Tor thy new light, and trembled at each shower ! 
 When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and 
 
 fair, 
 Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; 
 Rain gently spends Ids honey-drops, and pours 
 Bahn on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. 
 Bright pledge of peace and sunshiue ! the sure 
 
 tie 
 Of thy Lord's hand, the object of iiis eye ! 
 When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
 Distant, and low, I can in thine see him 
 Who looks upou thee from liis glorious throne, 
 Aud minds the covenant 'twixt all and One. 
 O foul, deceitful men ! my God doth keep 
 His promise still, but we break ours aud sleep. 
 After the Fall, the first sin was in blood. 
 And drunkenness quickly did succed the flood ; 
 But since Christ died (as if we did devise 
 To lose him too, as well as paradise). 
 These twp grand sins we join and act together. 
 Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, 
 
 foul weather. 
 Water, though both heaven's windows and the 
 
 deep 
 Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep. 
 Could not reform us ; and blood in despite. 
 Yea, God's own blood, we tread upou aud slight. 
 
 TEE NIGHT, 
 
 De.vr night ! this world's defeat; 
 The stop to busy fools ; care's check and curb ; 
 The day of spirits ; my soul's calm retreat 
 Which none distui'b ! 
 Christ's* progress, and his prayer time; 
 Tlu^ hours to which high heaven dotli chime. 
 
 God's silent, searching flight : 
 When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all 
 His locks are wet with the clear drops of night ; 
 His still, soft call ; 
 His knocking time ; the soul's dumb watch. 
 When spirits their fair kindred catch. 
 
 ^V'cre all my lond, evil days 
 (^alm and nnliannled as is thy dark tent. 
 Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice 
 
 • Mark i. 85 ; LiiVe xxi. 37. 
 
 Is seldom rent ; 
 Then I in heaven all the long year 
 Would keep, aud never wander here. 
 
 But living where the sun 
 Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire 
 Themselves and others, I consent and run 
 To every mire ; 
 And by this world's ill-guiding light. 
 Err more than I can do by night. 
 
 There is in God, some say, 
 A deep, but dazzling darkness ; as men here 
 Say it is late and dusky, because they 
 See not all clear. 
 O for that night, where I iu him 
 Misht live invisible and dim ! 
 
 TO HIS BOOKS. 
 
 Bright books ! the perspectives to our weak 
 
 sights. 
 The clear projections of discerning lights. 
 Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume 
 
 day, 
 The track of fled souls, and their milky way, 
 The dead alive and busy, the still voice 
 Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's white decoys ! 
 Who Uvcs with you lives like those knowing 
 
 flowers 
 Wliich in commerce with liglit spend all their 
 
 hours ; 
 Wlrich shut to clouds, aud shadows nicely shun. 
 But with glad haste uu\eil to kiss the sun. 
 Beneatli you all is dark, and a dead night, 
 Wliich whoso lives iu wants both health aud sight. 
 By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow 
 Healing and rich, though this they do most slow. 
 Because most choicely ; for as great a store 
 Have we of books as bees of herbs, or more : 
 And the great task to try, then know, the good, 
 To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food. 
 Is a rare scant performance. For man dies 
 Oft ere 't is done, while tlic bee feeds and flies. 
 But you were all choice flowers ; all set and 
 
 dressed 
 By old sage florists, wlio well knew the best ; 
 And I amidst you all am turned a weed, 
 Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. 
 Tiien thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not be 
 Content to know — what was too much for tliee ! 
 
 RENUNCUTION OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Welcome, pui'e thoughts and peaceful hours. 
 Enriched with sunshine and with showers ! 
 Welcome, fair liopcs aud holy cares. 
 The not to be repented shares 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE BEE. 
 
 251 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Of time and business, the sure road 
 Unto my last and loved abode ! 
 
 O supreme Bliss ! 
 The circle, centre, and abyss 
 Of blessings, never let me miss 
 Nor leave that path which leads to thee. 
 Who art alone all things to me ! 
 I hear, I see, all the long day. 
 The noise and pomp of the "broad way." 
 I note tlieir coarse and proud approaches. 
 Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches. 
 But in tlie "narrow way" to thee 
 1 observe only poverty ' 
 And despised things ; and, all along, 
 Tlie ragged, mean, and liumble throng 
 Are still on foot ; and, as they go, 
 Tliey sigh, and say their Lord went so ! 
 
 Give me my stall, then, as it stood 
 When green and growing in the wood. 
 The stones whieli for the altar served 
 IMiglit not be smoothed nor finely carved. 
 With tliis poor stick I 'U pass the ford. 
 As Jacob did ; and thy dear word. 
 As tliou iiast dressed it, not as wit 
 And depraved tastes have poisoned it. 
 Shall in the passage be my meat, 
 And none else shall thy servant eat. 
 Thus, thus, and in no other sort. 
 Will I set forth, though laughed at for 't; 
 And, leaving the wise world their way. 
 Go through, though judged to go astray. 
 
 THE BEE, 
 
 From fruitful beds and flowery borders. 
 
 Parcelled to wasteful ranks and orders. 
 
 Where state grasps more than plain truth needs. 
 
 And wliolesomc herbs are starved by weeds, 
 
 To' the wild woods I will be gone, 
 
 And the coarse meals of great Saint Jolm. 
 
 When truth and piety are missed 
 
 Both in the rulers and the priest ; 
 
 When pity is not cold, but dead. 
 
 And the rich eat the poor like bread ; 
 
 While factious heads, with open coil 
 
 And force, first make, then share, the spoil ; 
 
 To Horeb then Elias goes. 
 
 And in the desert grows the rose. 
 
 Hail, crystal fountains and fresh shades. 
 
 Where no proud look invades, 
 
 No busy wiu'ldling Imuts away 
 
 The sad retirer all the day ! 
 
 Hail, happy, harmless sohtude ! 
 
 Our sanctuary from the rude 
 
 And scornful world ; the calm recess 
 
 Of faith and hope and hohuess ! 
 Here something still hke Eden looks ; 
 Honey in woods, jideps in brooks ; 
 And flowers, whose rich, uurifled sweets 
 With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets. 
 When the toils of the day are done. 
 And the tired world sets with the sun. 
 Here flying winds and flowing wells 
 Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells ; 
 Their busy murmurs all the night 
 To praise or prayer do invite ; 
 And with an awful sound arrest, 
 And piously employ his breast. 
 
 When in the east the dawn doth blush. 
 Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush. 
 Herbs straight get up; flowers peep and spread; 
 Trees whisper praise, and bow the head ; 
 Birds, from the shades of night released. 
 Look round about, then quit the nest, 
 And with imited glacUiess sing 
 Tlie glory of the morning's King. 
 Tlie hermit hears, and with meek voice 
 Offers his own up, and their joys ; 
 Then prays that all the world might be 
 Blest with as sweet an unity. 
 
 If sudden storms the day invade. 
 They flock about him to the shade, 
 Wliere wisely they expect the end. 
 Giving the tempest time to spend ; 
 And hard by shelters on some bough 
 Hilarion's servant, the sage crow. 
 
 purer years of light and grace ! 
 Great is the difference, as the space, 
 'Twi.\.t you and us, who blindly run 
 After false fires, and leave the sun. 
 Is not fair Nature of herself 
 Much richer than dull paint and pelf? 
 And are not streams at the spring head 
 More sweet than in carved stone or lead ? 
 But fancy and some artist's tools 
 Frame a religion for fools. 
 
 The truth, which once was plainly taught. 
 With thorns and briers now is fraught. 
 Some part is with bold fables spotted. 
 Some by strange comments wildly blotted ; 
 And discord, old corruption's crest. 
 With blood and blame have stained the rest. 
 So snow, which m its first descents 
 A whiteness like pure heaven presents, 
 Wlieu touched by man is quickly soiled. 
 And after trodden down and spoiled. 
 
 0, lead me where I may be free 
 In truth and spirit to serve Thee ! 
 Wliere undisturbed I may converse 
 With thy great Self ; and there rehearse 
 
 ^ 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 252 
 
 STANLEY. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Thy gifts Mnth thaiiks ; and from thy store, 
 Who art all blessings, beg much more. 
 Give me the wisdom of the bee, 
 And her unwearied industry ! 
 That, from the wild gourds of these days, 
 I may extract health, and thy praise, 
 Who canst turn darkness into light. 
 And in my weakness show thy might. 
 
 Suffer me not in any want 
 To seek rcfrcslnneut from a plant 
 Thou didst not set ; since all must be 
 Plucked up, whose growth is not from thee. 
 'T is not the garden and the bowers, 
 Nor sense and forms, that give to flowers 
 Their wholesomeness ; but thy good will. 
 Which trutli and pureness purchase still. 
 
 Then, since corrupt man hath driven hence 
 
 Thy kind and saving influence, 
 
 And lialm is no more to be had 
 
 In all the coasts of Gilead, 
 
 Go witli me to. the shade and cell, 
 
 Where thy best servants once did dwejl. 
 
 There let me kuow thy wUl, and see 
 
 Exiled religion owned by thee ; 
 
 For thou canst turn dark grots to halls, 
 
 And make hills blossom Uke the vales. 
 
 Decking their untilled heads with flowers, 
 
 And fresh delights for all sad hours; 
 
 Till from them, hkc a laden bee, 
 
 I may fly iiome, and liivc with thee ! 
 
 THOMAS STANLEY. 
 
 1633-1678. 
 
 NOTE TO MOSOHUS." 
 
 Along the mead Europa walks, 
 To choose tlie fairest of its gems, 
 
 Which, plucking from their slender stalks. 
 She weaves in fragrant diadems. 
 
 Wlierc'er tjie beauteous ^^rgin treads, 
 The common people of the field, 
 
 To kiss her feet bowing their heads, 
 Homage as to their goddess yield. 
 
 'Twixt whoui aiubitious wars arise, 
 AVIiich to the quecu sliall first present 
 
 A gift Arabian spice outvies, 
 
 The votive ofteriug of their scent. 
 
 When dcatldess Amaranth, this strife 
 Greedy by dying to decide, 
 
 I * Stanley licre trnnslates a poem of Marino, in which that 
 writer had in his eve the second idvl of Muschus. 
 
 eg- 
 
 Begs she would her green thread of life, 
 • As love's fair destiny, divide. 
 
 Pliant Acanthus now the vine 
 
 And ivy enviously beholds. 
 Wishing her odorous arms might twiue 
 
 About this fair in such strict folds. 
 
 The Violet, by her foot opprest. 
 
 Doth from that touch enamored rise. 
 
 But, losing straight what made her blest. 
 Hangs do\vn her head, looks pale, and dies. 
 
 Clitia, to new devotion won. 
 Doth now her former faith deny. 
 
 Sees in her face a double sun. 
 And glories in apostasy. 
 
 The Gillyflower, wliich mocks the skies 
 (The meadow's painted rainbow), seeks 
 
 A brighter lustre from her eyes. 
 And richer scarlet from her cheeks. 
 
 The jocund Flower-de-luce appears. 
 
 Because neglected, discontent ; 
 The morning furnished her with tears; 
 
 Her sighs expiring odors vent. 
 
 Narcissus in her eyes, once more, 
 Seems his own beauty to admire ; 
 
 In water not so clear before. 
 As represented now in fire. 
 
 The Crocus, who would gladly claim 
 
 A privilege above the rest. 
 Begs, with his triple tongue of flame. 
 
 To be transplanted to her breast. 
 
 The Hyacinth, in whose pale leaves 
 The hand of Nature writ his fate. 
 
 With a glad snide his sigh deceives 
 In hopes to be more fortunate. 
 
 His head the drowsy Poppy raised, 
 Awaked l)y this approaching morn. 
 
 And viewed iter purple light amazed. 
 Though his, alas ! was but her scorn. 
 
 None of this aromatic crowd. 
 
 But for their kind death humbly call, 
 
 Courting her hand, like nuirlyrs proud. 
 By so divine a fate to fall. 
 
 The royal maid the ap|ilause disdains 
 Of vulgar flowers, aud oijy chose 
 
 The bashful glory of tiie ])lains, 
 
 Sweet daughter of tiic spring, the Rose. 
 
 She, like herself, a qiu'cn appears, 
 Raised on a verdant thorny tlirone. 
 
 Guarded by amorous winds, and wears 
 A jmrple robe, a golden crown. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHAKACTER OF THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY. 
 
 253 
 
 -fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 CHARLES COTTON. 
 
 1630-1687. 
 
 INVITATION TO IZAAX WALTON. 
 
 Whilst in this cold aud blusteiing clime. 
 Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, 
 
 We pass away the roughest time 
 Has been of many years before ; 
 
 Wiilst from the most tempestuous nooks 
 The chillest blasts our peace invade, 
 
 And by great rains our smallest brooks 
 Are almost navigable made ; 
 
 AV'hilst all the ills are so improved 
 
 Of this dead quarter of the year. 
 That even you, so much beloved. 
 
 We would not now wish with us here : 
 
 In this estate, I say, it is 
 
 Some comfort to us to suppose 
 That in a better clime than this 
 
 You, our dear friend, have more repose ; 
 
 And some delight to me the while, 
 
 Tliough Nature now does weep in rain, 
 
 To tliink that I have seen her smile, 
 And haply may I do again. • 
 
 If the all-ruling Power please 
 
 We Uve to see another May, 
 We '11 recompense an age of these 
 
 Foul days in one fine fishing-day. 
 
 We then shall have a day or two. 
 
 Perhaps a week, wherein to try 
 Wliat the best master's hand can do 
 
 With the most deadly killing fly. 
 
 A day with not too bright a beam ; 
 
 A warm, but not a scorching sun ; 
 A shuthern gale to curl the stream ; 
 
 And, master, half our work is done. 
 
 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait 
 
 The scaly people to betray, 
 Wc '11 prove it just, with treacherous bnit. 
 
 To make the preying trout our prey : 
 
 And think ourselves, in such an hour, 
 Happier than those, though not so high, 
 
 Who, like leviathans, devour 
 Of meaner men the smaller fry. 
 
 This, my best friend, at my poor home, 
 Shall be our pastime and our tlieme ; 
 
 But then — should you not deign to come. 
 You make all this a flattering dream. 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 1631-1700. 
 
 CHAEACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 A MAN SO various, that he seemed to be 
 Not one, but all mankind's epitome : 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong ; 
 Was everything by starts, and nothing long ; 
 But, in the course of one revolving moon. 
 Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon : 
 Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, 
 Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
 Blest madman, who could every hour employ 
 With something new to wish, or to enjoy ; 
 RaiKng and praising were his usual themes; 
 And both, to show his judgment, in exti'emes : 
 So over violent, or over civil. 
 That every man with him was God or Devil. 
 In squandering wealth was his peculiar art : 
 Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 
 Beggared by fools, whom still he found too late ; 
 He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
 He laughed himself from court; then sought rehcf 
 By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: 
 For, in spite of him, the weight of business fell 
 On Absalom and wise Achitophel : 
 Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft. 
 He left not faction, but of that was left. 
 
 Absalom and Achitophel, Part I. 
 
 CHAKACTER OF THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY, 
 
 For close designs, and crooked councils fit; 
 Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
 Restless, unfixed in principles and place ; 
 In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace : 
 A fiery soul, which, working out its way. 
 Fretted the pygmy-body to decay. 
 And o'er informed the tenement of clay. 
 A daring pilot in extremity ; 
 Pleased with the danger, whenthe waves went high 
 He sought the storms ; but for a calm unfit, 
 IVould steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. 
 Great wits are sure to madness near allied. 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 
 Else why should he, with wealth and honor blest. 
 Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ? 
 Punish a body which he could not please; 
 Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? 
 And all to leave what with liis toil he won. 
 To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son ; 
 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try ; 
 And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. 
 In friendship false, implacable in hate ; 
 Resolved to ruin or to rule the state. 
 To compass tliis the triple bond he broke ; 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 254 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 -^ 
 
 The pillars of the public safety shook ; 
 And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke : 
 Then seized with fear, yet still afi'eeting fame, 
 Usurped a patriot's all-atouing name. • 
 So easy still it proves in factious times, 
 With public zeal to cancel private crimes. 
 How safe is treason, and how sacred ill, 
 Wiere none can sin against the people's will ! 
 Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, 
 Since in another's guilt they find their own ! 
 Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge ; 
 The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. 
 In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin 
 With more diseerning eyes, or hands more clean, 
 Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress ; 
 Swift of despatch, and easy of access. 
 (.), had he been content to serve the crown, 
 Willi virtues only proper to the gown; 
 Or had the rankncss of the soil been freed 
 From cockle, that oppressed the noble seed, 
 David for him his tuneful harp had strung. 
 And heaven had wanted one immortal song. 
 But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand. 
 And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land. 
 
 Absalom and Achitophel, Part I. 
 
 CHAKACTER OF SLIN6SBT BETHEL, WHIG 
 SHERIFF FOR LONDON. 
 
 SiiiMEi, whose youth did early promise bring 
 Of zeal to God and hatred to his king. 
 Did w-isely from expensive sins refrain, 
 And never broke the sabbath but for gain : 
 Nor was he ever known an oath to vent. 
 Or curse, unless against the government. 
 Thus heaping wealth, by the most ready way 
 Among the Jews, which was to cheat and pray : 
 The city, to reward his pious hate 
 Against his master, chose him magistrate. 
 His hand a vare* of justice did uphold ; 
 His neek was loaded with a chain of gold. 
 During his office treason was no crime ; 
 The sons of Belial had a glorious time : 
 For Shimei, thougli not prodigal of pelf. 
 Yet loved his wicked neiglibor as liimself. 
 Wien two or three were gathered to declaim 
 Against the monarch of Jerusalem, 
 Shimei was always in the midst of them : 
 And if they cursed the king when he was by. 
 Would rather curse than break good company. 
 Jljsidntn and Acliito})/iel, Part I. 
 
 TITUS GATES. 
 
 Yet, Corah, thou shalt from oblivion pass ; 
 Erect thyself, thou monumental brass, 
 
 ^3^- 
 
 Wnnil, 
 
 High as tlio serpent of thy metal made. 
 While nations stand secure beneath thy shade. 
 What, though his birth were base, yet comets rise 
 From eartldy vapors ere they shine in skies. 
 Prodigious actions may as well be done 
 By weaver's issue as by prince's son. 
 This arch-attestor for the p\djlic good 
 By that one deed ennobles all his blood. 
 Who ever asked the witnesses' high race, 
 WHiose oath with martyrdom did Stephen grace ? 
 Ours was a Levite, and as times went then. 
 His tribe were God Almighty's gentlemen. 
 Sunk were his eyes, his voice was harsh and loud. 
 Sure signs he neither choleric was nor proud : 
 His long chin proved his wit; his saint-Uke grace 
 A church vermilion, and a Moses' face. 
 His memory, miraculously great. 
 Could plots, exceedmg man's belief, repeat ; 
 Which therefore cannot be accounted lies, 
 For human wit could never such devise. 
 Some future tmths are mingled in liis book ; 
 But where the witness failed, the prophet spoke ; 
 Some things like visionary flights appear ; 
 The spirit caught him up tlie Lord knows where ; 
 And gave him liis rabbinical degree, 
 Uiiknowm to foreign university. 
 
 Absalom atiU Achitophel, Part I. 
 
 CHARACTER OF ELKANAH SETTLE, 
 
 DoEG, thougli without knowing how or why, 
 IMade still a blundering kind of melody ; 
 Spurred boldly on, and dashed through thick and . 
 
 thin, 
 Througli sense and nonsense, never out nor in ; 
 Free from all meaning, wliether good or bad, 
 And, in one word, heroically mad : 
 He was too warm on picking-work to dwell. 
 But fagoted his notions as they fell, 
 And if they rhymed and rattled, all was well. 
 Spiteful he is not, though lie wrote a satire. 
 For still there goes some thinkihg to ill-nature : 
 He needs no more than birds and beasts to think. 
 All his occasions are to eat and drink. 
 If he call rogue and rascal from a garret. 
 He means you no more mischief than a parrot : 
 The words for friend and foe alike were made. 
 To fetter 'cm in verse is all his trade. 
 
 Absalom and Achitophel, Part II. 
 
 CHARACTER OF SHADWELL, 
 
 Now slop your noses, readers, all and some. 
 For here 's a tun of midnight work to come, 
 Og, from a treason-tavern rolling home. 
 Round as a g!ol)c, and liquored every chink. 
 Goodly and irreat he sails behind his link ; 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 MAC FLECKNOE. 
 
 ■ft 
 
 With all this bulk there 's notliing lost in Og, 
 For every inch, that is not fool, is rogue : 
 A monstrous mass of foul corrupted matter, 
 As all the devils had spewed to make the batter. 
 When wine has given him courage to blaspheme, 
 He curses God, but God before curst him ; 
 And if man could have reason, none lias more, 
 That made his paunch so rich, aud him so poor. 
 With wealth he was not trusted, for Heaven knew 
 What 't was of old to pamper up a Jew; 
 To what would he on quail and pheasant swell. 
 That e'en on tripe and carrion could rebel ? 
 But though Heaven made him poor (with rev- 
 erence speaking), 
 He never was a poet of God's making ; 
 Tiie midw'ife laid her hand on his thick skull. 
 With tliis prophetic blessing : Be thou did! ; 
 Driidi, swear, aud roar, forbear no lewd delight 
 Fit for thy bulk, do anything but write : 
 Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men, 
 A strong nativity — but for the pen ; 
 Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, 
 Still thou mayst live, avoiding pen and ink. 
 I see, I see, 't is counsel given in vain, 
 For ti'eason botched in rhyme wUl be thy bane. 
 Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck, 
 'T is fatal to thy fame and to thy neck : 
 Why should thy metre good King David blast ? 
 A psalm of his will surely be thy last. 
 Dar'st thou presume in verse to meet thy foes. 
 Thou whom the penny pamphlet foiled in prose ? 
 Doeg, whom God for mankind's mirth has made, 
 O'ertops thy talent in thy very trade ; 
 Doeg to thee, tliy paintings are so coarse, 
 A poet is, though lie 's the poet's horse. 
 A double noose thou on thy neck dost pidl, 
 For writing treason, and for writing dull ; 
 To die for faction is a common evil, 
 But to be hanged for nonsense is the devU : 
 Hadst tliou the glories of tliy king expressed, 
 Tliy praises Imd been satire at the best ; 
 But thou in clumsy verse, uiilieked, unpointed. 
 Hast shamefully defied the Lord's anointed ; 
 I will not rake the dunghill of thy crimes. 
 For who would read thy life that reads thy rhymes? 
 But of King David's foes be tliis the doom. 
 May all be like the young irtan Absalom ; 
 And for my foes may this their blessing be. 
 To talk like Doeg, and to vnite like thee. 
 
 Absalom and Achitophel, Part II. 
 
 MAC FLECKNOE. 
 
 -ViL human things are subject to decay. 
 And -when fate summons, monarohs must obey. 
 This Flecknoe * found, who, like Augustus, young 
 
 ^- 
 
 Uicliartl Flecknoe. 
 
 Was called to empire, and had governed long ; 
 In prose and verse, was owned, without dispute. 
 Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. 
 Tliis aged prince, now tlourishing in peace, 
 And blessed with issue of a large increase ; 
 Worn out with business, did at length debate 
 To settle the succession of the state : 
 And, pondering, which of all Ids sons was fit 
 To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, 
 Cried, " 'T is resolved ; for nature pleads, that he 
 Should only rule that most resembles me. 
 Shadwell alone my perfect image bears. 
 Mature in didness from his tender years ; 
 Shadwell ahme, of all my sons, is he 
 Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. 
 The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 
 But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 
 Some beams of wit on other souls may fall. 
 Strike through, and make a lucid interval ; 
 But Shadwell's gcniune night admits no ray, 
 His risjng fogs prevail upon the day. 
 Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye. 
 And seems designed for thoughtless majesty : 
 Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, 
 And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
 Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee. 
 Thou last great prophet of tautology. 
 Even I, a dunce of more renown than they. 
 Was sent before but to prepare thy way; 
 And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came 
 To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
 My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung, 
 Wlien to King John of Portugal I sung, 
 Was but the prelude to that glorious day, 
 Wlieu thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way. 
 With well-timed oars before the royal barge. 
 Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge ; 
 And big with hymn, commander of a liost, 
 The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tossed. 
 Mcthinks I see the new Arion sail, 
 The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 
 ♦ * * 
 
 Now Empress Fame had published the reno^ni 
 Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. 
 E-ouscd by report of Fame, the nations meet. 
 From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street. 
 No Persian carpets spread the imperial way. 
 But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay : 
 From dusty shops neglected authors come, 
 Martyrs of pics, and reUcs of the bum. 
 Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, 
 But loads of Shadwell almost choked tlie way.. 
 Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared. 
 And Ilcrringman was captain of the guard. 
 The hoary prince in majesty appeared. 
 High oil a throne of his own labors reared. 
 .At his right hand our young Aseanius sate, 
 Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 256 
 
 DRTDEN. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 V- 
 
 His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, 
 Aiid lambent didness played around his face. 
 As rLumibal did to the altars come, 
 Swore by his sire, a mortal foe to Home; 
 So SluKhvell swore, nor should his vow be vain, 
 That ho till death true dulness would maintain; 
 And, ill his father's right, and realm's defence. 
 Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. 
 The king himself the sacred unction made, 
 As king by office, and as priest by trade. 
 In his sinister hand, instead of ball. 
 He placed a mighty mug of potent ale ; 
 Love's kingdom to his right he did convey. 
 At once liis sceptre, and his rule of sway ; 
 Whose righteous lore the prince had practised 
 
 young. 
 And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung. 
 His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread. 
 That nodding seemed to consecrate his head. 
 Just at the point of time, if fame not lie. 
 On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. 
 So Romulus, 't is sung, by Tiber's brook. 
 Presage of sway from twice six vidtures took. 
 The admiring throng loud acclamations make. 
 And omens of his future empire take. 
 The sire then shook the honors of his head. 
 And from his brows damps of eblivion shed 
 Full on the filial dulness : long he stood. 
 Repelling from his breast the raging god ; 
 At length burst out in this prophetic mood : 
 
 Heaven bless my sou, from Ireland let him reign 
 To far Barbadoes on the western main ; 
 .Of his doiuiuiou may no end be known. 
 And greater than his father's be his throne ; 
 BeyondLove's Kingdom * let him stretch his pen ! 
 He paused, and all the people cried. Amen. 
 
 AljsaJnm and Achituphelt Part I. 
 
 DRTDEN TO CONGREVE. 
 
 Time, place, and action may with pains bo 
 
 wrought ; 
 But genius must be born, and never can be taught. 
 This is your portion ; this your native store ; 
 Heaven, that but once was prodigal before. 
 To Shakespeare gave as much ; she could not give 
 
 him more. 
 Maintain yourpost: that 'sail the fame you need; 
 For 't is impossible you should proceed. 
 Already I am worn with cares and age, 
 . And just abandoning the ungrateful stage: 
 Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, 
 I live a rent-eliarge on his providence : 
 But you, whom every muse and grace adoni, 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, 
 Be kind to my remains ; and O, defend, 
 
 * This is tlicnnnic of that one piny of Flocknoc's wliirli was 
 ncted. Imt iiiisravried in the ri'presfnfntion. 
 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend ! 
 Let not the exulting foe my fame pursue. 
 But shade those laurels which descend to you; 
 And take for tribute what these lines express : 
 You merit more ; nor could my love do less. 
 
 Epistle to Congreve. 
 
 DEYDEN'S DISLIEE OF MARRrED LIFE,* 
 
 Promoting concord, and composing strife. 
 Lord of yourself, uncnnibcred with a wife ; 
 Wiere, for a year, a month, perhaps a night, 
 Long penitence succeeds a short delight : 
 Minds are so hardly matched, that e'en the first. 
 Though paired by Heaven, in Paradise were cursed. 
 For man and woman, thougli in one they grow. 
 Yet, first or last, return again to two. 
 He to God's image, she to his was made ; 
 So, farther from the fount the stream at random 
 strayed. 
 
 How could he stand, when, put to double pain. 
 He must a weaker than himself sustain ! 
 Each might iia\'e stood perhaps ; but each alone ; 
 Two w-restlers help to pull each other down. 
 
 Not that my verse would blemish all the fair ; 
 But yet if some be bad, 't is wisdom to beware ; 
 And better shun the bait than straggle in the snare. 
 Thus have you shunned,and shun the married state, 
 Trusting as little as you can to fate. 
 
 Epistle to his Coitntrtj Kinsman. 
 
 ODE TO MRS. ANNE KULIGEEW, 
 
 I. 
 Tiiou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies. 
 Made in the last promotion of the blest ; 
 Wliose palms, new plucked from Paradise, 
 In spreading branches more sublimely rise. 
 Rich with immortal green above the rest : 
 ^V'hether, adopted to some neighboring star. 
 Thou roU'st above us, in thy wandering race. 
 
 Or, in procession fixed and regular, 
 
 Jlov'st with the heavens' majestic pace ; 
 
 Or, called to mcn-c superior bliss, 
 Thou trcad'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss : 
 Whatever liappy region is thy place. 
 Cease thy celestial song a little space; 
 Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine. 
 
 Since heaven's eternal year is thine. 
 Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse. 
 
 In no ignoble verse ; 
 But such as thy owni voice did practise here. 
 When thy first fruits of Poesy were given ; 
 To make thyself a welcome inmate there : 
 While yet a young ]irobatiouer. 
 And candidate of heaven. 
 
 * Drydeirs wife was hi;:li-lHjrii, of tlouhtful purity, expen- 
 ai\'c, imsympntlictir, pmuil, and stupid. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. 
 
 2.57 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 If by traductiou came thy mind, 
 
 Our wonder is the less to find 
 A soul so charming frcnn a stock so good ; 
 Thy father was tivausfuscd into t.liy blood : 
 So wert thou born into a tuneful strain. 
 An early, rich, and inexbausted vein. 
 
 But if thy pre-existing soul 
 
 Was formed, at first, with myiiads more, 
 It did through all the mighty poets roll. 
 
 Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, 
 .Vnd was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 
 
 If so, then cease thy fiight, O heaven-born mind ! 
 
 Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore ; 
 
 Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find. 
 
 Than was the beauteous frame she left behind : 
 
 Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial 
 
 kind. 
 
 III. 
 
 .May we presume to say, that, at thy birth 
 
 New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here 
 
 on earth. 
 
 For sure the milder planets did combine 
 
 On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, 
 
 And e'en the most malicious were in trine. 
 
 Thy brother-angels at thy birtli 
 
 Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high. 
 
 That all the people of the sky 
 
 !Miglit know a poetess was born on earth. 
 
 And then, if ever, mortal ears 
 
 Had heard the music of the spheres. 
 
 And if no clustering swarm of bees 
 
 On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 
 
 'T was that such vulgar miracles 
 
 Heaven had not leisure to renew : 
 
 For all thy blest fraternity of love 
 
 Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday 
 
 above. 
 
 O gracious God ! how far have we 
 Profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy ? 
 Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
 Debased to each obscene and impious use, 
 Whose harmo\iy was first ordained above 
 For tongues of angels and for hymns of love ? 
 O wretched we ! why were we hurried down 
 
 This lubrique and adulterate age 
 (Nay, added fat pollutions of our owni). 
 
 To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? 
 What can we say to excuse our second fall? 
 Let this thy vestal. Heaven, atone for all : 
 Her Arctluisian stream remains unsoiled. 
 Unmixed with foreign filtli, and undcfiled ; 
 Her wit was more than man, her innocence a 
 child. 
 
 V. 
 
 Art she had none, yet wanted none ; 
 For nature did that want supply : 
 So rich in treasures of her own. 
 She might our boasted stores defy : 
 
 Sucli noble vigor did her verse adorn, 
 
 That it seemed borrowed, where 't was oidy born. 
 
 Her morals too were in her bosom bred. 
 
 By great examples daily fed, 
 "What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. 
 And to be read herself she need not fear ; 
 Each test, and every light, her muse will bear, 
 Thougli Epietetus with his lamp were there. 
 E'eu love (for love sometimes her muse cxprest) 
 Was but a lambent flame which played about her 
 
 breast : 
 Light as the vapors of a morning dream. 
 So eold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 
 'T was Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. 
 
 A SONQ rOR ST, CECILIA'S DAT, 1687, 
 I. 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
 This universal frame Ijegan. 
 When nature underneath a heap 
 
 Of jarring atoms lay. 
 And could not heave her head. 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 
 Arise, ye more than dead ! 
 Then eold and Iiot.and moist and dry 
 In order to their stations leap. 
 
 And Music's power obey. 
 From harmony, from heavenly harinony 
 This universal frame began : 
 From liarmony to harmony 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran. 
 The diapason closing full in Man. 
 
 II. 
 What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
 When Jubal struck tlie chortled shell. 
 His listening brethren stood around. 
 And, wondering, on their faces fell 
 To worship that celestial sound. 
 Less than a god they thought there could not dwell 
 Within the hollow of that shell. 
 That spoke so sweetly and so well : 
 Wliat passion cannot Music raise and quell ! 
 III. 
 The trumpet's loud clangor 
 
 Excites us to arms. 
 With shrill notes of anger. 
 
 And mortal alarms. 
 The double double double beat 
 Of the thundering drum 
 Cries, Hark ! the foes come ; 
 Charge, charge ! 't is too late to retreat. 
 
 The soft complaining flute 
 In dying notes discovers 
 The woes of hopeless lovers, 
 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbHng lute. 
 
#■ 
 
 258 
 
 DEYDEN. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 k 
 
 Shai-p violins proclaim 
 Their jealous paugs, and desperation, 
 Pury, frantic indignation, 
 Depth of pains, and liciglit of passion, 
 
 For the fair, disdainful dame. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But O, what art can teach. 
 
 What human voice can reach. 
 
 The sacred organ's praise ? 
 
 Notes inspiring holy love. 
 
 Notes that wing their heavenly ways- 
 To mend the choirs above. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
 And trees uprooted left their place, 
 
 Sequacious of the lyre : 
 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher ; 
 When to her organ vocal breath was given. 
 An angel heard, and straight appeared 
 
 Mistaking earth for heaven. 
 
 GRAND CHOKTJS. 
 
 As from the power of sacred lays 
 
 The splieres began to move. 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blessed above ; 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high. 
 The dead shall live, the living die. 
 And Music shall untune the sky. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST i OR TEE POWER OF 
 MUSIC. 1697. 
 
 I. 
 'T WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike sou : 
 
 Aloft in awful state 
 
 The godlike hero sate 
 On his imperial throne : 
 
 His valiant peers were placed around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound 
 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned). 
 The lovely Thais, by his side. 
 Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
 Li flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 
 None but the brave. 
 
 None but the brave. 
 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy paii- ! 
 
 None but the brave, 
 
 None but tlic brave, 
 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 Timothcus, placed fin high 
 Amid the tuneful choir. 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 
 WIio left his blissful seats above 
 (Such is the power of mighty love). 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed: 
 And while he sought her snowy breast : 
 Then, round her slender waist he curled, 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of 
 
 the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
 A present deity, they shout around : 
 A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound : 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god. 
 Affects to nod. 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears. 
 Assumes the god. 
 Affects to nod. 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 III. 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician 
 sung, 
 Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young ; 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
 Sound the trumpets; beat the drums; 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 He shows liis honest face : 
 Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he 
 comes ! 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
 Rich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 CHORUS. , 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is tlie soldier's pleasure : 
 
 Rich the treasure. 
 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 
 Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
 
 ^ 
 
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 ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OE MUSIC. 259 
 
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 fr 
 
 And thrice he routed all his foes ; and thrice he 
 slew the slain. 
 
 Tlie master saw the madness rise ; 
 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 .\nd, wliile he heaven and earth defied, 
 C^iiauged his hand, and cheeked his pride. 
 
 He chose a mournful muse. 
 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He sung Darius great and good, 
 
 By too severe a fate. 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, faUen, 
 Fallen from his high estate, 
 
 And weltering iu his blood; 
 Deserted, at his utmost need. 
 By those his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
 Willi not a friend to close his eyes. 
 ^V'itli downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 The various turns of chance below ; 
 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various turns of chance below ; 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 V. 
 
 The mighty master smiled, to see 
 That love was in the next degree : 
 'T was but a kindred soiuid to move, 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
 Honor, but an empty bubble ; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying: 
 
 If all the world be worth thy wimiini:;. 
 Think, O, think it worth enjoying ; 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Wlio caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again : 
 At lengtli, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 ClIOEUS. 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Wlio caused his care, 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed agaui : 
 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 Tlie vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 VI. 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bauds of sleep asunder. 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head : 
 As awaked from the dead, 
 And amazed, he stares around. 
 Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 
 See the Furies arise ; 
 See the snakes that they rear. 
 How they hiss in their hair. 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
 
 Behold a ghastly band. 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that iu battle were 
 slain, 
 And unburied remain 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the gallant crew. 
 Beiiold how they toss their torches on high. 
 How they point to the Persian abodes. 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
 The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 
 destroy ; 
 Thais led the way. 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 
 destroy ; 
 Tliais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey. 
 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thus, long ago. 
 Ere hea\'ing bellows learned to blow, 
 
 Wiiile organs yet were mute ; 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute. 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 luventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
 Enlarged the former nan-ow bounds. 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unkuown 
 before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 -s^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 260 
 
 DRYUEN. 
 
 ^ 
 
 GRAND CUOKUS. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventi'ess of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
 before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 
 Or both divide the crown; 
 lie raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 Slie drew an angel down. 
 
 PEOLOOUE TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 As, when a tree 's cut down, the secret root 
 Lives under ground, and thence new branches 
 
 shoot ; 
 So from old Shakespeare's honored dust, this day 
 Springs up and buds a new reviving play : 
 Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did firstimpart 
 To I'letcher wit, to laboring Jonson art. 
 He, monarch-like, gave tliose, his subjects, law; 
 And is that nature which they paint and draw. 
 Fletcher reached that which on his heights did 
 
 grow, 
 While Jonson crept, and gathered all below. 
 This did his love, and this his mirth digest : 
 One imitates him most, the other best. 
 If they have since outwrit all other men, 
 'T is with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's 
 
 pen. 
 The storm, which vanished on the neighboring 
 
 shore. 
 Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to roar. 
 That innocence and beauty, which did smile 
 In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. 
 But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be ; 
 Witliiu that circle none durst walk but he. 
 I must conl'ess 't was bold, nor would you now 
 That liberty to vulgar wits allow. 
 Which works by magic supernatural things : 
 But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's. 
 
 VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS. 
 
 PAKAPHK.ISEU. 
 
 Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
 The world's foundations fii-st were laid. 
 Come visit every pious mind ; 
 Come pour thy joys on humankind ; 
 From sin and stuTow set us free, 
 And make thy temples worthy thee. 
 
 O so\irce of uncreated light, 
 The Fatlicr's promised Paraclete ! 
 Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
 Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; 
 
 Come, and thy sacred unction briug 
 To sanctify us, while we sing. 
 
 Plenteous of grace, descend from high. 
 Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 
 Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 
 Wiosc power does heaven and earth command. 
 Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 
 Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 
 And crown'st thy gift with eloqiu'ucc ! 
 
 Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
 But, 0, inflame and fire our hearts ! 
 Our frailties help, our vice control, 
 Submit the senses to the soul ; 
 And when rebellious tliey are grown, 
 Then lay thy liand, and hold 'em down. 
 
 Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
 And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
 And lest our feet should step astray. 
 Protect and guide us in the way. 
 
 Make us eternal truths receive, 
 And practise all that we believe : 
 Give us thyself, that we may see 
 The Father, and the Sou, by thee. 
 
 Immortal honor, endless fame. 
 Attend the Almighty Father's name : 
 The Saviour Son be glorified, 
 Who for lost man's redemption died ; 
 And equal adoration be. 
 Eternal Paraclete, to thee. 
 
 THE POWER OF LOVE. 
 
 Nor love is always of a vicious kind. 
 But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind. 
 Awakes the sleepy vigor of the soul, 
 And, brushing o'er, adds motion to the ])ool. 
 Love, studious how to please, improves our ])arts 
 With polished manners, and adorns with arts. 
 Love first invented verse, and foi-nied the rhyme, 
 The motion measured, harmonized the chime ; 
 To liberal acts enlarged the narrow-souled. 
 Softened the fierce, and made the coward bold : 
 The world, when waste, he ])eo])led with increase. 
 And warring nations reconciled in peace. 
 Ormond, the first, and all the fair may find, 
 In this ouc legend, to their fame designed, 
 When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the 
 mind. 
 
 lu that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court, 
 And every grace, and all the loves, resort ; 
 ^Vherc either sex is formed of softer earth. 
 And takes tlie bent of plcas\ire from their birth ; 
 There lived a Cyprian lord above the rest 
 Wise, wealthy, with a ntimcrous issue blessed ; 
 But as no gift of fortune is sincere, 
 Was only wanting in a worthy heir : 
 His eldest born, a goodly youth to view. 
 
 ^- 
 
 ^ 
 
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 THE POWER OF LOVE. 
 
 261 
 
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 ^ 
 
 Excelled the rest iu shape, and outward show, 
 Fair, tali, his limbs with due proportion joined, 
 But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind. 
 His soul belied the features of his face ; 
 Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace. 
 A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound. 
 And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground. 
 He looked like nature's error, as the mind 
 And body were not of a piece designed. 
 But made for two, and by mistake iu one were 
 
 joined. 
 The ruling rod, the father's forming care, 
 Were exercised in vain on wit's des]}air ; 
 The more informed, the less he understood. 
 And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud. 
 Now scorned of all, and grown the public shame. 
 The people I'roiu Galesus changed his name. 
 And Cynion called, wliich signifies a brute; 
 So well his name did with his nature suit. 
 
 His father, when he found his laljor lost. 
 And care employed, that answered not the cost. 
 Chose an ungrateful object to remove. 
 And loathed to see what nature made liim love ; 
 So to his country farm the fool confined ; 
 Kude work well suited with a rustic mind. 
 Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went, 
 A squire among the swains, and pleased with 
 
 banishment. 
 His corn and cattle were his only care. 
 And his su])reme delight, a country fair. 
 
 It happened on a summer's holiday. 
 That to the greenwood shade he took his way ; 
 For Cymon shunned the church, and used not 
 
 much to pray. 
 His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake, 
 Hung half before, and half behind his back. 
 He trudged aloug, unknowing what he sought, 
 And whistled as he went, for want of thouglit. 
 
 By chance conducted, or by thirst constrained. 
 The deep recesses of the grove he gained ; 
 Whore in a plain defended by the wood, 
 Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood. 
 By whicli an alaljaster fountain stood : 
 And on the margin of the fount was laid 
 (Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid. 
 Like Diau and her nymphs, when, tired with 
 
 sport. 
 To rest by cool Eurotas they resort : 
 The dame herself the goddess well expressed. 
 Not more distinguished by her purple vest 
 Than by the charming features of her face. 
 And, e'en in slumber, a superior grace : 
 Her comely limbs composed with decent care. 
 Her body shaded with a slight cymar ; 
 Her bosom to the view was only bare : 
 AVhere two beginning paps were scarcely spied. 
 For yet their places were but signified : 
 The fanning wind upon her bosom blows. 
 
 To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose ; 
 The fanning wind and purling streams continue 
 her repose. 
 Tlie fool of nature stood with stupid eyes, 
 And gajung mouth, that testified surprise. 
 Fixed on her face, nor could remove his sight. 
 New as he was to love, and novice to deliglit : 
 Long mute he stood, and leaning on his staff. 
 His wonder witnessed with an idiot laugh ; 
 Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering 
 
 sense 
 First found his want of words, and feared offence : 
 Doubted for what he was ho should be known. 
 By his clown accent and his country tone. 
 Through the rude cliaos tlius the running light 
 Siiot the first ray that iiierced the native night: 
 Then day and darkness in the mjiss were mixed. 
 Till gathered in a globe the beams were fixed : 
 Last shone the sun, wlio, radiant in his spliere. 
 Illumined heaven and earth, and rolled around 
 
 the year. 
 So reason in his brutal soul began. 
 Love made him first suspect he was a man ; 
 Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound; 
 By love his want of words and wit he found ; 
 That sense of want prepared tlie future way 
 To knowledge, and disclosed the promise of a day. 
 
 What not his father's care, nor tutor's art. 
 Could plant with pains iu his unpolished heart. 
 The best instructor. Love, at once inspired. 
 As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired : 
 Love taught him shame, and shame, with love at 
 
 strife. 
 Soon taught the sweet eivihties of life ; 
 His gross nuiterial soul at once could find 
 Somewhat in her excelling all her kind : 
 Exciting a desire till then unknown, 
 Somewhat unfound, or found iu her alone. 
 This made the first impression on his muid. 
 Above, but just above, the brutal kind. 
 For beast can like, but not distinguish too. 
 Nor their own liking by reflection know ; 
 Nor why they like or this, or t 'other face, 
 Or judge of this or tliat peculiar grace ; 
 But love in gross, and stupidly admire : 
 As flies, allured by light, approach the fire. 
 Thus our man-beast, advancing by degrees. 
 First likes the whole, then separates what he sees ; 
 On several parts a several praise bestows, 
 The ruby lips, the well-proportioned nose. 
 The snowy skin, and raven-glossy hair. 
 The dimpled cheek, and forehead rising fair, 
 And e'en in sleep itself, a smiling air. 
 From thence his eyes descending viewed the rest. 
 Her plump round arms, white liauds, and heav- 
 ing breast. 
 Long on tlie last he dwelt, through every part 
 A pointed arrow sped to pierce his heart. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 262 
 
 DllYDEN. 
 
 ^ 
 
 k 
 
 Thus in a trice a judge of beauty grown 
 (A judge erected from a country clown), 
 He longed to see her eyes, in slumber liid, 
 And wislied his own could pierce within the lid : 
 He would have waked her, but restrained his 
 
 thought, 
 And love now-born the first good manners taught. 
 An awful fear his ardent wish withstood. 
 Nor durst disturb the goddess of the wood. 
 For such she seemed by her celestial face, 
 ExcelUug aU the rest of human race : 
 And things divine, by common sense he knew, 
 Must be devoutly seen, at distant view : 
 So checking liis desire, with trembling heart 
 Gazing he stood, nor would, nor could depart ; 
 Fixed as a pilgrim wildered in his way, 
 Who dares not stir by night, for fear to stray. 
 But stands with awful eyes to watch the dawn of 
 
 day. 
 At length awaking, Ipliigene the fair 
 (So was the beauty called, who caused liis care) 
 Unclosed her eyes, and double day revealed. 
 While those of all her slaves in sleep were 
 
 sealed. 
 The slavering cudden, propped upon liis staff. 
 Stood ready gaping with a grinning laugh. 
 To welcome her awake, nor durst begin 
 To speak, but wisely kept the fool witiiin. 
 Then she: "What makes you,' Cymon, here 
 
 alone " ? 
 (For Cymon's name was round the country known. 
 Because descended of a noble race, 
 And for a soul ill sorted with his face.) 
 
 But still the sot stood silent witli surprise. 
 With fixed regard on her new-opened eyes, 
 And in his breast received the envenomed dart, 
 A tickling pain that pleased amid the smart. 
 But conscious of her form, with quick distrust 
 She saw his sparkling eyes, and feared his brutal 
 
 lust. 
 This to prevent, she waked her sleepy crew, 
 And rising hasty, took a short adieu. 
 
 Then Cymon first his rustic voice essayed, 
 With proffered service to the parting maid 
 To see her safe ; his hand she long denied, 
 But took at length, ashamed of such a guide. 
 So Cymon led her home, and leaving there. 
 No more would to his country clowns repair, 
 But sought his father's house, with better mind, 
 Refusing in the farm to be confined. 
 
 Tiie father wondered at the son's return, 
 And knew not whether to rejoice or mouni ; 
 But doubtfully received, expecting still 
 To learn the secret causes of his altered will. 
 Nor was he long delayed : the first rcqiiest 
 He made, was like his brothers to be dressed, 
 .\nd, as his birth required, above the rest. 
 With ease his suit was granted by his sire. 
 
 Distinguishing his heir by rich attire : 
 His body thus adorned, he next designed 
 With hberal arts to cultivate his mind ; 
 He sought a tutor of his own accord. 
 And studied lessons he before abhoiTed. 
 
 Thus the man-child advanced, and learned so 
 
 fast, 
 That in short time his equals he surpassed -. 
 His brutal manners from his breast exiled. 
 His mien he fashioned, and his tongue he filed ; 
 In every exercise of all admired. 
 He seemed, nor only seemed, but was inspired : 
 Inspired by love, whose business is to please ; 
 He rode, he fenced, he moved with graceful ease, 
 More famed for sense, for courtly carriage more. 
 Than for his brutal folly known before. 
 
 What then of altered Cymon shall we say, 
 But that the fire which choked in ashes lay, 
 A load too heavy for his soul to move. 
 Was upward blown below, and brushed away by 
 
 love. 
 Love made an active progress through his mind, 
 The dusky parts he cleared, the gross refined, 
 The drowsy waked ; and, as he went, impressed 
 The Maker's image on the human breast. 
 Thus was the man amended by desire, 
 And though he loved perhaps with too much fire. 
 His father all his faults with reason scanned. 
 And liked an error of the better hand ; 
 Excused the excess of passion in his mind. 
 By flames too fierce, perhaps too much refined : 
 So Cymon, siuce his sire indulged his will. 
 Impetuous loved, and would be Cymon still ; 
 Galesus he disowned, and chose to bear 
 The name of fool, confirmed and bishoped by 
 
 the fair. 
 
 Ci/mon and Iphigenia. 
 
 THE SEA-nOHT. 
 
 Who ever saw a noble sight. 
 
 That never viewed a brave sea-fight ! 
 
 Hang up your bloody colors in the air, 
 
 Up with your lights, and your nettings prepare ; 
 
 Your merry mates cheer with a lusty bold spright, 
 
 Now each man his brindioe, and then to the fight. 
 
 St. George ! St. George ! we cry, 
 
 The shouting Turks reply. 
 
 O, now it begins, and the gun-room grows liot, 
 
 Ply it with cidverin and with small shot ; 
 
 Hark, does it not thunder ? no, 't is the guns' 
 
 roar. 
 The neighboring billows are turned into gore ; 
 Now each man must resolve to die. 
 For here the coward cannot fly. 
 Drums and trumpets toll the kneU, 
 Ami culverius the passing bell. 
 Now, now they grapple, and now board amain ; 
 
 -^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 FEAR OF DEATH. 
 
 2G3 
 
 -Q) 
 
 h 
 
 Blow up the hatches, they 're off all again : 
 Give tliem a broadside, the dice run at all, 
 Down comes the mast, and yard and tackliugs 
 
 fall ; 
 She grows giddy now, like blind Fortune's wheel, 
 She sinks there, she sinks, she turns up her keel. 
 Wlio ever beheld so noble a sight 
 As this so brave, so bloody sea-fight ! 
 
 Amhoyna. 
 
 LOVE AND FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 That friendship which from withered love doth 
 
 siioot. 
 Like the faint herbage on a rock, wants root ; 
 Love is a tender amity, refined : 
 Grafted on friendsiiip, it exalts the mind ; 
 But when the gralf no longer does remain, 
 The dull stock lives, but never bears again. 
 
 Conquest of Granada, Part II. 
 
 rORTUNE, 
 
 Fortune, that with malicious joy 
 
 Does man, her slave, oppress, 
 Proud of her office to destroy, 
 Is seldom pleased to bless : 
 Still various, and inconstant still. 
 But with an inclination to be ill. 
 
 Promotes, degrades, delights in strife. 
 And makes a lottery of life. 
 I can enjoy her while she 's kind ; 
 But when she dances in the wind. 
 
 And shakes her wings, and will not stay, 
 I puff the prostitute away : 
 Tiie little or the much she gave is quietly I'esigned : 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
 And virtue, tliough in rags, will keep me 
 ■warm. 
 
 Translation from Horace. 
 
 LOVE AND BEAUTT. 
 
 A CHANGE so swift what heart did ever feel ! 
 It rushed upon me like a mighty stream. 
 And bore me in a moment far from shore. 
 I 've loved away myself; in one short hour 
 Already am I gone an age of passion. 
 Was it his youth, his valor, or success ? 
 These might, perliaps, be fomid in other men. 
 'T was tiiat respect, that awful homage paid me ; 
 That fearful love wliich trembled in his eyes. 
 And with a silent earthquake shook his soul. 
 But when he spoke, what tender words he said ! 
 So softly that, like flakes of feathered snow, 
 They melted as they fell. 
 
 The Spanish Friar. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love is that madness which all lovers have; 
 But yet 't is sweet and pleasing so to rave. 
 'T is an enchantment, where the reason 's bound ; 
 But Paradise is in the enchanted ground. 
 A palace void of envy, cares, and strife ; 
 Where gentle hours delude so much of life. 
 To take those charms away, and set me free. 
 Is but to send me into misery. 
 And prudence, of whose cui-e so much you boast. 
 Restores those pains which that sweet folly lost. 
 Conquest of Granada, Part II. 
 
 HOMEK, DANTE, AND MILTON, 
 
 Theee poets, in three distant ages bom, 
 Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpassed. 
 The next in majesty ; in both the last. 
 The force of nature coidd no further go ; 
 To make a third, she joined the other two. 
 
 LOVE IN GENTLE AND PASSIONATE NATURES. 
 
 Love various minds does variously inspire : 
 He stirs in gentle natures gentle fire, 
 Like that of incense on the altars laid ; 
 But raging flames tempestuous souls invade. 
 A fire which every windy passion blows; 
 With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows. 
 
 Tyrannic Love. 
 
 SAVAGE FREEDOM. 
 
 No man has more contempt than I of breath ; 
 But whence hast thou the right to give me death ? 
 I am as free as Nature first made man. 
 Ere the base laws of servitude began, 
 When wild in woods the noble savage ran. 
 
 Conquest of Granada, Part I. 
 
 FEAR OF DEATH, 
 
 As some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore, 
 First views the torrent he would venture o'er, 
 And then his inn upon the farther ground. 
 Loath to wade through, and loather to go round : 
 Then dipping in his staff', does trial make 
 How deep it is, and, sighing, pulls it back : 
 Sometimes resolved to fetch liis leap ; and then 
 Runs to the bank, but there stops short again ; 
 So I at onee 
 
 Both lieavenly faith and human fear obey ; 
 And feel before me in an unknown way. 
 For this blest voyage I with joy prepare, 
 Yet am ashamed to be a stranger there. 
 
 Tyratinic Love. 
 
 -e> 
 
a- 
 
 264 
 
 PHILIPS. — ROSCOMMON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 REASON AND BELIQION, 
 
 Dim as the boiTowed beams of moon and stars 
 To lonely, weary, wandei-ing travellers, 
 Is Reason to the soul ; and as on high 
 Those rolling fires diseovcr but the sky. 
 Not light us here ; so Reason's glimmering ray 
 Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way. 
 But guide us upward to a better day. 
 And as those nightly tapers disappear. 
 When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere ; 
 So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight ; 
 So dies, and so dissolves, in supernatural light. 
 
 Religio Laid. 
 
 MEN AND CHILDREN. 
 
 Men are but children of a larger growth ; 
 Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, 
 And full as craving too, and fuU as vain ; 
 And yet the soul shut up in her dark room. 
 Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees notiiing ; 
 But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, 
 Works all her folly up, and casts it outward 
 To the world's open view. 
 
 All for Lone. 
 
 ANTONY'S REMORSE FOR HIS MISUSED LIFE. 
 
 But I have lost my reason, have disgraced 
 Tiie name of soldier with inglorious ease ; 
 lu the full vintage of my flowing honors 
 Sat still, and saw it pressed by other hands. 
 Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it. 
 And purple greatness met my ripened years. 
 When first I came to empire, I was borne 
 On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs. 
 The wish of nations, and the willing world, 
 Received me as its pledge of future peace. 
 I was so great, so happy, so beloved. 
 Fate could not ruin me ; till I took pains, 
 And worked against my fortune, chid her from 
 
 me, 
 And turned her loose : yet still she came again. 
 My careless days and my luxurious nights 
 At length iiave wearied her, aud now she 's gone ; 
 Gone, gone, divorced forever. Help me, soldier. 
 To curse this madman, this industrious fool. 
 Who labored to be wretched. Prithee curse me. 
 
 All for Lone. 
 
 KATIIERINE PHILIPS. 
 
 1631-1664. 
 
 A FRIEND, 
 
 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul. 
 The being and the harmony of things, 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 Doth still preserve and propagate the whole. 
 From whence man's happiness and safety 
 springs : 
 The earliest, whitest, blesscd'st times did draw 
 From her alone their universal law. 
 
 Friendsliip 's an abstract of this noble flame, 
 'T is love refined aud purged from all its 
 dross, 
 The next to angel's love, if not the same. 
 
 As strong in passion is, though not so gross : 
 It antedates a glad eteniity. 
 Arid is an heaven in epitome. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Essential honor must be in a friend. 
 
 Not such as every breath fans to and fro ; 
 But born within, is its own judge and end. 
 And dares not sin though sure that none 
 should know. 
 Where friendship 's spoke, honesty 's under- 
 stood ; 
 For none cau be a friend that is not good. 
 
 ^ * ^ 
 
 Thick waters show no images of things ; 
 
 Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be 
 Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, 
 
 Aud free from clouds, design, or flattery. 
 For vulgar souls no part of friendship share ; 
 Poets and friends are born to what thev are. 
 
 WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF 
 ROSCOMMON. 
 
 1633 (!) - 1684. 
 
 THE MODEST MUSE. 
 
 Immodest words admit of no defence. 
 For want of decency is want of sense. 
 AVhat moderate fop would rake the park or 
 
 stews, 
 Who among troops of faultless nymphs may 
 
 choose ? 
 Variety of such, then, is to be found ; 
 Take then a subject proper to expound, 
 But moi'al, great, and worth a poet's voice. 
 For men of sense despise a trivial choice ; 
 Aud such applause it nuist expect to meet. 
 As would some painter busy in a street 
 To copy bulls and l)ears, and every sign 
 That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. 
 
 Yet 't is not all to have a subject good ; 
 It must delight us when 't is understood. 
 He that brings fulsome objects to my view 
 (As many old have done, and many new). 
 With nauseous images my fancy fills, 
 
 '- g> 
 
f 
 
 ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 2(3r> 
 
 And all goes down like oxymel of squills. 
 Instruct the listeuing world how Maro sings 
 Of useful subjects and of lofty things. 
 Tliese will such true, such bright ideas raise, 
 As merit gratitude as well as praise. 
 But foul descriptions are offensive still, 
 Either for being like or being iU. 
 For who without a qualm hath ever looked 
 On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? 
 Whose railing heroes and whose wounded gods 
 Make some suspect he snores as well as nods. 
 But I offend — Virgil begins to frown. 
 And Horace looks with indignation down : 
 My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, 
 And whom tlicy like implicitly admires. 
 
 POETIC INSPIRATION. 
 
 I PITY, from my soul, unhappy men. 
 Compelled by want to prostitute the pen ; 
 Wlio must, like lawyers, either starve or plead. 
 And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead ! 
 But you, Pompilian, wealthy pampered heirs. 
 Who to your country owe your swords and 
 
 cares, 
 Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce. 
 For rich ill poets are without excuse. 
 'T is very dangerous tampering with the Muse, 
 The profit 's small, and you have much to lose, 
 For thougli true wit adorns your birth or place. 
 Degenerate Imes degrade the attainted race. 
 
 No poet any passion can excite. 
 But what they feel transport them when they 
 
 write. 
 Have you been led tlirough the Cumsean cave. 
 And heard the impatient maid divinely rave ? 
 I hear her now ; I see her rolling eyes ; 
 And panting, "Lo, the god, the god ! " she cries : 
 With words not hers, and more than human 
 
 sound. 
 She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling 
 
 through the ground. 
 But thougli we must obey when Heaven com- 
 mands. 
 And man in vain the sacred call withstands, 
 Beware wliat spirit rages in your breast : 
 For ten inspired, ten thousand are possessed : 
 Thus make tlie proper use of each extreme, 
 Aud write with fury, but correct with phelgm. 
 As when the cheerful hours too freely pass. 
 And sparkling wine smiles in the templing glass. 
 Your pulse advises, and begins to beat 
 Throngli every swelling vein a loud retreat : 
 So when a Muse propitiously invites. 
 Improve her favors, and indulge her flights ; 
 But when you find that vigorous heat abate, 
 Leave off, and for another summons wait. 
 
 ^g-- 
 
 THE QUACK DOCTOR. 
 
 But what a thoughtless animal is man ! 
 (How very active in his own trepan !) 
 i'or, greedy of physicians' frequent fees. 
 From female mellow praise he takes degrees ; 
 Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then 
 From saving women falls to kilUng men. 
 Another such had left the nation thin. 
 In spite of all the children he brought in. 
 His pills as tliiek as hand greuadoes flew, 
 Aud where they fell, as certainly they slew. 
 
 ON THE DAT OF JTJDOMENT. 
 
 VEllSION or THE DIES IK.K. 
 
 Tii.vT day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 Shall the whole world in ashes lay, 
 As David and the Sibyls say. 
 
 What horror will invade the mind, 
 
 Wiien the strict Judge, who would be kind. 
 
 Shall have few venial faults to find ! 
 
 The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound 
 Shall through the rending tombs rebound, 
 And wake tlie nations under ground. 
 
 Nature and Death shall, with surprise. 
 
 Behold the pale offender rise. 
 
 And view the Judge with conscious eyes. 
 
 Then shall, with universal dread, 
 The sacred mystic book be read. 
 To try tlie living aud the dead. 
 
 The Judge ascends his awful throne ; 
 He makes each secret sin be known. 
 And all with shame confess their own. 
 
 O then, what interest shall I make 
 
 To save my last important stake, 
 
 Wlien the most just have cause to quake ? 
 
 Thou mighty formidable King, 
 Thou mercy's unexhausted spring, 
 Some comfortable pity bring ! 
 
 Forget not what my ransom cost. 
 Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost 
 In storms of guilty teiTor tost. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Prostrate my contrite heart I rend. 
 My God. my Father, aud my Friend, 
 Do not forsake me in my end ! 
 
 Well may they curse their second breath. 
 Who rise to a renving death. 
 Thou great Creator of mankind. 
 Let guilty man compassion find ! 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 366 
 
 DORSET. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF 
 DORSET. 
 
 1637-1706. 
 
 TO ALL TOTJ LADIES NOW AT LAND. 
 
 To all you ladies now at land, 
 
 We men at sea indite ; 
 But first would have you understand 
 
 How hard it is to write : 
 The Muses now, and Neptune too, 
 We must implore to write to you, 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 For though the Muses should prove kind. 
 
 And lill our empty brain ; 
 Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind. 
 
 To wave the azure main. 
 Our paper, pen, and ink, and we. 
 Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 Then if we write not by each post. 
 
 Think not we are unkind ; 
 Nor yet conclude our ships are lost. 
 
 By Dutchmen, or by wind : 
 Our tears we '11 send a speedier way. 
 The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 The king, with wonder and surprise. 
 
 Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
 Because the tides will higlier rise 
 
 Than e'er they used of old : 
 But let him know, it is our tears 
 Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. 
 Witli a fa, etc. 
 
 Should foggy Opdam chance to know 
 
 Our sad and dismal story ; 
 The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. 
 
 And quit tiieir fort at Gorec : 
 For what resistance can they find 
 From men who 've left their hearts behind ? 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 Let wind and weather do its worst. 
 
 Be you to us but kind ; 
 Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse. 
 
 No sorrow wc shall find : 
 'T is then no matter how things go, 
 Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 To pass our tedious iiours away, 
 
 Wc throw a merry main ; 
 Or else at serious ombre play ; 
 
 But why shoidd we in vain 
 
 Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
 We were undone when we left you. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 But now our fears tempestuous grow. 
 
 And cast our hopes away : 
 Whilst you, regardless of our woe. 
 
 Sit careless at a play -. 
 Perhaps permit some happier man 
 To kiss your hand or flirt your fan. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 When any mournful tune you hear, 
 
 That dies in every note ; 
 As if it sighed with each man's care, 
 
 For being so remote ; 
 Think how often love we 've made 
 To you, when all those tunes were played. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 In justice you cannot refuse 
 
 To thitdc of our distress. 
 When we for hopes of honor lose 
 
 Our certain happiness ; 
 AU those designs are but to prove 
 Ourselves more worthy of your love. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 And now we 've told you all our loves, 
 
 And likewise all our fears. 
 In hopes this declaration moves 
 
 Some pity from your tears; 
 Let 's hear of no inconstancy. 
 We have too much of that at sea. 
 With a fa, etc. 
 
 SATIKE ON EDWAED HOWAED. 
 
 They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren. 
 When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in 
 
 carrion. 
 Thy stumbling foundered jade can trot as high 
 As any other Pegasus can fly; 
 So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud 
 Than all the swift-fiuncd racers of the flood. 
 As skilful divers to the bottom fall 
 Sooner than those who cannot swim at all, 
 So in this way of writing, without liiiukiug, 
 Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking. 
 
 DOKINDA'S SPARKLINQ WIT AND EYES. 
 
 Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes. 
 United, cast too fierce a liglit, 
 
 Which blazes high, but quickly dies ; 
 Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. 
 
 V> 
 
&■ 
 
 TO A VEEY YOUNG LADY. — CONSTANCY. 
 
 207 [ 
 
 Love is a calmer, gentler joy ; 
 
 Smooth are his looks, and soft liis pace ; 
 Her Cupid is a blackguard boy. 
 
 That runs his link full in your face. 
 
 SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 
 
 1639P)-1701. 
 
 TO A VEEY YOTJNG LABT, 
 
 All, Chloris ! that I now could sit 
 
 As unconcerned as when 
 Your iufant beauty could beget 
 
 No pleasure, nor no pain. 
 
 When I the dawn used to admire. 
 And praised the coming day, 
 
 I little thought the growing fire 
 Must take my rest away. 
 
 Your charms in harmless childhood lay. 
 
 Like metals in the mine ; 
 Age from no face took more away. 
 
 Than youth concealed in thine. 
 
 But as your charms insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest, 
 Fond Love as unperceived did fly, 
 
 And iu my bosom rest. 
 
 My passion with your beauty grew, 
 
 And Cupid at my heart. 
 Still as his mother favored you. 
 
 Threw a new flaming dart. 
 
 Each gloried in their wanton part : 
 
 To make a lover, he 
 Employed the utmost of his art ; 
 
 To make a Beauty, she. 
 
 Though now I slowly bend to love 
 
 Uncertain of my fate, 
 If your fair self my chains approve, 
 
 I shall my freedom hate. 
 
 Lovers, like dying men, may well 
 
 At first disordered be. 
 Since none alive can truly tell 
 
 What fortune they must see. 
 
 LOVE STILL HAS SOMETHINa OF THE SEA, 
 
 Love still has something of the sea, 
 From whence his mother rose ; 
 
 No time his slaves from doubt can free. 
 Nor give their thoughts repose. 
 
 L 
 
 They are becalmed in clearest days. 
 And in rough weather tossed ; 
 
 They wither under cold delays, 
 Or are in tempests lost. 
 
 One while they seem to touch the port. 
 Then straight into the main 
 
 Some angry wind, in cruel sport. 
 The vessel drives again. 
 
 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, 
 Which if they chance to 'scape, 
 
 Rivals and Falsehood soon appear. 
 In a more cruel shape. 
 
 By such degrees to joy they come, 
 Aud are so long withstood ; 
 
 So slowly they receive the sun. 
 It hardly does them good. 
 
 'T is cruel to prolong a pain ; 
 
 And to defer a joy. 
 Believe me, gentle Celemene, 
 
 Offends the winged boy. 
 
 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, 
 Perliaps, would not remove ; 
 
 And if I gazed a thousand years, 
 I coiild not deeper love. 
 
 SONG. 
 Not, Celia, that I juster am 
 
 Or better than the rest ; 
 For I would change each hour, like them. 
 
 Were not my heart at rest. 
 
 But I am tied to very thee 
 
 By every thought I have ; 
 Thy face I only care to see. 
 
 Thy heart I only crave. 
 
 All that in woman is adored 
 
 In thy dear self I find, — 
 For the whole sex can but afford 
 
 The handsome and the kind. 
 
 Wliy then should I seek further store. 
 
 And still make love anew ? 
 When change itself can give uo more, 
 
 'T is easy to be true. 
 
 JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF 
 ROCHESTER. 
 
 1647-1680. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 I CANNOT change as others do. 
 
 Though you unjustly scorn ; 
 Since that poor swain that sighs for you 
 
 For you alone was bom. 
 
 ^ 
 
(£t 
 
 208 
 
 BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 ■fi5 
 
 fr- 
 
 No, Phillis, no ; your lieart to move 
 
 A surer way I '11 try ; 
 And, to revenge my slighted love, 
 
 Will still love on, will still love on, and die. 
 
 "When killed with grief Amyntas lies. 
 
 And you to mind shall call 
 The sighs that now unpitied rise, 
 
 Tiie tears tliat vainly fall ; 
 That welcome hour that ends this smart 
 
 Will then begin your pain, 
 Tor sueh a faithful tender lieart 
 
 Can never break, can never break in vain. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Too late, alas ! I must confess, 
 You need not arts to move me ; 
 
 Such charms by nature you possess, 
 'T were madness not to love ye. 
 
 Then spare a heart you may surprise. 
 And give my tongue the glory 
 
 To boast, though my unfaithful eyes 
 Betray a tender story. 
 
 My dear mistress has a heart 
 
 Soft as tliose kind looks she gave me. 
 When, with love's resistless art. 
 
 And her eyes, she did enslave me. 
 But her constancy 's so weak. 
 
 She 's so wild and apt to wander, 
 That my jealous heart woidd break. 
 
 Should we live one day asunder. 
 
 Melting joys about her move. 
 
 Killing pleasures, wounding blisses ; 
 She can dress her eyes in love. 
 
 And her lips can warm with kisses. 
 Angels listen when she speaks ; 
 
 She 's my delight, all mankind's wonder; 
 But my jealous lieart would break. 
 
 Should we live one day asunder. 
 
 While on those lovely looks I gaze, 
 
 To see a wretch pursuing. 
 In raptures of a blessed amaze, 
 
 His pleasing happy ruin; 
 'T is not for pity that I move ; 
 
 His fate is too aspiring, 
 Whose heart, broke with a load of love, 
 
 Dies wishing and admiring. 
 
 But if this murder you 'd forego, 
 Your slave from death removing. 
 
 Let me your art of charming know, 
 Or learn vou mine of loving. 
 
 B\it whether life or death betide, 
 In love 't is equal measure ; 
 
 The victor lives with empty pride, 
 Tlie vanquished die with pleasure. 
 
 JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF 
 BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. 
 
 1649-1781. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Of all those arts in which tlie wise excel. 
 Nature's chief masterpiece is writiug well ; 
 No writing lifts exalted man so high 
 As sacred and soul-mo\'ing poesy : 
 No kind of work requires so nice a touch. 
 And, if well finished, notliiug shines so much . 
 But Heaven forbid we should be so profane 
 To grace the vulgar with that noble name. 
 'T is not a flash of fancy, which, sometimes 
 Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes ; 
 Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done : 
 True wit is everlasting like the sun, 
 Wliich, tliough sometimes behind a cloud retired. 
 Breaks out again, and is by all admired. 
 Number and rhyme, and tliat harmonious sound 
 Wiiieii not the nicest ear with harshness wound. 
 Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts ; 
 And all in vain these superficial parts 
 Contribute to the structure of the whole ; 
 Without a genius, too, for that 's the soul : 
 A spirit wliieh inspires the work throughout, 
 As that of nature moves the world about; 
 A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit. 
 Even something of divine, and more than wit ; 
 Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown. 
 Describing all men, hut described by none. 
 Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the 
 
 brain 
 Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ? 
 When I at vacant hours in vain thy absence 
 
 mourn, 
 O, where dost thou retire ? and why dost thou 
 
 return. 
 Sometimes with powerful charms, to hurry me 
 
 away 
 From pleasures of the night and business of t!ie 
 
 day ? 
 Even now too far transported, T am fain 
 To check thy course, and use the needful rein. 
 As all is dulncss when the fancy 's bad, 
 So withcmt judiinu'ut fancy is but mad : 
 And judgment has a boundless influence. 
 Not only in the elioice of words or sense. 
 But on tlie world, on manners, and on men: 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 DESCRIPTION OP MORNING. 
 
 269 
 
 ■fo 
 
 Fancy is but the feather of the pen ; 
 
 Reason is tliat substantial useful part 
 
 Wliich gains the head, while t' other wins the 
 
 ''^^'''- Sssai/ on Poetri/. 
 
 THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 1651-1685. 
 
 BELVIDERA AND JAFFIEE. 
 Enter Beivideka. 
 
 Belvidera. My lord, my love, my refuge ! 
 Happy my eyes when they behold thy face ! 
 ^ly heavy heart will leave its doleful beating 
 At sight of thee, and bound with sprightly joys. 
 0, smile, as when our loves were in their spring, 
 And cheer my fainting soul ! 
 
 Jaffier. As when our loves 
 
 Were in their spring ! Has, then, my fortune 
 
 changed tliee ? 
 Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same. 
 Kind, good, and tender, as my arms lirst found 
 
 thee ? 
 If thou art altered, where shall I have harbor ? 
 Where ease my loaded heart ? 0, where com- 
 plain ? 
 
 Bel. Does this appear like change, or love 
 decaying, 
 When thus I tlirow myself into thy bosom. 
 With all the resolution of strong truth ? 
 I joy more in thee 
 
 Than did thy mother, when she hugged thee first, 
 And blessed the gods for all her travail past. 
 
 Jaf. Can there iu woman be sucli glorious 
 faith ? 
 Sure, all ill stories of thy sex are false ! 
 O woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee 
 To temper man : we had been brutes without you ! 
 Angels are painted fair, to look Uke you : 
 There 's in you all that we behave of Heaven ; 
 Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, 
 Eternal joy, and everlasting love ! 
 
 Bel. If love be treasure, we 'U be wondrous 
 rich ; 
 O, lead me to some desert, wide and wild, 
 Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul 
 May have its vent, where I may tell aloud 
 To the higli heavens, and every listening planet. 
 With wliat a boundless stock my bosom 's fraught. 
 
 Jaf. O Belvidera ! doubly I 'ni a beggar : 
 Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee. 
 Want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend, 
 Is at my heels, and chases me iu view. 
 Canst thou bear cold and hunger ? Can these 
 
 limbs. 
 Framed for the tender offices of love. 
 
 U 
 
 Endure the bitter gripes of smai-ting poverty? 
 
 When banished by our miseries abroad 
 
 (As suddenly we shall be), to seek out 
 
 Iu some far climate, where our names are 
 
 strangers, 
 For charitable succor, wilt thou then. 
 When in a bed of straw we shrink together, 
 And the bleak winds shall whistle round our 
 
 heads. 
 Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt thou then 
 Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? 
 Bel. O, I wUl love, even in madness love thee ! 
 Though my distracted senses should forsake me, 
 I 'd find some intervals when my poor heart 
 Should 'suage itself, and be let loose to thine. 
 Though the bare earth be all our resting-place. 
 Its roots our food, some cliff our habitation, 
 I '11 make this arm a pillow for thine head ; 
 And, as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sor- 
 row. 
 Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love 
 Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest ; 
 Then praise our God, and watch thee till the 
 morning. 
 Jaj. Hear this, you heavens, and wonder how 
 you made her ! 
 Reign, reign, ye monarchs, that divide the world ; 
 Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know 
 Tranquillity and happiness like mine ; 
 Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall. 
 And rise again, to lift you in your pride ; 
 They wait but for a storm, and then devour you ! 
 I, in my private bark already wrecked. 
 Like a poor merchant, driven to unknown land. 
 That had, by chance, packed up his clioicest 
 
 treasure 
 In one dear casket, and saved only that : 
 Since I must wander farther on the shore. 
 Thus hug my little, but my precious store. 
 Resolved to scorn and trust my fate no more. 
 
 J'f/tice Preserved. 
 
 DESCKIPTION OF MORNING. 
 
 WisiiED Morning 's come ; and now upon the 
 
 plains 
 And distant mountains, where they feed their 
 
 flocks, 
 Tlie happy shepherds leave their homely huts. 
 And with their pipes proclaim the new-born diiy. 
 The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip 
 Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls. 
 With much content and appetite he eats. 
 To follow in the field his daily toil. 
 And dress the grateful glebe tliat yields him 
 
 fruits. 
 The beasts that under the warm hedges slept. 
 And weathered out the cold bleak night, arc up; 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 270 
 
 SOUTHERN. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Aad, looking towards the neighboring pastures, 
 
 raise 
 Their voice, and bid their fellow-bnites good 
 
 morrow. 
 The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees. 
 Assemble all in choirs ; and with their notes 
 Salute and welcome up the rising sun. 
 
 The Orphan. 
 
 JATFTEK PARTING WITH BELVIDEKA, 
 
 TnEN hear me, bounteous Heaven, 
 Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head. 
 Where everlasting sweets are always springing. 
 With a continual giving hand : let peace, 
 Honor, and safety always hover round her : 
 Feed her with plenty ; let her eyes ne'er see 
 A sight of sorrow, nor her heart blow mouiTung; 
 Crowai all her days with joy, her nights with rest. 
 Harmless as her own thoughts ; and prop her 
 
 virtue. 
 To bear the loss of one that too much loved ; 
 And comfort her with patience in our parting. 
 
 Venice Preserved. 
 
 CASTALIO TO MONIMU. 
 
 WuEUE am I ? Sure I wander midst enchant- 
 ment. 
 And nevermore shall find the way to rest. 
 But, O Monimia ! art thou indeed resolved 
 To punish me with everlasting absence ? 
 Why turu'st thou from me ? I 'm alone already ! 
 Methinks I stand upon a naked beach 
 Sighing to winds and to the seas complaining; 
 Wliilst afar oif the vessel sails away. 
 Where all the treasure of my soul 's embarked ! 
 Wilt thou not turn ? O, could those eyes but 
 
 speak ! 
 I should know all, for love is pregnant in them ! 
 They swell, they press tlieir beams upon nie still ! 
 Wilt thou not speak ? If we must part forever. 
 Give me but one kind word to think upon. 
 And please myself with, while my lieart is break- 
 
 "^S- ^ The Orphan. 
 
 CASTALIO'S CURSE ON WOMANKIND, 
 
 I 'd leave the world for him that hates a woman. 
 Woman, tlic fountain of all human frailty ! 
 Wluit mighty ills have not been done by woman ? 
 Wlio was 't betrayed the capitol ? A woman. 
 Who lost Marc Antony tlie world ? A woman. 
 ^Vho was tlic cause of a long ten years' war. 
 And laid at last old Troy in ashes ? Woman ! 
 Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman ! 
 Woman to man first as a blessing given, 
 Wlieu innocence and love were in their prime ; 
 
 Happy awhile in Paradise they lay. 
 
 But quickly woman longed to go astray ; 
 
 Some foohsh, new adventure needs must prove, 
 
 And the first devil she saw, she changed her love ; 
 
 To Ills temptations lewdly she inclined 
 
 Her soul, and for an apple damned mankind ! 
 
 The Orphan. 
 
 PEIULI TO BELVIDERA. 
 
 I 'll henceforth be indeed a father ; never. 
 Nevermore thus expose, but cherish thee. 
 Dear as the vital warmth, that feeds my life. 
 Dear as these eyes, that weep in fondness o'er 
 
 Venice Preserved. 
 
 oXKo 
 
 THOMAS SOUTHERN. 
 
 1660-1746. 
 
 ISABELLA AND BEBON. 
 
 Isabella, thinking that her hiisbu.id, BiiiON, is 
 dead, marries ViLLEROY. 
 
 Isabella, Nukse. 
 
 Nurse. Madam, the gentleman 's below. 
 
 Isabella. I had forgot; pray let me speak 
 W'ith him. 
 Tliis ring was the first present of my love 
 To Biron, my first husband; I must blush 
 To think I have a second. Biron died 
 (Still to my loss) at Candy ; there 's my hope. 
 O, do I live to hope that he died there? 
 It must be so ; he 's dead, and this ring left. 
 By his last breath, to some known faithful friend. 
 To bring me back again ; 
 That 's all I have to trust to. 
 
 Enter BiBON. Isabella looking at him. 
 My fears were woman's — I have viewed him all ; 
 And let me, let me say it to myself, 
 I live again, and rise but from his tomb. 
 
 BiEON. Have you forgot me quite ? 
 
 IsA. Forgot you ! 
 
 BiR. Tlien farewell my disguise, and my mis- 
 fortunes ! 
 My Isabella ! 
 
 (He goes to her ; she shrieks, and faints.) 
 
 IsA. Ha! 
 
 BiR. O, come again ; 
 Thy Biron summons thee to Ufe and love ; 
 Thy once -loved, ever-loving husband calls, — 
 Thy Biron speaks to thee. 
 Excess of love and joy, for my return, 
 Has overpowered her. I was to blame 
 To take tiiy sex's softness unprepared ; 
 But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms. 
 
 -P 
 
a— 
 
 ISABELLA AND BIEON. 
 
 271 
 
 -93 
 
 This ecstasy has made my welcome more 
 Than words could say. Words may be counter- 
 feit. 
 False coined, and current only from the tongue, 
 Without the mind ; but passion 's in the soul. 
 And always speaks the heart. 
 
 IsA. Where have I been ? Wliy do you keep 
 him from me ? 
 I know his voice ; my life, upon the wing, 
 Hears the soft lure that brings me back again ; 
 'T is he himself, my Biron. 
 Do I hold you fast. 
 Never to part again ? 
 If I must fall, death 's welcome in these arms. 
 
 BiR. Live ever in these arms. 
 
 Is A. But pardon me ; 
 Excuse the wild disorder of my soul ; 
 The joy, the strange surprising joy of seeing you, 
 Of seeing you again, distracted me. 
 
 BiR. Thou everlasting goodness ! 
 
 IsA. Answer me: 
 Wliat hand of Providence has brought you back 
 To your own home again ? 
 0, tell me all. 
 For every thought confounds me. 
 
 BiR. My best life ! at leisure all. 
 
 IsA. We thought you dead; killed at the 
 siege of Candy. 
 
 BiR. There I fell among the dead ; 
 But hopes of life reviving from my wounds, 
 I was preserved but to be made a slave. 
 I often writ to my hard father, but never had 
 An answer ; I writ to thee too. 
 
 IsA. What a world of woe 
 Had been prevented but in hearing from you ! 
 
 BiR. Alas ! thou eouldst not help me. 
 
 IsA. You do not know how much I could 
 have done ; 
 At least, I 'm sure I could have suffered all; 
 I would have sold myself to slavery, 
 Without redemption ; given up my child, 
 Tlie dearest part of me, to basest wants. 
 
 BiE. My little boy ! 
 
 IsA. My life, but to have heard 
 You were alive. 
 
 BiR. No more, my love ; complaining of the 
 past. 
 We lose the present joy. 'T is over price 
 Of all my pains, that thus we meet again ! 
 I have a thousand tilings to say to thee. 
 
 IsA. Would I were past the hearing. (Aside.) 
 
 BiR. How does my child, my boy, my father 
 too? 
 I hear he 's living still. 
 
 IsA. Well, both ; both well ; 
 And may he prove a father to your hopes, 
 Though we have found him none. 
 
 BiR, Come, no more tears. 
 
 ^- 
 
 IsA. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss 
 Have mourned with me. 
 
 BiR. And all my days to come 
 Siiall be employed in a kind recompense 
 For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy ? 
 
 IsA. He 's gone to bed ; I '11 have him brougbl 
 to yon, 
 
 BiR. To-mon'ow I shall see liim ; I want rest 
 Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. 
 
 IsA. Alas ! what shall I get for you ? 
 
 BiR. Notliing but rest, my love. To-night I 
 would not 
 Be known, if possible, to your family : 
 I see my nurse is with you ; her welcome 
 Would be tedious at this time ; 
 To-morrow will do better. 
 
 IsA. I '11 dispose of her, and order everything 
 As you would have it. \_Exit. 
 
 BiR. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and 
 give the means 
 To make this wondrous goodness some amends ; 
 And lot me then forget her, if I can. 
 0, she deserves of me much more than I 
 Caulose for her, though I agaiu could venture 
 A father and his fortune for her love ! 
 You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all ! 
 Not to perceive that sucb a woman's worth 
 Weighs down the portions you provide your sons. 
 What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold. 
 Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness ? 
 What has she, in my absence, undergone ? 
 I must not think of that ; it drives me back 
 Upon myself, the fatal cause of all. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 IsA. I have obeyed your pleasure ; 
 Everything is ready for you. 
 
 BiR. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, 
 All my desires are carried to their aim 
 Of happiness ; there 's no room for a wish. 
 But to continue still this blessing to me ; 
 I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound. 
 
 Is A. Shall I attend you ? 
 
 BiR. By no means ; 
 I 've been so long a slave to others' pride. 
 To learn, at least, to wait upon myself ; 
 You '11 make haste after ? 
 
 IsA. I '11 but say my prayers, and follow you. 
 
 \_Erit BiRON. 
 My prayers ! no, I must never pray again. 
 Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes. 
 But I have nothing left to hope for more. 
 What Heaven could give I have enjoyed ; but 
 
 now 
 The bancfid planet rises on my fate. 
 And what 's to come is a long life of woe ; 
 Yet I may shorten it. 
 I promised him to follow — lum ! 
 
 W 
 
cQ- 
 
 272 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Is he without a name ? Biroii, my husband — 
 My husband! {Weeping.) 
 
 * » * 
 
 What 's to be done ? for something must be done. 
 Two Imsbands ! married to both, 
 And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain — - 
 Ila ! a hiclcy tliouglit 
 
 Worl'LS tiie right way to rid me of them all ; 
 All the rcproaehes, infamies, and seorns. 
 That every tongue and finger will find for me. 
 Let the just horror of my apprehensions 
 But keep me warm ; no matter what can come. 
 'T is but a blow ; yet I will see him first, 
 Have a last look, to heighten my despair, 
 And then to rest forever. 
 
 Tlie Tatal Marriage. 
 
 MATTHEW PRIOR. 
 
 1664-1731. 
 
 THE DESPAIEINa SHEPHEED. 
 
 Alexis shunned his fellow swains. 
 Their rural sports, and joeund strains, 
 
 (Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow !) 
 He lost his erook, he left his flocks ; 
 And wandering through the lonely rocks, 
 
 He nourished endless woe. 
 
 The nymphs and shepherds round him came : 
 His grief some pity, others blame. 
 
 The fatal cause all kindly seek ; 
 He mingled his eoneern with theirs, 
 He gave them back their friendly tears. 
 
 He sighed, but would not speak. 
 
 Cloriuda eame among the rest ; 
 And she too kind concern expressed. 
 
 And asked tlic reason of his woe ; 
 She asked, but with an air and mien. 
 That made it easily foreseen. 
 
 She I'eared too much to kuow. 
 
 The shepherd raised his mournful head ; 
 " And will you pardon me," he said, 
 
 " "While I the cruel truth reveal, 
 Wliieh nothing from my breast should tear, 
 Wliich lU'ver should offend your ear. 
 
 But that you bid me tell? 
 
 " 'T is thus I rove, 't is thus complain. 
 Since you appeared upon the plain ; 
 You are the cause of all my care : 
 Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart. 
 Ten thousand torments vex my heart, 
 love and I despair." 
 
 V^ 
 
 " Too much, Alexis, I have heard ; 
 
 'T is what I thought ; 't is what I feared : 
 
 And yet I pardon you," she cried ; 
 " But you shall promise ne'er again 
 To breathe your vows, or speak your pain." 
 
 He bowed, obeyed, and died ! 
 
 CUPID AND GANYMEDE. 
 
 In heaven, one holiday, you read 
 In wise Anacrcon, Ganymede 
 Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw 
 A main, to pass an hour or so ; 
 The little Trojan, by the way, 
 By Hermes tauglit, played all the play. 
 
 The god unhappily engaged. 
 By nature rash, by play enraged. 
 Complained and sighed and cried and fretted ; 
 Lost every earthly thing he betted : 
 In ready-money, all the store 
 Picked up long since from Danae's shower ; 
 A snuff-box, set with bleeding hearts. 
 Rubies, all pierced with diamond darts; 
 Ilis mne])ius made of myrtle-wood 
 (The tree in Ida's forest stood); 
 His bowl pure gold, the very same 
 Which Paris gave the Cyprian dame; 
 Two table-books in shagreen covers, 
 Pilled with good verse from real lovers ; 
 Merchandise rare ! a billet-doux. 
 Its matter passionate, yet true ; 
 Heaps of hair-rings, aud ciphered seals ; 
 Rich trifles ; serious bagatelles. 
 
 What sad disorders ])lay begets ! 
 Desperate and mad, at length he sets 
 Those darts whose points make gods adore 
 His might, and deprecate his power; 
 Those darts, whence all our joy and pain 
 Arise : those darts — " Come, seven 's the main," 
 Cries Ganymede ; the usual trick ; 
 Seven, slur a six ; eleven, a nick. 
 
 Ill news go fast : 't was quickly known 
 That simple Cupid was undone. 
 Swifter than lightning Venus flew : 
 Too late she found the thing too true. 
 Guess how the goddess greets her son : 
 " Come hither, sirrah ! no, begone ; 
 And, iuirk ye. is it so indeed ? 
 A comrade you for Ganymede ! 
 An imp as wicked, for his age, 
 As any earthly lady's page; 
 A scandal and a scourge to Troy ; 
 A prince's son ! a blackguard boy ; 
 A sharper, that with box and dice 
 Draws in young deities to vice. 
 All heaven is by the ears together, 
 Since first that little rogue came hither ; 
 .luno herself has had no peace : 
 
 -P 
 
r 
 
 THE THIEF AND THE CORDELIER. 
 
 273 
 
 -0) 
 
 ^ 
 
 And truly I 've been favored less : 
 For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame 
 Says things not fit for me to name), 
 Has acted ill for such a god. 
 And taken ways extremely odd. 
 
 "And thou, unliappy child," she said 
 (Her anger by her grief allayed), 
 " Unhappy child, who thus liast lost 
 All the estate we e'er could boast, 
 Wliither, O, whither wilt thou run, 
 Thy name despised, thy weakness known ? 
 Nor shall thy shrine ou earth be crowned ; 
 Nor shall thy power in heaven be owned ; 
 Wlien thou nor man nor god canst wound." 
 
 Obedient Cupid kneeling cried, 
 " Cease, dearest mother, cease to chide : 
 Gany 's a cheat, and I 'm a bubble : 
 Yet why this great excess of trouble ? 
 The dice were false : the darts are gone : 
 Yet how are you or I undone ? 
 
 " The loss of these I can supply 
 With keener shafts from Chloe's eye ; 
 Fear not we e'er can be disgraced, 
 Wliilc that bright magazine sliaU last. 
 Your crowded altars still shall smoke ; 
 And man your friendly aid invoke : 
 Jove shall again revere your power, 
 And rise a swan, or faU a shower." 
 
 THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 Celia and I the other day 
 Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea ; 
 The setting sun adorned the coast. 
 His beams entire, bis fierceness lost ; 
 And on the surface of the deep 
 The winds lay only not asleep. 
 The nymph did like the scene appear. 
 Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; 
 Soft fell her words, as flew the air : 
 With secret joy I heard her say. 
 That she woidd never miss one day 
 A walk so fine, a sigiit so gay. 
 
 But, the change ! the winds grow high ; 
 Impending tempests charge the sky ; 
 The lightning flies ; the thunder roars ; 
 And big waves lash the frightened shores. 
 Struck with the horror of the sight, 
 She turns her head and wings her flight ; 
 And trembling vows she '11 ne'er again 
 Approach the shore or view the main. 
 
 "Once more at least look back," said I; 
 "Thyself in that large glass descry; 
 When thou art in good-humor dressed, 
 Wlien gentle reason rules thy breast. 
 The sun upon the calmest sea 
 Appears not half so bright as thee. 
 'T is then that with delight I rove 
 
 U))on the boundless depth of love ; 
 I bless my chain, I hand my oar ; 
 Nor think on all I left on shore. 
 
 " But when vain doubt and groundless fear 
 Do tliat dear foolish bosom tear ; 
 When the big lip and watery eye 
 Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 
 'T is then thou art you angry main, 
 Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ; 
 And the poor sailor, that must try 
 Its fury, labors less than I. 
 
 " Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make ; 
 Wliile Love and Fate still drive me back ; 
 Forced to dote on thee thy own way, 
 I chide thee first, and then obey. 
 Wretched when from thee, vexed when uigli, 
 I with tlice, or without thee, die ! " 
 
 THE THIEF AND THE CORDELIEK. 
 
 Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know 
 
 the Greve, 
 The fatal retreat of the unfortunate brave ; 
 Where honor and justice most oddly contribute 
 To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet ; 
 Derry down, down, hey derry down. 
 
 There death breaks the shackles which force had 
 
 put on. 
 And the liangman completes what the j>idge but 
 
 begun ; 
 There the squire of the pad and the knight of 
 
 the post 
 Find their pains no more balked and their hopes 
 
 no tnore crossed. 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 Great claims are there made, and great secrets 
 
 are know^l ; 
 And the king and the law and the thief has his 
 
 own; 
 But my hearers cry out : " '\^Tiat a deuce dost 
 
 thou ail ? 
 Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale." 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 'T was there then, in civil respect to harsh laws. 
 And for want of false witness, to back a bad 
 
 cause, 
 A Norman, though late, was obliged to appear ; 
 And who to assist, but a grave Cordelier ? 
 Derry dowTi, etc. 
 
 The squire, whose good grace was to open the 
 
 scene. 
 Seemed not in great haste that the show should 
 
 begin ; 
 Now fitted tlie halter, now traversed the cart. 
 And often took leave, but was loath to depart. 
 Den'y down, etc. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 274 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 ^ 
 
 g- 
 
 " Wliat friglitoiis you thus, my good son ? " says 
 tlie priest ; 
 
 " You murdered, are sorry, and have been con- 
 fessed." 
 
 " father ! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon ; 
 
 For 't was not that I murdered, but that I was 
 taken." 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 "Pugh ! prithee ne'er trouble thy head with such 
 
 fancies ; 
 Rely on the aid you shall have from Saint 
 
 Francis ; 
 If the money you promised be brought to the 
 
 chest, 
 You have only to die ; let the church do the rest. 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 "And what will folks say, if they see you afraid? 
 
 It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade : 
 
 Courage, friend ; to-day is your period of sor- 
 row ; 
 
 Ajid things wUl go better, believe me, to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 " To-morrow ? " our hero replied in a fright : 
 " He that 's hanged before noon ought to think 
 
 of to-night." 
 " Tell your beads," quoth the priest, " and be 
 
 fairly trussed up. 
 For you surely to-night shall in paradise sup." 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 "Alas!" quoth the squire, "howe'er sumptuous 
 
 the treat, 
 Parbleu, I shall have little stomach to eat ; 
 I should therefore esteem it great favor and grace, 
 Would you be so kind as to go in my place." 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 "Tliat I would," quoth the father, "and thank 
 
 you to boot ; 
 But our actions, you know, with our duty must 
 
 suit. 
 The feast I proposed to you I cannot taste ; 
 For tills nigiit, by our order, is marked for a fast." 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 Then turning about to the hangman, he said : 
 " Des))atch me, I ])rithce, this troublesome blade : 
 For tliy cord and my cord both equally tie ; 
 Aud wc hve by the gold for which other men die." 
 Derry down, etc 
 
 OUE HOPES, LIKE TOWEKDIG FALCONS, AIM, 
 
 Our hopes, hke towering falcons, aim 
 
 At objects in an airy height ; 
 Hut all the jileasure of tlic game 
 
 Is .'inir (ifl'tii view tlic (lidit. 
 
 The worthless prey but only sliews 
 The joy consisted in the strife ; 
 
 Whate'er we take, as soon we lose 
 In Homer's riddle and in life. 
 
 So, wliilst in feverish sleeps we think 
 We taste what waking we desire, 
 
 The dream is better than the drink. 
 Which oidy feeds the sickly fire. 
 
 To the mind's eye things well appear. 
 At distance through an artful glass ; 
 
 Bring but the flattering objects near. 
 They 're all a senseless gloomy mass. 
 
 Seeing aright, we see our woes : 
 Tlien w'hat avails it to have eyes ? 
 
 From ignorance our comfort flows, 
 The only wretched are the wise. 
 
 AN EPITAPH ON A STtJPrD COtJPLE. 
 
 Interred beneath this marble stone. 
 
 Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 
 
 While roUiug threescore years and one 
 
 Did round tliis globe their courses run ; 
 
 If human things went iU or well. 
 
 If changing empires rose or fell. 
 
 The morning past, the evening came, 
 
 And found this couple just the same. 
 
 They walked and ate, good folks : Wliat then : 
 
 Wliy, then they walked aud ate again; 
 
 They soundly slept the night away ; 
 
 They did just notliiug all the day. 
 
 * « * 
 
 Nor sister either had nor brother ; 
 They seemed just tallied for each other. 
 Their Moral aud Economy 
 Most perfectly they made agree ; 
 Each virtue kept its proper bound, 
 Nor trespassed on the other's ground. 
 Nor fame nor censure they regarded ; 
 They neither punislicd nor rewarded. 
 He cared not what the footman did ; 
 Her maids she neither praised nor chid : 
 So every servant took his course, 
 Aud, bad at first, they all grew worse. 
 Slotiiful disorder filled his stable. 
 And sluttish plenty decked her table. 
 Their beer was strong, their wine was port, 
 Tiiey gave the poor the remnant meat, 
 Their meal was large, their grace was short. 
 Just when it grew not fit to eat. 
 Tiiey paid the church and parish rate, 
 And took, but read not, the receipt ; 
 For which they claimed their Sunday's due. 
 Of slumbering in an upper ])ew. 
 No man's defects sought tliey to know. 
 So never made themselves a foe. 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 PHILLIS'S AGE. 
 
 i75 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 No man's good deeds did they commend, 
 
 So never raised themselves a friend. 
 
 Nor cherished they relations poor, 
 
 That might decrease their present store ; 
 
 Nor barn nor house did they repair. 
 
 That might oblige their future heir. 
 
 They neither added nor confounded ; 
 
 They neither wanted nor abounded. 
 
 Nor tear nor smile did they employ 
 
 At news of public grief or joy. 
 
 Wieu bells were rung and bonfires made. 
 
 If asked, they ne'er denied their aid ; 
 
 Their jug was to the ringers carried. 
 
 Whoever either died or married. 
 
 Tlieir billet at the fire was found. 
 
 Whoever was deposed or crowned. 
 
 Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise, 
 
 They would not learn, nor could advise ; 
 
 Without love, hatred, joy, or fear. 
 
 They led — a kind of — as it were ; 
 
 Nor ^vished, nor eared, nor laughed, nor cried ; 
 
 And so they lived, and so they died. 
 
 KING WILLIAM AND HIS DEAD QUEEN. 
 
 Thy virtue, whose resistless force 
 
 No dire event coiild ever stay, 
 Must carry on its destined course. 
 
 Though Death and Envy stop the way. 
 
 For Britain's sake, for Belgia's, live : 
 Pierced by tlieir grief, forget thy own : 
 
 New toils endure ; new conquest give ; 
 
 And bring them ease, though thou hast none. 
 
 Vanquish again ; though she be gone, 
 Wliose gai-Iand crowned the victor's hair ; 
 
 And reign, though she has left the throne, 
 Wlio made thy glory worth thy care. 
 
 Fair Britain never yet before 
 
 Breathed to her king a useless prayer; 
 Fond Belgia never did implore, 
 
 "VVliile Wilham turned averse his ear. 
 
 But shoidd the weeping hero now 
 
 Relentless to their wishes prove ; 
 Should he recall, with pleasing woe, 
 
 The object of liis grief and love ; 
 
 Her face with thousand beauties blest, 
 Her mind with thousand virtues stored. 
 
 Her power with boundless joy confest, 
 Her person only not adored : 
 
 Yet ought his sorrow to be checked. 
 
 Yet ought his passions to abate : 
 If the great mourner would reflect. 
 
 Her glory in her death complete. 
 
 She was instructed to command. 
 Great king, by long obeying thee : 
 
 Her sceptre, guided by thy hand, 
 Preserved the isles and ruled the sea. 
 
 But, O, 't was httle that her life 
 
 O'er earth and water bears thy fame : 
 
 In death, 't was worthy William's wife 
 Amidst the stars to fix his name. 
 
 Beyond where matter moves, or place 
 Receives its forms, thy virtues roU: 
 
 From Mary's glory angels trace 
 The beauty of her partner's soul. 
 
 Wise Fate, which does its heaven decree 
 To heroes, when they yield their breath. 
 
 Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee 
 Is deified before thy death. 
 
 TO CLOE, 
 
 The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the 
 sun. 
 
 How after his journeys he sets up bis rest: 
 If at morning o'er earth 't is his fancy to run, 
 
 At night he declines on his Thetis's breast. 
 
 So when I am wearied with wandering all day. 
 To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : 
 
 No matter what beauties I saw in my way ; 
 They werebut my visits, but thou art my home. 
 
 Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war; 
 
 And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree : 
 For thou art a girl as much brighter than her 
 
 As he was a poet snblimer than me. 
 
 A REASONABLE AFFLICTION. 
 
 On his death-bed poor Lubin lies ; 
 
 His spouse is in despair : 
 With frequent sobs and mutual cries. 
 
 They both express their care. 
 
 " A different cause," says Parson Sly, 
 " The same effect may give : 
 
 Poor Lubin fears that he shall die ; 
 His wife, that he may live." 
 
 PHILLIS'S AGE. 
 
 How old may Piiilhs be, you ask, 
 
 Wliose beauty thus all hearts engages ? 
 
 To answer is no easy task : 
 For she has really two ages. 
 
 Stiff in brocade, and pinched in stays. 
 Her patches, paint, and jewels on ; 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 276 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 --^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 All day let envy view her face, 
 And Pliillis is but twenty-one. 
 
 Paint, patches, jewels laid aside. 
 At night astronomers agree, 
 
 The evening has the day belied ; 
 And Phdlis is some forty-three. 
 
 THE EEMEDY WOKSE THAN THE DISEASE, 
 
 I SENT for RatcUffe ; was so iU 
 That other doctors gave me over: 
 
 He felt ray pidse, prescribed his pill, 
 And I was likely to recover. 
 
 But, when the wit began to wheeze, 
 And wine had warmed the politician, 
 
 Cured yesterday of my disease, 
 I died last night of my physician. 
 
 TO A CHILD OF QtlALITT, 
 
 FIVE YEAKS OLD, MDCCIV., THE AUTHOR THEN 
 FOKTY. 
 
 Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band, 
 That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, 
 
 Were summoned by her high command. 
 To show their passions by their letters. 
 
 My pen among the rest I took. 
 Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 
 
 Should dart their kindhng fires, and look 
 The power they have to be obeyed. 
 
 Nor quality, nor reputation. 
 
 Forbid me yet my flame to tell. 
 Dear five-years-old befriends my passion. 
 
 And I may write till she can spell. 
 
 For, while she makes her silkworms beds 
 With all the tender things I swear. 
 
 Whilst all the house my passion reads 
 In papers round her baby's hair, 
 
 She may receive and own my flame ; 
 
 Tor, though the strictest prudes should know it. 
 She '11 pass for a most virtuous dame, 
 
 And I for an unhappy poet. 
 
 Then too, alas ! when she sliall tear 
 The lines some younger rival sends. 
 
 She '11 give me leave to write, I fear. 
 And we shall still continue friends. 
 
 For, as our different ages move, 
 
 'T is so ordained (would Fate but mend it !) 
 Tliat I shall be past making love 
 
 Allien she begins to comprehend it. 
 
 THE FEMALE PHAETON. 
 
 Thus Kitty,* beautiful and young. 
 
 And wild as colt untamed. 
 Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung. 
 
 With little rage inflamed : 
 
 Inflamed with rage at sad restraint, 
 Wiich wise mamma ordained ; 
 
 And sorely vext to play the saint. 
 Whilst wit and beauty reigned : 
 
 " Shall I thumb holy books, confined 
 
 With Abigails, forsaken ? 
 Kitty 's for other things designed, 
 
 Or I am much mistaken. 
 
 " Must Lady Jenny frisk about. 
 
 And visit with her cousins ? 
 At balls must she make all tlie rout, 
 
 And bring home hearts by dozens ? 
 
 " What has she better, pray, than I, 
 What hidden charms to boast, 
 
 That all mankind for her should die, 
 WTiilst I am scarce a toast ? 
 
 " Dearest mamma ! for once let me. 
 
 Unchained, my fortune try ; 
 I '11 have my earl as well as she,! 
 
 Or know the reason why. 
 
 " I '11 soon with Jenny's pride quit score, 
 
 Make all her lovers fall : 
 They 'U grieve I was not loosed before ; 
 
 She, I was loosed at all." 
 
 Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way ; 
 
 Kitty, at heart's desire. 
 Obtained the chariot for a day, 
 
 And set the world on fire. 
 
 VENDS'S ADVICE TO THE MUSES. 
 
 Thus to the Muses spoke the Cvprian dame : 
 "Adorn my altars, aud revere my name. 
 My son shall else assume his potent darts. 
 Twang goes the bow, my girls ; have at your 
 
 hearts?" 
 The Muses answered : "Venus, we deride 
 The vagrant's malice, and his mother's pride ; 
 Send him to nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade. 
 To the loose dance and wanton masquerade ; 
 Our thoughts are settled, and intent our look. 
 On the instructive verse and moral book ; 
 On female idleness his power relies ; 
 But, when he finds us studying hard, he flies." 
 
 * I.ady Cnthnrine Hyde, late Duchess of Queensberry. 
 t The Earl of Essex married I.adv Jane Hvde. 
 
 W 
 
a- 
 
 THE OLD GENTRY. — SUPERSTITION. 
 
 277 
 
 -Q) 
 
 THE OLD GENTKY. 
 
 That all from Adam first began, 
 None but ungodly Woolston doubts ; 
 
 And that Ms sou, and his son's son, 
 
 Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts. 
 
 Each, when his rustic pains began, 
 
 To merit pleaded equal right ; 
 'T was only who left off at noon. 
 
 Or who went on to work till night. 
 
 But coronets we owe to crowns. 
 And favor to a court's affection ; 
 
 By nature we are Adam's sons. 
 And sons of Anstis * by election. 
 
 Kingsaie ! eight hundred years have rolled, 
 Since tliy forefatliers held tlie plough ; 
 
 When this iu story sliall be told. 
 Add, tiiat my kindred do so now. 
 
 Tile man who by his labor gets 
 
 His bread, in independent state, 
 Who never begs, and seldom eats, 
 
 Himself can fix or change liis fate. 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Another nymph, amongst the many fair. 
 That made my softer hours their solemn care. 
 Before the rest affected still to stand. 
 And watched my eye, preventing my command. 
 Abra, she so was called, did soonest haste 
 To grace my presence ; Abra went the last ; 
 Abra was ready ere I called her name ; 
 And, though I called another, Abra came. 
 
 So/omOK Ofi the Vanitij of the JTorld, 
 
 FOE MT OWN MONUMENT. 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention. 
 Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone took 
 
 care; 
 For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
 May haply be never fulfilled by his lieir. 
 
 Then take Matt's word for it, the sculptor is paid; 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; 
 Yet credit but lightly what more may be said. 
 For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. 
 
 Yet counting as far as to fifty his years. 
 
 His virtues and vices were as other men's are ; 
 
 High liopes he conceived, and he smothered great 
 
 fears. 
 In a Ufe party-colored, half pleasure, half care. 
 
 Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave. 
 He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; 
 
 ^^- 
 
 Garter Kinp at Amis. 
 
 In public employments industrious and grave. 
 And alone with his friends. Lord ! how merry was 
 he! 
 
 Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, 
 Botli fortunes he tried, but to neitlier would trust ; 
 And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned 
 
 about, 
 He found riches had wings, and knew man was 
 
 but dust. 
 
 This verse, little polished; though mighty sincere. 
 Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 
 ■It says that his relics collected lie here, 
 And no mortal yet knows too if tliis may be true. 
 
 Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, 
 So Matt may be killed, and his bones never found ; 
 False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, 
 So Matt may yet chance to be hanged or be 
 drowned. 
 
 If his bones he in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, 
 To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; 
 And if passing thou giv'st liim a smile or a tear. 
 He cares not — yet, prithee, be kind to his fame. 
 
 EPITAPH EXTEMPORE. 
 
 Nobles and heralds, by your leave. 
 
 Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 
 
 The son of Adam and of Eve; 
 
 Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher ? 
 
 JOHN NORRIS.* 
 
 1657-1711. 
 
 SUPERSTITION, 
 
 I CAEE not, though it be 
 
 By the preciser sort thought popery ; 
 
 We poets can a license show 
 
 For everything we do. 
 Hear, then, my little saint, I 'U pray to thee. 
 
 If now thy happy mind 
 
 Amidst its various joys can leisure find 
 
 To attend to anything so low 
 
 As what I say or do. 
 Regard, and be what thou wast ever — kind. 
 
 * We place this Christian Platouist here, because he wrote 
 under poetic impulses strangely at variance with the wits 
 and poets of his period. He is said to have succeeded " holy 
 George Herbert" in the cure of Bemerton. He ranks among 
 the most thoughtful of English divines. It was he who sug- 
 gested to Blair and Campbell one of the most striking com- 
 parisons in English poetry ; — 
 
 " Like angels' visits, short and bright." 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 278 
 
 NORRIS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Let not the blessed above 
 
 Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove ; 
 
 Tain would I thy sweet image see, 
 
 And sit and talk with thee ; 
 Nor is it curiosity, but love. 
 
 Ah ! what deUght 't would be 
 AVouldst thou sometimes, by stealth, converse 
 with me ! 
 
 How should I thy sweet commune piize. 
 
 And other joys despise ; 
 Come, then, I ne'er was yet denied by thee. 
 
 I would not long detain 
 
 Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in 
 pain; 
 
 Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know 
 
 Of thy escape below ; 
 Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again. 
 
 Sure heaven must needs thy love 
 As well as other qualities improve ; 
 
 Come, then, and recreate my sight 
 
 With rays of thy pure light ; 
 'T will cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. 
 
 But if fate 's so severe, 
 
 As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere 
 
 (And by thy absence I shall know 
 
 Whether thy state be so), 
 Live happy, but be mindful of me there. 
 
 A HYMN UPON THE TEANSnOUBATION. 
 
 Hail ! King of glory, clad in robes of light. 
 
 Outshining all we here call bright ! 
 
 Hail, Ught's divinest galaxy ! 
 
 Hail, express image of the Deity ! 
 
 Could now thy amorous spouse thy beauties 
 
 view, 
 How would her wounds all bleed anew ! 
 Lovely thou art, all o'er and bright, 
 Thou Israel's glory, and thou Gentile's light. 
 
 But whence this brightness, whence this sudden 
 
 day? 
 Who did thee thus with light array ? 
 Did thy divinity dispense 
 To its consort a more liberal influence ? 
 Or did some curious angel's chymic art 
 The spirits of purest light impart, 
 Drawn from the native spring of day. 
 And wrought into an organized ray. 
 
 llowc'er 'twas done, 'tis glorious and divine; 
 Thou dost with radiant wonders shine : 
 The sun, with his briglit company. 
 Are all gross meteors, if compared to thee : 
 
 Thou art the fountain whence their light does 
 
 flow. 
 But to thy will thine own dost owe ; 
 Por (as at first) thou didst but say, 
 " Let there be hght," and straight sprang forth 
 
 this wondrous day. 
 
 Let now the eastern princes come, and bring 
 Their tributary offering. 
 There needs no star to guide their flight ; 
 They '11 find thee now, great King, by thine own 
 
 light. 
 And thou, my soul, adore, love, and admire. 
 And follow this bright guide of fire. 
 Do thou thy hymns and praises bring, 
 Whilst angels, with veiled faces, anthems sing. 
 
 THE MEDITATION. 
 
 It must be done, my soul, but 't is a strange, 
 A dismal and mysterious change. 
 When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay. 
 And to an unknown somewhere wing away ; 
 When time shall be eternity, and thou 
 Shalt be thou know'st not what, and live thou 
 know'st not how. 
 
 Amazing state ! no wonder that we dread 
 To think of death, or view the dead ; 
 Thou 'rt all wrapped up in clouds, as if to thee 
 Our very knowledge had antipathy. 
 Death could not a more sad retinue find — 
 Sickness and pain before, aud darkness all be- 
 hind. 
 
 Some courteous ghost tell this great secrecy, — 
 What 't is you are aud we must be ; 
 You warn us of approacldng death ; and why 
 May we not know from you what 't is to die ? 
 But you, having shot the gulf, delight to see 
 Succeeding souls plunge in with like uncertainty. 
 
 IVhen life's close knot, by writ from destiny, 
 Disease shall cut or age untie ; 
 When after some delays, some dying strife. 
 The soul stands shivering on the ridge of life ; 
 With what a dreadful curiosity 
 Does she launch out into the sea of vast eter- 
 nity. 
 
 So when the spacious globe was deluged o'er. 
 
 And lower holds could save no more ; 
 
 On the utmost bough the astonished sinners 
 
 stood, 
 And viewed the advances of the encroaching 
 
 flood ; 
 0'crto])ped at length ))y the element's increase, 
 Witli horror thev resigned to the niitrici 
 
 cd abvss. t 
 
C&- 
 
 THE FURNITURE OE A WOMAN'S MIND. 
 
 279 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 JOHN POMFRET. 
 
 1667-1703. 
 
 A POET'S IDEAL OP A COUNTKY LIFE. 
 
 If Heaven the grateful liberty would give 
 That I might choose my method how to live ; 
 And all those hours propitious fate should lend, 
 In blissful ease and satisfaotion spend : 
 Near some fair town I 'd have a private seat, 
 BuUt uniform, not little, nor too great ; 
 Better, if on a rising ground it stood. 
 On this side fields, on that a neighboring wood. 
 It should within no other things contain 
 But what are useful, necessary, plain ; 
 Methinks 't is nauseous, and I 'd ne'er endure. 
 The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. 
 A little garden gratefid to the eye. 
 And a eool rivulet run murmuring by ; 
 On whose deUcious banks a stately row 
 Of shady Umes or sycamores should grow ; 
 At the end of which a silent study placed 
 Should be with all the noblest authors graced : 
 Horace and Virgil, in whose miglity lines 
 Immortal wit and solid learning shines ; 
 Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, 
 fllio all the turns of love's soft passion knew; 
 He that with judgment reads liis charming lines. 
 In which strong art with stronger nature joius. 
 Must grant his fancy does the best excel. 
 His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well ; 
 With all those moderns, men of steady sense. 
 Esteemed for learning and for eloquence. 
 In some of these, as fancy should advise, 
 I 'd always take my morning exercise ; 
 For sure no minutes bring us more content 
 Than those in pleasing useful studies spent. 
 
 I 'd have a clear and competent estate. 
 That I might live genteelly, but not great ; 
 As much as I could moderately spend, 
 A little more sometimes, t' oblige a friend. 
 Nor should the sons of poverty repine 
 Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine; 
 And all that objects of true pity were, 
 Shoidd be relieved with what my wants could 
 
 spare ; 
 For tliat our Maker has too largely given 
 Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. 
 A frugal plenty shovdd my table spread ; 
 With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread ; 
 Enough to satisfy, and something more. 
 To feed the stranger and the neighboring poor : 
 Strong meat indidges vice, and pampering food 
 Creates diseases and inflames the blood. 
 But what s sufficient to make nature strong, 
 And the bright lamp of life continue loug, 
 I 'd freely take ; and, as I did possess. 
 The bounteous Author of my plenty bless. 
 
 CUSTOM. 
 
 We seldom use our hberty aright. 
 
 Nor judge of things by universal light : 
 
 Our prepossessions and affections bind 
 
 The soul in chains, and lord it o'er the mind ; 
 
 And if seK-interest be but in the case. 
 
 Our unexamined principles may pass ! 
 
 Good Heavens ! that man should thus himself 
 
 deceive. 
 To leani on credit, and on trust believe ! 
 Better the mind no notions had retained. 
 But stiU a fair, unwritten blank remained : 
 For now, who ti-uth from falsehood would discern. 
 Must first disrobe the mind, and all unlearn. 
 Errors, contracted in unmindful youth, 
 When once removed will smooth the way to truth ; 
 To dispossess the child the mortal lives. 
 But death approaches ere the man arrives. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 1667-1744. 
 
 THE FtJKNITUKE OF A WOMAN' S MIND, 
 
 A SET of phrases learned by rote ; 
 A passion for a scarlet coat ; 
 When at a play, to laugh or cry. 
 Yet cannot tell the reason why ; 
 Never to hold her tongue a minute, 
 Wliile all she prates has nothing in it ; 
 Wliole hours can with a coxcomb sit, 
 And take his nonsense all for wit ; 
 Her learning mounts to read a song. 
 But half the words pronouncing wrong ; 
 Has every repartee in store 
 She spoke ten thousand times before ; 
 Can ready compUments supply 
 On all occasions cut and dry ; 
 Such hatred to a parson's gown. 
 The sight would put her in a swoon ; 
 For conversation well endued. 
 She calls it witty to be rude ; 
 And, placing raillery in railing, 
 Will tell aloud your greatest failing ; 
 Nor make a scruple to expose 
 Your bandy leg or crooked nose ; 
 Can at her morning tea nm o'er 
 The scandal of the day before ; 
 Improving hourly in her skiU, 
 To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. 
 
 In choosing lace, a critic nice. 
 Knows to a groat the lowest price ; 
 Can in her female clubs dispute, 
 "niiat liuen best the silk will suit. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -9> 
 
(Qr 
 
 280 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 4 
 
 What colors each complexioa match, 
 Aiid where with art to place a patch. 
 
 If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, 
 Can finely counterfeit a fright ; 
 So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, 
 She ravishes all hearts to hear her. 
 Can dexterously lier husband tease, 
 By taking fits whene'er she please ; 
 By frequent practice learns the trick 
 At proper seasons to be sick ; 
 Thinks nothiug gives one airs so pretty. 
 At once creating love and pity ; 
 If Molly happens to be careless, 
 And but neglects to warm lier hair-lace, 
 She gets a cold as sure as death, 
 And vows she scarce can fetch lier breath ; 
 Admires how modest women can 
 Be so robustious like a man. 
 
 In party, furious to her power ; 
 A bitter Wiig, or Tory sour, 
 Her arguments directly tend 
 Against the side she would defend ; 
 Will prove herself a Tory plain, 
 From principles the Whigs maintain. 
 And, to defend the Whiggish cause. 
 Her topics from the Tories draws. 
 
 0-N POETRY. 
 
 A HHAPSODY. 
 
 All human race woidd fain be wits, 
 And millions miss for one that hits. 
 Young's universal passion, pride, 
 Was never known to spread so wid6. 
 Say, Britain, could you ever boast 
 Three jioots in an age at most ? 
 Our chilling climate hardly bears 
 A sprig of bays in fifty years ; 
 While every fool his claim alleges. 
 As if it grew in common hedges. 
 Wliat reason can there be assigned 
 For this pcrverscness in the mind ? 
 Brutes find out where their talents lie : 
 A bear will not attempt to (ly ; 
 A foundered horse will oft debate. 
 Before he tries a five-barred gate ; 
 A dog by instinct turns aside, 
 Wiio sees tlie ditch too deep and wide. 
 But man we find tlie otdy ereatiire 
 Who, led by Folly, eondiats Nature ; 
 Who, when she loudly cries. Forbear, 
 With obstinacy fixes there; 
 And, where his genius least inclines. 
 Absurdly bends iiis whole designs. 
 
 Not empire to the rising sun 
 By valor, conduct, fortune won ; 
 Not highest wisdom in debates, 
 
 For framing laws to govern states ; 
 
 Not skill in sciences profound 
 
 So large to grasp the circle round, 
 
 Such heavenly inllueuce require. 
 
 As how to strike the Muse's lyre. 
 * * * 
 
 What hope of custom iu the fair, 
 
 Whdc not a soul demands your ware ? 
 
 Where you have nothing to produce 
 
 For private life or pubhc use ? 
 
 Coui't, city, country, want you not; 
 
 You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. 
 
 For poets laws make no provision ; 
 
 The wealthy have you in derision ; 
 
 Of state affairs you cannot smatter. 
 
 And awkward when you try to flatter. 
 
 TO THE EAEL OF PETERB0E0D6H, 
 
 WHO COMMANDED THE BRmSH FOBCES IN SPAIN. 
 
 MoRDANTO fills the trump of fame, 
 The Christian worlds his deeds jn-oclaim. 
 And prints are crowded with his name. 
 
 In journeys he outrides the post. 
 Sits up till miduight with his host. 
 Talks politics, and gives the toast. 
 
 Knows every prince in Europe's face, 
 Flies like a squib from place to place, 
 And travels not, but runs a race. 
 
 From Paris gazette a-la-main. 
 This day 's arrived, witiiout his train, 
 Mordanto in a week from Spain. 
 
 A messenger comes all a-reek 
 Mordanto at Madrid to seek ; 
 He left the town above a week. 
 
 Next day the post-boy winds his horn. 
 And rides through Dover in the morn : 
 Mordanto 's lauded from Leghorn. 
 
 Mordanto gallops on alone, 
 The roads are with his followers strown, 
 This breaks a girth, and that a bone ; 
 
 His body active as his mind, 
 Returning sound in limb and wind, 
 Except some leather lost behind. 
 
 A skeleton in outward figure. 
 His meagre corjjsc, tliuugh full of vigor. 
 Would halt behind him, were it bigger. 
 
 So wonderful his expedition, 
 Wicn you have not the least suspicion. 
 He 's with you like an apparition. 
 
 Shines iu all climates like a star ; 
 In senates bold, .-nul fierce in war; 
 A land commander, and a tar -. 
 
 -- 9> 
 
a- 
 
 FROM "ON THE DEATH OP DEAN SWIFT." 
 
 281 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Heroic actions eai'ly bred in, 
 Ne'er to be matched iu modern reading, 
 But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden. 
 
 FKOM "ON THE DEATH OF DEAN SWIFT." 
 
 As Rochefoucault his maxims drew 
 From nature, I beUeve them true ; 
 They argue no corrupted mind 
 In him ; the fault is iu mankind. 
 
 This maxim more than all the rest 
 Is thought too base for human breast : 
 " In all distresses of our friends. 
 We first consult our private ends ; 
 While nature, kindly beut to ease us, 
 Points out some circumstance to please us." 
 * * * 
 
 The time is not remote, when I 
 Must by the coui-se of nature die ; 
 When, I foresee, my special friends 
 Will try to find their private ends : 
 And, though 't is hardly understood 
 Which way my death can do them good. 
 Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : 
 " See, liow the Dean begins to break ! 
 Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! 
 You plainly find it in his face. 
 That old vertigo in his head 
 Will never leave him till he 's dead. 
 Besides, his memory decays : 
 He recollects not wliat he says ; 
 He cannot call his friends to mind ; 
 Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
 Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; 
 He told them fifty times before. 
 How does he fancy we can sit 
 To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? 
 But he takes up with younger folks, 
 Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
 Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, 
 Or change his comrades once a quarter: 
 In haif the time he talks them round, 
 There must another set be found. 
 
 " For poetry he 's past iiis prime : 
 He takes an hour to find a rhyme ; 
 His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
 His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
 I 'd have him throw away his pen ; — 
 But there 's no talking to some men ! " 
 
 And then their tenderness appears. 
 By adding largely to my years ; 
 He 's older than he would be reckoned, 
 And well remembers Charles the Second. 
 He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; 
 And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 
 His stomach too begins to fail : 
 Last year we thought him strong and hale ; 
 But now he 's quite another thing : 
 
 I wish he may hold out till spring ! " 
 They hug themselves, and reason tjius : 
 " It is not yet so bad with us ! " 
 
 * * * 
 
 My good companions, never fear ; 
 For though you may mistake a yeai'. 
 Though your prognostics run too fast, 
 They must be verified at last. 
 
 Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
 " How is the Dean ? " " He 's just alive." 
 Now the departing pi-ayer is read ; 
 " He hardly breathes." "The Dean is dead.' 
 
 Before the ])assing bell begun 
 The news througli half the town is run. 
 " O, may we all for death prepare ! 
 What has he left ? and who 's his heir ? " 
 " I know no more than what the news is ; 
 'T is all bequeathed to public uses." 
 " To public uses ! there 's a whim ! 
 What had the public done for him ? 
 Mere envy, avarice, and pride : 
 He gave it all — but first he died. 
 And had the Dean, in all the nation, 
 No worthy friend, no poor relation ? 
 So ready to do strangers good, 
 Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! " 
 
 Now, Grub-Street wits are all employed ; 
 With elegies the town is cloyed : 
 Some paragraph in every paper 
 To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. 
 
 The doctors, tender of their fame. 
 Wisely on me lay all the blame : 
 " We must confess, his case was nice ; 
 But he would never take advice. 
 Had he been ruled, for aught appeai-s, 
 He might have lived these twenty years ; 
 For, when we opened him, we found 
 That all his vital parts were sound." 
 
 From Dublin soon to London spread, 
 'T is told at court, " The Dean is dead." 
 And Lady Suft'olk, in the spleen. 
 Runs laughing up to tell the queen. 
 The queen, so gracious, mild, and good. 
 Cries, " Is he gone ! 't is time he should. 
 He 's dead, you say; then let him rot: 
 I 'in glad the medals were forgot. 
 I promised him, I own ; but when ? 
 I only was the princess then ; 
 But now, as consort of the king. 
 You know, 't is quite another thing." 
 Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, 
 Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy : 
 "Why, if he died wRhout his shoes," 
 Cries Bob, " I 'm sorry for the news : 
 0, were the wretch but living still, 
 And in his place my good friend Will ! 
 Or had a mitre on his head. 
 Provided BoliuKbroke were dead ! " 
 
 4 
 
(&- 
 
 282 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 fr 
 
 Now Curll Ills shop from rubbish drains : 
 Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains ! 
 And then, to make them pass the glibber, 
 Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Gibber. 
 He '11 treat me as he does my betters, 
 Publish my will, my life, my letters : 
 Revive the libels born to die ; 
 Which Pope must bear, as well as I. 
 
 Here shift the scene, to represent 
 How those I love my death lament. 
 Poor Pope would grieve a month, and Gay 
 A week, and Arbuthnot a day. 
 
 St. John himself will scarce forbear 
 To bite his pen, and drop a tear. 
 The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 
 " I 'm sorry — but we all must die ! " 
 
 Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, 
 All fortitude of mind supplies : 
 For how can stony bowels melt 
 In those who never pity felt ! 
 When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, 
 Resigning to the will of God. 
 
 The fools, my juniors by a year. 
 Are tortured with suspense and fear ; 
 Who wisely thought my age a screen. 
 When death approached, to stand between : 
 The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; 
 They mourn for me without dissembling. 
 
 My female friends, whose tender hearts 
 Have better learned to act tlieir parts, 
 Receive the news in doleful dumjjs : 
 " The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?) 
 Then, Lord have mercy on his soul ! 
 (Ladies, I '11 venture for the vole.) 
 Six deans, they say, must bear the pall': 
 (I wish I knew w'hat king to call.) 
 Madam, your husband will attend 
 The funeral of so good a friend. 
 No, madam, 't is a shocking sight : 
 And he 's engaged to-morrow night : 
 My Lady Club will take it ill. 
 If he sliould fail her at quadrille. 
 He loved the Dean — (I lead a heart,) 
 But dearest IViends, they say, must part. 
 His time was come : he ran his race; 
 We hope he 's in a better place." 
 
 Why do we grieve that friends should die ? 
 No loss more easy to supply. 
 One year is past ; a different scene ! 
 No further mention of the Dean ; 
 Who now, alas ! no more is missed 
 'I'h.iu if he never did exist. 
 A\'herc 's now this favorite of Apollo ! 
 Departed, — and his works must follow ; 
 Must undergo the common fate ; 
 His kind of wit is out of date. 
 
 Some country squire to Lintot goes, 
 Inquires for " Swift in Verse and Prose." 
 
 Says Lintot, " I have heard the name; 
 He died a year ago." " The same." 
 He searches all the shop in vain. 
 " Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane; 
 I sent them with a load of l)ooks, 
 Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. 
 To fancy they could live a year ! 
 I find you 're but a stranger here. 
 The Dean was famous in his time, 
 And had a kind of knack at rhyme. 
 His way of writing now is past ; 
 The town has got a better taste ; 
 I keep no antiquated stuff. 
 But spick and span I have enough. 
 Pray do but give me leave to show 'em : 
 Here 's CoUey Gibber's birthday poem. 
 This ode you never yet have seen. 
 By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. 
 Then here 's a letter finely penned 
 Against the Graftsman and his friend ; 
 It clearly shows that all reflection 
 On ministers is disaffection. 
 Next, here 's Sir Robert's vindication. 
 And Mr. Henley's last oration. 
 The hawkers have not got them yet ; 
 Your honor please to buy a set ? 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON, 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID. 
 
 In ancient times, as story tells. 
 The saints would often leave their cells. 
 And stroU about, but hide thtir quality, 
 To try good people's hospitality. 
 
 It happened on a wdnter night 
 (As authors of the legend write). 
 Two brother hermits, saints l)y trade. 
 Taking their tour in masquerade. 
 Disguised in tattered habits, went 
 To a small village down in Kent ; 
 Wiere, in the strollers' canting strain. 
 They begged from door to door in vain ; 
 Tried every tone might pity win. 
 But not a soul would let them in. 
 
 Our w-andering saints, in w'oful state, 
 Treated at this ungodly rate. 
 Having through all the village past. 
 To a small cottage came at last, 
 AVhere dwelt a good old honest yeoman, 
 Called in tiie neighborhood Philemon, 
 Who kindly did the saints in\-ite 
 In his poor hut to pass the night. 
 And then the hospitable sire 
 Bid Goody Baucis mend tlie fire, 
 \\'hile he from out the chimney took, 
 A Hitch of bacon oft' the hook. 
 And freclv from the fattest side 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 
 
 283 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 Cut out large slices to be fi'ied ; 
 Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, 
 Filled a large jug up to the brink, 
 And saw it fairly twice go round; 
 Yet (what was wonderful) they found 
 'T was still replenished to the top. 
 As if they ne'er had touched a drop. 
 The good old couple were amazed, 
 Aud often on each other gazed : 
 For both were frighted to the heart, 
 Aud just began to cry, " What art ? " 
 Then softly turned aside to view 
 Whether the hghts were burning blue. 
 The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't. 
 Told them their calUug and their errant : 
 " Good folks, you need not be afraid. 
 We are but saints," the hermits said; 
 " No hurt shall come to you or yours ; 
 But, for that pack of churlish boors, 
 Not fit to live on Christian ground. 
 They and their houses shall be drowned : 
 Wliile you shall see your cottage rise, 
 
 Aud grow a church before your eyes." 
 
 They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft. 
 
 The roof began to mount aloft ; 
 
 Aloft rose every beam and rafter. 
 
 The heavy wall chmbed slowly after. 
 The chimney widened, and grew higher. 
 
 Became a steeple with a spire. 
 The kettle to the top was hoist. 
 
 And there stood fastened to a joist ; 
 
 But with the up-side down, to show 
 
 Its iuclination for below : 
 
 In vain ; for some superior force, 
 
 Applied at bottom, stops its course ; 
 
 Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 
 
 'T is now no kettle, but a bell. 
 A wooden jack, wliich had almost 
 
 Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
 
 A sudden alteration feels. 
 
 Increased by new intestine wheels : 
 
 And, what exalts the wonder more. 
 
 The number made the motion slower; 
 
 The flier, which, though 't had leaden feet. 
 
 Turned round so quick you scarce could see it. 
 
 Now, slackened by some secret power. 
 
 Can hardly move an inch an hour. 
 
 The jack and chimney, near aUied, 
 
 Had never left each otlier's side : 
 
 The chimney to a steeple grown, 
 
 The jack would not be left alone ; 
 
 But, up against the steeple reared. 
 
 Became a clock, and still adhered ; 
 
 And still its love to household cares. 
 
 By a shrill voice at noon, declares ; 
 
 Warning the cook-maid not to burn 
 
 That roast meat, which it cannot turn. 
 The groaning chair was seen to crawl. 
 
 Like a huge snad, half up the wall; 
 There stuck aloft in public view. 
 And, with small change, a pulpit grew. 
 
 The porringers, that in a row 
 Himg high, and made a glittering show, 
 To a less noble substance changed. 
 Were now but leathern buckets ranged. 
 
 The ballads pasted on the wall. 
 Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
 Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, 
 The Little Chddren in the Wood, 
 Now seemed to look abundance better. 
 Improved in picture, size, and letter; 
 And high in order placed, describe 
 The heraldry of every tribe. 
 
 A bedstead of the antique mode. 
 Compact of timber many a load. 
 Such as our graudsires wont to use. 
 Was metamorphosed into pews ; 
 Which still their ancient nature keep. 
 By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 
 
 The cottage, by such feats as these, 
 Grown to a church by just degrees ; 
 The hermits then desire their host 
 To ask for what he fancied most. 
 Plulemon, having paused awhile. 
 Returned them thanks in homely style ; 
 Then said, " My house is grown so fine, 
 Methinks I still woidd call it mine : 
 I 'm old, and fain would hve at ease ; 
 Make me the parson, if you please." 
 He spoke, and presently he feels 
 His grazier's coat fall down his heels : 
 He sees, yet hardly can beheve, 
 About each arm a pudding sleeve : 
 His waistcoat to a cassock grew, 
 Aud both assumed a sable hue ; 
 But being old, continued just 
 As threadbare and as fuU of dust. 
 His talk was now of tithes and dues.; 
 Could smoke his pipe, and read the news : 
 Knew how to preach old sermons next. 
 Vamped in the preface and the text : 
 At christenings well coiJd act liis part, 
 Aud had the service all by heart ; 
 Wished women might have children fast. 
 And thought whose sow had farrowed last : 
 Against dissenters woidd repine. 
 And stood up firm for right divine : 
 Found his head filled with many a system. 
 But classic authors — he ne'er missed them. 
 
 Thus having furbished up a parson. 
 Dame Baucis next they played their farce on : 
 Instead of homespim coifs, were seen 
 Good pinners, edged with Colberteen : 
 Her petticoat, transformed apace, 
 Became black satin flouuced with lace. 
 Plain Goody woidd no longer down ; 
 
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a- 
 
 — • — 
 
 284 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 -0) 
 
 'T was Madam, in lier grogram gown. 
 Pliilcmon was in great surprise. 
 And liartDy coidd believe his eyes : 
 Amazed to see her look so prim ; 
 And shevadniired as much at liim. 
 
 Thus, happy iu tlieir change of life, 
 Were several years the man and wife : 
 When on a day, which proved their last, 
 Discoursing o'er old stories past, 
 They went by chance, amidst their talk, 
 To the churcliyard to fetch a walk ; 
 When Baucis hastily cried out, 
 "My dear, I see your forehead sprout! " 
 " Sprout, " quoth the Hian, " what 's this you tell us ? 
 I hope you don't believe me jealous ? 
 But yet, methiuks, I feci it true ; 
 And really yours is budding too — 
 Nay — now I cannot stir my foot ; 
 It feels as if 't were taking root." 
 
 Description would but tire my Muse ; 
 In short, they both were turned to yews. 
 
 Old Goodman Dobson, of the green, 
 Remembers he the trees hath seen; 
 He 'U talk of them from noon to night. 
 And goes with folks to show the sight; 
 On Sundays, after evening prayer. 
 He gathers all the parish there ; 
 Points out the place of either yew. 
 Here Baucis, there Philemon grew. 
 Till once a parson of our town. 
 To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; 
 At which 't is hard to be believed 
 How much the other tree was grieved ; 
 Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted ; 
 So the next parson stubbed and burnt it. 
 
 THE JUDICIAL COURT OF VENUS, 
 But since tlie case appeared so nice, 
 She thought it best to take advice. 
 The Muses, by the king's permission. 
 Though foes to love, attend the session. 
 And on the right hand took their places 
 In order; on the loft, the (iraces : 
 To whom she miglit her doubts propose 
 On all emergencies that rose. 
 The Muses oft were seen to frown ; 
 The Graces, half ashamed, looked down ; 
 And 'twas observed, there were but few 
 Of either sex among the crew 
 Whom slic or her assessors knew. 
 Th(' goddess soon began to see 
 Things were not ripe for a decree ; 
 And said she must consult her books. 
 The lovers' Flctas, Bractons, Cokes. 
 Tirst to a d;ipper clerk slie beckoned 
 To turn to Ovid, book tlie second : 
 She then referred them to a place 
 
 fr 
 
 In Virgil, vide Dido's case : 
 
 As for TibuUus's reports. 
 
 They never passed for law in courts : 
 
 For Cowley's briefs, and pleas of W^aller, 
 
 Still their authority was smaller. 
 
 There was on both sides much to say : 
 She 'd hear the cause another day ; 
 And so she did ; and then a third ; 
 She heard it — there she kept her word : 
 But, with rejoinders, or replies. 
 Long bdls, and answers stuffed with lies. 
 Demur, imparlance, and essoign. 
 The parties ne'er could issue join: 
 For sixteen years the cause was spun, 
 And then stood where it first begun. 
 
 Cadeiius and Vanessa. 
 
 THE BIRTH AND BREEDING OF VANESSA. 
 
 In a glad hour Lucina's aid 
 Produced on earth a wondrous maid. 
 On whom the Queen of Love was bent 
 To try a new experiment. 
 Slie threw her law-books on tlie shelf. 
 And tluis debated with herself; 
 
 " Since men allege, they ne'er can find 
 Those beauties in a female mind 
 Which raise a flame that will endure 
 Forever uucorrupt and pure ; 
 If 't is with reason they complain, 
 This infant shall restore my reign. 
 I '11 search where every virtue dwells. 
 From courts inclusive down to cells : 
 AVhat preachers talk, or sages write, 
 These will I gather and unite. 
 And represent them to mankind 
 
 Collected in that infant's mind." 
 
 This said, she plucks in heaven's liigh bowers 
 
 A sprig of amaranthine (lowers. 
 
 In nectar thrice infuses bays. 
 
 Three times refined in Titan's rays ; 
 
 Then calls the Graces to her aid. 
 
 And sprinkles thrice tlic new-born maid : 
 
 From whence the tender skin assumes 
 
 A sweetness above all perfumes : 
 
 From whence a cleanliness remains. 
 
 Incapable of outward stains ; 
 
 From whence that decency of mind. 
 
 So lovely in the female kind, 
 
 Wliei'C not one careless tliought intrudes, 
 
 Less modest than the speech of prudes ; 
 
 Where never blush was called in aid. 
 
 That spurious virtue in a maid, 
 
 A virtue but at second-hand ; 
 
 They blush liecausc they understand. 
 Tlic (iraces next would act their part. 
 
 And showed but little of their art ; 
 
 Their work was half already done. 
 
 * 
 
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a- 
 
 AN APOTHECARY'S ADDRESS. 
 
 285 
 
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 ^ 
 
 The cMd witli native beauty shone ; 
 The outward form no help required : 
 Eacli, breathing on her thriee, inspired 
 That gentle, soft, engaging air, 
 Which in old times adorned the fair : 
 And said, " Vanessa be the name 
 By which thou shalt be known to fame : 
 Vanessa, by the gods enrolled ; 
 Her name on earth shall not be told." 
 
 Cadenus and Vanessa. 
 
 LEARNING AS A SHIELD FROM TEE ATTACKS 
 OF LOVE, 
 
 But Cupid, full of mischief, longs 
 To vindicate his mother's wrongs. 
 On Pallas all attempts are vain : 
 One way he knows to give her pain ; 
 Vows on Vanessa's heart to take 
 Due vengeance, for her patron's sake ; 
 Tliosc early seeds by Venus sown. 
 In spite of Pallas now were grown ; 
 And Cupid hoped they would improve 
 By time, and ripen into love. 
 The boy made use of all his craft, 
 In vain discharging many a shaft. 
 Pointed at colonels, lords, and beaux : 
 Cadenus warded off the blows ; 
 Por, placing still some book betwixt. 
 The darts were in the cover fixed, 
 Or often blunted and recoiled. 
 On Plutarch's Moral struck, were spoiled. 
 
 Cadenus and Vanessa, 
 
 LOVE AND PHILOSOPHT. 
 
 Love can with speech inspire a mute, 
 And taught Vanessa to dispute. 
 This topic, never touched before, 
 Displayed lier eloquence the more : 
 Her knowledge, with such pains acquired, 
 By this new passion grew inspired ; 
 Through this she made aU objects pass, 
 Wliieh gave a tincture o'er the mass ; 
 As rivers, though they bend and twine. 
 Still to the sea their course incline : 
 Or, as philosophers who find 
 Some favorite system to their mind, 
 In every point to make it fit, 
 Will force all nature to submit. 
 
 Cadenus, who could ne'er suspect 
 His lessons would have such effect. 
 Or be so artfully applied, 
 Insensibly came on her side. 
 It was an unforeseen event ; 
 Tilings took a turn he never meant. 
 Whoe'er excels in what we prize, 
 Appears a hero in our eyes ; 
 
 Each girl, when pleased with what is taught. 
 
 Will have the teacher in her tliought. 
 
 When miss deUghts in her spinet, 
 
 A fidcUer may a fortune get ; 
 
 A blockhead, with melodious voice, 
 
 In boarding-schools may have his choice : 
 
 And oft the dancing-master's art 
 
 Climbs from the toe to touch the lieart. 
 
 In learning let a nymph delight. 
 
 The pedant gets a mistress by 't. 
 
 Cadenus, to his grief and shame, 
 
 Could scarce oppose Vanessa's flame ; 
 
 And, thoiigh her arguments were strong. 
 
 At least could hardly wish them wrong. 
 
 Howe'er it came, he could not tell. 
 
 But sure she never talked so well. 
 
 His pride began to interpose ; 
 
 Preferred before a crowd of beaux ! 
 
 So bright a nyinph to come unsought ! 
 
 Such wonder by his merit wrought ! 
 
 'T is merit must with her prevail ! 
 
 He never knew her judgment fail I 
 
 She noted all she ever read I 
 
 And had a most discerning head ! 
 
 'T is an old maxim in the schools. 
 That flattery 's the food of fools ; 
 Yet now and then your men of wit 
 WiU condescend to take a bit. 
 
 Cadenus and Vanessa. 
 
 SIR SAMUEL GARTH. 
 
 1660 - 1719. 
 
 AN APOTHECARY'S ADDRESS. 
 
 CouLDST thou propose that we, the friends of 
 fates. 
 Who fill churchyards, and who unpeople states, 
 W\m baflle nature, and dispose of lives, 
 Wiilst Rnssel, as we please, or starves or thrives, 
 Should e'er submit to their despotic will. 
 Who out of consultation scarce can skill ? 
 The towering Alps shall sooner sink to vales. 
 And leeches, in our glasses, swell to whales ; 
 Or Norwich trade in instruments of steel. 
 And Birmingham in stuffs and druggets deal ! 
 Alleys at Wapping furuish us new modes. 
 And Monmouth Street, Versailles, with riding- 
 hoods ; 
 The sick to the Hundreds in pale throngs repair, 
 And change the Gravel-pits for Kentish air. 
 Our properties must on our arms depend ; 
 'T is next to conquer, bravely to defend. 
 'Tis to the vulgar death too harsh appears; 
 The ill we feel is only in our fears. 
 
 To die, is landing on some silent shore, 
 
 -* 
 
(Q- 
 
 286 
 
 PHILIPS. — CIBBEE. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Where billows never break, nor tempests roar : 
 Ere well we feel the i'rienclly stroke, 'tis o'er. 
 The wise through thought the insults of death 
 
 defy ; 
 The fools through blessed insensibility. 
 'T is what the guilty fear, the pious crave ; 
 Sought by the wretch, and vanquished by the 
 
 brave. 
 It eases lovers, sets the captive free ; 
 And, though a tyrant, offers liberty. 
 
 T/ie Dispensnnj. 
 
 SLOTH, 
 
 Tins place, so fit tor undisturbed repose, 
 The god of sloth for his asylum chose ; 
 Upon a couch of down in these abodes. 
 Supine with folded arms, he thoughtless nods ; 
 Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, 
 With murmurs of soft rills, and wliispering trees : 
 Tlie poppy and each numbing plant dispense . 
 Their drowsy virtue and dull indolence ; 
 No passions interrupt liis easy reign, 
 No problems puzzle his lethargic brain : 
 But dark oblivion guards his peacefid bed. 
 And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. 
 
 AMBROSE PHILIPS. 
 
 1671-1749. 
 
 TEAN8LATI0N OF A FEASMENT OF SAPPHO. 
 
 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, 
 The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
 And hears and sees thee all the while 
 Softly speak and sweetly smile. 
 
 'T was this deprived my soid of rest. 
 And raised such tumults in my breast ; 
 For while I gazed, in transport tossed. 
 My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 
 
 My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
 Ran quickly through my vital frame ; 
 O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 
 My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 
 
 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, 
 My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; 
 My feeble pulse forgot to play ; 
 I fainted, sunk, and died away. 
 
 TO CHARLOTTE PULTENET. 
 
 Tim ELY blossom, infant fair, 
 Fondling of a happy pair, 
 Every mom and eveiy night 
 
 ^g-- 
 
 Their solicitous deUght ; 
 Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
 Pleasing, without skill to please. 
 Little gossip, blithe and hale. 
 Tattling many a broken tale. 
 Singing many a tuneless song, 
 Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
 Simple maiden, void of art. 
 Babbling out the very heart, 
 Yet abandoned to thy wUl, 
 Yet imagining no ill, 
 Yet too innocent to blush ; 
 Like the linnet in the bush, 
 To the mother-linnet's note 
 Modeling her slender throat ; 
 Chirping forth thy petty joys. 
 Wanton in the cliange of toys, 
 Like the linnet green in May 
 Elitting to each bloomy spray ; 
 Wearied then and glad of rest, 
 Like the linnet in the nest. 
 This thy present happy lot, 
 This in time will be forgot ; 
 Other pleasures, other cares, 
 Ever-busy Time prepares ; 
 And thou shalt in thy daughters see, 
 This picture once resembled thee. 
 
 COLLEY GIBBER. 
 
 1671-1757. 
 
 THE BLiro EOT, 
 
 O, SAY ! what is that thing called light, 
 Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 
 
 Wliat are the blessings of the sight ? 
 0, tell your poor blind boy ! 
 
 You talk of wondrous things you see, 
 Y'ou say the sun shines bright ; 
 
 I feel him warm, but how can he 
 Or make it day or night ? 
 
 My day or night myself I make, 
 
 Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
 And could I ever keep awake. 
 
 With me 't were always day. 
 
 With heavy sighs I often liear 
 Y'ou mourn my luijiless woe ; 
 
 But sui'c with paticiiec I can bear 
 A loss I ne'er can know. 
 
 Then let not what I cannot have 
 
 My cheer of mind destroy ; 
 Wliilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
 
 Although a poor blind boy. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 HOW ARE THY SERVANTS BLEST, LORD! 
 
 287 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 1G73-1719. 
 
 THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH. 
 
 T[1K spacious finnaineut on liigli. 
 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 
 Aud spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 
 Tlieir great Original pi-oclaim. 
 
 The unwearied Sun from day to day 
 
 Does his Creator's power display ; 
 
 And publishes, to every land, 
 
 The work of an almighty hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The Moon takes up the wondrous tale ; 
 And nightly, to the listening Earth, 
 Repeats the story of her birth : 
 Wiilst all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets, in tlieir turn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round tlie dark terrestrial ball ; 
 What though nor real voice nor sound 
 Amidst their radiant orbs be found : 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 Forever singing as they shine, 
 " The hand that made us is divine." 
 
 WHEN ALL THY MERCIES, MT GOD, 
 
 When all thy mercies, O my God, 
 
 My rising soul surveys, 
 Transported with the view, I'm lost 
 
 In wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 0, how shall words with equal warmth 
 
 The gratitude declare. 
 That glows within my ravished heart ! 
 
 But thou canst read it there. 
 
 Thy providence my hfe sustained, 
 And all my wants redressed, 
 
 Wlien in the silent womb I lay, 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 
 To all my weak complaints and cries 
 
 Thy mercy lent an ear, 
 Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 
 
 To form themselves in prayer. 
 
 Unnumbered comforts to my soul ' 
 
 Thy tender care bestowed. 
 Before ray infant heart conceived 
 
 From whence these comforts flowed. 
 
 Wlien in the sKppery paths of youth 
 
 With heedless steps I ran, 
 Thine arm unseen conveyed me safe, 
 
 And led me up to man. 
 
 Through hidden dangers, toUs, and death. 
 
 It gently cleared my way ; 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice. 
 
 More to be feared than they. 
 
 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou 
 With health I'enewed my face ; 
 
 Aud when in sins and sorrows sunk. 
 Revived my soul with grace. 
 
 Thy bounteous hand with worldly bUss 
 
 Has made my cup run o'er. 
 And in a kind and faithful friend 
 
 Has doubled all my store. 
 
 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 
 
 !My daily thanks employ ; 
 Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 
 
 That tastes those gil'ts with joy. 
 
 Through every period of my life 
 
 Thy goodness I 'U pursue ; 
 And after death, in distant worlds, 
 
 The glorious theme renew. 
 
 Wlien nature fails, and day and niglit 
 
 Divide thy works no more. 
 My ever-gratofid heart, Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy shall adore. 
 
 Through all eternity, to thee 
 
 A joyful song I 'U raise ; 
 For, O, eternity 's too short 
 
 To utter all thy praise ! 
 
 HOW ARE THY SERVANTS BLEST, LORD I 
 
 How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
 
 Their help Omnipotence. 
 
 In foreign realms, and lands remote. 
 
 Supported by thy care. 
 Through buniing chmes I passed unhurt. 
 
 And breathed in tainted air. 
 
 Thy mercy sweetened every soil. 
 
 Made every region please ; 
 The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. 
 
 And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 
 
 Think, O my soul, devoutly think, 
 
 How, with affrighted eyes. 
 Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep 
 
 In all its horrors rise. 
 
 -9> 
 
e 
 
 288 
 
 ADDISON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 *- 
 
 Confusion dwelt in every face, 
 
 And fear in every lieart ; 
 "When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, 
 
 O'ercame the pilot's art. 
 
 Yet tlicn from all my griefs, Lord, 
 
 Tiiy mercy set me free ; 
 ^liilst, in tile confidence of prayer, 
 
 ily soul took iiold on thee. 
 
 For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
 
 High on the broken wave, 
 I knew thou wert not slow to hear. 
 
 Nor impotent to save. 
 
 The storm was laid, the winds retired. 
 
 Obedient to thy will; 
 Tlie sea that roared at thy command, 
 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 In midst of dangers, fears, and death. 
 
 Thy goodness I '11 adore ; 
 And praise tiiee for thy mercies past. 
 
 And humbly hope for more. 
 
 My life, if thou preserv'st ray life. 
 
 Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
 And death, if death must be my doom. 
 
 Shall join my soul to thee. 
 
 WHEN RISIMe PEOM THE BED OF DEATH, 
 
 When rising from the bed of deatii, 
 O'erwhelmed with guilt and fear, 
 
 I see my Maker face to face, 
 0, how shall I appear ! 
 
 If yet, while pardon may be found. 
 
 And mercy may be sought, 
 My heart with inward horror shrinks, 
 
 And trembles at the thouglit : 
 
 "When thou, Lord, shalt stand disclosed 
 
 In majesty severe, 
 And sit in judgment on my soul, 
 
 0, how shall I appear ! 
 
 But tliou liast told the troubled soul. 
 
 Who docs her sins lament, 
 The timely trilnite of her tears 
 
 Shall endless woe prevent. 
 
 Then see the sorrow of my heart, 
 
 Ere yet it be too late ; 
 And iiear my Saviour's dying groans. 
 
 To give tiiose sorrows weight. 
 
 Tor never shall my soul despair 
 
 Her pardon to procure, 
 Wbo knows thy only Son has died 
 
 To make her jiardon sure. 
 
 THE LORD MY PASTURE SHALL PREPARE 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
 His jiresence shall my wants supply. 
 And guard me with a watchful eye : 
 My noonday walks he shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant ; 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads 
 My weary wandering steps he leads : 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 Though in the' paths of death I tread, 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no ill. 
 For thou, Lord, art with me still; 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid. 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way. 
 Through devious lonely wUds I stray. 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile : 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crowned, 
 And streams shall munnur all around. 
 
 MARLBOROUGH AT THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM, 
 
 But O, my Muse, what numbers wilt thou fiiul 
 To sing the furious troops in battle joined ! 
 Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, 
 The victor's shouts and dying groans confound ; 
 The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies. 
 And all the thunder of the battle rise. 
 'T was then great Marlbro's mighty soul was 
 
 proved, 
 That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 
 Amidst confusion, horror, and despair. 
 Examined all the dreadfid scenes of war ; 
 In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed. 
 To fainting squadrons scut the timely aid. 
 Inspired repulsed battalions to engage. 
 And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
 So when an angel, by divine command. 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land 
 (Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed), 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, 
 And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform. 
 Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 
 
 OATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 It must be so — Plato, thou rcason'est well ! — 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 CATO TO HIS SON. — AMORET. 
 
 289 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tliis longing after immortality ? 
 
 Or wlieuce this secret dread, and inward horror, 
 
 Of falling into naught ? why shrinks the soul 
 
 Dack on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 
 'T is the divinity that stirs witliiu us ; 
 
 'T is heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
 
 i\.nd intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
 
 Through what variety of untried being. 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we 
 pass ? 
 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect, lies before 
 me; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there 's a power above us 
 
 (And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
 
 Through all her works), he must deliglit in virtue ; 
 
 And that which he dehghts in must be happy. 
 
 But wlien!'' or where? This world was made 
 
 for Caesar. 
 I 'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. 
 
 {Laybig his hand on his sword.) 
 Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life, 
 My bane and antidote, are both before me : 
 This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
 But this informs me 1 shall never die. 
 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, aud defies its point. 
 Tlie stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. 
 Unhurt amidst the wars of elements. 
 The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 What means this heaviness that hangs upon 
 me ? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? 
 Nature oppressed, and harassed out with eare. 
 Sinks down to rest. This once I 'U favor her, 
 That my awakened soul may take her flight. 
 Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with hfe. 
 An oft'ering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
 Disturb man's rest : Cato knows neither of them ; 
 Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 
 
 CATO TO HIS SOW. 
 
 Ml' son, thou oft hast seen 
 Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state. 
 Wrestling with vice and faction : now thou seest 
 
 me 
 Spent, overpowered, despairing of success: 
 Let me advise thee to retreat Ix'times 
 To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, 
 Wliere the great Censor toiled with his own hands. 
 And all our frugal ancestors were blest 
 In liumble virtues and a rural life. 
 There live retired ; pray for tlie peace of Rome ; 
 
 Content thyself to be obscurely good. 
 
 When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, 
 
 Tlie post of honor is a private station. 
 
 o»Jo 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 1673-1739. 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 How reverend is the face of this tall pile. 
 Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads 
 To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof. 
 By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, 
 Looking tranquilUty. It strikes an awe 
 And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs 
 And monumental eaves of death look cold. 
 And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
 Give me tliy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
 Nay, quickly speak to ]ne, and let me liear 
 Thy voice, — my own affrights me with its echoes. 
 
 LOVES AMBITION. 
 
 Love 's but the frailty of the mind, 
 'When 't is not with ambition joined ; 
 A sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires, 
 Aiul feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires. 
 
 'T is not to wound a wanton boy, 
 Or amorous youth, that gives tlie joy; 
 But 't is tlie glory to have pierced a swain. 
 For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain. 
 
 Then I alone the conquest prize, 
 
 Wien I insult a rival's eyes : 
 If there 's dehght in love, 't is when I see 
 That heart, which otliers bleed for, bleed for 
 me. 
 
 AMOEET. 
 
 Tair Amoret is gone astray, 
 
 Pursue and seek her, every lover; 
 
 I "11 tell the signs by which you may 
 The wandering shepherdess discover. 
 
 Coquet and coy at once her air. 
 
 Both studied, though both seem neglected ; 
 Careless she is with artful care, 
 
 Alfecting to be uuaifeeted. 
 
 With skill her eyes dart every glance, 
 
 Yet change so soon you 'd ne'er suspect 
 them ; 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 9(1 ROW 
 
 For she 'd persuade fliey wound by chance. 
 Though certain aim and art direct them. 
 
 She hkes herself, yet otlicrs liates 
 For that wliich in hersch' slic prizes ; 
 
 And, while she laughs at tliem, forgets 
 She is the thing which she despises. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 LOVE'S INnDELITIES. 
 
 I TELL thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve, 
 And could again begin to love and live, 
 To you I should my earliest olFeriug give ; 
 I know my eyes would lead my heart to you, 
 And I sliould all my vows and oaths renew; 
 But, to be plain, I never would be true. 
 
 For by our weak and weary truth I find, 
 Love hates to centre in a point assigned : 
 But runs with joy the circle of the mind : 
 Then never let us chain what should be free, 
 But for relief of either sex agree : 
 Since women love to change, and so do we. 
 
 LE3BIA. 
 
 When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, 
 With eyes so bright and with that awful air, 
 I thought my heart would durst so high aspire 
 As bold as his who snatched celestial tire. 
 But soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke, 
 Forth from her coral lips such folly broke ; 
 Like balm the trickhng nonsense healed my 
 
 wound, 
 And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue un- 
 bound. 
 
 BELINDA, 
 
 Pious Selinda goes to prayers. 
 
 If I but ask her i'avor ; 
 And yet the silly fool 's in tears, 
 
 If she believes I '11 leave her. 
 Would I were free from this restraint. 
 
 Or else had hopes to win her : 
 Would she could make of me a saint, 
 
 Or I of her a sinner ! 
 
 MUSIC, 
 
 Music has charms to soothe a savage breast. 
 To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. 
 I 'vc read that things inanimate have moved, 
 And, as willi living souls, have been informed 
 Ky magic numbers and persuasive sound. 
 
 NICHOLAS ROWE. 
 
 1673-1718. 
 
 A WIFE'S STRUGGLE WITH TEMPTATION. 
 A Hall. — C.iLiSTA and Lucill.\. 
 
 C.iLisTA. Be dumb forever, silent as the 
 grave, 
 Nor let thy fond, officious love disturb 
 My solemn sadness with the sound of joy. 
 If thou wilt soothe me, tell some dismal talc 
 Of pming discontent and black despair ; 
 For, O, I 've gone around through all my 
 
 thoughts. 
 But all are indignation, love, or slianie. 
 And my dear peace of mind is lost forever. 
 
 Luc'iLL.\. Why do you follow stiU that wan- 
 dering fire. 
 That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you 
 Benighted in a wilderness of woe, 
 Tliat false Lothario ? Turn from the deceiver ; 
 Turn, and behold where gentle Altaraont 
 Sighs at your feet, and wooes you to be happy. 
 
 C.iL. Away! I tliinknot of Idm. My sad soul 
 Has formed a dismal, melancholy scene. 
 Such a retreat as I woidd wish to find ; 
 An unfrequented vale, o'ergrown with trees 
 Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade 
 Ravens and birds ill-omened only dwell : 
 No sound to break the silence, but a brook 
 That bubbling winds among the weeds : no mark 
 Of any human shape tiiat had been there. 
 Unless a skeleton of some poor wretch 
 Who had long since, like me, by love undone. 
 Sought that sad place out to despair and die in. 
 
 Luc. Alas ! for pity. 
 
 C.vL. There I fain would hide me 
 
 From the base world, from malice, and from 
 
 shame ; 
 For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul 
 Never to live with public loss of honor : 
 'T is fixed to die, rather than bear the insolence 
 Of each afTeeted she that, tells my story. 
 And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous. 
 To be a tale for fools ! Scorned by the w(unen. 
 And pitied by the men. 0, insujiportaljle ! 
 
 Luc. O, hear me, hear your ever faithful 
 creature ; 
 By all the good I wish you, by all the ill 
 My trembling heart forebodes, let mc entreat you 
 Never to see this faithless man again, — 
 Let me forbid iiis coming. 
 
 Cal. On thy life, 
 
 I charge thee, no ; my genius drives me on ; 
 I must, I will beiiold him once again; 
 Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate. 
 And this one interview shall end my cares. 
 My laboring heart, tliat swells with indignation. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 LORD, WHEN I QUIT THIS EARTHLY STAGE. 
 
 291 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Heaves to discharge the burden ; that once 
 
 done, 
 The busy thing shall rest within its cell, 
 And never beat again. 
 
 Luc. Trust not to that : 
 
 Kage is the shortest passion of our souls ; 
 Like narrow brooks that rise with sudden 
 
 showers, 
 It swells in haste, and falls again as soon ; 
 Still as it ebbs the softer thoughts flow in. 
 And the deceiver, love, supphes its place. 
 C.iL. I have been wronged enougli to arm nij 
 
 temper 
 Against the smooth delusion ; but, alas ! 
 (Chide not my weakness, gentle maid, but pity 
 
 me), 
 A woman's softness hangs about me still ; 
 Then let me blush, and tell thee all my folly. 
 1 swear I could not see the dear betrayer 
 Kneel at my feet, and sigh to be forgiven. 
 But my relenting heart would pardon all. 
 And quite forget 't was he that had undone me. 
 
 [E.vit LUCILLA. 
 
 Ha ! Altamont ! Calista, now be wary. 
 And guard thy soul's excesses with dissembling : 
 Nor let tliis hostile husband's eyes explore 
 The warring passions and tumultuous thoughts 
 That rage withiu thee, and deform thy reason. 
 
 TAe Fair Fenitent. 
 
 o»:o 
 
 ISAAC WATTS. 
 
 1674-1748. 
 
 TEE DAT OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 When the fierce north-wind wi^h his airy forces 
 Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury. 
 And the red lightning, with a storm of hail, comes 
 Rusliing amain down. 
 
 How the poor sailors stand amazed, and tremble 
 While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet. 
 Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters, 
 
 Quick to devour them ! 
 
 Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder 
 (If things eternal may be like these earthly). 
 Such the dire terror, when the great archangel 
 Shakes the creation ; 
 
 Tears the strong pillars of the vault of lieavcn. 
 Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes ; 
 See the graves open, and the bones arising, 
 
 Flames all around 'em ! 
 
 Hark the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches ! 
 Lively bright horror, and amazing anguish, 
 
 Stare through their eyelids, while the Uving 
 worm lies 
 
 Gnawmg withiu them. 
 
 Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their 
 
 heart-strings, 
 And the smart twinges when the eye beholds the 
 Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance 
 Rolling afore him. 
 
 Hopeless immortals ! how they scream and 
 
 shiver, 
 Wiilc devils push them to the pit, wide yawning. 
 Hideous and gloomy to receive them headlong 
 Down to the centre. 
 
 Stop here, my fancy ; (all away, ye horrid, 
 Doleful ideas ! ) come, arise to Jesus ! 
 How he sits Godlike ! and the saints around him. 
 Throned, yet adoring ! 
 
 O, may I sit there when he comes triumphant, 
 Dooming the nations ! then ascend to glory. 
 While our hosannas all along the passage 
 
 Shout the Redeemer. 
 
 LORD, WHEN I QUIT THIS EAKTHLY STAGE, 
 
 Lord, when I quit this earthly stage. 
 Where shall I fly but to thy breast ? 
 For I have sought no other home, 
 For 1 have learned no other rest. 
 
 I cannot live contented here. 
 Without some glimpses of thy face ; 
 And heaven without thy presence there 
 Would be a dark and tiresome place. 
 
 When earthly cares engross the day. 
 And hold my thoughts aside from thee, 
 The shining hours of cheerful hght 
 Are long and tedious years to me. 
 
 And if no evening nsit 's paid 
 Between my Saviour and my soul. 
 How dull the night ! how sad the shade ! 
 How mournfully the minutes roll ! 
 
 My God ! and can a humble child 
 That loves thee with a flame so high. 
 Be ever from thy face exiled. 
 Without the pity of thy eye ? 
 
 Impossible ! for thine own hands 
 Have tied my heart, so fast to thee ; 
 And in thy book the promise stands 
 That where thou art thy friends must be 
 
 -^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 292 
 
 AVATTS. 
 
 — 9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 THEKE IS A LAND OF PUKE DELIGHT. 
 
 There is a land of pure deli;^lit, 
 
 Where saints immortal reign ; 
 Lifiuite day excludes the uight, 
 
 And pleasures banish pain. 
 
 Tliere everlasting spring abides, 
 
 And never-withering flowers ; 
 Death, hke a narrow sea, divides 
 
 This heavenly land from ours. 
 
 Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 
 Stand dressed in living green ; 
 So tn the Jews old Canaan stood, 
 
 While Jordan rolled between. 
 
 But timorous mortals start and shrink 
 
 To cross this narrow sea, 
 And linger shivering on the brink, 
 
 And fear to launch away. 
 
 O, could we make our doubts remove, 
 These gloomy doubts that rise. 
 
 And see the Canaan tliat we love 
 With unbeclouded eyes, — 
 
 Could we but climb where Moses stood. 
 
 And view the landscape o'er, 
 Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood, 
 
 Should fright us from the shore. 
 
 UNVEIL THY BOSOM, FAITHFUL TOMB. 
 
 Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb ; 
 
 Take this new treasure to thy trust. 
 And give these sacred relics room 
 
 To seek a slumber in the dust. 
 
 Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear. 
 Invade thy bounds ; no mortal woes 
 
 Can reach the peaceful sleeper here. 
 And angels watch the soft repose. 
 
 So Jesus slept ; God's dying Son 
 
 Passed through the grave, and blessed the bed; 
 Rest here, dear saint, till from his throne 
 
 The morning break and pierce the shade. 
 
 Break from his throne, illustrious Mora ; 
 
 Attend, O earth, his sovereign word ; 
 Restore thy trust, a glorious form : 
 
 It must ascend to meet the Lord. 
 
 A CRADLE HTMN. 
 
 ITusii ! my dear, lie still, and slumber. 
 Holy angels guard tliy bed ! 
 
 Heavenly blessings without number 
 Gently falling on thy head. 
 
 Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment, 
 House and home, thy friends provide ; 
 
 All without thy care or payment. 
 All thy wants are well supplied. 
 
 How much better thou 'rt attended 
 
 Thau the Sou of God could be. 
 When from heaven he descended. 
 
 And became a child like thee I 
 
 Soft and easy is thy cradle : 
 
 Coarse and hard tiiy Saviour lay : 
 
 When his birthplace was a stable. 
 And his softest bed was hay. 
 
 Blessed babe ! what glorious features. 
 
 Spotless, fair, divinely bright ! 
 Must he dwell with brutal creatures ! 
 
 How could angels bear the sight ? 
 
 Was there nothing but a manger 
 
 Cursed sinners could afl'ord. 
 To receive the heavenly Stranger? 
 
 Did they thus affront their Lord ? 
 
 Soft, my child ; I did not chide thee. 
 Though my song might sound too hard ; 
 
 'T is thy mother sits beside thee. 
 And her arms shall be thy guard. 
 
 Yet to read the shameful story, 
 How the Jews abused their King, 
 
 How they served the Lord of glory, 
 Makes me angry while I sing. 
 
 See the kinder shepherds round him. 
 
 Telling wonders from the sky ! 
 There they sought him, there they found him, 
 
 AVith his virgin mother by. 
 
 See the lovely Babe a-dressing ; 
 
 Lovely Infant, how he smiled 1 
 When he wept, the mother's blessing 
 
 Soothed and hushed the holy Child. 
 
 Lo, he slumbers in his manger. 
 
 Where the honied oxen feed ; 
 Peace, my darling, here 's no danger. 
 
 Here 's no ox anear thy bed. 
 
 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying. 
 Save my dear from burning flame. 
 
 Bitter groans and endless crying. 
 That thy blest Redeemer came. 
 
 Mayst thou live to know and fear him. 
 
 Trust and love him all thy days; 
 Then go dwell forever near liini, 
 
 Sec his face and sing his praise ! 
 
 ■^ 
 
(Q- 
 
 THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 
 
 293 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 I could give thee tliousand kisses. 
 Hoping what I most desire ; 
 
 Not a mother's loudest wishes 
 Can to greater joys aspire. 
 
 ON BUKNING BAD VEESES OF EMINENT POETS, 
 
 I JUDGE the Muse of lewd desire ; 
 
 Her sons to darkness, and her works to fire. 
 
 In vain the flatteries of their wit 
 Now with a melting strain, now witii a heavenly 
 flight, 
 
 Would tempt my virtue to approve 
 Those gaudy tinders of a lawless love. 
 
 So harlots dress : they can appear 
 ' Sweet, modest, cool, divinely fair, 
 To charm a Cato's eye ; but all within, 
 Stench, impudence, and fire, and ugly raging sin. 
 
 Die, Flora, die in endless shame. 
 
 Thou prostitute of blackest fame, 
 
 Stript of thy false array. 
 
 Ovid, and all ye wilder pens 
 
 Of modern lust, who gild our scenes, 
 Poison the British stage, and paint damnation gay, 
 
 Attend your mistress to tlie dead ; 
 When Flora dies, her imps should wait upon her 
 shade. 
 
 Strephon, * of noble blood and mind, 
 (Forever shine his name!) 
 
 As death approached, his soul refined, 
 And gave his looser sonnets to the flame. 
 
 " Burn, burn," he cried with sacred rage, 
 
 " Hell is the due of every page, 
 Hell be the fate. (But, O indulgent Heaven ! 
 So vile the Muse, and yet the man forgiven !) 
 Burn on, my songs : for not the silver Thames 
 
 Nor Til)er, with his yellow streams, 
 In endless currents rolling to the main, 
 Can e'er dilute the poison, or wash out the stain." 
 
 So Moses, by divine command, 
 
 Forbade the leprous house to stand 
 Wien deep the fatal spot was grown ; 
 " Break down the timber, and dig up the stone." 
 
 JOHN PHILIPS. 
 
 1676-1708. 
 
 THE SPLENDID SHILLING.t 
 "Sing, heavenly Muse, 
 Things unattempted yet in prose or rliyrae; " 
 A shilling, hreeches, and ehinicias dire. 
 
 Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, 
 In silken or iii leathern purse retains 
 
 * Earl of Rochester. 
 
 + A burlesque imitation of Milton's style. 
 
 A Splendid Shilling : he nor hears with pain 
 New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; 
 But with ids friends, when nightly mists arise, 
 To Juniper's Magpie, or Town Hall repairs ; 
 Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye 
 Transfixed his soul, and kindled amorous flames, 
 Chloe or Phylhs, he each circling glass 
 Wishcth her health and joy and equal love. 
 Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, 
 Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint. 
 But I, whom griping penury surrounds, 
 And hunger, sure attendant upon want, 
 With scanty offals, and small acid tiff 
 (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: 
 Then solitary walk, or doze at home 
 In garret vile, and with a warming putt' 
 Regale chilled fingers ; or from tube as lilaek 
 As winter-cliinmcy or well-polished jet, 
 Exhale mundungns, ill-perl'uming scent. 
 Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, 
 Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree. 
 Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings 
 Full famous in romantic tale) wlien he 
 O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff', 
 U])on a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, 
 High overshadowing rides, with a design 
 To wend his wares at tiie Arvonian mart. 
 Or Maridunum, or the ancient town 
 Yclcped Brecliinia, or where Vaga's stream 
 Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil ! 
 Whence flow neetareous wines, that well may vie 
 With Massic, Setin, or renowned Faleru. 
 
 Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow, 
 Witli looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, 
 Horrible monster ! hated by gods and men. 
 To my aerial citadel ascends.* 
 With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, 
 With hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know 
 The voice ill-boding, and the .solemn sound, 
 What should I do ? or whither turn '^ Amazed, 
 Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
 Of wood-hole ; straight my bristling liairs erect 
 Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews 
 My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell !) 
 My tongue forgets iier faculty of speech ; 
 So horrible he seems ! His faded brow 
 Intrenclied with many a frown, and conic beard. 
 And spreading band, admired by modern saints, 
 Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand 
 Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
 With characters and figures dire inscribed. 
 Grievous to mortal eyes, (ye gods, avert 
 Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him 
 
 stalks 
 Another monster, not unlike itself. 
 Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called 
 A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods 
 
 To wit, his garret. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 294 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 With foi-ce incredible, and magic charms, 
 First have endued : if he liis ample palm 
 Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay 
 Of debtor, straight his body to tlie touch 
 Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) 
 To some enchanted castle is conveyed, 
 Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, 
 In durance strict detain him, till, in form 
 Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. 
 
 Beware, ye debtors ! when ye walk, beware. 
 Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken 
 The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
 Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave. 
 Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
 With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) 
 Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn 
 An everlasting foe, with watchful eye 
 Lies nightly brooding o'er a cliinky gap, 
 Portending her fell claws, to tliouglitlcss mice 
 Sure ruin. So iier diseiubowellcd web 
 Araclme, in a hall or kitchen, spreads 
 Obvious to vagrant flies : she secret stands 
 Within her woven cell ; the humming prey, 
 Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils 
 Inextricable, nor will aught avail 
 Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue. 
 The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, 
 And buttcrlly proud of expanded wings 
 Distinct with gold, entangled iu her snares, 
 Useless resistance make ; with eager strides. 
 She towering flies to her expected spoils : 
 Then with envenomed jaws the vital blood 
 Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave 
 Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. 
 
 So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades 
 This world envelop, and the inclement air 
 Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts 
 With pleasant wines and crackling l)lazc of wood. 
 Me, hjnely sitting, nor the glimmering light 
 Of make-weight candle, nor tlie joyous talk 
 Of loving friend, delights ; distressed, forlorn. 
 Amidst the horrors of the tedious night. 
 Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts 
 My anxious mind ; or sometimes mournful verse 
 Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, 
 Or desperate lady near a pui'ling stream, 
 Or lover pendent on a willow-trcc. 
 Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought. 
 And restless wish, and rave ; my parched throat 
 Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose : 
 But if a slumber haply does invade 
 My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake, 
 Tiioughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream. 
 Tipples imaginary ])ots of ale ; 
 In vain ; - awake I llnd the settled thirst 
 Still gnawing, and ilie jileasant phantom curse. 
 
 Thus do I Vwr, from (ilcasure (piitc debarred. 
 Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays 
 
 Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach. 
 
 Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure. 
 
 Nor medlar fruit delicious iu decay ; 
 
 Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain. 
 
 My galligaskins, tliat have long withstood 
 
 The winter's fury and encroaching frosts, 
 
 By time subdued, (what will not time subdue !j 
 
 An horrid chasm disclose with oriliee 
 
 Wide, discontinuous ; at which tlie winds 
 
 Eurns and Auster and the dreadful force 
 
 Of Boreas, tliat congeals the Crouian waves, 
 
 Tunmltuous enter with dire chilling blasts. 
 
 Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship. 
 
 Long sails secure, or through the jEgean deep, 
 
 Or tlie Ionian, till cruising near 
 
 The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush 
 
 On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks) 
 
 She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered 
 
 oak. 
 So fierce a shock unable to withstand. 
 Admits the sea. In at tlie gaping side 
 The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage. 
 Resistless, overwhelming ; horrors seize 
 The mariners ; Death in their eyes a])pears. 
 They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, 
 
 they pray : 
 (Vain efforts !) still the battering waves rush iu. 
 Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, 
 The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. 
 
 o>«o 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 1679-1717. 
 
 THE HEEMIT. 
 
 Far in a wild, unknown to ])ubHc view. 
 From youth to age a reverend licrmit grew; 
 The moss his bed, the cave his liumble cell. 
 His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : 
 Remote from men, with God he passed the days. 
 Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 
 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose. 
 Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose 
 Tliat Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obey. 
 This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway : 
 His liopcs no more a certain prospect boast. 
 And all the tenor of his soul is lost: 
 So when a smootli expanse receives imprest 
 Calm Nature's image on its watery lire.ast, 
 Down bend the banks, tlie trees depending grov.-. 
 And skies beneath witli answering colors glow ; 
 But if a stone the gentle sea divide. 
 Swift ruining circles curl on every side, 
 And glimmering fragments of a broken sun. 
 Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
 
 eg-- 
 
 -95 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 295 
 
 -95 
 
 ^ 
 
 To clear tliis doubt, to know the world by 
 
 sight, 
 To find it' books or swains report it right 
 (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
 Wiiose feet came wandering o'erthe nightly dew), 
 He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-stalV he bore, 
 And fixed the scallop iu his hat betbre ; 
 Tiicn with the sun a rising journey went. 
 Sedate to think, and watching eacli event. 
 
 The inorn was wasted in the patldess grass. 
 And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
 But when the southern sun had warmed the day, 
 A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
 His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 
 And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
 Then near approaching, " Father, hail ! " he 
 
 cried, 
 "And hail, my son," the reverend sire replied; 
 "Words followed words, from question answer 
 
 flowed. 
 And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
 Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, 
 While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
 Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
 Tluis youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
 
 Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
 Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
 Nature iu silence bid the world repose ; 
 Wiien near the road a stately palace rose : 
 There by the moon through ranks of trees they 
 
 pass, 
 Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of 
 
 grass. 
 It chanced the noble master of the dome 
 Still made his house the wandering stranger's 
 
 home : 
 Yet still tiie kindness, from a thirst of praise. 
 Proved the vain ilourish of expensive ease. 
 The pair arrive : the liveried servants wait ; 
 Tiieir lord i-eceives them at tlie pompous gate. 
 Tiie table groans with costly piles of food. 
 And all is more than hospitably good. 
 Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. 
 Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 
 At length 't is morn, and at the dawn of day 
 Along the wide canals the zephyrs play : 
 Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. 
 And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
 Up rise the guests, ol)cdient to tlie call : 
 An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; 
 liich luscious wine a golden goldet graced, 
 "Which the kind master forced the guests to 
 
 taste. 
 Then, pleased and thankful, from tlie porch 
 
 they go ; 
 And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
 His cup was vanislied ; for in secret guise 
 The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. 
 
 As one who spies a serpent in his way. 
 Glistening and basking in the summer ray. 
 Disordered stops to sliun the danger near. 
 Then walks with faintuess on, and looks with 
 
 fear; 
 So seemed the sire, when far upon the road 
 The shining sjioil his wily partner showed. 
 He stopped with sdence, walked with trembling 
 
 heart. 
 And much he wished, but durst not ask to part ; 
 ]\Iurmuring he lifts his eyes, and tiiinks it hard 
 That generous actions meet a base reward. 
 
 While thus they pass, the sun his glory 
 shrouds, 
 Tlie changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
 A sound in air presaged approaching rain. 
 And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
 Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat. 
 To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
 'T was built with turrets on a rising ground. 
 And strong and large and unimproved around ; 
 Its owner's temper, timorous and severe. 
 Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
 
 As near the miser's heavy doors they drew. 
 Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
 The nimble lightning mixed with showers began, 
 And o'er their heads loud rolling tliunders ran. 
 Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 
 Di'iven by the wind, and battered by the rain. 
 At length some pity warmed the master's breast 
 CT was then his tlireshold first received a guest) ; 
 Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care. 
 And half he welcomes iu the shivering pair ; 
 One frugal fagot lights the naked walls. 
 And Nature's fervor through their limbs recalls; 
 Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine 
 (Each hardly granted), served them both to dine; 
 And wlien the tempest first appeared to cease, 
 A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
 
 With stiU remark the pondering lierniit viewed. 
 In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
 " And why should such," within himself he 
 
 cried, 
 " Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside 't " 
 But what new marks of wonder soon take place 
 In every settling feature of his face. 
 When from his vest the young companion bore 
 That cup, the generous landlord owned before. 
 And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
 The stinted kindness of this churlish soul. 
 
 But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
 The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
 A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
 And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
 The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
 And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 
 
 While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom 
 wrought 
 
 -95 
 
a- 
 
 296 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 With all the travail of uncertain thought ; 
 His ])artiier's acts without their cause appear, 
 'T was there a vice, and seemed a madness here : 
 Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
 Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
 
 Now night's dim shades again involve the sky, 
 Again the wanderers want a place to lie. 
 Again they search, and find a lodging uigh, 
 The soil improved around, the mansion neat, 
 And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; 
 It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind, 
 Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. 
 
 Hither the walkers turn with weary feet. 
 Then bless the mansion, and the master greet : 
 Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise, 
 Tiie courteous master hears, and thus replies : 
 
 " AVilhout a vain, without a grudging heart. 
 To Him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
 From him you come, for him accept it here, 
 A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
 He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread. 
 Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, 
 Wiien the grave household round his hall repair, 
 \\'arned by a bell, and close the hours with 
 prayer. 
 
 At length the world, renewed by calm repose. 
 Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose; 
 Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
 Near the closed cradle where an infant slept. 
 And writhed his neck : the landlord's little pride, 
 O strange return ! grew black, and gasped, and 
 
 died. 
 Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
 How looked our hermit when the fact was done ; 
 Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder 
 
 part. 
 And breatlie blue fire, could more assaidt his 
 heart. 
 
 Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
 He flics, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed. 
 His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
 Pcrpkwed witii roads, a servant showed the way : 
 A river crossed tlie path ; the passage o'er 
 Was nice to find ; the servant trod before : 
 Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 
 Aijd deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
 The yontli, who seemed to watch a time to sin. 
 Approached the careless guide, and thrust him 
 
 in ; 
 riuMging he falls, and rising lifts his head. 
 Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 
 
 Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, 
 He biirsts the bauds of fear, and madly cries, 
 " Detested wretch ! " — But scarce his speech 
 
 began. 
 Wien tiie strange partner seemed no longer 
 
 man : 
 His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
 
 His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet ; 
 Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
 Celestial odors breathe through ])urpled air ; 
 And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
 Wide at liis back their gradual plumes display. 
 The form ethereal burst upon his sight, 
 And moves in all the majesty of light. 
 
 Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, 
 Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
 Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 
 And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
 But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
 (The voice of music ravished as he spoke) : 
 
 " Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to nee un- 
 known. 
 In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
 These charms, success in our bright region find. 
 And force au angel down, to calm thy mind ; 
 For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky. 
 Nay, cease to kneel, — thy fellow-servant I. 
 
 " Then know the truth of government divine, 
 And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
 
 " The Maker justly claims that world he made, 
 In tliis the right of Providence is laid ; 
 Its sacred majesty through all depends 
 On using second means to work his ends : 
 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
 The power exerts Ids attributes on high. 
 Your action uses, nor controls your will. 
 And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
 
 " AVhat strange events can strike with more 
 surprise 
 Thau those wliich lately struck thy wondering 
 
 eyes ? 
 Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just. 
 And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 
 
 "The great, vain man, who fared on costly 
 food. 
 Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
 Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
 And forced his guests to morning draughts of 
 
 wine. 
 Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
 And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
 
 " Tiie mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted 
 door 
 Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor; 
 With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
 That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
 Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
 And feels comjiassion touch his grateful soul. 
 Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. 
 With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
 In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
 And loose from dross the silver runs below. 
 
 "Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. 
 But now the chilil lialf weaned his lieart from 
 (iiid ; 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 FllOM " SATIRES ON THE LOVE OF FAME." 
 
 297 
 
 -Q) 
 
 (Child of liis age) for him he lived in pain, 
 And measured back his steps to earth again. 
 To wliat excesses had his dotage run ? 
 But God, to save the father, took the son. 
 To all but thee in fits he seemed to go 
 (And 't was my ministry to deal the blow). 
 The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust. 
 Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
 
 " But now had all his fortune felt a wrack. 
 Had that false servant sped in safety back ; 
 This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, 
 And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
 Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er. 
 Depart in peace, resign, aud sin no more." 
 
 On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, 
 The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew: 
 Thus looked Elisha when, to mount on high. 
 His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
 Tlie fiery ])omp ascending left to \new ; 
 Tiie prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 
 
 The bending hermit here a prayer begun : 
 " Ijord ! as in heaven, on earth thy will be 
 
 done." 
 Then gladly turning sought liis ancient place. 
 And passed a life of piety and peace. 
 
 oJ*Jo 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG. 
 
 1681-1765. 
 
 FROM "SATIRES ON THE LOVE OF FAME." ' 
 
 Begin. Wlio first the catalogue shall grace ? 
 To quality belongs the highest place. 
 My lord eomes forward ; forward let him come ! 
 Ye vulgar ! at your peril, give him room : 
 He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet. 
 By heraldry proved valiant or discreet. 
 With what a decent pride he throws liis eyes 
 Above the man by three descents less wise ! 
 If virtues at his noble hands you crave, 
 Y(m bid him raise his fathers from the grave. 
 Men should pi'ess forward in fame's glorious 
 
 chase ; 
 Nobles look backward, and so lose the race. 
 
 Let high birth triumph ! What can be more 
 great ? 
 Nothing — but merit in a low estate. 
 To virtue's humblest son let none prefer 
 Vice, though descended from the conqueror. 
 Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, 
 Slight or important, only by their place ? 
 Titles are marks of honest men, and wise : 
 The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies. 
 
 C&- 
 
 On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, 
 But found at length that it reduced his rent; 
 
 His farms were flown ; when, lo ! a sale eomes on, 
 A choice collection ! what is to be done ? 
 He sells his last ; for he the whole will buy ; 
 Sells even his house ; nay, wants whereon to lie : 
 So liigh the generous ardor of the man 
 For Komans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. 
 When terms were drawn, and brought him by 
 
 the clerk, 
 Lorenzo signed the bargain — with his mark. 
 Unlearned men of books assume the eare. 
 
 As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. 
 
 « * * 
 
 Tlie booby father craves a booby son ; 
 And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone. 
 « « « 
 
 These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men. 
 Though satire coueli them with her keenest penj 
 Forever will hang out a solemn face. 
 To put off nonsense with a better grace : 
 As pedlers with some hero's head make bold. 
 Illustrious mark ! w^here pins are to be sold. 
 What 's the bent brow, or neck m thought re- 
 clined ? 
 The body's wisdom to conceal the mind. 
 A man of sense can artifice disdain ; 
 As men of wealth may venture to go plain ; 
 And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot. 
 Solemnity 's a cover for a sot. 
 I find the fool, when I behold the screen ; 
 
 For 't is the wise man's interest to be seen. 
 
 * * * 
 
 And what so foolish as the chance of fame ? 
 How vain the prize ! how impotent our aim ! 
 For what are men who grasp at praise sublime. 
 But bubbles on the rapid stream of time. 
 That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more. 
 
 Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour ? 
 
 * * * 
 
 Thus all will judge, and with one single aim. 
 To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame. 
 The very best ambitiously advise. 
 Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. 
 
 Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait. 
 Proclaim the glory, and augment the state ; 
 Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry 
 Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper stink, and 
 
 die. 
 
 * * * 
 
 You smile, and think this statesman void of use : 
 Why may not time his secret worth produce ? 
 Since apes can roast the choice Castauian nut. 
 Since steeds of genius are expert at put ; 
 Since half the senate not content can say. 
 Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray. 
 
 Wliat makes him model realms, and counsel 
 kings ? 
 An incapacity for smaller things : 
 Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate, 
 Aud tlicneo has undertaken Europe's fate. 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 298 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 i 
 
 Geheimo leaves the realm to Chreraes' skill, 
 And boldly claims a province higher still : 
 To raise a name, the ambitious boy has got, 
 At once, a Bible and a shoiddcr-knot ; 
 Depp in the secret, he looks through the whole. 
 And jntics the dull rogue that saves his soul ; 
 To talk with reverence you must take good heed, 
 Nur shock his tender reason with the creed : 
 Ilowe'cr, well bred, in public he complies, 
 Obligiug friends aloue with blasphemies. 
 
 * » * 
 Health chiefly keeps an atheist iu the dark ; 
 A fever argues better tlian a Clarke : 
 
 Let but the logic in his pulse decay, 
 
 The Grecian ho '11 renounce, and learn to pray. 
 
 * * * 
 Sempronia Uked her man ; and well she iiiight ; 
 
 The youth in person, and in parts, was bright ; 
 Possessed of every virtue, grace, and art. 
 That claims just empire o'er the female heart : 
 He met her passion, all her sighs returned. 
 And in fuU rage of youthful ardor burned : 
 Large his possessions, and beyond lier own : 
 Tlieir bliss the theme and envy of the town : 
 The day was fixed, when, with one acre more. 
 In stepped deformed, debauched, diseased three- 
 score. 
 The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear : 
 Oi pride and avarice who can cure the fair ? 
 
 * * • 
 
 Can wealth give hapjiiness ? look round, and 
 see 
 Wliat gay distress ! what splendid misery ! 
 Whatever fortune lavisldy can po\ir. 
 The mind annihilates, and calls for more ! 
 Wealth is a cheat ; believe not what it says ; 
 Like any lord it promises — and pays. 
 How will the miser startle, to be told 
 Of such a wonder as insolvent gold ! 
 ^\'hat nature wants has an intrinsic weight; 
 .\11 more is but tiie fashion of the plate, 
 Wlueh, for one monumt, charms the fickle view ; 
 H cliarms us now ; anon we east anew ; 
 To some fresh birth of fancy more inclined : 
 Then wed not acres, but a noble mind. 
 
 * ♦ * 
 
 Hark ! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding 
 
 air, 
 And teaeli tlie neighboring echoes liowto swear. 
 By Jove, is faint, and for the simple swain ; 
 She, on tlie Christian system, is profane. 
 But, though tlu' volley rattles in your car, 
 Bi'lieve her dress, she 's not a grenadier. 
 If thuiuier's awful, how much more our dread. 
 When Jove deputes a lady iu bis stead? 
 A lady ! jjardon my mistaken pen, 
 A shameless woman is the worst of men. 
 
 Lavinia is polite, but not profane ; 
 To cliurch as constant as to Drury Lane. 
 She decently, iu form, pays Heaven its due ; 
 And makes a civil visit to her pew. 
 Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air, 
 Conceals her face, which passes for a prayer : 
 Courtesies to courtesies, then, with grace, succeed ; 
 Not one the fair omits, but at the creed. 
 Or if she joins the service, 't is to speak ; 
 Through dreadful silence the pent heart might 
 
 break ; 
 Untaught to bear it, women talk away 
 To God liimself, and fondly think they pray. 
 But sweet their accent, and their air refined; 
 For they 're before tlieir Maker — and mankind : 
 WIkui ladies once are proud of praying wcU, 
 Satan himself will toll the parish bell. 
 * * * 
 
 One to destroy, is murder by the law ; 
 And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe ; 
 To murder thousands, takes a specious name. 
 War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame. 
 
 » * * 
 
 Some future strain, in which the Muse shall 
 tell 
 How science dwindles, and how volumes swell. 
 How commentators each dark jiassage slum, 
 And bold their farthing candle to the sun. 
 
 How tortured texts to speak our sense are 
 made. 
 And every vice is to the scripture laid. 
 
 ON LIFE AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 TiHED Nature's sweet restoreu, lialmy Sleep ! 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 Where fortune smiles; the wretched be forsakes ; 
 Swift on bis downy pinion flies from woe. 
 And lights on Uds unsullied with a tear. 
 
 From short (as usual) and disturbed repose, 
 I wake : how happy tliey, who wake no more ! 
 Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. 
 I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
 Tuumltuous ; where my wrecked desponding 
 
 thought. 
 From wave to wave of fancied misery. 
 At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 
 Though now restorcd,'t is only change of jiain, 
 (A bitter change !) severer for severe. 
 Tiie day too short for my distress ; and night, 
 Even in the zeuilli of her dark domain, 
 Is sunshine to the color of my fate. 
 
 Night, sable goddess ! from h(?r ebon throne. 
 In rayless majesty, now strctclu's forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. 
 Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how- profound ! 
 Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds ; 
 Creation sleeps. 'T is as the general i)ulse 
 
 -g> 
 
cfi- 
 
 ON LIFE AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 209 
 
 -n> 
 
 Of life stood still, and nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
 And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled ; 
 Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 
 Silence and darkness ! solemn sisters ! twins 
 
 From 
 
 i^ht, who nurse the tender 
 
 ancient ni 
 
 thnught 
 To reason, and on reason build resolve 
 (That column of true majesty in mauj, 
 Assist me : I will thank you in the grave ; 
 The grave, your kingdom : there this frame shall 
 
 fall 
 A victim sacred to your dreary shrjne. 
 But what are ye? — 
 
 Tiiou, who didst put to flight 
 Primeval silence, wlien the morning stars, 
 Exulting, shouted o'er the rising bull ; 
 
 tluiu, wliose word from solid darkness struck 
 That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; 
 My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her 
 
 treasure, 
 As misers to their gold, wliile others rest. 
 
 Through this opaque of nature and of soul, 
 This doulile night, transmit one pitying ray. 
 To lighten and to ciieer. O, lead my mind 
 (A mind that fain would wander from its woe), 
 Lead it through various scenes of life and death ; 
 And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
 Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; 
 Teacii my best reason reason ; my best will 
 Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
 Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : 
 Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, poured 
 On this devoted head, be poured in vain. 
 
 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 
 But from its loss. To give it then a tongue 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
 
 1 feel the solemn sound. If heard aright. 
 It is the knell of my departed hours : 
 
 Where are tliey? With the years beyond tlie 
 
 flood. 
 It is the signal that demands despatch : 
 How nuicli is to be done ? My hopes and fears 
 Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
 Look down. On what ':" a fathomless abyss ; 
 A dread eternity ! iiow surely mine ! 
 And can eternity belong to me. 
 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? 
 
 How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
 How complicate, how wonderfiJ, is man ! 
 Haw passing wonder He, who made him such ! 
 Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
 From different natures marvellously mixt. 
 Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! 
 Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
 A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorbed ! ■ 
 Though sidlied and dishonored, still divine ! 
 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
 Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
 A worm ! a god ! — I tremlde at myself, 
 And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger, 
 Tlujught wanders up and down, surprised, aghast. 
 And wondering at her own ; how reason i-eels ! 
 O, what a miracle to man is man, 
 Triumpliantly 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. 
 
 'T is past conjecture ; all things rise in proof : 
 While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread : 
 Wliat though my soul fantastic measures trod 
 O'er fairy fields ; or mourned along the gloom 
 Of patldess woods ; or down the craggy steep 
 Hurled headlong, swam witli pain the mantled 
 
 pool ; 
 Or scaled the cliif ; or danced on hollow winds. 
 With antic shapes, wild natives of tlie brain ? 
 Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks lier 
 
 nature 
 Of subtler essence than the trodden clod ; 
 Active, aerial, towering, uncoufincd. 
 Unfettered with lier gross companion's fall. 
 Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal : 
 Even silent night proclaims eternal day. 
 F(n' human weal. Heaven hnsljands all events ; 
 Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in 
 
 vain. 
 Wiy then their loss de|ilore, that arc not lost ? 
 Why wanders wretched thouglit their tombs 
 
 around, 
 In infidel distress ? Are angels thpre ? 
 Shnnbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ? 
 
 They live ! they greatly live a life on earth 
 Unkindlcd, unconeeived ; and from an eye 
 Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 
 On me, more justly numbered with the dead. 
 This is the desert, this the solitude : 
 How populous, how vital, is tlie grave ! 
 This is creation's melunclioly vault. 
 The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; 
 The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
 All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond 
 Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed : 
 How solid all, where change shall be no more ! 
 
 This is the bud of being, the dim dawn. 
 The twilight of our day, tlie vestibule ; 
 Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, 
 Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar. 
 Tins gross impediment of clay remove. 
 And make us embryos of existence free. 
 From real life, but little more remote 
 Is he, not yet a candidate for light, 
 The future embryo, slumbering in his sire. 
 
 <^— 
 
 ■w 
 
a- 
 
 300 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell. 
 You niiibicut azure shell, aud spring to life, 
 The life of gods. O transport ! and of mau. 
 
 Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts ; 
 Inters eclestial hopes without one sigh. 
 Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath tlie moon. 
 Here pinions all his wishes ; winged by Heaven 
 To fly at infinite ; and reach it there, 
 Wiiere seraphs gatlier immortality. 
 On life's fair tree, fast by the throuc of God. 
 What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow. 
 In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 
 Wliere momentary ages are no more ! 
 Where time aud pain aud chance and death ex- 
 pire ! 
 And is it in the flight of threescore years, 
 To push eternity from human thought. 
 And smother' souls immortal in the dust? 
 A soul immortal, spending all her fires. 
 Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 
 Tiirown into tumult, raptured, or alarmed. 
 At aught tills scene can threaten or indulge, 
 Resembles ocean into tempest wrought. 
 To waft a feather, or to drowu a fly. 
 
 Where falls this eensui-e? It o'erwhelms my- 
 self; 
 How was my heart incrnsted by the world ! 
 0, how self-fettered was my grovelling soul ! 
 How, like a worm, was I wrapt round and round 
 In silken thought, which reptile fancy spun. 
 Till darkened reason lay quite clouded o'er 
 With soft conceit of endless comfort here, 
 Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies ! 
 Nir//itT/ioiif//ifs, Night I. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 De.\tii ! great proprietor of all ! 'tis thine 
 To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. 
 The sun himself by thy permission shines ; 
 And, one day, thou shalt pluck liiiu from his 
 
 sphere. 
 Amid snch mighty plunder, why exhaust 
 Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean ? 
 Why tliy peculiar rancor wreaked on me ? 
 Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
 Thy shaft flew thrice ; and thrice my peace was 
 
 slain ; 
 Aud thrice, ere tliriec you moou had tilled her 
 
 horn. 
 O Cynthia ! why so pale? Dost thou lament 
 Tliy wretched neiglibor ? Grieve to see thy wheel 
 Of ceaseless change nutwhirled in human life? 
 How wanes my borrowed bliss ! from fortune's 
 
 smile, 
 rrcearions courtesy.! not virtue's sure. 
 Self-given, solar ray of sound deliglit. 
 
 NIff/it ThoughU, Night I. 
 
 PKOCRASTINATION. 
 
 Be wise to-day ; 't is madness to defer ; 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
 Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. 
 Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled. 
 And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
 If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? 
 That 't is so frequent, this is stranger still. 
 
 Kiijht Thoughts, Night I. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 An ! how unjust to nature, and himself. 
 Is thoughtless, thankless, iuconsistent man ; 
 Like children babbling nonsense in their sports. 
 We censure nature for a span too short ; 
 That span too short, we tax as tedious too ; 
 Torture invention, all expedients tire, 
 To lash the lingering moments into speed, 
 Aud whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves. 
 Art, brainless art ! our furious charioteer 
 ( For nature's voice unstifled would recall) 
 Drives headlong towards the )n'cci])iee of death ; 
 Death, most our dread; death thus more dread- 
 ful made : 
 O, what a riddle of absurdity ! 
 Leisure is pain ; takes oiF our chariot wheels ; 
 How heavily we drag the load of life ! 
 Blest leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, 
 It makes us wander; wander earth around 
 To fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groaned 
 Tlie world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. 
 We cry for mercy to the next amusement ; 
 The next amusement mortgages our fields ; 
 Slight inconvenience ! prisons hardly frown. 
 Prom hateful time if prisoVis set us free. 
 Yet when death kindly tenders us relief. 
 We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink, 
 Ages to years. The telescope is turned. 
 To man's false optics (from his folly false) 
 Time, in advance, behind iiim hides his wings, 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with his age; 
 Behold him, when past by ; what then is seen 
 But his broad pinions, swifter than the winds ? 
 And all mankind, in contradiction strong, 
 Rueful, aghast ! cry out on his career. 
 
 Kight Thoughts, Night II. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 Cklestiai Happiness, whene'er she stoops 
 To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, 
 Aud one alone, to make her sweet amends 
 For absent heaven, — -the bosom of a friend ; 
 Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, 
 Eacli other's pillow to repose divine. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 IDEAL OF A CHRISTIAN. 
 
 301 
 
 -Q) 
 
 h 
 
 Beware the counterfeit : in passion's flame 
 Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder froze. 
 True love strikes root in reason ; passion's foe : 
 Virtue alone eutenders us for life : 
 I wrong her much — entenders us forever : 
 Of friendship's fairest fruits, the fruit most fair 
 Is virtue kindling at a rival flre, 
 And, emulously, rapid in her race. 
 
 the soft enmity ! endearing strife ! 
 
 This carries friendship to her noontide point, 
 And gives the rivet of eternity. 
 
 Nigki Thoughts, Night II. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid 
 My heart at rest beneath this humble shed. 
 The world 's a stately bark, on dangerous seas, 
 With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril ; 
 Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, 
 
 1 hear the tumult of the distant tlirong, 
 As that of seas remote, or dying storms : 
 And meditate on scenes more silent still ; 
 Pursue thy theme, and fight the fear of death. 
 Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut, 
 Touehing his reed, or leaning on his staff', 
 Eager ambition's fiery chase I see ; 
 
 I see the circling hunt, of noisy men. 
 Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right. 
 Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey ; 
 As wolves, for rapine ; as the fox, for wiles ; 
 Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all. 
 Night Thoughts, Night IV. 
 
 THE RISEN CHRIST. 
 
 And did he rise ? 
 Hear, ye nations ! hear it, O ye dead ! 
 He rose ! he rose ! He burst the bars of death. 
 Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates ! 
 And give the King of glory to come in. 
 Who is the King of glory ? He who left 
 His throne of glory, for the pang of death : 
 Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates ! 
 And give the King of glory to come in. 
 Who is the King of glory? He who slew 
 The ravenous foe, that gorged all human race ! 
 Tlie King of glory, he, w-hose glory filled 
 Heaven with amazement at his love to man ; 
 And with divine complacency beheld 
 Powers most illumined, wildered in the theme. 
 Night Thovghts, Night IV. 
 
 RELIGIOUS ARDOR. 
 
 O YE cold-hearted, frozen formalists ! 
 
 On such a theme, 't is impious to be calm ; 
 
 Passion is reason, transport temper, here. 
 
 Shall Heaven, which gave us ardor, and has 
 
 shown 
 Her own for man so strongly, not disdain 
 What smooth emollients in theology. 
 Recumbent virtue's downy doctors preach, 
 That prose of piety, a lukewarm praise ? 
 Rise odors sweet from incense uuinflamed ? 
 Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout ; 
 But when it glows, its heat is struck to heaven ; 
 To human hearts her golden harps are strung ; 
 High heaven's orchestra chants amen to man. 
 
 Night Thoughts, Night IV. 
 
 IDEAL OF A CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw 
 Wiat nothing less than angel can exceed ! 
 A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
 Like ships in sea, while in, above the world. 
 
 With aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
 Behold him seated on a mount serene. 
 Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm ; 
 All the black cares and tumults of this life, 
 Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 
 Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave, 
 A mingled mob ! a wandering herd ! he sees 
 Bewildered in the vale ; in all unlike ! 
 His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? 
 What stronger demonstration of the right ? 
 
 The ])rcsent all their care ; the future, his. 
 When public welfare calls, or private want. 
 They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals. 
 Their virtues varnish nature ; his exalt. 
 Mankind's esteem they court; and he, his own. 
 Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities ; 
 His, the composed possession of the true. 
 Ahke throughout is liis consistent peace, 
 All of one color, and an even thread ; 
 While party-colored shreds of happiness. 
 With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
 A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows 
 The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 
 
 He sees with other eyes than theirs ; where 
 they 
 Behold a sun, he spies a Deity ; 
 Wliat makes them only smile, makes liim adore. 
 Wliere they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
 An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain. 
 They things terrestrial worship as divine : 
 His hopes immortal blow them by as dust. 
 That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, 
 Wliieli longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 
 Titles and lionors (if they prove his fate) 
 He lays aside to find his dignity ; 
 No dignity they find in aught besides. 
 They triumph in externals (which conceal 
 Man's real glory), proud of an eclipse. 
 
 -9^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 302 
 
 SOMERVILLE. 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 Himself too mucli he prizes to be proud, 
 And untiling tliinks so great in man, as man. 
 Too dear he hohls his interest, to negleet 
 Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
 Tlieir interest, Kke a lion, lives on prey. 
 Tlicy kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; 
 ^Vrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven, 
 Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe ; 
 Naught but what wounds his virtue wounds 
 his peace. j.-^^^ Thoughts, Night VIII. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 Wu.^T is tli8 world itself ? Thy world — a grave. 
 'W'here is the dust that has not been alive ? 
 The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors; 
 From human mould wc reap our daily bread. 
 Tlie globe around earth's hollow suri'ace sliakcs. 
 And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
 O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
 ^\'hole buried towns support the dancer's heel. 
 Night noughts. Night IX. 
 
 FORTITTOE. 
 
 A NOBLE fortitude in ills delights 
 
 Heaven, earth, ourselves ; 't is duty, glory, peace. 
 
 Affliction is the good man's shining scene ; 
 
 Prosperity conceals Ids brightest ray ; 
 
 As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. 
 
 Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm. 
 
 And virtue in calamities, admire. 
 
 The crown of manliood is a winter joy ; 
 
 An evergreen, that stands the nortliern blast. 
 
 And blossoms in the rigor of our fate. 
 
 Night Thoughts, Night IX. 
 
 MGHT. 
 
 O M.iJESTic Night ! 
 
 Nature's great ancestor ! day's elder-born ! 
 
 And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
 
 Ey mortals and immortals seen with awe ! 
 
 A starry crown thy raven brow adin'us. 
 
 An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's 
 loom 
 
 Wronglit througli varieties of shajie and shade. 
 
 In amjile folds of dra[)cry divine. 
 
 Thy flowing mantle form ; and, heaven through- 
 out. 
 
 Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
 
 Thy gloomy grandeurs (nature's most august, 
 
 Inspiring aspect !j claim a grateful verse ; 
 
 And, like a sable curtahi starred with gold. 
 
 Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 
 Xight Thoughts, Niglit IX. 
 
 EXTEMPORE EPIGRAM ON VOLTAIRE.* 
 
 You are so witty, profligate, and thin. 
 
 At once we think thee Milton, Death, and SLu. 
 
 o>»Jtv 
 
 WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. 
 
 1668 P)- 1742. 
 
 THE HUNTED HARE. 
 
 Habk ! from yon covert, wliere those towering 
 
 oaks 
 Above the humble copse aspiring rise. 
 What glorious triumphs burst in every gale 
 Upon our ravished ears ! The hunters shout, 
 The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding 
 
 notes. 
 The pack wide-opening load the trembling air 
 With various melody; from tree to tree 
 The propagated cry redoubling bounds. 
 And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy 
 Through all the regions near: afflictive birch 
 No more the school-boy dreads, his prison broke. 
 Scampering he flies, nor heeds his master's call; 
 The weary traveller forgets his road. 
 And climbs the adjacent hill; the ploughman 
 
 leaves 
 The unfinished furrow; nor his bleating flocks 
 Are now the shepherd's joy; men, boys, and 
 
 girls 
 Desert the unpeopled village ; and wild crowds 
 Spread o'er the plain, by the sweet frenzy seized. 
 Look, how she pants I and o'er yon opening 
 
 glade 
 Slips glancing by ; while, at the further end. 
 The puzzling pack unravel wile by wile, 
 ]\Iaze within maze. The covert's utmost l)(nnid 
 Slyly she skirts ; behind tlicm cautious crccjis. 
 And in that very track, so lately stained 
 By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue 
 Tlie foe she flies. Let cavillers deny 
 That brutes have reason; sure 'tis something 
 
 more, 
 'T is Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires, 
 Beyond the short extent of linman thought. 
 But hold — I see her from the covert break; 
 Sad on yon little eminence she sits ; 
 Intent she listens with one ear erect. 
 Pondering, and doubtful wliat new coiirse to 
 
 take. 
 And liow to escape the fierce bloodthirsty crew, 
 That still urge on, and still in volleys loud 
 Insult her woes and mock her sore distress. 
 As now in louder ])cals, the loaded winds 
 
 * Tliis rpifirnni, nrcordinp to llcrlicrt Croft, wns pro; tikcd 
 tiv V(iltairL'*8 vitliculing, in Voui:;;'s pri-sciu-e. Milton's AlU-fjory 
 of Sin and Death. 
 
 
a- 
 
 COLIN AND LUCY. 
 
 303 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Bring ou the gathering storm, her fears prevail ; 
 And o'er the plain, and o'er the mountain's ridge, 
 Away she tlies ; nor ships with wind and tide, 
 And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast. 
 
 The Chase. 
 
 GEORGE BERKELEY. 
 
 1684- 1753. 
 
 VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS 
 AND LEARNING IN AMERICA, 
 
 T;rE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
 
 Barren of every glorious theme, 
 In distant lands now waits a better time, 
 
 Producing subjects worthy fame. 
 
 In happy climes, where from the genial sun 
 And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 
 
 The. force of art by nature seems outdone, 
 And fancied beauties by the true : 
 
 In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
 Wliere nature guides and virtue rules. 
 
 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
 The pedantry of courts and schools : 
 
 There shall be sung auotlicr golden age. 
 
 The rise of empire aud of arts. 
 The good and great inspiring epic rage, 
 
 The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 
 
 Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; 
 
 Such as she bred when fresh and young. 
 When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
 
 By future poets shall be sung. 
 
 Westward the course of empire takes its way; 
 
 The first four acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 
 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last. 
 
 THOMAS TICKELL. 
 
 1686-1740. 
 
 COLM AND LUCY. 
 
 Of Leinster, famed fur maidens fair. 
 
 Bright Lucy was the grace. 
 Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream 
 
 Reflect so sweet a face : 
 
 TUl luckless love and pining care 
 
 Impaired lier rosy hue. 
 Her coral lips, and damask cheeks, 
 
 Aud eyes of glossy blue. 
 
 Oh ! have you seen a Uly pale 
 
 Wlien beating rains descend ? 
 So drooped the slow-consuming maid. 
 
 Her life now near its end. 
 
 By Lucy warned, of flattering swains 
 
 Take heed, yc easy fair : 
 Of vengeance due to broken vows. 
 
 Ye perjured swains, beware. 
 
 Three times, all in the dead of night, 
 
 A bell was heard to ring ; 
 Aud shrieking, at her window thrice, 
 
 The r"aven flapped liis wing. 
 
 Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 
 
 The solenni boding sound ; 
 And thus, in dying words, bespoke 
 
 The virgins weeping round : 
 
 " I hear a voice you cannot hear, 
 
 Which says, I must not stay; 
 I see a hand you cannot see, 
 
 Wliieh beckons me away. 
 
 " By a false heart, and broken vows 
 
 In early youth I die. 
 Was I to blame because his bride 
 
 Was thrice as rich as I ? 
 
 "Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows. 
 
 Vows due to me alone ; 
 Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss. 
 
 Nor think him all thy own. 
 
 "To-morrow in the church to wed. 
 
 Impatient, both prepare ; 
 But know, fond maid ! aud know, false man ! 
 
 That Lucy will be there. 
 
 " Then bear my corse, my comrades ! bear, 
 
 This l)ridegroom blithe to meet ; 
 He in his wedding trim so gay, 
 
 I in my winding-sheet." 
 
 She spoke ; she died. Her corse was borne 
 
 The bridegroom blithe to meet ; 
 He in his wedding trim so gay. 
 
 She in her winding sheet. 
 
 Then what were perjured Coliu's thoughts ? 
 
 How were these nuptials kept ? 
 The bridesmen flocked round Lucy dead. 
 
 And all the village wept. 
 
 Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, 
 
 At once his bosom swell ; 
 The damps of death bedewed his brow; 
 
 He shook, he groaned, he fell. 
 
 From the vain bride, — ah ! bride no more ! — 
 The varying crimson fled, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 304 
 
 TICKELL. 
 
 -9) 
 
 fr 
 
 Wlien stretched before her rival's corpse 
 She saw her husband dead. 
 
 Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, 
 Conveyed by trembling swains, 
 
 One moukl with her, heueath one sod, 
 Forever he remains. 
 
 Oft at tliis grave the constant hind 
 And plighted maid are seen ; 
 
 With garlands gay and true-love knots 
 They deck the sacred green. 
 
 But. swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art, 
 
 This hallowed spot forbear ; 
 Remember Colin's dreadful fate, 
 
 And fear to meet him there. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF 
 ADDISON.' 
 
 Ir, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath 
 stayed, 
 And left her debt to Addison unpaid. 
 Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, 
 And judge, 0, judge my bosom by your own. 
 "What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! 
 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : 
 Grief unaffected suits but ill with art. 
 Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
 
 Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
 My soul's best part forever to the grave 'i 
 How sileut did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead. 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
 Through rows of warriors, and through walks of 
 
 kings ! 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ; 
 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; 
 The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid ; 
 And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed! 
 ^\^ule speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend. 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed frieud. 
 O, gone fiu'cver ! take this long adieu ; 
 And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague. 
 To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine, 
 A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
 Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 
 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
 If e'er from me thy loved memorial part. 
 May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
 Of thee forgetful if I form a song. 
 My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue. 
 My grief be doubled from thy image free. 
 And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee ! 
 
 • Macanlny snys tliat Tirkull " bewailed his frieml in an 
 elegy which would do honor to tlic greatest name in our literiu 
 ture, and which unites the encrpy and magnificence of Dry- 
 den to the tenderness and purity of Cowpcr." 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, 
 Sad luxtiry ! to vulgar muids unknown, 
 Ahuig the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallowed iriould below ; 
 Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; 
 In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; 
 Chiefs, graced with soars, and prodigal of blood ; 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; 
 And saints, who taught and led the way to 
 
 heaven ; 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest. 
 Since their foundation came a nobler guest; 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
 A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 
 
 In what new region, to the just assigned. 
 What new employments please the unbodied 
 
 mind? 
 A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky. 
 From world to world unwearied does he fly ? 
 Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
 Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering augcls 
 
 gaze? 
 Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
 How Michael battled and the dragcm fell ; 
 Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 
 In hymns of love, not ill essayed below ? 
 Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind ? 
 O, if sometimes thy spotless form descend. 
 To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms. 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms. 
 In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart. 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 
 
 That awfid form which, so the heavens de- 
 cree, 
 Must stdl be loved and stUl deplored by me. 
 In nightly visions seldom fails to rise. 
 Or, roused by fancy, meets my w-aking eyes. 
 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
 The unblemished statesman seems to strike my 
 
 sight ; 
 If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
 I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there ; 
 If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 
 His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 
 'T was there of just ami good he reasoned strimg. 
 Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious 
 
 song ; 
 There patient showed us the wise course to steer, 
 A candid censor and a friend severe ; 
 There taught us how to live, and (O, too high 
 The price for knowledge !) taught us how to 
 die. 
 
 -^ 
 
e 
 
 ODE FOR HORACE. 
 
 305 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures 
 grace, 
 
 Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 
 
 W\\Y, once so loved, whene'er thy bower ap- 
 pears. 
 
 O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ? 
 
 How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and 
 fair. 
 
 Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! 
 
 How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees. 
 
 Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze ! 
 
 His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; 
 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 
 No more the summer ill thy glooms allayed, 
 
 Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade. 
 
 From other hills, however fortune frowned. 
 Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ; 
 Reluctant now I touch the trembling string. 
 Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
 And these sad accents, murmured o'er his um, 
 Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
 O, must I tlien fnow fresh my bosom bleeds. 
 And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) 
 The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong. 
 And weep a second in the unfinished song ! 
 
 These works divine, which on his death-bed 
 laid 
 To thee, Craggs ! the expiring sage conveyed, 
 Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame. 
 Nor he survived to give, uor thou to claim. 
 Swift after him thy social spirit flics. 
 And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. 
 Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell 
 In future tongues : each other's boast ! farewell ! 
 Farewell ! whom, joined in fame, in friendship 
 
 tried, 
 No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 1685-1758. 
 
 ODE PROM HORACE. 
 
 Look up to Pentland's towering tap, 
 Buried beueath great wreaths of snaw, 
 
 O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scaur, and slap, 
 As high as ony Roman wa'. 
 
 Driving their ba's frae whins or tee, 
 There 's no ae gowfer to be seen, 
 
 Nor denser fowk wysing ajee 
 
 The biast bonis ou Tamson's green. 
 
 Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, 
 And beek the house baith but and ben ; 
 
 That mutohkin stoup it hands but dribs, 
 Then let 's get in the tappit hen. 
 
 Good claret best keeps out the cauld. 
 And drives away the winter soon ; 
 
 It makes a man baith gash and bauld. 
 And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 
 
 Leave to the gods your ilka care. 
 
 If that they tliiiik us worth their while ; 
 
 They can a rowth of blessings spare, 
 Which will our fashions fears beguile. 
 
 For what they have a mind to do. 
 
 That will they do, should we gang wud ; 
 
 If they command the storms to blaw. 
 Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. 
 
 But soon as e'er they cry, " Be quiet," 
 The blattering winds dare nae mair move, 
 
 But cour into their caves, and wait 
 The high command of supreme Jove. 
 
 Let neist day come as it thinks fit. 
 The present minute 's only ours ; 
 
 Ou pleasure let 's employ our wit. 
 And laugh at fortune's feckless powers. 
 
 Be sure yc dinna quat the grip 
 
 Of ilka joy wlien yc are young. 
 Before auld age your vitals nip. 
 
 And lay yc twafald o'er a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth 's a blythe and heartsome time ; 
 
 Then, lads and lasses, while it 's May, 
 Gae pou the gowau in its prime. 
 
 Before it wither and decay. 
 
 Watch the saft minutes of delight. 
 
 When Jenny speaks beneath her breath ; 
 
 And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
 On you, if she kep ony skaith. 
 
 " Haith, ye 're ill-bred," she '11 smiling say ; 
 
 " Ye 'U worry me, you greedy rook " ; 
 Syne frae your arms she '11 rin away, 
 
 Aud hide hersell in some dark nook. 
 
 Her laugh will lead you to the place 
 Where lies the happiness you want, 
 
 And plainly tells you to your face, 
 Nineteen naysays are half a grant. 
 
 Now to her heaving bosom cling, 
 
 And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
 Frae her fair finger whup a ring. 
 
 As token of a future bliss. 
 
 These benisons, I 'm very sure. 
 Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 
 
 Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
 To plague us with your whining cant. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 30G 
 
 EAMSAY. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 SONG. 
 
 At settiug day and rising morn, 
 
 With sold that still shall love thee, 
 I '11 ask of Heaven thy safe return, 
 
 With all that can improve thee. 
 I '11 visit aft the birlcen bush, 
 
 Where first thou kindly told me 
 Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, 
 
 Whilst round thou didst infold me. 
 To all our haunts I wUl repair, 
 
 By greenwood shaw or fountain ; 
 Or where the summer day I 'd share 
 
 With thee upon yon mountain : 
 There wiU I tell the trees and flowers, 
 
 From thoughts unfeigned and tender ; 
 By vows you 're mine, by love is yours 
 
 A heart which cannot wander. 
 
 THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. 
 
 The last time I came o'er the moor, 
 
 I left my love behind me ; 
 Ye powers ! what pain do I endure, 
 
 When soft ideas mind me ! 
 Soon as the ruddy morn displayed 
 
 The beaming day ensuing, 
 I met betimes my lovely maid. 
 
 In fit retreats for wooing. 
 
 Beneath the cooling shade we jay. 
 
 Gazing and chastely sporting ; 
 We kissed and promised time away, 
 
 TUI night spread her black curtain. 
 I pitied all beneath the skies. 
 
 E'en kings, when she was nigh me ; 
 In raptures I beheld her eyes. 
 
 Which could but ill deny me. 
 
 Shoidd I be called where cannons roar. 
 
 Where mortal steel may wound me, 
 Or cast upon some foreign shore, 
 
 Wliere dangers may- surround me ; 
 Yet hopes again to see my love. 
 
 To feast on glowing kisses. 
 Shall make my cares at distance move. 
 
 In prospect of such blisses. 
 
 In all my soul there 's not one place 
 
 To let a rival enter ; 
 Since she excels in every gi'ace. 
 
 In lier my love shall centre. 
 Sooner tiie seas shall cease to flffw. 
 
 Their waves the Alps shall cover. 
 On Greenland ice shall roses grow. 
 
 Before 1 cease to love her. 
 
 The next time I go o'er tlie moor, 
 Slie shall a lover find me ; 
 
 And that my faitli is firm and pure, 
 Though I left her behind me : 
 
 Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 
 My heart to her fair bosom ; 
 
 There, while my being does remain. 
 My love more fresh shall blossom. 
 
 LOCHABER NO MORE. 
 
 Tarewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, 
 Where heartsome with thee I 've mony day been; 
 For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
 We 'U maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
 These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear. 
 And no for the dangers attending on wear ; 
 Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
 Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 
 
 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind. 
 They 'U ne'er make a tempest like that in my 
 
 mind; 
 Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar. 
 That 's naething like leaving my love on the 
 
 shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
 By ease that 's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
 And beauty and love 's the reward of the brave, 
 And I must deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then glory, my Jeany, man plead my excuse ; 
 Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
 Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. 
 And without thy favor I 'd better not be. 
 I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame. 
 And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
 I '11 bri% a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
 And then I '11 leave thee and Lochaber no more. 
 
 RUSTIC COURTSHIP. 
 
 Heab. how I served my lass I love as well 
 As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leal. 
 Last morning I was gay and early out. 
 Upon a dike I leaned, glowering about, 
 I saw my Meg come hnkln' o'er the lee; 
 I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me ; 
 For yet the sun was wading through the mist. 
 And she was close upon me e'er slie wist ; 
 Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw 
 Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw. 
 Her coekernony snooded up fu' sleek, 
 Her haffct locks hang waving on her cheek ; 
 Her checks sac ruddy, and her e'en sac clear ; 
 And O, her mouth 's like ony hinny pear. 
 Neat, neat she was, in bustinc waistcoat clean. 
 As she came skiiling o'er tlic dewy green. 
 Blythsome I cried, " My bonny Meg, come here, 
 I ferly wherefore ye 're so soon asteer ?. 
 
 ■W 
 
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 DIALOGUE ON MARRIAGE. 
 
 307 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 But I can guess, ye 're gaun to gather dew." 
 She scoured away, and said, " What 's that to 
 
 you?" 
 " Then, fare-ye-weel, Meg-dorts, and e'en 's ye 
 
 Uke," 
 I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dike. 
 I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, 
 Slie came with a right thieveless errand back. 
 Misca'd me first ; then bade me hound my dog. 
 To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. 
 I leugh ; and sae did she ; then with great haste 
 I clasped my arms about her neck and waist ; 
 About her yielding waist, and took a fouth 
 Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. 
 ^Vhile hard and fast I held her in my grips. 
 My very saul came louping to my lips. 
 Sair, sair she flet wi" me 'tween ilka smack. 
 But weel I kend she meant nae as she spak. 
 Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, 
 Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb. 
 Seem to forsake her, soon she '11 change her 
 
 mood; 
 Gae woo auither, and she '11 gang clean wud. 
 
 T/te Gentle Shepherd. 
 
 DIALOGUE ON MARRIAGE, 
 Peggy and Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. Come, Meg, let 's fa' to wark upon 
 
 this green ; 
 This shining day will bleach our linen clean; 
 The water clear, the lift unclouded blue, 
 Will mak them like a lily wet wi' dew. 
 
 Peggy. Gae far'er up the burn to Habbie's 
 
 How, 
 There a' the sweets o' spring and summer grow: 
 There 'tween twa birks, out ower a little Un, 
 The water fa's and maks a singiu' din; 
 A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, 
 Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass. 
 We '11 end our washing while the morning 's cool ; 
 And when the day grows het, we '11 to the pool, 
 There wasli oursells — 't is healthfu' now in May, 
 And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day. 
 
 Jenny. Daft lassie, when we 're naked, what '11 
 
 ye say 
 Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae, 
 And see us sae p — that jeering fallow Pate 
 Wad taunting say, " Haith, lasses, ye 're no 
 
 blate ! " 
 Peggy. We 're far frae ony road, and out o' 
 
 sight ; 
 The lads they 're feeding far beyont the height. 
 But tell me, now, dear Jenny, we 're our lane. 
 What gai's ye plague your wooer wi' disdain ? 
 The neebours a' tent this as weel as I, 
 That Roger loes ye, yet ye carena by. 
 
 What ails ye at him ? Troth, between us twa, 
 He 's wordy yon the best day e'er ye saw. 
 
 Jenny. I dinna Uke liim, Peggy, there 's an 
 end; 
 A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend. 
 He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, 
 Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bannet lug, 
 Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee. 
 And spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee; 
 He falds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care. 
 And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair : 
 Por a' that, he can neither sing nor say. 
 Except, " How d' ye i' " — or, " There 's a bonny 
 day." 
 
 Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting 
 pride. 
 Hatred for love is unco sair to bide : 
 But ye '11 repent ye, if his love grow eauld — 
 What like 's a dorty maiden when she 's auld ? 
 Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat. 
 That for some feckless whim will orp and greet; 
 The lave laugh at it, till the dinner 's past. 
 And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, 
 Or scart anither's leavings at the last. 
 Fy ! Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time. 
 
 Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime. 
 
 Peggy. Nor I : but love in whispers lets us 
 ken 
 That men were made for us, and we for men. 
 
 Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himseU, 
 For sic a tale I never heard him tell. 
 He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause ; 
 But wha 's obliged to spell his hums and haws ? 
 Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, 
 I 'se tell him frankly ne'er to do 't again. 
 They 're fools tliat slavery like, and may be free; 
 The ehiels may a' knit up themsells for me. 
 
 Peggy. Be doing your wa's ; for me, I hae a 
 mind 
 To be as yielding as my Patie 's kind. 
 
 Jenny. Heh lass ! how can ye loe that rattle- 
 skull ? 
 A very deil, that aye maun hae his wuU ; 
 We '11 soon hear tell, what a poor fcchting life 
 You twa will lead, sae soon 's ye 're man and wife. 
 
 Peggy. I '11 rin the risk, nor hae I ony fear. 
 But rather think ilk langsome day a year. 
 Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal-bed, 
 Where on my Patie's breast I '11 lean my head. 
 
 Jenny. He may, indeed, for ten or fifteen 
 days, 
 Mak meikle o' ye, wi' an unqo fraise, 
 And daut ye baith afore fouk, and your lane ; 
 But soon as his newfangledness is gane, 
 He '11 look upon you as his tether-stake. 
 And think he 's tint his freedom for your sake. 
 Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delight, 
 Ac day be dumb, and a' the neist he '11 flyte : 
 
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 308 
 
 RAMSAY. 
 
 -9) 
 
 And maybe, iii his barleylioods, ne'er stick 
 To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. 
 
 Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want 
 
 pitli to move 
 My settled mind ; I 'm ower far gane in love. 
 Patie to me is dearer than my lircath ; 
 But want o' him, I dread nae other skaith. 
 There 's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green 
 Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een : 
 And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art — 
 His words they thirle like music through my 
 
 heart. 
 How blythely can he S])ort, and gently rave. 
 And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave ! 
 Ilk day that he 's alane upon the hill, 
 He I'cads fell books that teach him mcikle skill. 
 He is — but what need I say that or this ? 
 I 'd spend a month to tell you what he is ! 
 In a' he says or does, there 's sic a gate, 
 The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate. 
 His better sense will lang his love secure ; 
 Ill-nature hefts in sauls that 's weak and poor. 
 Jenny. Hey, Bomti/ lass o' Branlcsome ! or 't 
 
 be lang. 
 Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. 
 O, 't is a pleasant thing to be a bride ; 
 Syne whingeing getts about your ingle-side, 
 Yelping for this or that wi' fasheons din ; 
 To mak them brats, then ye maun toil and spin. 
 Ac wean fa's sick, ane scads itscU wi' broe, 
 Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe ; 
 The Deil gaes o'er Jock Wabster, hame grows 
 
 hell. 
 And Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell ! 
 Peggy. Yes, it 's a heartsome thing to be a 
 
 wife, 
 ^lien round the ingle-edge young sprouts are 
 
 rife. 
 Gif I 'm sae happy, I shall hae delight 
 To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. 
 Wow ! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be 
 Tlian see sic wee tots toolying at your knee ; 
 When a' they ettle at — their greatest wish, 
 Is to be made o' and obtain a kiss ? 
 Can there be toil in tenting day and night 
 The like o' them, when love maks care dehght ? 
 Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst 
 
 o'a'; 
 Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry 
 
 draw, 
 lint little love or canty cheer can cnnic 
 i'rae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom. 
 Your nowt may die — the spate may liear away 
 Frac aff the hovvnis your dainty rucks o' liay. 
 The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy 
 
 thows, 
 May smoor your wathcrs, and may rot your ewes. 
 A dyvour buys your t)utter, woo, and cheese, 
 
 But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees. 
 Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent ; 
 It 's no to gie ; your merchant 's to the bent. 
 His honour maunnawant — he poinds your gear ; 
 Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye 
 
 steer ? 
 Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life ; 
 Troth, it 's nae mows to be a married wife. 
 
 Peggy. May sic ill luck befa' tiiat silly she 
 Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. 
 Let fouk bode weel, and strive to do their best ; 
 Nae mair's required: let Heaven mak out the rest. 
 I 've heard my honest uncle aften say, 
 Tliat lads shoidd a' for wives that 's virtuous 
 
 pray ; 
 For the maist thrifty man could never get 
 A wcel-stored room, unless his wife wad let : 
 Wherefore noelit shall be wanting on my part. 
 To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart : 
 Whate'er he wins, I '11 guide wi' canny care, 
 And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair. 
 For lialcsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. 
 A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo, 
 Shall first be said to pay the laird his due ; 
 Syne a' behind 's our ain. Thus, without fear, 
 \\'\ love and rowth, we through the warld will 
 
 steer ; 
 And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife. 
 He '11 bless the day he gat me for his wife. 
 Jenny. But what if some young giglet on 
 
 the green, 
 Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een. 
 Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, 
 And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg ? 
 Peggy. Nae mair o' that — Dear Jeimy, to 
 
 be free. 
 There 's some men constanter in love than we : 
 Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind 
 Has blest them wi' solidity o' mind. 
 Tlicv '11 reasou calmly, and wi' kindness smile, 
 Wlien our short passions wad our peace beguile: 
 Sac, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame. 
 It's ten to ane the wives are niiiist to blame. 
 Tlicn I '11 employ wi' pleasure a' my art 
 To keep him chccrfu', and secure his heart. 
 At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, 
 I '11 hae a' things made ready to his will : 
 In M-inter, when he toils through wind and rain, 
 A bleezing ingle, and a clean hciirtlistane ; 
 And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, 
 The seething pats be ready to tak aff; 
 Clean !iag-a-bag I '11 spread upon his board, 
 .\nd serve him wi' the best we can afford ; 
 Good iinmor and white liigimets sliall be 
 Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. 
 Jenny. A dish o' marrieil love right soon 
 
 grows cauld. 
 And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow anld. 
 
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 A BALLAD. 
 
 309 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Peggy. But we "11 grow auld thcgither, and 
 ne'er find 
 The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. 
 Bairus and their bairns mak sure a firmer tie, 
 Than aught iu love the like of us can spj. 
 See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, 
 Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and 
 
 bride ; 
 Nearer and nearer ilka year they 've prest, 
 Till wide their spreading branches are iuereast, 
 And in their mixture now are fully blest : 
 Tliis shields the ither frae the castlin blast, 
 That, in return, defends it frae the wast. 
 Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you !) 
 Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow. 
 Jenny. I 'vc done — I yield, dear lassie ; I 
 
 maun yield ; 
 Your better sense has fairly won the field. 
 With the assistance of a little fae 
 Lies darned witiiin my breast this mony a day. 
 Peggy. Alake, poor prisoner ! Jenny, that 's 
 
 no fair, 
 That ye 'U no let the wee thing tak the air : 
 Haste, let him out ; we '11 tent as weel 's we can, 
 Gil' he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man. 
 Jexxy. Auither time "s as good — for see, the 
 
 sun 
 Is right far up, and we 're not yet begun 
 To freath the graith — if cankered Madge, our 
 
 aunt, 
 Come up the burn, she '11 gie 's a wicked rant : 
 But when we 've done, I '11 tell ye a' my mind ; 
 For this seems true — ^nae lass can be unkind. 
 
 The Gentle Shepherd. 
 
 JOHN GAY. 
 
 1688-1733. 
 
 ALL Ef THE DOWNS THE FLEET WAS MOOKED. 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moored, 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind. 
 When blaek-eycd Susan came aboard ; 
 " O, where shall I my true-love find ? 
 TeU me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
 K my sweet William sails among the crew." 
 
 William, who liigh upon the yard 
 
 Rooked with the billow to and fro, 
 Soon as lier well-known voice he heai'd. 
 He sighed, and cast liis eyes below ; 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. 
 And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
 
 H chance his mate's shrill call he hear, 
 And drops at once into her nest : 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 " Susan, Susau, lovely dear, 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss off that falling tear; 
 We oidy part to meet again. 
 Change, as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 " Believe not what the landmen say, 
 
 Wio tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 
 Tliey '11 tell thee, sailors, when away. 
 In every port a mistress find: 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 
 For thou art present whercsoe'er I go. 
 
 " If to fair India's coast we sail. 
 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 Tims every beauteous object that I view 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 " Though battle call me from thy arms, 
 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
 Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
 
 The sails their swelling bosom sju'ead; 
 No longer must she stay aboard : 
 
 They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to laud : 
 " Adieu ! " she cries ; and waved her Uly hand. 
 
 A BALLAD, 
 
 'T WAS when the seas were roaring 
 
 With hoUow blasts of wind, 
 A damsel lay deploring. 
 
 All on a rock reclined. 
 Wide o'er the foaming billows 
 
 Slie east a wistful look ; 
 Her head was crowned with willows. 
 
 That tremble o'er the brook. 
 
 " Twelve months are gone and over, 
 
 And nine long tedious days; 
 Why didst thou, venturous lover. 
 
 Why didst thou tinist the seas ? 
 Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean. 
 
 And let my lover rest : 
 Ah ! what 's thy troubled motion 
 
 To that within my breast ? 
 
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a- 
 
 310 
 
 GAY. 
 
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 ^ 
 
 " Tlie merchant, robbed of pleasure, 
 
 Sees tempests in despair ; 
 But what 's the loss of treasure, 
 
 To losing of my dear? 
 Should you some eoast be laid on, 
 
 Wiiero gold and diamonds grow. 
 You 'd find a richer maiden. 
 
 But none that loves you so. 
 
 " How can they say that nature 
 
 Has nothing made in vain ; 
 Wliy then, beneath the water, 
 
 Should hideous rocks remain ? 
 No eyes the rocks discover 
 
 That lurk beneath the deep. 
 To wreck the wandering lover, 
 
 And leave the maid to weep." 
 
 All melancholy lying. 
 
 Thus wailed she for her dear; 
 Repaid each blast with sighing, 
 
 Each billow with a tear. 
 When o'er the white wave stooping 
 
 His floating corpse she spied. 
 Then, like a hly drooping. 
 
 She bowed her head, and died. 
 
 TEE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH. 
 
 A FOX, in life's extreme decay, 
 Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay ; 
 All appetite had left his maw, 
 And age disarmed his mumbling jaw. 
 His numerous race around him stand 
 To learn their dying sire's command : 
 He raised his head with whining moan, 
 And thus was heard the feeble tone : 
 
 " Ah, sons ! from evil ways depart : 
 My crimes Ue heavy on my heart. 
 See, see, the murdered geese appear ! 
 Wliy are those bleeduig turkeys here ? 
 Wliy all around this cackling train. 
 Who liauut my ears for chicken slain ? " 
 
 The hungry foxes round tliem stared. 
 And for the promised feast prepared. 
 
 " Where, sir, is all tliis dainty cheer? 
 Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here. 
 Tiiese are tlie phantoms of your brain. 
 And your sons lick their lips in vain." 
 
 " O gluttons ! " says the drooping sire, 
 " Restrain inordinate desire. 
 Your liquorish taste you shall deplore, 
 When peace of conscience is no more. 
 Does not the hound betray our pace. 
 And gins and guns destroy our race? 
 Thieves dread the searching eye of power. 
 And never feel the quiet hour. 
 Old age (which few of us sliall know) 
 
 Now puts a period to my woe. 
 Would you true happiness attain, 
 Let honesty your passions rein ; 
 So live in credit and esteem. 
 And the good name you lost, redeem." 
 
 "The counsel's good," a fox replies, 
 " Could we perform what you advise. 
 Think what our ancestors have done ; 
 A line of tliieves from son to son ; 
 To us descends the long disgrace, 
 And infamy hath marked our race. 
 Though we like harmless sheep should feed, 
 Honest in thought, in word, and deed, 
 Whatever hen-roost is decreased. 
 We shall be thought to share the feast. 
 The change shall never be believed, 
 A lost good name is ne'er retrieved." 
 
 " Nay, then," rephes the feeble fox 
 " (But hark ! I liear a hen that clocks). 
 Go, but be moderate in your food ; 
 A chicken too might do me good." 
 
 THE LION AND THE CUB. 
 
 How fond are men of rule and ))lace, 
 Wlio court it from the mean and base ! 
 These cannot bear an equal nigh. 
 But from superior merit fly. 
 They love the cellar's vulgar joke. 
 And lose their hours in ale and smoke. 
 Tliere o'er some petty club ]n'cside ; 
 So poor, so paltry is tlieir jjride ! 
 Nay, even with fools wliolc nights will sit, 
 In hopes to be supreme in wit. 
 If these can read, to these I write, 
 To set their worth in truest light. 
 
 A lion-cub, of sordid mind. 
 Avoided all the hon kind ; 
 Fond of applause, he sought tlie feasts 
 Of vulgar and ignoble beasts ; 
 With asses all his time he spent, 
 Tlicir club's perpetual president. 
 Ho caught their manners, looks, and airs ; 
 An ass in everytliing but ears ! 
 If e'er his highness meant a joke, 
 They grinned applause before he spoke ; 
 But at each word what shouts of praise ! 
 Good gods ! how natural lie brays I 
 
 Elate with flattery and conceit. 
 He seeks his royal sire's retreat ; 
 Forward, and fond to show his parts, 
 His highness br.ays; the lion starts. 
 
 " l'>ii)))y, that cursed vociferation 
 Betrays thy life and conversation : 
 Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race. 
 Are trumpets of their own disgrace." 
 
 " Why so severe ? " the cub rei)lies ; 
 " Our senate always held me wise." 
 
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a- 
 
 THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 
 
 -^ 
 
 311 
 
 " How weak is pride ! " returns the sire ; 
 " All fools are vaui, when fools admire ! 
 But know, what stupid asses prize, 
 Lions and noble beasts despise." 
 
 SIMILES OF LOVE. 
 
 The god of Love at her approach 
 
 Is busy as a bee ; 
 Hearts sound as any bell or roach 
 
 Arc smit and sigh like me. 
 
 Ah me ! as thick as hops or had 
 The fine men crowd about her ; 
 
 But soon as dead as a door-nail 
 Shall I be, if without her. 
 
 THE SICK MAN AUD THE ANGEL. 
 
 " Is there no hope ? " the sick man said. 
 The silent doctor shook his head, 
 And took his leave with signs of sorrow. 
 Despairing of liis fee to-morrow. 
 
 When thus the man with gasping breath : 
 " I feel the chilhng wound of death : 
 Since I must bid the world adieu, 
 Let me my former life review. 
 I grant, my bargains well were made ; 
 But all men oven-each in trade ; 
 'T is self-defence in each profession, 
 Sure self-defence is no transgression. 
 The little portion in my hands. 
 By good security on lands. 
 It well increased. If, unawares, 
 My justice to myself and heirs 
 Hath let my debtor rot in jail, 
 For want of good sufficient bail ; 
 If I by writ or bond or deed 
 Reduced a family to need, 
 My will hath made the world amends ; 
 My hope on charity depends. 
 When I am numbered with the dead, 
 Aud all my pious gifts are read. 
 By heaven and earth 't will then be known 
 My charities were amply shown." 
 
 An angel came. " Ah, friend ! " he cried, 
 " No more in flattering hope confide. 
 Can thy good deeds in former times 
 Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? 
 What widow or what orphan prays 
 To crown thy life with length of days? 
 A pious action 's in thy power, 
 Embrace with joy the happy hour. 
 Now, -while you draw the vital air, 
 Prove your intention is sincere. 
 This instant give a hundred pound ; 
 Your neighbors want, and you abound." 
 
 " But why such haste ? " the sick man whines 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Who knows as yet what Heaven designs ? 
 
 Perhaps I may recover still ; 
 
 That sum and more are in my will." 
 
 "Fool," says the vision, "now 'tis plain, 
 Your life, your soul, your heaven, was gain. 
 From every side, with all your might. 
 You scraped, and scraped beyond your right ; 
 And after death would fain atone 
 By giving what is not your own." 
 
 "While there is life, there's hope," he cried; 
 " Then why such haste ? " so groaned aud died. 
 
 THE HARE AND MANY PEIENDS. 
 
 FuiENDSiiiP, like love, is but a name, 
 Unless to one you stint the flame. 
 The child, whom many fathers share, 
 Hath seldom known a father's care. 
 'T is thus in friendship ; who depend 
 On many, rarely find a friend. 
 
 A hare, who in a civil way 
 Complied with everything, like Gay, 
 Was known by all the bestial train 
 ^Yho haunt the wood or graze the plain. 
 Her care was never to offend. 
 And every creature was her friend. 
 
 As forth she went at early dawn. 
 To taste the dew-besprinkled law'n, 
 Behind she hears the hunter's cries, 
 And from the deep-mouthed thunder flics : 
 She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
 She hears the near advance of death ; 
 She doubles, to mislead the hound, 
 And measures back her mazy round ; 
 Till, fainting in the public way. 
 Half dead with fear she gasping lay ; 
 What transport in her bosom grew. 
 When first the horse appeared in view ! 
 "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, 
 And owe my safety to a friend. 
 You know my feet betray my flight, 
 To friendship every burden 's hght." 
 The liorse replied ; " Poor honest puss, 
 It grieves my heart to see thee thus ; 
 Be comforted, relief is neai". 
 For all your friends are in the rear." 
 
 The goat remarked her pulse was high. 
 Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 
 " My back," says he, " may do you harm, 
 The sheep 's at hand, and wool is warm." 
 
 The sheep was feeble, and complained 
 His sides a load of wool sustained ; 
 Said he was slow, confessed his fears. 
 For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 
 
 She now the trotting calf addressed, 
 To save from death a friend distressed. 
 " Shall I," says he, " of tender age. 
 In this important care engage ? 
 
 w 
 
a- 
 
 311 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Older and abler passed you by ; 
 How strong are those, liow weak am I ! 
 Sliould I presume to bear you hence. 
 Those friends of mine may take offence. 
 Excuse me, then. You know my heart ; 
 But dearest friends, alas ! must part. 
 How shall we all lament ! Adieu ! 
 For, see, the hounds are just m view ! " 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE.. 
 
 1688-1744. 
 
 THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.* 
 
 AN HEKOI-COMICAL POEM. 
 CANTO I. 
 
 What dire offence from amorous causes springs. 
 What mighty contests rise from trivial tilings, 
 I sing — This verse to Caryl,t Muse ! is due : 
 This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view : 
 Sliglit is the subject, but not so the praise, 
 If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 
 
 Say what strange motive, goddess ! could compel 
 A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle ? 
 O, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, 
 Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ? 
 In tasks so bold can little men engage. 
 And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage ? 
 
 Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray. 
 And oped tliosc eyes that must eclipse the day. 
 Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing sluike. 
 And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake ; 
 Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the 
 
 ground. 
 And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. 
 Belinda t still her downy pillow prest. 
 Her guardian sylph prolonged the bahiiy rest ; 
 'T was he had summoned to her silent bed 
 The morning-dream that hovered o'er her head ; 
 A youth more glittering than a birthnight beau 
 (That e'cu in slumber caused lier cheek to glow) 
 Seemed to her ear his wimiing lips to lay. 
 And thus in wliispcrs said, or seemed to say : 
 
 • " Tlic stealing of Miss BuUe Fcrmor's hair [liy Lord Petrc] 
 was taken too seriously, ami caused an estran;;ement between 
 tlie two families, thou^'li they had lived so louf; in great friend- 
 shij) before. \ common acquaintance, and well-wisher to hotli, 
 desired me to write a poem to make a.iest of it, and laugh them 
 together again. It was with this view that I wrote the Rape 
 of the I/)ek, which was well received, and had its effect in the 
 two faiiiiliea. Nobody but Sir George Brown was angry, and 
 he was a pood deal so, and for a long time. He could not hear 
 that Sir Plume should talk nothing hut nonsense. The ma- 
 chinery was added afterward."— Poi'K lo Si'knck. 
 
 + Secretary to Queen Mary, wife of James II., and author 
 of Sir Solomim Siiir/lr, a comedy, and of several translations in 
 Drydcn's Miicelhmes. lie first suggested the suliject of this 
 poem to the author. 
 
 t Miss Arabella Fermor, 
 
 '■ Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care 
 Of thousand bright inhabitants of air ! 
 If e'er one vision touciied thy infiint thought. 
 Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught ; 
 Of airy elves by moonlight-shadows seen, 
 The silver token, and the circled green. 
 Or virgins visited by angel powers, 
 With golden crowns and wreaths of lieavculy 
 
 flowers ; 
 Hear and believe ! thy own importance know. 
 Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 
 Some secret truths, from learned pride concetJed, 
 To maids alone and children are revealed : 
 Wtat though.no credit doubting wits may give? 
 The fair and iimoeeut shall still believe. 
 Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly, 
 The light militia of the lower sky : 
 These, though unseen, are ever on tlic wing. 
 Hang o'er the box, and hover round tlie ring. 
 Think what an equipage thou hast in air. 
 And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 
 As now your own, our beings were of old, 
 And once enclosed In woman's beauteous mould; 
 Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
 From earthly vehicles to these of air. 
 Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, 
 Tliat all her vanities at once are dead ; 
 Succeeding vanities she stlU regards. 
 And, though she plays no more, o'crlooks the 
 
 cards. 
 Her joy in gUded chariots, when alive. 
 And love of ombre, after deatii survive. 
 For when the fair in all their pride expire. 
 To their first elements their soids retire. 
 The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 
 Mount up, &nd take a salamander's name. 
 Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 
 And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. 
 The graver prutle sinks downward to a gnome 
 In search of mischief still ou earth to roan\. 
 The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair. 
 And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 
 
 " Know further yet; whoever fair and cliaste 
 Ilejccts mankind, is by some syl|>h embraced : 
 For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
 Assume what sexes and what shajies they lileasc. 
 What guards the purity of melting maids. 
 In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades. 
 Safe from tlie treacherous friend, the daring spark. 
 The glance l)y day, the wlilsper In the dark ; 
 When kind occasion prompts their warm desires. 
 When music softens, and when dancing tires? 
 'Tls but their sylj)!!, the wise celestials know, 
 Though honor Is the word with men below. 
 
 " Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their 
 face. 
 For life iircdcstined to the gnomes' embrace. 
 Tlicsc swell their prospects and exalt their pride. 
 
 -9^ 
 

 yi 
 
 ^ 
 
 V' 
 
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 THE EAPE OP THE LOCK. 
 
 313 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 When offers arc disdained, and love denied : 
 
 Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 
 
 While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping 
 
 train. 
 And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 
 And in soft sounds, ' Your Grace ' salutes their 
 
 ear. 
 'Tis these that early taint the female soul. 
 Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, 
 Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, 
 And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 
 
 " Oft, wlien the world imagiae women stray. 
 The sylphs througli mystic mazes guide tlieir way ; 
 Through all the giddy circle they pursue, 
 And old impertinence expel by new. 
 What tender maid but must a victim fall 
 To one man's treat, but for another's ball ? 
 When Florio speaks, what virgin coidd with- 
 stand. 
 If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? 
 With varying vanities, from every part, 
 They shift the moving toyshop of their heart ; 
 Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword- 
 knots strive. 
 Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 
 This erring mortals levity may call ; 
 
 bhnd to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. 
 
 " Of these am I, who thy protectimr claim, 
 A watciil'ul sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
 Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air. 
 In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 
 
 1 saw, alas ! some dread event impend. 
 Ere to the main this morning sun descend, 
 
 But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or where: 
 Warned by the sylph, O pious maid, beware ! 
 This to disclose is all thy guai'dian can : 
 Beware of all, but most beware of man ! " 
 He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept 
 
 too long. 
 Leaped up, and waked Ins mistress with his 
 
 tongue. 
 'T was then, Belinda, if report say true. 
 Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux ; 
 Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner 
 
 read. 
 But all the vision vairished from thy head. 
 
 And uow, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. 
 Each silver vase iu mystic order laid. 
 First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
 With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
 A heaveuly image in the glass appears. 
 To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
 The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
 TrembUng begins the sacred rites of pride. 
 Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
 The various offerings of the world appear ; 
 From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
 And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
 
 This casket India's glowing gems uidocks. 
 And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
 The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
 Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the 
 
 white. 
 Here fdes of pins extend their shining rows, 
 Pufl's, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
 Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
 The fair each moment rises iu her charms. 
 Repairs her smUes, awakens every grace. 
 And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
 And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
 The busy sylphs surround tlieir darhng care. 
 These set the head, and those divide the hair. 
 Some fold the sleeve, whilst others ])lait the gown ; 
 And Betty 's praised for labors not her own. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain. 
 The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
 Thau, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
 Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
 Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her 
 
 shone. 
 But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
 On her white breast a spai'kUng cross she wore, 
 Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
 Qiuck as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, 
 And, like the sun, they shine on aU alike. 
 Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
 Might hide her faults, if belles had faidts to hide ; 
 If to her share some female errors fall. 
 Look on her face, and you '11 forget tiiom all. 
 
 This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
 Nourished two locks, winch graceful hung behind 
 In equal curls, and well cons[)ired to deck 
 With shining riuglets the smooth ivory neck. 
 Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
 And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
 With hairy springes we the birds betray, 
 Shght lines of hair surprise the finny prey. 
 Fair tresses man's imperial race iusuare. 
 And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
 
 The adventurous baron* the bright locks ad- 
 mired ; 
 He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
 Resolved to win, he meditates the way. 
 By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
 For when success a lover's toil attends. 
 Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 
 
 For this, ere Phcebus rose, he had implored 
 
 Lord Petre. 
 
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 3U 
 
 POPE. 
 
 --^ 
 
 Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, 
 But. chiefly Love — to Love an altar built, 
 Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
 There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves. 
 And all the tropliies of his former loves ; 
 With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre. 
 And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the 
 
 fire. 
 Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
 Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize : 
 The powers gave ear.and granted half his prayer, 
 The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 
 
 But now secure the painted vessel ghdes, 
 Tlie sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; 
 While melting music steals upon the sky, 
 And softened sounds along the waters die : 
 Smootli flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 
 Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
 Allhutthesylpli — with careful thoughts opprcst. 
 The impending woo sat heavy on his breast. 
 He summons straight his denizens of air ; 
 The lucid squadrons round the sails repair : 
 Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe. 
 That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
 Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold. 
 Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; 
 Transparent forms too fine for mortal sight, 
 Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. 
 Loose to the wind their airy garments flew. 
 Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew. 
 Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 
 Wliere light disports in ever-mingling dyes. 
 While every beam new transient colors flings. 
 Colors that change whene'er they wave their 
 
 wings. 
 Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
 Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 
 His p\irple pinions opening to the sun, 
 He raised his azure wand, and thus begun ; 
 
 " Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear ! 
 Pays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear! 
 Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assigned 
 By laws eternal to the aerial kind. 
 Some in the lields of purest ether play. 
 And bask and whiten in the blaze of day : 
 Sonic guide the course of wandering orbs on 
 
 high. 
 Or roll the planets through the boundless sky: 
 Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
 Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night. 
 Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
 Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 
 Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main. 
 Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
 Others, on earth, o'er liuman race preside, 
 Wateli all their ways, and all their actions guide : 
 Of these the chief the care of nations own, 
 And guard with anus divine the British throne. 
 
 " Our humbler province is to tend the fair, 
 Not a less pleasing, though less glorious cai'e ; 
 To save tlie powder from too rude a gale, 
 Nor let the imprisoned essences exhale ; 
 To draw fresh cohn-s from the vernal flowers ; 
 To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showers 
 A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, 
 Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
 Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, 
 To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 
 
 "This day black omens threat the brightest 
 
 fair 
 That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 
 Some dire disaster, or by force or slight ; 
 But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in 
 
 night. 
 Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 
 Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 
 Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 
 Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
 Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 
 Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must 
 
 fall. 
 Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair ; 
 The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 
 The drops to thee, Brillaiite, we consign ; 
 And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; 
 Do thou, Cris])issa, tend her favorite Lock ; 
 Ariel himself sliall be the guard of Shock. 
 " To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note. 
 We trust the important charge, the petticoat; 
 Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail. 
 Though stiff with lioops, and armed with ribs of 
 
 whale ; 
 Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
 And guard the wide circumference around. 
 " Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
 His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, 
 Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his 
 
 sins. 
 Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins ; 
 Or ]iluiiged in lakes of bitter washes lie. 
 Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; 
 Gums and pomatums shall liis flight restrain. 
 While clogged lie beats his silken wings in 
 
 vain ; 
 Or alum styptics with contracting power 
 Shrink liis thin essence like a rivellcd flower : 
 Or, as Ixion fixed, tlie wretch shall feel 
 The giddy motion of the whirling mill. 
 In fumes of burning ciioeolate shall glow. 
 And tremble at tlie sea tiiat froths below ! " 
 
 He spoke ; the siiirits from the sails descend ; 
 Some, orb in orb, around the nymph 6xtend ; 
 Some thread the mazy ringlets of !ier hair ; 
 Some hang iiiioii the pendants of her ear ; 
 With beating hearts the dire event they wait. 
 Anxious, and tiTiubling for the birth of fate. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE EAPE OF THE LOCK. 
 
 315 
 
 -9) 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Close by those meads, forever crowiicd with 
 
 flowers, 
 Where Thames witli pride surveys his rising 
 
 towers. 
 There stands a structure of majestic frame. 
 Which from the neighboring Hampton takes its 
 
 name. 
 Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
 Of foreign tyrant*, and of nymphs at home ; 
 Here, thou, great Anna ! whom three realms 
 
 obey. 
 Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes 
 
 tea. 
 Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort. 
 To taste awhile the pleasures of a court ; 
 In various talk the instructive hours tliey past, 
 Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; 
 One speaks the glory of the British queen, 
 And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
 A tliird interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; 
 At every word a reputation dies. 
 Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
 Witli singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 
 
 Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day. 
 The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; 
 Tlie hungry judges soon the sentence sign, 
 And wretches hang that jurymen may dine ; 
 The merchant from the Exchange returns in 
 
 peace. 
 And the long labors of the toilet cease. 
 Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 
 Burns to encounter two adventui'ous kuights. 
 At ombre singly to decide their doom. 
 And swells her breast with conquests yet to 
 
 come. 
 Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join. 
 Each band the number of the sacred nine. 
 Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial guard 
 Descend, and sit on each important card : 
 First Ariel perched upon a matadore, 
 Then each according to the rank they bore ; 
 For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race. 
 Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 
 
 Behold, four kings in majesty revered. 
 With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
 And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a 
 
 flower, 
 The expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
 Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty band. 
 Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ; 
 And party-colored troups, a shining train. 
 Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 
 
 The skilful nymph reviews her force with care ; 
 " Let spades be trumps ! " she said, and trumps 
 
 they were. 
 Now move to war her sable matadores. 
 In sliow like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
 
 ^&-.- 
 
 Spaddlio first, unconquerable lord ! 
 Led ott' two captive tramps, and swept the board. 
 As many more maniUio forced to yield, 
 And inarched a victor from the verdant field. 
 Him l)asto followed, but his fate more hard 
 Gained but one trump aud one plebeian card. 
 With his broad sabre next, a chief in years. 
 The hoary majesty of spades appears, 
 Puts forth one maidy leg, to sight revealed. 
 The rest his many-colored robe concealed. 
 The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, 
 Proves the just victim of liis royal rage. 
 E'en mighty para, that kuigs and queens o'er- 
 
 threw. 
 And mowed down armies in the fights of loo. 
 Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid,- 
 Falls undistinguished by the victor spade ! 
 
 Thus far both armies to Beliiula yield ; 
 Now to the baron fate inclines the field. 
 His warlike amazon her host invades, 
 The imperial consort of the crown of spades. 
 The club's black tyrant fii'st her victim dyed. 
 Spite of his liaughty mien and barbarous pride : 
 \Vhat boots the regal circle on his head. 
 His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread ; 
 That long behind he trails his pompous robe. 
 And, of all mouarchs, only grasps the globe ? 
 
 The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; 
 The embroidered king who shows but half his 
 
 face. 
 And his refulgent queen, with powers combined. 
 Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
 Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
 With tlu'ongs promiscuous strew the level green. 
 Thus when dispersed a routed army runs. 
 Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons. 
 With hke confusion different nations ity. 
 Of various habit and of various dye ; 
 The pierced battalions disunited fall 
 In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwludms them all. 
 Tlic knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, 
 And wuis (0 shameful chance !) the queen of 
 
 hearts. 
 At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
 A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 
 She sees, and trembles at the approaching ill. 
 Just in the jaws of ruin, and coddle. 
 And now (as oft in some distempered state) 
 On one nice trick depends the general fate : 
 An ace of hearts steps forth : the king unseen 
 Lurked in her hand, aud mourned his captive 
 
 queen : 
 He springs to vengeance with an eager pace. 
 And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
 The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the sky; 
 Tlie walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 
 
 O thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate. 
 Too soon dejected, and too soon elate : 
 
 -Q> 
 
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 31G 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Sudden these honors shall be snatched away, 
 And cursed forever this victorious day. 
 
 ¥or lo ! the board with cups and spoons is 
 crowned, 
 The berries craclcle, and the mill turns round ; 
 On shiuing altars of japan they raise 
 The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze : 
 I'roni silver spouts tiie grateful hquors glide, 
 While China's earth receives the smoking tide : 
 At once they gratify their scent and taste. 
 And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
 Straight hover round the fair her airy band ; 
 Some, as she sijiped, the fuming liquor fanned. 
 Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, 
 Trenihling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
 CollVc 4 which makes the poUtician wise, 
 And see through all things with his half-shut 
 
 eyes) 
 Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
 New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 
 Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 't is too late, 
 Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 
 Changed to a bird, and sent to tUt in air, 
 She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! 
 
 But when to mischief mortals bend their will, 
 How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! 
 Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
 A two-edged weapon from her shining case : 
 So ladies, in romance, assist their knight, 
 Present the spear, and arm him for tlie fight. 
 He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 
 The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
 This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
 As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 
 Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
 A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair ; 
 And thrice they twitched the diamond in her oar ; 
 Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew 
 
 near. 
 Just in that instant anxious Ariel sought 
 The close recesses of the virgin's thought : 
 As ou the nosegay in her breast reclined. 
 He watched the ideas rising in her mind. 
 Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art. 
 An cartldy lover lurking at her heart. 
 Amazed, confused, he found his power, expired, 
 llesigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 
 
 The peer now spreads the glittering forfcx 
 wide, 
 To enclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
 E'en then, before the fjital engine closed, 
 A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 
 Fate urged tlie shears, and cut the sylj))! in twain 
 (But airy substance soon unites again). 
 The meeting points llie sacred hair dissever 
 From the fair licad, forever, and forever ! 
 
 Then fiashed tlie living liglitning from her eyes, 
 .And screams of horror rend the afi'riglited skies. 
 
 Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven arc cast. 
 When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their 
 
 last ; 
 Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. 
 In glittering dust and ]3aintcd fragments lie ! 
 " Let wreaths of triumph now my tein]iles 
 
 twine," 
 The victor cried, " the glorious prize is mine ! 
 While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
 Or in a coach and six the British fair. 
 As long as Atalantis* shall be read, 
 Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, 
 W'hile visits shall be paid on solemn days, 
 Wien numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze ; 
 Wlido nymphs take treats, or assignations give, 
 So long my honor, name, and praise shall live ! 
 What Time would spare, from steel receives its 
 
 date. 
 And monuments, like men, submit to fate ! 
 Steel could the labor of the gods destroy, 
 iVnd strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy ; 
 Steel could the works of mortal pride confound 
 And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
 What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs should 
 
 feel 
 The conquering force of unresisted steel ? " 
 
 CAKTO IV. 
 
 But anxious cares the pensive nymph opprest, 
 And secret passions labored in her breast. 
 Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, 
 Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
 Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 
 Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, 
 Not tyrants fierce that unrepeuting die, 
 Not Cynthia when her mantua 's pinned awry. 
 E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair. 
 As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravished hair. 
 
 For, that sad moment, when the sylphs with- 
 drew, 
 And Ariel weeping from Belinda (lew, 
 Lhnbricl, a dusky, melancholy sprite. 
 As ever sulhcd the fair face of light, 
 Down to the central cartli, his proper scene, 
 Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 
 
 Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome. 
 And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 
 No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, 
 Tlic dreaded cast is all the wind that blows. 
 Here in a grotto sheltered close from air. 
 And screened in shades from day's detested glare, 
 She sighs forever ou her pensive bed. 
 Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 
 
 Two handmaids wait the tlirone : alike in place, 
 But dilTering far in figure and in face. 
 Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid, 
 
 * A liook full of court and povty scnndal, writtrn by Mrs. 
 Mniih-v. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -95 
 
(&■ 
 
 THE KAPE OF THE LOCK. 
 
 317 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Hev wrinkled form in black and white arrayi'd ! 
 With store of prayers for mornings, niglits, and 
 
 noons, 
 Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons. 
 There atl'cetation, with a sickly mien. 
 Shows in her cheek the roses of eigliteen. 
 Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside. 
 Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, 
 Ou the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe. 
 Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show. 
 The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 
 Wlien each new nightdress gives a new disease. 
 
 A constant vapor o'er the palace flies ; 
 Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise ; 
 Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades, 
 Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
 Now ghiring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, 
 Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires : 
 Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes. 
 And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 
 
 Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen, 
 Of bodies elianged to various forms by Spleen. 
 Here living teapots stand, one arm hekl out. 
 One bent ; the handle this, and that the spout : 
 A pipkin tliere hke Homer's tripod walks ; 
 Here siglis a jar, and there a goose-pye talks ; 
 Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, 
 And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks. 
 
 Safe past the gnome through this fantastic 
 l)and, 
 A branch of healing spleenwort in his liand. 
 Then thus addressed the power : " Hail, wayward 
 
 queen ! 
 Wiio rule the sex to fifty from fifteen : 
 Parent of vapors and of female wit, 
 Who give the hysteric or poetic fit. 
 On various tempers act by various ways. 
 Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; 
 Who cause the proud their visits to delay. 
 And send the godly in a pet to pray. 
 A nymph there is tliat all your power disdains. 
 And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 
 But O, if e'er thy gnome coidd spoil a grace. 
 Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face. 
 Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame, 
 Or cliange complexions at a losing game ; 
 If e'er with airy liorns I planted heads. 
 Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, 
 Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude. 
 Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude. 
 Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease, 
 Wliich not the tears of brightest eyes could ease : 
 Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 
 That single act gives half tlie world the spleen." 
 
 The goddess, witli a discontented air. 
 Seems to reject him, tliougli slie grants his 
 
 prayer. 
 A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, 
 
 Like that where once Ulysses held the winds ; 
 There slie collects the force of female lungs. 
 Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. 
 A vial next she fills with fainting fears. 
 Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. 
 The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. 
 Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to- 
 day. 
 Sunk in Thalestris' * arms the nymph lie found. 
 Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 
 Full o'er their heads the swelliiig bag he rent, 
 And all the furies issued at the vent. 
 Belinda burns with more than mortal ire. 
 And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
 "0 wretched maid! " she spread lier hands, and 
 
 cried 
 (While Hampton's echoes, " Wretched maid," 
 
 replied). 
 Was it for tliis you took such constant care 
 The bodkin, comb, and essence to prejiare? 
 For this your locks in paper durance bound? 
 For tills with torturing irons wreathed around ? 
 For this with fillets strained your tender head? 
 And bravely bore the double loads of lead? 
 Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair. 
 While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ! 
 Honor forbid ! at whose unrivalled shrine 
 Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 
 Methinks already I your tears survey. 
 Already iiear the horrid things they say. 
 Already see you a degraded toast. 
 And all your honor in a whisper lost I 
 How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend ? 
 'T will then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
 And shall this prize, the inestimable prize. 
 Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes. 
 And heightened by the diamond's circling rays. 
 On that rapacious hand forever blaze ? 
 Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park circus grow. 
 And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 
 Sooner let eartli, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
 Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all ! " 
 
 She said ; then raging to Sir Plume t repairs. 
 And bids iicr beau demand the precious hairs : 
 Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain. 
 And the nice conduct of a clouded cane, 
 ^^'ith earnest eyes, and round unthinking face. 
 He first the snuff-box opened, then the case. 
 And thus broke out : " My lord, why, what the 
 
 devil I . 
 Z — ds ! damn the lock I 'fore Gad, you must be 
 
 civil ! 
 Plague on 't ! 't is past a jest — nay, prithee, pox ! 
 Give her the hair." He spoke, and rapped his 
 box. 
 " It grieves me much (replied the peer again) 
 Wlio speaks so well should ever speak in vain : 
 
 * Mrs. Moi-ly. t Sir George Brown. 
 
 -9> 
 
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 318 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 But by this lock, tliis sacred lock, I swear 
 ('Wliieli nevermore shall join its parted hair; 
 'iMiifh ueverinore its honors shall renew, 
 Clijiped from the lovely head where late it grew), 
 That, while my nostrils draw the vital air. 
 This hand, which won it, shall forever wear." 
 He spoke, and speaking, in prond triumph spread 
 The long-contended honors of her head. 
 
 But Umbriel, hateful gnome, forbears not so ; 
 He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. 
 Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, 
 Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in tears ; 
 On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, 
 'Wiiicli with a sigh she raised, and thus she said : 
 
 " Forever cursed be this detested day, 
 TiVhicli snatched my best, my favorite curl away ; 
 Happy ! ah, ten times happy had I been. 
 If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen ! 
 Yet am not I the first mistaken maid 
 By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. 
 O, had I rather unadmired remained 
 In some lone isle, or distant northern land ; 
 Wl'.ere the gilt chariot never marks the way, 
 Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea ! 
 There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye, 
 Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
 ^Vhat moved my mind with youthful lords to 
 
 roam ? 
 0, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home ; 
 'T was this the morning omens seemed to tell, 
 Tlirice from mv trembling hand the patchbox 
 
 fell ; 
 The tottering china shook without a wind. 
 Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! 
 A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, 
 In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 
 See the poor remnants of these sUghted hairs ! 
 My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine spares : 
 These in two sable ringlets tauglit to break. 
 Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 
 Tiie sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
 And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 
 Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, 
 And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. 
 O, hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize 
 Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! " 
 
 c.^NTO V. 
 
 She iaid : the pitying audience melt in tears ; 
 But fate and Jove liad stopped tha baron's ears. 
 In vain Thalcstris with reproach assads. 
 For who can move wlien fair Belinda fails ? 
 Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain. 
 While Anna begged, and Dido raged in vain. 
 Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; 
 Silence ensued, and tluis the nymph began : 
 
 " Say, why are beauties praised and honored 
 mnsi , 
 
 The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast ? 
 Why decked with all that land and sea afi'ord, 
 Wliy angels called, and augel-like adored ? 
 Wliy round our coaches crowd the white-gloved 
 
 beaux ? 
 Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? 
 How vain arc all these glories, all our pains. 
 Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 
 That men may say, when we the front-box grace. 
 Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 
 O, if to dance all night, and dress all day. 
 Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away. 
 Who would not scorn what housewife's cares 
 
 produce. 
 Or who would leani one earthly tiling of use ? 
 To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint. 
 Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 
 But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay. 
 Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray; 
 Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. 
 And she who scorns a man must die a maid ; 
 What then remains, but well our power to use, 
 And keep good-humor stUl, whate'er we lose ? 
 And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail. 
 When airs and flights and screams and scolding 
 
 fail. 
 Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; 
 Charms strike the sight, but merit v^nns the soul." 
 So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued ; 
 Belinda frowned, Thalcstris called her prude. 
 " To arms, to arms ! " the fierce virago cries, 
 And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 
 AU side in ])artics, and begin tlie attack ; 
 Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones 
 
 ci'ack ; 
 Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, 
 And bass and treble voices strike the skies. 
 No common weapons in their hands are found. 
 Like gods they fight, nor dread. a mortal wound. 
 So when bold Homer makes the gods engage. 
 And licavcnly breasts with human passions rage ; 
 'Gainst Pallas Mars ; Latona Hermes arms ; 
 And all Olympus rings with loud alarms ; 
 Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around. 
 Blue Neptune storms, the beUowiug dce])s re- 
 sound : 
 Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground 
 
 gives way. 
 And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 
 Trium])liant Umbriel, on a sconce's height, 
 Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view tiie fight : 
 Propped on their bodkin-spears, the sjirites 
 
 survey 
 The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
 
 Wliile through the press enraged Thalcstris 
 
 flies, 
 And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
 A beau and witUng perished in the throng 
 
 -^ 
 
f 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OP AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. 
 
 319 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 One died in metaplaor, and one in song. 
 " O cruel nymph ! a living deatli I bear," 
 Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside liis chair. 
 A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, 
 " Those eyesare madeso killing" * — was liis last. 
 Thus on Ma;ander's tlowery margin hes 
 The expiring swan, and as lie suigs he dies. 
 
 When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa 
 down, 
 Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown ; 
 She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
 But at her smile the beau revived again. 
 
 Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air. 
 Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair ; 
 The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; 
 At length the wits mount up, the liairs subside. 
 
 See fierce Belinda on the baron flies, 
 With more than usual lightning in her eyes : 
 Nor feared the chief the unetiual light to try, 
 Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
 But this bold lord, with mauly strength endued. 
 She with one finger and a thumb subdued -. 
 Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
 A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; 
 The gnomes direct, to every atom just. 
 The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
 Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, 
 And tlie liigh dome re-echoes to his nose. 
 
 " Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda cried, 
 And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
 (The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
 ller great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
 In three seal-rings ; which after, melted down. 
 Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown : 
 Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew. 
 The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 
 Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs. 
 Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 
 
 " Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe ! 
 Thou by some other shalt be laid as'low ; 
 Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind; 
 All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
 Rather than so, ah, let me still sui-vive. 
 And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn aUvc." 
 
 " Restore the look ! " she cries ; and all around 
 " Restore the lock I " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
 Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
 Roared for the handkercliief that caused his pain. 
 But see liow oft ambitious aims are crossed. 
 And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
 The lock, obtained with guilt and kept with pain. 
 In every place is sought, but sought in vain : 
 AVith such a prize no mortal must be blest. 
 So Heaven decrees ! with Heaven who can eon- 
 test? 
 
 Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere. 
 Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. 
 * The words of a song in the Opera of Camilla. 
 
 There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, 
 And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
 There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found. 
 And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound. 
 The courtier's promises, and sick men's prayers. 
 The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs. 
 Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea. 
 Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 
 
 But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise. 
 Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes 
 (So Rome's great founder to the heavens with- 
 drew. 
 To Proculus alone confessed in view-) : 
 A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, 
 And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
 Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. 
 The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. 
 The sylphs behold it kindling as it flics. 
 And pleased pursue its progress through the 
 skies. 
 This the beau monde shall from the mall sur- 
 vey. 
 And hail with music its propitious ray ; 
 This the blest lover shall for Venus take. 
 And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake ; 
 This Partridge* soon shall view in cloudless skies. 
 When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ; 
 And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom 
 The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 
 
 Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy 
 ravished hair, 
 T^liich adds new glory to the shining sjjhere ! 
 Not all the tresses that fair head can boast 
 Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
 For after all the murders of your eye, 
 When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; 
 Wlien those fair suns shall set, as set they must. 
 And all those tresses shall be laid in dust. 
 This Lock the Muse sliall consecrate to fame, 
 And midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 
 
 ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE 
 LADY. 
 
 Wh.^t beckoning ghost along the moonlight 
 shade 
 Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? 
 'T is she ! — but why that bleeding bosom goi'ed? 
 Wliy dimly gleams the lisionary sword ? 
 0, ever beauteous, ever friendly ! tell, 
 Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well ? 
 To bear too tender or too firm a heart. 
 To act a lover's or a Roman's part ? 
 Is there no bright reversion in the sky 
 For those who greatly think or bravely die ? 
 
 Wliy bade ye else, ye powers ! her soul aspire 
 Above the vulgar flight of low desire ? 
 * A ridiculous star-gazer, and maker of almanacs. 
 
 -g> 
 
C&- 
 
 320 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes. 
 The glorious fault of angels and of gods : 
 Thence to their images on earth it tlows, 
 And in the breasts of kings and lieroes glows. 
 Most souls, 't is true, but peep out once au age. 
 Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage : 
 Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years 
 Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ; 
 Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep. 
 And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. 
 
 Troni these, perhaps (ere nature bade her die), 
 Fate snatciied her early to the pitying sky. 
 As into air the purer spirits flow, 
 Aud separate from their kindred dregs below ; 
 So flew the soul to its congenial place, 
 Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. 
 
 But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, 
 Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood ! 
 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath. 
 These cheeks now fading at the blast of death ; 
 Cold is that breast which warmed the world l)e- 
 
 fore, 
 And those love-darting eyes must roll uo more. 
 Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball. 
 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children 
 
 fall: 
 On all the line a sudden vengeance waits. 
 And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates ; 
 There passengers shall stand, and pointing say 
 (^Miile the long fuiuu-als blacken all tiie way1, 
 Lo ! these were they whose souls the furies 
 
 steeled. 
 And cursed witli hearts unknowing how to yield. 
 Thus unlamented pass the proud away. 
 The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day ! 
 So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow 
 Tor others' good, or melt at others' woe. 
 
 What can atone (O ever-injured shade !) 
 Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid ? 
 No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear 
 Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mouruf\d 
 
 bier. 
 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, 
 By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, 
 By foreign hands thy iiumble grave adimied, 
 By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned ! 
 Wliat tliough no friends in sable weeds appear, 
 Grieve for an hour, periiaps, then mourn a year ; 
 And bear about the mockery of woe 
 To midnight dances and the public show ? 
 What thougli no weeping loves tiiy ashes gi'ace, 
 Nor polished marble ennilate thy face ? 
 ^fhat tliough no sacred earth allow thee room, 
 Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er tliy tomb? 
 Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed. 
 And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast ; 
 There shall the morn her earliest tears licstow. 
 There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 
 
 AVhile angels with their silver wings o'ershade 
 The ground, now sacred by thy relies made. 
 
 So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, 
 l^liat once had beauty, titles, wealth, aud fame. 
 How loved, how honored once, avads thee not, 
 To whom related, or by whom begot ; 
 A heap of dust alone remains of tliee ; 
 'T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be ! 
 
 Poets themselves must fall like tliose they sung, 
 Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. 
 E'en he, whose soid now melts in mournful lays, 
 Sliall shortly want the generous tear he pays ; 
 Tiicu from his closing eyes thy form shall part, 
 Aud the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; 
 Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er. 
 The Muse forgot, and thou beloved uo more ! 
 
 EXTRACTS FEOM " AN ESSAY ON CEITICISM," 
 
 'T IS hard to say if greater want of skdl 
 Appear in writing or in judging ill ; 
 But of the two less dangerous is the offence 
 To tire our patience than mislead our sense : 
 Some few in that, but numbers err in this. 
 Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; 
 A fool might once himself alone expose. 
 Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 
 
 'T is with our judgments as our watches, none 
 Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 
 In poets as true genius is but rare. 
 True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; 
 Both must alike from Heaven derive tlieir light, 
 These born to judge as well as those to write. 
 Let such teaeii others who themselves excel. 
 And censure freely who have written well, 
 Authors are partial to their wit, 't is true. 
 But are not critics to their judgment too ? 
 
 Yet if we look more closely, we shall find 
 Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind: 
 Nature afl"ords at least a glimmering light ; 
 The lines, though touched but faintly, arc drawn 
 
 right : 
 But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced. 
 Is by ill coloring but the more disgraced, 
 So by false learning is good sense defaced : 
 Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, 
 Aud some made coxcombs Nature meant but 
 
 fools : 
 In search of wit these lose their connnon-sense, 
 And tlien turn critics in their own defence : 
 Each burns alike, who can or cannot write, 
 Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite. 
 All fools have still an itching to deride, 
 And fain would be upon the laughing side. 
 If Mfcvius scribble in Apollo's spite, 
 Tliere are who judge still worse than he can 
 
 write. 
 
 -9^ 
 
€t 
 
 EXTRACTS FEOM "AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM." 
 
 521 T 
 
 Some have at first for wits, then poets past ; 
 Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at 
 last. 
 
 * * * 
 
 rirst follow Nature, and your judgmeut frame 
 By her just standard, which is still the same ; 
 Uuerring Nature, still divinely bright. 
 One clear, unchanged, and universal light, 
 Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, 
 At once the source and end and test of art. 
 
 * * * 
 
 You then whose judgment the right course 
 would steer, 
 Kuow well each ancient's proper character ; 
 His fable, subject, scope, in every page ; 
 Religion, country, genius of his age : 
 Without all these at once before your eyes. 
 Cavil you niay, but never criticise. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, 
 And rise to faults true critics dare not meud ; 
 From vulgar bounds with brave lUsorder part. 
 And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, 
 "\\'hich, without passing through the judgment, 
 
 gains 
 The heart, and all its end at once attains. 
 
 * * * 
 Those oft are stratagems winch errors seem, 
 Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 
 
 * * « 
 
 Hail, bards triumphant ! bom in happier days, 
 Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 
 Whose honors with increase of ages grow. 
 As streams roll do^vn, enlarging as they flow ; 
 Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound. 
 And worlds applaud that must not yet be found ! 
 O, may some spark of your celestial fire 
 The last, the meanest of your sons inspire 
 (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your 
 
 flights. 
 Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes). 
 To teach vain wits a science little known, 
 To admire superior sense, and doubt their own. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spi'ing : 
 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
 xlnd drinking largely sobers us again. 
 Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts. 
 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 
 While from the bounded level of our mind 
 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind : 
 But more advanced, behold with strange surprise 
 New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
 So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 
 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ! 
 The eternal snows appear already past, 
 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 
 
 fr 
 
 But those attained, we tremble to survey 
 The growing labors of the lengthened way ; 
 The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 
 HiUs peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 
 A perfect judge wiU read each work of wit 
 With the same spirit that its author writ ; 
 Survey the whole, nor seek sliglit faults to fiud 
 Where nature moves and rajrture warms the 
 
 mind ; 
 Nor lose, for that malignant duU delight, 
 The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit. 
 
 * * * 
 Most Clitics, fimd of some subservient art, 
 Still make the whole depend upon a part : • 
 They talk of principles, but notions prize. 
 And all to one loved folly sacrifice. 
 
 Once on a time La Mancha's Knight, they say, 
 A certain bard encountering on the way. 
 Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, 
 As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage. 
 Concluding all were desperate sots and fools 
 Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. 
 Our author, happy in a judge so nice. 
 Produced his play, and begged the knight's ad- 
 vice ; 
 Made him observe the subject and the plot. 
 The manners, passions, unities ; what not ? 
 All which exact to rule were brought about. 
 Were but a combat in the lists left out. 
 " What ! leave the combat out ? " exclaims the 
 
 knight. 
 " Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite." 
 " Not so, by Heaven ! (he answers in a rage) 
 Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the 
 
 stage." 
 " So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain." 
 " Then build a new, or act it on a plain." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Words are like leaves ; and where they most 
 
 abound, 
 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. 
 
 * * * 
 
 But most by numbers judge a poet's song. 
 And smooth or rough with them is right or 
 
 wrong : 
 In the bright Muse though thousand charms con- 
 spire. 
 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 
 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear; 
 Not mend their minds, as some to church repair, 
 Not for the doctrine but the music there. 
 These equal syllables alone require, 
 Though oft the ear the open vowels tire. 
 While expletives their feeble aid do join. 
 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : 
 While they ring round the same unvaried chimes. 
 With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 
 Where'er you find " the coohng western breeze," 
 
 -95 
 
cQ- 
 
 322 
 
 In 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 " wliispers through the 
 with pleasing murmurs 
 
 the nest line, it 
 
 trees " ; 
 If crystal streams ' 
 
 creep," 
 The reader 's threatened (not in vaiu) ^yit,h 
 
 " sleep " ; 
 Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length 
 
 along. 
 Leave such to tune their own didl rhymes, and 
 
 know 
 \Vliat 's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow ; 
 And praise the easy vigor of a line 
 Wiere Denham's strength and Waller's sweet- 
 ness join. 
 True ease iu \vi'iting comes from art, not chance. 
 As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 
 'T is not enough no harshness gives olfcnce ; 
 The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
 Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows. 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers 
 
 flows ; 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
 The hoarse rough verse should Kke the torrent 
 
 roar. 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to 
 
 throw. 
 The line too labors, and the words move slow : 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
 Plies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along 
 
 the main. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Some, valuing those of their own side or mind, 
 Still make themselves the measure of maidcind : 
 roniUy we think we honor merit then, 
 When we but praise ourselves in other men. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice. 
 Will needs mistake an author into vice : 
 All seems infected that tlie infected spy, 
 As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Name a new ])lay, and he 's the poet's friend ; 
 Nay, showed his faults — but when would poets 
 
 mend y 
 No place so sacred from such fops is barred. 
 Nor is Paul's chureli more safe than Paul's 
 
 churchyard ; 
 Nay, fly to altars ; there they 'U talk you dead ; 
 For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO ME, ADDISON'S "OATO." 
 
 To wake the. soul by t<;ndcr strokes of art. 
 To raise the genius, and to mend the heart ; 
 To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold : 
 For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage. 
 Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
 Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
 And foes to virtue wondered liow they wept. 
 Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
 The iieru's glory or the virgin's love ; 
 In pitying love, we but our weakness show. 
 And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
 Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause. 
 Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
 He bids your breasts with ancient ardor rise,. 
 And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. 
 Virtue confessed in human shape he draws. 
 What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
 No common object to your sight displays, 
 But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 
 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate. 
 And greatly falling witli a falling state. 
 TVliile Cato gives his little senate laws. 
 What bosom beats not in his country's cause ? 
 Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
 '\Y\io liears him groan, and does not wish to 
 
 bleed ? 
 E'en when proud Ca;sar midst triumphal ears. 
 The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, 
 Ignobly vain, and impotently great. 
 Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 
 As her dead father's reverend image past. 
 The pomp was darkejied, and the day o'ercast ; 
 The triumph ceased, tears gushed from every 
 
 eye ; 
 Tlie world's great victor passed unheeded by ; 
 Her last good man dejected Rome adored, 
 And honored Cssar's less than Cato's sword. 
 
 Britons, attend : be worth hke this approved, 
 And show you have the virtue to be moved. 
 ^Vitli iioucst seorn the first famed Cato viewed 
 Rome learning arts from Greece, wliom she sub- 
 dued : 
 Your scene precariously subsists too long 
 On French translation and Italian song. 
 Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, 
 Be justly warmed with your own native rage ; 
 Such plays alone should win a British ear. 
 As Cato's self had not, disdained to hear. 
 
 UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 
 
 F.iTiiER of all ! lu every age. 
 
 In every clime adored. 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Loi'd ! 
 
 Thou Great First Cause, least understood, 
 
 Who all my sense confined 
 To know but this, that thou art good. 
 
 And that mvself am blind : 
 
 : rt) 
 
cQ- 
 
 ODE ON SOLITUDE,— EPITAPH ON ME. GAY. 
 
 323 
 
 -n 
 
 Yet gave me, in tliis dark estate, 
 
 To see the good from ill : 
 And binding nature fast in fate. 
 
 Left free the human will. 
 
 Wliat conscience dictates to be done. 
 
 Or warns me not to do ; 
 Tliis teacli mo more than iieU to shun. 
 
 That more than heaven pursue. 
 
 What blessings thy free bounty gives 
 
 Let me not cast away ; 
 For God is paid wlien man receives : 
 
 To enjoy is to obey. 
 
 Yet not to earth's contracted span 
 Thy goodness let me bound. 
 
 Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
 When thousand worlds are round. 
 
 Let not this weak unknowing hand 
 Presume thy bolts to throw. 
 
 And deal damnation round the laud 
 On each I judge thy foe. 
 
 If I am right, thy grace impart 
 
 Still in the right to stay ; 
 If I am wrong, teach my heart 
 
 To find that better way. 
 
 Save me alike from foolish pride 
 
 Or impious discontent. 
 At aught thy wisdom has denied, 
 
 Or aught thy goodness lent. 
 
 Teach nie to feel another's woe, 
 
 To hide the fault I see ; 
 That mercy I to others show, 
 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
 Since quickened by thy breath; 
 
 O lead me, wheresoe'er I go. 
 Through this day's life or death I 
 
 This day be bread and peace my lot : 
 
 All else beneath the sun 
 Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 
 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
 To thee, whose temple is all space, 
 Whose altar earth, sea, skies ! 
 
 One chorus let all being raise I 
 All nature's incense rise ! 
 
 ODE ON SOLIT0DE, 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS ABOUT TWELVE 
 TEARS OLD. 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care 
 A few paternal acres bound. 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. 
 Whose (locks supply him with attire, 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
 In winter fire. 
 
 Blessed who can unconcern'dly find 
 Hours, days, and years slide soft away. 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 Quiet by day ; 
 
 Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
 Together mixed ; sweet recreation ; 
 And innocence, which most does please 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown. 
 Thus unlamented let me die ; 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
 THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOTJETH BOOK OF 
 HORACE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Lest you should think that verse shall die 
 Which sounds the silver Thames along, 
 
 Taught on the wings of truth to fly 
 Above the reach of vulgar song ; 
 
 Though daring Milton sits sublime. 
 
 In S|)enser native muses play ; 
 Nor yet shall Waller yield to time. 
 
 Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay — 
 
 Sages and chiefs long since had birth 
 Ere Caesar was or Newton named ; 
 
 These raised new empires o'er the earth. 
 Arid those new heavens and systems framed. 
 
 Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride ! 
 They had no poet, and they died. 
 In vain they schemed, in vain they bled ! 
 They had no poet, and are dead. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MK. GAT, 
 
 :N WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1732. 
 
 Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
 In wit a man, simplicity a child : 
 With native humor tempering virtuous rage, 
 Formed to delight at once and lash the age : 
 Above temptation in a low estate. 
 And uneorrupted e'en among the great : 
 A safe companion, and an easy friend, 
 Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end. 
 These are thy honors ! not that here thy bust 
 Is mixed with heroes, or with kings thy dust : 
 But that the worthy and the good shall say. 
 Striking their pensive bosoms, — " Here lies 
 Griv!" 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 324 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 CELU. 
 
 Cti.iA, we know, is sixty-five, 
 Yet Celia's face is seventeen ; 
 
 Tims winter in lier breast must live. 
 While summer in her face is seen. 
 
 How cruel Celia's fate ! who hence 
 Our hearts' devotion cannot try; 
 
 Too pretty for our reverence. 
 Too ancient for our gallantry. 
 
 ON HIS &ROTTO AT TWICKENHAM, 
 
 COMPOSED OF MAKBLES, Sl'AllS, GEMS, OKES, AND 
 MINERALS. 
 
 Tiiou who shalt stop where Thames' translucent 
 
 wave 
 Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave ; 
 Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, 
 And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill ; 
 Un])olishcd gems no ray on pride bestow. 
 And latent metals innocently glow ; 
 Approach. Great nature studiously behold ! 
 And eye the mine without a wish for gold. 
 Approach ; but awful ! lo ! the iEgerian grot, 
 Wliere, nobly pensive, St. John sate and thought; 
 Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole. 
 And the bright tlame was shot through March- 
 
 mout's soul. 
 Let such, such oidy, tread this sacred floor, 
 Vi'ho dare to love their country, and be poor. 
 
 EXTEACTS FEOM "AN ESSAY ON MAN." 
 
 H EAVKN from all creatures liides the book of fate. 
 All but the page prescribed, their present state: 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits 
 
 know ; 
 Or wlio could suffer being here below ? 
 The lamb thy I'iot dooms to bleed to-day. 
 Had he thy reason would he skip and play ? 
 Pleased to the last he crops the flowery food. 
 And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
 blindness to the luture ! kindly given, 
 That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven ; 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 A hero perish or a sparrow fall, 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurled. 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions 
 
 soar ; 
 Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. 
 What future bliss he gives not thee to know. 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never is but alwavs to be blest. 
 
 The soul, uneasy and confined from home. 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 Lo, the poor Lidian ! whose untutored mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk or milky way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has given. 
 Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven ; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced. 
 Some happier island in the watery waste. 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To be content 's his natural desire ; 
 He asks no angel's wing, no sera])h's fire ; 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 * * * 
 Far as creation's ample range extends 
 
 Tiic scale of sensual, mental powers ascends : 
 Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race 
 From the green myriads in the peopled grass : 
 What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme. 
 The mole's dim curtain and the lynx's beam ! 
 Of smell, the headlong lioness between 
 And hound siigacious on the tainted green ! 
 Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood 
 To that which warbles through the vernal wood ! 
 The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! 
 Feels at each thread, and fives along the line ; 
 In the nice bee what sense so subtly true. 
 From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew I 
 How iustinet varies in the grovelling swine. 
 Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine ! 
 'Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier ! ' 
 Forever separate, yet forever near ! 
 Remombrauec and reflection how allied ! 
 What thin partitions sense from thought divide ! 
 And middle natures how they long to join, 
 Yet never pass the insuperable line ! 
 Without this just gradation could they be 
 Subjected these to tliose, or all to thee ? 
 The powers of all subdued by thee alone, 
 Is not thy reason all these powers in one ? 
 
 * * * 
 
 All arc but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
 That changed through all, and yet in all the 
 
 same. 
 Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame. 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in tlie l)rec/.e, 
 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
 Lives through all life, extends through all ex- 
 tent. 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal ]iart, 
 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 
 As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns 
 As the rapt sera]ih that adores and burns : 
 
 -g> 
 
cfi- 
 
 EXTIIACTS FROM "AN ESSAY ON MAN." 
 
 325 
 
 -Q) 
 
 T(i him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
 He lills, he bounds, connects, and equals all ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 All nature is but art unknown to thee ; 
 
 All chance direction, which thou canst not see ; 
 
 All discord, liarmony not understood ; 
 
 All partial evil, imiversal good ; 
 
 And spite of pride, iu erring reason's spite, 
 
 One truth is clear, Whateoer is is right. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Know then tliysclt', presume not God to scan ; 
 The proper study of mankind is man. 
 Placed on this isthnuis of a middle state, 
 A being darkly wise and rudely great ; 
 AVith too much knowledge for the sceptic side, 
 M'itli too much weakness for the stoic's pride, 
 lie hangs between, in doubt to act or rest ; 
 In doubt to deem himself a god or beast. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Go, soar with Plato to the empyreal sphere. 
 To the first good, first perfect, and first fair ; 
 Or tread the mazy round his followers trod. 
 And quitting sense caU iuiitating God ; 
 As Eastern priests in giddy circles run. 
 And turn their heads to imitate the sun. 
 Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule — 
 Tlien drop into thyself, and be a fool ! 
 
 Superior beings, when of late they saw 
 A mortal man unfold all Nature's law. 
 Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, 
 And showed a Newton as we show an ape. 
 
 * * » 
 In lazy apatliy let stoics boast 
 
 Their virtue fixed ; 't is fixed as iu a frost ; 
 Contracted all, retiring to the breast ; 
 But strength of mind is exercise, not rest; 
 The rising tempest puts in act the soul, 
 I'arts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. 
 On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. 
 Reason the card, but passion is the gale ; 
 Nor God alone in the still c.ilm we find. 
 He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The surest virtues thus from passions shoot. 
 Wild nature's vigor working at the root. 
 AV'hat crops of wit and honesty appear 
 I'rom spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear ! 
 See anger zeal and fortitude supply ; 
 E'en avarice prudence, slotli philosophy ; 
 Lust, through some certain strainers well refined, 
 Is gentle love, and charms all womankind ; 
 Envy, to which the ignoble mind 's a slave. 
 Is emulation in the learned or brave ; 
 Nor virtue male or female can we name. 
 But what will grow on pride or grow on shame. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, 
 As to be hated needs but to be seen ; 
 
 Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face. 
 We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 
 
 * « « 
 The learned is happy nature to explore. 
 The fool is happy that he knows no more ; 
 Tiie rich is happy in the plenty given. 
 
 The poor contents him with the care of Heaven. 
 See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing. 
 The sot a hero, lunatic a king ; 
 The starving chemist in liis golden ^dews 
 Supremely blessed, the poet in Ids Muse. 
 
 * * * 
 Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law. 
 
 Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw : 
 Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
 A little louder, but as empty quite : 
 Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage. 
 And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age : 
 Pleased with this bawble still, as that before, 
 Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Here then we rest : "the Universal Cause 
 Acts to one end, but acts by various laws" 
 In all the madness of superfluous health, 
 The trim of pride, the impudence of wealth, 
 Let this great truth be present night and day. 
 But most be present, if we preach or pray. 
 
 * * * 
 
 All forms that perish other forms supply 
 (By tunis we catch the vital breath, and die), 
 Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne. 
 They rise, they break, and to that sea return. 
 Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; 
 One all-extending, all-]n-eserving, soul 
 Connects each being, greatest with the least, 
 Made beast iu aid of man, and man of beast ; 
 All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; 
 The chain holds on, and where it ends unknown. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Know Nature's children all divide her care ; 
 The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear. 
 While man exclaims, " See aU things for my use ! " 
 " See man for mine ! " replies a pampered goose ; 
 And just as short of reason lie must fall, 
 Wlio thinks all made for one, not one for all. 
 » * * 
 
 Wlio first taught souls enslaved, and realms 
 undone. 
 The enormous faith of many made for one ; 
 Tiiat proud exception to all Nature's laws, 
 To invert the world, and counterwork its cause? 
 Force first made conquest, and that conquest law ; 
 Till superstition tauglit the tyrant awe, 
 Tlien shared the tyranny, then lent it aid, 
 And gods of conquerors, slaves of subjects made : 
 She, midst tlie lightning's blaze and thunder's 
 sound. 
 
 --^ 
 
<e- 
 
 -ft) 
 
 326 
 
 POPK. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Wheu rocked the mouutams, and when groaned 
 
 the ground. 
 She tauglit the weak to bend, the proud to pray. 
 To power unseen, and mightier far than they : 
 She, from the rending earth and bursting skies. 
 Saw gods descend, and fiends inferual rise ; 
 Here fixed the dreadful, tliere the blessed abodes; 
 Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods; 
 Gods, partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, 
 'V\niose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust: 
 Such as the souls of cowards might coueeive, 
 And, formed like tyrants, tyrants would believe. 
 Zeal then, not charity, became tlie gidde. 
 And hell was built ou spite, and heaven on pride : 
 Then sacred seemed the ethereal vault no more ; 
 Altars grew marble then, and reeked with gore ; 
 Then first the tlaraen tasted Uving food, 
 Next his grim idol smeared with human blood ; 
 With heaven's own thunders shook the world 
 
 below, 
 And played the god an engine on his foe. 
 
 * * * 
 
 For forms of government let fools contest : 
 Whate'er is best administered is best : 
 For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; 
 His can't be wrong whose life is in the right. 
 In faith and hope the world will disagree, 
 But all mankind's concern is charity ; 
 All must be false that thwart this one great end ; 
 Aud all of God that bless mankind or mend. 
 » * * 
 
 Thus God and nature linked the general frame, 
 Aud bade self-love and social be the same. 
 
 * * * 
 
 O happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 
 
 Good, pleasure, ease, content ! whate'er thy 
 
 name : 
 That something still which prompts the eternal 
 
 sigh. 
 For which we bear to hve, or dare to die ; 
 Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
 O'erlooked, seen double, by the fool and wise. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Order is Heaven's first law ; and, this confest. 
 Some are and must be greater than the rest, 
 More rich, more wise : but who infers from iicncc 
 That such are happier, shocks all common-sense. 
 Heaven to mankind impartial wc confess, 
 If all are equal in their happiness : 
 But mutual wants this happiness increase ; 
 All nature's difference keeps aU nature's peace. 
 
 * • * 
 Know all the good that individuals find, 
 
 Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, 
 llcasou's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense. 
 Lie in three words, — health, peace, and compe- 
 tence. 
 
 But health consists with temperance alone : 
 Aud i)eacc, virtue ! peace is all thy own. 
 
 * * * 
 Honor and shame from no condition rise ; 
 
 Act well your part, there aU the honor lies. 
 Fortune in men has some small ditference made. 
 One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; 
 The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, 
 The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. 
 " AA'hat ditfer more," you cry, "than crown aud 
 
 cowl ? " 
 I '11 tell you, friend, a wise man and a fool. 
 You '11 find, if once the monarch acts the monk, 
 Or, cobblcr-likc, the parson will be drunk, 
 Worth makes the man, and want of it the follow : 
 The rest is all but leather or prunello, 
 » » » 
 
 Go ! if your ancient but ignoble blood 
 Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood. 
 Go ! and pretend your family is young, 
 Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 
 What can ennoble sots or slaves or cowards ? 
 Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. 
 Look next on greatness ; say where greatness 
 
 lies, 
 " Wliere but among the heroes and tiie wise ? " 
 Heroes are nmch the same, the point's agreed. 
 From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ; 
 The whole strange purpose of tlieir lives to liud 
 Or make an enemy of all mankind ! 
 
 * » * 
 A wit 's a feather, and a chief a rod ; 
 
 An iionest man 's the noblest work of God. 
 Fame but from death a villain's name can save, 
 As justice tears his body from the grave ; 
 When what to obHviou better were resigned 
 Is hung on high, to poison half mankind. 
 All fame is foreign but of true desert. 
 Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart : 
 One self-approving hour wiinle years outweighs 
 Of st\i]iid starers and of loud huzzas : 
 And more true joy Marccllus exiled feels 
 Than Ca!sar with a senate at liis hcds. 
 
 « * * 
 
 If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, 
 Tlie wisest, briglitcst, meanest of mankind ! 
 Or ravislied witli the. whisthug of a name, 
 See Cromwell damned to everlasting fame ! 
 » » • 
 
 God loves from whole to parts : but human 
 soul 
 Must rise from individual to the whole. 
 Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. 
 As the small pebble stirs tlie peaceful lake ; 
 The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, 
 Auotlier still, aud still another spreads ; 
 Friend, ])arent, ueiglilior, first it will embrace ; 
 His country next, aiul next all human race; 
 
 ■^ 
 
f 
 
 EXTEACTS FKOM "MORAL ESSAYS." 
 
 327 
 
 -Q) 
 
 my gemus ! come 
 
 4 
 
 Wide and more mde, the o'erflowings of tlie 
 mind 
 
 Take every creature in of every kind : 
 Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, 
 And heaven beholds its image in Ids breast. 
 Come then, my friend 
 along : 
 
 master of tlie poet and the song ! 
 And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, 
 To man's low passions, or their glorious entls, 
 Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise. 
 To fall with dignity, with temper rise : 
 Formed by thy converse, happily to steer 
 From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; 
 Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease. 
 Intent to reason, or polite to please. 
 0, wliilc along tlie stream of time thy name 
 Expanded iiies, and gathers all its fame. 
 Say, shall my little bark attendant sail. 
 Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ? 
 When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose. 
 Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy 
 
 foes. 
 Shall then this verse to future age pretend 
 Thou wert my guide, ])hiloso))her, and friend ? 
 That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art 
 From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart ; 
 For wit's false mirror held up nature's light, 
 Showed erring pride — whatever is is right ; 
 That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
 That true self-love and social are the same ; 
 That virtue only makes our bliss below, 
 And all our knowledge is — ourselves to know. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "MORAL ESSAYS." 
 
 Who would not praise Patricio's * high desert, 
 His baud unstained, his uneorrupted heart. 
 His comprehensive head ? all interests weighed, 
 All Europe saved, yet Britain not betrayed ! 
 He tiiauks you not, iiis pride is in piquet, 
 Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet. 
 
 * * * 
 
 'T is from high life high characters are drawn : 
 A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn. 
 
 » « * 
 
 'T is education forms the common mind ; 
 Just as the twig is bent the tree 's inclined. 
 
 * * * 
 Judge we by nature ? — habit can efface, 
 
 Interest o'ercome, or policy take place : 
 By actions ? — those uncertainty divides : 
 By passions? — these dissimulation hides: 
 Opinions ? — they still take a wider range : 
 Find, if you can, in what yon cannot cliange. 
 
 • Lord Gudolpliin. 
 
 Maimers with fortunes, humors turn with 
 cKmes, 
 Tenets with books, and principles with times. 
 
 * * * 
 Wliarton ! the scorn and wonder of our days. 
 Whose ruKng passion was the lust of praise : 
 Born with whate'er could win it from the wise. 
 Women and fools must like him, or he dies : 
 Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke. 
 The club must hail him master of tlie joke. 
 
 • » * 
 His passion still to covet general praise ; 
 His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways ; 
 
 A constant bounty which no friend has made ; 
 An angel tongue which no man can persuade ! 
 A fool with more of vrit than lialf mankind. 
 Too rash for thought, for action too retiued ; 
 A tyrant to the wife his heart aj)provcs ; 
 A rebel to the very king he loves ; 
 He dies, sad outcast of each church and state. 
 And, harder still ! flagitious, yet not great ! 
 Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule ? 
 'T was all for fear the knaves should call liim fool. 
 
 * * :^ 
 
 " Odious ! in woollen ! 't would a saint pro- 
 voke " 
 (Were the last .words that poor Narcissa* spoke), 
 " No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace 
 Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : 
 One would not, sure, be frightful when one 's 
 
 dead — • 
 And — Betty — give this cheek a Uttle red." 
 
 * * * 
 
 And you, brave Cobham 1 to the latest breath 
 Shall feel your ruling passion strong in deatli ; 
 Such in those moments as in all the past, 
 " O, save my country. Heaven ! " shall be your last. 
 
 * * * 
 Nareissa'st nature, tolerably mild. 
 
 To make a wash would hardly stew a child ; 
 
 Has e'en been proved to grant a lover's prayer, 
 
 And paid a tradesman once to make him stare ; 
 
 Gave alms at Easter in a Christian trim. 
 
 And made a widow liappy for a whim. 
 
 \V' by then declare good-nature is her scorn, 
 
 When 't is by that alone she can bo borne ? 
 
 Wliy jiique all mortals, yet affect a name ? 
 
 A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame : 
 
 Now dee]j in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, 
 
 Now drinking citron with his grace and Charti'cs : 
 
 Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns. 
 
 And atheism and religion take their turns : 
 
 A very heathen in the carnal part. 
 
 Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart. 
 
 * * * 
 
 But what are these to great Atossa's t mind ? 
 
 * Mrs. Oldfield, the actress. t Duchess of Hamilton. 
 
 J The famous Sarah, Duchess of Marlljoroufrh. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 328 
 
 POPE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Scarce once herself, by turns all womaukind ! 
 Who with herself, or others, from her birth 
 Finds all her life one warfare upon earth ; 
 Shines in exposing knaves and painting fools, 
 Yet is whate'er she hates and ridicules ; 
 No thought advances, but her eddy brain 
 Whisks it about, and down it goes again. 
 Pull sixty years the world has been her trade ; 
 The wisest fool much time has ever made : 
 From loveless youth to unrespeoted age. 
 No passion gratified except her rage : 
 So much the fury still outran the wit. 
 The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. 
 Who breaks with her provokes revenge from 
 
 hell. 
 But he 's a bolder man who dares be well. 
 Her every turn witli violence pursued. 
 Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude : 
 To that eacii passion turns or soon or late ; 
 Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate. 
 Superiors ? — death ! and equals ? — what a curse ; 
 But an inferior not dependent ? — worse. 
 Offend her, and she knows not to forgive ; 
 Oblige her, and she '11 hate you while you Uve ; 
 But die, and she '11 adore you — then the bust 
 And temple rise — then fall again to dust. 
 Last night her lord was all that 's good and great ; 
 A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. 
 Strange ! by the means defeated of the ends, 
 By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends, 
 By wealth of followers ! witliout one distress. 
 Sick of herself through very selfishness ! 
 Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer. 
 Childless with all licr children, wants an heir : 
 To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store, 
 Ur wanders, licaven-directed, to the poor. 
 
 * * * 
 
 " Yet Chloe * sure was formed without a spot." 
 Nature in her then erred not, but forgot. 
 " With every pleasing, every prudent part, 
 Say, what can Chloe want ? " She wauts a 
 
 heart. 
 She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought, 
 But never, never readied one generous thought. 
 Virtue she finds too painful an endeavor. 
 Content to dwell in decencies forever. 
 So very reasonable, so unmoved. 
 As never yet to love or to be loved. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Men some to business, some to ])lcasure take ; 
 But every woman is at heart a rake ; 
 Men some to quiet, some to public st rife ; 
 But every lady would be queen for life. 
 
 * * * 
 
 See how the world its veterans rewards ! 
 A youth of frolics, and old age of cards ; 
 Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, 
 
 • Mrs. Howard, ofttTwards Countess of SulTolk. 
 
 fr 
 
 Young without lovers, old without a friend ; 
 A foj) their jxassion, but their prize a sot, 
 Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 0, blessed with temper, whose unclouded ray 
 Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day ; 
 She who can love a sister's charms, or hear - 
 Sighs lor a daughter with unwouudcd ear; 
 She wlio ne'er answers till a husband cools. 
 Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ; 
 Charms by accepting, by submittuig sways. 
 Yet has her humor most when she obeys ; 
 Let fops or fortune fly which way they will. 
 Disdains all loss of tickets or coddle ; 
 Spleen, vapors, or small-pox, above tliem all, 
 And mistress of herself, tiiough china fall. 
 
 * » * 
 Blest paper-credit ! last and best supply ! 
 Tliat lends corruption lighter wuigs to fly ! 
 Gold imped by thee, can compass hardest tilings, 
 Can pocket states, can fetch or carry kings ; 
 
 A single leaf shall waft an army o'er. 
 Or ship off senates to some distant sliore ; 
 A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro 
 Our fates and fortunes as the wuids shall blow; 
 Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen, 
 And sdent sells a king or buys a queen. 
 » * * 
 
 But all our praises why should lords engross? 
 Rise, lionest Muse ! and sing the Man of Ross : * 
 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, 
 And rapid Severn hoarse a|)plause resounds. 
 Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry 
 
 brow y 
 From the dry rock wlio bade the waters flow? 
 Not to the skies iu useless columns tost. 
 Or in proud falls magnificently lost. 
 But dear and artless, pouring through the plain 
 Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. 
 Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? 
 Wliose seats the weary traveller repose? 
 Wlio taught that lieavcn-directcd spire to rise? 
 " The Man of Ross," caeii lisping babe rejilies. 
 Behold the market-place willi jioor o'erspread ! 
 The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
 He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of 
 
 . state. 
 Where age and want sit snulhig at the gate : 
 Him portioned maids, apjirenticed orplians blest. 
 The young who labor, and the old who rest. 
 Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves. 
 Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and 
 
 gives. , 
 
 Is there a variance ? enter but his door, 
 Balked are tlie courts, and contest is no more : 
 
 • Mr. Jotin K.vric, a wortliy ritizrn of TTcrcfurdslurc, wbo, 
 witli a small estate, passed his long life in contriving and ad- 
 vancing plans of public utility. 
 
 -^ 
 
(Q- 
 
 FROM '^SATIEES, ETC., OP HORACE IMITATED." 
 
 -fO 
 
 329 
 
 ^ 
 
 Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, 
 And vile attorneys, now a useless race. 
 
 Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue 
 What aU so wish, but want the power to do ! 
 O say, what sums that generous hand supply ? 
 IVhat mines to swell that bomidless charity ? 
 Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear. 
 This man possessed — five hundred pounds a 
 
 year. 
 Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw 
 
 your l^laze ; 
 Ye little stars ! hide your diminished rays. 
 
 * * * 
 
 In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half 
 
 hmig, 
 The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, 
 On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw. 
 With tape-tied curtains, never nrcant to draw, 
 Tlie George and Garter dangling from that bed 
 Where tawdry yeUow strove with dirty red. 
 Great Villiers * lies — alas ! how changed from 
 
 him. 
 That life of pleasure and that soul of whim ! 
 Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove. 
 The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; 
 Or just as gay at council, in a ring 
 or mimic statesmen and their merry king. 
 No wit to flatter, left of all liis store ! 
 No fool to laugh at, wliich he valued more. 
 There, victor of his healtli, of fortune, friends. 
 And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends ! 
 
 * * * 
 At Timou'st villa let us pass a day; 
 
 Where all cry out, " What sums are thrown 
 
 away ! " 
 So proud, so grand ; of that stupendous air, 
 Soft and agreeable come never there, 
 Greatness with Tiinon dwells in such a draught 
 As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. 
 To compass this, liis building is a town. 
 His pond an ocean, liis parterre a down : 
 Who but must laugh, tlie master when he sees, 
 A puny insect shivering at a breeze ! 
 Lo, wliat huge heaps of littleness around ! 
 Tlie whole a labored quarry above ground. 
 Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind 
 Improves the keenness of the northern wind. 
 His gardens ne.xt your admiration call ; 
 On every side you look, behold the wall ! 
 No pleasing intricacies intervene. 
 No artful mldness to perplex the scene ; 
 Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother. 
 And half the platform just reflects the other. 
 The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, 
 
 * The brilliant and dissolute George Villiers, Puke of Buck- 
 ingham, who, having squandered his immense wealth, died at 
 the house of one of his tenants in Yorkshire, in the misery 
 here descrihed. [The fact however, is denied.] 
 
 t Supposed to be the Duke of Chandos. 
 
 Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ; 
 With here a fountain never to be played, 
 Aud there a summer-house that knows no shade; 
 Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers. 
 There gladiators fight or die in flowers ; 
 Unwatered, see the drooping sea-horse mourn. 
 And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. 
 
 My lord advances with majestic mien, 
 Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen ; 
 But soft — by regular approach — not yet — 
 First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat ; 
 And when up ten steep slopes you 've dragged 
 
 your thighs. 
 Just at liis study door he 'U bless your eyes. 
 
 His study 1 witii what authors is it stored? 
 In books, not autliors, curious is my lord ? 
 To all their dated backs he turns you round ; 
 Tliese Aldus printed, tliose du Sueil has bound ! 
 Lo, some are veUum, and the rest as good, 
 Tor all his lordship knows, — but they are wood ! 
 For Locke or Milton 't is in vain to look ; 
 These shelves admit not any modern book. 
 
 Aud now the chapel's silver bell you hear. 
 That summons you to all the pride of prayer ; 
 Light quirks of music, broken and uneven. 
 Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. 
 On painted ceilings you devoutly stare. 
 Where sprawl the saiuts of Verrio or Laguerre, 
 On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie. 
 And bring all jiaradise before your eye. 
 To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite. 
 Who never mentions hell to ears polite. 
 
 But hark ! the chiming clocks to dinner call ; 
 A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall ; 
 The rich buffet well-colored serpents grace. 
 And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. 
 Is this a dinner ? this a genial room ? 
 No, 't is a temple aud a hecatomb. 
 A solemn sacrifice performed in state. 
 You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. 
 So quick retires each flying course, you 'd swear 
 Sancho's dreatl doctor and his wand were tliere. 
 Between each act the trembling salvers ring. 
 From soup to sweet wine, aud God bless the king. 
 Ill plenty starving, tantalized in state. 
 And complaisantly helped to all I hate. 
 Treated, caressed, and tired, I take my leave. 
 Sick of liis civil pride from mom to eve ; 
 I curse such lavish cost and little skill. 
 And swear no day was ever passed so ill. 
 
 TEOM "SATIRES, EPISTLES, AND ODES OF 
 HORACE IMITATED." 
 
 Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown 
 Dipped me iu ink, my parents', or my own ? 
 As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
 I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : 
 
 -^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 330 
 
 'OPE. 
 
 -ft 
 
 I left no calling for this idle trade, 
 
 No duty broke, uo fatiier disobeyed : 
 
 The Muse but served to ease some friend, not 
 
 wife, 
 To help me through this long disease my life. 
 To sceoud, Arbuthuot ! thy art and care, 
 And teaeh tlie being you preserved to bear. 
 
 But wliy then publish? Grauvdle the polite. 
 And knowing Walsh, would tell me 1 could write; 
 Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise. 
 And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; 
 The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read, 
 E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head. 
 And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends 
 
 before) 
 With open arms received one poet more. 
 Happy my studies, when by these approved ! 
 Happier tiieir author, when by these beloved ! 
 From these the world will judge of men and 
 
 books. 
 Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Peace fo all such ! but were there one whose 
 fires 
 True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, 
 Blessed with each talent and each art to ])lease, 
 And born to write, converse, and hve witli case; 
 Should such a man, too fond to rule alone. 
 Bear, like tiie Turk, no brother near tlie throne ; 
 View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
 And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; 
 Damn witli faint praise, assent with civil leer. 
 And without sneering teach the rest to sneer ; 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike. 
 Just liint a fault, and hesitate dislike ; 
 Alike reserved to blame or to connnend, 
 A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; 
 Dreading e'en fools ; by flatterers besieged. 
 And so obliging that he ne'er obliged ; 
 Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 
 And sit attentive to his own applause ; 
 Wliile wits and templars every sentence raise. 
 And wonder with a foolish face of praise — 
 Who but must huigh if such a man there be? 
 Who would not weep, if Atticus * were he ? 
 
 * « * 
 
 Let Sporus t trcmljle. Wliat ? that tiling of 
 silk, 
 Sporus, tiiat mere white curd of asses' milk ? 
 Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? 
 Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? 
 
 Yet let me fliijithis bug with gilded wings, 
 This painted cliild of dirt, that stinks and stings ; 
 Whose Ijuzz the witty and the fair annoys, 
 Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys: 
 So wcll-lired spaniels civilly delight 
 In mumtiling of tlie game they dare not bite. 
 
 ^- 
 
 ^ .\(lllison. 
 
 + LortI llcrvr 
 
 Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, 
 
 As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. 
 
 ^V'hether in florid impotence he speaks, 
 
 And, as tlie prompter breathes, the iiujipet 
 
 squeaks. 
 Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, 
 Half froth, half venom, spits himscK abroad. 
 In puns, or poUtics, or tales, or lies. 
 Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies ; 
 His wit all see-saw between that and this, 
 Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, 
 And he himself one vile antithesis. 
 Ain[)hibious tiling ! that acting eitlier part, 
 The trifling head or the corru|ited heart; 
 Fop at the toilet, flatterer at tlie board. 
 Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 
 Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have exprest, 
 A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest ; 
 Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will 
 
 trust. 
 Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. 
 
 ♦ » ♦ 
 Born to no pride, inheriting no sti-il'e. 
 Nor marrying discord in a noble wife. 
 Stranger to civil and religious rage. 
 
 The good man walked inno>dous tiirough his age : 
 No courts he saw, no suits W(juld ever try, 
 Nor dared an oath,* nor hazarded a lie. 
 Unlearned, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, 
 No language but the language of the heart. 
 By nature honest, by experience wise. 
 Healthy by temperance and by exercise ; 
 His life, though long, to sickness past unknown. 
 His death was instant and without a groan. 
 0, grant me thus to live, and thus to die ! 
 Wlio sprung from kings shall know less joy 
 
 than I. 
 O friend ! may each domestic bliss be thine ! 
 Be no unpleasing melancholy mine : 
 Me, let the tender otlice long engage 
 To rock the cradle of reposing age, 
 With lenient arts extend a motlier's lu'eath, 
 Make languor smile, and smooth tlie bed of death ; 
 Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 
 And keep awhile one parent from the sky ! 
 On cares like these if length of days. attend, 
 May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my 
 
 friend ! 
 Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, 
 And just as rich as when he served a queen. 
 » * • 
 
 What ? armed for vii-tue when I point tlie pen. 
 Brand tlie bold front of sliameless guilty men. 
 Dash flic proud gamester in liis gilded car. 
 Bare the mean licart tjiat lurks beneatli a star; 
 
 * * * 
 
 There my retreat tlie best companions grace. 
 
 • Pope's fntliLM- was a unn-juror. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 331 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place ; 
 There St. Johu mingles with my friendly bowl 
 The feast of reason and the ilow of soul ; 
 And he,* whose Kghtuing pierced the Iberian 
 
 lines. 
 Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my 
 
 viuL's ; 
 Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain. 
 Almost as quicldy as he conquered Spain. 
 + * * 
 
 I 've often wished that I had clear 
 For life sis hundred pounds a year, 
 A handsome house to lodge a friend, 
 A river at my garden's end, 
 A terrace walk, and half a rood 
 Of land set out to plant a wood. 
 
 * * * 
 Tlie case is easier in the mind's disease ; 
 Tlicrc all men may be cured whene'er they please. 
 Would ye be blessed? despise low joys, low 
 
 _ gains ; 
 Disdain whatever Coridjury disdains ; 
 Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains. 
 
 * * * 
 
 In days of ease, when now the weary sword 
 Was sheathed, and luxury with Charles restored ; 
 In every taste of foreign courts improved, 
 "AU by the king's example lived and loved. "t 
 Tlien peers grew proud in horsemanship to excel, 
 Newmarket's glory rose, as Britain's fell ; 
 The soldier breathed the gallantries of France, 
 And every flowery courtier writ i"oraance. 
 Then marble, softened into life, grew warm. 
 And yielding metal flowed to human form : 
 Lely on animated canvas stole 
 The sleepy eye, that spnke the melting soul. 
 No wonder then, wlieu all was love and sport. 
 The willing Muses were debauched at court ; 
 On each enervate string they tauglit the note 
 To pant, or tremble through a eunuch's throat. 
 
 * * * 
 
 We conquered France, but felt our captive's 
 
 charms ; 
 Her arts victorious triumphed o'er our arms ; 
 Britain to soft refinements less a foe. 
 Wit grew polite, and numbers learned to flow. 
 Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join 
 The varying verse, the full resounding line. 
 The long majestic march, and energy divine : 
 Though still some traces of our i-ustic vein 
 And splay-foot verse remained, and will remain. 
 Late, very late, correctness grew our care. 
 When the tired nation breathed from civil war. 
 Exact Racine and Conieille's noble fire 
 Showed us that France had something to admire. 
 Not but the tragic spirit was our own, 
 
 * The Eai'l nf Peteihorou<;h. 
 + A verse of Lord Laasdowne. 
 
 And fuU in Shakespeare, fair in Otway, shone ; 
 But Otway failed to polish or refine. 
 And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. 
 E'eu copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 
 The last and greatest art, — the art to blot. 
 
 PEOM "EPrLOGUE TO THE SATIKES." 
 
 P. See Sir Robert ! — hum — 
 And never langh — for all my life to come ; 
 Seen him I have ; but in his happier hour 
 Of social pleasure, iU exchanged for power ; 
 Seen him, uneumbered with a venal tribe, 
 Smile without art, and win without a bribe. 
 Would he oblige mc ? let me only find 
 He does not think me what he thinks mankind. 
 Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt ; 
 The only ditt'ereuce is — I dare laugh out. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things 
 As pride in slaves and avarice in kings ? 
 And at a peer or peeress shall I fret. 
 Who starves a sister or forswears a debt ? 
 Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast ; 
 But shall the dignity of vice be lost ? 
 
 * * * 
 
 Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame. 
 Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. 
 Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 
 'T is just alike to virtue and to me ; 
 Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king. 
 She's still the same beloved, contented thing. 
 
 * * * 
 
 E'en in a bishop I can spy desert ; 
 Seeker is decent, Rnndel has a heart ; 
 Manners with candor are to Benson given. 
 To Berkeley every virtue under heaven. 
 
 * * * 
 
 F. You 're strangely proud. 
 
 P. So proud, I am no slave ; 
 So impudent, I own myself no knave ; 
 So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. 
 Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see 
 Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me ; 
 Safe from the bar, tlie pulpit, and the throne, 
 Yet touched and shamed bv ridicule alone. 
 
 THE DYING CHEISTIAN TO HIS SOUL, 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame. 
 Quit, O, quit this mortal frame ! 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying ; 
 O the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into hfe ! 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say. 
 Sister spirit, come away. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 332 
 
 BY ROM. 
 
 -*-ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 What is tlds absorbs me quite, 
 Steals my senses, sliuts my siglit. 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul ! can this be death V 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ; 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mouut I I fly ! 
 O grave ! whei-e is thy victory ? 
 
 death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 JOHN BYROM. 
 
 1691-1763. 
 
 A PASTOKAL,* 
 
 Mv time, ye Muses, was happily spent, 
 When Phcebe went with me wherever I went; 
 Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast : 
 Sure never fond sheplierd like Colin was blest ! 
 But now she is gone, and has left me behind. 
 What a marvellous change on a sudden I Qud ! 
 When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
 I thought 't was the Spring ; but alas ! it was 
 she. 
 
 With such a companion to tend a few sheep, 
 To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep : 
 I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, 
 My heart was as liglit as a feather all day ; 
 But now I so cross and so peevish am grown. 
 So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 
 My fair one is gone, and my joys are all 
 
 drowned, 
 And my heart — I am sure it weighs more than 
 
 a pound. 
 
 Tlie fountain that wont to run sweetly along, 
 And dance to soft nuirmurs the pebbles among; 
 Thou kuow'st, httle Cupid, if Phrebe was there, 
 'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear; 
 But uow she is absent, I walk by its side. 
 And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; 
 Must you be so cheerful, while I go in ])ain ? 
 Peace there with yonr bubbhng, and hear me 
 complain. 
 
 • This noted poem was first published in 7'/'*' Spfctotor, 
 No. 60li. October 6, 17li. .\ddi90n says tliat it lias *' sotiic. 
 tiling in it so oii;:inal '* that he has not much doubt it 
 will " divert his readurs." In Dr. Aiken's " Collection of 
 Kn;;lisli Songs " it is stated that the Pha?be here celebrated 
 was Joanna, daughter of Pr. Bcntley. ntul the mother of 
 Richard CuQiberland, the critic, novelist, and drniuatist. Her 
 father was the greatest classical scholar that Knpland has 
 produced. Kverybody must remember Tlr. Parr's dogmatic 
 statement; " England has produced three scholars : the lirst 
 was Bcntley ; the second was Por^oii ; hihI iIh- lliird — modesty 
 forbids mc to mention. " 
 
 My lambkins around mc woidd oftentimes 
 
 play> 
 And Phcebe and I were as joyful as they ; 
 How pleasant their sporting, how happy their 
 
 time. 
 When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in 
 
 their prime ; 
 But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, 
 I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; 
 Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad. 
 To see you so merry while I am so sad. 
 
 My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
 Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; 
 And Phcebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, 
 " Come hither, poor fellow " ; and patted his 
 
 head. 
 But now, when he 's fawning, I with a sour look 
 Cry " Sirrah ! " aud give him a blow with my 
 
 crook : 
 And I '11 give him another ; for whv should not 
 
 Tray 
 Be as dull as his master, when Phcebe 's away ? 
 
 WHien walking with Phoebe, what sights have 
 
 I seen. 
 How fair was the flower, how fresh was the 
 
 green ! 
 What a lovely appearance the trees and the 
 
 shade, 
 The cornfields aud hedges aud everything made ! 
 But now she has left me, though all are still 
 
 there, 
 They none of them now so dchghtful appear: 
 'T was naught but the magic, 1 Ihid, of her eyes, 
 Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 
 
 Sweet music went with us both all the wood 
 through, 
 The lark, hmiet, throstle, and nightingale too ; 
 Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, 
 Aud chirp ! went tlie grasshojipcr under our feet. 
 But now she is absent, though still they sing on, 
 Tlie woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: 
 Her voice in the concert, as now I ha\c found, 
 Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 
 
 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? 
 Aud where is the violet's beautiful blue? 
 Docs aught of its sweetness the blossom br- 
 
 gnile ? 
 That meadow, those daisies, why do they not 
 
 smile ? 
 Ah ! rivals, I see what it was tliat you drest. 
 And made yourselves fiuo for — a place in her 
 
 brejist : 
 Yon put on your colors lo pleasure her eye. 
 To be plucked bv her hand, on her bosom to 
 
 die. 
 
 ■w 
 
ca- 
 
 PEOM "THE SPLl'.EN.' 
 
 333 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 How slowly Time creeps till my Phcebe re- 
 turn ! 
 While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I 
 
 bum : 
 Methiuks, if I kuew whereabouts he would tread, 
 I could breathe ou liis wings, and 't would melt 
 
 down the lead. 
 Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear. 
 And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. 
 Ah, Cnlin ! old Time is full of delay, 
 Nor wUl biulge one foot faster for all thou caust 
 say. 
 
 Will no pitying power, that hears me com- 
 plain. 
 
 Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain ? 
 
 To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion re- 
 move ; 
 
 But what swain is so silly to live without love ! 
 
 No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return. 
 
 For ne'er was ])oor slieplierd so sadly forlorn. 
 
 All ! what shall I do ? I shall die with despair ; 
 
 Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your 
 fair, 
 
 MATTHEAV GREEN, 
 
 1696- 1T37. 
 
 FROM "THE SPLEEN," 
 
 To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, 
 Some recommend the bowling-green ; 
 Some hilly walks : all, exercise ; 
 Fling but a stone, the giant dies. 
 Laugh and be well. ]\'Ioukcys have been 
 Extreme good doctors for the spleen ; 
 And kittens, if the humor hit. 
 Have harlequiued away the fit. 
 
 * * * ■ 
 
 If spleen-fogs rise at close of day, 
 I clear ray evening with a play. 
 Or to some concert take my way. 
 The company, the shine of lights, 
 The scenes of humor, music's liights. 
 Adjust, and set the soul to rights. 
 
 In rainy days keep double guard. 
 Or spleen will surely be too hard ; 
 ^Miich, like those fish by sailors met. 
 Fly highest while their wings are wet. 
 In such dull weather so unfit 
 To enterprise a work of wit. 
 When clouds one yard of azure sky, 
 That 's fit for simile, deny, 
 I dress ray face with studious looks, 
 And shorten tedious hours with books. 
 But when dull fogs invade the head. 
 That memory minds not what is read. 
 
 I sit in window dry as ark. 
 
 And on the drowning world remark; 
 
 Or to some coS'ee-house I stray 
 
 For news, the manna of a day. 
 
 And from the hipped discourses gather, 
 
 That polities go by the weather. 
 
 Then seek good-humored tavern chums. 
 
 And ])lay at cards, but for small sums ; 
 
 Or with the merry fellows quaif, 
 
 And laugh aloud with them that laugh ; 
 
 Or drink a jooo-serious cup 
 
 With souls who 've took their freedom up ; 
 
 And let my mind, beguiled by talk. 
 
 In Epicurus' garden walk. 
 
 Who thought it heaven to be serene; 
 
 Pain, hell ; and purgatory, spleen. 
 
 Sometimes I dress, with women sit, 
 And chat away the gloomy fit; 
 Quit the stiff garb of serious sense. 
 And wear a gay impertinence. 
 
 » * * 
 
 Permit, ye fair, your idol-form. 
 Which e'en tlie coldest heart can warm, 
 May with its beauties grace my line. 
 While I bow down before its shrine. 
 And your thronged altars with my lays 
 Perfume, and get by giving praise. 
 With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien, 
 You excommunicate the spleen. 
 Which fiend-like flies the magic ring 
 You form with sound, when pleased to sing. 
 Whatc'er you say, howe'er yon move. 
 We look, we listen, and appi'ove. 
 Your toiich, which gives to feeling bliss, 
 Our nerves officious throng to kiss. 
 By Celia's pat, on their report, 
 The grave-aired soul, inclined to sport, 
 Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp. 
 And loves the floral game, to romp. 
 But who can view the pointed rays. 
 That from black eyes scintillant blaze? 
 Love on his throne of glory seems 
 Encompassed with satelHte beams. 
 But when blue eyes, more softly bright. 
 Diffuse benignly humid light. 
 We gaze, and see the smiling loves, 
 And Cythcrea's gentle doves. 
 And raptured fix in such a face 
 Love's mercy-seat and throne of grace. 
 Shine but on age, you melt its snow ; 
 Again fires long-extinguished glow. 
 And charmed by witchery of eyes. 
 Blood long congealed liquefies ! 
 True miracle, and fairly done 
 By heads which are adored while on. 
 « » * 
 
 Such thoughts as love the gloom of night 
 I close examine by the light ; 
 
 ■^ 
 
(Or 
 
 ;334 
 
 OLDYS. — COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 
 
 -a 
 
 i 
 
 For wlio, tliougli bribed by gain to lie, 
 Dai'c sunbeam-written truths deny. 
 And execute plain commou-sense 
 On faith's mere hearsay evidence ? 
 
 That superstition may n't create, 
 vVnd ehib its ills with those of fate, 
 1 many a notion take to task, 
 Made dreadful by its visor mask. 
 Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, 
 Is cured, and certainly I find ; 
 Since optic reason shows me plain, 
 I dreaded spectres of the brain ; 
 And legendary fears are gone. 
 Though in tenacious cliildliood sown. 
 Thus in opinions I commence 
 Frcehokler in the proper sense, 
 And neither suit nor service do. 
 Nor homage to pretenders show, 
 ^Vllo boast themselves, by spurious roU, 
 Lords of the manor of the soul ; 
 Preferring sense, from chin that 's bare. 
 To nonsense throned in whiskered hair. 
 # » » 
 
 Thus, then, I steer my bark, and sail 
 On even keel with gentle gale ; 
 At iielni I make my reason sit. 
 My crew of passions all submit. 
 If dark and blustering prove some nights, 
 I'iulosophy puts forth her lights ; 
 Experience holds the cautious glass. 
 To shun the breakers, as I pass. 
 And frequent throws the wary lead. 
 To see what dangers may be hid; 
 And once in seven years I 'm seen 
 At Batli or Tunbridge to careen. 
 Tliough pleased to see the dolphins play, 
 I mind my compass and my way. 
 With store sutfieient for belief. 
 And wisely still prepared to reef. 
 Nor wanting the dispersive bowl 
 Of cloudy weatlier in the soul, 
 1 make fniay Heaven propitious send 
 Sucli wind and weather to the end). 
 Neither becalmed nor overblo-svn. 
 Life's voyage to the world unknown. 
 
 AVILLIAM OLDYS. 
 
 1696-1761. 
 
 BUSY, CURIOUS, THIKSTY FLY. 
 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly, 
 Driuk with me, and drink as I ; 
 Freely welcome to my cup. 
 Couldst thou sip and sip it up. 
 
 Make the most of life you may, 
 Life is short, and wears away. 
 
 Both alike are mine and thine. 
 Hastening quick to their deeline ; 
 Thine 's a summer, mine no more, 
 Tliongh repeated to threescore ; 
 Threescore summers, when they 're gone, 
 Will appear as short as one. 
 
 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 
 
 A NOCTURNAL REVERIE,* 
 
 In such a night when every louder wind 
 
 Is to its distant cavern safe confined. 
 
 And only gentle zephyr fans bis wings. 
 
 And lonely Philomel still waking sings ; 
 
 Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight. 
 
 She, holloaing clear, directs the wanderer riglit : 
 
 In stich a night, when passing clouds give jilace, 
 
 Or tliinly veil the heavens' mysterious face ; 
 
 When in some river overluiug with green 
 
 The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen ; 
 
 When freshened grass now bears itself upright, 
 
 And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, 
 
 AVhence springs the woodbine, and the bramble 
 
 rose. 
 And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows ; 
 Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes. 
 Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes ; 
 Wlien scattered glowworms, but in twilight fine. 
 Show trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine; 
 Wiilst Salisbury stands the test of every light. 
 In perlcet charms and perfect virtue bright : 
 WHicn odors which decUned i-epelling day 
 Through temperate air uninterrupted stray ; 
 When da rkened groves their softest shadows wear, 
 And I'alliug waters we distinctly hear; 
 When througli the gloom more venerable shows 
 S<nnc aueii'ut fabric, awful in repose ; 
 While sunburnt liills their swarthy looks conceal. 
 And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale ; 
 When tlie loosed horse now, svs his piistnre leads. 
 Comes .slowly grazing througli the adjoining 
 
 meads, 
 Wiose stealing pace and lengthened shade we 
 
 fear, 
 Till t(U'n-uii forage in his teeth we hear; 
 'When nil}l]liug sheep at large pnrs\n' their food, 
 
 • Tliis 19 the poem to wliirli Wordsworth reffiTcil in his 
 nssertion, *' that, exocpting the N'tHnniat Ilererir niul n pas- 
 sage 01- two in the iriwlsur Fares! of Tope, the |ioetry uf (lie 
 period intervening lietwecn ttie piiMiration of Furadisr Lost 
 and Tlif Snisons docs not eoiitiiiii » single new iina-je of ex- 
 ternal nature." 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 335 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 And immolested kine reclicw the cud ; 
 When curlews cry bcncatli the village walls, 
 And to her straggling brood the partridge calls ; 
 Their short-lived jubilee the creatures keep, 
 Which but endures whilst tyi'ant man does sleep ; 
 When a sedate content the spirit feels, 
 And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ; 
 But silent musings urge the mind to seek 
 Something too high for syllables to speak ; 
 Till the free soul to a composedncss charmed. 
 Finding the elements of rage disarmed, 
 O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, 
 Joys in the mferior world, and thinks it like her 
 
 own : 
 In such a night let me abroad remain, 
 Till morning bi-caks, and all 's confused again ; 
 Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed. 
 Our pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. 
 
 RICHARD SAVAGE. 
 
 1698-1 '743. 
 
 EEMOKSE. 
 
 Is chance a guilt, that my disastrous heart, 
 Eor mischief never meant, must ever smart ? 
 Can solf-defenee be sin ? Ah, plead no more ! 
 Wliat though no purposed malice stained tlice 
 
 o'er ? 
 Had Heaven befriended tliy unhappy side. 
 Thou hadst not been provoked — or thou hadst 
 
 died. 
 Far be the guilt of hoine-slicd blood from all 
 On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall ! 
 Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me. 
 To me ! through Pity's eye condemned to see. 
 llemcmlirauce veils his rage, but swells his fate ; 
 Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. 
 Young and unthoughtful then; who knows, one 
 
 ' day, 
 Wiat ripening virtues might have made their 
 
 way ! 
 He might have hved till folly died in shame, 
 Till kindling wisdom felt a tliii'st for fame. 
 He might perhaps his country's friend have 
 
 proved ; 
 Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved ; 
 He might have saved some worth, now doomed 
 
 ^o fall. 
 And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. 
 
 O fate of late repentance ! always vain : 
 Thy remedies but lull undying pam. 
 AVherc shall my hope find rest ? No mother's care 
 Shielded my infant innocence with prayer : 
 No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, 
 C;'.lled fortli my virtues, or from vice restrained ; 
 
 Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, 
 I'irst to advance, then screen from future harm ? 
 Am I returned from death to live hi pain ? 
 Or would imperial pity save in vain '■: 
 Distrust it not. What blame can nicicy find, 
 Wliich gives at once a life, and rears a mind ? 
 
 Mother, miscalled, farewell — of soul severe, 
 This sad reflection yet may force one tear : 
 All I was wretched by to you I owed ; 
 Alone from strangers every comfort flowed ! 
 
 Lost to the lil'e you gave, your son no more. 
 And now adojited, \\\\o was doomed before, 
 New born, I may a nobler mother claim, 
 But dare not whisper her immortal name ; 
 Supremely lovely, and serenely great. 
 Majestic mother of a kneeling state ; 
 Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before 
 Agreed — yet now with one consent adore ! 
 One contest yet remains in this desire, 
 'R'ho most shall give applause where all admire. 
 
 CONSOLATION OF A NOBLE'S ILLEQITIMATE SON, 
 
 He lives to build, not boast a generous race. 
 No tenth transmitter of a foolish face. 
 
 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 1699-1746. 
 
 THE GRATE. 
 
 De.^tii's shafts fly thick ! — Here falls the 
 village-swain, 
 And there his pampered lord ! — The cup goes 
 
 round ; 
 And who so artful as to put it by ? 
 'Tis long since death had the majority ; 
 Yet, strange ! the living lay it not to heart. 
 See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, 
 The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle ; 
 Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole 
 K gentle tear ; with mattock in his baud 
 Digs through whole rows of kindred and ac- 
 quaintance. 
 By far his juniors. Scarce a skull 's cast up, 
 But well he knew its owner, and can tell 
 Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand 
 The sot has walked wdth death twice twenty 
 
 years ; 
 And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs 
 
 louder, 
 Or clubs a smuttier tale : when drunkards meet. 
 None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand 
 More willing to his cup. Poor wretch ! he 
 minds not. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 336 
 
 BLAIR. 
 
 ■to 
 
 That soon some trusty brother of the trade 
 Sliall do for liim what he has done for thousands. 
 On this side, and on tliat, men see their friends 
 Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out 
 Into fantastic schemes, wliieh the long livers 
 In the world's hale and uudegenerate days 
 Could scarce have leisure for. Fools that we 
 
 are ! 
 Never to think of death and of ourselves 
 At the same time : as if to learn to die 
 Wei'C no concern of ours. more than sottish, 
 For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood. 
 To frolic on eternity's dread brink 
 Unapprehensive ; when, for aught we know, 
 The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in ! 
 Think we, or think we not, time hurries on 
 With a resistless, unremitting stream ; 
 Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief, 
 That slides his hand under the miser's pillow. 
 And carries off his prize. What is this world ? 
 What but a spacious burial-field unwalled. 
 Strewed with death's spoils, the spoils of animals 
 Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones ! 
 The very turf on which we tread once lived ; 
 And we that live must lend our carcasses 
 To cover our own offspring : in their turns 
 They too must cover theirs. 'T is hetre all meet ! 
 The shivering Icelander and sunburnt Moor ; 
 Men of all climes, that never met before ; 
 And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Chris- 
 tian. 
 Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder. 
 His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge. 
 Arc huddled out of sight. Here lie abashed 
 The great negotiators of tbe earth. 
 And celebrated masters of the balance, 
 Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts. 
 Now vain their treaty skill : death scorns to treat. 
 Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his bur- 
 den 
 From his galled shoulders ; — and when the cruel 
 
 tyrant. 
 With all his guards and tools of power about 
 
 him. 
 Is meditating new unlieard-of hardships. 
 Mocks his short arm, — and, q\uek as thought, 
 
 escapes 
 ^\'liere tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. 
 Here the warm lover, leaving the cool sliade, 
 Tlie tell-tale cclio, and the babbling stream 
 (Time out of mind llu; favorite seats of love), 
 Fast by his gentle mistress lays hiui down, 
 Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and 
 
 foes 
 Lie close, unmindful of their fomier feuds. 
 The lawn-robcd prelate and plain presbyter, 
 Ercwliile that stood aloof, as shy to meet, 
 Familiar mingle here, like sister streams 
 
 h 
 
 That some rude interposing rock liad split. 
 Here is the large-limbed peasant ; here the child 
 Of a span long, that never saw the sun. 
 Nor pressed the nipple, strangled in life's porch. 
 Here is the mother, with her sous and daugh- 
 ters ; 
 The barren wife ; the long-demurring maid. 
 Whose lonely, unappropriated sweets 
 Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the clitf. 
 Not to be come at by the willing hand. 
 Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette, 
 The sober widow, and the young green virgin, 
 Cropped like a rose before 't is fully blown, 
 Or half its worth disclosed. Strauge medley 
 
 here ! 
 Here garrulous old age winds up his tale; 
 And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart. 
 Whose every day was made of melody, 
 Ilcarsnotthe voice of mirth. Tlie shrill-tongued 
 
 shrew, 
 iVIeek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. 
 Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave; 
 Tiio just, the good, the worthless, the profane ; 
 The downright clown, and perfectly -n-ell-bred ; 
 The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the 
 
 mean ; 
 The supple statesman, and the patriot stern ; 
 Tlie wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time, 
 With all the lumber of six thousand years. 
 
 DEATH OF THE STEONG MAN, 
 
 Stbengiu, too ! thou surly and less gentle 
 boast 
 Of those that laugh loud at the village ring ! 
 A fit of common sickness pulls thee down 
 With greater ease than e'er thou didst the strip- 
 ling 
 That rashly dared thee to tbe unequal fight. 
 What groan was that I heard ? Deep groan, in- 
 deed. 
 With anguish heavy laden ! let mo trace it : 
 From yonder bed it comes, wlierc the strong 
 
 man, 
 By stronger arm belabored, gasps for breath 
 Like a hard-bunted beast. IIow his great heart 
 Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too scant 
 To give the lungs full play ! What now avail 
 The strong-built sinewy limbs and well-spread 
 
 sl\ouhh'rs ? 
 See, how he tugs for life, and lays alxuit him, 
 !Mad with his pain ! Eager he catches hold 
 Of what comes next to hand, and gras])s it hard, 
 Just like a creature drowning. Hideous sight ! 
 0, iiow his eyes standout, and stare full ghastly ! 
 AVhile the distcnqier's rank and deadly venom 
 Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross his bowels. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 PKIENDSHIP. — TO MYRA. 
 
 337 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that 
 
 groan ? 
 It was his last. See how the great Goliath, 
 Just like a child that brawled itself to rest, 
 Lies still. What mean'st thou then, mighty 
 
 boaster, 
 To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the 
 
 bull, 
 Unconscious of liis strength, to play the coward, 
 And flee before a feeble thing like man ; 
 That, knowing well the slackness of liis arm, 
 Trusts only in the well-invented knife ? 
 
 FRIENDSHrP, 
 
 Invidious Grave ! how dost thou rend in sun- 
 der 
 AVhom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! 
 A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
 Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soal ! 
 Sweetener of life ! and solder of society ! 
 I owe thee nuich. Thou hast deserved from me 
 Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
 (.)t't have I proved the labors of thy love. 
 And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart. 
 Anxious to please. 0, when my friend and I 
 In some tiiick wood have wandered heedless on. 
 Hid from tlie vulgar eye, and sat us down 
 Upon the sloping cowshp-eovered bank, 
 ^\'here the pure limpid stream has slid along 
 In grateful errors through the underwood. 
 Sweet murmurmg, methought the shrill-tongued 
 
 thrush 
 INIended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
 Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note : 
 Tlie eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose 
 Assumed a dye more deep ; whilst every flower 
 Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury 
 Of dress ! O, then the longest summer's day 
 Seemed too, too much in haste : still, the full 
 
 heart 
 Had not imparted half : 't was happiness 
 Too exqiiisite to last. Of joys departed 
 Not to return, how painful the I'emembrance ! 
 
 EESUEEECTION. 
 
 Nob. shall the conscious sold 
 Mistake its partner, but. amidst the crowd. 
 Singling its otlier half, into its arms 
 Sliall rush, with all the impatience of a man 
 Tliat 's new come home ; and, having long been 
 
 absent, 
 With haste runs over every different room. 
 In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting ! 
 Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 
 
 'T is 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 
 Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake 
 Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, 
 Tiien claps his well-fledged wings, and bears 
 away. 
 
 THE SUMMONS OF DEATH TO THE KICH, 
 
 How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! 
 To him that is at ease in his possessions ; . 
 Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 
 Is quite unfurnished for that world to come ! 
 In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
 Raves round the walls of her clay tenement. 
 Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help. 
 But shrieks in vain ! how wishfully she looks 
 On all she 's leaving, now no longer hers ! 
 A little longer, yet a Uttle longer, 
 O might she stay to wash away her stains. 
 And fit her for her passage ! Mournful sight ! 
 Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan 
 She heaves is big with horror : but the foe. 
 Like a stanch murderer steady to his purpose. 
 Pursues her close through every lane of life. 
 Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; 
 Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge, 
 At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. 
 
 Sure, 't is a serious thing to die ! My soul ! 
 IVliat a strange moment must it be, when near 
 Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in view, — 
 That awful gulf no mortal e'er repassed 
 To tell what 's doing on the other side ! 
 Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight, 
 And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of part- 
 ing. 
 For part they must : body and soul must part ; 
 Fond couple ! linked more close than wedded 
 
 pair. 
 This wings its way to its Almighty Source, 
 The witness of its actions, now its judge ; 
 Tlidt drops into the dark and noisome grave, 
 Like a disabled pitcher, of no use. 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 1700-1748. 
 
 TO MYBA. 
 
 Tiiou, whose tender serious eyes 
 Expressive speak the mind I love ; 
 
 The gentle azure of the skies, 
 
 The pensive shadows of the grove : 
 
 0, mix their beauteous beams with mine, 
 And let us interchange our hearts ; 
 
 ^ 
 
cS- 
 
 338 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 t 
 
 Let all their sweetness on me shine, 
 
 Poured through my soul be all their darts. 
 
 All ! 't is too mueh ! I cannot bear 
 
 At ouce so soft, so keen a ray : 
 Li pity then, my lovely fair, 
 
 turn those killing eyes away ! 
 
 But what avails it to conceal 
 
 One charm, where naught but charms I see ? 
 Their lustre then again reveal. 
 
 And' let me, Myra, die of thee ! 
 
 TO THE NIOHTINGALE. 
 
 O NiGHTiNGiVLE, best poct of tile grove, 
 
 That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, 
 
 Blessed in the full possession of thy love -. 
 0, lend that strain, sweet Nightingale, to me ! 
 
 'T is mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate : 
 I love a maid who all my bosom charms. 
 
 Yet lose my days without this lovely mate ; 
 Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms. 
 
 You, happy birds ! by nature's simple laws 
 Lead your soft lives, sustained by nature's 
 fare; 
 
 You dwell wherever roving fancy draws, 
 And love and song is aU your pleasing care : 
 
 But we, vain slaves of interest and pride. 
 
 Dare not be blessed, lest envious tongues 
 should blame : 
 And hence, in vain I languish for my bride ! 
 0, mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless 
 flame ! 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 If those who live in shepherd's bower 
 Press not the rich and stately bed. 
 
 The new-mown hay and breathing flower 
 A softer couch beneath them spread. 
 
 If those who sit at shepherd's board 
 Soothe not their taste by wanton art, 
 
 They take what Nature's gifts afl'ord. 
 And take it with a cheerful heart. 
 
 If those who drain the shepherd's bowl 
 No high and sparkling wines can boast. 
 
 With wliolesomc cups they cheer the soul. 
 And crown them with the village toast. 
 
 If those who join in shepherd's sport. 
 Gay dancing on the daisied ground, 
 
 IIav(?>iiot the splendor of a court, 
 Yet love adorns the merry ronnd. 
 
 EULE, BKITANHIAI 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 This was the charter of the land. 
 
 And guardian angels sung this strain : 
 " Kulc, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves." 
 
 The nations not so blessed as thee 
 Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 
 
 While thou shalt flourish great and free. 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 "Rule," etc. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 " Rule," etc. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
 AU their attempts to bend thee down 
 
 WUl but arouse thy generous flame. 
 But work their woe and thy renown. 
 " Rule," etc. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
 All thine shall be the subject main : 
 
 And every shore it circles thine. 
 " Rule," etc. 
 
 The Muses, still with freedom found, 
 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair: 
 Blessed isle ! with matchless beauty crowned. 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair : 
 " Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves." 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Thus all day long the full-distended clouds 
 Indidge tlieir genial stores, and well-showered 
 
 earth 
 Is deep enriched with vegetable life ; 
 Till, in the western sky. the downward sun 
 Looks o\it, eff\ilgent, from amid the flush 
 Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 
 Tlie rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 
 The ilhimined mouiitam through the forest 
 
 streams. 
 Shakes on tiie floods, and in a yellow mist. 
 Far smoking o'er tiie interminable plain. 
 In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. 
 Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs 
 
 around. 
 Full swell the woods ; their every music wakes. 
 Mixed in wild concert with the warbling brooks 
 Increased, the distaut bleatin£ts of the hills. 
 
 ^ 
 
(^ 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE.— NATURE IN SPRING. 
 
 339 
 
 -^ 
 
 The hollow lows responsive from the vales, 
 Whence blending all the sweetened zephyr 
 
 springs. 
 Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud. 
 Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow 
 Shoots up immense ; and every hue unfolds. 
 In fair proportion running from the red 
 To where the violet fades into the sky. 
 Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds 
 Torm, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism ; 
 And to the sage-instructed eye unfold 
 The various twine of Ught, by thee disclosed. 
 From the white mingling maze. Not so the 
 
 swain ; 
 He wondering views the bright encbantment 
 
 bend. 
 Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs 
 To cateh the faUiug glory ; but amazed 
 Beholds the amusive arch before him fly, 
 Tlien vanish quite away. StiU night succeeds, 
 A softened shade, and saturated earth 
 Awaits the morning beam, to give to light, 
 liaised through ten thousand different plastic 
 
 tubes. 
 The balmy treasures of the former day. 
 
 Tlte Seasons : Spring. 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 The first fresh dawn then waked the gladdened 
 
 race 
 Of uncormpted man, nor blushed to see 
 The sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam. 
 For their light slumbers gently fumed away ; 
 And up they I'ose as vigorous as the sun, 
 Or to the culture of the willing glebe. 
 Or to the cheerful tendance of the flock. 
 Meantime the song went round ; and dancfe and 
 
 sport. 
 Wisdom and friendly talk, successive stole 
 Their hours away. Wliile in the rosy vale 
 Love breathed his infant sighs, from anguish 
 
 free. 
 And full replete with bliss ; save the sweet pain. 
 That, inly thrilling, but exalts it more. 
 Not yet injurious act nor surly deed 
 Was known among these happy sons of Heaven; 
 For reason and benevolence were law. 
 Harmonious Nature too looked smihng on. 
 Clear shone the skies, cooled with eternal gales, 
 And balmy spiiit all. The youthful sun 
 Shot his best rays, and stiU the gracious clouds 
 Dropped fatness down ; as o'er the swelling mead 
 The herds and flocks, commixing, played secure. 
 This when, emergent from the gloomy wood, 
 Tiie glaring lion saw, his honid heart 
 Was meekened, and he joined his sidlen joy. 
 For music held the whole iu perfect peace : 
 
 ^ 
 
 Soft sighed the flute ; the tender voice was 
 
 heard. 
 
 Warbling the varied heart ; the woodlands round 
 
 Applied their choir ; and winds and waters flowed 
 
 In consonance. Such were those prime of days. 
 
 The Seasons : Sjirint/, 
 
 NATURE IN SPKING. 
 
 Thus pass the temperate hours : but when 
 
 the sun 
 Sliakes from his noonday throne the scattering 
 
 clouds. 
 Even shootuig listless languor through the deeps. 
 Then seek the bank where flowering elders 
 
 crowd. 
 Where scattered wUd the lily of the vale 
 Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang 
 The dewy head, where purple violets lurk, 
 With all the lowly cluldren of the shade ; 
 Or lie rechned beneath yon spreading ash, 
 Hung o'er the steep, whence, borne on liquid 
 
 wing. 
 The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk 
 High in the beetling cliff Iris eyry builds. 
 There let the classic page thy fancy lead 
 Through rural scenes ; such as the Mautuan 
 
 swain 
 Paints in the matchless harmony of song. 
 Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift 
 Athwart imagination's vivid eye : 
 Or by the vocal woods and watci-s lulled. 
 And lost in lonely musing, in a dream. 
 Confused, of careless soUtude, where mix 
 Ten thousand wandering images of tilings. 
 Soothe every gust of passion into peace ; 
 All but the swelluigs of the softened heart, 
 That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind. 
 
 Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse 
 Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint 
 Like Nature? Can imagination boast, 
 Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ? 
 Or can it mix them with that matchless skill. 
 And lose them in each other, as appears 
 In every bud that blows ? If fancy then. 
 Unequal, fails beneath the pleasing task ; 
 Ah, what shall language do ? Ah, where And 
 
 words 
 Tinged with so many colors ; and whose power. 
 To life approaching, may perfume my lays 
 With that fine oil, those aromatic gales. 
 That inexhaustive flow continual round ? 
 
 Yet though successless, will the toil delight. 
 Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose 
 
 hearts 
 Have felt the raptures of refining love ; 
 And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song ! 
 Foi-mcd by the Graces, loveliness itself ! 
 
 -EP 
 
cfi- 
 
 340 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet, 
 Those looks demure, that deeply pieree the soul; 
 Where, with the hght of thoughtful reason 
 
 mixed. 
 Shines lively fancy and the feeUng heart : 
 O, come ! and wliile the rosy-footed May 
 Steals blushing- on, together let us tread 
 The morning dews, and gather in their prime 
 Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair. 
 And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets. 
 The Seasons: Spy in f/. 
 
 THE PASSION OF THE GKOVES. 
 
 As rising from the vegetable world 
 My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend. 
 My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the 
 
 woods 
 Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. 
 Lend me your song, ye nightingales ! O, pour 
 The mazy-running soul of melody 
 Into my varied verse, while I deduce, 
 From the first note the hollow cuckoo siiigs, 
 Tiie symphony of spring, and touch a theme 
 Unknown to fame, Tke Passion of the &roces. 
 
 When first the soul of love is sent abroad 
 Warm through the vital air, and on the heart 
 Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, 
 In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing, 
 And try again the long-forgotten strain. 
 At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows 
 The soft infusion prevalent, and wide, 
 Than, all aUve, at once their joy o'erflows 
 In music uncoufiued. Up springs the lark, 
 Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn ; 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts 
 CaUs up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
 Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
 Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads 
 Of the coy choristers that lodge within. 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
 And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng 
 Superior heard, run tiirough the sweetest length 
 Of notes ; when listening Philomela deigns 
 To let them joy, and purposes, in thouglit 
 Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
 Tlie blackbird whistles from the thorny brake ; 
 The mellow bulKincli answers from the grove ; 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
 I'ourcd out profusely, silent. Joined to these 
 Innumerons songsters, in the freshening shade 
 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
 Mellifluous. Tlie jay, (he rook, the daw, 
 And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone. 
 Aid the full concert : while the stockdove 
 
 bi'eathcs 
 A melaneholv murmur through the whole. 
 
 'T is love creates their melody, and all 
 This waste of music is the voice of love. 
 That even to birds and beasts the tender arts 
 Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind 
 Try every winning way inventive love 
 Can dictate, and in courtsliip to their mates 
 Pour forth their little soids. First, wide around, 
 With distant awe, in airy rings they rove. 
 Endeavoring by a thousand tricks to catch 
 The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance 
 Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem 
 Softening the least approvance to bestow. 
 Their colors burnish, and, by hope inspired, 
 Tliey brisk advance ; then, on a sudden struck, 
 Retire disordered ; then again approach ; 
 In fond rotation spread the spotted wing. 
 And shiver every feather with desire. 
 
 The Seasons ; Sjyriny. 
 
 THE CAKE OF BIRDS FOR THEIE TOTING. 
 
 The appointed time 
 With pious toU fulfilled, the callow young, 
 ^^'armed and expanded into perfect life. 
 Their brittle bondage break, and come to light, 
 A helpless family demanding food 
 "n^ith constant clamor. O, what passions then. 
 What melting sentiments of kindly care. 
 On the new parents seize ! Away they fly 
 Aftectionate, and undesiring bear 
 The most delicious morsel to their yoiuig, 
 Wliieh equally distributed, again 
 The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, 
 By fortune sunk, but formed of generous mould. 
 And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast. 
 In some lone cot amid the distant woods. 
 Sustained alone by providential Heaven, 
 Oft. *as they weeping eye their infant train. 
 Check their own appetites, and give them all. 
 
 The Seasons : Sjirini;. 
 
 LOVE AST) MAEKUGE. 
 
 Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love 
 Is wild desire, fici'ce as the suns they feel ; 
 Let Eastern tyrants from the light of heaven 
 Seclude their liosom-slaves, mcaiJy possessed 
 Of a mere lifeless, violated form : 
 While those whom love cenjents in holy faith. 
 And equal transport, free as nature live. 
 Disdaining fear. Wiiat is the world to tliem, 
 Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all ! 
 Wio in each other clasp whatever fair 
 High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish ; 
 Something than beauty dearer, shoidd they look 
 Or on tlie mind, or mind-illumined face. 
 Truth, goodness, honor, harmony, and love. 
 
 n-- 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE SANDY DESERT. — A THUNDER-STORM. 
 
 341 
 
 ■to 
 
 ^ 
 
 The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven. 
 Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, 
 And mingles both their graces. By degrees 
 The human blossom blows ; aud every day, 
 Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, 
 The father's lustre and the mother's bloom. 
 Then infant reason grows apace, and calls 
 For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
 Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
 To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
 To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 
 To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix 
 The goucrons purpose in the glowing breast. 
 O, speak the joy ! ye, whom the sudden tear 
 Surprises often, while you look around, 
 An<l nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss. 
 All various nature pressing on the heart : 
 An elegant sufficiency, content. 
 Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
 Ease and alternate labor, useful life. 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven ! 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; 
 And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus. 
 As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
 Still find them happy ; and consenting spring 
 Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : 
 Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; 
 When after the long vernal day of life, 
 Euainored more, as more remembrance swells 
 \\'itii many a proof of recollected love, 
 Togetlier-down they sink in social sleep; 
 Togetlier freed, their gentle spirits fly 
 To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. 
 T/ie Seasons : Spring. 
 
 THE SANDY DESERT. 
 
 Nor stop the terrors of these regions here. 
 Commissioned demons oft, angels of wrath. 
 Lot loose the raging elements. Breathed hot 
 From all the boundless furnace of the sky, 
 Aud the wide glittering waste of burniug sand, 
 A suffocating wind the pilgrim smites 
 With instant death. Patient of thirst and toU, 
 Son of the desert ! e'en the camel feels. 
 Shot through his withered heart, the fierv 
 
 blast. 
 Or from the black-red ether, bursting broad, 
 SalUes the sudden whirlwind. Straight the 
 
 sands, 
 Commoved around, in gathering eddies play : 
 Nearer and nearer still they darkening come ; 
 Till with the general all-invohdng storm 
 S\Vppt up, the whole continuous wilds arise ; 
 And by their noonday fount dejected thrown. 
 Or sunk at night in sad disasti'ous sleep. 
 Beneath descending hills the caravan 
 Is buried deep. In Cairo's crowded streets 
 
 The impatient merchant, wondering, waits in 
 
 vain. 
 And Mecca saddens at the long delay. 
 
 The Seasons : Summer. 
 
 A THUNDER-STORM. 
 
 A BODING silence reigns 
 Dread through the dun expanse ; save the dull 
 
 sound 
 Th;it from the mountain, previous to the storm. 
 Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood. 
 And shakes the forest-leaf without a breath. 
 Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes 
 Descend : the tempest-loving raven scarce 
 Dares wing the dubious dusk. In nieful gaze 
 The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens 
 Cast a deploring eye, by man forsook. 
 Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast. 
 Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 
 
 'T is listening fear and dumb .amazement all ; 
 When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
 Appears far south, eruptive through the cloiul ; 
 And following slower, in explosion vast. 
 The thunder raises his tremendous voice. 
 At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven. 
 The tempest growls ; but as it nearer comes, 
 And rolls its awful burden on the wind, 
 The lightnings flash a larger curve, aud more 
 The noise .astounds : tiU overhead a sheet 
 Of livid flame discloses wide, then shuts, 
 Aud opens wider ; shuts and opens still 
 Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. 
 Follows the loosened aggravated roar, 
 Enharging, deepening, mingling, peal on peal 
 Crushed horrible, convidsiug heaven and earth. 
 
 Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail. 
 Or prone-descending rain. Wide-rent, the clouds 
 Pour a whole flood ; and yet, its flame unquenched. 
 The unconquerable lightnmg struggles through. 
 Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls, 
 Aud fires the mountains with redoubled rage. 
 Black from the stroke, above, the smouldering 
 
 pine 
 Stands a sad shattered tmnk ; and, sti'etehed 
 
 below, 
 A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie : 
 Here the soft flocks, with that same hiirmless 
 
 look 
 They wore alive, and ruminating still 
 In fancy's eye ; and there the frowning bull, 
 And ox half raised. Struck on the castled cliff. 
 The venerable tower and spiry fane 
 Resign their aged pride. The gloomy woods 
 Start at the flash, and from their deep recess. 
 Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake. 
 Amid Cannarvon's mountains rages loud 
 The repercussive roar : with mighty crush. 
 
 ■^ 
 
(Q- 
 
 342 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Into the flashing deep, from the rude roeks 
 Of Peumamnaur, heaped hideous to the sky, 
 Tumble the smitten cliffs ; and Snowdeu's peak. 
 Dissolving, instant yields his wintry load. 
 Far seen, the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze, 
 And Thule bellows through her utmost isles. 
 
 T/te Seasons ; Summer. 
 
 CELADON AND AMELIA. 
 
 Guilt hears appalled, with deeply troubled 
 thought ; 
 Ajid yet not always on the guilty head 
 Descends the fated flash. Young Celadon 
 And his Amelia were a mateliless pair, 
 "With equal virtue formed, and equal grace. 
 The same, distinguished by their sex alone : 
 Hers the mild lustre of the blooming mom. 
 And his the radiance of the risen day. 
 
 They loved : but such their guileless passion 
 was, 
 As in the dawn of time informed the heart 
 Of innocence and undissembhng truth. 
 'T was friendship heightened by the mutual wish. 
 The enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow. 
 Beamed from the mutual eye. Devoting all 
 To love, each was to each a dearer self. 
 Supremely happy in the awakened power 
 or giving joy. Alone, amid the shades. 
 Still in harmonious intercourse they Uved 
 The rural day, and talked tlie flowing heart. 
 Or sighed, and looked unutterable things. 
 
 So passed their life, a clear united stream. 
 By care uurufBed; tUl, in evil hour, 
 Tlie tempest caught them on the tender walk. 
 Heedless how far and where its mazes strayed. 
 While, with each other blest, creative love 
 Still bade eternal Eden smile around. 
 Heavy with instant fate, her bosom heaved 
 Unwonted sighs, and stealing oft a look 
 Of the big gloom, on Celadon her eye 
 Fell tearful, wetting her disordered cheek. 
 In vain assuring love, and confidence 
 In Heaven repressed her fear; it grew, and shook 
 Her frame near dissolution. He perceived 
 The unequal conflict, and as angels look 
 On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, 
 "W'ith love illumined high. " Fear not," he said, 
 " Sweet Innocence ! thou stranger to oflfeuee, 
 And inward storm ! He, who yon skies involves 
 In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee 
 AV'ith kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft 
 That wastes at midnight, or the undreaded hour 
 Of noon, flies harmless; and tliat very voice, 
 Which thunders terror throngli tlie guilty lu>art. 
 With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to tliine. 
 'T is safety to I)c near thee sure, and thus 
 To clasp Perfection ! " From his void embrace, 
 
 (Mysterious Heaven!) that moment, to the 
 
 ground, 
 A blackened corse, was struck the beauteous 
 
 maid. 
 But who can pamt the lover, as he stood. 
 Pierced by severe amazement, hating life. 
 Speechless, and fixed in all the death of woe ! 
 So, faint resemblance ! on the marble tomb 
 The well-dissembled mourner stooping stands. 
 Forever sUent and forever sad. 
 
 T/ie Seasons : Summer. 
 
 BATHING. 
 
 Tuis is the purest exercise of health, 
 The kind refresher of the summer-heats ; 
 Nor, when cold winter keens the brightening 
 
 flood. 
 Would I weak-shivering linger on the brink. 
 Thus life redoubles, and is oft preserved. 
 By the bold swimmer, in the swift elapse 
 Of accident disastrous. Hence the limbs 
 Knit into force ; and the same Roman arm. 
 That rose victorious o'er the conquered earth. 
 First learned, while tender, to subdue the wave. 
 Even from the body's purity, the mind 
 Receives a secret sympathetic aid. 
 
 The Seasons : Summer. 
 
 LAVINIA. 
 
 The lovely young Lavinia once had friends. 
 And fortune smiled, deceitful, on her birth. 
 For, in her helpless yeai-s deprived of all. 
 Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, 
 Slie with her widowed mother, feeble, old. 
 And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired 
 Among the windings of a woody vale ; 
 By solitude and deep surrounding shades. 
 But more by bashful modesty, concealed. 
 Together thus they shunned the cr\iel scorn 
 Wliich virtue, sunk to jioverty, would meet 
 From giddy fashion and low-minded pride ! 
 Almost on nature's eonnuon bounty fed. 
 Like the gay birds that sung them to repose. 
 Content, and careless of to-moiTOw's fare. 
 Her form was fresher than the morning rose. 
 When the dew wets its leaves ; unstained and 
 
 pure 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow. 
 The modest virtues mingled in her eyes. 
 Still on the 5,'rouud, dejected, darting all 
 Their liumid l)eams into the blooming flowers : 
 Or wlicn the mournful tale her motlier told. 
 Of what her faitliless fortune promised once. 
 Thrilled in her thouglit, they, like the dewy star 
 Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace 
 Sat fair-proportioned on her polislied limbs, 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 LAVINIA. 
 
 343 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Veiled in a simple robe, their best attire, 
 Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
 But is when unadorned, adorned tlie most. 
 Tlioughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, 
 Rceluse amid the close-endjoweriug woods. 
 As in the hollow breast of Apennine,* 
 Beneath the shelter of encircUng hills, 
 A myrtle rises, far from human eye. 
 And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild ; 
 So flourished blooming, and unseen by all. 
 The sweet Lavinia ; tUl, at length, compelled 
 By strong necessity's supreme command, 
 AVith smiUng patience in her looks, she went 
 To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains 
 Palemon was, the generous and the rich, 
 Who led the rural hfe in all its joy 
 And elegance, such as Arcadian song 
 Transmits from ancient uneorrupted times ; 
 When tyrant custom had not shackled man. 
 But free to follow nature was the mode. 
 He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes 
 Amusing, chanced beside his reaper-train 
 To walk, when poor Lavinia drew liis eye ; 
 Unconscious of her power, and turning quick 
 With unatt'ected blushes from his gaze : 
 He saw her charming, but he saw not half 
 The charms her downcast modesty concealed. 
 That very moment love and chaste desire 
 Sprung in his bosom, to liimself unknown ; 
 For stiU the world prevailed and its dread 
 
 laugh. 
 Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn. 
 Should his heart own a gleaner in the field ; 
 And thus in secret to his sovil lie sighed ; — • 
 . " What pity ! that so delicate a form, 
 By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense 
 And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, 
 Should be devoted to the rude embrace 
 Of some indecent clown ! She looks, methinks. 
 Of old Acasto's Une ; and to my mind 
 Recalls that patron of my happy life. 
 From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; 
 Now to the dust gone down ; his houses, lands. 
 And once fair-spreading family, dissolved. 
 'T is said that in some lone obscure retreat, 
 Urged by remembrance sad, and decent pride, 
 Far from those scenes which knew their better 
 
 days. 
 His aged widow and his daugliter live. 
 Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. 
 Romantic wish ! would this the daughter were ! " 
 Wlien, strict inquiring, from herself he found 
 She was the same, the daughter of his friend. 
 Of bountiful Aeasto, who can speak 
 The muigled passions that surprised his heart, 
 
 k 
 
 * Tlie seven lines following this were written by Pope, anil 
 adopted l)y Tliomson. 
 
 And through his nerves in shivering transport 
 
 ran? 
 Then blazed his smothered flame, avowed, and 
 
 bold; 
 And as he viewed her, ardent, o'er and o'er. 
 Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once. 
 Confused, and frightened at his sudden tears. 
 Her rising beauties flushed a higher bloom. 
 As thus Palemon, passionate and just. 
 Poured out the pious rapture of his soul : — 
 
 " And art thou then Acasto's dear remains ? 
 She whom my restless gratitude has sought 
 So* long in vain? O yes ! the very same, 
 The softened image of my noble friend ; 
 Alive his every feature, every look. 
 More elegantly touched. Sweeter than spring ! 
 Thou sole surviving blossom from the root 
 That nourished up my fortune ! say, ah, where. 
 In what sequestered desert, hast thou drawn ' 
 The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven ? 
 Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair ; 
 Though poverty's eold wind and crushing rain 
 Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years ? 
 O, let me now into a richer soU 
 Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and 
 
 showers 
 Diff'use their warmest, largest influence ; 
 And of my garden be the pride and joy ! 
 It ill befits thee, 0, it ill befits 
 Acasto's daughter, his, whose open stores, 
 .Though vast, were Uttle to his ampler heart. 
 The father of a country, thus to pick 
 The very refuse of those harvest fields 
 AVhieh from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. 
 Then throw that shameful pittance from thy 
 
 hand. 
 But iU applied to such a i-ugged task : 
 The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine ; 
 If to the various blessings which thy house 
 Has on me lavished, thou wilt add that bliss. 
 That dearest bliss, the power of Ijlessing thee ! " 
 Here ceased the youth : yet still his speaking 
 
 eye 
 Expressed the sacred triumph of his soul. 
 With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, 
 Above tlie \^ilgar joy divinely raised. 
 Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm 
 Of goodness irresistible, and all 
 In sweet disorder lost, she blushed consent. 
 The news immediate to her motlier brought, 
 Wliile, pierced with anxious thought, she pined 
 
 away 
 The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate ; 
 Amazed, and scarce beheving what she heard, 
 Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright 
 
 gleam 
 Of setting life shone on her evening-hours : 
 Not less enraptured than the happy pair ; 
 
 _r) 
 
a- 
 
 344 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -a 
 
 Who flourislied long in tender bliss, and rciired 
 A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, 
 And good, the grace of all the country round. 
 
 The Seasons -. Autumn.. 
 
 THE SNOW-STOBM, 
 
 The keener tempests come : and fuming dun 
 Prom all the livid east, or piercing north, 
 Thick clouds ascend ; in whose capacious womb 
 A vapory deluge lies, to snow congealed. 
 Heavy they roll their fleecy world along; 
 And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. 
 Through the hushed air the whitening shower 
 
 descends. 
 At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad and wide and fast, dinnning the day, 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
 'T is brightness all ; save where the new snow 
 
 melts 
 Along the mazy current. Low the woods 
 Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun 
 Eaint from the west emits its evening ray, 
 Earth's universal face, deep hid and eliiU, 
 Is one wild dazzUug waste,, that buries wide 
 The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then de- 
 mands 
 The fruit of all liis toil. The fowls of heaven. 
 Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 Wliich Providence assigns them. One alone. 
 The redbreast, sacred to the household gods. 
 Wisely regardful of tlie embroiling sky. 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 
 Against tlio window beats ; then, brisk, alights 
 On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the 
 
 floor. 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance, 
 And pecks, and starts, and wonders where 
 
 he is ; 
 Till more familiar grown, the tablc-cnimhs 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 Pour fortli their brown inhabitants. The hare, 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 By death in various forms, dark snares and 
 
 dogs. 
 And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 
 Urged on l)y fearless want. The bleating kind 
 Eye the bleak lieaven, and next the glistening 
 
 earth, 
 With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dis- 
 
 perscd, 
 Dig for the withered lierb through heaps of snow. 
 The Seasons : Winter. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 
 All winter drives along the darkened air. 
 In his own loose revolving fields, the swain 
 Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend. 
 Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes. 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain : 
 Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
 Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
 Erom hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 
 Impatient flouncing through the drifted licaps. 
 Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts 
 
 of home 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth 
 In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! 
 What black despair, what horror fills liis heart ! 
 When for the dusky spot, which fancy feigned 
 His tnfted cottage rising through the snow. 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste. 
 Far from the track and blessed abode of man; 
 While round liim night resistless closes fast. 
 And every tempest, howling o'er his head, 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his miud, 
 Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
 A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ; 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge. 
 Smoothed up with snow ; and, what is land, un- 
 known. 
 What water, of the still unfrozen spiing, 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 
 Wliere the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
 These cheek his fearful steps ; and down he sinks, 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death ; 
 Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
 In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
 The fire fair-blazing and the vestment warm ; 
 In vain his little children, peeping out 
 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, 
 With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
 Nor wife nor children more shall he behold. 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
 The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; 
 And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
 Lays him along the snows, a stilTened corse, 
 Stretelied out, and bleaching in the northern 
 blast. The Seasons: V'niter. 
 
 THE INDIFFERENCE OF WEALTH TO POVEKTT. 
 
 An ! little think the gay licentious proud, 
 'Wliom pleasure, power, and afllueuoe surround, 
 They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth. 
 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste ; 
 
 ^- 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 345 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Ah ! little think they, while they dance along, 
 
 How many feel, this very moment, death. 
 
 And all the sad variety of pain. 
 
 How many sink in the devouring flood, 
 
 Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, 
 
 By shameful variance betwixt man and man. 
 
 How many pine in want, and diuigeon glooms ; 
 
 Shut from the common air, and common use 
 
 Of their own Umbs. How many drink the cup- 
 
 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
 
 Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds, 
 
 How many shrink into the sordid hut 
 
 Of cheerless poverty. How many shake 
 
 With all the fiercer tortures of the mind. 
 
 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; 
 
 Wlience tumbled headlong from the height of life, 
 
 They furnish matter for the tragic muse. 
 
 E'en in the vale, where Wisdom loves to dwell, 
 
 With Priendship, Peace, and Contemplation 
 
 joined. 
 How many, racked with honest passions, droop 
 In deep retired distress. How many stand 
 Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, 
 And point the parting anguish. Thought fond 
 
 man 
 Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, 
 That one incessant struggle render life, 
 One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, 
 Vice in his high career would stand appalled. 
 And heedless rambhng impulse leani to think ; 
 The conscious heart of Charity would warm. 
 And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; 
 The social tear woidd rise, the social sigh ; 
 And into clear perfection, gradual bUss, 
 Refining still, the social passions work. 
 
 The Seasons : Wiiiler. 
 
 THE SEASONS AS TYPICAL OF HUMAN LIFE, 
 
 Behold, fond man ! 
 See here thy pictured Ufe ; pass some few years, 
 Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent 
 
 strength. 
 Thy sober autumn fading into age. 
 And pale concluding winter comes at last. 
 And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 
 Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
 Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? 
 Those restless cai-es ? those busy bustling days ? 
 Those gay-spent, festive nights ? those veering 
 
 thoughts. 
 Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life ? 
 AU now are vanished ! Virtue sole survives, 
 Immortal, never-failiug friend of man. 
 His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 
 'T is come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
 Of heaven and earth ! awakening nature hears 
 The new-creating word, and starts to life. 
 
 ^- 
 
 In every heightened form, from pain and death 
 
 Forever free. The great eternal scheme. 
 
 Involving all, and in a perfect whole 
 
 Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads. 
 
 To reason's eye refined clears up apace. 
 
 Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now. 
 
 Confounded in the dust, adore that power 
 
 And ^visdom oft arraigned : see now the cause. 
 
 Why unassuming worth in secret hved. 
 
 And died neglected : why the good man's share 
 
 In hfc was gall and bitterness of soul : 
 
 Why the lone widow and her orjihans ])ined 
 
 In starving solitude; while Luxury, 
 
 In palaces, lay straining her low thought. 
 
 To form unreal wants : why heaven-born Truth, 
 
 And Moderation fair, wore the red marks 
 
 Of Superstition's scourge : why licensed Pain, 
 
 That cruel spoiler, that embosomed foe, 
 
 Imbittered all our bliss. Ye good distressed ! 
 
 Ye noble few ! who hei'e unbending stand 
 
 Beneath hfe's pressure, yet bear up awliile, 
 
 And what your bomided view, which only saw 
 
 A little part, deemed evil, is no more : 
 
 The storms of wintry time will quickly pass. 
 
 And one unbounded spring encircle all. 
 
 Tlie Seasons : Whiler. 
 
 HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 TiiKSE, as they change. Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolhng year 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
 Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
 And every sense and every heart is joy. 
 Then comes thy glory in the summer months, 
 With light and heat refulgent. Tlien thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year. 
 And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falUng eve. 
 By brooks and groves, in hoUow-whispering gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfincd, 
 And spreads a common feast for all that hves. 
 In winter awfvd thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing. 
 Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
 And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 
 
 Mysterious round ! what skLU, what force Di- 
 vine, 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train. 
 Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art. 
 Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
 Shade, unpereeived, so softening into shade ; 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravisli still. 
 But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze. 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 346 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 # 
 
 Mail marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand. 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
 Works in tlie seeret deep ; shoots, steaming, 
 
 thenee 
 The fair profusion that o'ersprcads the spring ; 
 riiugs from the sun direct the flaming day; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
 And, as on earth tliis grateful change revolves, 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 Nature, attend ! join, every living soul. 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
 In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
 One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales. 
 Breathe soft, whose, spirit in your freslincss 
 
 breathes : 
 0, talk of liim in solitary glooms ! 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
 FlUs the brown shade with a religious awe. 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 Who shake the astonished world, hft high to 
 
 Heaven 
 The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 Ye headlong torrents, i-apid and profound ; 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 Sound liis stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 Soft roll your incense, lierbs and fruits and 
 
 flowers, 
 In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts. 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 
 
 paints. 
 Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to him ; 
 Breathe your still song into tlie reaper's heart. 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
 Ye that k&ep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
 Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams. 
 Ye constellations, while your angels strike. 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 Great source of day ! best image here below 
 Of thy Creator, ever piniring wide. 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round. 
 On nature write with every beam his praise. 
 Tlie tliunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world, 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks. 
 Retain the sound : the broad resiiousivc low, 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Sliepherd reigns; 
 And his unsull'ering kingdom yet will come. 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a bomulless song 
 Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 
 Expiring, lays tlu' warbling world asleep, 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
 The listening shades, and teach the night his 
 
 t-- 
 
 praise. 
 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. 
 At onee the head, the heart, and tongue of 
 
 aU, 
 Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, 
 Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
 The long resouudiug voice, oft-breaking clear, 
 At solemn pauses, through the sweUiug bass ; 
 And, as each mingling tiame increases each, 
 In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 
 Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
 And iiud a fane in every sacred grove, 
 There let the shepherd's llute, the virgin's lay. 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. 
 Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll ! 
 For me, when I forget the darling theme. 
 Whether the blossom blows, the summer I'ay 
 llussets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams. 
 Or winter rises in the blackening east. 
 Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more. 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 
 
 Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
 Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on the Atlantic isles, 't is naught to me. 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
 In the void waste as iu the city full ; 
 And where he vital spreads there must be joy. 
 Wlieu even at last the solemn hour shall come. 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers. 
 Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
 Where universal love not smiles around. 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their sons ; 
 From seeming evil still educing good. 
 And better tliencc again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression. But I lose 
 Myself iu him, in light incflal)le ! 
 Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE, 
 
 CANTO 1. 
 
 The castle liiglit of Inilolence. 
 
 And its false luxnvy ; 
 Wnicre for a little time, alas! 
 
 We lived lijrlit jollily. 
 
 MORT.\L mtm, who livest here by toil, 
 Do not eom]ilaiii of this thy hard estate ; 
 That like an emmet thou must ever moil. 
 Is a sad sentenee of an ancient date ; 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
 For, though sometimes it makes thee weep 
 
 and wail. 
 And curse thy star, and early drudge and late ; 
 A\'ith()uten that would come a heavier bttle. 
 Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
 
 -g> 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE CASTLE OP INDOLENCE. 
 
 347 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Li lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
 
 With woody liill o'er hill encompassed round 
 
 A most encliautiug wizard did abide, 
 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
 
 And there a season atween June and May, 
 
 Half prankt witli spring, with summer half 
 
 irabrowned, 
 A Ustless climate mad^ where, sooth to say, 
 No hviug wight could work, no oared even for 
 
 play. 
 
 Was naught around but images of rest : 
 
 Sleep-sootidiig groves, and quiet lawns be- 
 tween ; 
 
 And Uowery beds that slumbrous influence kest. 
 
 Prom poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant 
 green, 
 
 Wliere never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 
 Meantime, luuiumbered ghttermg streamlets 
 played. 
 
 And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
 
 That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
 Though restless stUl themselves, a lulling mur- 
 mur made. 
 
 Joined to the prattle of the purUng rills 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale. 
 And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
 And, now and then, sweet Philomel would waU, 
 Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep. 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
 Yet all these sounds yblcnt incliued all to sleep. 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; 
 
 Where naught but shadowy forms was seen 
 
 to move. 
 As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood : 
 And up the hills, ou either side, a wood 
 Of blackening pines, aye 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 drowsy head it was. 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 Porever flushmg round a summer sky : 
 There eke the soft dchghts, that witchingly 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast. 
 And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh ; 
 But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest 
 Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. 
 
 fr 
 
 The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease. 
 Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
 
 Close-hid liis castle mid embowering trees. 
 That half shut out the beams of Phcebus bright. 
 And made a kiud 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 fate 
 And labor harsh, comjjlained, lamenting man's 
 estate. 
 
 Thither continual pilgrims crowded stiU, 
 From all the roads of earth that pass there by : 
 For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbor- 
 ing hiU, 
 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 his siren melody ; 
 Wliile o'er the enfeebUng lute his hand he 
 flung. 
 And to the trembUng chords these tempting 
 verses sung : 
 
 " Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold ! 
 See all, but man, with uuearned pleasure gay : 
 See her bright robes the butterfly unfold. 
 Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May ! 
 What youthfid bride can equal her aiTay ? 
 Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ? 
 From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray. 
 Prom flower to flower on balmy gales to fly. 
 Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 
 
 " Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, 
 Tlie swarming songsters of the careless grove. 
 Ten thousand throats ! that, from the flower- 
 ing tlioni. 
 Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love. 
 Such grateful kindly raptures them emove : 
 They neither plough, nor sow ; ne, fit for flail. 
 E'er to the bam the nodden sheaves they 
 
 drove : 
 Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 
 Wliatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the 
 vale. 
 
 " Outcast of nature, man ! the wretched thrall 
 Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain. 
 Of cares that eat away the 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, Astr^a 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 Ufe 
 Push hard up liill ; but as the furthest steep 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 318 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 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 withouteu lee, 
 I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, 
 Your cares, your toils ; will steep you in a sea 
 Of full delight: O, come, ye weary wights, to me! 
 
 " With me, you need not rise at early dawTi, 
 To pass the joyless day in various stounds : 
 Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn. 
 And sell fair honor for some paltry pounds ; 
 Or tlirough the city take your dirty rounds, 
 To cheat, and duu, 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 ; 
 To tardy swain no shrill- voiced matrons squall ; 
 No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear ; 
 No hammers thump ; no horrid blacksmith 
 
 sear, 
 Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, 
 With sounds that are a misery to hear : 
 But all is calm, as woidd delight the heart 
 Of Sybarite of old, all nature, aud all art. 
 
 "Here naught but candor reigns, indulgent 
 
 ease. 
 Good-natured lounging, sauntering up aud 
 
 down; 
 They who are pleased themselves must always 
 
 please ; 
 On otliers' ways they never squint a frown. 
 Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town ; 
 Thus, from the source of tender Indolence, 
 With milky blood the heart is overflown. 
 Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense ; 
 For interest, envy, pride, and strife arc banished 
 
 hence. 
 
 "TVTiat, what is virtue, but repose of mind, 
 A pure ethereal calm, tliat knows no storm ; 
 Alwve the reach of wild ambition's wind. 
 Above those piissions that this world deform. 
 And torture man. a proud malignant worm ? 
 But here, instead, soft gales of passion play. 
 And gently stir the heart, thereby to form 
 A quicker sense of joy ; as breezes stray 
 Across tlie enlivened skies, and make thcni still 
 more gay. 
 
 " The best of men have ever loved repose ; 
 Tliey hate to mingle in the fihhy fray ; 
 Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor 
 
 grows, 
 
 Imbittcred more from peevish day to day. 
 E'en 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 Scipio, to the soft Cumaeau shore 
 Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 
 
 " But if a little exercise you choose. 
 Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here : 
 Amid the groves you may indulge the iluse. 
 Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year ; 
 Or softly stealiug, 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 w'oodland melody. 
 
 " O grievous folly ! to heap up estate, 
 Losing the days you see beneath the sun ; 
 When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate. 
 And gives the untasted portion you liavc won 
 Witli rutldess toil, and many a wretch undone. 
 To those who moek you, gone to Pluto's reign. 
 There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows 
 
 dun ; 
 But sure it is of vanities most vain. 
 To tod for what you here untoiling may obtain." 
 
 He ceased. But still their ti-embling ears re- 
 tained 
 The deep vibrations of his witching song ; 
 That, by a kind of magic power, constrained 
 To enter in, i)ell-mcll, the listening throng. 
 Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they shpt 
 
 along. 
 In silent ease ; as when beneath the beam 
 Of summer moons, the distant woods among. 
 Or by some flood all silvered w-ith the gleam. 
 The soft-embodied fays through airy portal 
 stream ; 
 
 By the smooth demon so it ordered was. 
 And here his baneful bounty first began : 
 Though ■ some there were who would not f\ir- 
 
 ther ])ass. 
 And his alluring baits suspected han. 
 Tiie wise distrust the too fair-s])oken man. 
 Yet througli the gate they cast ;i wishful eye : 
 Not to move on, perdie, is all thdy can ; 
 For do their very best they cannot fly, 
 But often each way look, and often sorely sigh. 
 
 Wlien (his the watchful wicked wizard saw, 
 Witli sudden spring he leaped upon them 
 
 straiglit ; 
 And soon as touched by his unhallowed piiw. 
 They found themselves within the cursed gate ; 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE CASTLE OE INDOLENCE. 
 
 349 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Full hard to be repassed, like that of fate. 
 Not stronger were of old the giant crew, 
 Who sought to puH high Jove from regal state ; 
 Though feeble wretch he seemed, of sallow hue : 
 Cartes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter 
 rue. 
 
 * + * 
 
 Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench 
 
 arose 
 A comely, full-spread porter, swoln with sleep : 
 His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed 
 
 repose ; 
 And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, 
 Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep , 
 While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran. 
 Through which his half-waked soul would 
 
 faintly peep : 
 Then taking his black stafT, he called 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, 
 Save sleep and play who minded naught at all. 
 Like most the untaught striplings of his age. 
 This boy he kept each band to disengage. 
 Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, 
 But ill becoming his grave personage, 
 And wliicli iiis portly paunch would not permit; 
 So this same limber page to all performed it. 
 
 Meantime, the master-porter wide displayed 
 Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns ; 
 Wherewith he those who entered in an-ayed 
 Loose, as the breeze that plays along the 
 
 downs. 
 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 
 
 agam. 
 
 Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped 
 That in the middle of the court up-threw 
 A stream, high spoutmg from its liquid bed, 
 And falling back again in drizzly dew ; 
 There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, 
 
 drew ; 
 It was a fountain of nepenthe rare ; 
 Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasance 
 
 grew. 
 And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care ; 
 Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous 
 
 dreams more fair. 
 
 This rite performed, all inly pleased and stiU, 
 Withouten tromp, was proclamation made : 
 
 " Ye sons of Indolence, do what you wiU ; 
 And wander where you Kst, through hall or 
 
 glade ; 
 Be no man's pleasure for another stayed ; 
 Let each as likes him best his hours employ. 
 And cursed be he who minds liis neighbor's 
 
 trade ! 
 Here dwells kind case and unreproviug joy : 
 He little merits bhss who others can annoy." 
 
 Straight of these endless numbers, swarming 
 
 round. 
 As thick as idle motes in ?unny ray, 
 Not one eftsoons in view was to be found. 
 But every man strolled off his own glad way. 
 Wide o'er this ample court's blank area. 
 With aU the lodges that thereto pertained. 
 No living creature could be seen to stray; 
 Whde sohtude and perfect sUence reigned ; 
 So that to think you dreamt you almost was con- 
 strained. 
 
 As when a sliephcrd of the Hebrid Isles,* 
 Placed far amid the melancholy main 
 (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles. 
 Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
 To stand, embodied, to our senses plain). 
 Sees on the naked luU, or valley low. 
 The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his warn, 
 A vast assembly moving to and fro : 
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 
 
 Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profoimd ! 
 Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways, 
 And all the widely silent places round. 
 Forgive me, if my ti-embliug pen displays 
 What never yet was snug in mortal lays. 
 But how shall I attempt such arduous string ? 
 I who have spent my niglits and nightly days 
 In this soul-deadening place loose-loitering : 
 Ah ! how shall I for this uprear my moulted 
 wing ? 
 
 Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair. 
 Thou imp of Jove, touched by celestial lire ! 
 Tliou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair, 
 Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire : 
 Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre ; 
 Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage, 
 Pauit love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire. 
 The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, 
 Dashing corruption down through every worth- 
 less age. 
 
 The doors, that knew no shrill alarming beU, 
 Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, 
 Self-opened into halls, where, who can tell 
 What elegance and grandeur wide expand ; 
 
 * Those isles on the westeiii coast of Scotland, called the 
 Hebrides. 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 350 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -to 
 
 ^ 
 
 The pride of Turkey and of Persia laud ? 
 Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread. 
 And coticlies stretched around in seemly band ; 
 And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 
 So that each spacious room was one full-swelliug 
 bed; 
 
 And everywhere huge covered tables stood, 
 With wines high-flavored and rich viands 
 
 crowned ; 
 Wliatever sprightly juice or tastefid food 
 On the green bosom of this earth are found, 
 And all old oeeaft 'genders in his round ; 
 Some hand unseen these silently displayed. 
 Even undemanded by a sign or souud ; 
 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 maiden's gall. 
 Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy. 
 And with envenomed tongue our pleasures pall. 
 For why? there was but one great rule for all ; 
 To wit, that each should work his own desire. 
 And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall. 
 Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre. 
 And carol what, unbid, the Muses might in- 
 spire. 
 
 Tlie rooms witii costly tapestry were hung, 
 "Where was invoven many a gentle tale ; 
 Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
 Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale : 
 Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale. 
 Poured forth at large the sweetly tortured 
 
 heart; 
 Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale. 
 And taught charmed echo to res(mnd their 
 
 smart ; 
 Wliile flocks, woods, streams around, repose and 
 
 peace impart. 
 
 Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning 
 
 hand, 
 Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 
 Wiat time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land. 
 And pastured on from verdant stage to stage. 
 Where fields and fountains fresh could best 
 
 engage. 
 Toil was not then : of nothing took they heed. 
 But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage. 
 And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to 
 
 feed: 
 Blessed sons of nature they ! true golden age 
 
 indeed ! 
 
 Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls. 
 Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, 
 Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls: 
 
 Now the black tempest strikes the astonislied 
 
 eyes ; 
 Now down the steep the flashing torrent iiies; 
 The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue. 
 And now rude mountains frown amid the skies ; 
 Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with soften- 
 ing hue. 
 Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew. 
 
 Each sound too here to languishment inclined. 
 Lulled the weak bosom, aud induced ease : 
 Aerial music in the warbling wind. 
 At distance rising oft, by small degrees. 
 Nearer and nearer came, tUl o'er the ti-ees 
 It hung, aud breathed such soiJ-dissolvingairs, 
 As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
 Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, 
 The listening heart forgot all duties aud all cares. 
 
 A certain music, never known before. 
 Here lulled the pensive, melancholy mind ; 
 Full easily obtained. Behoves no more, 
 But sidelong, to the gently waving wind. 
 To lay the weU-tuned instrument reclined ; 
 From which, with airy flying fingers light. 
 Beyond each mortal touch the most refined. 
 The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight : 
 Wlience, with just cause, the harp of jEolus it 
 hight.* 
 
 Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
 Who up the lofty diapason roll 
 Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine. 
 Then let them down again into the soul : 
 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 a hymn impart : 
 Wild warbUng nature all, above the reach of art! 
 
 Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state. 
 Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore. 
 In mighty Bagdat, populous and great, 
 Held their bright court, where was of ladies 
 
 store ; 
 And verse, love, music, still the garland wore : 
 When sleep was coy, the bard , t in wait ing there, 
 Cheered the lone midnight 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 slept still ran 
 Soft tinkling streams, and dasliing waters fell. 
 And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began 
 
 • The /Solian harp, here designnted, has licen greatly im- 
 pmvcd in its stnicturc by a kindred ijoct, the author of ' The 
 Fanner's lioy.' 
 
 t Tlie Arabian caliphs had poets among the officers of their 
 court, whose office it was to do what is here dcscril)ed. 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 351 
 
 -Q) 
 
 (So worked the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
 As beaveu aud earth they would together mell ; 
 At doors and windows, threatening, seemed to 
 
 caU 
 The demons of the tempest, growling fell, 
 Yet the least entrance found they none at all ; 
 Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy 
 
 haU, 
 
 And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, 
 Raising a world of gaj'er tinct and grace ; 
 O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, 
 That played, in waving Kghts, from place to 
 
 place, 
 AnA shed a roseate smile on nature's face. 
 Not Titian's pencU e'er could so array. 
 So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space; 
 Ne coidd it e'er such melting forms display. 
 As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 
 
 No, fair illnsions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
 My Muse will not attempt your fairy land : 
 She has no colors that like you can glow : 
 To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. 
 But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler, band 
 Than these same guileful angel-seeming 
 
 sprights. 
 Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and 
 
 bland. 
 Poured all the Arabian heaven upon our nights. 
 And blessed them oft besides with more refined 
 
 delights. 
 
 They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train, 
 Even feigning virtue ; skilful to unite 
 With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. 
 But for those fiends, whom blood and bi'oils 
 
 deKght ; 
 Wlio hurl the wretch, as if to hell outright, 
 Down, down black g\iifs, where sullen waters 
 
 sleep. 
 Or hold him clambering all the fearful night 
 On beetling cliffs, or pent iu ruins deep ; 
 They, till due time should serve, were bid far 
 
 hence to keep. 
 
 Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear, 
 Erom these foul demons shield the midnight 
 
 gloom : 
 Angels of fancy and of love, be near. 
 And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom : 
 Evoke the" sacred shades of Greece and Rome, 
 And let them virtue with a look impart : 
 But chief, awhile, O, lend us from the tomb 
 Those long-lost friends for whom in love we 
 
 smart. 
 And fill with pious awe and joy-mixed woe the 
 
 heart. 
 
 ^y 
 
 Or are you sportive — Bid the morn of youth 
 Rise to new hght, and beam afresh the ^ays 
 Of imiocence, simplicity, and truth ; 
 To cares estrauged, and manhood's thorny 
 
 ways. 
 What transport, to retrace our boyish jilays. 
 Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supphed ; 
 The woods, the mountains, and the warlihng 
 
 maze 
 Of the wild brooks ! — but, fondly wandering 
 
 wide. 
 My Muse, resume the task that yet doth thee 
 
 abide. 
 
 One great amusement of our household was, 
 
 In a huge crystal magic globe to spy, 
 
 Still as you turned it, all things that do pass 
 
 Upon this ant-hiU eailh ; where constantly 
 
 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 
 
 waste ? 
 
 " Of vanity the mirror," this was called : 
 Here, you a muckworm of the town might see. 
 At his diJl desk, amid his ledgers stalled, 
 Eat up with carking care and penury ; 
 Most Hke to carcass parched on gallow-tree. 
 " A penny saved is a penuy got " : 
 Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepcth he, 
 Ne of its rigor will lie bate a jot. 
 Till it has quenched his fire, and banished his 
 pot. 
 
 Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold ! 
 Comes tlutteriug forth a gaudy spendthrift 
 
 heir. 
 All glossy gay, enamelled all with gold. 
 The silly tenant of the summer air. 
 In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ; 
 Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers 
 
 vUe, 
 And thieving tradesmen him among them 
 
 share ; 
 His father's ghost from Umbo lake, the while. 
 Sees this, wliich more damnation doth upon him 
 
 pile. 
 
 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 en- 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 352 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 Wliy, authors, all this scrawl and scribbhiig 
 
 sore? 
 To lose the present, gain the future age, 
 Praised to be when you can hear no more, 
 Aaul mueh enriehed with fame, when useless 
 
 worldly store. 
 
 Then would a splendid city rise to view 
 With carts and cars and coaches roaring all : 
 Wide-poured abroad behold the giddy crew : 
 See how they dash along from wall to wall ! 
 At every door, Iiark how they thundering call ! 
 Good lord ! what can this giddy rout excite ? 
 Why on each other with fell tooth to fall ; 
 A neighbor's fortune, fame, or peace, to blight, 
 And make new tiresome parties for the coming 
 night. 
 
 The piuzliiig sons of party next appeared. 
 
 In dark cabals and nightly juntos met ; 
 
 And now they whispered close, now shrugging 
 
 reared 
 The important shoulder; then, as if to get 
 New light, their twuikling eyes were inward 
 
 set. 
 No sooner Lucifer* recalls affairs. 
 Than forth they various rush in mighty fret ; 
 When lo ! pushed up to power, and crowned 
 
 their cares. 
 In comes another set, and kicketh them down 
 
 stairs. 
 
 But what most showed the vanity of life. 
 Was to behold the nations all on fire. 
 In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife : 
 Most Christian kings, inflamed by black de- 
 sire. 
 With honorable ruffians in their hire, 
 Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour ; 
 Of this sad work when each begins to tire, 
 Tlien sit them down just wljere they were be- 
 fore. 
 Till for new scenes of woe peace shall tlieir force 
 restore. 
 
 To number up the thousands dwelling here, 
 A useless were, and eke an endless task ; 
 From kings, and those who at the helm ap- 
 pear, 
 To gypsies brown in summer-glades who bask. 
 Yea many a man, perdie, I could unmask, 
 Whose desk and table make a solemn show. 
 With tape-tied ti-ash, and suits of fools tliat ask 
 For place or pension laid in decent row ; 
 But these I passen by, with nameless numbers 
 moe. 
 
 Of all the gentle tenants of the place, 
 There was a man of special grave remark ; 
 
 ^- 
 
 TIic inorniiif: star 
 
 A certain tender gloom o'ersjiread his face. 
 Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not 
 
 dark ; 
 As soot this man coiild sing as morning lark, 
 And teach the noblest morals of the heart : 
 But these his talents were yburicd stark ; 
 Of tiie line stores he nothing would impart, 
 Which or boon nature gave, or nature-painting 
 art. 
 
 To noontide shades incontinent he ran. 
 Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting 
 
 sound ; 
 Or when Dan Sol to slope his wlieels began. 
 Amid the broom he basked him on the ground. 
 Where the wild thyme and camomile are found: 
 There would he linger, till the latest ray 
 Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound ; 
 Then homeward through the twilight shadows 
 
 stray, . 
 Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a 
 
 day. 
 
 Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past : 
 For ol't the heavenly fire, that lay concealed 
 Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast. 
 And all its native light anew revealed : 
 Oft as he traversed the cerulean field. 
 And marked the clouds that drove before the 
 
 wind. 
 Ten thousand glorious systems would he build. 
 Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind; 
 But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace 
 
 behind. 
 
 With him was sometimes joined, in silent walk 
 (Profoundly silent, for they never spoke). 
 One* shyer stdl, who quite detested talk : 
 Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke. 
 To groves of pine, and broad o'ersliadowing oak ; 
 There, inly thrilled, he wandered all alone. 
 And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
 Ne ever uttered word, save when first shone 
 The glittering star of eve: "Thank Heaven ! the 
 day is done." 
 
 Here lurked a wretch, who had not crept 
 
 abroad 
 For forty years, nc face of mortal seen ; 
 In chamber brooding like a loathly toad: 
 And sure his linen was not very clean. 
 Through secret loo])holes, that had practised 
 
 been 
 Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; 
 Unkempt and rough, of squalid face and mien. 
 Our Castle's shame ! whence, from his lilthy 
 
 nook, 
 We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look. 
 
 • ConjcctuiT hns applied tins to Dr, Armstrong. Ihc poet. 
 
 ^-95 
 
a- 
 
 THE CASTLE OE INDOLENCE. 
 
 -^-Q) 
 
 353 
 
 ^ 
 
 One day tliere chanced into these halls to rove 
 A joyous youtli, who took you at first sight ; 
 llini the wild wave of pleasure hither drove 
 Before the sprightly tempest tossing light : 
 Certes, he was a most engaging wight, 
 Of social glee, and wit humane though keen, 
 Turning the night to day and day to night : 
 For liim the merry bells had rung, I ween, 
 If in this nook of quiet bells Imd ever been. 
 
 But not e'en pleasure to excess is good : 
 What most elates, then sinks the soul as low : 
 Wlien springtide joy pours in with copious flood, 
 The higiier still tiie exulting billows flow, 
 The furtlier back again they flagging go, 
 And leave us grovelling on the dreary shore : 
 Tauglit by this sou of joy, we found it so; 
 Wlio, whilst he stayed, he kept in gay uproar 
 Our maddened castle all, the abode of sleep no 
 more. 
 
 As wlien in prime of June a burnished fly. 
 Sprung from tiie meads, o'er which he sweeps 
 
 along. 
 Cheered by the breatliing bloom and vital sky. 
 Tunes up amid these airy halls bis song. 
 Soothing at first the gay reposing throng : 
 And oft he sips their bowl ; or nearly drowned, 
 He, thence recovering, drives their beds among. 
 And scares their tender sleep, with trump pro- 
 found ; 
 Then out again be flies, to wing his mazy round. 
 
 Anotl\er guest* tiiere was, of sense refined. 
 Who felt each wortli, for every wortli he had ; 
 Serene yet warm, humane yet firm his mind, 
 As little touched as any man's with bad ; 
 Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, 
 To him tiie sacred love of nature lent. 
 And sometimes would he make our valley glad; 
 Whenas we found he would not here be pent. 
 To him the better sort this friendly message sent; 
 
 " Come, dwell with us ! truQ son of virtue, 
 
 come ! 
 But if, alas ! we cannot thee persuade 
 To lie content beneath our peacefid dome, 
 Ne evermore to quit our rpuet glade ; 
 Yet when at last thy toils but ill a-paid 
 Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark. 
 Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade. 
 There to indulge the Muse, and nature mark : 
 We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley 
 Park." 
 
 Here whilom ligged the Esopust of the age ; 
 But called by fame, in soul ypricked deep, 
 A noble pride restored him to the stage. 
 And roused him like a giant from his sleep. 
 Geor[;e, Lord Lyttclton. + Mr. Quin. 
 
 Even from his slumbers we advantage reap ; 
 With double force the enlivened scene he wakes. 
 Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to 
 
 keep 
 Each due decorum : now the heart he shakes. 
 And now with well-urged sense the enlightened 
 
 judgment takes. 
 
 A bard* here dwelt, more fat than bard be- 
 seems ; 
 Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain. 
 On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, 
 Poured forth iiis unpremeditated strain : 
 The world forsaking with a calm disdain. 
 Here laughed he careless in bis easy seat ; 
 Here quatfed. encircled witli the joyous 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 esj)y. 
 A little, round, fat, oily mant of God, 
 Was one I chiefly mai-ked among the fry : 
 He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, 
 And shone all gbttering with ungodly dew, 
 If a tight damsel chanced to trippen bv ; 
 Wiich when observed, he shrunk into his mew, 
 And straight would recollect his piety anew. 
 
 Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded naught 
 (Old inmates of the place) but state afl'airs : 
 Tiiey looked, perdie, as if they deeply thought ; 
 And on tlieir brow sat every nation's cares ; 
 The world by them is parcelled out in shares, 
 When in the Hall of Smoke they congress bold. 
 And the sage berry sunburnt Mocha bears 
 Has cleared their inward eye : then, smoke- 
 enrolled. 
 Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. 
 
 Here languid Beauty kept her pale-faced court ; 
 Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree, 
 From every quarter hither made resort ; 
 Where, from gross mortal care and business 
 
 free. 
 They lay, poured out in ease and luxury. 
 Or should they a vain show of work assume, 
 Alas ! and well-a-day ! what can it be ? 
 To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ; 
 But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and 
 
 loom. 
 
 Their only labor was to kill the time 
 (And labor dire it is, and weary woe) ; 
 They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; 
 Then, rising sudden, to the glass tliey go. 
 Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow : 
 This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 
 
 * Thomson himself. Lord Lvttelton wrote this stanza, 
 t Tlie Rev. Mr. Murdoch. 
 
 -^-9> 
 
a- 
 
 354 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Straight on tLe couch their hinbs again they 
 
 throw, 
 ^VTierc hours on hours they sighing lie reclined, 
 Aud court the vapory god, soft breathing in the 
 wind. 
 
 Now must I mark the villany we found, 
 But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. 
 A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground ; 
 Where still our inmates, when unpleasing 
 
 grown. 
 Diseased and loathsome, privily were thrown : 
 Far from the light of heaven, they languished 
 
 tiiere, 
 Unpitied uttering many a bitter groan ; 
 For of these wretches taken was no care : 
 Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses 
 
 were. 
 
 Alas ! the change ! from scenes of joy and rest, 
 To this dark den, where sickness tossed alway. 
 Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppressed. 
 Stretched on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay. 
 Heaving his sides, aud snored night and day ; 
 To stir him from his trance it was not eath. 
 And his half-opened eyne he shut straightway ; 
 He led, I wot, the softest way to death. 
 And taught withouten pain and strife to yield 
 the breath. 
 
 Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, 
 Seft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy : 
 Unwieldy man ; with belly monstrous round, 
 Forever fed with watery supply ; 
 For stiU he drank, and yet lie still was dry. 
 And moping here did Hypochondria sit. 
 Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye, 
 Wi\o vexed was full oft with ugly fit ; 
 And some her frantic deemed, and some her 
 deemed a wit. 
 
 A lady proud slie was, of ancient blood, 
 Yet oft her fear her pride made crouehen low : 
 She felt, or fancied in her lluttering mood. 
 All the diseases wliich the s]iittles know, 
 And sought all physics which tlie shf)ps bestow. 
 And still new leeches and new drugs would try. 
 Her humor ever wavering to and fro : 
 For sometimes she would laugh, and some- 
 times cry. 
 Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not 
 why. 
 
 Fast by her side a listless maiden pined, 
 
 With aching head, and squeamish heart-burn- 
 ings ; 
 
 Pale, bloated, cold, she seemed to hate man- 
 kind. 
 
 Yet loved in secret all forbidden things. 
 
 And here the Tertian shakes his ehilhng wings, 
 
 The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing 
 
 cocks, 
 A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings ; 
 Whilst apoplexy -crammed Intemperance knocks 
 Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.' 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The Kniglit of Art3 and Inilustry, 
 
 And liis achievements fair ; 
 Tliat, by this Castle's overthrow, 
 
 Secured, and crowned were. 
 
 Escaped the castle of the sire of sin. 
 Ah ! where shaU I so sweet a dwelling find ? 
 For all around, without, and all within. 
 Nothing save what delightftd was and kind. 
 Of goodness savormg and a tender mind. 
 E'er rose to view. But now another strain, 
 Of doleful note, alas ! remains behind : 
 I now must sing of pleasure turned to pain, 
 And of the false enchanter Indolence complain. 
 
 Is there no patron to protect the Muse, 
 And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil ? 
 To every labor its reward accrues. 
 And they are sure of bread who swink and moil ; 
 But a fell tribe the Aonian hive despoil. 
 As i-uthles3 wasps oft rob the painful bee ; 
 Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil, 
 Ne for the Muses other meed decree. 
 They praised are alone, and starve right merrily. 
 
 I care not. Fortune, what you me deny : 
 You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening 
 
 face; 
 Y'ou cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 The woods aud lawns, by living stream, at eve : 
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace. 
 And I their toys to the great children leave ; 
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 
 
 Come, then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song ; 
 Come, hg no more upon the bed of sloth. 
 Dragging the lazy, languid line along. 
 Fond to begin, but still to finish loath. 
 Thy half-writ scrolls all eaten by the moth : 
 Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame, 
 AVho with the sons of softness nobly wrotli. 
 To sweep away this human lumber came. 
 Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering fiamc. 
 
 In Fairy Land there lived a knight of old. 
 Of feature stern. Selvaggio well ycloped, 
 A rough unpolished man, robust and bold, 
 But wondrous poor: he neither sowed nor 
 
 reaped, 
 Ne stores in summer for cold winter heaped ; 
 
 * The four concluding stanzas were claimed by Doctor 
 .\rnistrong, and inserted in his .Miscellanies. 
 
 ^g> 
 
c0- 
 
 THE CASTLE OP INDOLENCE. 
 
 —^ 
 
 355 
 
 fr 
 
 In hunting all his days away he wore ; 
 
 Now scorched by June, now in November 
 
 steeped, 
 Now pinched by biting January sore, 
 He still in woods pursued the Ubbard and the 
 
 boar. 
 
 As lie one morning, long before the dawn, 
 Pricked through the forest to dislodge his prey, 
 Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn. 
 With wood wild fringed, he marked a taper's 
 
 ray. 
 That from the beating rain, and wintry fray. 
 Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy ; 
 There, up to earn the needments of the day. 
 He Ibnnd dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy : 
 Her he compressed, and filled her with a lusty 
 
 boy. 
 
 Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred. 
 And grew at last a knight of mucliel fame, 
 Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed. 
 The Knight of Arts and Industry by name : 
 Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did 
 
 frame ; 
 He knew no beverage but the flowing stream; 
 His tasteful well-earned food the syhan game. 
 Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands 
 
 teem : 
 The same to him glad summer, or the winter 
 
 brcnie. 
 
 So passed his youthly morning, void of care. 
 Wild as the colts that through the commons 
 
 run : 
 For him no tender parents troubled were, 
 He of the forest seemed to be the son. 
 And, certcs, had been utterly undone. 
 But that Minerva pity of him took, 
 With all the gods that love the rural wonne. 
 That each to tame the soil and rule tlie crook ; 
 Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look. 
 
 Of fertile genius him they nurtured well. 
 In every science, and in every art, 
 By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel. 
 That can or use or joy or grace impart. 
 Disclosing all the powers of head and heart : 
 Ne were the goodly exercises spared, 
 Tliat brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert, 
 And mix elastic force with firmness hard : 
 Was never kniglit on ground mote be with liim 
 compared. 
 
 Sometimes, with early mom, lie mounted gay 
 Tlie hunter steed, exulting o'er the dale. 
 And drew the roseate breath of orient day ; 
 Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale, 
 Yclad in steel, and bright with burnislied mail. 
 
 He strained the bow, or tossed the sounding 
 
 spear. 
 Or darting on the goal, outstripped the gale. 
 Or wheeled the chariot in its mid career. 
 Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough 
 
 compeer. 
 
 At other times he pried through nature's store, 
 Whate'cr she in the ethereal round contains, 
 Wliate'er she hides beneath her verdant floor. 
 The vegetable and the mineral reigns ; 
 Or else he scanned the globe, those small do- 
 mains 
 Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep, 
 Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and its 
 
 plains ; 
 But more he searched the mind, and roused 
 from sleep 
 Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap. 
 
 Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits 
 Of heavenly truth, and practise what she 
 
 taught : 
 Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits ! 
 Sometimes in hand the spade or plough lie 
 
 caught, 
 Eortli calling all with which boon earth is 
 
 fraught ; 
 Sometimes he plied the strong mechanic tool, 
 Of reared the fabric from the finest draught ; 
 And oft he put himself to Neptune's school, 
 righting with winds and waves on the vexed 
 
 ocean pool. 
 
 To solace then these rougher toils, he tried 
 To touch the kindling canvas into hfe ; 
 With nature his creating pencil vied, 
 Witli nature joyous at tlie mimic strife : 
 Or, to such shapes as graced Pygmalion's wife 
 He hewed the marble ; or, with varied fire. 
 He roused the trumpet, and the martial fife, 
 Or bade the lute sweet tenderness ins|)ire. 
 Or verses framed that well might wake Apollo's 
 lyre. 
 
 Accomplished thus, he from the woods issued. 
 Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprise ; 
 The work, wliioh long- he in Ids breast had 
 
 brewed 
 Now to perform he ardent did devise ; 
 To wit, a barbarous world to civilize. 
 Earth was till then a boundless forest wild ; 
 Naught to be seen but savage wood, and skies ; 
 No cities nourished arts, no culture smiled, 
 No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild. 
 
 A rugged wight, the worst of brutes, was man ; 
 On his own wretched kind he, ruthless, preyed : 
 The strongest still the weakest overran ; 
 
 -u> 
 
f 
 
 356 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 In every country mighty robbers swayed, 
 And guile and ruiSau I'orce were all their trade. 
 Life was a scene of rapine, want, and woe ; 
 Wiiich this brave kniglit, in noljle anger, made 
 To swear he would the rascal ront o'erthrow. 
 For, by the powers di\'ine, it should no more 
 be so! 
 
 It would exceed the purport of my song 
 To say how this best sun, from orient chmes. 
 Came beaming life and beauty all along. 
 Before him chasing indolence and crimes. 
 Still as he passed, the nations he sublimes, 
 And calls fortii arts and virtues with his ray : 
 Then Egypt, Greece, and Rome their golden 
 
 times, 
 Successive, had ; but now in ruins gray 
 They lie, to slavish sloth and tyranny a prey. 
 
 To crown his toils. Sir Industry then spread 
 
 The swelling sail, and made for Britain's coast. 
 
 A sylvan life till then the natives led. 
 
 In the brown shades and greenwood forest 
 lost. 
 
 All careless rambling where it liked them most ; 
 
 Their wealth the wild deer bouncing through 
 the glade ; 
 
 They lodged at large, and lived at nature's cost ; 
 
 Save spear and bow, withouten other aid ; 
 Yet not the Roman steel their naked breast dis- 
 mayed. 
 
 He liked the soil, he liked the clement skies. 
 He liked the verdant hills and llowery plains : 
 "Be this my great, my chosen isle," he cries, 
 " This, whilst my labors Liberty sustains, 
 This queen of ocean all assault disdains." 
 Nor liked he less the genius of the land, 
 To freedom apt and persevering pains, 
 Mild to obey, and generous to conunaud. 
 Tempered by forming Heaven with kindest, firm- 
 est hand. 
 
 Here, by degrees, his master- work arose. 
 Whatever arts and industry can frame : 
 Whatever finished agriculture knows. 
 Fair queen of arts ! from heaven itself wlio 
 
 came. 
 When Eden flourished in ulispotted fame ; 
 And still with her sweet innocence we find. 
 And tender peace, and joys witliont a name. 
 That, while they ravish, tranquillize tlie mind : 
 Nature and art at once, delight and use coniljined. 
 
 Then towns he quickened by mechanic art,3. 
 And bade the fervent city glow with toil ; 
 Bade social commerce raise renowned marts, 
 Join land to land, and marry soil to soil ; 
 Unite the poles, and wilhont bloody spoil 
 Bring home of eilher Inil (lie gorgeous stores ; 
 
 Or, should despotic rage the world embroil. 
 Bade tyrants tremble on remotest shores. 
 While o'er the eneircling deep Britannia's thunder 
 roars. 
 
 The drooping Muses then he westward called, 
 From the famed city * by Propintic sea. 
 What time the Turk the cul'cebled Grecian 
 
 thralled ; 
 Thence from their cloistered walks he set thcni 
 
 free, 
 And brought them to another Castalie, 
 Where Isis many a famous nursling breeds ; 
 Or where old Cam soft-paees o'er the lea 
 la pensive mood, and tunes his Doric reeds. 
 The whilst his flocks at large the lonely shepherd 
 
 feeds. 
 
 Yet the fine arts were what lie finished least. 
 For why ? They are the quintessence of all. 
 The growth of laboring time, and slow in- 
 creased : 
 Uidcss, as seldom chances, it should fall 
 That mighty patrons the coy sisters call 
 Up to the suusliine of uncumbered ease. 
 Where no rude care the mounting thought 
 
 may thrall. 
 And where they nothing have to do but please ; 
 Ah ! gracious God ! thou kuow'st they ask no 
 other fees. 
 
 But now, alas I we live too late in time : 
 Our patrons now e'en grudge that little claim, 
 Exce)it to such as sleek the soothing rhyme ; 
 And vet, forsooth, they wear Macenas' name. 
 Poor .scnis of i)uft-up vanity, not fame. 
 Unbroken spirits, cheer ! still, still remains 
 The eternal patron. Liberty ; whose flame, 
 Whili; she protects, inspires the noblest strains : 
 The best and-sweetest far are toil-created gains. 
 
 When as the knight had framed, in Britainland, 
 A matchless form of glorious government. 
 In which the sovereign laws alone command. 
 Laws stablishcd by the public free consent, 
 Whose majesty is to the sceptre lent; 
 Wlien this great ])lan, with each dejjcndent art. 
 Was settled firm, and to his heart's content. 
 Then sought he from the toilsome scene to part. 
 And let life's vacant eve breathe quiet through 
 the heart. 
 
 For this he chose a farm in Deva's vale, 
 Where his long alleys peeped \ipon the main : 
 In this calm seat he drew tlie healthful gale. 
 Here mixed the chief, the patriot, aiul the 
 
 swain. 
 The happy monarch of his sylv.an train. 
 Here, sided by the guardians of the fold. 
 
 * Constnntinople. 
 
 -P 
 
f 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 357 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 He walked his rounds, and cheered his blest 
 
 domaia ; 
 His days, the days of uustaiiied nature, rolled 
 Replete with peace and joy, like patriarchs of old. 
 
 Witness, ye lowing herds, who gave him milk; 
 Witness, ye flocks, whose wooUy vestments far 
 Exceed soft India's cotton, or her silk ; 
 Witness, with autumn charged the nodding 
 
 car. 
 That homeward came beneath sweet evening's 
 
 star, 
 Or of September moons the radiance mild. 
 O, hide thy head, abominable War ! 
 Of crimes and rufSiin idleness the child ! 
 From Heaven this hfe yspruug, from hell thy 
 
 glories viled ! 
 
 Nor from his deep retirement banished was 
 The amusing care of rural industry. 
 Still, as with grateful change the seasons pass. 
 New scenes arise, new landscapes strike the 
 
 eye. 
 And all the enlivened country beautify : 
 Gay plains extend where marshes slept before 
 O'er recent meads the exulting streamlets fly 
 Dark frowning heatlis grow bright with Ceres' 
 
 store. 
 And woods imbrown. the steep, or wave along 
 
 the shore. 
 
 As nearer to his farm you made approach. 
 He pohshed Nature with a finer hand : 
 Yet on her beauties durst not art encroach ; 
 'T is Art's alone these beauties to expand. 
 lu graceful dance immingled, o'er the land, 
 Pan, Pales, Flora, and Pomona jjlayed : 
 Here, too, brisk gales the rude wild common 
 
 fanned, 
 A happy place ; where free, and unafraid. 
 Amid the flowering brakes each coyer creature 
 strayed. 
 
 But in prime vigor what can last for aye ? 
 That soul-enfeebhng wizard Indolence, 
 I whilom sung, wrought in his works decay : 
 Spread far and wide was his cursed iufluence; 
 Of public virtue much he dulled the sense, 
 E'en much of private ; eat our spirit out. 
 And fed our rank luxurious vices : whence 
 The laud was overlaid with many a lout ; 
 Not, as old fame reports, wise, generous, bold, 
 and stout. 
 
 A rage of pleasure maddened every breast, 
 Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran : 
 To his hcentious wish each must be blessed. 
 With joy be fevered ; snatch it as he, can. 
 Thus Vice the standard reared ; her arrier-ban 
 
 Corruption called, and loud she gave the word, 
 " Mind, mind yourselves ! why should the vul- 
 gar man. 
 The lackey, be more virtuous than his lord ? 
 Enjoy this spau of hfe ! 't is all the gods afford." 
 
 The tidings reached to where, in quiet hall. 
 The good old Knight enjoyed well-earned re- 
 pose: 
 " Come, come, Sir Knight ! thy children on 
 
 thee call ; 
 Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close ! 
 The demon Indolence thy toils o'erthrows." 
 On this the noble color stained his cheeks, 
 Indignant, glowing through the whiteuing 
 
 snows 
 Of venerable eld ; his eye full speaks 
 His ardeut soul, and from his couch at once he 
 breaks. 
 
 " I win." he cried, "so help me, God ! destroy 
 That villain Arcliimage." His page then 
 
 straiglit 
 He to him called ; a- fiery -footed boy, 
 Benempt Despatch : " My steed be at the gate ; 
 My bard attend ; quick, bring the net of fate." 
 This uet was twisted by the sisters three ; 
 Which, when once cast o'er hardened wretch, 
 
 too late 
 Repentance comes : replevy cannot be 
 From the strong iron grasp of vengeful destiny. 
 
 He came, the bard, a little druid wight. 
 Of withered aspect ; but his eye was keen. 
 With sweetness mixed. In russet brown be- 
 
 dight, 
 As is his sister * of the copses green. 
 He crept along, unpromising of mien. 
 Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair. 
 Bright as the children of yon azure sheen ! 
 True comeliness, which nothing can impair. 
 Dwells in the miud : all else is vanity and glare. 
 
 "Come," quoth the Knight, "a voice has 
 
 reached mine ear ; 
 The demon Indolence threats overflow 
 To all that to mankind is good and dear: 
 Come, Philomclus ; let us instant go, 
 O'erturn his bowers, and lay his castle low. 
 Those men, those wretched men ! who will be 
 
 slaves. 
 Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe : 
 But some there be, thy song, as from their 
 
 graves, 
 Shall raise." Thrice happy he ! who without 
 
 rigor saves. 
 
 Issuing forth, the Knight bestrode his steed. 
 Of ardent bay, and on whose front a star 
 • Tlie KiKhtiniiale, 
 
 ^ 
 
a— 
 
 358 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 <g- 
 
 Shone blazing bright : sprung from the gen- 
 erous breed. 
 That whirl of active day the rapid car, 
 He pranced along, disdaining gate or bar. 
 Meantime, the bard on milk-white paUrey rode; 
 All honest sober beast, tliat did not mar 
 His meditations, but full softly trode ; 
 And much they morahzed as thus yfere they yode. 
 
 They talked of virtue, and of human bliss. 
 
 What else so fit for niau to settle well ? 
 
 And still their long researches met in this. 
 
 This Truth of Truths, which nothing can re- 
 fel: 
 
 " From virtue's fount the purest joys outwell, 
 
 Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious 
 soul; 
 
 While vice pours forth the troubled streams of 
 heU, 
 
 Tlie which, howe'er disgiused, at last with dole 
 Will through the tortured breast their fiery tor- 
 rent roll." 
 
 At length it dawned, that fatal valley gay, 
 
 O'er which high wood-crowned hills their sum- 
 mits rear : 
 
 On the cool height awhile our palmers stay, 
 
 And spite even of themselves their senses 
 cheer ; 
 
 Then to the vizard's wonne their steps they 
 steer. 
 
 Like a green isle, it broad beneath them 
 spread. 
 
 With gardens round, and wandering currents 
 clear, 
 
 And tufted groves to shade the meadow-bed, 
 Sweet airs and song: and without hurry all 
 seemed glad. 
 
 " As God shall judge me, Knight ! we must 
 
 forgive 
 (The half-euraptured Philomelus cried) 
 The frail good man deluded here to live. 
 And in those groves his musing fancy hide. 
 Ah ! naught is pure. It cannot be denied. 
 That virtue still some tincture has of vice, 
 And vice of virtue. What should then betide. 
 But that our charity be not too nice ? 
 Come, let us those we can to real bliss entice." 
 
 "Ay, sicker," quoth the Knight, "all flesh is 
 
 frail, 
 To pleasant sin and joyous dalliance bent ; 
 But let not brutish vice of tliis avail, 
 And think to 'scape deservx-d punishment. 
 Justice were cruel weakly to relent ; 
 From Mercy's self she got her sacred glaive ; 
 Grace be to those who can, and will, repent ; 
 
 But penance long, and dreary, to the slave, 
 Wlio nmst in floods of fire his gross foul spirit 
 lave." 
 
 Thus, holding high discourse, they came to 
 
 where 
 The cursed carle was at his wonted trade ; 
 Still tempting heedless men uito his snare, 
 In witching wise, as I before have said. 
 But when he saw, in goodly gear arrayed, 
 The grave majestic Knight approaching nigh, 
 And by his side the bard so sage and staid. 
 His countenance fell : yet oft his anxious eye 
 Marked them, like wily fox who roosted cock 
 doth spy. 
 
 Nathless, with feigned respect, he bade give 
 
 back 
 The rabble rout, and welcomed them full kind ; 
 Struck with the noble twain, they were not 
 
 slack 
 His orders to obey, and fall behind. 
 Then he resumed his song ; and uueonfined. 
 Poured all his music, ran through all his 
 
 strings : 
 With magic dust their cyne he tries to blind, 
 And virtue's tender airs o'er weakness flings. 
 What pity base his song who so divinely sings ! 
 
 Elate in thought, he counted them his own, 
 They listened so intent with fixed delight : 
 But they instead, as if transmewed to stone, 
 ^larvelled he could with such sweet art unite 
 The lights and shades of manners, wrong and 
 
 right. 
 Meantime, the siUy crowd the charm devour. 
 Wide pressing to the gate. Swift, on the 
 
 Knight 
 He darted fierce, to drag him to his bower. 
 Who backcning sluumed his touch, for well he 
 
 knew its power. 
 
 As in thronged amphitheatre, of old, 
 The wary Retiarius* trapped liis foe ; 
 E'en so the Knight, returning on him bold. 
 At once involved him in the Net of Vi oe. 
 Whereof I mention made not long ago. 
 Inragcd at first, he scorned so weak a jail, 
 And leaped, and flew, and flinineed ti) and fro; 
 But when he found tliat notliing could avail, 
 He sat him felly down, and gnawed his bitter nail. 
 
 Alarmed, the inferior demons of the place 
 Baisi'd rueful slirieks and hideous yells around ; 
 Black stin-my clouds detcirmcd the welkin's lace. 
 And from beneatli was heard a wailing .'•nuud, 
 As of infernal sprights in eiivern bound ; 
 A solemn sadness every creature strook. 
 
 • A pindilitor, who made use of a net, wliich lie threw over 
 Ills mlversQry. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 359 
 
 -9) 
 
 And lightnings flashed, and horrur rocked the 
 
 ground : 
 Huge crowds on crowds outpoured, with blem- 
 ished look, 
 As if on Time's last verge tliis frame of things 
 had shook. 
 
 Soon as the short-lived tempest was yspent, 
 Steamed from the jaws of vexed Avernus' hole, 
 And hushed the hubbub of the rabblemeut, 
 Sir Lidustry the first calm moment stole : 
 " There must," he cried, "amid so vast a shoal. 
 Be some who are not tainted at the heart, 
 Not poisoned quite by this same villain's bowl ! 
 Come then, my bard, thy heavenly fire impart ; 
 Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit 
 start." 
 
 The bard obeyed ; and taking from his side, 
 Wliere it in seemly sort depending hung. 
 His British harp, its speaking strings he tried, 
 The wliich with skilful touch he deftly strung, 
 Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung. 
 Then, as he felt the Muses come along. 
 Light o'er the chords his raptured hand he 
 
 flung. 
 And ])layed a prelude to his rising song : 
 The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands 
 
 round him throng. 
 
 Thus, ardent, burst his strain : " Ye hapless 
 
 race. 
 Dire laboring here to smother reason's ray, 
 Tliat lights our Maker's image in our face. 
 And gives us wide o'er earth unquestioned 
 
 sway ; 
 What is the adored Supreme Perfection, say, — 
 TYniat. but eternal never-resting soul. 
 Almighty power, and all-directing day ; 
 By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll ; 
 Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the 
 
 whole ? 
 
 " Come, to the beaming God your hearts 
 
 unfold ! 
 Draw from its fountain life ! 'T is thence, 
 
 alone. 
 We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould, 
 To seraphs burning round the Almighty's 
 
 throne. 
 Life rising still on life, in higher tone. 
 Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss. 
 In universal nature this clear shown. 
 Not needeth proof : to prove it were, I wis. 
 To prove the beauteous world excels the brute 
 
 abvss. 
 
 ^^— 
 
 " Is not the field, with lively culture green, 
 A sight more joyous than the dead morass ? 
 
 Do not the skies, with active ether clean. 
 And fanned by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass 
 The foul November fogs, and slumbrous mass 
 With which sad Nature veils her drooping face ? 
 Does not the mountain stream, as clear as glass, 
 Gay -dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace ? 
 The same in allholds true, but cliief in human race. 
 
 " It was not by vile loitering in ease 
 
 That Greece obtained the brighter palm of art ; 
 
 That soft yet ardent Athens learned to please. 
 
 To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart. 
 
 In all supreme, complete in every part ! 
 
 It was not thence majestic Rome arose. 
 
 And o'er the nations shook her conquering 
 
 dart ; 
 For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows ; 
 Renown is not the child of indolent Repose. 
 
 " Had unambitious mortals minded naught 
 But in loose joy their time to wear away ; 
 Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought, 
 Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay. 
 Rude nature's state liad been our state to-day ; 
 No cities e'er their towery fronts had raised. 
 No arts had made us opulent and gay; 
 With brother brutes the human race had 
 
 grazed ; 
 None e'er had soared to fame, none honored been, 
 
 none praised. 
 
 "Great Homer's song had never fired the breast 
 To thirst of glory and heroic deeds ; 
 Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest. 
 Had silent slept amid the Mmcian reeds : 
 The wits of modern time had told their beads. 
 The monkish legends been their only strains ; 
 Our Milton's Eden had lain wi-apt in weeds. 
 Our Shakespeare stroUed and laughed witli 
 
 Warwick swains, 
 Ne had my master Spenser charmed liis MuUa's 
 
 plains. 
 
 " Dumb too had been the sage historic muse, 
 And perished all the sons of ancient fame ; 
 Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse 
 Through the dark depth of time their vivid 
 
 flame, 
 Had all been lost with such as have no name. 
 Wio then had scorned his ease for others' good ? 
 Who then had toiled rapacious men to tame ? 
 AVho in the public breach devoted stood. 
 And for his country's cause been prodigal of 
 
 blood ? 
 
 " But should to fame your hearts unfeeling be, 
 If right I read, you pleasure all require : 
 Then hear how best may be obtained this fee. 
 How best enjoyed this nature's wide desire. 
 
 -9^ 
 
f 
 
 360 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Toil and be glad ! let Industry inspire 
 Into your qiuckencd limbs her buoyant breath ! 
 Who does not act is dead ; absorijt entire 
 In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath ; 
 leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death ! 
 
 " Ah ! what avail the krgest gifts of Heaven, 
 When drooping health and spirits go amiss r" 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given ? 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss. 
 And exercise of health. In proof of this. 
 Behold the wi-etch, who slugs his life away, 
 Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss ; 
 While he wliom toil has braced, or manly play. 
 As Ught as air each limb, each thought as clear 
 as day. 
 
 " 0, who can speak the vigorous joys of 
 
 health ! 
 Uncloggcd the body, unobseured the mind : 
 The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
 The temperate evening falls serene and kind. 
 In health the wiser brutes true gladness ilud : 
 See ! how the younglings frisk along the 
 
 meads, 
 As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind ; 
 Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds ; 
 Yet what but high-strung health tliis dancing 
 
 pleasauiice breeds V 
 
 " But here, instead, is fostered every ill, 
 Which or distempered minds or bodies know. 
 Come then, my kindred spirits ! do not spill 
 Your talents here : this place is but a show. 
 Whose charms delude you to the den of woe. 
 Come, follow me, I will direct you right, 
 Where pleasure's roses, void of serpents, grow, 
 Sincere as sweet; come, follow tliis good 
 
 Knight, 
 And you will bless the day that brought him to 
 
 your sight. 
 
 " Some he will lead to courts, and some to 
 
 camps ; 
 To senat«s some, and public sage debates, 
 Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight 
 
 lamps, 
 The world is poised, and managed mighty 
 
 states ; 
 To high discovery some, that new creates 
 The face of earth ; some to the thriving mart ; 
 Some to tlie rural reign, and softer fates; 
 To the sweet muses some, who raise tlie heart: 
 All glory shall l)e yours, all nature, and all art ! 
 
 " There are, I see, who listen to my lay, 
 Wlio wretelied sigh for virtue, but despair : 
 'AH mav be done,' methinks I hear them 
 
 ^ 
 
 'E'en death despised by generous actions fair; 
 AU, but for those who to these bowers repair, 
 Tlieir every power dissolved in luxury. 
 To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair. 
 And from the powerfid arms of sloth get free : 
 'Tis rising from the dead! Alas! — it cannot 
 be!' 
 
 " Would you then learn to dissipate the baud 
 Of the huge threatening difficulties dire. 
 That in the weak man's way like lions stand, 
 His soul appall, and damp his rising fire ? 
 Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire. 
 Exert that noblest privilege, alone 
 Here to mankind indulged ; control desire : 
 Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne, 
 Speak the commanding word ' I will ! ' and it is 
 done. 
 
 " Heavens ! can you then thus waste, in 
 
 shameful wise, 
 Your few important days of trial liere ? 
 Heirs of eternity ! yborn to rise 
 Through endless states of being, still more 
 
 near 
 To bliss approaching, and perfecticm clear ; 
 Can you renounce a fortune so s\d)lime, 
 Such glorious hojjes, your backward steps to 
 
 steer. 
 And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and 
 
 sHme ? 
 No ! no ! — Your Heaven-touched hearts disdain 
 
 the sordid crime I " 
 
 " Enough ! enough ! " they cried, — straight, 
 
 from the crowd. 
 The better sort on wings of transport fly : 
 As when amid the lifeless summits proud 
 Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky 
 Snows piled on snows in wintry torpor lie. 
 The rays divine of vernal Plia?bus play ; 
 The awakened heaps, in streandets from on 
 
 high, 
 Roused into action, lively leap away, 
 Glad warbling through the vales, in their new 
 
 being gay. 
 
 Not less the life, the vivid joy serene. 
 That lighted up these new created men. 
 Than that which wings the exulting spirit 
 
 clean, 
 Wien, just delivered from this fleshly den, 
 It soaring seeks its native skies agen : 
 How light its essence ! how uncloggcd its 
 
 powers, 
 Beyond the blazon of my mort^d jien ! 
 E'en so we glad forsook these sinful bowers. 
 E'en such enraptured life, such energy was ours. 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 361 
 
 ■^ 
 
 But, far the greater part, ynth rage iutlamed, 
 Dire-mutteied curses, aud blaspliemcd liigli 
 
 Jove : 
 " Ye sons of hate ! " they bitterly exclaimed, 
 " What brought you to tliis scat of peace aud 
 
 love? 
 T^Tiile with kiud nature, here amid the 
 
 grove, 
 We passed the harmless sabbath of our time, 
 W'hat to disturb it could, fell men, emove 
 Your barbarous hearts ? Is happiness a crime? 
 Then do the fiends of hell rule in yon heaven 
 
 sublime." 
 
 " Ye impious wretches," quoth the Knight in 
 
 wrath, 
 " Your happiness behold ! " Then straight a 
 
 wand 
 He waved, an anti-magic power that hath 
 Truth from illusive falsehood to command. 
 Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand ; 
 The pure quick streams are marshy puddles 
 
 fomid ; 
 Ou baleful heaths the groves all blackened 
 
 staud ; 
 Aud o'er the weedy foul abhorred ground. 
 Snakes, adders, toads, eacli loathsome creature 
 
 crawls around. 
 
 And here and there, on trees by lightning 
 
 scathed. 
 Unhappy wights who loathed life yhung ; 
 Or, ill fresh gore and recent murder bathed, 
 Tliey weltering lay ; or else, infuriate lluug 
 Lito the gloomy flood, while ravens sung 
 The funeral dirge, they down the torrent 
 
 rolled : 
 These, by distempered blood to madness stung. 
 Had doomed themselves ; whence oft, when 
 
 night controlled 
 The world, returning hither their sad spirits 
 
 howled. 
 
 Meantime a moving scene was open laid ; 
 That lazar-house, I whilom in my lay 
 Depainted have, its horrors deep displayed, 
 And gave unnumbered wretches to the day. 
 Who tossing there in squalid misery lay. 
 Soon as of sacred Kght the unwonted smile 
 Poured on these living catacombs its ray. 
 Through the drear caverns stretching many a 
 
 mile, 
 The sick upraised their heads, and dropped their 
 
 woes awhile. 
 
 "O Heaven!" they cried, "and do we once 
 
 more see 
 Y'on blessed sun, and this green earth so 
 
 fair ■:- 
 
 U-- 
 
 Aie we from noisome damps of pestliouse free ? 
 
 And drink our souls the sweet ethereal air ? 
 
 O thou ! or Knight, or God ? who boldest 
 there 
 
 That fiend, O, keep him in eternal chains ! 
 
 But what for us, the children of despair, 
 
 Brought to the brink of hell, what iiope re- 
 mains ? 
 Kcpeutance does itself but aggravate our pains." 
 
 The gentle Knight, who saw their rueful ease. 
 Let fall adown his-silver beard some tears. 
 " Ccrtes," quoth he, "it is not e'en in grace, 
 To undo the past, and eke your broken years ; 
 Nathless, to nobler worlds Repentance rears, 
 With humble hope, her eye ; to her is given 
 A power the truly contrite heart that cheers ; 
 She quells the brand by which the rocks are 
 
 riven ; 
 She more than merely softens, she rejoices 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 "Then patient bear the sufferings yon ha\'e 
 
 earned. 
 And by these snfTeiings purify the mind ; 
 Let wisdom be by past misconduct learned : 
 Or pious die, with penitence n signed ; 
 And to a life more happy aud refined. 
 Doubt not, you shall, new creatures, yet arise. 
 Till then, you may expect in me to find 
 One who will wipe your sorrow from yonr eyes. 
 One who will soothe your pangs, and wing you 
 to the skies." 
 
 They silent heard, aud poured tlieir thanks in 
 
 tears: 
 " For you," resumed the Knight with sterner 
 
 tone, 
 " Wliose hard dry hearts the obdurate demon 
 
 sears. 
 That villain's gifts will cost you many a groan ; 
 In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan 
 His fatal charms, and weep your stains away ; 
 Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, 
 You feel a perfect change : then, who can say 
 What grace may yet sliiue forth in Heaven's 
 
 eternal day ? " 
 
 This said, his powerful wand he waved anew : 
 Instant, a glorious angel-train descends. 
 The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue ; 
 Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends. 
 And with seraphic flame compassion blends. 
 At once, delighted, to their charge they fly : 
 When lo ! a goodly hospital ascends ; 
 111 which they bade each lenient aid be nigh, 
 That could the sick-bed smoothe of that sad com- 
 pany. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 362 
 
 MALLET. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 It was a, worthy, edil'yiiig sight, 
 And gives to iiuinau kind peculiar grace, 
 To see kind hands attending day and niglit, 
 With tender ministry, from place to place. 
 Some prop the head ; some, from the pallid 
 
 face 
 Wipe off the faint cold dews weak nature 
 
 sheds ; 
 Some reach the healing draught : the whilst, 
 
 to chase 
 Tlie fear supreme, around their softened beds. 
 Some holy man by prayer -all opening Heaven 
 
 dispreads. 
 
 Attended by a glad acclaiming train. 
 Of those he rescued had from gaping hell. 
 Then turned the Knight ; and, to Jiis hall again 
 Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell : 
 Yet down liis cheeks the gems of pity fell. 
 To see the helpless ■((Tetches that remained. 
 There left through delves and deserts dire to 
 
 yell ; 
 Amazed, their looks with pale dismay were 
 stained. 
 And spreading wide their hands they meek re- 
 pentance feigned. 
 
 But ah ! their scorned day of grace was past : 
 
 For (horrible to tell !) a desert wild 
 
 Before them stretched, bare, comfortless, and 
 
 vast; 
 With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled. 
 Tlierc nor trim field nor lively culture smiled ; 
 Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair; 
 But sands abr\ipt on sands lay loosely piled. 
 Through which they floundering toiled with 
 
 painful care, 
 Whilst riifcbus smote them sore, and fired the 
 
 cloudless air. 
 
 Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, 
 
 The saddened country a gray waste appeared ; 
 
 Where naught but putrid streams and noisome 
 fogs 
 
 Forever hung on drizzly Auster's beard ; 
 
 Or else the ground, by piercing Caurus scared. 
 
 Was jagged with frost, or heaped with glazed 
 snow ; 
 
 Through tliese extremes a ceaseless round t hey 
 steered, 
 
 By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro. 
 Gaunt Beggary and Scorn, with many hell- 
 hounds moe. 
 
 The first was with base dunghill rags yclad. 
 Tainting the gale, in which they fluttered light; 
 or MKirbid hue his features, sunk and sad; 
 His hollow cyne shook forth a sickly light ; 
 And o'er his lank jawbone, in ]>iteous plight, 
 
 His black rough beard was matted rank and 
 
 vile ; 
 Direfid to see ! a heart-appalling sight ! 
 Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile ; 
 And dogs, wliere'er he went, still barked all the 
 
 while. 
 
 The other was a fell dcspightfid fiend ; 
 
 Hell holds none worse in bidcful bower be- 
 low : 
 
 By pride and wit and rage and rancor 
 keened ; 
 
 Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe : 
 
 With nose upturned, he always made a show 
 
 As if he smelt some nauseous scent ; his 
 eye 
 
 Was cold and keen, like blast from boreal 
 snow ; 
 
 And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. 
 Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly 
 fry. 
 
 E'en so through Brentford town, a town of 
 
 mud, 
 A herd of bristly swine is jn-icked along ; 
 The filthy beasts, that never chew tlie cud, 
 Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troub- 
 lous song. 
 And oft they plunge themselves the mire 
 
 among : 
 But aye the ruthless driver goads them on. 
 And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng 
 Makes them renew their uninelodious moan ; 
 Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone. 
 
 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 1700-1765. 
 
 WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 
 
 'T w.\s at the silent soleuni hour 
 When night and morning meet; 
 
 In glided Margaret's grindy ghost, 
 And stood at '\\'illiam's feet. 
 
 Her face was like an April morn 
 
 Clad in a wintry chnid ; 
 And clay-cold was her lily hand. 
 
 That held her sable shroud. 
 
 So shall the fairest face appear 
 When youth and years are flowii : 
 
 Such is the robe that kings must wear, 
 AV'hcn death has reft their crown. 
 
 Her bloom was like the springing flower. 
 That sips the silver dew ; 
 
 -^ 
 
ca- 
 
 GEONGAR HILL. 
 
 3G3 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The rose was budded iii her check, 
 Just opening to the view. 
 
 But love had, like the canker-worm, 
 
 Consumed her early prime ; 
 The rose grew pale, aud left her check, — 
 
 She died before her time. 
 
 "Awake!" she cried, "thy true-love calls, 
 Come from her midnight grave : 
 
 Now let tliy pity hear tlic maid 
 Thy love refused to save. 
 
 " Tins is the dark and dreary hour 
 When injured ghosts complain; 
 
 ^Vhen yawning graves give up their dead. 
 To haunt the faithless swain. 
 
 " Betliink thee, William, of thy fault. 
 
 Thy pledge and broken oath ! 
 And give me back my maiden-vow, 
 
 Aud give me back my troth. 
 
 " Why did you promise love to me, 
 
 And not that promise keep ? 
 Why did you swear my eyes were bright. 
 
 Yet leave those eyes to weep ? 
 
 " How could you say my face was fair, 
 
 Aud yet that face forsake ? 
 How could you win my virgin heart. 
 
 Yet leave that heart to break ? 
 
 " ^V'hy did you say my lip was sweet. 
 
 And made tlie scarlet pale ? 
 Aud wliy 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, 
 
 And every charm is fled. 
 
 " The hungry worm my sister is ; 
 
 This winding-sheet I wear: 
 And cold and weary lasts our night. 
 
 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." 
 
 The lark sung loud ; tlie morning smiled 
 
 Witli beams of rosy red : 
 Pale William quaked in every limb, 
 
 Aud raving left his bed. 
 
 ^U-^ 
 
 He hied him to the fatal place 
 Wlirre Margaret's body lay ; 
 
 And stretched liim on the green-grass turf 
 That wrapt her breathless clay. 
 
 And tlirice he called on Margaret's name. 
 
 And thrice lie wept full sore ; 
 Then laid his check to her cold grave. 
 
 And word spake nevermore ! 
 
 JOHN DYER. 
 
 1700-1758. 
 
 GRONGAR HILL. 
 
 Silent nymph, with curious eye. 
 Who, the purple evening, lie 
 On the mountain's lonely van. 
 Beyond the noise of busy man ; 
 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 lines. 
 Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 
 Now, Wilde Phtebus riding high 
 Gives lustre to the laud aud sky ! 
 Grongar Hill invites my song, 
 Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 
 Grongar, in whose mossy cells 
 Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
 Grongar, in whose silent shade. 
 For the modest Muses made ; 
 So oft I have, the evening stiU, 
 At the fountain of a rill. 
 Sate upon a flowery bed. 
 With my hand beneath my head ; 
 While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 
 Over mead and over wood. 
 From house to house, from hill to hill, 
 TUl Contemplation had licr fill. 
 
 About his checkered sides I wind. 
 And leave his brooks and- meads behind, 
 And groves, and grottos where I lay. 
 And vistas shooting beams of day: 
 Wide and wider spreads the vale, 
 As circles on a smooth canal : 
 The mountains round, unliappy fate ! 
 Sooner or later of all height, 
 Withdi'aw their summits from the skies. 
 And lessen as the others rise : 
 Still the prospect wider spreads, 
 Adds a thousand woods aud meads ; 
 Still it widens, widens still. 
 And sinks the newly risen hill. 
 
 Now I gain the mountain's brow. 
 What a landscape lies below ! 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 364 
 
 DYEK. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 No clouds, no vapors, intervene ; 
 But the g;iy, the open scene 
 Does the face of Nature show. 
 In all the hues of Heaven's bow, 
 And, sweUiug to embrace the light, 
 Spreads around beneath the sight. 
 
 Old castles on the chifs arise. 
 Proudly towering in the skies ! 
 Rushing from the woods, the spires 
 Seem from lience ascending fires ! 
 Half his beams Apollo sheds 
 On the yellow mountain-heads ! 
 Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. 
 And glitters on the broken rocks ! 
 
 Below me trees unnumbered rise, 
 Beautiful in various dyes : 
 The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
 Tiie 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 Phyllis, queen of love ! 
 Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
 Lies a long and level lawn. 
 On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
 Holds and ciiarms the wandering eye ! 
 Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, 
 His sides arc clothed witli 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 faUing keeps ; 
 So both a safety from the wind 
 On nnitual dependence find. 
 'T is now the raven's bleak abode ; 
 'T is now the apartment of the toad ; 
 And there the fox securely feeds ; 
 And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
 Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
 While, ever and anon, there falls 
 Huge lieaps of hoary mouldered walls. 
 Yet Time has seen, that hfts the low, 
 And level lays the lofty brow, — 
 Has seen this broken pile complete. 
 Big with the vanity of state ; 
 But transient is the smile of Fat« ! 
 A little rule, a little sway, 
 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, 
 Througli woods and meads, in shade and sun. 
 Sometimes swift, sometimes slow. 
 Wave succeeding wave, they go 
 A various journey to the deep, 
 Fiikc huniiui life, to endless sleep ! 
 Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
 To instruct our wandering thought ; 
 
 Thus she dresses green and gay, 
 To disperse our cares away. 
 
 Ever charming, ever new. 
 When wiU the landscape tire the view ! 
 The fountain's faU, the river's flow. 
 The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
 Tiie windy summit, wild and high. 
 Roughly rushing on the sky ! 
 The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, 
 The naked rock, the shady bower; 
 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. 
 Where the prospect opens wide, 
 AMiere the evening gilds the tide. 
 How close and small the hedges lie ! 
 What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
 A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 
 So little distant dangers seem ; 
 So we mistake the Future's face. 
 Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 
 As yon summits soft and fair, 
 Clad in colors of the air, 
 Which to those who journey near. 
 Barren, brown, and rough ajipear ; 
 Still we tread the same coarse way, 
 The present 's still a cloudy day. 
 
 O, may I with myself agree, 
 And never covet what I see ; 
 Content me with a humble shade, 
 My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
 For while our wishes wildly roll. 
 We banish quiet from the soul ; 
 'T is thus the busy beat the air, 
 And misers gather wealth and care. 
 
 Now, even now, my joys run high. 
 As on tlie mountain turf I lie ; 
 While the wanton zephyr sings. 
 And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
 Wlulc the waters murmur deep. 
 While the shepherd charms his sheep. 
 While the birds unbounded fly, 
 And with music fill the sky, 
 Now, even now, my joys run high. 
 
 Be fidl, ye courts ; be great who will ; 
 Search for peace with all your skill ; 
 Open wide the lofty door. 
 Seek her on the marble floor : 
 In vain you search, she is not there ; 
 In vain you search -the domes of care ! 
 Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
 On the meads and nuiuutain heads, 
 Along with Pleasure close allied, 
 Ever by eacli other's side : 
 And often, by tlie murnniring rill, 
 Hears the thrush, while all is still, 
 Within tiic groves of Grongar Hill. 
 
 ^^- 
 
 -G> 
 
C&- 
 
 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 
 
 3G5 
 
 PHILIP DODDRIDGE. 
 
 1703-1751. 
 
 ON KECOVEET FEOM SICKNESS. 
 
 My God, thy service well demands 
 
 The remnant of my days ; 
 Why was this fleetiug breath renewed, 
 
 But to renew thy praise ? 
 
 Thine arms of everlasting love 
 Did this weak frame sustain. 
 
 When life was hovering o'er the grave. 
 And nature sunk with pain. 
 
 Thou, wlien the pains of deatli were felt, 
 Didst chase the fears of hell ; 
 
 And teach my pale and quivering lips 
 Thy matchless grace to tell. 
 
 Calmly I bowed my fainting head 
 
 On thy dear faithful breast ; 
 Pleased to obey my Father's cull 
 
 To liis eternal rest. 
 
 Lito tliy hands, my Saviour God, 
 
 Did I my soul resign, 
 In firm dependence on that truth 
 
 Which made salvation mine. 
 
 Back from the borders of the grave 
 
 At thy command I come ; 
 Nor woidd I urge a speedier flight 
 
 To my celestial home. 
 
 ^^'Iicre thou^etermin'st mine abode, 
 There would I choose to be ; 
 
 For in thy presence death is life. 
 And earth is heaven with thee. 
 
 TE GOLDEN LAMPS OF HEAVEN, FAREWELL! 
 
 Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 
 
 With all your feeble light ! 
 Farewell, thou ever-changing moon. 
 
 Pale empress of the night ! 
 
 And thou, refulgent orb of day, 
 
 In brighter flames arrayed ; 
 My soul, that spiings beyond thy sphere. 
 
 No more demands thy aid. 
 
 Ye stars are but the shining dust 
 
 Of my divine abode ; 
 The pavement of those heavenly courts 
 
 Wliere I shall see my God. 
 
 There all the millions of his saints 
 
 Shall in one song unite ; 
 And each the bliss of all shall view 
 
 AA'ith infinite delight. 
 
 HENRY CAREY.* 
 
 1663-1743. 
 
 SALLY Df OUR ALLEY. 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 
 
 Tliere 's none Uke pretty Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There is no lady in the land 
 
 Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em 
 Her mother she sells laces long 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em : 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
 She is the darling of my lieart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When she is by, I leave my work, 
 
 I love her so sincerely ; 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely : 
 But let liiiu bang his bellyful, 
 
 I '11 bear it all for Sally; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that 's in the week 
 
 I dearly love but one day, — 
 And that's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 A Saturday and jNIonday ; 
 For then I 'ra drest all in my best 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darUng of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church. 
 
 And often am I blamed 
 Because 1 leave him in tlie lurch 
 
 As soon as text is named ; 
 I leave the church in sermon-time 
 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart. 
 
 And she Uves in our alley. 
 
 When Christmas comes about again, 
 O, then I shall have money ; 
 
 I '11 hoard it up, and box it all, 
 I '11 give it to my honey : 
 
 ho 
 
 Ma 
 
 ci. 
 
 * A natural son of the famous Marquess of Halifax 
 occupies so prominent a place in Macaulay's History, 
 caulay says of the Marquess : " He left a natural son, Henry 
 Cavey, whose drainas once drew crowded audiences to the 
 theatres, and some of whose gay and spirited verses still live 
 in the memory of hundreds of thousands. From Henry Carey 
 di;sfcnd['d that Ediiiunil Kean who, in our own time, trans- 
 furmcdliimself so marvellously into Shylock, lafjo.and Othello. 
 
 -P 
 
C&- 
 
 3G6 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 1 
 
 fr 
 
 1 would it were teu thousaud pouud, 
 
 I 'd give it all to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master and the neighbors all 
 
 Make game of me and Sally, 
 And, but for her, I 'd better be 
 
 A slave aud row a galley ; 
 But when my seven long years arc out, 
 
 0, then 1 '11 marry Sally, — 
 O, then we '11 wed, and then we '11 bed. 
 
 But not in our alley ! 
 
 A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND. 
 
 Genteel in personage. 
 Conduct, and equipage. 
 Noble by heritage. 
 
 Generous and free : 
 Brave, not romantic ; 
 Learned, not pedantic ; 
 Trolic, not frantic ; 
 
 This must he be. 
 Honor maintaining. 
 Meanness disdaining. 
 Still entertaining. 
 
 Engaging aud new. 
 Neat, but not finical ; 
 Sage, but not cynical ; 
 Never tyrannical, 
 
 But ever true. 
 
 27/1" Contrivances. 
 
 GOD SAVE THE ETNG," 
 
 God save our gracious king. 
 Long live our noble king, 
 
 God save the king. 
 Send liim victorious, 
 Ha[)py and glorious. 
 Long to I'cign over us, 
 God save the king. 
 
 O Lord our God, arise, 
 Scatter his enemies, 
 
 And make them fall ; 
 Confound their politics, 
 Trustrate their knavish tricks. 
 On hiui our hopes we fix, 
 
 God save us all. 
 
 The choicest gifts in store. 
 On him be pleased to pour. 
 Long may he reign. 
 
 • These celebrstcd linps are poetically worthless, Tlicre 
 lins hecn murh rontention as to llieir authorship ; hut the 
 qncation has heen practically scUlcil in favor of Henry Carey. 
 
 May he defend our laws. 
 And ever give us cause 
 To sing with heart and voice, 
 God save the king. 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 1704 -1754. 
 
 THE BKAES OF YAEEOW. 
 
 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonuy bonny bride. 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride. 
 And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 B. Where gat ye that bomiy bonny bride ? 
 Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 
 
 A. I gat her where I darena well be seen, 
 Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride. 
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 
 
 Nor let thy heart lament to leave 
 
 Polling the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 B. Why does she weep, thy bonuy bonny bride. 
 Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? 
 
 And why dare yc nae mair weil be seen, 
 Pouing tlie birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? 
 
 J. 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 
 
 Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 For she has tint her lover lover dear, 
 Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, 
 
 And I hae slain the comcliest swain 
 That e'er poucd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Why nins thy stream, O Yarrow, Y'arrow, red ? 
 
 Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? 
 Aud why yon melaneholious weeds 
 
 Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? 
 
 What 's yonder floats on the rueful nieful flude ? 
 
 Wliat 's yonder floats ? O dule and .sorrow I 
 'T is he, the comely swain I slew 
 
 Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Wash, 0, wash his wounds his wounds in tears, 
 His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, 
 
 And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
 And lav him on tlie Braes of Y'arrow. 
 
 Then build, tlien build, ye sisters sisters sad, 
 Yc sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 SONG. 
 
 367 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And weep around in waeful wise. 
 
 His helpless fute on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield. 
 My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 
 
 The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 
 
 Ilis comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Did I not warn thee not to lue, 
 
 And warn from fight, but to my sorrow ; 
 
 O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm 
 
 Tliou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows 
 the grass. 
 
 Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowaii, 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 
 Sweet the wave of Yarrow flo^an. 
 
 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows 
 Tweed, 
 
 As green its grass, its gowan as yellow. 
 As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 
 
 The apple frae the rock as mellow. 
 
 Fair was tliy love, fair fair indeed thy love. 
 In flowery bands thou him didst fetter ; 
 
 Though he was fair and well beloved again, 
 Thau me he never lued thee better. 
 
 Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride. 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, 
 
 Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, 
 And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, 
 How can I busk a winsome marrow. 
 
 How lue him on the banks of Tweed, 
 That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Yarrow fields ! may never never rain, 
 Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover. 
 
 For there was basely slain my love. 
 My love, as he had not been a lover. 
 
 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, 
 His purple vest, 't was my ain sewing. 
 
 Ah ! wretched me ! I little little kenned 
 He was in these to meet his ruin. 
 
 The boy took out his milk-white milk-wliite steed, 
 Unheedful of my dule and soitow. 
 
 But e'er the to-fall of the night 
 
 He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day ; 
 
 I sang, my voice the woods returning. 
 But lang ere night the spear was flown 
 
 That slew my love, and left me mourning. 
 
 ^9-- 
 
 e me. 
 
 What can my barbarous barbarous father do. 
 But with his eruel rage pursue me ? 
 
 My lover's blood is on thy spear. 
 
 How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 
 
 My happy sisters may be may be proud ; 
 
 With cruel and ungentle scolfiu. 
 May bid lue seek on iarrow Braes 
 
 My lover nailed ni his coffin. 
 
 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, 
 And strive witli threatening words to mov 
 
 ily lover's blood is on thy spear. 
 
 How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 
 
 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love. 
 With bridal sheets my body cover. 
 
 Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 
 Let in the expected husband lover. 
 
 But who the expected husband husband is ? 
 
 His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaugliter. 
 Ah nie ! what ghastly spectre 's you. 
 
 Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? 
 
 Pale as lie is, here lay him lay liim down, 
 O, lay his cold head on my pillow. 
 
 Take alf take att' these bridal weeds. 
 
 And crown my careful head with willow. 
 
 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best belo\cd, 
 O, could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
 
 Ye 'd lie all night between my breasts, 
 No youth lay ever thei"e before thee. 
 
 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely yonth, 
 Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter. 
 
 And lie all night between my breasts. 
 No youth shall ever lie there after. 
 
 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride. 
 Return and dry thy useless sorrow : 
 
 Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs, 
 He lies a corpse ou the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale. 
 Where Yarrow streams along, 
 
 Forsake your rural toils, and join 
 In my triumphant song. 
 
 She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile 
 
 Atones her long delays, 
 One happy minute crowns the pains 
 
 Of many suffering days. 
 
 Raise, i-aise the victor notes of joy. 
 These suffering days are o'er ; 
 
 Love satiates now his boundless wish 
 From beauty's boundless store : 
 
 -9^ 
 
<&- 
 
 368 
 
 FIELDING. 
 
 -£^ 
 
 k 
 
 No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears, 
 
 This rising cahn destroy ; 
 Now every prospect smiles around. 
 
 All opening into joy. 
 
 The sun witli double lustre shone 
 
 That dear consenting hour, 
 Brightened each hill, and o'er eacli vale 
 
 New colored every flower : 
 
 The gales their gentle sighs withheld, 
 
 No leaf was seen to move, 
 The hovering songsters round were mute. 
 
 And wonder hushed the grove. 
 
 The liills and dales no more resound 
 
 The lambkin's tender cry ; 
 Without one murmur Yarrow stole 
 
 In dimpling silence by : 
 
 All nature seemed in stiU repose 
 
 Her voice alone to hoar. 
 That gently rolled tiie tuneful wave. 
 
 She spoke and blessed my car : 
 
 " Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy 
 
 You fondly fancy nune ; 
 Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast. 
 
 Love renders whoUy thine." 
 
 The woods struck up to the soft gale. 
 The leaves were seen to move, 
 
 The feathered choir resumed their voice, 
 And wonder filled the grove ; 
 
 The hills and dales again resound 
 
 Tlie lambkins' tender cry. 
 With all his murmurs Yarrow trilled 
 
 The song of triumph by ; 
 
 Above, beneath, around, all on 
 
 Was verdure, beauty, song ; 
 I snatched her to my trembliug breast, 
 
 All nature joyed along. 
 
 HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 1707 -1754. 
 
 A HUNTIN& WE WILL GO. 
 
 The dusky night rides down the sky. 
 
 And ushers in the mom : 
 The hounds all join in glorious cry. 
 
 The huntsman winds his liorn. 
 
 And a hunting we will go. 
 
 The wife around licr husband throws 
 Her arms to make him stav ; 
 
 " My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; 
 You cannot hunt to-day." 
 
 Yet a hunting we will go. 
 
 Away they fly to 'scape the rout, 
 Their steeds they soundly switch ; 
 
 Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, 
 Ajid some thrown in the ditch. 
 
 Yet a hunting we will go. 
 
 Sly Reynard now like lightning flics, 
 
 And sweeps across the vale ; 
 Aud when the hounds too near he spies. 
 
 He drops Ids bushy tail. 
 
 Then a hunting we will go. 
 
 Fond Echo seems to like the sport. 
 
 And join the jovial cry ; 
 The woods, the hills, the sound retort, 
 
 Aud music fills the sky. 
 
 When a hunting we do go. 
 
 At last his strength to faintness worn. 
 
 Poor Reynard ceases flight ; 
 Then hungry, homeward we return, 
 
 To feast away the night. 
 
 And a drinking we do go. 
 
 Ye jovial hunters, in the morn 
 
 Prepare them for the chase ; 
 Rise at the sounding of the horn 
 
 And health with sport embrace. 
 
 When a hunting we do go. 
 
 THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND." 
 
 When mighty roast beef was the Englishman's 
 
 food, 
 It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood ; 
 Our soldiers were brave, aud our courtiers were 
 good. 
 O, the Roast Beef of old England, 
 Aud O, for old England's Roast Beef ! 
 
 But since we have learned from effeminate France 
 To eat their ragouts, as weU as to danoc. 
 We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance. 
 O, the Roast Beef, etc. 
 
 Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong, 
 And kept open house with good cheer all day long. 
 Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this 
 song. 
 
 O, the Roast Beef, etc. 
 
 ■\Vhcn good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne. 
 Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops were 
 known, 
 
 * Thf first two verses were written by Fielding ; the Inst . , 
 fiiur liv Richjird Lcvcridge. 
 
COMMUNION WITH GOD. 
 
 369 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown. 
 0, the Roast Beef, ete. 
 
 In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, 
 Tliey seldom or never returned back again ; 
 As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain. 
 O, the Roast Beef, etc. 
 
 0, then we had stomachs to eat and to fight. 
 And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves 
 
 right ; 
 But now we're a — hum! — I could, but — 
 
 good night ! 
 
 0, the Roast Beef, etc. 
 
 CHARLES WESLEY. 
 
 1708-1788. 
 
 HTIOI OF PRAISE. 
 
 Lo ! God is here ! let us adore. 
 
 And own how dreadful is this place : 
 
 Let all within us feel liis power. 
 And silent bow before his face ! 
 
 Vilio know his power, his grace who prove, 
 
 Serve him with awe, with reverence love. 
 
 Lo ! God is here ! him day and night 
 The united choirs of angels sing : 
 
 To him, entiironed above all height. 
 
 Heaven's host their noblest praises bring : 
 
 Disdain not. Lord, our meaner song. 
 
 Who praise thee vrith a stammering tongue. 
 
 Gladly the toils of earth we leave, 
 Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone ; 
 
 To thee our will, soul, flesh, we give, 
 O, take ! O, seal them for thine own ! 
 
 Thou art the God, thou art the Lord : 
 
 Be thou by all thy works adored ! 
 
 Being of beings ! may our praise 
 
 Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill : 
 
 Still may we stand before thy face, 
 Still hear and do thy sovereign will : 
 
 To thee may all our thoughts arise. 
 
 Ceaseless, accepted sacrifice. 
 
 In thee we move : all tilings of thee 
 Are full, thou Source and Life of all : 
 
 Thou vast unfathomable Sea ! 
 
 (Fall prostrate, lost in wonder fall, 
 
 Ye sons of men ! For God is JMan !) 
 
 All may we lose, so thee we gain ! 
 
 As flowers their opening leaves display. 
 And glad drink in the solar fire. 
 
 So may we catch thy every ray. 
 
 So may thy influence us inspire ; 
 Thou beam of the eternal beam ! 
 Thou purging fire, thou quickening flame ! 
 
 JESU, LOVEE or MT SOnL. 
 
 Jesu, lover of my soul. 
 
 Let me to thy bosom fly. 
 While the nearer waters roll. 
 
 While the tempest stiU is high : 
 Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 
 
 Till the storm of life be past ; 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 
 0, receive my soul at last ! 
 
 Other refuge have I none. 
 
 Hangs my helpless soul on thee ; 
 Leave, ah ! leave me not alone. 
 
 Still support and comfort me : 
 AU my trust on thee is stayed ; 
 
 All my help from thee I bring ; 
 Cover my defenceless head 
 
 With the shadow of thy wing. 
 
 Thou, Christ, art all I want; 
 
 More than all in thee I find : 
 Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 
 
 Heal the sick, and lead the bhnd : 
 Just and holy is thy Name ; 
 
 I am all 'unrighteousness : 
 False and full of sm I am ; 
 
 Thou art full of truth and grace. 
 
 Plenteous grace with thee is found, 
 
 Grace to cover all my sin ; 
 Let the healin^ streams abound, 
 
 Make and keep me pure witliin : 
 Thou of life the fountain art ; 
 
 Freely let me take of thee ; 
 Spring thou up within my heart. 
 
 Rise to all eternity. 
 
 COMMUNION WITH GOD. 
 
 Tuou hidden love of God, whose heiglit, 
 Wiiose depth unfathomed, no man knows : 
 
 I see from far thy bounteous light. 
 Inly I sigh for tiiy repose : 
 
 My heart is pained, nor can it be 
 
 At rest, till it finds rest in thee. 
 
 Thy secret voice invites me still 
 The sweetness of thy yoke to prove ; 
 
 And fain I would ; but though my will 
 Seem fixed, yet wide my passions rove ; 
 
 Yet hindrances strew all the way ; 
 
 I aim at thee, yet from thee stray. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 370 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 'T is mercy all, that thou hast brought 
 My mind to seek, her peace in thee ! 
 
 Yet while I seek, but find thee not. 
 No peace my wandering sold shall see ; 
 
 0, when shall all my wanderings end, 
 
 And all my steps to thee ward tend ! 
 
 Is there a thing beneath the sun 
 
 Tliat strives with thee ray heart to share ? 
 Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone, 
 
 The Lord of every motion there : 
 Then shall my heart from earth be free. 
 When it hath found repose in thee. 
 
 O, hide tliis self from me, that I 
 
 No more, but Christ in me may live ! 
 
 My vile affections crucify. 
 
 Nor let one darling lust survive ! 
 
 In all things nothing may I see. 
 
 Nothing desire or seek but thee ! 
 
 O love, thy sovereign aid impart. 
 
 To save me from low-thonghted care ; 
 
 Chase this self-will through all my heart. 
 Through all its latent mazes there : 
 
 Make me tiiy duteous child, that I 
 
 Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry. 
 
 Ah, no ; ne'er will I backward turn : 
 Thine wholly, thine aloue I am : 
 
 Thrice happy he who views with scorn 
 Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame. 
 
 0, help that I may never move 
 
 From the blessed footsteps of thy love ! 
 
 Each moment draw from carlli away 
 My heart, that lowly waits thy call ; 
 
 Speak to my inmost soul, and say, 
 " I am thy Love, thy God, thy All ! " 
 
 To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, 
 
 To taste thy love, be all my choice. 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. • 
 
 1709-1784. 
 
 LONDON.' 
 
 IV IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRK OF JUVENAL. 
 
 TuouGii grief and fondness in my breast rebel, 
 When injured Tlialcs bids the town farewell; 
 Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice com- 
 mend, 
 
 • Pulilishcd in May, IT-IH. It is prntinlilc Hint whnt John- 
 son " iiiul suffered iluriug liis first year in London iind oflen 
 n'luindcd him of some parts of that nolde poem in wliich 
 JmcnnI had dpsrrilied tlie misery and de-jradation of a needy 
 man of letters, lodged nmonj: the pifreons* nests in tlic tottering 
 gnriets wliieh overliung the streets of Home." — Macaulay. 
 
 I praise the hermit, but regret the friend, 
 Who now resolves, from vice and London far. 
 To breathe in distant fields a purer air ; 
 And, fixed on Cambria's solitary shore, 
 Give to St. David one true Briton more. 
 
 For who woidd leave, unbribed, Hibernia's 
 laud, 
 Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand ? 
 There none arc swept by sudden fate away, 
 But all, whom hunger spares, with ago decay : 
 Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire. 
 And now a rabble rages, now a fire ; 
 Their ambush here relentless rufhans lay. 
 And here the fell attorney prowls for prey ; 
 Here falling houses thunder on your head. 
 And here a female atlieist talks you dead. 
 
 Wliilc Thales waits the wherry tliat contains 
 Of dissipated wealth the small remains. 
 On Tliames's banks, in silent thought we stood, 
 Wliere Grcenwicli smUes upon the silver flood ; 
 Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth. 
 We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth ; 
 In pleasing dreams the bhssful age renew. 
 And call Britannia's glories back to view ; 
 Behold her cross triumphant on tiie main. 
 The gutird of commerce and the dread of Spain, 
 Ere masquerades debauched, excise oppressed. 
 Or English honor grew a standing jest. 
 
 A transient calm the happy scenes bestow. 
 And for a moment lull the sense of woe. 
 At length awaking, with contemptuous frown. 
 Indignant Thales eyes the neighboring town: 
 "Since worth," he cries, "in these degenerate 
 
 days 
 Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise ; 
 In those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain, 
 Since unrewarded science toils in vain ; 
 Since hope but soothes to double my distress, 
 And every moment leaves my little less ; 
 While yet my steady steps no staff sustains, 
 And life stUl vigorous revels in my veins ; 
 Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some happier 
 
 place, 
 Wliere honesty and sense are no disgrace ; 
 Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play, 
 Some peaceful vale with Nature's jiainting gay ; 
 Where once the harassed Briton found repose. 
 And safe in poverty defied his foes ; 
 Some secret cell, yc powers indulgent, give. 
 
 Let— — live here, for has learned to live. 
 
 Here let those reign whom pensions can incite 
 To vote a patriot black, a courtier wiiite ; 
 Explain their country's dear-bought rights away, 
 And ])lead for pirates in the face of day ; 
 With slavish tenets taint our poisoned youth. 
 And lend a lie the confidence of truth. 
 Let such raise palaces, and numors buy. 
 Collect a tax, or farm a lottery ; 
 
 -^ 
 
<&■ 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 371 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 With warbling eunuchs fill a licensed stage, 
 And hdl to servitude a thoughtless age. 
 
 " Heroes, proceed ! what bounds your pride 
 shall hold ? 
 Wliat check restrain your thirst of power and 
 
 gold ? 
 Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'crthrown, 
 Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your 
 
 own. 
 To such a groaning nation's spoils are given, 
 When pubho crimes inflame the wrath of Heaven : 
 But what, my friend, what hope remains for me. 
 Who start at theft, and blusii at perjury ? 
 AV'ho scarce forbear, though Britain's court he 
 
 sing. 
 To pluclv a titled poet's borrowed wing ; 
 A statesman's logic unconvinced can liear. 
 And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer : 
 Despise a fool in lialf his pension dressed. 
 And strive in vain to laugli at H y's jest. 
 
 " Others, with softer smiles and subtler art. 
 Can sap the principles, or taint the heart ; 
 A\' ith more address a lover's note convey. 
 Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. 
 Well may they rise, while I, whose rastic tongue 
 Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong. 
 Spurned as a beggar, dreaded as a spy. 
 Live unregarded, unlamentcd die. 
 
 " For what but social guilt the friend endears ? 
 Wlio shares OrgOio's crimes, his fortunes shares. 
 But tli'ou, should tempting villany present 
 All Marlborough hoarded, or all ViUiers spent. 
 Turn from the glitteriug bribe thy scornful eye. 
 Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy, 
 Tlie peaceful slumber, self-approving day, 
 Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. 
 
 "The cheated nation's happy favorites, see ! 
 Mark whom the great caress, who frown on 
 
 me ! 
 London ! the needy villain's general home, 
 Tlic common sewer of Paris and of Rome, 
 Witli eager tliirst, by folly or by fate. 
 Sucks in the dregs of eaeii corrupted state. 
 Forgive my ti-ansports on a theme like tliis, 
 I cannot bear a French metropolis. 
 
 "Illustrious Edward ! from the realms of day. 
 The land of heroes and of saints survey ! 
 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace. 
 The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace ; 
 But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show. 
 Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau ; 
 Sense, freedom, piety, refined away. 
 Of France the mimic, and of Spain tlie prey. 
 
 " All that at home no more can beg or steal. 
 Or like a gibbet better than a wlieel ; 
 Hissed from tlie stage, or hooted from the 
 
 court, 
 Tlieir air, their dress, their polities import ; 
 
 Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay. 
 On Britain's foud credulity they prey. 
 
 * * * 
 All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows. 
 And bid him go to hell, to liell he goes. 
 
 "Ah ! wluit avails it that, from slavery far, 
 I drew the breath of life in English air ; 
 Was early taught a Briton's riglit to prize, 
 And lisp the tale of Henry's victories ; 
 If tiie gulled conqueror receives the chain, 
 And flattery subdues when arms are vain ? 
 
 " Studious to please, and ready to submit, 
 Tlie supple Gaul was born a parasite : 
 Still to his interest true, wliere'er he goes, 
 Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows ; 
 In every face a thousand graces shine. 
 From every tongue flows harmony divine. 
 These arts in vain our rugged natives try, 
 Strain out witii faltering diflidence a lie, 
 And gain a kick for awkward flattery. 
 
 " Besides, with justice, this discerning age 
 Admires their wondrous talents for tlie stage : 
 Well may they venture on the mimic's art, 
 Wlio play from morn to night a borrowed part ; 
 Practised their master's notions to embrace. 
 Repeat liis maxims, and reflect his face ! 
 With every wild absurdity coniiily. 
 And view each object witli anotlier's eye ; 
 To shake witli laugliter ere the jest they hear, 
 To pour at will tlic counterfeited tear ; 
 And, as their patron liints the cold or lieat, 
 To shake in dog-days, in December sweat. 
 How, wlien competitors like these contend, 
 Can surly Virtue * liope to fix a friend ? 
 Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, 
 And lie without a blush, without a smile. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 
 He gropes liis breeches with a monarch's air ! 
 " For arts like these preferred, admired, ca- 
 ressed. 
 They first invade your table, then your breast ; 
 Explore your secrets with insidious art, 
 Watch the weak liour, and ransack all tlie 
 
 heart ; 
 Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay. 
 Commence your lords, and govern or betray. 
 " By numbers here, from shame or censure 
 free. 
 All crimes are safe but liated poverty : 
 This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 
 Tills, only this, provokes the snarling muse. 
 The sober trader at a tattered cloak 
 Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke ; 
 With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze. 
 And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 
 
 * " Surly Virtue " ! Wliat could express Jolmson's clmractcr 
 belter? 
 
 ^^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 372 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 Of all the griefs that harass the distressed, 
 
 Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; 
 
 Fate never wounds more deep the generous 
 
 heart 
 Than when a bloekhead's insult points the dart. 
 " Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor. 
 No pathless waste, or undiseovered shore ? 
 No secret island in the boundless main ? 
 No peaceful desert yet unclaimed by Spain ? 
 Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore. 
 And bear Oppression's insolence no more. 
 This mournful truth is everywhere confessed :' 
 Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed ; 
 But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold, 
 Where looks are merchandise, and smUes are 
 
 sold ; 
 Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored. 
 The groom retails the favors of his lord. 
 
 " But hark ! the affrighted crowd's tumultu- 
 ous cries 
 Roll through the street, and thunder to the 
 
 skies : 
 Baised from some pleasing dream of wealth and 
 
 power. 
 Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower, 
 Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight 
 Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light ; 
 Swift from pursuing horrors take your way. 
 And leave your little all to flames a prey ; 
 Then through the world a WTetehed vagrant 
 
 roam. 
 For where can star\ing Merit find a home ? 
 In vain your mournful narrative disclose. 
 While all neglect, and most insult your woes. 
 " Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth 
 confound. 
 And spread his flaming palace on the ground, 
 Swift o'er the land the dismal rumor flics. 
 And public mournings pacify the skies ; 
 The laureate tribe in servile vei-se relate 
 How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate ; 
 With well-feigned gratitude the pensioned band 
 Refund the plunder of the beggared land. 
 See ! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come. 
 And crowd witli sudden wealth tlie rising dome ; 
 The price of boroughs aud of souls restore. 
 And raise his treasures higher than l)efor-e : 
 Now blessed with all the bawbles of the great, 
 The polished marble and the shining plate, 
 Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire. 
 And hojjcs from angry Heaven another fire. 
 " Coiddst thou resign the park and play con- 
 tent, 
 For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent ; 
 There miglitst lliou find some elegant retreat. 
 Some hireling senator's deserted seat. 
 And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land. 
 For less than rent the duiigeons of the Strand ; 
 
 There prune thy walks, support thy drooping 
 
 flowers. 
 Direct thy ri^Tilets, and twine thy bowers : 
 And while thy beds a cheap repast afford. 
 Despise the dainties of a venal lord : 
 There every bush with nature's music rings. 
 There every breeze bears health upon its wings ; 
 On all thy hours security shall smile^ 
 And bless tiiine evening walk and morning toil. 
 " Prepare for death, if here at night you 
 
 roam ; 
 And sign your will, before you su]) from home. 
 Some Hery fop, with new commission vain. 
 Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man ; 
 Some frolic drunkard, reehng from a feast, 
 Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. 
 
 " Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay. 
 Lords of the street and terrors of the way ; 
 Flushed as they are with folly, youth, and 
 
 wiue, 
 Their prudent insidts to the poor confine ; 
 Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach. 
 And shun the shining ti-ain and golden coach. 
 " In vain, these dangers passed, your doors 
 
 you close. 
 And hope the balmy blessings of repose : 
 Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, 
 The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar ; 
 Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 
 Aud plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast. 
 " Scarce can our fiends, such crowds at Tyburn 
 
 die. 
 With hemp the gaUows and the fleet supply. 
 Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band, . 
 Wliose ways and means support the sinking 
 
 land ; 
 Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring. 
 To rig another convoy for the king. 
 
 " A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign, 
 Could iuiK the nation's criminals contain ; 
 Fair Justice then, witiiout constraint adored. 
 Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the 
 
 sword; 
 No spies were paid, no special juries known ; 
 Blessed age ! but ah ! how difl'ereut from our 
 
 own ! 
 " Much could I add, — but see the boat at 
 
 hand. 
 The tide retiring, calls me from the land : 
 Farewell ! — When, youth, and health, and fortune 
 
 spent, 
 Thon fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent ; 
 And, tired like me with follies and witli crimes, 
 In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times; 
 Tlien shidl thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid. 
 Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian sliade ; 
 In virtue's cause once more exert his rage. 
 Thy satire point, aud animate thy page." 
 
 V- 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 373 
 
 -Q) 
 
 V- 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.* 
 
 IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. 
 
 Let observatiou, witli extensive view, 
 Survey maukiud from China to Peru ; 
 Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife. 
 And wateh the busy scenes of crowded life ; 
 Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
 O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate. 
 Where wavering man, betrayed by venturous 
 
 pride, 
 To chase the dreary paths without a guide. 
 As treacherous phantoms in the mist delude. 
 Shuns faueied ills, or chases airy good ; 
 How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice. 
 Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant 
 
 voice ; 
 How nations sink by darling schemes oppressed, 
 When vengeance Ustens te the fool's request. 
 Fate wiugs with every wish the afflictive dart, 
 Each gift of nature and each grace of art : 
 With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 
 AVith fatal sweetness elocution Hows, 
 Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful 
 
 breath, 
 And restless fire precipitates on death. 
 
 But, scarce observed, the knowing and the 
 
 bold 
 Fall in the general massacre of gold ; 
 Wide wasting pest ! that rages unconfmed, 
 And crowds with crimes the records of manlvind; 
 For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws. 
 For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; 
 Wealth heaped on wealth, uor truth nor safety 
 
 buys, 
 The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 
 
 Let history tell where rival kings command, 
 And dubious title shakes the madded land. 
 When statutes glean the refuse of the sword. 
 How much more safe the vassal than the lord ; 
 Low skulks the hind beneal h the rage of power. 
 And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, 
 
 * Published in 17-i9. Macaulay, in his Life of Johnson, 
 calls it " an exceUent imitation of tlie TnUk S<\th-e of Juvenal. 
 It is in truth," lie adds, " not easy to say whether the palm 
 beloTi'^s to the ancient or to the modern poet. The couplets in 
 uliieh the fall of Wolsey is described, thouijh lofty and sono- 
 rous, are feeble when compared with the wonderful lines 
 which bring before us all Rome in tumult on the day of the 
 fall of Sejauus, the laurels on the doorposts, the white bull 
 stalking toward the Capitol, the statues rolling down from 
 their pedestals, the flatterers of the disgraced minister running 
 to see him dragged with a hook through the streets, and to 
 have a kick at his carcass before it is hurled into the Tiber. 
 It must be owned, too, that in the concluding passage the 
 Christian moralist has not made the most of his advantages, 
 and has fallen decidedly short of the sulilimity of his pagan 
 model. On the other hand. Juvenal's Hannibal must yield to 
 Johnson's Charles, and Johnson's vigorous and pathetic enn- 
 nieration of the miseries of a literary life must be allowed to 
 be superior to Juvenal's lamentation over the fate of Demos- 
 thenes and Cicero." Johnson received only ten guineas for 
 London, and only fifteen for The Vanitij of Htitniin Irishes. 
 
 Untouched his cottage, and liis slumbers sound. 
 Though confiscation's vultures hover round. 
 
 The needy traveller, serene and gay, 
 "n^alks the wild heath and sings his toil away. 
 Docs envy seize thee ? crush the upbraiding joy, 
 Increase his riches, aud liis peace destroy. 
 Now fears in dire \'icissitude invade, 
 The rustling brake alarms, and quivering shade. 
 Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief. 
 One shows the plunder, aud one hides the thief. 
 
 Yet still one general cry the skies assails, 
 And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; 
 Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care. 
 The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 
 Once more, Dcmocritus, arise on earth. 
 With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth, 
 See motley life in modern trappings dressed, 
 Aud feed with varied fools the eternal jest : 
 Thou who couldst laugh, where want enchained 
 
 caprice, 
 Toil crushed conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
 Where wealth unloved without a mourner died; 
 And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
 Wliere ne'er was known the form of mock debate. 
 Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
 Where change of favorites made no change of 
 
 laws. 
 And senates heard before they judged a cause ; 
 How woiddst thou shake at Britain's modish 
 
 tribe, 
 Dai't the quick taunt, aud edge the piercing gibe ! 
 Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
 And pierce eacli scene with philosophic eye. 
 To thee were solemn toys, or empty siiow, 
 The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woo : 
 All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, 
 Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs arc vain. 
 Such was the seoni that filled the sage's mind. 
 Renewed at every glance on human kind ; 
 How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
 Search evei-y state, and canvass eveiT prayer. 
 Unnumbered suppliants crowd Preferment's 
 
 gate, 
 Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; 
 Delusive Fortune hears the inccssnnt call. 
 They mount, they shiue, evaporate, and fall. 
 On every stage the foes of peace attend. 
 Hate dogs their fiight, aud insidt mocks their 
 
 end. 
 Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's 
 
 door 
 Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 
 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies. 
 To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
 From every room descends the painted face, 
 That hung the bright palladium of the place ; 
 And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold. 
 To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
 
 ^ 
 
CP" 
 
 374 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Por now no more we trace in every line 
 Heroic worth, benevolence divine : 
 The form distorted justifies the fall, 
 And detestation rids the indignant wall. 
 
 But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 
 Sign her foe's doom, or guard her favorite's zeal? 
 Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance 
 
 rings, 
 Degrading nobles and controlling kings ; 
 Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
 And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
 With weekly libels and septennial ale. 
 Their wish is full to riot and to raU. 
 
 In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand. 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
 To him the church, the realm, their powers con- 
 sign, 
 Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, 
 Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows, 
 His smile alone security bestows : 
 Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
 Claim leads to claim, and power advances power: 
 Till conquest unresisted ceased to please. 
 And rights submitted left him none to seize : 
 At length his sovereign frowns — the train of 
 
 state 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 
 Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye. 
 His suppliants scorn him, and liis followers fly ; 
 Now drops at once tlie pride of awful state, 
 The golden canopy, the ghtteriug plate. 
 The regal palace, the luxurious board. 
 The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
 With age, Avitli cares, with maladies oppressed, 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings. 
 And Ids last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 
 
 Speak thou whose thoughts at humble peace 
 repine. 
 Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be 
 
 thine ? 
 Or livest thou now, with safer pride content. 
 The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? 
 For, wiiy did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
 On weak foundations raise the enormous weight? 
 Why, but to sink beneath misfox'tune's blow, 
 ^\'ith louder ruin to the gulfs below? 
 
 'WHiat gave great Villiers to the assassin's 
 knife, 
 Aiul fixed disease on Harley's closing life ? 
 A\'hat nnirdered Wentworth, and what exiled 
 
 Hyde, 
 By kings protected, and to kings allied? 
 What but their wisli indulged in courts to shine. 
 And power too great to keep or to resign ? 
 
 W\\c.n first tlio college rolls receive his name, 
 Thi' young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
 ' ' Resistless buni-s the fever of renown, 
 
 ^ 
 
 Caught from the strong contagion of the gown: 
 O'er Bodley's dome his future laljors sjjread, 
 And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
 Are these thy views ? Proceed, illustrious youth. 
 And Virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth ! 
 Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat 
 Till captive Science yields her last retreat ; 
 Should Reason guide thee with her brigiitest ray, 
 And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
 Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
 Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
 Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, 
 And Sloth effuse lier opiate fumes in vain ; 
 Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart. 
 Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart ; 
 Sliould no disease thy torpid veins invade. 
 Nor jNlelaneholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
 Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
 Nor tliink the doom of man reversed for tiiee : 
 Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
 And pause awhde from letters to be wise ; 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
 Tod, envy, want, the jiatron, and the jail. 
 See nations, slowly vnse and meanly just, 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 If dreams yet flatter, onee again attend. 
 Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end. 
 
 Nor deem, when Learning her last prize be- 
 stows. 
 The gUttcring eminence exempt from foes ; 
 See, when the vidgar 'scapes, despised or awed, 
 Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
 From meaner minds thongli smaller fines content. 
 The plundered palace, or sequestered rent, 
 Marked out by dangerous parts, he meets the 
 
 shock. 
 And fatal Learning leads him to the block : 
 Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep, 
 But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. 
 
 The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
 The ravished standard, and the captive foe. 
 The senate's thanks, the (iazette's ponqious tide, 
 ■\Vitli force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
 Such Ijribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirled. 
 For such the steady Roman shook the world ; 
 For such in distant huids tlic Britons shine. 
 And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine ; 
 This ])0wer lias praise, that virtue scarce can 
 
 warm 
 Till fame sui)])Ucs the universal charm. 
 Yet Reason frowns on war's unequal game, 
 Wliere wasted nations raise a single name ; 
 And mortgaged states their grandsircs' wreatlis 
 
 regret, 
 From age to age in everliisting debt; 
 Wreaths which at last tlu; dear-bought rigiit 
 
 convey 
 To rust on medals, or on stones deciv. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfr 
 
 THE VANITY OP HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 375 
 
 -Q> 
 
 On wbat foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
 How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
 No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 Unconquercd lord of pleasure and of ])ain ; 
 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
 Beiioid surrounding kings their powers coniloine, 
 And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in 
 
 vain ; 
 "Tliink notliing gained," he cries, "till naugiit 
 
 remain. 
 On JIoscQw's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
 And all be mine beneatli the polar sky." 
 The march begins in military state, 
 And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
 Stern Famine guards the soUtary coast, 
 And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 
 He comes, nor want nor cold liis course delay ; — 
 Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 
 Tlie vanquished liero leaves his broken bands, 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
 Condemned a needy supplicant to wait, 
 While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
 But did not Chance at length lier error mend ? 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
 Or hostile millions press liini to tlie ground ? 
 His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
 He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 
 To poiut a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
 All times their scenes of pompous woes afford. 
 From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
 In gay hostility and barbarous pride. 
 With half mankind embattled at his side. 
 Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey. 
 And starves exhausted regions in his way ; 
 Attendant Flattery counts his myriads o'er 
 Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more ; 
 Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his mind. 
 The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind ; 
 New powers are claimed, new powers are still 
 
 bestowed, 
 Till rude Hesistauce lops the spreading god ; 
 The daring Greeks deride the martial show, 
 And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe ; 
 The insidted sea with iiumbler thouglit he gains, 
 A single skift' to speed his flight remains ; 
 The encumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded 
 
 coast 
 Through purple billows and a floating host. 
 
 The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour. 
 Tries the dread summits of Cesarean power, 
 With unexpected legions bursts away, 
 And sees defenceless realms receive his sway: 
 
 ^ 
 
 Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful 
 
 charms, 
 The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
 Fr(nn hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
 Spreads wide the ho[)e of plunder and of praise ; 
 The fierce Croatian and the wild hussar. 
 With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war ; 
 The baflled prince, in iionor's flattering bloom 
 Of hasty greatness, finds tlic fatal doom ; 
 His foes' derision and his subjects' blame, 
 And steals to death from anguish and from shame. 
 
 " Enlarge my life with multitude of days ! " 
 In healtii, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays : 
 Hides from himself its state, and shuns to know 
 That life protracted is protracted woe. 
 Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
 And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
 In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour. 
 The fruit autumnal and the vernal flower ; 
 ^Vith listless eyes the dotard \dews the store. 
 He views, and wonders that they jilease no more ; 
 Now pall the tasteless meats and joyless wines. 
 And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
 Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, 
 Dill'use the tuneful lenitives of pain: 
 No sounds, alas ! would touch the impervious ear. 
 Though dancing mountains witnessed Orpheus 
 
 near; 
 Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers attend, 
 Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; 
 But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue. 
 Perversely grave or positively wrong. 
 The still returning tale and lingering jest 
 Perplex the fawning niece and pampered guest, 
 While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering 
 
 sneer, 
 And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear : 
 Tlie watchful guests still hint the last offence ; 
 The daughter's petulance, the sou's expense. 
 Improve his heady rage with treacherous skill, 
 And mould his passions till they make ins will. 
 
 Unnumbered maladies his joints invade. 
 Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 
 But unextinguished avarice still remains. 
 And dreaded losses aggravate liis pains ; 
 He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands. 
 His bonds of debt and mortgages of lands ; 
 Or views his cotl'ers with suspicious eyes. 
 Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 
 
 But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime 
 Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
 An age that melts with unperccived decay. 
 And glides in modest innocence away ; 
 Wiose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 
 Wliose night congratulating conscience cheers ; 
 The general favorite as the general friend : 
 Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ? 
 
 Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 376 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 To press the weary minutes' flaggmg wiugs ; 
 New sorrow rises as the day returns, 
 A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 
 Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, 
 Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear ; 
 Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
 Still drops some joy from ivithering Ufe away; 
 New forms arise, aud different views engage, 
 Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, 
 Till pitying Nature signs the last release, 
 And bids afflicted Worth retire to peace. 
 
 But few there are whom hours hke these await. 
 Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate. 
 From Lydia's monarch should the search descend. 
 By Solon cautioned to regard his end, 
 In hfe's last scene what prodigies surprise. 
 Fears of the brave and follies of the wise ! 
 From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage 
 
 flow. 
 And Swift expires a driveller and a show. 
 
 The teeming mother, anxious for her race, 
 Begs for eacli birth the fortune of a face ; 
 Yet Vane could teU what ills from beauty spring ; 
 And Scdley cursed the form that pleased a king. 
 Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes. 
 Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
 Whom joys with soft varieties invite. 
 By day the frolic and the dance by night ; 
 Who frown with vanity, who smde with art. 
 And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; 
 What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall 
 
 save, 
 Each nymph your rival, and each youth your 
 
 slave? 
 Against your fame with fondness Hate combines, 
 Tlie rival batters, aud the lover mines. 
 With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, 
 Less heard aud less, the faint remonstrance falls ; 
 Tired with contempt, she quits the shppery reign. 
 And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vaui. 
 In crowd at once, where none the pass defend. 
 The harmless freedom and the private friend. 
 The guardians yield, by force superior pKed : 
 To Interest, Prudence ; and to Flattery, Pride. 
 Here Beauty falls, betrayed, des])ised, distressed, 
 Aud liissing Infamy proclaims the rest. 
 
 AVhere then shall Hope and Fear their objects 
 
 find ? 
 Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? 
 Must hcl])less man, in ignorance sedate, 
 YUM darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
 Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise. 
 No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 
 Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
 Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. 
 Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
 But leave to Heaven the nic;isurc and the chofcc ; 
 Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar 
 
 The secret ambush of a specious prayer; 
 Implore his aid, in his decisions rest. 
 Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 
 Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, 
 And strong Devotion to the skies aspires. 
 Pour forth thy fervors for a healthfid mind. 
 Obedient passions, and a will resigned ; 
 For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
 For patience, sovereign o'er transnmted ill ; 
 For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 
 Coxmts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : 
 These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, 
 These goods he grants, who grants the power to 
 
 gain; 
 With the^e celestial Wisdom calms the mind. 
 And makes the happiness she does not find. 
 
 PEOLOGUE SPOKEN BY ME, GAEEICK, 
 
 AT THE OPENING OF THE THE.\TKE IN DULRY LANE 
 IN 17*7. 
 
 When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous 
 foes 
 First reared the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; 
 Each change of many-colored life he drew, 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign. 
 And panting Time toUed after him in vain : 
 His powerfid strokes presiding Truth impressed, 
 And unresisted Passion stormed the breast. 
 
 Then Jonson came, instructed from the school, 
 To please in method aud invent by rule ; 
 His studious patience and laborious art 
 By regular approach essayed the heart : 
 Cold Approliation gave the hngering bays, 
 For those who durst not censure scarce could 
 
 praise. 
 A mortal bom, he met the general doom. 
 But left, hke Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. 
 
 The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, 
 Nor wished" for Jouson's art or Shakespeare's 
 
 flame ; 
 Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ. 
 Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. 
 Vice always found a sympathetic friend ; 
 They pleased their age. and did not aim to mend. 
 Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise, 
 And proudly hoped to ])imp in future days : 
 Their cause was general, their supjiorts were 
 
 strong. 
 Their slaves were wilhng, and their reign was 
 
 long ; 
 Till shame regained the post that sense betrayed. 
 And Virtue called Oblivion to her aid. 
 
 Then crushed by rules, and weakened as re- 
 fined. 
 For years tlie power of Tnigedy deelinrd ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 --9> 
 
a- 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 377 
 
 -^ 
 
 From bard to bard the frigid caution crept. 
 Till Declamation roared, whilst Passion slept ; 
 Yet still did Virtue deigu the stage to tread ; 
 Philosophy remained, though Nature fled. 
 But forced at length her ancient reign to quit, 
 She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit : 
 Exulting Folly hailed the joyful day. 
 And pantomime and song conflrmed her sway. 
 
 But who tlie coming changes can presage. 
 And mark the future periods of the stage ? 
 Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, 
 New Behns, new D'Urfeys, yet remain in store; 
 Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet 
 
 died. 
 On flying ears new sorcerers may ride ; 
 Perhaps ffor who can guess the effects of 
 
 chance ?) 
 Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. 
 
 Hard is his lot, tlmt, here by fortune placed, 
 ]\rust watch the wild vicissitudes of taste ; 
 AVith every meteor of caprice must play, 
 .\nd chase the new-blown bubble of the day. 
 Ah ! let not censure term our fate our choice, 
 The stage but echoes back the public voice ; 
 The drama's laws the drama's patrons give, 
 For we that live to please, must please to live. 
 
 Then prompt no more the foUies you decry. 
 As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die ; 
 'T is yours this night to bid the reign eonunence 
 Of rescued nature and reviving sense ; 
 To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show. 
 For useful mirth and solitary woe, 
 Bid Scenic Virtue form the rising age. 
 And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage. 
 
 ON THE DE4TH OF DK. ROBERT LEVETT/ 
 
 Condemned to hope's delusive mine, 
 
 As on we toil from day to day. 
 By sudden blasts, or slow decline. 
 
 Oar social comforts drop away.. 
 
 Well tried through many a varying year. 
 See Levett to the grave descend, 
 
 Officious, innocent, sincere. 
 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
 Yet still he fills Affection's eye, 
 Obscurely wise and coarsely kind ; 
 
 Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny 
 Thy praise to merit unrefined. 
 
 When fainting Nature called for aid, 
 And hovering Death prepared the blow, 
 
 * MaCRulay, in enuniei-ntin^ the inmates of Johnson's in- 
 congruous houscliold. refers to the person here so pathetically 
 commemorated as " an old quack doctor named Levett, wlio 
 bled and dosed coal-heavers and hackney-coachmen, and re- 
 ceived for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon, glasses of gin, 
 and sometimes a little copper." This is a cruel judgment. 
 
 fr 
 
 His vigorous remedy displayed 
 The power of art without the show. 
 
 In misery's darkest cavern known, 
 
 His useful care was ever nigh. 
 Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan. 
 
 And lonely Want retired to die. 
 
 No summons mocked by chill delay. 
 No petty gain disdained by pride ; 
 
 The modest wants of evei-y day 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 His virtues walked their narrow round, 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure the Eternal Master found 
 The single talent well employed. 
 
 The busy day, the peaceful night, 
 
 Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; 
 His frame was firm, his powers were bright. 
 
 Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 
 
 Then with no fiery throbbing pain. 
 
 No cold gradations of decay. 
 Death broke at once the vital chain. 
 
 And freed his soul the nearest way. 
 
 IMITATION OF DK. PERCY'S BALLAD STYLE. 
 
 " Hekmit hoar, in solemn cell 
 Wearing out life's evening gray. 
 
 Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell 
 What is bliss, and which the way." 
 
 Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed, 
 Scarce repressed the starting tear, 
 
 AVhen the hoary sage replied, 
 
 " Come, my lad, and drink some beer." 
 
 BURLESQUE ON THE BALLAD STYLE, 
 
 The tender infant meek and mild 
 Fell down upou the stone : 
 
 The nurse took up the squealing child. 
 But still the child squealed on. 
 
 EPITAPH FOR MR. HOGARTH, 
 
 TuE hand of him here torpid lies 
 
 That drew tlie essential form of grace ; 
 
 Here closed in death the attentive eyes 
 That saw the mamicrs in the face. 
 
 HYMN, 
 O Thou whose power o'er moving worlds pre- 
 sides. 
 Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides. 
 On darkling man in pure effulgence shine, 
 
 * 
 
a- 
 
 378 
 
 AllMSTIlONG. 
 
 LYTTELTON. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 And clear the clouded mind with light dinue. 
 'T is thine alone to calm the pious breast 
 With silent confidence and holy rest ; 
 From thee, great God, we spring, to thee we 
 
 tend, 
 Path, motive, guide, original, and end. 
 
 Translation from Boethius, ia The Rambler. 
 
 o>S»<o 
 
 JOHN ARMSTRONG. 
 
 1709-1779. 
 
 EFPECTS OF A PESTILENCE DJ THE FIFTEENTH 
 CENTURY. 
 
 And here the fates 
 Were kind, that long they lingered not in pain. 
 For, who survived the sun's diurnal race, 
 Rose from the dreary gates of hell redeemed ; 
 Some the sixth hour oppressed, and some the 
 
 third. 
 Of many thousands, few untainted 'scaped ; 
 Of those infected, fewer 'scaped alive ; 
 Of those who lived, some felt a second blow ; 
 And whom the second spared, a third destroyed. 
 Frantic with fear, they soiight by flight to shun 
 The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land 
 Tlie infected city poured her hurrying swarms : 
 Roused by the flames that fired her seats around. 
 The infected country rushed into the town. 
 Some sad at home, and in the desert some 
 Abjured the fatal commerce of mankind. 
 In vain ; where'er they fled, the fates pursued. 
 Others, with hopes more specious, crossed the 
 
 main, 
 To seek protection in far distant skies ; 
 But none they found. It seemed the general air. 
 From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east, 
 Was then at enmity with English blood ; 
 For but the race of England all were safe 
 In foreign climes ; nor did this fury taste 
 The foreign blood which England then contained. 
 Wiiere should they fly ? The circumambient 
 
 heaven 
 Involved them still, and every breeze was bane : 
 Where find relief? The salutary art 
 Was mute, and, startled at the new disease. 
 In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave. 
 To Heaven, with suppliant rites they sent their 
 
 prayers ; 
 Heaven heard tliem not. Of every hope deprived, 
 Fatigued with vain resources, and subdued 
 With woes resistless, and enfeebling fear. 
 Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow. 
 Nothing but lamentable sounds were heard, 
 Nor a\ight was seen but ghastly views of death. 
 Infectious horror ran from face to face. 
 
 And pale despair. 'T was all the business then 
 To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. 
 In heaps they fell ; and oft the bed, they say, 
 The sickening, dying, and the dead contained. 
 
 T/ie Art of Preserving health. 
 
 A HILL NEAB THE SEA-COAST, 
 
 Meantime, the moist malignity to shun 
 Of burdened skies, mark where the dry cham- 
 paign 
 Swells into cheerful hills : where marjoram 
 And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air; 
 And where the cynorrhodon with the rose 
 For fragrance tos ; for in the thirsty soil 
 Most fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes. 
 There bid thy roofs high on the basking steep 
 Ascend, there Hght thy hospitable fires. 
 Aud let them see the winter morn arise. 
 The summer evening blushing in the west : 
 Wliile with umbrageous oaks the ridge behind 
 O'erhung, defends you from the blustering North, 
 And bleak affliction of the peevish East. 
 O, when the growliug viands contend, and all 
 The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm. 
 To siuk in warm repose, and hear the din 
 Howl o'er the steady battlements, dehghts 
 Above the luxury of \-ulgar sleep. 
 The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarser strain 
 Of waters rushing o'er the shppery rocks. 
 Will nightly kdl you to ambrosial rest. 
 To please the fancy is uo trifling good. 
 Where health is studied; for whatever moves 
 The mind with calm delight promotes the just 
 And natural movements of the harmonious frame. 
 Besides, the sportive brook forever shakes 
 Tlie trembling air, that floats from hiU to hill. 
 From vale to niomitaiu, with iueessaut change 
 Of purest element, refreshuig still 
 Your airy seat, and uninfected gods. 
 Chiefly for this I praise the man who builds 
 High on the breezy ridge, whose lofty sides 
 The ethereal deep with endless billows chafes. 
 His purer mansion nor contagious years 
 Shall reach, nor deadly jiutrid airs annoy. 
 
 The Art of Preserving Tlealth. 
 
 LORD LYTTELTON. 
 
 1709-1773. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS, 
 
 I COME not here your candor to imjilore 
 For scenes whose author is, alas ! no more ; 
 He wants no advocate his cause to plead ; 
 
 ^S- 
 
 ^ 
 
a-^- 
 
 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 379 
 
 -Q) 
 
 You will yourselves be patrons of the dead. 
 
 No party his benevolence confined, 
 
 No sect, — alike it flowed to all mankind. 
 
 He loved his friends, — forgive this gushing tear: 
 
 Alas ! I feel I am no actor here, — 
 
 He loved liis friends with such a warmth of heart, 
 
 So clear of interest, so devoid of art. 
 
 Such generous friendship, sucli unshaken zeal. 
 
 No words can speak it, but our tears may tell. 
 
 O candid truth ! faith without a stain ! 
 
 mauners gently firm and nobly plain ! 
 
 sympathizing love of others' bliss, — 
 
 Where will you find another breast Kke his ! 
 
 Such was the man : the poet well you know ; 
 
 Oft has he touched your hearts with tender woe ; 
 
 Oft in this crowded house, with just applause. 
 
 You heard him teach fair Virtue's purest laws ; 
 
 For his chaste Muse employed her heaven-taught 
 
 lyre 
 None but the noblest passions to inspire ; 
 Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, 
 One line which, dying, he could wish to blot. 
 0, may to-night your favorable doom 
 Another laurel add to grace his tomb : 
 Whilst he, superior now to praise or blame, 
 Heai-s not the feeble voice of human fame. 
 Yet if to those whom most on earth he loved, 
 From whom his pious care is now removed. 
 With whom his Uberal hand and bounteous 
 
 heart 
 Shared all his little fortune could impart : 
 If to those friends your kind regard shall give 
 Wliat they no longer can from his receive, 
 That, that, even now, above yon starry pole, 
 May touch \vith pleasure his immortal soul. 
 
 ODE TO THE MEMOET OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills. 
 
 Ye high o'ershadowing hills. 
 Ye lawns, gay-smiliug with eternal. green, 
 
 Oft have you my Lucy seen ! 
 But never shall you now behold her more : 
 
 Nor will she now with fond delight 
 And taste refined your rural charms explore. 
 Closed are those beauteous eyes in endless night. 
 Those beauteous eyes where beaming used to 
 
 shine 
 Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine. 
 
 Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice 
 
 To hear her heavenly voice ; 
 For her despising, when she deigned to sing, 
 
 The sweetest songsters of the spring : 
 The woodlark and the linnet pleased no more ; 
 The nightingale was mute. 
 And every shepherd's flute 
 Was cast in silent scorn away. 
 
 Wliile all attended to her sweeter lay. 
 Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song, 
 And thou, melodious Philomel, 
 Again thy plaintive story tell ; 
 For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue, 
 Wliose music could alone your warbling notes 
 excel. 
 
 In vain I look around 
 O'er all the well-known ground, 
 My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ; 
 Where oft we used to walk, 
 Where oft in tender talk 
 We saw the summer sun go down the sky ; 
 Nor by yon fountain's side. 
 Nor where its waters glide 
 Along the valley, can she now be found -. 
 In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound 
 No more my mournful eye 
 Can aught of her espy 
 But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics 
 he. 
 
 O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ? 
 
 Your bright inhabitant is lost. 
 You she preferred to all the gay resorts 
 Where female Vanity might wish to shine. 
 The pomp of cities and the pride of courts. 
 Her modest beauties shunned the public eye : 
 
 To your sequestered dales 
 
 Aud flower-embroidered vales 
 From an admiring world she chose to fly : 
 With nature there retired, and nature's God, 
 
 The silent paths of Wisdom trod. 
 And banished every passion from her breast. 
 
 But those, the gentlest and the best. 
 Whose holy flames with energy divine 
 The virtuous heart enUven and improve, 
 The conjugal and the maternal love. 
 
 Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns. 
 Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns 
 By your delighted mother's side. 
 Who now your infant steps shall guide ? 
 Ah ! where is now the hand whose tender care 
 To every virtue would have formed your youth. 
 And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of 
 truth ? 
 O loss beyond repair ! 
 O wretched father ! left alone. 
 To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own ! 
 How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with 
 woe. 
 And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave. 
 Perform the duties that you doubly owe ! 
 Now she, alas ! is gone, 
 From folly and from vice their helpless age to 
 save ? ♦ 
 
 ^9— 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 380 
 
 LYTTELTON. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 At least, ye Nine, her spotless name 
 
 'T is yours from death to save, 
 And in the temple of immortal Fame 
 With golden charaeters her worth engrave. 
 
 Come then, ye virgin sisters, come, 
 And strew with choicest flowers her hallowed 
 
 tomb : 
 But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad. 
 
 With accents sweet and sad, 
 Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's 
 urn 
 Unhappy Petrarch called to mourn ; 
 come, and to this fairer Laura pay 
 A more impassioned tear, a more pathetic lay. 
 
 Tell how each beauty of her mind and face 
 Was brightened Ijy some sweet peculiar grace ! 
 How eloquent in every look 
 Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly 
 spoke ! 
 Tell how her manners, by the world refined. 
 Left all the taint of modish vice behind. 
 And made each charm of pohshed courts agree 
 With candid Truth's simphcity, 
 And uneorrupted Innocence ! 
 Tell how to more than manly sense 
 She joined the softening influence 
 Of more than female tenderness : 
 How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and 
 
 joy. 
 Which oft the care of others' good destroy. 
 Her kindly melting heart, 
 To every want and every woe. 
 To guilt itself when in distress. 
 The balm of pity would im])art. 
 And all relief that liounty could bestow ! 
 Even for the kid or lamb that poured its life 
 Beneath the bloody knife, 
 Her geutle tears would fall, 
 Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent 
 to all. 
 
 Not only good and kind. 
 But strong and elevated was her mind : 
 
 A sjiirit that witli nolfle pride 
 
 Could look superior down 
 
 On Fortune's smile or frown ; 
 That could without regret or pain 
 To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice 
 Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize ; 
 That, injured or ofi'ended, never tried 
 Its dignity by vengeance to maintain, 
 But by magnanimous disdain. 
 A wit tliat, temiierafely bright. 
 
 With inolVeiisive liglit 
 
 All pleasing shone ; nor ever past 
 Tlie decent bounds that Wisdom's sober 
 
 hand, 
 And sweet Benevolence's mild cnniniand, 
 
 ^- 
 
 And bashful Modesty, before it cast. 
 A prudence undeceiving, undeceived, 
 That nor too httle nor too much believed. 
 That scorned unjust Suspicion's coward fear, 
 Aud without weakness knew to be sincere. 
 Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, 
 Amidst the acclaim of universal praise. 
 In life's and glory's freshest bloom. 
 Death came remorseless on, aud sunk her to the 
 tomb. 
 * * * 
 
 best of wives ! dearer far to me 
 Than when thy virgin charms 
 Were yielded to my arms, 
 How can my soul endure the loss of thee ? 
 How iu the world, to me a desert grown. 
 
 Abandoned and alone. 
 Without my sweet companion can I live ? 
 
 Without thy lovely smile, 
 The dear reward of every virtuous toil. 
 What pleasures now can palled Ambition 
 
 give ? 
 Even the deUghtful sense of well-earned 
 praise. 
 Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts 
 could raise. 
 
 For my distracted mind 
 
 What succor can I find ? 
 On whom for consolation shall I call ? 
 Supjiort me, every friend ; 
 Your kind assistance lend, 
 To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. 
 
 Alas ! each friend of mine, 
 My dear de])arted love, so much was thine, 
 That none has any comfort to bestow. 
 
 My books, the best relief 
 
 In every other grief, 
 Are now with your idea saddened all : 
 Each favorite author we together read 
 My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of 
 Lucy dead. 
 
 "We were the happiest pair of human kind ; 
 Tlic rolling year its varying course per- 
 formed. 
 And back returned again ; 
 Another and another smiling came. 
 And saw our happiness unchanged remain : 
 
 Still in her golden chain 
 Hannonious Concord did our wishes liind : 
 Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. 
 O fatal, fatal stroke. 
 That all t his jileasing fabric Love had raised 
 
 Of rare felicity. 
 On which even wanton Vice with envy gazed, 
 And every scheme of bliss our iu'arls liad 
 
 formed, 
 With soothing hope, for many a future il 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 ADDEESS OP LEONIDAS. 
 
 381 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 In one sad moment broke ! — 
 Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay ; 
 Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign. 
 Or against his supreme decree 
 With impious Grief complain. 
 That all thy fuU-blown joys at once should 
 fade. 
 Was his most rigliteous will, — and be that will 
 obeyed. 
 
 Would thy fond love his grace to her con- 
 trol. 
 And in these low abodes of sin and pain 
 
 Her pure exalted soul 
 Unjustly for thy partial good detain ? 
 No, — rather strive thy grovelling mind to 
 raise 
 
 Up to that unclouded blaze, 
 That heavenly radiance of eternal light. 
 In which enthroned she now with pity sees 
 How frail, how insecure, how slight, 
 
 Is every mortal bliss ; 
 Even Love itself, if rising by degrees 
 Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, 
 
 Wiioso fleeting joys so soon must end. 
 It does not to its sovereign good ascend. 
 
 Rise tlien, my soul, with hope elate. 
 And seek those regions of serene deliglit. 
 Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate 
 No feet but those of hardened Guilt shall miss. 
 There Death liimself thy Lucy shall restore. 
 There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you 
 more. 
 
 TELL ME, MY. HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE 7 
 
 IViiEX Deha on the plain appears. 
 Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
 I would approach, but dare not move ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
 Wliene'cr she speaks, my ravished ear 
 No other voice than hers can hear ; 
 No other wit but hers approve ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
 If she some other swain commend, 
 Thougli I was once his fondest friend. 
 His instant enemy I prove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
 When she is absent, I no more 
 Dehght in all that pleased before, 
 The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
 Wlien fond of power, of beauty vain. 
 Her nets she spread for every swain, 
 I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
 EDWARD MOORE. 
 
 1713-1757. 
 
 THE HAPPY MAKRUGE. 
 
 How blest has my time been ! what joys have I 
 
 known. 
 Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! 
 So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. 
 That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 
 
 Through walks grown with woodbines, as often 
 
 we stray. 
 Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
 How ]ileasing tlieir sport is ! the wanton ones see. 
 And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 
 
 To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, 
 
 In revels all day with the nymplis 8n the green ; 
 
 Though painful my absence, my doubts she be- 
 guiles, 
 
 And meets me at night with complacence and 
 smiles. 
 
 What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. 
 Her wit and good-humor bloom all the year 
 
 througli ; 
 Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her tnith. 
 And gives to her mind what he steals from her 
 
 youth. 
 
 Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare. 
 And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair; 
 In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! 
 To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
 
 RICHARD GLOVER. 
 
 1713-1785. 
 
 ADDRESS OF LEONIDAS. 
 
 He alone 
 Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays 
 His godlike presence. Dignity and grace 
 Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, joined 
 With strengtli herculean. On his aspect shines 
 Sublimest virtue and desire of fame, 
 Where Justice gives the laurel ; in his eye 
 The inextinguishable spark, which fires 
 Tlie souls of patriots ; while his brow supports 
 Undaunted valor and contempt of deatli. 
 Serene he rose, and thus addressed the throng ; 
 " Why this astonishment on every face. 
 Ye men of Sparta ? Does the name of death 
 Create this fear and wonder ? my friends ! 
 Why do we labor through the arduous paths 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 382 
 
 SHENSTONE. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Which lead to virtue ? Fruitless •o'ere the toil. 
 Above the reach of humau feet were placed 
 The distant summit, if the fear of Death 
 Could iuterecpt our passage. But in vain 
 His blackest frowTis and terrors he assumes 
 To shake the firmness of the mind which knows 
 That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe ; 
 That, wanting liberty, even Virtue mourns. 
 And looks around for happiness in vain. 
 Then speak, Sparta ! and demand my life; 
 !My heart, exulting, answers to thy call. 
 And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame 
 The gods allow to many ; but to die 
 With equal lustre is a blessing Heaven 
 Selects from all the choicest boons of fate, 
 And with a sparing liand on few bestows." 
 Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed. 
 Joy, wrapt awhUe in admiration, paused. 
 Suspending praise ; nor praise at last resounds 
 In high acclaim to rend the areh of heaven ; 
 A reverential murmur breathes applause. 
 
 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 
 
 1714-1763. 
 
 WRITTEN AT AN DfN AT HENLET. 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 
 
 From flattery, cards, aud dice, and din ; 
 Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
 
 Than the low cot or humble inn. 
 
 'T is here with boundless power I reign, 
 And every health which I begin 
 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne : 
 Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 
 
 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
 I fly from falsehood's specious grin ; 
 
 Freedom I love, aud form I hate, 
 And choose my lodgings at an inn. 
 
 Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 
 Wiiich lackeys else might hope to win ; 
 
 It buys what courts have not in store. 
 It buys me freedom at an inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round. 
 Where'er his stages may have been. 
 
 May sigh to think lie still has found 
 The warmest welcome at an iuu. 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTEESS, 
 
 All me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 
 To think how modest Worth neglected lies ; 
 While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn 
 Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; 
 
 Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise ; 
 Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
 To sound the praise of merit ere it dies ; 
 Such as I oft have chanced to espy. 
 Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 
 
 In every village marked with little spire, 
 Embowered in trees, and hardly known to 
 
 fame. 
 There dwells, in lowly shed aud mean attire, 
 A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name ; 
 Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame : 
 They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent. 
 Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; 
 And ofttimcs, on vagaries idly bent, 
 For uukempt hair, or task uncoimed, are sorely 
 shent. 
 
 Aud aU in sight doth rise a birchen tree 
 Which learning near her little dome did stow ; 
 Wliilom a twig of small regard to see, 
 Tliough now so wide its waving branches flow, 
 Aud work the simple vassals niickle woe ; 
 For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 
 But their limbs shuddered, and their pidse 
 
 beat low ; 
 And as they looked, they found their horror 
 
 grew, 
 And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. 
 
 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 shoidd 
 
 stray ; 
 Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
 The noises intermixed, which thence resound, 
 Do learning's little tenement betray ; 
 Where sits the dame, disguised in look pro- 
 found. 
 And eyes her fairy throug, and turns her wheel 
 around. 
 
 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 ; 
 Aud in her iiand, for sceptre, she does wield 
 Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious fear en- 
 twined, 
 With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled ; 
 And steadfast hate, and sharp attliclion joined. 
 And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 
 
 A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; 
 A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 
 'T was simple russet, but it was her own ; 
 'T was her own country bred the flock so fair ; 
 'T was her own labor did tlu 
 
 lie fleece jirepare ; T 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 383 T 
 
 ^ 
 
 And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around. 
 Through pious awe, did term it passing rare ; 
 For they in gaping wonderment abound. 
 And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight 
 on ground. 
 
 Albeit no flattery did corrupt her truth, 
 Ne pompous title did debaucli lier ear; 
 Goody, good woman, gossip, u'auut, forsooth. 
 Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 
 Yet these she challenged, these she held right 
 
 dear; 
 Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. 
 Who should not honored eld with these revere; 
 For never title yet so mean could prove. 
 But there was eke a nujid which did that title 
 
 love. 
 
 One ancient hen she took dehght to feed. 
 The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
 ^Vhich, 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 expoimd, 
 "^V^iiat sin it were to waste-the smallest crumb slie 
 fouud. 
 
 Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could 
 
 speak, 
 Tliat in her garden sipped the silvery dew ; 
 Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak. 
 But herbs for use and physic, not a few. 
 Of gray renown, within those borders grew : 
 Tlic tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 
 Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue : 
 The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 
 And more I fain would sing, disdaiuiug here to 
 
 rhyme. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve. 
 Hymned such psalms as Stenihold forth did 
 
 mete; 
 If winter 't were, she to her hearth did cleave. 
 But in her garden fouud a summer-seat : 
 Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
 How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 
 Wliile taunting foenien did a song entreat. 
 All, for the nonce, untuning every string, 
 Uphung their useless lyres, — small heart had 
 they to sing. 
 
 For tlie was just, and friend to virtuous lore, 
 And passed mnch time in truly virtuous deed ; 
 And, in those elfins' ears would oft deplore 
 The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed, 
 And tortuous death was true devotion'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 
 bum: 
 Ah ! dearest Lord, forefend tliilk days should 
 e'er return. 
 
 In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stem. 
 By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, 
 In which, when he receives his diadem, 
 Our sovereign priuce and hefest liege is placed) 
 The matron sat; and some with rank she 
 
 graced, 
 (The source of children's and of courtiers' 
 
 pride ! ) 
 Redressed affronts, — for vile affronts there 
 
 passed ; 
 And warned them not the fretful to deride, 
 But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 
 
 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 vnth pittance small of praise ; 
 And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : 
 Even absent, she the reius of power doth hold. 
 While with quamt arts the giddy crowd she 
 
 sways ; 
 Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold, 
 'T wiU whisper in her ear, and all the scene 
 
 unfold. 
 
 Lo ! now with state she utters her command ; 
 Eftsoons the urcliins to their tasks repair. 
 Their books of stature small they take in hand, 
 Wliieh with peUucid horn secured arc. 
 To save from finger wet the letters fair : 
 The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
 St. George's liigh achievements does declare ; 
 On which thUk wight that has y-ganing been. 
 Kens the forthcoming rod, — unpleasmg sight, I 
 
 Ah ! luckless lie, and born beneath the beam 
 Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ; 
 As erst the bard by Midla's silver stream * 
 Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous phght. 
 Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite ; 
 For brandishing tlie rod, she doth begin 
 To loose the brogues, the stripling's late 
 
 delight ; 
 And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin. 
 Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilln. 
 
 O ruthful scene ! when, from a nook obscure, 
 His little sister doth his peril see. 
 All playful as she sat, she grows demure ; 
 She flu'ds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; 
 She meditates a prayer to set him free 
 
 * Spenser. 
 
 —9^ 
 
a- 
 
 38i 
 
 JAGO. —WHITEHEAD. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Nor gentle pardon could tliis dame deny 
 (If gentle pardon could witli dames agree) 
 To her sad grief that swells in either eye. 
 And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 
 
 No longer can she now her shrieks command ; 
 And hardly slie forbears, through awful fear, 
 To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand. 
 To stay harsh justice iu its mid career. 
 On tliee 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 Hood of tears begins to flow, 
 And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 
 
 But, ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace? 
 Or what device his loud laments explain. 
 The form uncouth of his disguised face, 
 The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain. 
 The plenteous shower that does liis cheek dis- 
 
 tain ? 
 
 Wlien he, in abject wise, implores the dame, 
 
 Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
 
 Or wlieu from high she levels well her aim, 
 
 And, through the thatch, his cries each falling 
 
 stroke proclaim. 
 
 But now Dan Phoebus gains tlie middle sky. 
 And Liberty unbars Iier prison door ; 
 And like a rushing torrent out they fly ; 
 And now the grassy cirque lian covered o'er 
 With boisterous revel rout and wild uproar ; 
 A thousand ways in wanton riugs they run. 
 Heaveu shield their short-lived pastimes, I im- 
 plore ; 
 Tor well may freedom erst so dearly won 
 Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. 
 
 Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, 
 And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ; 
 For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, 
 0, never may ye taste more careless hours 
 In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. 
 0, vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
 But most iu courts, where proud ambition 
 
 towers ; 
 Deluded wight ! who weens fair Peace can spring 
 Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 
 
 See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 
 These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
 Tliose sauntering on the green, with jocund leer 
 Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
 Some buildcu fragile tenements of clay; 
 Some to the staiuling lake their courses bend, 
 Witli pebbles smooth atduek and drake to play ; 
 Thilk to the huckster's savory cottage tend. 
 In pastry kings and queens the allotted mite to 
 spend. 
 
 fr 
 
 RICHARD JAGO. 
 
 1715-1781. 
 
 HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY IMITATED, 
 
 To print, or not to print, — that is the question : 
 AV'liether 't is better in a trunk to bury 
 The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy. 
 Or send a weU-wrote copy to the press. 
 And, by disclosing, end them. To print, to doubt 
 No more ; and by one act to say we end 
 The headache, and a thousand natural shocks 
 Of scribbUng frenzy, — 't is a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To print, to beam 
 From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well 
 
 bound : 
 To sleep, perchance, with Quarks — Ay, there 's 
 
 the rub — • 
 For to what class a writer may be doomed, 
 When he hath shufiBed off some paltry stuff, 
 Must give us pause. There 's the respect that 
 
 makes 
 The unwilUng poet keep his piece nine years. 
 For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame. 
 The pride of conscious merit, and, 'bove all, 
 The tedious importunity of friends. 
 When he himself might his quietus make, 
 With a bare inkhoni ? Who would fardels bear, 
 To groan and sweat under a load of wit. 
 But that the tread of sweet Parnassus' hUl, 
 (That undiscovered country, with whose bays 
 Few travellers return) puzzles the will. 
 And makes us rather bear to live unknown, 
 Tlian run the hazard to be known and damned. 
 Thus critics do make cowards of us all ; 
 And thus the healthful face of many a poem 
 Is sicklied o'er with a pale manuscript ; 
 And enterprises of great fire and spirit 
 With this regard from Dodsley turn away, 
 And lose the name of Authors. 
 
 o»;o 
 
 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.* 
 
 1715-1785. 
 
 VAEIETY, 
 
 TOE MAIDEN HEROINE OF THE POEM PRAVS POR 
 A PERFECT HUSUANl). 
 
 * ♦ • 
 
 Fate heard her prayer : a lover came. 
 Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame ; 
 One who liad trod, as well as she. 
 The flowery paths of poesy ; 
 Had warmed liimself with Milton's lieat, 
 • Poct-Laurcate, in 1767, after the death of Colley Cibbcr. 
 -^ 
 
VAKEETY. 
 
 385 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Could every Kne of Pope repeat, 
 
 Or chaut in Sheastone's tender strains, 
 
 " The lover's hopes," " the lover's pains." 
 
 Attentive to the charmer's tongue. 
 With him she thought no evening long, 
 With him she sauntered half the day ; 
 And sometimes, in a laughing way. 
 Ran o'er the catalogue by rote * 
 
 Of who might marry, and who not ; 
 " Consider, sir, we 're near relations — " 
 " I hope so in our inclinations." 
 In short, she looked, she blushed consent ; 
 He grasped her hand, to church they went ; 
 And every matron that was there. 
 
 With tongue so voluble and supple. 
 Said for her part, she must declare, 
 
 Slic never saw a finer couple. 
 Halcyon days ! 'T was Nature's reign, 
 'T was Tempo's vale, and Enna's plain, 
 The fields assumed unusual bloom. 
 And every zephyr breathed perfume. 
 The laughing sun with genial beams 
 Danced lightly on the exulting streams ; 
 And tlie pale regent of the night 
 In dewy softness shed delight. 
 'T was transport not to be exprest ; 
 'T was Paradise ! — • But mark the rest. 
 
 Two smiling springs had waked the flowers 
 That paint the meads or fringe the bowers 
 (Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears. 
 Who count by months, and not by years). 
 Two smiling springs had chaplets wove 
 To crown their solitude, and love : 
 'W'lien lo, they find, they can't tell how, 
 Tlieir walks are not so pleasant now. 
 The seasons sure were changed ; the place 
 Had, somehow, got a different face. 
 Some blast had struck the cheerful scene ; 
 The lawns, the woods, were not so green. 
 The purling rill, which murmured by. 
 And once was liquid harmony. 
 Became a sluggish, reedy pool : 
 The days grew hot, the evenings cool. 
 The moon, with all the starry reign. 
 Were Melancholy's silent train. 
 And then tlie tedious winter night — ■ 
 They could not read by candlelight. 
 
 Pull oft, unknowing why they did, 
 They called in adventitious aid. 
 A faithful, favorite dog ('twas thus 
 With Tobit and Telemachus) 
 Amused their steps ; and for a while 
 Tiiey viewed his gambols with a snide. 
 The kitten, too, was comical. 
 She played so oddly with her tail, 
 Or in the glass was pleased to find 
 Another oat, and peeped behind. 
 
 A coui'teous neighbor at the door 
 
 ^- 
 
 Was deemed intrusive noise no more. 
 For rural visits, now and then, 
 Arc right, as men must live with men. 
 Then Cousin Jenny, fresh from town, 
 
 A new recruit, a dear deUght ! 
 Made many a heavy hour go down. 
 
 At morn, at noon, at eve, at night : 
 Sure they could hear her jokes forever, 
 She was so sprightly and so clever ! 
 
 Yet neighbors were not quite the thing ; 
 What joy, alas ! coidd converse bring 
 With awkward creatures bred at home, — 
 The dog grew dull, or troublesome. 
 The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit. 
 And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. 
 And jokes repeated o'er and o'er 
 Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. — 
 " And then, my dear, I can't abide 
 This always sauntering side by side." 
 " Enough ! " he cries, " the reason 's plain : 
 For causes never rack your brain. 
 Our neiglibors are like other folks. 
 Skip's playful tricks and Jenny's jokes 
 Are still delightful, still would please. 
 Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. 
 Look round, witii an impartial eye. 
 On yonder fields, on yonder sky ; 
 The azure cope, the flowers below. 
 With all their wonted colors glow. 
 The rill still inunnurs ; and the moon 
 Shines, as she did, a softer sun. 
 No change has made tlie seasons fail. 
 No comet brushed us with his tail. 
 The scene 's the same, the same the weather, — 
 JFe lice, my dear, too much together." 
 Agreed. A rich old uncle dies. 
 And added wealth the means supplies. 
 With eager haste to tovra. they flew. 
 Where all must please, for aU was new. 
 
 But here, by strict poetic laws. 
 Description claims its proper pause. 
 
 The rosy morn had raised her head 
 From old Tithonus' saftVon bed ; 
 And embryo sunbeams from the east. 
 Half choked, were struggling througli the mist, 
 "Wlien forth advanced tlie gUded chaise ; 
 The village crowded round to gaze. 
 The pert postilion, now promoted 
 From driving plough, and neatly booted. 
 His jacket, cap, and baldric on 
 (As greater folks than he have done). 
 Looked round ; and, with a coxcomb air. 
 Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair 
 Bowed graceful, from a separate door. 
 And Jenny, from the stool before. 
 
 * * » 
 
 O London, thou prolific source. 
 Parent of Vice, and Folly's nurse ! 
 
 4> 
 
a- 
 
 38G 
 
 GARRICK. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Prujtfiil as Nile thy copious springs 
 Spawn lionrly births, — and all witi stings : 
 But happiest far the he, or she, 
 
 I kuow not which, that liveher dunce 
 Who first contrived the coterie, 
 
 To crush domestic bliss at once. 
 Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, 
 As Nero fiddled to the flames. 
 
 * * * ' 
 
 Suffice it that by just degrees 
 They reached all heights, and rose with ease 
 (For beauty wins its way, uncalled. 
 And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled). 
 Each gambhug dame she knew, and he 
 Knew every shark of quality ; 
 From the grave cautious few who hve 
 On tliouglulcss youth, and living thrive, 
 To the hght train who mimic France, 
 And the soft sons of nonchalance. 
 "Rliile Jenny, now no more of use. 
 Excuse succeeding to excuse. 
 Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew 
 To sliilling whist and chicken loo. 
 
 Advanced to fashion's wavering head. 
 They now, where once they followed, led. 
 Devised new systems of delight, 
 Abed all day and up all night. 
 In ditferent circles reigned supreme. 
 Wives copied her, and husbands him ; 
 Till so divinely life ran on. 
 So separate, so quite bon-ton, 
 Tliat, meeting in a pubhc place. 
 They scarcely knew each other's face. 
 
 At last they met, by liis desire, 
 A tete-a-ti-le across the fire ; 
 Looked in each other's face awhile, 
 With half a tear and half a smile. 
 The ruddy health, which wont to grace 
 With manly glow his rural face. 
 Now scarce retained its faintest streak. 
 So sallow was his leathern cheek. 
 She, lank and pale and hollow-eyed, 
 \\'ith rouge had striven in vain to hidQ 
 What once was beauty, and repair 
 The rapine of the midnight air. 
 
 Silence is eloquence, 't is said. 
 Both wished to speak, both hung the head. 
 At lengtli it burst. " 'T is time," he cries, 
 " When tired of folly, to be wise. 
 Are you too tired 'i " — then cheeked a groan. 
 She wept consent, and he went on. 
 " How deUcate the married life ! 
 You love your husband, I my wife ! 
 Not even Satiety covdd tame, 
 Nor Dissipation quench the flame. 
 
 " True to the bias of our kind, 
 'T is hajipiness we wish to find. 
 In rural scenes retired we sought 
 
 In vain the dear, dehcious draught. 
 Though blest with love's indulgent store, 
 We found we wanted sometiiing more. 
 'T was company, 't was friends to share 
 The bhss we languished to declare. 
 'T was social converse, change of scene, 
 To soothe the sullen hour of spleen ; 
 Short absences to wake desire. 
 And sweet regrets to fan the fire. 
 
 " We left the lonesome place ; and found. 
 In dissipation's giddy round, 
 A thousand novelties to wake 
 The springs of Ufe and not to break. 
 As, from the nest not wandering far, 
 In light excursions through the air, 
 The feathered tenants of the grove 
 Around in mazy circles move 
 (Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow. 
 Or taste the blossom on the bough). 
 We sported freely witii the rest ; 
 And still, returning to the nest. 
 In easy mirth we chatted o'er 
 The trifles of the day before. 
 
 " Behold us now, dissolving quite 
 In the full ocean of delight ; 
 In pleasures every hour employ. 
 Immersed in all the world calls joy; 
 Our affluence easing the expense 
 Of splendor and magnificence ; 
 Our company, the exalted set 
 Of all that 's gay and all that 's great ; 
 Nor happy yet ! — and where 's the wonder ? — 
 We live, my dear, too much asunder." 
 
 The moral of my tale is this, 
 Variety 's the soul of bliss ; 
 But such variety alone 
 As makes our home the more our own. 
 
 DAVID GARRICK. 
 
 1716-1779. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE ENGLISH MERCHANT. 
 
 F.nter Lady Alton fNlKS. Abington) in a passion ; 
 Spatter (Mr. Yii^o) following. 
 
 L. Alton. I '11 hear no more, thou wretch ! 
 Spattkr. Attend to reason ! 
 L. Alton. A woman of my rank, 't is pvtty 
 treason ! 
 Hear reason, blockhead ! Reason ! what is tli.it ? 
 Bid me wear pattens and a high-erowned hat. ! 
 'Won't you begone ? What, won't you ? AVliat 's 
 your view ? 
 Spatthr. Humbly to serve the laneful Nine 
 
 iu V'lU, 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■*-p 
 
a- 
 
 EPILOGUE ON QUITTING THE STAGE. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 387 
 
 ^ 
 
 L. Alton. I renounce such things ; 
 Not Phcebus now, but Vengeance, sweeps the 
 
 strings : 
 My mind is discord all ! I scorn, detest 
 All human kind — you more than all the rest. 
 Sp.iTTER. I humbly thank you, ma'am — but 
 
 weigh the matter. 
 L. Alton. I won't hear reason ! and I hate 
 you, Spatter ! 
 Myself, and everything. 
 
 Spatter. That I deny ; 
 
 You love a little mischief, so do I ; 
 And mischief I have for you. 
 
 L. Alton. How? where? when? 
 Will you stab Falb ridge? 
 SP.A.TTER. Yes, ma'am — with my pen. 
 L. Alton. Let loose, my Spatter, till to death 
 you 've stung 'em, 
 That grcen-cycd monster, jealousy, among 'em . 
 Sp.iTTER. To dash at all, the spirit of my 
 trade is. 
 Men, 'women, children, parsons, lords, and 
 
 ladies. 
 There will be danger. 
 
 L. Alton. And there shall be pay — 
 Take my purse, Spatter! {Gives it him.) 
 Spatter. In an honest way. {Smiles and 
 
 takes it.) 
 L. Alton. Should my lord beat you — 
 Spatter. Let them laugh that win. 
 For all my bruises here 's goldbeater's skin. 
 {Chinking the purse?) 
 L. Alton. Nay, should he kill you ! 
 Sr.YTTER. Ma'am ? 
 L. Alton. My kindness meant 
 To pay your merit with a monument ! 
 
 Sp.wter. Y'our kindness, lady, takes away 
 my breath : 
 We '11 stop, with your good leave, on this side 
 death. 
 L. Alton. Attack AmeUa, both in verse and 
 prose. 
 Your wit can make a nettle of a rose. 
 
 Spatter. A stinging-nettle for his lordship's 
 breast : 
 And to my stars and dashes leave the rest. 
 I 'U make them miserable, never fear ; 
 Pout in a month, and part in half a year. 
 I know my genius, and can trust my plan ; 
 I '11 break a woman's heart with any man. 
 L. Alton. Thanks, thanks, dear Spatter ! be 
 
 severe and bold ! 
 Spatter. No qualms of conscience with a 
 purse of gold. 
 Though pillories threaten, and though crab-sticks 
 
 fall. 
 Yours are my heart, soul, pen, ears, bones, and all. 
 
 [Exil Spatter. 
 
 L. Alton {alone). Thus to the winds at once 
 my cares I scatter — 
 
 0, 't is a charming rascal, this same Spa'tter ! 
 
 His precious mischief makes the storm subside ! 
 
 My anger, thank my stars ! all rose from pride; 
 
 Pride should belong to us alone of fashion ; 
 
 And let the mob take love, that vulgar passion. 
 
 Love, pity, tenderness, are only made 
 
 For poets, Abigails, and folks in trade. 
 
 Some cits about their feelings make a fuss. 
 
 And some are better bred — who live with us. 
 
 How low Lord Falbridge is ! He takes a wife, 
 
 To love, and cherish, and be fixed lor life ! 
 
 Thiidcs marriage is a comfortable state. 
 
 No pleasure like a vartiiotcs tete-a-tete ! 
 
 Do our lords justice, for I woidd not wrong 'em. 
 
 There are not many such poor souls amoug 'em. 
 
 Our turtles from the town will fly with speed. 
 
 And I'll foretell the vulgar life they'll lead. 
 
 With love and ease grown fat, they face all 
 weather. 
 
 And, farmers both, trudge arm in arm together: 
 
 Now view their stock, now in their nursery 
 prattle. 
 
 Forever with their children or their cattle. 
 
 Like the dull mill-horse in one round they keep ; 
 
 TJiey walk, talk, fondle, dine, and faU asleep ; 
 
 " Their custom always in the afternoon — "' 
 
 He bright as Sol, and she the chaste full moon ! 
 
 Waked with her coffee, madam first begins. 
 
 She rubs her eyes, his lordship rubs his shins ; 
 
 She sips and smirks, — " Next week 's our wed- 
 ding-day, 
 
 Married seven years ; and every hour more 
 gay ? " {Yawns.) 
 
 " True, Emmy," cries my lord, " the blessing 
 lies. 
 
 Our hearts in everything so sympathize ! " 
 {Yawns.) 
 
 The day thus spent, my lord for music calls ; 
 
 He thrums the base, to which my lady squalls ; 
 
 The children join, which so delight these nin- 
 nies. 
 
 The brats seem all Guaduccies, Lovatinis. 
 
 — What means this qualm ? • — Why, sure, while 
 I 'm despising, 
 
 That vulgar passion. Envy, is not rising ! 
 
 O, no ! — Contempt is struggling to burst out — 
 
 I '11 give it vent at Lady Scalp'em's rout. 
 
 [E.rtt hastily. 
 
 EPILOGUE ON QUITTING THE STAGE, 
 JUTJE, 1776. 
 
 A VETERAN see ! whose last act on the stage 
 Entreats your smiles for sickness and for age ; 
 Their cause I plead — plead it in heart and 
 mind ; 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 388 
 
 GARRICK. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind : 
 Might we but hope your zeal would not be less, 
 When I am gone, to patronize distress, 
 That hope obtained the wished-for end secures, 
 To soothe their cares who oi't have ligiitened 
 
 yours. 
 Shall the great heroes of celestial line. 
 Who drank fuU bowls of Greek and Roman 
 
 wine, 
 Csesar and Brutus, Agamemnon, Hector, 
 Nay, Jove himself, who here has quaffed his 
 
 nectar ! 
 Shall they who govern fortune, cringe and court 
 
 her. 
 Thirst in their age, and call in vain for porter ? 
 Like Belisarius tax tlic pitying street 
 With date oholiim to all tliey meet ? 
 Sha'n't I, who oft have drenched my bauds in 
 
 gore; 
 Stabbed many, poisoned some, beheaded more ; 
 Who numbers slew in battle on this plain — 
 Sha' n't I, the slayer, try to feed the slain ? 
 Brother to all, with equal love I view 
 The men who slew me and the men I slew : 
 I must, I will this happy project seize. 
 That those too old to die may live with case. 
 Suppose the babes I smothered in the Tower,, 
 By chance, or sickness, lose their acting-power, 
 Shall they, once princes, worse than all be 
 
 served, — 
 In childhood murdered, and when murdered, 
 
 starved V 
 
 # * * 
 
 Can I, young Hamlet once, to nature lost. 
 
 Behold, O liorrible ! my father's ghost. 
 
 With grisly beard, pale cheek, stalk up and down. 
 
 And he, the royal Dane, want half a crown ? 
 
 Forbid it, ladies ! gentlemen, forbid it ! 
 
 Give joy to age, and let 'em say — you did it. 
 
 To yon, ye gods ! * I make my last appeal ; 
 
 You have a right to judge, as well as feel ; 
 
 Will your high wisdoms to our scheme incline, 
 
 That kings, queens, heroes, gods, and ghosts 
 
 may dine ? 
 Olympus shakes ! tliat omen all secures ; 
 May every joy you give be tenfold yours ! 
 
 LOUISA'S LIP. 
 
 For me my fair a wreath has wove 
 Where rival flowers in union meet, 
 
 As oft she kissed tliis gift of love. 
 
 Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet. 
 
 A bee within a damask rose 
 
 Had crept the ncctared dew to sip, 
 
 ' To tlic upper [^nlk'ry. 
 
 But lesser sweets tlie thief foregoes, 
 And fixes on Louisa's hp. 
 
 Tlicre tasting all the bloom of Spring, 
 Waked by the ripening brcatli of May, 
 
 Tiie ungrateful spoiler left his sting. 
 And with the honey fled away. 
 
 HEAETS OF OkS, 
 
 Come, cheer up, my lads ! 't is to glory we steer. 
 To add something more to this wonderful year : 
 To lionor we call you, not press you like slaves. 
 For who are so free as the sons of the waves ? 
 Hearts of oak are our ships, 
 Gallant tars are our men. 
 We always are ready : 
 Steady, boys, steady ! 
 
 We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 
 We ne'er see our foes but we wish them tp stay ; 
 They never see us but they wish us away ; 
 If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore ; 
 For it' they w'on't fight us we cannot do more. 
 Hearts of oak, etc. 
 
 They swear they '11 invade us, these terrible foes ! 
 They frighten our women, our children, and 
 
 beaux ; 
 But should their flat bottoms in darkness get 
 
 o'er, 
 Still Britons they '11 find to receive them on shore. 
 Hearts of oak, etc. 
 
 Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea; 
 Her standard is Justice, — her watchword, "Be 
 
 free." 
 Then cheer np, my lads ! with one heart let us 
 
 sing, 
 " Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and 
 
 king." 
 
 Hearts of oak, etc. 
 
 ON DE, HILL'S FAROE. 
 
 For physic and farces 
 His equal there scarce is ; 
 His farces are pliysic. 
 His pliysic a farce is. 
 
 EPITAPH ON LAWRENCE STERNE 
 
 SiiAi.l. pride a heap of scidptured marble raise. 
 Sonic worthless, unmourned, titled fool to praise, 
 And shall wc not by one poor gravestone learn 
 Where genius, wit, ami Immor sleep with Sterne : 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OP ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 389 
 
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 fr 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 1716-1771. 
 
 ODE ON TKE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where tlie rosy-bosomed hours, 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The Attic -^arbler pours her throat, 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note. 
 
 The uutauglit harmony of spring : 
 Wliilc, whispering pleasure as they fly. 
 Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gathered fragrance fliug. 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader browner shade. 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
 
 O'ercanopies the glade. 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardor of the crowd. 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose ; 
 Yet, hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 Tiie busy murmur glows ! 
 Tlie insect-youth are on the wing, 
 Eager to taste the honeyed spring. 
 
 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 
 
 Sueli is tlie race of man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly. 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter tlirough life's little day, 
 
 In fortune's varying colors drest : 
 Brushed by the hand of rough mischance, 
 Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 
 
 Methinks I hear, in accents low. 
 
 The sportive kind reply : 
 Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 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, — 
 
 We frolic while 't is May. 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
 COLLEGE, 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the watery glade, 
 Where gratefid Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 And ye that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding way : 
 
 Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As w-aviiig fresh their gladsome wing. 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth. 
 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race 
 Disporting on thy margeut green. 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace ; 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 
 
 While some on earnest business bent 
 
 Their murmuring labors ply 
 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty : 
 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. 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed. 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed. 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue. 
 Wild wit, invention ever new. 
 
 And lively cheer of vigor bom ; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy niglit. 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 
 
 That fly the approach of mom. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom. 
 The little victims play ; 
 
 -9> 
 
(Or 
 
 390 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 No sense have tliey of ills to come, 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 Yet sec how all aromid them wait 
 The ministers of human fate. 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
 To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 
 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall the fury Passions tear. 
 
 The vultures of the mind. 
 Disdainful Anger, palhd Fear, 
 
 And Shame that skulks behind ; 
 Or piuing Love shall waste their youth, 
 Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth. 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 
 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 
 
 Then whirl the wretch from high, 
 To bitter scorn a sacrifloe, * 
 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
 And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 
 
 That mocks the tear it forced to ilow ; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defiled. 
 And moody Madness lauglung wUd 
 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen. 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their queen : 
 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, 
 Tiiat numbs the soul with icy hand. 
 
 And slow-consuming Age. 
 
 To each his sufferings : all are men. 
 
 Condemned alike to groan ; 
 The tender for another's paiu. 
 
 The unfeeUng for his own. 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate. 
 Since sorrow never comes too late. 
 
 And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 No more : where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'T is folly to be wise. 
 
 HTMU TO ABVEESITT. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 
 Thou tamer of tlie human breast, 
 
 ■Rliosc iron scourge and torturing hour 
 The had affright, afflict the best ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Wlien first thy sire to send on earth 
 Virtue, his darhng child, designed. 
 To thee he gave the heavenly birth. 
 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year slie bore : 
 What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know. 
 And from her own she learned to melt at others' 
 
 Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 
 
 Self-])leasing Folly's idle brood, 
 Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Liglit they disperse, and with- them go 
 The summer friend, the flattering foe ; 
 By vain Prosperity received. 
 To lier they vow their truth, and are again be- 
 lieved. 
 
 Wisdom in sable garb aiTayed, 
 
 Lnmerscd in rapturous thought profound, 
 And Melancholy, silent maid. 
 
 With leaden eye that loves the ground, 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
 Warm Charity, the general friend. 
 With Justice, to herself severe. 
 And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 
 
 0, gently on thy suppliant's head. 
 
 Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! 
 Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
 
 Not circled with the vengeful band 
 (As by the impious thou art seen) 
 With thundering voice and threatening mien, 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry, 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty : 
 
 Thy form benign, goddess, wear, 
 
 Thy milder inftucucc impart. 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 
 To soften, not to wound, my heart. 
 The generous spark extinct revive. 
 Teach me to love and to forgive. 
 Exact my own defects to scan. 
 What others are to feel, and know myself a man. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 I. 1. 
 Awake, jEolian lyre, awake. 
 
 Ami give to i-apture all thy trembling strings. 
 From Helicon's harmonious springs 
 
 A thousand rills their mazy progress take ; 
 
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 THE PROGRESS OP POESY. 
 
 391 
 
 -fl) 
 
 The laughing flowers,. that round them blow, 
 
 Drink hfe and fragrance as they flow. 
 
 Now the rich stream of music winds along, 
 
 Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. 
 
 Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign : 
 
 Now rolling down the steep amain. 
 
 Headlong, impetuous, see it pour ; 
 
 The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the 
 
 0, sovereign of the willing soul. 
 Parent of sweet and solemu-breatliiug airs. 
 Enchanting shell ! the sullen cares 
 
 And frantic passions hear thy soft control. 
 On Tlu-acia's hills the lord of war 
 Has curbed the fury of his car, 
 And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command. 
 Perching on tile sceptred hand 
 Of Jove, thy magic lidls the feathered king 
 With ruffled plumes and ihagging wing ; 
 Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie 
 The terror of his beak and lightnings of his 
 eye. 
 
 I. 3. 
 Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 
 Tempered to thy warbled lay. 
 O'er Idaha's velvet-green 
 
 The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
 
 On Cytherea's day ; 
 
 Witli antic Sport and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
 
 Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
 
 Now pursuing, now retreating, 
 
 Now in circling troops they meet : 
 To brisk notes in cadence beating, 
 
 Glance their many-twinkling feet. 
 Slow melting strains their queen's approach de- 
 clare : 
 
 Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. 
 With arms sublime, that float upon the air, 
 
 In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
 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 ! 
 Laljor and penury, the racks of pain. 
 Disease, and sorrow's weeping train, 
 
 And death, sad refuge from the storms of 
 fate ! 
 The fond complaint, my song, disprove. 
 And justify the laws of Jove. 
 Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse ? 
 Night and all her sickly dews. 
 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 glittering shafts 
 
 of war. 
 
 ^- 
 
 In climes beyond the solar road. 
 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains 
 
 roam. 
 The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 
 
 To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
 And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
 Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
 She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat. 
 In loose numbers wildly sweet, 
 Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. 
 Her track, where'er the goddess roves. 
 Glory pursue, and generous shame, 
 The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy 
 flame. 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep. 
 Isles that crown the jEgean deep, 
 
 Fields, that cool Ilissus laves. 
 
 Or where Ma-ander's amber waves 
 In Ungering labyrinths creep. 
 
 How do your tuneful echoes languish. 
 
 Mute, but to the voice of anguish ! 
 Where eaeli old poetic mountain 
 
 Inspiration breathed around ; 
 Every shade and hallowed fountain 
 
 Murmured 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, 
 
 And coward Vice, that revels in her chams. 
 When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
 They sought, O Albion ! next thy sea-encircled 
 coast. 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 Far from the sun and summer gale. 
 In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid. 
 What time, where lucid Avon strayed. 
 
 To him the mighty mother did unveil 
 Her awful face : the dauntless child 
 Stretched forth his httle arms and smOcd. 
 " This pencU take," she said, " whose colors clear 
 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. 
 Nor second he, that rode sublime 
 Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy, 
 .The secrets of the abyss to spy. 
 
 He passed the flaming bounds of place and 
 time : 
 The living throne, the sapphire blaze. 
 Where angels tremble while they gaze. 
 He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light. 
 Closed his eyes in endless night. 
 
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 392 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 ■# 
 
 Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car 
 Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
 Two coursers of ethereal race, 
 With necks iu tliuudcr clothed, aud long-re- 
 sounding pace. 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
 Briglit-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er. 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 Thoughts that breathe and words that bum. 
 But ah ! 't is heard no more — 
 
 O lyre divine ! what daring sjiirit 
 
 Wakes thee now ? Though he inherit 
 Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 
 
 Tiiat the Tlioban eagle bear, 
 Saihng with supreme dominion 
 
 Through the azure deep of air : 
 Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
 
 Such forms as ghtter in the Muse's ray. 
 With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun : 
 
 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
 Beyond the limits of a ^idgar fate. 
 Beneath the good how far, — but far above the 
 great. 
 
 THE BAED.* 
 
 A PINDARIC ODE. 
 I. 1. 
 
 " Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 
 
 Confusion on tliy bauners wait ; 
 
 Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, 
 
 They mock the air witli idle state. 
 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
 Nor e'en thy virtues, tyi-ant, shall avail 
 
 To save thy secret soul from niglitly fears. 
 
 From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! " 
 Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 
 
 Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's sliaggy side 
 
 He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
 Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speecldess trance. 
 " To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and couched his 
 quivering lance. 
 
 I. 3. 
 
 On a rock whose haughty brow 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 
 Robed in tlic sable garb of woe, 
 Witli haggard eyes the poet stood, 
 
 (Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
 Streamed, like a mettor, to the troubled air), 
 And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire. 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
 
 " Hark, how each giant oak, aud desert cave, 
 
 * "This ode is founded on (i trndition current in Wales, tlint 
 Kdwani the First, when lie einnploted the eoiiqin'>it of tlmt 
 country, ordered nil tlu* linrda that fell into his liaiids to he 
 put to deatli."— Gbay. 
 
 Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
 O'er thee, O king ! their hundred arms they wave, 
 Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs l)reathe ; 
 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
 To higli-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 
 
 I. .3. 
 
 " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
 
 That Imshed the stormy main: 
 Brave Urieu sleeps upon his craggy bed: 
 
 Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 
 Modred, whose magic song 
 Made huge Plinlimmon bow liis cloud-topt head. 
 
 On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
 Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale : 
 Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; 
 
 The famished eagle screams, and passes by. 
 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 
 
 Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
 Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. 
 
 Ye died amidst your dying country's erics — 
 No more I weep. They do not sleep. 
 
 On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
 I see them sit, they hnger yet. 
 
 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-sheet of Edward's race. 
 
 Give ample room, and verge enough 
 Tlie characters of hell to trace. 
 Mark tlie year, and mark the night, 
 When Severn shall re-eciio with alfright 
 The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that 
 
 ring, 
 Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
 
 Slie-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. 
 That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate. 
 
 From thee be born, who o'er thy ccniiitry liangs 
 The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him 
 
 wait! 
 Amazement in his van, with flight roiid)ined, 
 And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 " Miglity victor, mighty lord ! 
 Low on his funeral couch lie lies ! 
 
 No pitying heart, no eye, allbrd 
 A tear to grace his obse(|uies. 
 
 Is tiic sable warrior fled ? 
 Tliy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
 The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were bora ? 
 Gone to salute the rising morn. 
 Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 
 
 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
 In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; 
 
 Youth on the prow, aud Pleasure 
 
 ^- 
 
 ire at the helm ; T 
 
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 ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 393 
 
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 U- 
 
 Regardless of tlie sweeping wbirlwind's sway, 
 That, husked in grim repose, expects his eveuing 
 prey. 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 " Fill high the sparkluig bowl, 
 The rich repast prepare ; 
 
 Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
 Close by the regal chair 
 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 
 A baleful smile upon their bafHed guest. 
 Heard ye the din of battle bray. 
 
 Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 
 
 Long years of havoc urge their destined 
 course, 
 And through the kindred squadrons mow their way . 
 
 Ye towers of Julius, London's lastiug shame. 
 With many a foul and midniglit murder fed, 
 
 Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame. 
 And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 
 Above, below, the rose of snow. 
 
 Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
 The bristled boar in infant-gore 
 
 Wallows beucath the thorny shade. 
 Now, brothers, bending o'er the 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. 
 (The web is wove. The work is done.) 
 Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn 
 Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn : 
 lu yon bright track, that fires the western skies. 
 They melt, they vauisli from my eyes. 
 Bat ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 
 
 Descending slow their ghtteriug skirts unroll ? 
 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 
 
 Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
 No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
 All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 " Girt with many a baron bold 
 Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 
 
 And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
 Li beardrd majesty appear. 
 In the midst a form diviue ! 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line ; 
 Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face. 
 Attempered sweet to virgin grace. 
 Wliat strings symphonious tremble in the air. 
 
 What strains of voeal transport round her play ! 
 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 
 
 They breatlie a soul to animate thy elay. 
 Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 
 Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored 
 winars. 
 
 III. 3. 
 " The verse adorn again 
 
 Fierce war, and faithfLd love. 
 And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 
 
 In buskined measures move 
 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
 With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
 
 A voice, as of the cherub-clioir. 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
 And distant warbliugs lessen on my ear. 
 
 That los in long futurity expire. 
 Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine 
 cloud. 
 
 Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of 
 day v 
 To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
 
 And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
 Enough for me ; with joy I see 
 
 The different doom our fates assign. 
 Be thine despair and sceptred care; 
 
 To triumph and to die are mine." 
 He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 
 
 height 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 
 night. 
 
 ODE FOE MUSIC. 
 
 I. AIR, 
 
 " Hence, avaunt ('t is holy ground), 
 
 Comus and his midnight crew. 
 And Ignorance with looks ])rofound. 
 
 And di-eaming Sloth of pallid hue, 
 Mad Sedition's cry profane. 
 Servitude that hugs her chain, 
 Nor in these consecrated bowers 
 Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in 
 flowers. 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 " Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain, 
 Dare the Muse's walk to stain, 
 Wliile bright-eyed Science watches round ; 
 Henee, away, 't is holy ground ! " 
 
 II. RECITATIVE. 
 
 From yonder realms of empyrean day 
 
 Bursts on my ear the indignant lay : 
 There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine. 
 
 The few, whom genius gave to shine 
 Through every unborn age and undiscovered 
 clime. 
 
 Rapt in celestial transport they : 
 
 Yet hither oft a glance from high 
 
 They send of tender sympathy 
 To bless the place, where on their opening soul 
 
 First the genuine ardor stole. 
 'T was Milton struck the deep-toned shell. 
 And, as the choral warblings round him swell, 
 
 ii 
 
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 394 
 
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 fr 
 
 Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime, 
 And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme. 
 
 III. AIR. 
 
 " Ye brown o'erarehing groves, 
 
 That Contemplation loves, 
 Where willowy Camus lingers with delight I 
 
 Oft at the blush of dawn 
 
 I trod y(nir level lawn, 
 Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright 
 In eloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, 
 With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melan- 
 choly." 
 
 IV. KECITATIVE. 
 
 But hark ! the portals sound, and paemg forth 
 
 With solemn steps and slow, 
 High potentates, and dames of royal birth, 
 And initretl fathers in long order go : 
 Great Edward, with tlie lilies on lus brow 
 
 From haughty GalUa torn. 
 And sad Cliatillon, on her bridal morn 
 That wept her bleeding Love, and princely Clare, 
 And Anjou's heroine, and the paler rose, 
 The rival of her crown and of her woes. 
 
 And either Henry there. 
 The murdered saint, and the majestic lord. 
 
 That broke the bonds of Rome. 
 (Their tears, their little triumphs o'er. 
 Their human passions now no more. 
 Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb.) 
 
 ACCOMPANIED. 
 
 All that on Granta's fruitful plain 
 Kich streams of regal bounty poured. 
 And bade these awful fanes and turrets rise. 
 To hail their I'itzroy's festal morning come ; 
 
 And thus they speak in soft accord 
 
 The liquid language of the skies : 
 
 V. QUARTETTO. 
 
 " What is grandeur, what is power ? 
 Heavier tod, superior pain. 
 What the bright reward we gain ? 
 The grateful memory of the good. 
 Sweet is the breath of vernal shower. 
 The bee's collected treasures sweet. 
 Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet 
 The still small voice of gratitude." 
 
 VI. RECITATIVE. 
 
 Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud 
 
 The venerable Margaret see ! 
 " Welcome, my noble son," she cries aloud, 
 
 " To this, thy kindred train, and me : 
 Pleased in thy lineaments we trace 
 A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace. 
 
 AIR, 
 
 "Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye. 
 The flower unheeded shall descry. 
 
 And bid it round heaven's altars shed 
 The fragrance of its blushing head ; 
 Shall raise from earth the latent gem 
 To glitter on the diadem. 
 
 VII. RECITATIVE. 
 
 " Lo ! Granta waits to lead her blooming band, 
 
 Not obvious, not obtrusive, she 
 No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings ; 
 
 Nor dares with courtly tongue refined 
 Profane thy inborn royalty of mind : 
 
 She reveres herself and thee. 
 With modest pride to grace thy youthfid brow, 
 The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore, she brings, 
 
 And to thy just, thy gentle hand 
 
 Submits the fasces of her sway, 
 T\'hile spirits blest above and men below 
 Join with glad voice the hrad symphonious lay. 
 
 VII. GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 " Through the wild waves as they roar, 
 With watchful eye and dauntless mien, 
 Thy steady course of honor keep. 
 Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore : 
 The star of Brunswick smiles serene. 
 And gilds the horrors of the deep." 
 
 ODE ON THE PLEASURE AEISINO FEOM 
 VICISSITUDE, 
 
 Now the golden morn aloft 
 
 Waves licr dew-bespangled wing. 
 With vermeil cheek and whisper soft 
 
 She wooes the tardy spring : 
 Till April starts, and calls around 
 The sleeping fragrance from the ground ; 
 And lightly o'er the Living scene 
 Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. 
 
 New-born flocks, in rustic dance, 
 
 Frisking ply their feeble feet ; 
 Forgetfid of their wintry trance, 
 The birds his presence greet : 
 But chief, the skylark warbles high 
 His trembling thrilling ecstasy ; 
 And, lessening from the dazzled sight. 
 Melts into air and liquid light. 
 
 Rise, my soul ! on wings of fire, 
 Rise the rapturous choir among ; 
 
 Hark! 't is nature strikes the lyre. 
 And leads the general song. 
 
 Yesterday the sullen year 
 
 Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; 
 
 Mute was the music of tlie air. 
 The herd stood drooping Ijy : 
 
 Their raptures now that wildly flow 
 
 No yesterday nor morrow kiMW ; 
 
 J 
 
a- 
 
 THE FATAL SISTERS. 
 
 305 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 'T is man alone that joy desci'ics 
 With forward and reverted eyes. 
 
 Smiles on past Misfortune's brow 
 
 Soft Reflection's hand can trace ; 
 And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw 
 
 A melancholy grace ; 
 While hope prolongs our happier hour, 
 Or deepest sliadcs, that dimly lower 
 And blacken round our weary way. 
 Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 
 
 Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, 
 
 See a kindred Grief pursue ; 
 Behind the steps that Misery treads, 
 
 Approaching Comfort view : 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow. 
 Chastised by sabler tints of woe ; 
 And blended form, with artful strife. 
 The strength and harmony of life. 
 
 See the wretch, that long has tost 
 
 On the thorny bed of pain. 
 At length repair his vigor lost. 
 
 And breathe and walk again : 
 The meanest floweret of the vale. 
 The simplest note that swells the gale. 
 The common sun, the air, the skies. 
 To him are opening paradise. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOKITE CAT, 
 
 DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES. 
 
 'T WAS on a lofty vase's side. 
 Where China's gayest art had dyed 
 
 The azure flowers that blow ; 
 Demurest of the tabby kind. 
 The pensive Selima, reclined. 
 
 Gazed on the lake below. 
 
 Her conscious tail her joy declared ; 
 The fair round face, the snowy beard. 
 
 The velvet of her paws. 
 Her coat, that with the tortoise vies. 
 Her ears of jet and emerald eyes. 
 
 She saw, and purred applause. 
 
 Still liad she gazed ; but midst the tide 
 Two angel forms were seen to glide. 
 
 The Genii of the stream : 
 Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue 
 Through richest purple to the view 
 
 Betrayed a golden gleam. 
 
 The hapless nymph with wonder saw -. 
 A whisker first, and then a claw. 
 
 With many an ardent wish, 
 She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize. 
 What female heart can gold despise ? 
 
 What cat 's averse to fish ? 
 
 Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
 Again she stretched, again she bent. 
 
 Nor knew the gulf between. 
 (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) 
 The shppery verge her feet beguiled, 
 
 She tumbled headlong in. 
 
 Eight times emerging from the flood, 
 She mewed to every watery god 
 
 Some speedy aid to send. 
 No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred : 
 Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard. 
 
 A favorite has no friend ! 
 
 From hence, ye beauties, undeceived. 
 Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved. 
 
 And be with caution bold. 
 Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
 And heedless hearts is lawful prize. 
 
 Nor all that glisters gold. 
 
 THE FATAL SISTERS. 
 
 AN ODE rUOM THE KOUSE TONGUE. 
 
 Now the storm begins to lower 
 (Haste, the loom of hell prepare). 
 
 Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
 Hurtles in the darkened air. 
 
 Glittering lances are the loom. 
 Where the dusky Avarp we strain, 
 
 Weaving many a soldier's doom, 
 Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. 
 
 See the grisly texture grow ! 
 
 ('T is of human entrails made) 
 And the weights that play below 
 
 Each a gasping warrior's head. 
 
 Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore. 
 Shoot the trembling chords along. 
 
 Sword, that once a monarch bore. 
 Keep the tissue close and strong. 
 
 Mista, black terrific maid, 
 
 Sangrida, and Hilda, see. 
 Join the wayward work to aid : 
 
 'T is the woof of victory. 
 
 Ere the ruddy sun be set. 
 
 Pikes must shiver, javelins sing. 
 
 Blade with clattering buckler meet. 
 Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. 
 
 (Weave the crimson web of war) 
 
 Let us go, and let us fly, 
 Wliere our friends the conflict sliare, 
 
 Wliere they triumph, where they die. 
 
 As the paths of fate we tread. 
 
 Wading through the ensanguined field. 
 
 -P 
 
cfr 
 
 396 
 
 GEAY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Gondula and Geira, spread 
 O'er the youthful king your shield. 
 
 We the reins to slaugliter give, 
 Ours to kill and ours to spare: 
 
 Spite of danger he shall live. 
 
 (Weave the crimson web of war.) 
 
 They, whom once the desert-beach 
 Pent within its bleak domain, 
 
 Soon tlieir ample sway shall stretch 
 O'er the plenty of the plain. 
 
 Low the dauntless earl is laid, 
 
 Gored with many a gaping wound : 
 
 Fate demands a nobler head ; 
 
 Soon a king shall bite the ground. 
 
 Long his loss shall Eiriu weep. 
 Ne'er again his hkencss see ; 
 
 Long her strains in sorrow steep; 
 Strains of immortaUty ! 
 
 Horror covers all the heath. 
 Clouds of carnage blot the sun. 
 
 Sisters, weave the web of death ; 
 Sisters, eease ; the work is done. 
 
 Hail tlie task, and hail the hands ! 
 
 Songs of joy and triumph sing! 
 Joy to the victorious bands ; 
 
 Triunipli to the younger king. 
 
 Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, 
 Learn the tenor of our song. 
 
 Scotland, tlirough each winding vale 
 Far and wide tlie notes prolong. 
 
 Sisters, hence with spurs of speed : 
 Each her thundering falcliion wield ; 
 
 Eaeli bestride her sable steed. 
 Hurry, hurry to the field ! 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COnNTET CHUECHYAED, 
 
 TiiK curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
 The lowing lierd winds slowly o'er the lea. 
 
 The [)loughnian homeward plods his weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 And drowsy tiuklings lull the distant folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
 The moping owl docs to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
 Where heaves tlic turf in many a mouldering 
 heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built 
 shed. 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 
 
 No eliildren run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
 stroke. 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour: 
 
 The ]iaths 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, 
 
 Wliere 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 flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with jelestial fire ; 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might liave swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 B.ich with tlie spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 
 
 Chill jicnury repressed their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Eull many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark nnfatiiomed caves of ocean bear : 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless 
 breast. 
 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood. 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
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 CEASE, RUDE BOREAS, BLUSTERING RAILEE! 
 
 397 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Tlicir lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
 fined ; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quencli the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and jn-ide 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Frir from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 
 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet even tliese bones from insult to protect. 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
 decked. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered 
 j\Iuse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text ax-ound she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfuluess a prey, 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
 Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
 Some pious drops the closing eye i-equires ; 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 
 E'en in our ashes live tlieir wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the nnhonored dead. 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brusliing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 
 
 " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Muttcrinc; his wavward fancies he would rove ; 
 
 Now droojiing, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 " One morn I jnissed him on the customed hill. 
 Along I he heath, and near his favorite tree; 
 
 Anotlicr came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 
 
 " The next, with dirges due in sad arl-ay, 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
 bonie : — 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst I'cad) the lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 
 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. 
 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
 
 He gave to misery (all he had) a tear. 
 
 He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) 
 a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
 
 (There tliey alike in trembling hope repose), 
 Tlie bosom of liis Father and his God. 
 
 GEORGE ALEXANDER STEPHENS. 
 
 1780(0-1784. 
 
 CEASE, EUDE BOEEAS, BLUSTEEHfO BAILEE! 
 
 Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railcr ! 
 
 List, ye landsmen, all to me. 
 Messmates, hear a brother sailor 
 
 Sing the dangers of the sea ; 
 From bounding billows, first in motion. 
 
 When tlic distant whirlwinds rise. 
 To the tempest-troubled ocean. 
 
 Where the seas contend with skies. 
 
 Hark ! the boatswain hoarsely bawling. 
 
 By topsail-sheets and haulyards stand ! 
 Down top-gallants quick be hauling, 
 
 Down your staysails, hand, boys, hand ! 
 Now it freshens, set the braces. 
 
 Quick the topsail -sheets let go ; 
 Luff, boys. In fi'! don't make wry faces, 
 
 Up your topsails nimbly clew. 
 * * * 
 
 The top sail-yard point to the wind, boys, 
 See all clear to reef each course ; 
 
 Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys, 
 Thougli the weather shoidd be worse. 
 
 ■^. 
 
a- 
 
 398 
 
 MERRICK. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Fore and aft. the spritsail-yard get, 
 
 Reef the mizzen, see all clear; 
 Hands up ! each preventive brace set ! 
 
 Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer ! 
 
 Now the dreadful thunder 's roaring 
 
 Peal on peal contending clash. 
 On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, 
 
 In our eyes blue lightnings flash. 
 One wide water all around us, 
 
 All above us one black sky ; 
 Different deaths at once surround us : 
 
 Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? 
 
 Tlie foremast 's gone, cries every tongue out. 
 
 O'er tlie lee, twelve feet 'bove deck ; 
 A leak beneath the chest-tree 's sprung out. 
 
 Call all hands to clear the wreck. 
 Quick the lanyards cut to pieces ; 
 
 Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ; 
 Plumb the well, — the leak increases, 
 
 Four feet water in the hold ! 
 
 While o'er tlie ship wild waves are beating. 
 
 We our wives and children mourn ; 
 Alas ! from hence tliere 's no retreating, 
 
 Alas ! to them there 's no return ! 
 Still the leak is gaining on us ! 
 
 Both chain-pumps are choked below : 
 Heaven have mercy here upon us ! 
 
 For only that can save us now. 
 
 O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys, 
 
 Let the guns o'crl)oard be thrown ; 
 To the pumps call every hand, boys. 
 
 See ! our mizzeumast is gone. 
 The leak we 've found it cannot pour fast ; 
 
 We 've lighted her a foot or more ; 
 Up and rig a jury foremast. 
 
 She rights ! she rights, boys ! we 're off 
 shore. 
 
 JAMES MERRICK. 
 
 1730-1709. 
 
 THE CHAMELEON. 
 
 Oft has it been my lot to mark 
 A proud, conceited, talking spark. 
 With eyes tliat hardly served at most 
 To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 
 Yet round the world the blade has been. 
 To sec whatever coidd be seen. 
 Returning from his finished tour. 
 Grown ten times pcrtcr than before ; 
 Whatever word you ciiancc to drop, 
 The travelled fool your mouth will sto)i : 
 
 " Sir, if my judgment you '11 allow — 
 I 've seen — and sure I ought to know." 
 So begs you 'd pay a due submission. 
 And acquiesce in bis decision. 
 
 Two travellers of such a cast, 
 As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, 
 And on their way, in friendly chat. 
 Now talked of this, and then of that ; 
 Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. 
 Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
 "A stranger animal," cries one, 
 " Sure never lived beneath the sun : 
 A lizard's body lean and long, 
 A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
 Its foot with triple claw disjoined ; 
 And what a length of tail behind ! 
 How slow its pace ! and then its hue, — 
 Who ever saw so fine a blue ? " 
 
 " Hold there," the other quick replies, 
 " 'T is green, I saw it with these eyes, 
 As late with open mouth it lay. 
 And warmed it in the sunny ray ; 
 Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, 
 And saw it eat the air for food." 
 
 " I 've seen it, sir, as well as you. 
 And must again aflirm it blue ; 
 At leisure I the beast surveyed 
 Extended in the cooling shade." 
 
 " 'Tis green, 't is green, sir, I assure ye." 
 " Green ! " cries the other in a fury ; 
 " T\liy, sir, d' ye think I 've lost my eyes ? " 
 " 'T were no great loss," the friend replies ; 
 " For if they always sciTC you thus, 
 You '11 find them but of little use." 
 
 So high at last the contest rose. 
 From w'ords they almost came to blows : 
 When luckily came by a third ; 
 To liim the question they referred ; 
 And begged he 'd tell them, if he knew. 
 Whether the thing was green or blue. 
 
 " Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother ; 
 The creature 's neither one nor t' ot her. 
 I caught the animal last night, 
 And viewed it o'er by candlelight ; 
 I marked it well, 't was black as jet — ' 
 You stare — but, sirs, I 've got it yet, 
 And can produce it." " Pray, sir, do ; 
 I '11 lav my life the thing is blue." 
 " And I "11 be sworn, tiiat when you 'vc seen 
 The reptile, you '11 pronounce him green." 
 " Well, tiien, at once to ease the doubt," 
 Rejjlics the man, " I '11 turn liini out; 
 And when before your eyes I 've set him. 
 If you don't find him black, I '11 cat him." 
 
 He said ; and full before their siglit 
 Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'I was white. 
 Both stared; the man looked wondrous wise — 
 
 ■w 
 
f 
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY, 
 
 399 
 
 ■fO 
 
 ^ 
 
 " My cliildren," the chameleon cries 
 (Then first the creature found a tongue), 
 " You all are right, and all are wrong : 
 "nHien next you talk of what you view. 
 Think otliers see as well as you : 
 Nor wonder if you find that none 
 Prefers your eyesight to his own." 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 1721-1759. 
 
 ODE ON THE POETICAL CaiKACTEE. 
 
 As once, — if, not with liglit regard, 
 I read aright that gifted bard, 
 
 — Him whose school above the rest 
 His loveliest ellin queen has blest; — 
 One, only one, unriv ailed * fair. 
 Might liope the magic girdle wear, 
 At solemn tourney hung on high. 
 The wish of each love-darting eye ; 
 
 — Lo ! to each other nympli, in turn, applied. 
 As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand. 
 
 Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame. 
 With wliispered speU had burst the starting 
 band. 
 
 It left unblest her loathed dishonored side ; 
 Happier, hopeless Fair, if never 
 Her baffled hand, with vain endeavor. 
 
 Had touclied that fatal zone to her denied ! 
 
 Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, 
 To whom, prepared and batiied in heaven, 
 The cest of amplest power is given : 
 To few the godlike gift assigns. 
 To gird their blest prophetic loins. 
 
 And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her 
 flame ! 
 
 Tiie band, as fairy legends say, 
 
 Was wove on that creating day, 
 
 When He, who called with thought to birth 
 
 Yon tented sky, this laughuig earth. 
 
 And dressed witli sinings and forests tall, 
 
 And poured tlie main engirting all. 
 
 Long by the loved enthusiast wooed. 
 
 Himself in some diviner mood. 
 
 Retiring, sat with her alone. 
 
 And jtlaced her on liis sa]iphire throne ; 
 
 The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, 
 
 Serapiiie wires were heard to sound. 
 
 Now snhlimest triumpii swelling. 
 
 Now on love and mercy dwelling ; 
 
 And she, from out the veiling cloud, 
 
 Breathed her magic notes aloud : 
 
 Aud thou, thou rich-haired youth of mom, 
 
 * Flovimcl. See Spenser, Leg. 4th. 
 
 And all thy subject life was born ! 
 The dangerous passions keep aloof, 
 Far from the sainted growing woof: 
 But near it sat ecstatic Wonder, 
 Listening the deep ajiplauding thunder ; 
 And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed. 
 By whose the tarsel's eyes were made ; 
 All the shadowy tribes of mind, 
 In braided dance, their murmurs joined, 
 Aud all the bright uncounted powers 
 Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers. 
 — Where is the bard whose soul can now 
 Its high presuming iiopes avow ? 
 Wliere lie who thinks, with rapture blind. 
 This hallowed work for him designed ? 
 
 High on some cliff, to heaven up-piled. 
 
 Of rude access, of prospect wild. 
 
 Where, tangled round the jealous steep. 
 
 Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep. 
 
 And holy Genii guard the rock. 
 
 Its glooms embro-wn, its springs unlock. 
 
 While on its rich ambitious head. 
 
 An Eden, like his own, lies spread : 
 
 I view that oak, the fancied glades among. 
 
 By which, as MUton lay, his evening ear, 
 
 From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew. 
 
 Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could 
 
 hear ; 
 On which that ancient trump he reached was 
 hung : 
 
 Thither oft, his glory greeting. 
 
 From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, 
 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 Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers. 
 Have now o'ertnrued the inspiring bowers : 
 Or curtained close such scene from every future 
 view. 
 
 ODE TO LIBEETY. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 Who shall awake the Spartan fife. 
 
 And call in solemn sounds to life 
 The youths, whose locks divinely spreading. 
 
 Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue. 
 At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, 
 
 Applauding Freedom loved of old to view ? 
 What new Alcieus, fancy-blest, 
 Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest. 
 
 At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, 
 (What place so fit to seal a deed renowned ?) 
 
 TiU she her brightest lightrdngs round reveal- 
 ing, 
 
 It leaped in glory forth, and dealt her prompted 
 wound ! 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 400 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 O goddess, ill tliat feeling hour, 
 When most its sounds would eourt thy ears, 
 
 Let not my shell's misguided power 
 E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. 
 No, Freedom, no, I will not tell 
 How Home, before thy weeping face, 
 With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, 
 Pushed by a wild and artless race 
 From off its wide ambitious base, 
 ^yiien Time his northern sons of spoil awoke. 
 And all the blended work of strength and grace, 
 With many a rude repeated stroke. 
 And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments 
 broke. 
 
 EPODE. 
 
 Yet, even where'er the least appeared, 
 Tiic admiring world thy hand revered; 
 Still, midst tlie scattered states around, 
 Some remnants of her strength were found ; 
 They saw, by what escaped the storm. 
 How wondrous rose her perfect form ; 
 How in the great, the labored whole, 
 Each mighty master poured his soid ! 
 For sunny Florence, seat of art, 
 Beneath her vines preserved a part, 
 Till they,' whom Science loved to name, 
 (O, who could fear it ?) quenched her flame. 
 And lo, an humbler relic laid 
 In jealous Pisa's olive shade ! 
 See small Marino" joins the theme, 
 Tiiough least, not last in tliy esteem ; 
 Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings 
 To those,' whose merchant sons were kings ; 
 To him,' who, decked with pearly pride. 
 In Adria weds his green-iiaired bride ; 
 Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure. 
 Ne'er let me eiuuige this Lydian measure : 
 Nor e'er her former pride relate, 
 To sad Liguria's^ bleeding state. 
 Ah no ! more pleased tliy haunts I seek, 
 On wild Helvetia's' mountains bleak 
 (Where, when tiie favored of thy choice, 
 The daring arciier heard thy voice ; 
 Forth from his eyry roused in dread, 
 The ravening eagle northward fled) : 
 Or dwell in wiUowed meads more near. 
 With those to whom thy stork' is dear: 
 Those whom the rod of Alva bruised, 
 Wliose crown a British queen' refused ! 
 Tiie magic works, thou feel'st the sU'ains, 
 One holier name alone remains ; 
 Tiic perfect spell shall tlien avail. 
 Hail, nymph adored by Britain, hail ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 I The family of the Mcdiei. • The l>o:^c of Venice. 
 
 * The little repuhlie of San Mnrino. ^ Genoa. 
 ' The Vcnftinna. ° Switzerland. 
 
 ^ The IHitch, amongst whom there are very severe penalties 
 for those who are eoinicled of killing; tlu3 bird, 
 e Queen F.lizalicth. 
 
 ANTISTBOPHE. 
 
 Beyond the measure vast of thought, 
 The works the wizard time has wrought ! 
 
 The Gaul, 't is held of antique story. 
 Saw Britain Unked to his now adverse strand,' 
 No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary. 
 He passed with unwet feet through all our land. 
 To the blown Baltic then, they say, 
 The wild waves found another way, 
 Where Oreas howls, his wolfish mountains round- 
 ing ; 
 Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, 
 A wide wild storm even nature's self confounding, 
 Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth 
 surprise. 
 This pillared earth so firm and wide. 
 By winds and inward labors torn. 
 In thunders dread was pushed aside. 
 
 And down the shouldering billows borne. 
 And see, like gems, her laughing train. 
 
 The little isles on every side, 
 Mona," once hid from those whose arch the main. 
 
 Where thousand elfin shapes abide. 
 And Wight, who checks the westering tide, 
 
 For thee consenting Heaven has eacii bestowed, 
 A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : 
 
 To thee this blest divorce she owed, 
 For thou iiast made her vales thy loved, thy last 
 abode ! 
 
 SECOND EPODE. 
 
 Then too, 't is said, an hoary pile. 
 Midst the green navel of our isle. 
 Thy shrine in some religious wood, 
 soul-enforcing goddess, stood ! 
 There oft the painted native's feet 
 Were wont thy form celestial meet : 
 Though now with hopeless toil we trace 
 Time's backward rolls, to find its place ; 
 Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, 
 Or Koman's self o'erturned the fane. 
 Or in what Heaven-left age it fell, 
 'T were hard for modern song to tell. 
 Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse, 
 Wiicli guide at once, and charm the Muse, 
 Beyond yon braided clouds thatjie, 
 Paving the li,ght embroidered .sky, 
 Amidst the bright pavilioned jilaius, 
 The beauteous model still renuiius. 
 There, happier than in islands blest, 
 Or bowers by sjiring or Hebe drest, 
 The chiefs who fill our Albion's story. 
 In warlike weeds, retired in glory. 
 Hear tlicir consorted Uruids sing 
 Their triumphs to the iinmortul string. 
 How may the poet now unfold 
 
 1 This tradition is mentioned by several of our old histo- 
 rians. 
 
 ^ Isir of Man. 
 
 9> 
 
a- 
 
 ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 401 
 
 -ft) 
 
 ^ 
 
 What never tongue or numbers told ? 
 How learn deliglited, and amazed, 
 What liauds unknown that fabric raised ? 
 Even now before his favored eyes. 
 In Gothic pride, it seems to rise ! 
 Yet Grajcia's graceful orders join, 
 Majestic through the mixed design : 
 The secret builder knew to choose 
 Each sphere-found gem of richest hues ; 
 llTiatc'cr heaven's purer mould contains, 
 When nearer suns emblaze its veins ; 
 There on the walls the patriot's sight 
 May ever hang with fi'esh delight, 
 And, graved with some prophetic rage. 
 Read Albion's fame through every age. 
 
 Ye forms divine, ye laureat band. 
 That near her inmost altar stand ! 
 Now soothe her to her blissful train 
 Blithe Concord's .social form to gain ; 
 Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep 
 Even Anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep ; 
 Before whose breathing bosom's balm 
 Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm; 
 Her let our sires and matrons hoar 
 Welcome to Britain's ravaged shore ; 
 Our youths, enamored of the fair, 
 Play with the tangles of her hair, 
 TUl, in one loud applauding sound, 
 The nations shout to her around, 
 O, how supremely art thou blest. 
 Thou, lady, — thou shalt rule the west ! 
 
 HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE, WHO SINK TO BEST, 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest. 
 By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 
 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. 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
 And Freedoifl shall awhile repair, 
 To dwcU a weeping liermit there ! 
 
 ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 
 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear. 
 
 Like thy own brawhng springs. 
 
 Thy springs, and dying gales ; 
 
 O Nymph reserved, while now Ihe bright-haired 
 
 sun 
 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts. 
 
 With brede ethereal wove, 
 O'erhang his wavy bed : 
 
 Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
 With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing ; 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 
 As oft he rises midst the twUigbt path. 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : 
 Now teach me, maid composed. 
 To breathe some softened strain, 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through tby darkening 
 
 vale. 
 May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 
 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial loved return ! 
 
 For when thy folding-star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
 
 The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
 
 Who slept in buds the day. 
 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows 
 
 with sedge, 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and, loveUer still. 
 
 The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
 Or find some ruin, midst its dreary dells. 
 
 Whose walls more awful nod 
 
 By thy religious gleams. 
 
 Or, if chiU blustering winds or driving raiu 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
 That, from the mountam's side. 
 Views wUds, and swelling floods. 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires ; 
 And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 
 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 
 The gradual dusky veU. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he 
 
 wont. 
 And batlie thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 
 
 While Summer loves to sport 
 
 Beneath thy Ungeriug hght ; 
 
 Wliile sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 
 
 Affrights thy shrinking train. 
 
 And rudely rends thy robes ; 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 
 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own. 
 
 And love thy favorite name ! 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 402 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 THE PASSIONS. 
 
 AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 ^- 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 AV'liile yet in early Greece she sung. 
 The Passions oft, to hear her sliell. 
 Thronged around her magic cell, 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possest beyond the Muse's painting : 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturbed, deUghted, raised, refined; 
 Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, 
 Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
 From the supportijig myrtles round 
 They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
 Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 
 First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
 
 Amid the chords bewildered laid. 
 And back recoiled, he knew not why, 
 
 E'en at the sound himseU' had made. 
 
 Next Anger rushed ; his eyes on flre, 
 In lightnings owned his secret stings : 
 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woful measures wan Despair 
 Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 
 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. 
 
 But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. 
 
 What was thy delighted measure ? 
 
 Still it whispered promised pleasure. 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
 She called on Echo still, through all the song ; 
 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every 
 close. 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her 
 
 golden hair. 
 And longer had she sung ; — but, with a frown. 
 
 Revenge impatient rose : 
 He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, 
 down ; 
 And, with a withering look. 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 Were ne'er ]u-ophctie sounds so full of woe ! 
 And ever and anon he beat 
 Tlic dfuibliiig drum witli furious heat ; 
 And tiio\igh sometimes, each dreary pause be- 
 tween, 
 
 Dejected Pity, at his side. 
 Her sou!-sul)duing voice applied, 
 Yet still he kept his wild uualtered mien, 
 While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
 from his head. 
 
 Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed ; 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
 Of tlifl'ering themes the veering song was mixed ; 
 
 And now it courted Love, now raving, called 
 on Hate. 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 
 
 Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
 
 And from her wild sequestered seat. 
 
 In notes by distance made more sweet. 
 
 Poured through the mellow horn lier pensive sold : 
 And, dashing soft from rocks around. 
 Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled measure 
 stole. 
 Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay. 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of peace, and lonely musing. 
 In hollow murnuirs died away. 
 
 But 0, how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
 Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 
 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
 Tiie hunter's call, to Faun aud Dryad known ! 
 
 The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed 
 queen. 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 
 
 And Sport leapt up and seized his beechen spear. 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 
 He, with viny crown advancing. 
 
 First to the lively pipe his h.aud addrest ; 
 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the 
 best; 
 
 They woiild 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 kissed the strings, 
 Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
 And he, amidst his frolic play. 
 As if lie would the charming air repay. 
 
 Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 
 
 O Jfusic ! sphere-descended maid. 
 Friend of Pleasnce, Wisdom's aid ! 
 Wliy, goddess ! why, to us denied, 
 Lay'st thou tliy ancient lyre aside ? 
 As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 EPISTLE TO SIR THOMAS HANMEK. 
 
 •403 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 You learued an all-coramandiug power, 
 Thy mimic soul, O Nympli endeared, 
 Cau well recall what then it heard ; 
 Wiiere is thy native simple heart, 
 Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
 Arise, as in that elder time. 
 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 
 Fill thy recording sister's page ; 
 'T is said, and I believe the tale, 
 Th\ humblest reed could more prevail. 
 Had more of strengtli, diviner rage, 
 Than all which charms this laggard age ; 
 E'en all at once together found, 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound, — 
 0, bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
 Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
 Return in aU thy simple state ; 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. 
 
 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. 
 
 In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
 His airy harp* shall now be laid. 
 
 That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds. 
 May love through life the soothing shade. 
 
 Then maids and youths shall linger here. 
 And while its sounds at distance swell. 
 
 Shall sadly seem in pity's ear 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's kneU. 
 
 Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, 
 
 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 whitening spire, t 
 
 And mid the varied landscape weep. 
 
 But thou, who own'st that earthly bed. 
 Ah ! what will every dirge avail ; 
 
 Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, 
 That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? 
 
 Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 
 
 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? 
 
 With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die. 
 And Joy desert the blooming year. 
 
 * The harp of ^olus, of which see a description in tlie 
 Castle of Indolence. 
 t Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried. 
 
 But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
 No sedge-crowned sisters now attend. 
 
 Now waft me from the green bill's side. 
 Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 
 
 And see, the fairy valleys fade ; 
 
 Dun night has veiled the solemn view ! 
 Yet once again, dear parted shade. 
 
 Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! 
 
 The genial meads,* assigned to bless 
 Tliy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 
 
 Their hinds and shepherd-girls shaD dress. 
 With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 
 
 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
 Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : 
 
 vales and wildwoods, shall he say. 
 In yonder grave your Druid lies ! 
 
 TASSO AND HIS ENGLISH TEACfSLATOR. 
 
 In scenes like these, which, daring to depart 
 
 From sober truth, are still to nature true. 
 
 And call forth fresh deUght to Fancy's view. 
 The heroic muse employed her Tasso's art ! 
 
 How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's 
 stroke. 
 Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured ! 
 
 Wiien each live plant with mortal accents spoke, 
 And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword ! 
 
 How have I sat, when piped tlie pensive wind. 
 To hear his harp by Britisli Fairfax strung ! 
 
 Prevailing poet ! whose undoubting mind 
 Believed the magic wonders which he sung ! 
 
 Hence, at each sound, imagination glows ! 
 Hence, at each pictui'e, vivid life starts here ! 
 
 Hence liis warm lay with softest sweetness 
 flows ! 
 Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and 
 
 clear. 
 And fills the impassioned heart, and wins the 
 harmonious ear ! 
 
 EPISTLE TO SIE THOMAS HANMER. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Wliile, bora to bring the Muse's happier days 
 A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays, 
 Wliile nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom. 
 Green and unwithercd o'er bis honored tomb ; 
 Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell 
 What secret transports in licr bosom swell : 
 With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame, 
 And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's 
 name. 
 
 * Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Richmond some 
 time before his death. 
 
 4> 
 
cfi- 
 
 40i 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Hard was the lot those injured strains endured, 
 Unowned by Science, and by years obscured : 
 Fair Fancy wept ; and echoing sighs confessed 
 A lixcd despair in every tuneful breast. 
 Not witli more grief the aflhctcd swains appear, 
 When wintry winds deform tlie plenteous year ; 
 "Wlien lingering frosts tlic ruined seats invade 
 "Where Peace restored, and the Graces played. 
 
 Each rising art by just gradation moves, 
 Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves : 
 The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage, 
 And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage. 
 Preserved through time, the speaking scenes 
 
 impart 
 Each changeful wish of Phaedra's tortured heart ; 
 Or paint the curse that mai-ked the Thebau's * 
 
 reign, 
 A bed incestuous, and a father slain. 
 With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow. 
 Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe. 
 
 To Rome removed, with wit secure to please, 
 Tlie comic Sisters kept their native ease : 
 With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld 
 Her own Menander's art almost excelled ; 
 But every Muse essayed to raise in vain 
 Some labored rival of her tragic strain : 
 Ilissus' laurels, though transferred with toil, 
 Drooped their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly 
 soil. 
 
 As Ai'ts expired, resistless dulness rose ; 
 Goths, Priests, or Vandals, — all were Learning's 
 
 foes. 
 Till Julius t first recalled each exiled maid. 
 And Cosmo owned tliem in the Etrurian sliade : 
 Then, deeply skilled in love's engaging theme. 
 The soft Provenfal passed to Arno's stream : 
 With graceful ease tlie wanton lyre he strung; 
 Sweet llowcd the lays — but love was all lie sung. 
 The gay descrijition could not fail to move. 
 For, led by nature, all are friends to love. 
 
 'But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed 
 The perfect boast of time should last succeed. 
 The beauteous union iiiust appear at length, 
 Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength : 
 One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn. 
 And e'en a Shakespeare to her fame be born ! 
 
 Yet ah ! so bright her morning's opening ray, 
 Li vain our Britain hoped an equal day ! 
 No second growth the western isle could bear, 
 At once exhausted with too rich a year. 
 Too nicely Jonsoii knew the critic's part ; 
 Nature in him was almost lost in art. 
 
 * The (Edipus of Sophocles. 
 
 t Julius the Seeond. the inimediatc prcJeccssor of Leo the 
 Tenth. 
 
 Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came. 
 The next in order, as the next m name ; 
 With pleased attention, midst his scenes we find 
 Each glowing thought that warms the female 
 
 mind ; 
 Each melting sigh, and every tender tear ; 
 The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear. 
 His every strain the smiles and graces own ; 
 But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone : 
 Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand 
 The unrivalled picture of his early hand. 
 
 With gradual steps and slow, exaeter France 
 Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance : 
 By length of toil a bright perfection knew. 
 Correctly bold, aud just in all she drew : 
 Till late Corneille, with Lucau's spirit fired. 
 Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired; 
 And classic judgment gained to sweet Racine 
 The temperate strength of Maro's chaster hue. 
 
 ]5ut wilder far the British laurel spread. 
 And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. 
 Yet he alone to every scene could give 
 The historian's truth, and bid the manners live. 
 Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise, 
 IMajestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. 
 There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms, 
 And laurelled Conquest waits her hero's arms. 
 Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh, 
 Scarce born to honors, and so soon to die ! 
 Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring 
 No beam of comfort to the guilty king: 
 The time shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall 
 
 bleed, 
 In life's last hours, with horror of the deed ; 
 When dreary visions shall at last present 
 Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent : 
 Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear. 
 Blunt the weak sword, and break t he oppressive 
 
 spear ! 
 
 Where'er we turn, by Fancy charmed, we find 
 Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. 
 Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove. 
 With humbler nature, in the rural grove ; 
 Where swains contented own the quiet scene, 
 And twilight fairies tread the circled green: 
 Dressed by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, 
 And Spring dilVusivc decks the enchanted isle. 
 
 0, more than all in powerful genius blest. 
 Come, take thine empire o'er Ihe willing breast ! 
 Wliate'cr the wounds this youthful heart shall 
 
 feel, 
 Thy songs supjiort me, and thy morals heal ! 
 There every thouglit the poet's warmth may raise. 
 There native music dwells in all the lays. 
 O, might some verse with happiest skill persuade | 
 
cfi- 
 
 ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 405 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 ' Expressive picture to adojft thine aid ! 
 What wondrous draughts might rise from every 
 
 page! 
 What other Raphaels charm a distant age ! 
 
 Methiuks e'en now I view some free design, 
 Where breatlihig Nature lives in every line : 
 Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay. 
 Steal into shades, and mildly melt away. 
 And see where Antony,* in tears approved. 
 Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved : 
 O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend. 
 Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murdered 
 
 friend ! 
 Still as they press, he calls on all around, 
 Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding 
 
 wound. 
 
 But who t is he, wliose brows exalted bear 
 A wrath impatient and a fiercer air ? 
 Awake to all that injured worth can feel, 
 On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel; 
 Yet shall not War's insatiate fury fall 
 (So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall. 
 See the fond mother, midst the plaintive train. 
 Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain ! 
 Touched to the soul, in vain he strives to hide 
 The son's affection in the Roman's pride : 
 O'er all the man conflicting passions rise ; 
 Rage grasps the sword, wliile pity melts the eyes. 
 
 Thus, generous Critic, as thy bard inspires. 
 The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires ; 
 Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring. 
 Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string : 
 Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind 
 (For poets ever were a careless kind), 
 By thee disposed, no farther toil demand. 
 But, just to nature, own thy forming hand. 
 
 So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole 
 unknown. 
 E'en Homer's numbers charmed by parts alone. 
 Their own Ulysses scarce had wandered more. 
 By winds and waters cast on every shoi"e : 
 When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer joined 
 Each beauteous image of the boundless mind ; 
 And bade, hke thee, his Athens ever claim 
 A fond alUauce with the poet's name. 
 
 DIKGE IN CYMBELINE, 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 
 
 And rifle all the breathing spring. 
 
 No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 
 
 * See the tragedy of Julius C:esar. + Corioinims. 
 
 But shepherd lads assemble here, 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 No withered witch shall here be seen ; 
 
 No goblins lead their nightly crew: 
 The female fays shall haunt the green, 
 
 And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! 
 
 The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 
 Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
 
 With hoary moss, and gathered (lowers. 
 To deck the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howUng winds and beating rain 
 In tempests shake the sylvan cell ; 
 
 Or midst the chase, on every plain. 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; 
 
 Each lonely scene shall thee restore ; 
 
 For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved till life can charm no more. 
 
 And mourned till Pity's seU^ be dead. 
 
 TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 
 
 1721-1771. 
 
 ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 TiiY spirit, Independence, let me share, 
 Lord of the Uou heart and eagle eye ; 
 Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare. 
 Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. 
 Deep in the frozen regions of the north 
 A goddess violated brought thee forth. 
 Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime 
 Hath bleached the tyrant's cheek in every vary- 
 ing chme. 
 What time the iron-hearted Gaul, 
 With frantic superstition for his guide. 
 Armed with the dagger and the pall. 
 The sons of Woden to the field defied 
 The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood, 
 In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow ; 
 And red the stream began to flow : 
 The vanquished were baptized with blood ! 
 
 ANTI STROPHE. 
 
 The Saxon prince in horror fled 
 From altars stained with human gore. 
 And Liberty his routed legions led 
 In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. 
 There in a cave asleep she lay. 
 Lulled by the hoarse-resounding main. 
 When a bold savage passed that way. 
 Impelled by destiny, his name Disdain. 
 Of ample front the portly chief appeared : 
 
 i 
 
a- 
 
 406 
 
 SMOLLETT. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest ; 
 
 The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard, 
 
 And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. 
 
 He stopt, he gazed, his bosom glowed. 
 
 And deeply felt the impression of her charms : 
 
 He seized the advantage Fate allowed. 
 
 And straight compressed her in his vigorous arms. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 The curlew screamed, the tritons blew 
 Tlieir shells to celebrate the ravished rite ; 
 Old Time exulted as ho flew. 
 And Independence saw the light. 
 The light he saw in Albion's happy plains, 
 Where, under cover of a flowering thorn. 
 While 'Philomel renewed her warbled strains, 
 The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was 
 
 born — 
 The mountain Dryads seized with joy 
 The smiling infant to their charge consigned ; 
 The Doric muse caressed the favorite boy ; 
 The hermit "V^'isdom stored his opening mind. 
 As rolling years matured his age. 
 He flourished bold and sinewy as liis sire ; 
 While the mild passions in his breast assuage 
 The fiercer flames of his maternal fire. 
 
 ANTI.STBOPHE. 
 
 Accomjilishcd thus, he winged his way, 
 
 And zealous roved from pole to pole. 
 
 The rolls of right eternal to display. 
 
 And warm with patriot thought the aspiring soul. 
 
 On desert isles 't was he that raised 
 
 Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave. 
 
 Where Tyranny beheld amazed 
 
 Fair Freedom's temple, where he marked her 
 
 grave. 
 He steeled the blunt Bata\aau's arms 
 To burst the Iberian's double chain ; 
 And cities reared, and planted farms. 
 Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain. 
 He, W'ith the generous rustics, sat 
 On Uri's rocks iu close divan ; 
 And winged tliat arrow sure as fate. 
 Which ascertained the sacred rights of man. 
 
 STHOPHE. 
 
 Arabia's scorching sands he crossed, 
 
 Wiiere blasted Nature ])auts supine. 
 
 Conductor of her tribes adust. 
 
 To Freedom's adamantine shrine ; 
 
 And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast ! 
 
 He snatched from under fell Oppression's wing. 
 
 And tauglit amidst the di-eary waste, 
 
 The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing. 
 
 He virtue finds, like precious ore, 
 
 Diffused tiirough evex'y baser mould ; 
 
 Even now lie stands on Calvi's rocky shore, 
 
 And turns the dross of Corsica to gold : 
 
 He, guardian genius,' taught my youth 
 
 Pomp's tinsel livery to despise : 
 
 My lips by him chastised to truth. 
 
 Ne'er paid that homage which my heart denies. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Tiiose sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, 
 Where varnished Vice and Vanity combined. 
 To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread. 
 And forge vUe shackles for the free-born mind. 
 While Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, 
 Aud all the flowers of spurious fancy blow; 
 And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears. 
 Full often wreathed around the miscreant's 
 
 brow: 
 Where ever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain. 
 Presents her cup of stale profession's froth ; 
 And pale Disease, with all his bloated train. 
 Torments the sons of Gluttony and Sloth. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 In Fortune's ear behold that rainicm ride, 
 With either India's glittering spoils oppressed. 
 So moves the sumpter-mnle in harnessed pride. 
 That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. 
 For him let venal bards disgrace the l)ay. 
 And hireUng minstrels wake the tinkling strmg ; 
 Her sensual snares let faitldess Pleasure lay. 
 And jingling bells fantastic Folly ring : 
 Disqiuet, doubt, and dread shall intervene; 
 And Nature, stUl to all lier feelings just. 
 In vengeance hang a damp on every scene. 
 Shook i'rom tlie baleful pinions of disgust. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Nature I '11 court in her sequestered luiuuts, 
 By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell ; 
 Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants. 
 And health, aud peace, and contemjilation dwell. 
 There, Study shall with Solitude recline. 
 And Friendship pledge nie to his fcllow-swaius. 
 And Toil and 'Temperance sedately twine 
 The slender cord that fluttering life sustains : 
 Aud fearless Poverty shall guard the door, 
 Aud taste unspoiled the frugal table spread, 
 And industry supply the humble store. 
 And Sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed ; 
 White-mantled Innoccnec, ethereal sprite. 
 Shall chase far off the goblins of the night ; 
 And Independence o'er tiie day preside. 
 Propitious power ! my patron and my pride. 
 
 ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. 
 
 On Levcn's banks, while free to rove, 
 And tune the rural pipe to love, 
 I envied not the happiest swain 
 That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 
 
 Pure stream, iu wluis(> transparent wave 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 TEREOES OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 
 
 407 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 
 No toi-reuts stain thy limpid source. 
 No rocks impede thy dimpling course. 
 That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
 Witli white, rouud, pohslied pebbles spread ; 
 WliUe, liglitly poised, the scaly brood 
 In myriads cleave thy crystal tiood ; 
 The springing trout in speckled pride, 
 Tlie salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
 The ruthless pike, intent on war, 
 Tiie silver eel and mottled par. 
 Devolving from thy parent lake, 
 A charming maze thy waters make, 
 By bowers of Ijirch, and groves of pine, 
 And edges Dowered with eglantine. 
 Still on thy banks so gayly green, 
 Jlay numerous herds and flocks be seen : 
 And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 
 And shepherds piping in the dale ; 
 And ancient Faith tliat knows no guile, 
 And Industry embrowned with toil ; 
 And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
 The blessings they enjoy to guai'd ! 
 
 THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.* 
 
 Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mouni 
 Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn ! 
 Thy sons, for valor long renowned. 
 Lie slaughtered on their native ground ; 
 Thy hospitable roofs no more 
 Invite tlic stranger to the door ; 
 In smoky ruins sunk tiiey lie, 
 The monuments of cruelty. 
 
 Tlio wretclied owner sees afar 
 His all become the prey of war ; 
 Betlunks him of his babes and wife, 
 Tiien smites his breast, and curses life. 
 Thy swains are famished on the rocks. 
 Where once they fed their wanton flocks ; 
 Tliy ravished virgins shriek in vain ; 
 Tliy infants perish on the plain. 
 
 What boots it, then, in every clime. 
 Through the w-ide-spreading waste of time. 
 Thy martial glory, crowned with praise. 
 Still shone with undiminished blaze ? 
 Tliy towering spirit now is broke. 
 Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
 Wliat foreign arms could never quell, 
 By civil rage and rancor fell. 
 
 * Written on the barbarities committed in the Highlands by 
 order of the Duke of Cumbei-Iand, after the battle of CuUoden, 
 1716- Smollett was then a surgeon's mate, newly returned 
 from service abi-oad. It is said that he originally finished the 
 poem in six stanzas; when, some oue representing that such a 
 diatribe against government might injiu'e his prospects, he sat 
 down and added the still more pointed invective of the seventh 
 stanza. 
 
 The rural pipe and merry lay 
 No more shall cheer the happy day ; 
 No social scenes of gay deUght 
 Begiule the dreary winter night ; 
 No strains but those of sorrow flow. 
 And naught be heard but sounds of woe. 
 While the pale phantoms of the slain 
 GUde nightly o'er the silent plain. 
 
 O baneful cause, O fatal morn. 
 Accursed to ages yet unborn ! 
 The sons against their father stood. 
 The parent shed his children's blood. 
 Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, 
 Tlie victor's soul was not appeased : 
 The luiked and forlorn must feel 
 Devouring flames and murdering steel ! 
 
 The pious mother, doomed to death. 
 Forsaken wanders o'er the hetith, 
 The bleak wind wiiistles round her head. 
 Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
 Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 
 She views the shades of night descend : 
 And, stretched beneath the inclement slues. 
 Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 
 
 While the warm blood bedews my veins. 
 And unimpaired remembrance reigns, 
 Resentment of my country's fate 
 Withiu my filial breast shall beat ; 
 And, s])ite of her insulting foe. 
 My sympathizing verse shall flow : 
 " Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
 Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn." 
 
 THOMAS BLACKLOCK.* 
 
 1781-1791. 
 
 TERRORS OF A GUILTY OONSCrENOE. 
 
 Cursed with unnumbered groundless fears. 
 
 How ptile yon shivering wretch appears ! 
 
 For him the dayUght shines in vain. 
 
 For liim the fields no joys contain ; 
 
 Nature's whole charms to him are lost. 
 
 No more the woods their music boast ; 
 
 No more the meads their vernal bloom. 
 
 No more the gales their rich perfume : 
 
 Impending mists deform the sky. 
 
 And beauty withers in his eye. 
 
 In hopes his terrors to elude. 
 
 By day he mingles with the crowd. 
 
 Yet finds his soul to fears a prey. 
 
 In busy crowds and open day. 
 
 If night his lonely walks surprise, 
 
 * The blind poet. 
 
 ^ 
 
408 
 
 GRAINGER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Wliat horrid visions round him rise ! 
 The blasted oak which meets his way, 
 Shown by the meteor's sudden ray, 
 The midnight murderer's lone retreat 
 Pelt Heaven's avengeful bolt of late ; 
 The clashing chain, the groan profound, 
 Lond from yon ruined tower resound ; 
 And now the spot he seems to tread, 
 Wliere some self-slaughtered corse was laid ; 
 He feels fixed earth beneath him bend. 
 Deep murmurs from ber caves ascend ; 
 Till all his soul, by fancy swayed. 
 Sees livid phantoms crowd the shade. 
 
 THE PORTKAIT. 
 
 Straight is my person, but of little size ; 
 Lean are my checks, and hollow are my eyes ; 
 My youthful down is, like my talents, rare ; 
 Politely distant stands each siugle hair. 
 My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear ; 
 So smooth, a child may listen without fear : 
 Not formed iu cadence soft and warbling lays, 
 To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton 
 
 ways. 
 My form so fine, so regular, so new. 
 My port so manly, and so fresh my hue ; 
 Oft, as I meet the crowd, they, laughing, say, 
 " See, see Memento Mori cross the way." 
 Tlie ravished Proserpine at last, we know. 
 Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau ; 
 But, thanks to nature ! none from me need fly. 
 One heart the devil could wound, — so cannot I. 
 
 Yet though my person fearless may be seen, 
 There is some danger in my graceful mien : 
 Por, as some vessel, tossed by wind and tide. 
 Bounds o'er the waves, and rocks from side to 
 
 side, 
 In just vibration thus I always move : 
 This wlio can view and not be forced to love ? 
 
 Hail, charming self ! by whose propitious aid 
 My form in all its glory stands displayed : 
 Be present still ; with inspiration kind. 
 Let the same faithful colors paint the mind. 
 
 Like all mankind, with vanity I 'm blessed. 
 Conscious of wit I never yet possessed. 
 To strong desires my heart an easy prey. 
 Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. 
 This hour,. perhaps, as death I hate my foe ; 
 The next I wonder why I should do so. 
 Though poor, the rich I view witli careless eye ; 
 Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. 
 I ne'er for satire torture common sense ; 
 Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. 
 Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown ; 
 Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. 
 Unmerited contempt 1 hate to bear ; 
 Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. 
 
 Dishonest flames my bosom never fire ; 
 The bad I pity, and the good admire : 
 Pcnid of the Muse, to her devote my days. 
 And scribble, not for pudding, but for praise. 
 
 DR. JAMES GRAINGER. 
 
 1731 (?)- 1766. 
 
 ODE TO SOLITITDE.* 
 
 Solitude, romantic maid ! 
 Whether by nodding towers you tread, 
 Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom. 
 Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,. 
 Or climb the Andes' elifted side. 
 Or by the Nile's coy source abide. 
 Or starting from your half-year's sleep. 
 Prom Hecla view the thawing deep. 
 Or at the purple dawn of day 
 Tadmor's marble wastes survey, 
 You, recluse, again I woo. 
 And again your steps pursue. 
 
 Plumed Conceit himself surveying, 
 Polly with her shadow playing. 
 Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, 
 Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence, 
 Noise that through a trumpet speaks. 
 Laughter in loud peals that breaks, 
 Intrusion with a fopliug's face 
 (Ignorant of time aud place). 
 Sparks of fire Dissension blowing. 
 Ductile, court-bved Plattery, bowing, 
 Restraint's stiff ueek. Grimace's leer. 
 Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, 
 Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood, 
 Ply thy ])rescuce, Solitude. 
 Sage Reflection, bent with years, , 
 Conscious Virtue void of fears, 
 Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, 
 Meditation's piercing eye. 
 Halcyon Peace on moss, reclined, 
 Retrospect that scans the mind, 
 Wrapt earth-gazing Reverie, 
 Blushing artless Modesty, 
 Health that snuffs the morning air. 
 Pull-eyed Truth witli bosom bare. 
 Inspiration, Nature's child. 
 Seek the solitary wild. 
 
 • Dr. Johnson pronounced this otic " noble," in liis most 
 cmplmtic tone of voice. Dr. Percy nflirnuil that in it "were 
 Bssernhled sonic of the subliniest ininpcs in imtnrc." In the 
 (liscnssiiin Iictwccn Hyron nnd Howies, iis to the position of 
 Pope ns (1 poet, Hyron insisted that "Tadmor's marble waste," 
 supplied a test as to the relative force of the artificial and the 
 natural iu poetry. The " waste," he said, was like other 
 " wastes " iu nature ; the poetry came fj-om the marble rums 
 of Palmy rn, observed by thcjioetie eye, on the bleak landscape 
 
 P 
 
cfr 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 409 
 
 fr 
 
 You, with the tragic muse retired. 
 The wise Euripides inspired ; 
 You taught the sadly pleasing air 
 That Athens saved from ruins bare. 
 You gave the Cean's tears to iiow, 
 And unloeked the springs of woe ; 
 You penned what exiled Naso thought, 
 And poured the melancholy note. 
 "With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you strayed, 
 IVHien death snatched his long-loved maid 
 You taught the rocks her loss to mourn. 
 Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn. 
 And late in Hagley you were seen, 
 With bloodshot eyes and sombre mien; 
 Hymen his ygllow vestment tore, 
 Aiul Dirge a wreath of cyjiress wore. 
 But chief your own the solemn lay 
 That wept Narcissa young and gay ; 
 Darkness clapped her sable wing. 
 While you touched the mournful striug ; 
 Anguish left the pathless wild. 
 Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, 
 Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn. 
 The starry host put back the dawn ; 
 Aside their harps even seraphs flung 
 To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young ! 
 When all nature 's hushed asleep, 
 Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, 
 Soft you leave your caverned den, 
 And wander o'er the works of men ; 
 But when Phosphor brings the dawn 
 By her dappled coursers drawn, 
 Again you to the wild reti-eat 
 And the early huntsman meet, 
 AVliere, as you pensive pace along. 
 You catch the distant shepherd's song. 
 Or brush from herbs the pearly dew. 
 Or the rising primrose view. 
 Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, 
 Y'ou mount, and Nature with you sings. 
 But when midday fervors glow. 
 To upland airy shades you go. 
 Whore never sunburnt woodman came. 
 Nor sportsman chased tlie timid game; 
 Aiul there beneath an oak reclined, 
 With drowsy waterfalls behind, 
 Y'ou sink to rest, 
 Till (he tuneful bird of night. 
 From the neighboring poplar's height. 
 Wake you with her solemn strain. 
 And teacii pleased Echo to complain. 
 
 With you roses brighter bloom, 
 Sweeter every sweet perfume ; 
 Purer every fountain flows. 
 Stronger every wUdling gi-ows. 
 Let those toil for gold who please. 
 Or for fame renounce their ease. 
 
 What is fame ? an empty bubble. 
 Gold ? a transient shining trouble. 
 Let them for their country bleed, 
 Wliat was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed ? 
 Man 's not worth a moment's pain. 
 Base, ungrateful, ficklo, vain. 
 Then let me, sequestered fair. 
 To your sibyl grot repair ; 
 On yon hanging cliff it stands. 
 Scooped by nature's salvage hands. 
 Bosomed in the gloomy shade 
 Of cypress not with age decayed. 
 Where the owl stiU hooting sits, 
 Where the bat incessant flits. 
 There in loftier strains I '11 sing 
 T\lience the changing seasons spring ; 
 Tell how storms deform the skies. 
 Whence the waves suljside-aud rise ; 
 Trace the comet's blazing tail. 
 Weigh the planets in a scale ; 
 Bend, great God, before thy shrine, — 
 The bouiTiless macrocosm's thiue. 
 
 o^^o 
 
 NATHANIEL COTTON. 
 
 1781 (?)- 1788. 
 
 THE FIKESrDE.* 
 
 Dear CUoe, while the busy crowd, 
 The vain, tic wealthy, and the proud, 
 
 lu folly's maze advance ; 
 Though singularity and pride 
 Be called our choice, we '11 step aside, 
 
 Nor join the giddy dance. 
 
 Prom the gay world we '11 oft retire 
 To our own family and fire. 
 
 Where love our hours employs ; 
 No noisy neighbor enters here ; 
 Nor intermeddliug stranger near. 
 
 To spoil our heartfelt joys. 
 
 If solid happiness we prize, 
 Within our breast this jewel lies ; 
 
 And they are fools who roam : 
 The world has nothing to bestow ; 
 From our own selves our joys must flow, 
 
 And that dear hut — our homo. 
 
 Of rest was Noah's dove bereft. 
 When with impatient wing she left 
 That safe retreat, the ark ; 
 
 * The uuiversal popularity of this poem shows how inferior 
 in effect on the general mind is the most splendid imngmation 
 — exercised on a theme apart from popular apprehension — to 
 the most prosaic fancy, when its homely rhymes touch the do- 
 mestic feelings. 
 
 -g^ 
 
C&- 
 
 410 
 
 AKENSIDE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Giving lier vain excursion o'er, 
 The disappoiuted bird once more 
 Explored the sacred bark. 
 
 Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 
 AVe, who improve his golden hours. 
 
 By sweet experience know. 
 That marriage, riglitly understood. 
 Gives to tlie tender and the good 
 
 A paradise below. 
 
 Our babes shall richest comforts briug ; 
 If tutored right, they '11 prove a spring 
 
 Whence plc;isures ever rise : 
 We "11 fornr their minds, with studious care. 
 To all that 's manly, good, and fair, 
 
 And train them for the skies. 
 
 While they our wisest hours engage. 
 They '11 joy our youth, support our age, 
 
 And erouii our hoary hairs : 
 They '11 grow in virtue every day. 
 And thus our fondest loves repay. 
 
 And recompense our cares. 
 
 No borrowed joys, they 're all our own, 
 ^Yhile to the world we live unknown. 
 
 Or by the world forgot : 
 Monarehs ! we envy not your state ; 
 We look with pity on the gi'eat, 
 
 And bless our humbler lot. 
 
 Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
 But then how little do we need ! 
 
 For nature's calls are few : 
 In this the art of living lies. 
 To want no more than may suffice, 
 
 And make that little do. 
 
 '\Ve '11 therefore relish with content 
 Whatc'er kind Providence has sent. 
 
 Nor aim beyond our power; 
 For, if our stock be very small, 
 'T is prudence to enjoy it all, 
 
 Nor lose the present hour. 
 
 To be resigned when ills betide, 
 Patient when favors are denied. 
 
 And pleased with favors given ; 
 Dear Chloe, tiiis is wisdom's part ; 
 This is that incense of the heart 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 
 
 W'p "11 ask no long-protracted treat, 
 Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 
 
 But wlien our feast is o'er, 
 Grateful from tnlilc we '11 arise, 
 Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes 
 
 The relies of our store 
 
 Thus, hand in hand, through life we '11 go ; 
 Its checkered paths of joy and woe 
 
 With cautious steps we '11 tread ; 
 Quit its vain scenes without a tear. 
 Without a trouble or a fear. 
 
 And mingle with the dead : 
 
 Wliile Conscience, like a faithful friend. 
 Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath ; 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease. 
 Like a kind angel whisper peace, 
 
 And smoothe the bed of death. 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE.* 
 
 1781-1770. 
 
 TASTE, 
 
 What then is taste, but these internal powers 
 Active and strong, and feelingly aUve 
 To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense 
 Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust 
 From things deformed or disarranged or gross 
 In species ? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, 
 Nor purple state, nor cidture can bestow ; 
 But God alone, when first his active hand 
 Imprints the secret bias of the soul. 
 He, mighty Parent ! wise aud just in all. 
 Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven. 
 Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain * 
 Who journeys homeward from a summer day's 
 Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils 
 And due repose, he loiters to behold 
 The sunshine gleaming, as through amber clouds. 
 O'er all the western sky ; full soon, I ween. 
 His rude expression and untutored airs. 
 Beyond the power of language, will unfold 
 The form of beauty, smiling at his heart. 
 How lovely ! how commanding I But though 
 
 Heaven 
 In every breast hath sown these early seeds 
 Of love and admiration, yet in vain, 
 AVitliout fair Culture's kind, parental aid, 
 "Without enlivening suns and genial showers. 
 And shelter from the blast, in viiiu we hope 
 The tender plant should rear its blooming head, 
 Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. 
 Nor yet will every soil with equal stores 
 
 * .\ki']isi(Ie Jiulilistied The Plramrfs t\f the Imng'mat'njn ill 
 171-1- lie spent a Ini-gc portion of liis literary life iu rctiiod- 
 cllins; and rewritin}; tlie pin-m. There is niueh variety of crit- 
 ical judgment ns to whether he iinpmved his work by this 
 pi-uccss. Itazlitt declares that he did ; and as .\kensidc him- 
 self was evidently ot the same opinion, we have, vviih the 
 exception of the passage on Taste, eontined our extracts to the 
 IHieni as rcniodeljed. The orit.'in,al poem, and the unc(iml)leted 
 revision uf it.are pnlilished in all editions of .-Vkcnside's works. 
 
 4? 
 
cfr 
 
 THE SOUL'S ASPIEATION TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 411 
 
 -^ 
 
 Repay the tiller's labor ; or attend 
 
 His will, obsequious, whether to produce 
 
 The olive or the laurel. Different minds 
 
 Incline to diirercnt objects : one pursues 
 
 The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 
 
 Another sijjhs for harmony and grace, 
 
 And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning 
 
 fires 
 The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground, 
 When furious whirlwinds rend the howUng air. 
 And Ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, 
 Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky. 
 Amid the mighty uproar, while below 
 The nations tremble, Shakespeare looks abroad 
 From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys 
 Tlie elemental war. But Waller longs, 
 All on the margin of some flowery stream. 
 To spread his careless ILmbs amid the cool 
 Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer 
 The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain 
 Resound soft-warbling all the livelong day : 
 Consenting Zephyr sighs ; the weeping rill 
 Joins in liis plaint, melodious ; mute the gi'oves ; 
 And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. 
 Such and so various are the tastes of men. 
 
 THE SOUL'S ASPIRATION TOWARDS THE 
 INFINITE. 
 
 S.vY, why was man so eminently raised 
 Amid the vast creation ; why impowered 
 Through life and death to dart his watchful eye, 
 'With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame ; 
 But that the Omnipotent might send him forth, 
 In sight of angels and immortal minds, 
 As on an ample theatre to join 
 In contest with his equals, who shall best 
 The task achieve, the coui'se of noble toils, 
 By wisdom and by mercy preordained ? 
 Might send him forth the sovereign good to 
 
 learn ; 
 To chase each meaner purpose from his breast ; 
 And through the mists of passion and of sense. 
 And through the peltmg storms of chance and 
 
 pain, 
 To hold straight on with constant heart and eye 
 Still fixed upon his everlasting palm. 
 The approving smile of Heaven ? Else where- 
 fore burns 
 In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope. 
 That seeks from day to day sublimer ends ; 
 Happy, though restless ? Why departs the soul 
 Wide from the track and journey of her times. 
 To grasp the good she knows not ? In the field 
 Of things which may be, in the spacious field 
 Of science, potent arts, or dreadful arms. 
 To raise up scenes in which her own desires 
 Contented may repose ; when things, which are. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale : 
 Her temper, still demanding to be free ; 
 Spurning the rude control of wilful might ; 
 Proud of her dangers braved, her griefs endured, 
 Her strength severely proved ? To these high 
 
 aims, 
 Which reason and affection prompt in man. 
 Not adverse nor unapt hath Nature framed 
 His bold imagination. For, amid 
 The various forms which this full world presents 
 Like rivals to his choice, what human breast 
 E'er doubts, before the transient and minute. 
 To prize the vast, the stable, the subhme ? 
 Who, that from heights aerial sends lus eye 
 Around a wild horizon, and surveys 
 Indus or Ganges rolling his broad wave 
 Through mountains, plains, tlu'ough spacious 
 
 cities old. 
 And regions dark with woods, will tuni away 
 To mark the path of some penui-ious rill 
 Which murmureth at his feet ? Where does the 
 
 soul 
 Consent her soaring fancy to restrain. 
 Which bears her up, as on an eagle's wings. 
 Destined for highest heaven ; or which of fate's 
 Tremendous barriers shall confine her flight 
 To any humbler quarry ? The rich earth 
 Cannot detain her ; nor the ambient air 
 With all its clianges. For a while with joy 
 She hovers o'er the sun, and views the small 
 Attendant orbs, beneath his sacred beam. 
 Emerging from the deep, like clustered isles 
 Whose rocky shores to the glad sailor's eye 
 Reflect the gleams of morning ; for a while 
 With pride she sees his firm, paternal sway 
 Bend the reluctant planets to move each 
 Round its perpetual year. But soon she quits 
 That prospect : meditating loftier views, 
 She darts adventurous up the long career 
 Of comets ; through the constellations holds 
 Her course, and now looks back on all the stars 
 Whose blended flames as with a milky stream 
 Part the blue region. Empyrean tracts, . 
 Where happy souls beyond this concave heaven 
 Abide, she then explores, whence purer light 
 For countless ages travels through the abyss. 
 Nor hath in sight of mortals yet arrived. 
 Upon the wide creation's utmost shore 
 At length she stands, and the dread space beyond 
 Contemplates, half-recoiling: nathlcss down 
 The gloomy void, astonished, yet unquellcd. 
 She plungeth ; down tlie unfathomable gulf, 
 Wlvere God alone hath being. There her hopes 
 Rest at the fated goal. For, from the birth 
 Of human kuid, the sovereign Maker said 
 That not in humble nor in brief dehght. 
 Not in the fleeting echoes of Renown, 
 Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 412 
 
 AKENSIDE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 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 disappear, 
 And infinite perfection fill the scene. 
 
 The Pleasures of the Imaf/inaiion, Book I. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 But lo, where Beauty, dressed in gentler pomp, 
 With comely steps, advancing, claims tlie verse 
 Her charms inspire. O Beauty, source of praise. 
 Of lionor, even to mute and lifeless things ; 
 thou that kincUcst in each human heart 
 Love, and the wish of poets, wlien their tongue 
 Wovdd teach to otlier bosoms what so charms 
 Their owu ; O child of Nature and the soul, 
 In happiest liour brought fortli ; the doubtful 
 
 garb 
 Of words, of earthly language, all too mean, 
 Too lowly I account, in which to clothe 
 Thy form divine : for thee the mind alone 
 Beholds ; nor half thy brightness can reveal 
 Through those dim organs, whose corporeal touch 
 O'ershadowetli thy pure essence. Yet, my Muse, 
 If Fortune call thee to the task, wait thou 
 Thy favorable seasons ; then, while fear 
 Ami doubt are absent, through wide nature's 
 
 bounds 
 Expatiate with glad step, and choose at will 
 'Whate'cr bright spoils the florid earth contains, 
 "W'hate'er the waters, or the liquid air, 
 To manifest unblemished Beauty's praise. 
 And o'er the breasts of mortals to extend 
 Her gracious empire. Wilt thou to the isles 
 Atlantic, to tlie rich Hesperian clime. 
 Fly ill the train of Autumn ; and look on. 
 And learn from him ; while, as he roves around, 
 Where'er his fiugers touch the fruitful grove, 
 The branches bloom with gold ; where'er his foot 
 Tuqirints the soil, the ripening clusters swell. 
 Turning aside their foliage, and come forth 
 In |Hir|)le lights, till every hillock glows 
 As with the blushes of an evening sky ? 
 Or wilt thou that Thessalian landscape trace. 
 Where slow I'eueus his clear glassy tide 
 Draws snu)oth along, between the winding clifls 
 Of Ossa and the pathless woods unshorn 
 That wave o'er huge Olympus ? Doflm the 
 
 stream, 
 Look how the mountains with their double range 
 Embrace the vale of Tcmpe: from each side 
 Ascending steep to heaven, a rocky mound 
 Covered with ivy and the laurel boughs 
 That crowned young Pluebus for the Python 
 
 slain. 
 Fair Tcmpe ! on whose primrose banks the morn 
 
 Awoke most fragrant, and the noon reposed 
 Li pomp of lights and shadows most sublime ; 
 Whose lawns, whose glades, ere human footsteps 
 
 yet 
 Had traced an entrance, where the hallowed haunt 
 Of sylvan powers immortal ; where they sate 
 Oft in the golden age, the Nymphs and Fauus, 
 Beneath some arbor branching o'er the flood, 
 And loaning round hung on the instructive lips 
 Of hoary Pan, or o'er some open dale 
 Danced in light measures to his sevenfold pipe, 
 While Zephyr's wanton hand along their path 
 Flung showers of painted blossoms, fertile dews. 
 And one perpetual spring. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Thus then at first was Beauty sent from 
 heaven. 
 The lovely ministress of Truth and Good 
 In this dark world ; for Tnith and Good are one ; 
 And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her, 
 With like participation. Wherefore, then, 
 O sons of earth, would ye dissolve the tie ? 
 O, wherefore with a rash and greedy aim 
 Seek ye to rove through every flattering scene 
 Which Beauty seems to deck, nor once inquire 
 Where is the suffrage of eternal Truth, 
 Or where the seal of undeceitful good, 
 To save your search from folly ? ^V'anting these, 
 Lo, Beauty withers in your void embrace ; 
 And with the glitteruig of an infant's toy 
 Did Fancy mock your vows. Nor yet let Hope, 
 That kindliest inmate of the youthfulbreast. 
 Be hence appalled ; be tui'ned to coward Sloth, 
 Sitting in silence, with dejected eyes 
 Incurious, and with folded hands ; far less 
 Let scorn of wild, fantastic folly's dreams, 
 Or hatred of the bigot's savage pride, 
 Persuade you e'er that Beauty, or the love 
 Which waits on Beauty, may not brook to hear 
 The sacred lore of undeceitful good 
 And Truth eternid. 
 
 The Pleasures of the Imagination, Book I. 
 
 GOD AS THE SODKCE OF BEAUTY, 
 
 T[1i;k, O Fatlicr ! this extent 
 Of matter; thee the sluggish earth and tract 
 Of seas, the heavens and heavenly splendors feel 
 Pervading, quickening, moving. From the dejith 
 Of thy great essence forth didst thou conduct 
 Eternal Form ; and there, where Chaos reigned, 
 Gav'st her dominion to erect her seat 
 And sanctify the mansion. All her works 
 Well-pleascd tliou didst behold : the gloomy fires 
 Of storm or eartluiuake, and the ])urest light 
 Of summer; soft Campania's new-born rose, 
 And the slow weed which iiines on Russian hills, 
 Comely alike to thy full vision stand : 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 TRUTH AND VIRTUE. — HUMAN FELLOWSHIP. 
 
 413 
 
 -Q) 
 
 To thy surrounding vision, wliich unites 
 All essences and powers of the great world 
 In one sole order, fair alike they stand, 
 As features well consenting, and alike 
 Required by Nature ere she could attain 
 Her just resemblance to tlie perfect shape 
 Of universal Beauty, whicli with thee 
 Dwelt from the first. 
 
 The Pleasures of the Imagination, Book I. 
 
 TRUTH AND VIETUE, 
 
 "Whence also but from Trutli, the light of 
 
 minds, 
 Is human fortune gladdened witli tlic rays 
 Of Virtue ? with tlie moral colors thrown 
 On every walk of tliis our social scene. 
 Adorning for the eye of gods and men 
 The passions, actions, habitudes of life, 
 iVnd rendering earth like heaven, a sacred place 
 Where Love and Praise may take deUght to 
 
 dwell? 
 Let none with heedless tongue from Truth disjoin 
 The reign of Virtue. Ere the dayspring flowed, 
 Like sisters linked in Concord's golden chain, 
 They stood before the great Eternal Jlind, 
 Their common parent; and by liim were both 
 Sent forth among his creatures, hand in hand. 
 Inseparably joined : nor e'er did Trutli 
 Find an apt ear to listen to her lore, 
 AVhich knew not Virtue's voice ; nor, save where 
 
 Truth's 
 Majestic words are heard and understood. 
 Doth Virtue deign to inhabit. Go, inquire 
 Of Nature : not among Tartarian rooks. 
 Whither the hungry vidturc with its prey 
 Returns ; not where the lion's sullen roar 
 At noon resounds along the lonely banks 
 Of ancient Tigris ; but her gentler scenes. 
 The dovecote and the shepherd's fold at morn. 
 Consult; or by the meadow's fragrant hedge, 
 In springtime when the woodlands first are green 
 Attend the linnet singing to his mate 
 Couched o'er their tender young. To this fond 
 
 care 
 Thou dost not Virtue's honorable name 
 Attribute ; wherefore, save that not one gleam 
 Of Truth did e'er discover to themselves 
 Their little hearts, or teach them, by the effects 
 Of that parental love, the love itself 
 To judge, and measure its oSicious deeds ? 
 But man, whose eyelids Truth has filled with day. 
 Discerns how skilfully to bounteous ends 
 His wise affections move ; with free accord 
 Adopts their guidance ; yields himself secure 
 To Nature's prudent impulse ; and converts 
 Instinct to Duty and to saercd Law. 
 Hence right and fit on cai'th : while thus to man 
 
 The Almighty Legislator hath explained 
 The springs of action fixed within his breast ; 
 Hath given him power to slacken or restrain 
 Their effort; and hath shown him how they join 
 Their partial movements with the master-wheel 
 Of the great world, and serve that sacred end 
 Which he, the unerring reason, keeps in view. 
 The Pleasures of the Imagination, Book II. 
 
 THE ASPIRATION OP NATHEE, 
 
 As flame ascends. 
 As vapors to the earth in showers return, 
 As the poised ocean toward the attracting moon 
 Swells, and the ever-Ustening planets charmed 
 By the sun's call their onward pace incline. 
 So all things which have life aspire to God, 
 Exhaustless fount of intellectual day I 
 Centre of souls I Nor doth the mastering voice 
 Of Nature cease within to prompt aright 
 Their steps ; nor is the care of Heaven withheld 
 From sending to the toil external aid ; 
 That in their stations all may persevere 
 To cUmb the ascent of being, and approach 
 Forever nearer to the Life divine. 
 
 The Pleasures of the Imagination, Book II. 
 
 HUMAU FELLOWSHIP, 
 
 Who that bears 
 A human bosom hath not often felt 
 How dear are all those ties which bind our race 
 In gentleness togethei', and how sweet 
 Their force, let Fortune's wayward hand the whUe 
 Be kind or cruel ? Ask the faithful youth 
 Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved 
 So often fills his arms ; so often draws 
 His lonely footsteps, silent and unseen. 
 To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? 
 0, he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds 
 Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 
 Those sacred hours, when, stealing from the noise 
 Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes 
 With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast. 
 And turns his tears to raptui-e ? Ask the crowd. 
 Which flies impatient from the village walk 
 To chmb the neighboring cliffs, when far below 
 The savage winds have hurled upon the coast 
 Some helpless bark ; while holy Pity melts 
 The general eye, or Terroi''s icy hand 
 Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair ; 
 While every mother closer to her breast 
 Catcheth her child, and, pointing where the waves 
 Foam through the shattered vessels, shrieks aloud 
 As one poor wretch, who spreads his piteous arms 
 For succor, swallowed by the roaring surge. 
 As now another, dashed against the rock. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■^-95 
 
cQ- 
 
 4U 
 
 AKENSIDE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 Drops lifeless down. O, deemest thou indeed 
 No pleasing influence here by Nature given 
 To mutual terror and compassion's tears ? 
 No tender charm mysterious, which attracts 
 O'er all that edge of pain the social powers 
 To this their proper action and their end ? 
 
 Thi; riea^nres of the Iinitgi nation. Book IT. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE MUSES, 
 
 " Ye beauteous offspring of Olympian Jove 
 And Memory divine, Pierian maids. 
 Hear nic, propitious. In the mom of Ufe, 
 When hope shone bright and all the prospect 
 
 smiled. 
 To your sequestered mansion oft my steps 
 Were turned, Muses, and within your gate 
 My offerings paid. Ye taught me then with 
 
 strains 
 Of flowing harmony to soften war's 
 Dire voice, or in fair colors, that might charm 
 The public eye, to clothe the form austere 
 Of civil counsel. Now my feeble age 
 Neglected, and supplanted of the hope 
 On which it leaned, yet sinks not, but to you, 
 To your mild wisdom flies, refuge beloved 
 Of soUtude and silence. Ye can teach 
 The visions of my bed whate'er the gods 
 In the rude ages of the world inspired, 
 Or the first heroes acted ; ye can make 
 Tlie morning light more gladsome to my sense 
 Than ever it appeared to active youth 
 Pursuing careless Pleasure ; ye can give 
 To this long leisure, these unheeded hours, 
 A labor as sublime as when the sons 
 Of Athens thronged and speechless round mc 
 
 stood 
 To iicar pronounced for all their future deeds 
 The bounds of right and wrong. Celestial 
 
 powers ! 
 I feel that ye are near me : and behold, 
 To meet your energy divine I bring 
 A high and sacred theme ; not less than those 
 Which to tlie eternal custody of Fame 
 Your lips intrusted, when of old ye deigned 
 With Orpheus or with Homer to frequent 
 The groves of Ilfcmus or the Chian shore. 
 
 The rteasiires nf the Imagination, Book III. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CURIO.* 
 
 Thrice has the spring beheld thy faded fame, 
 And the fourth winter rises on tliy shame, 
 
 * Curio was a young Rx>man senator of distinguished birth 
 and parts, who, ujjon his llrst entrance into the forum, had 
 been committed to the enre of Cicero. liein;; profuse and ex- 
 travagant, he soon dissipated a large and spk'ndid fortune ; to 
 supply the want of which, he was driven to tlic necessity of 
 aljetting the designs of Cresar against tlie lil)crtie3 of his conn- 
 
 <U- 
 
 Since I exidting grasped the votive shell. 
 In sounds of triumph all thy praise to tell ; 
 Blest could my skill through ages make thee shine, 
 And proud to mix my memory with thine. 
 But now the cause that waked my song before, 
 With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil no 
 
 more. 
 If to the glorious man whose faithful cares. 
 Nor quelled by malice nor relaxed by years. 
 Had awed Ambition's wild audacious hate, 
 And dragged at length Corruption to her fate ; 
 If every tongue its large applauses owed. 
 And well-earned laurels every Muse bestowed ; 
 If public Justice urged the high reward, 
 Aiul Freedom smiled on the devoted bard ; 
 Say then, to him whose levity or lust 
 Laid aU a people's generous hopes in dust ; 
 Who taught Ambition firmer heights of power, 
 And saved Corruption at her hopeless liour ; 
 Does not each tongue its execrations owe, 
 Shall not each JIuse a wreath of shame bestow. 
 And public Justice sanctify the award, 
 And Freedom's hand protect the impartial bard? 
 
 Yet long reluctant I forbore thy name. 
 Long watched thy virtue like a dying flame, 
 Hung o'er each glimmering spark witli anxious 
 
 eyes. 
 And wished and hoped the light again would rise. 
 But since thy guilt still more entire appears. 
 Since no art hides, no supposition clears ; 
 Since vengeful Slander now too sinks hev blast. 
 And the first rage of party-hate is past ; 
 Calm as the judge of truth, at length I come 
 To weigli thy merits and pronounce thy doom : 
 So may my trust from all reproach be free ; 
 And earth and time confirm the fair decree. 
 
 There ai-e who say they viewed without amaze 
 
 try, althougli lie had before been a professed enemy to him. 
 Cicero everted himself with great energy to prevent his ruin, 
 but witliout etfect, and he became one of the tirst victims 
 in the civil war. This epistle was first published in the 
 year 171 1, when a celebrated patriot (Pulteneyi after along 
 and at last successful opposition to an unpopular minister, 
 had deserted the cause of his country, and became the fore- 
 most in support and defence of the same measures he had so 
 steadily and for surb a length of time contended against 
 
 Tills Epistle is one of the ablest poems of the srbiiol of Pry- 
 dcn and Pope. Akenside belonged to the nobler section of the 
 various factions which assailed the administration of Sir Robert 
 Walpole. Pultency, who may be said to have led the opposition 
 to tliat ministry, ignoniiniously subsided into insignitieance 
 and an earldom when it was overthrown. Akenside found 
 that there was no change tn the system of government after 
 Walpole had been hurled from power : and the disappoint- 
 ment of his high-raised expectations found vent in this vigor- 
 ous satire directed against Pultency, — the patriot who had 
 become a courtier, tlic commoner who had hecoinc Earl of 
 Bath. Perhaps Pultency might have retorted by citing his 
 favorite axiom, that " the heads of parlies, like the heads of 
 snakes, are always moved by tbeir tails " ; and that the hot- 
 beaded " boys " — as Walpole styled the young enthusiasts 
 who joined the Tories and the discontented Whigs in assailing 
 his administration — formed hut an ineonsideralilc and there- 
 fore unconsidered clement in the niovemcnt which directed , 
 praininent statesmen to follow the drift of the times. 
 
 -^ 
 
cfr 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CURIO. 
 
 -^ 
 
 415 
 
 ^ 
 
 The sad reverse of all thy former praise : 
 That, through the pageants of a patriot's name 
 Tiiey pierced the foulness of thy secret aim ; 
 Or deemed thy arm exalted but to throw 
 Tiie public thunder on a private foe. 
 But I, whose soul consented to thy cause, 
 Who felt tliy genius stamp its own applause, 
 Wlio saw the spirits of each glorious age 
 Move in thy bosom and direct thy rage ; 
 I scorned the ungenerous gloss of slavish miuds, 
 The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre blinds. 
 Spite of the learned in the ways of vice. 
 And all who prove that each man has his price, 
 I still believed thy end was just and free ; 
 And yet, even yet believe it — spite of thee. 
 Even though thy mouth impure has dared dis- 
 claim. 
 Urged by the wretched impotence of shame. 
 Whatever filial care thy zeal had paid 
 To laws infirm and hberty decayed ; 
 Has begged Ambition to foi'give the show ; 
 Has told Corruption thou wert ne'er her foe ; 
 Has boasted iu tliy country's awful ear, 
 Her gross delusion when she held thee dear ; 
 How tame she followed thy tempestuous call. 
 And heard thy pompous tales, and trusted all, — 
 Rise from your sad abodes, ye curst of old 
 For laws suliverted, and for cities sold ! 
 Paint all the noblest ti-ophics of your guilt. 
 The oaths you perjured, and the blood youspUt; 
 Yet must you one untempted vileness own. 
 One dreadful palm reserved for him alone ; 
 With studied arts his country's praise to spurn. 
 To beg the infamy he did not earn, 
 To challenge hate when honor was his due. 
 And plead liis crimes where all his virtue knew. 
 Do robes of state tiie guarded heart enclose 
 From each fair feeling human nature knows ? 
 Can pompous titles stun the enchanted car 
 To all that reason, all that sense, would hear ? 
 Else eoiddst thou e'er desert thy sacred post, 
 In such untliankful baseness to be lost ? 
 Else eouldst thou wed the emptiness of vice. 
 And yield thy glories at an idiot's price ? 
 
 When they who, loud for liberty and laws, 
 Iu doubtful times had fought their country's 
 
 cause, 
 Wlien now of conquest and dominion sure. 
 They sought alone to hold their fruits secure ; 
 When taught by these, Oppression hid the face, 
 To leave Corruption stronger in her place, 
 By silent spells to work the public fate, 
 And taint the vitals of the passive state. 
 Till healing Wisdom should avail no more, 
 And Freedom loathe to tread the poisoned shore ; 
 Then, hke some guardian god that ilies to save 
 The weary pilgrim from an instant grave. 
 Whom, sleeping and secure, the guileful snake 
 
 Steals near and nearer through the peaceful 
 
 brake ; 
 Then Curio rose to ward the public woe. 
 To wake the heedless, and incite the slow. 
 Against Corruption Liberty to arm. 
 And quell the enchantress by a mightier charm. 
 
 Swift o'er the land the fair contagion flew. 
 And with thy country's hopes thy honors grew. 
 Thee, patriot, the patrician roof confessed ; 
 Thy powerful voice the rescued merchant blessed ; 
 Of thee with awe the rural hearth resounds ; 
 The bowl to thee the grateful sailor crowns ; 
 Touched iu the sighing shade with manlier fires. 
 To trace thy steps the lovesick youth aspires ; 
 The learned recluse, who oft amazed had read 
 Of Grecian heroes, Roman patriots dead. 
 With new amazement hears a living name 
 Pretend to share in such forgotten fame ; 
 And he who, scorning courts and courtly ways. 
 Left the tame track of these dejected days. 
 The life of nobler ages to renew 
 In virtues sacred from a monarch's view. 
 Roused by thy labors from the blessed retreat. 
 Where social ease and public passions meet. 
 Again ascending treads the civil scene. 
 To act and be a man, as thou hadst been. 
 
 Thus by degrees thy cause superior grew. 
 And the great end appeared at last in view : 
 We heard the people in thy hopes rejoice, 
 Wc saw the senate bending to thy voice ; 
 The friends of Freedom hailed the approaching 
 
 reign 
 Of laws for which our fathers bled in vain ; 
 While venal Faction, struck with new dismay, 
 Shrunk at their frown, and self-abandoned lay. 
 Waked in the shock, the pidjlic Genius rose. 
 Abashed and keener from his long repose ; 
 Subhme iu ancient pride, he raised the spear 
 Which slaves and tyrants long were wont to 
 
 fear. 
 The city felt his call ; from map to man. 
 From street to street, the glorious hori-or ran ; 
 Each crowded haunt was stirred beneath liis 
 
 power. 
 And, murmuring, challenged the decided hour. 
 
 Lo ! the deciding hour at last appears ; 
 The hour of every freeman's hopes and fears ! 
 Thou, Genius ! guardian of the Roman name, 
 0, ever prompt tyrannic rage to tame ! 
 Instruct the mighty moments as they roll. 
 And guide each movement steady to the goal. 
 Ye spirits by whose providential art 
 Succeeding motives turn the changeful heart, 
 Keep, keep the best in view to Curio's mind, 
 And watch his fancy, and his passions bind ! 
 Ye shades immortal, who by Freedom led. 
 Or in the field or on the scaffold bled. 
 Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 416 
 
 AKENSIDE. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 And view the crown of all your labors uigh. 
 See Freedom mounting her eternal throne ! 
 The sword submitted, and the hxws her own : 
 See ! pubhc Power chastised beneath her stands, 
 With eyes intent, and uncorrupted hands ! 
 See private Life by wisest arts reclaimed ! 
 See ardent youth to noblest manners framed ! 
 See us acquire wliate'er was sought by you. 
 If Curio, only Curio, wiU be true. 
 
 'T was tlien — O shame ! trust how iU re- 
 paid ! 
 O Latium, oft by faithless sons betrayed ! — 
 'T was then — Wiat frenzy on thy reason stole ? 
 Wliat spells unsinewed thy determined soul ? 
 
 — Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved ? 
 The man so great, so honored, so beloved ? 
 This patient slave by tinsel chains allured ? 
 This wretched suitor for a boon abjured? 
 
 This Curio, hated and despised by all ? 
 Who fell himself to work his country's fall ? 
 
 O lost, alike to action and repose ! 
 Unknown, uupitied in the worst of woes ! 
 With all that conscious, undisscmbled pride. 
 Sold to the insults of a foe defied ! 
 Witli all that habit of familiar fame. 
 Doomed to exhaust the dregs of life iu shame ! 
 The sole sad refuge of thy baffled art 
 To act a statesman's dull, exploded part. 
 Renounce the praise no longer in thy power. 
 Display thy virtue, though without a dower. 
 Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind. 
 And shut thy eyes that others may be bhnd. 
 
 — Forgive me, Romans, that I bear to smile. 
 When shameless mouths your majesty defile. 
 Paint you a thoughtless, frantic, headlong crew. 
 And cast their own impieties on you. 
 
 For witness, Freedom, to whose sacred power 
 My soul was vowed from reason's earliest hour. 
 How have I stood exidting, to survey 
 My country's virtues, opening in thy ray ! 
 How, with the sons of every foreign shore 
 The more I matched them, honored hers the 
 
 more! 
 race erect ! whose native strength of soul. 
 Which kings, nor priests, nor sordid laws con- 
 trol. 
 Bursts the tame round of animal affairs. 
 And seeks a noble centre for its cares ; 
 Intent the laws of life to comprehend, 
 And fix dominion's limits by its end. 
 AVlio, bold and etpial in their love or hate, 
 By conscious reason judging every state. 
 The man forgot not, though iu rags he lies. 
 And know the mortal through a crown's dis- 
 
 guise : 
 Thence prompt alike with witty scorn to view 
 Fastidious Grandeur lilt his solcnui brow. 
 Or, all awake at Pity's soft command, 
 
 Bend the nuld ear, and stretch the gracious 
 
 hand : 
 Thence large of heart, from envy far removed. 
 When public toils to virtue stand approved, 
 Not the young lover fonder to admire. 
 Not more indulgent the deUghted sire ; 
 Yet high and jealous of their free-bom name. 
 Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame. 
 Where'er Oppression works her wanton sway. 
 Proud to confront, and dreadful to repay. 
 But if to purchase Curio's sage applause. 
 My country must with him renounce her cause. 
 Quit with a slave the path a patriot trod. 
 Bow the meek knee, and kiss the regal rod ; 
 Then stHl, ye powers, instruct his tongue to 
 
 rail. 
 Nor let his zeal, nor let his subject fail : 
 Else, ere he change the style, bear me away 
 To where the Gracchi, where the Bruti, stay ! 
 O long revered, and late resigned to shame ! 
 If tliis uncourtly page thy notice claim 
 When the loud cares of business are withdrawn, 
 Nor wcll-drest beggars round thy footsteps fawn; 
 In that stiU, thoughtful, solitary hour, 
 W'hen Truth exerts her unresisted power. 
 Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's 
 
 glare. 
 Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare ; 
 Then turn thy eyes ou that important scene. 
 And ask thyself — if all be well within. 
 Where is the heartfelt worth and weight of soul. 
 Which labor could not stop, nor fear control ? 
 Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe, 
 Wliich, half abashed, the proud and venal saw ? 
 Wiere the calm triumphs of an honest cause ? 
 Where the delightful taste of just applause? 
 Where the strong reason, the commanding 
 
 tongue. 
 On which the senate fired or trembling hung ? 
 AU vanished, all are sold ; and in their room. 
 Couched m thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom. 
 See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell. 
 Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell ! 
 To her in chains thy dignity was led ; 
 At her polluted shrine thy honor bled ; 
 With blasted weeds thy awfvd brow siie crowned. 
 Thy powerful tongue with poisoned philters 
 
 bound. 
 That baffled Reason straight indignant flew. 
 And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew : 
 For now no longer Truth supports tliy cause ; 
 No longer Glory prompts thee to aiiiiiause ; 
 No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast. 
 With all her conscious m.ajcsty coufest. 
 Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty 
 
 flame. 
 To rouse the feeble, and the wilful tame. 
 And where she sees the catching glimpses roll, 
 
 V^- 
 
 -9> 
 
a— 
 
 SONG. 
 
 417 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the 
 
 soul ; 
 But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill, 
 And formal passions mock thy struggling will ; 
 Or if thy Genius e'er forget his cliain, 
 And reach impatient at a nobler strain, 
 Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth 
 Shoot through thy breast, and stab the generous 
 
 birth, 
 Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy tost. 
 And all the tenor of thy reason lost, 
 Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear; 
 While some with pity, some with laughter hear. 
 — Can art, alas ! or genius guide the head, 
 Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled ? 
 Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, 
 \\'lieu the prime fu^iction of the soul is broke ? 
 But come, unhappy man ! thy fates impend ; 
 Come, quit tliy friends, if yet thou hast a friend ; 
 Turn Irom the poor rewards of guilt like thine, 
 Renounce tiiy titles, and thy robes resign ; 
 For see the hand of Destiny displayed 
 To shut thee from the joys thou hast betrayed ! 
 See the dire fane of Infamy arise ! 
 Dark as the grave and spacious as the skies ; 
 Where, from the first of time, thy kindred train, 
 The chiefs and princes of the unjust remain. 
 Eternal barriers guard the pathless road 
 To warn the wanderer of the curst abode ; 
 But prone as whirhviuds scour the passive sky. 
 The heights surmounted, down the steep they 
 
 liy. 
 
 There, black with frowns, relentless Time awaits. 
 And goads their footsteps to the guilty gates ; 
 And still he asks them of their unknown aims. 
 Evolves their secrets, and their guilt proclaims ; 
 And still his hands despoil them on tlie road 
 Of each vain wreath, by lying bards bestowed, 
 Break I heir proud marbles, crush their festal cars, 
 And rend the lawless trophies of their wars. 
 At last the gates his potent voice obey ; 
 Fierce to their dark abode lie drives his prey; 
 Where, ever armed with adamantine chains, 
 The watchful demon o'er her vassal reigns. 
 O'er mighty names and giant-powers of lust, 
 The great, tiie sage, the happy, and august.* 
 No gleam of hope their baleful mansion cheers, 
 No sound of honor hails their unblest ears ; 
 But dire reproaclies from the friend betrayed. 
 The childless sire and violated maid ; 
 But vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced. 
 From towns enslaved and continents laid waste; 
 But long posterity's united groan. 
 And the sad charge of horrors not their own, 
 Forever through tlie trembling space resound, 
 And sink each impious forehead to the ground. 
 
 * Titles wliicli Iiavc been generally ascribed to the most 
 pernicious of men. 
 
 Ye mighty foes of liherty and rest, 
 Give way, do homage to a miglitier guest ! 
 Ye daring spirits of the Koman race. 
 See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface ! 
 — Awed at the name, fierce Appius * rising bends, 
 And hardy Cinna from liis throne attends : 
 " He comes," they cry, " to whom the fates as- 
 signed 
 Witli surer arts to work what we designed, 
 From year to year the stubborn herd to sway. 
 Mouth all their wrongs, and all their rage obey ; 
 TUl owned their guide, and trusted with their 
 
 power. 
 He mocked their liopes in one decisive hour; 
 Tiien, tired and yielding, led them to the chain, 
 And quenclied the spirit we provoked in vain." 
 But thou. Supreme, by whose eternal hands 
 Fair Liberty's lieroic empire stands ; 
 Whose thunders the rebellious deep control. 
 And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul, 
 0, turn this dreadful omen far away ! 
 On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay : 
 Relume her sacred fire so near suppressed. 
 And fix her slu-ine in every Roman breast ; 
 Thougli bold Corruption boast around the land, 
 " Let Virtue, if she can, my baits withstand." 
 Though bolder now she urge the accursed claim, 
 Gay with her tropliies raised on Curio's shame; 
 Yet some there are who scorn her impious mirth. 
 Who know what conscience and a lieart are 
 worth. 
 O Friend and Father of the human mind. 
 Whose art for noblest ends our frame designed ! 
 If I, though fated to the studious sliade 
 W' hicli party-strife nor anxious power invade : 
 If I aspire, in public virtue's cause. 
 To guide the Muses by sublimer laws ; 
 Do thou her own authority impart. 
 And give my numbers entrance to the heart. 
 Perhaps the verse might rouse her smothered 
 
 flame, 
 And snatch the fainting patriot back to fame ; 
 Periiaps, by worthy thoughts of human kind, 
 To worthy deeds exalt the conscious mind ; 
 Or dash Corruption in her proud career, 
 And teach her slaves that Vice was bom to fear.t 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The shape alone let others prize, 
 
 Tlie features of the fair : 
 I look for spirit in her eyes 
 And meaning in her air. 
 * Appius Claudius the Decemvir, and L. Cornelius Cinna, 
 both attempted to establish a tyrannical dominion in Rome, 
 and both perished by the treason. 
 
 + Macaulay's article on Horace Wnlpole. In that article 
 the Epistle to Curio is referred to, and the reasons are stated 
 which enraged the " patriots " against Pulteney. ■ 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 ■118 
 
 SMART. — WARTON. 
 
 -- Q) 
 
 k 
 
 A damask cheek, an ivory arm, 
 
 Sliall ne'er my wishes win : 
 Give me an animated form. 
 
 That speaks a mind within. 
 
 A face wliere awful lionor shines, 
 Wlicre sense and sweetness move, 
 
 And angel innocence refines 
 The tenderness of love. 
 
 These are the soul of beauty's frame ; 
 
 Without whose vital aid 
 Unfinished all her features seem, 
 
 And all her roses dead. 
 
 But ah ! where both their charms unite. 
 
 How perfect is the view, 
 "With every image of deUght, 
 
 With graces ever new : 
 
 Of power to charm the greatest woe. 
 
 The wildest rage control, 
 Difl'using mildness o'er the brow. 
 
 And rapture through the soul. 
 
 Their power but faintly to express 
 All language must despair ; 
 
 But go, behold Arpasia's face, 
 And read it perfect there. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER SMART. 
 
 1728-1770. 
 
 FROM "A TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE." 
 
 Sure such a Avretch as I was never born. 
 By all the world deserted and forlorn : 
 This bitter-sweet, this honey-gall to prove. 
 And all the oil and vinegar of love ; 
 Pride, love, and reason will not let me rest. 
 But make a devilish bustle in my breast. 
 To wed with Fizgig, ])ride, pride, pride denies. 
 Put on a Spanish padlock, reason cries ; 
 But tender, gentle love with every wish com- 
 plies. 
 Pride, Love, and Reason fight till they are cloyed, 
 And each by each in mutual wounds destroyed. 
 Thus when a barber and a collier fight. 
 The barber beats the luckless collier — white ; 
 The dnsty collier heaves his ponderous sack, 
 And, big with vengeance, beats the barber — 
 
 black. 
 In comes the brick-dust man, with grime o'cr- 
 
 spread. 
 And beats the collier and the barber — red ; 
 Black, red. and white, in various clouds arc t<issed, 
 And in the dust they raise the combatants are 
 lost. 
 
 DAVID, 
 
 Sublime invention, ever young. 
 
 Of vast conception, towering tongue. 
 
 To God the eternal theme ; 
 Notes from your exaltations caught, 
 Unrivalled royalty of thought, 
 
 O'er meaner thoughts supreme.' 
 
 His muse, bright angel of his verse. 
 Gives balm for all the tliorns that pierce. 
 
 For all the pangs that rage : 
 Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, 
 The more than Michal of his bloom. 
 
 The Abishag of his age. 
 
 He sang of God, the mighty source 
 Of all things, — that stupendous force 
 
 On which all strength depends ; 
 From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, 
 All period, power, and enterprise 
 
 Commences, reigns, and ends. 
 
 The world, the clustering spheres He made. 
 The glorious light, the soothing shade. 
 
 Dale, champaign, grove, and hill ; 
 The multitudinous abyss. 
 Where Secrecy remains in bliss. 
 
 And Wisdom liides her skill. 
 
 " Tell them I am," Jehovah said 
 
 To Moses, while earth licard in dread, 
 
 And, smitten to the heart, 
 At once above, beneath, around. 
 All nature, without voice or sound. 
 
 Replied, " Lord ! thou art." 
 
 JOSEPH WARTON. 
 
 1723- 1800. 
 
 ODE TO FANCY. 
 
 O p.^RENT of each lovely muse ! 
 
 Thy spirit o'er my soul dill'use. 
 O'er all my artless songs preside. 
 My footsteps to thy temple guide. 
 To ofi'er at thy turi'-bnilt shrine 
 In golden cups no costly wine. 
 No uuirdered fatling of the flock, 
 But flowers and honey from the rock. 
 O nymph with loosely flowing hair, 
 With imskined leg and bosom bare, 
 Thy waist with myrtle-girdle liound, 
 Tliy brows with Indian feathers cromicd, 
 Waving in thy siuiwy hand 
 An all-eommanding magic wand, 
 Of power to bid fresh gardens grow 
 
 -g^ 
 
cQ— 
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIE. 
 
 419 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Mid elieerless Lapland's barren snow, 
 'niiose rapid wings tliy flight convey 
 Through air, and over earth and sea, 
 WhUe the various landscape lies 
 Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes ! 
 O lover of the desert, hail ! 
 Say in wliat deep and pathless vale, 
 Or on what lioary mountain's side, 
 Jlidst falls of water, you reside ; 
 jMidst broken rocl^s a rugged scene. 
 With green and grassy dales between ; 
 Midst forests dark of aged oak. 
 Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke. 
 Where never luiman heart appeared, 
 Nor e'er one straw-roofed cot was reared, 
 Wliere Nature seemed to sit alone. 
 Majestic on a craggy throne ; 
 Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, 
 To thy unknown sequestered cell, 
 Wliere woodbines cluster round the door. 
 Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, 
 And on whose top a hawthorn blows. 
 Amid whose thickly woven boughs 
 Some nightingale still builds her nest, 
 Each evening warbling tliee to rest ; 
 Tlien lay nic by the haunted stream. 
 Wrapt in some wild poetic dream. 
 In converse while metliinks I rove 
 Witli Spenser through a fairy grove ; 
 Till suddenly awaked, I hear 
 Strange whispered music in my ear. 
 And my glad soul in bliss is drowned 
 By the sweetly soothing sound ! 
 
 Me, goddess, by the right hand lead. 
 Sometimes through the yellow mead. 
 Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, 
 And Venus keeps her festive court ; 
 Wliere Alirth and Youth each evening meet, 
 And lightly trip with nimble feet. 
 Nodding their lily-crowned heads, 
 Wiere Laugliter, rose-lipped Hebe, leads ; 
 Wliere Echo walks steep hills among, 
 Listening to the shcplierd's song. 
 
 Yet not these flowery fields of joy 
 Can long my pensive mind employ ; 
 Haste, Fancy, from tliese scenes of folly, 
 To meet the matron Melancholy, 
 Goddess of the tearful eye, 
 Tliat loves to fold lier arms and sigh ! 
 Let us with silent footsteps go 
 To eharnels and the house of woe. 
 To Gotliie eliurches, vaults, and tombs. 
 Where each sad night some virgin conies. 
 With throbbing breast and faded cheek. 
 Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek ; 
 Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, 
 Wliere, to avoid cold winter's sliowers. 
 The naked beggar shivering lies, 
 
 Whdst wliistliug tempests round lier rise. 
 And trembles lest tlie tottering -wall 
 Should on her sleeping infants fall. 
 
 Now let us louder strike tlie lyre, 
 For my heart glows witli martial fire ; 
 I feel, I feel, with sudden heat. 
 My big tumultuous bosom beat ! 
 The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear, 
 A thousand widows' shrieks I hear ; 
 " Give me auotlier horse," I cry ; 
 Lo ! the base Gallic squadrons fly. , 
 
 W'hence is tliis rage ? What spirit, say, 
 To battle hurries me away ? 
 'T is Fancy, in her fiery car. 
 Transports me to tlie thickest war, 
 Tliere whirls me o'er tlie hills of slain 
 Where Tumult and Destruction reign ; 
 Wliere, mad with pain, the wounded steed 
 Tramples the dying and the dead ; 
 Where giant Terror stalks around. 
 With sullen joy surveys the ground. 
 And, pointing to the ensanguined field. 
 Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield ! 
 
 O, guide me from this horrid scene 
 To high-arched walks and alleys green. 
 Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun 
 The fervors of the midday sun ! 
 The pangs of absence, 0, remove. 
 For thou canst place me near my love, 
 Canst fold in visionary bliss, 
 And let me think I steal a kiss. 
 
 When young-eyed Spring profusely throws 
 From her green lap the pink and rose ; 
 WHien the soft turtle of the dale 
 To Summer tells her tender tale ; 
 When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, 
 And stains with wine his jolly cheeks ; 
 'Wlien Winter, like poor pilgrim old, 
 Shakes his silver beard with cold ; 
 At every season let my ear 
 Thy solemn whispers. Fancy, hear. 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 About 1733. 
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TEAQUAIK, 
 
 He-\r me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 
 
 I '11 tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
 Though thus I languish and complain, 
 
 Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 
 My vows and sighs, like silent air. 
 
 Unheeded, never move her ; 
 At the bonuie Bush aboon Traquair, 
 
 'T was there I first did love her. 
 
 -9^ 
 
a- 
 
 420 
 
 BLACKSTONE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 That day she smiled and made me glad, 
 
 No maid seemed ever kinder ; 
 I thought myself the luckiest lad, 
 
 So sweetly there to find her ; 
 I tried to soothe my amorous flame 
 
 In words that I thought tender ; 
 If more there passed, I 'm not to blame, 
 
 I meant not to offend her. 
 
 Yet now she scornful flees the plain. 
 
 The fields we then frequented ; 
 If e'er we meet she shows disdain. 
 
 She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
 The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, 
 
 Its sweets I '11 aye remember ; 
 But now her frowns make it decay, — 
 
 It fades as in December. 
 
 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, 
 
 Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? 
 0, make her partner in my pains. 
 
 Then let her smiles relieve me : 
 If not, my love will turn despair. 
 
 My passion uo more tender ; 
 I '11 leave the Bush aboon Traquair, — 
 
 To lonely wilds I '11 wander. 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose ! 
 
 How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 
 Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those. 
 
 Both nature and fancy exceed. 
 No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 
 
 Not all the gay flowers of the field, 
 Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, 
 
 Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 
 
 'I'hc warblers are heard in the grove, 
 
 Tlie linnet, the lark, and the thrush ; 
 The blackbird and sweet cooing dove 
 
 With music enchant every bush. 
 Come let us go forth to the mead ; 
 
 Let us see how the primroses spring ; 
 We '11 lodge in some village on Tweed, 
 
 And love while the feathered folk sing. 
 
 How does my love pass the long day ? 
 
 Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? 
 Do they never carelessly stray 
 
 AVhile hap]iily she lies asleep? 
 Shoiild Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest. 
 
 Kind nature indulging my bliss. 
 To ease the soft pains of my breast, 
 
 I 'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 
 
 'T is she does the virgins excel ; 
 No beauty with her may compare ; 
 
 Love's graces around her do dwell ; 
 
 She 's fairest where tho\isands arc fair. 
 Say, charmer, where do tliy flocks stray ? 
 
 O, tell me at morn where they feed ! 
 Sball I seek them on sweet-winding Tay, 
 
 Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 
 
 SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 
 
 1783-1780. 
 
 A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE, 
 
 As, by some tyrant's stern command, 
 
 A wretch forsakes his native land, 
 
 In foreign climes condemned to roam 
 
 An endless exile from his home ; 
 
 Pcusive he treads the destined way, 
 
 And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, 
 
 Till on some neighboring mountain's brow 
 
 lie stops, and turns his eyes below ; 
 
 There, melting at the weU-known view. 
 
 Drops a last tear and bids adieu : 
 
 So 1, thus doomed from thee to part. 
 
 Gay queen of fancy and of art, 
 
 lleluctant move, with doubtful mind. 
 
 Oft stop, and often look behind. 
 
 Companion of my tender age, 
 
 Serenely gay and sweetly sage. 
 
 How blithesome we were wont to rove 
 
 By verdant hill or shady grove, 
 
 Wiiere fervent bees, with hununing voice. 
 
 Around the honeyed oak rejoice. 
 
 And aged elms, with awful bend, 
 
 In long cathedral walks extend ! 
 
 Lulled by tiie lapse of gliding floods. 
 
 Cheered by the warbling of the woods. 
 
 How blest my days, my thoughts how free. 
 
 In sweet society witli thee ! 
 
 Then all was joyous, all was young. 
 
 And years unheeded rolled along : 
 
 But now the pleasing dream is o'er, 
 
 These scenes must charm me now no more ; 
 
 Lost to the fields and torn from you — 
 
 Farewell ! — a long, a last adieu. 
 
 Me wrangling courts and stubborn law 
 
 To smoke and crowds and cities draw : 
 
 There selfish faction rules tlie day. 
 
 And pride and avarice throng the way ! 
 
 Diseases taint the murky air. 
 
 And midnight conflagrations glare ; 
 
 Loose Kevelry and Kiot bold 
 
 In friglited streets their orgies hold; 
 
 Or, wlu're in silence all is drowned, 
 
 Fell Minder walks his lonely round; 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 LORD RANDOLPH, LADY RANDOLPH, AND NORVAL. 421 
 
 -^ 
 
 No room for peace, no room for you ; 
 
 Adieu, celestial uympli, adieu ! 
 
 Shakespeare, no more tliy sylvan son, 
 
 Nor all the art of Addison, 
 
 Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, 
 
 Nor Milton's mighty self must please : 
 
 Instead of these, a formal band 
 
 In furs and coifs around me stand ; 
 
 With sounds uncouth and accents dry, 
 
 That grate the soul of harmony. 
 
 Each pedant sage unlocks his store 
 
 Of mystic, dark, discordant lore. 
 
 And points with tottering hand the ways 
 
 That lead me to the thorny maze. 
 
 There, in a winding close retreat. 
 
 Is Justice doomed to fix her seat ; 
 
 There, fenced by bulwarks of the law. 
 
 She keeps the wondering worlj in awe ; 
 
 And there, from vulgar sight retired. 
 
 Like Eastern queen, is more admired. 
 
 O, let me pierce the secret shade 
 
 Where dwells the venerable maid ! 
 
 There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 
 
 The guardian of Britannia's law ; 
 
 Unfold with joy her sacred page, 
 
 Tlie united boast of many an age ; 
 
 Where, mixed, yet uniform, appears . 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand years. 
 
 In that pure spring the bottom view, 
 
 Clear, deep, and regularly true ; 
 
 And other doctrines thence imbibe 
 
 Than lurk within the sordid scribe ; 
 
 Observe how parts with parts unite 
 
 In one harmonious rule of right ; 
 
 See countless wheels distinctly tend 
 
 By various laws to one great end ; 
 
 While mighty Alfred's piercing sold 
 
 Pervades and regulates the whole. 
 
 Then welcome business, welcome strife. 
 
 Welcome the cares, the thorns of life. 
 
 The visage wan, the pore-blind sight. 
 
 The toil by day, the lamp at night. 
 
 The tedious forms, the solemn prate. 
 
 The pert dispute, the dull debate. 
 
 The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, 
 
 For thee, fair Justice, welcome all ! 
 
 Thus, though my noon of life be past, 
 
 Yet let my setting sun, at last. 
 
 Find out the still, the niral cell. 
 
 Where sage retirement loves to dwell ! 
 
 There let me taste the homefelt bliss 
 
 Of innocence and inward peace ; 
 
 Untainted by the guilty bribe, 
 
 Uneursed amid the harpy tribe ; 
 
 No orphan's cry to wouud my ear ; 
 
 My honor and»my conscience clear. 
 
 Thus may I calmly meet my end. 
 
 Thus to the grave in peace descend. 
 
 JOHN HOME. 
 
 l'734-1808. 
 
 LORD RANDOLPH, LADY RANDOLPH, AND YOUNG 
 NORVAL, 
 
 Lady Randolph. How fares my lord? 
 Lord Randolph. That it fares well, thanks to 
 
 this gallant youth. 
 Whose valor saved me from a wretched death. 
 As down the winding dale I walked alone. 
 At the cross way four armed men attacked me. 
 Rovers, I judge, from the licentious camp, 
 Who would have quickly laid Lord Randolijh 
 
 low. 
 Had not this brave and generous stranger come, 
 Like my good angel, in the liour of fate. 
 And, mocking danger, made my foes his own. 
 They turned upon him ; but his active arm 
 Struck to the ground, from whence they rose 
 
 no more, 
 The fiercest two ; the others fled amain. 
 And left him master of the bloody field. 
 Speak, Lady Randolph ; upon beauty's tongue 
 Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold. 
 Speak, noble dame, and thank him for thy lord. 
 Ladv Ran. My lord, I cannot speak wliat 
 
 now I feel. 
 My heart o'erflows with gratitude to Heaven, 
 Aud to this noble youth, who, all unknown 
 To you and yours, deliberated not. 
 Nor paused at peril, but, humanely brave. 
 Fought on your side against such fearful odds. 
 Have you yet learnt of him whom we should 
 
 thaidc, 
 Wliom call the savior of Lord Randolph's life ? 
 Lord Ran. I asked that question, and he 
 
 answered not ; 
 But I must know who my deliverer is. {To the 
 
 Stranger. ) 
 NoRVAL. A low-born man, of parentage ob- 
 scure. 
 Who naught can boast but his desire to be 
 A soldier, and to gain a name in arms. 
 
 Lord Ran. Whoe'er thou art, thy spirit is 
 
 ennobled 
 By the great King of kings : thou art ordained 
 Ami stamped a hero by the sovereign hand 
 Of nature ! Blush not, flower of modesty 
 As well as valor, to declare thy birth. 
 
 NoRV. My name is Norval : on the Grampian 
 
 Hills 
 My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain, 
 Wiose constant cares were to increase his store. 
 And keep his only sou, myself, at home. 
 For I had heard of battles : and I longed 
 To follow to the field some warlike lord ; 
 And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 422 
 
 ANSTEY. 
 
 ■•^ 
 
 This moon, wliicli rose last night round as my 
 
 shield, 
 Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her 
 
 light, 
 A band of fierce barbarians from the hills 
 Hushed like a torrent down upon the vale, 
 Sweeping our flocks and herds. The sliepherds 
 
 (led 
 For safety and for sncoor, I alone, 
 With bended bow and quiver full of arrows, 
 Hovered about the enemy, and marked 
 The road he took ; then hasted to my friends ; 
 Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, 
 I met advancing. The pursuit I led. 
 Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe. 
 We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was 
 
 drawn. 
 An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief, 
 Who wore that day the arms whieli now I wear. 
 Returning home in triumph, I disdained 
 The shepherd's slothful life ; and having heard 
 That our good king had summoned his bold peers 
 To lead their warriors to the Carron side, 
 I left my father's house, and took with me 
 A chosen servant to conduct my steps, — 
 Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. 
 Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers ; 
 And, Heaven-directed, came this day to do 
 The happy deed that gilds my humble name. 
 Lord Ran. He is as wise as brave : was ever 
 
 talc 
 With such a gallant modesty rehearsed ? 
 My brave deliverer ! thou shalt enter now 
 A nol)ler hst ; and, in a monarch's siglit. 
 Contend with princes for the prize of fame. 
 I will present thee to our Scottish king. 
 Whose valiant spirit ever valor loved. 
 Ha ! my Matilda ! wherefore starts that tear ? 
 Laby Ran. I cannot say ; for various affec- 
 tions. 
 And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell : 
 Yet each of them may well command a tear. 
 I joy that thou art safe ; and I admire 
 Him and his fortunes, who hath wrought thy 
 
 safety ; 
 Yea, as my mind predicts, with thine his o-vm. 
 Obscure and friendless, he the army sought ; 
 Bent upon peril, in the range of death 
 Resolved to hunt for fame, and with his sword 
 To gain distinction wliieh his birth denied. 
 In this atteni))! nuknowu he might have perished. 
 And gained with all his valor but oblivion. 
 Now graced by thee, his vii-tue serves no more 
 Beneath despair. The soldier now of hope, 
 He stands conspicuoiis : fame and great renown 
 Are bro>ight within tlie compass of his sword. 
 On this my mind reflected, whilst you sjOTke, 
 And blessed the wonder-working hand of Heaven. 
 
 LoED Ran. Pious and grateful ever are tiiy 
 thoughts ! 
 My deeds shall follow where thou point'st the 
 
 way. 
 Next to myself, and equal to Glenalvon, 
 In honor and command shall Norval be. 
 
 NoRV. I know not how to thank you ; rude 
 I am 
 In speech and manners ; never till this hour 
 Stood I in such a presence ; yet, my lord. 
 There 's something in my breast wliich makes 
 
 me bold 
 To say that Norval ne'er will shame thy favor. 
 Li-DY Ran. I wiU be sworn thou wilt not. 
 Thou shalt be 
 My knight ; and ever, as thou didst to-day, 
 With hajipy valor guard the life of Randolph. 
 Loud Ran. .Well hast thou spoke. Let me 
 forbid reply. (To Non-iil.) 
 We are thy debtors still ; thy high desert 
 O'ertops our gratitude. I must proceed, 
 As was at first intended, to the camp ; 
 Some of my train, I see, arc speeding hither. 
 Impatient doubtless of their lord's delay. 
 Go witli me, Norval ; and thine eyes shall see 
 The chosen warriors of thy native land, 
 W'ho languish for the fight, and beat the air 
 With brandished swords. 
 
 NoRV. Let us be gone, my lord. 
 
 Douf/lai. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. 
 
 1724-1805. 
 
 THE PUBLIC BREAKFAST. 
 
 Now my lord had the honor of coming down 
 
 post. 
 To pay his respects to so famous a toast ; 
 In hopes he her ladyship's favor miglit win, 
 By playing the part of a host at an inn. 
 I 'm sure he 's a person of great resolution. 
 Though delicate nerves and a weak constitu- 
 tion ; 
 For he carried us all to a place 'cross tlie river. 
 And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his 
 
 liver ; 
 He said it would greatly our pleasure promote, 
 If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat ; 
 I never as yet eould his reason explain. 
 Why wc all sallied forth in the wiml and the 
 
 rain ; 
 For sure such confusion was never yet known ; 
 Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown : 
 Wliile his lordship, embroidcrBd aiul p(]\\clcriil 
 
 all o'er, 
 AVas bowing, and handing the ladies ashore : 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE PUBLIC BREAKFAST. 
 
 423 
 
 -Q) 
 
 V- 
 
 How the misses did huddle, aud sciiddle, and 
 
 run; 
 One would think to be wet must be very good 
 
 fun ; . 
 For by wagging their tails, they all seemed to 
 
 take pains 
 To moisten their piuious Hke ducks when it rains ; 
 And 't was pretty to see, how hke birds of a 
 
 feather, 
 The people of quality flocked all together ; 
 All pressing, addressing, caressing, aud fond. 
 Just the same as those animals are in a pond : 
 You 've read all their names in the news, I sup- 
 pose. 
 But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes : 
 There was Lady Greasewrister, 
 And Madam Van-Twister, 
 Her ladyship's sister : 
 Lord Cram, and Lord Vulture, 
 Sir Brandish O'Culter, 
 Witii Marshal Carouzer, 
 And old Lady Mouzer, 
 And the great Hanoverian Baron Panzraowzer ; 
 Besides many others who all in the rain went, 
 On purpose to honor this great entertaiuuient : 
 The company made a most brilhant appearance. 
 And ate bread and butter with great persever- 
 ance : 
 All the chocolate too, that my lord set before 'em. 
 The ladies despatched with the utmost decorum. 
 Soft musical numbers were heard all around, 
 Tlie horns and the clarions echoing sound. 
 Sweet were the strains, as odorous gales that 
 
 blow 
 O'er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses 
 grow. 
 The peer was quite ravished, while close to his 
 
 side 
 Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride ! 
 Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture surveyed 
 All the powerful charms she so nobly displayed: 
 As when at the feast of the great Alexander, 
 Timotheus, the musical sou of Thcrsander, 
 Breathed heavenly measures. 
 
 » * ♦ 
 
 O, had I a voice that was stronger than steel. 
 With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel. 
 And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter 
 All the speeches my lord made to Lady Bun- 
 butter ! 
 So pohte all the time, that he ne'er touched a bit, 
 While she ate up iiis rolls and applauded his wit : 
 For they tell me that men of (rue taste, when 
 
 they treat, 
 Should talk a great deal, but tlicy never shoidd 
 
 eat: 
 And if that be the fashion, I never will give 
 Any grand eutei-tainment as long as I live : 
 
 Por I 'm of opiiuou, 't is proper to cheer 
 The stomach and bowels as well as the ear. 
 Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel 
 Regale hke the breakfast I saw on the table : 
 I freely will own I the muffins preferred 
 To all the genteel conversation I heard. 
 E'en though I 'd the honor of sitting between 
 My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen, 
 Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine. 
 Cries Peggy, "This place is enchantingly pretty; 
 We never can see such a thing in the city. 
 You may spend aU your lifetime in Cateaton 
 
 Street, 
 Aud never so civil a gentleman meet; 
 You may talk what you please ; you may search 
 
 London through ; 
 You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too ; 
 And I 'U give you my head if you find such a 
 
 host. 
 For coH'ee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast : 
 How he welcomes at once all the world and his 
 
 wife. 
 And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life ! " 
 " These horns," cries my lady, " so tickle one's 
 
 ear. 
 Lard ! what would I give that Sir Simon was 
 
 here ! 
 To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go. 
 For I find here are folks one may venture to 
 
 know: 
 Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend, 
 Aud my lord would be pleased with so cheerful 
 
 a friend." 
 So when we had wasted more bread at a break- 
 fast 
 Than the poor of our parish have ate for this 
 
 ■week past, 
 I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng 
 Come bustling and rustling and jostling along ; 
 For his lordship was pleased that the company 
 
 now 
 To my Lady Bunbutter should courtesy and bow ; 
 And my lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly 
 
 proud 
 At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd. 
 And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored 
 This beautiful image set up by my lord. 
 Some few insignificant folk went away. 
 Just to follow the employments aud calls of the 
 
 day; 
 But those who knew better their time how to 
 
 spend. 
 The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend, 
 iliss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillon. 
 Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion ; 
 All the while her mamma was expressing her joy. 
 That her daughter the morning so well could 
 
 employ. 
 
 -9> 
 
(&- 
 
 424 
 
 MASON. 
 
 ■Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, 
 
 relate 
 The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great? 
 As homeward we came, — 't is witii sorrow you '11 
 
 hear 
 W\\at a dreadful disaster attended the peer ; 
 For whether some envious god liad decreed 
 Tliat a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed ; 
 Or whether his lordship was charmed to behold 
 His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old ; 
 In handing old Lady Conicfidgct and daughter, 
 Tliis obsequious lord tumbled into the water ; 
 But a nymph of tlie flood brought him safe to the 
 
 boat, 
 And I left all the ladies a cleaning his eoat. 
 
 he Baih Guide. 
 
 WILLIAM MASON. 
 
 1725-1797. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MRS, MASON, IN THE CATHEDKAL 
 OF BRISTOL,' 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all tliat my soul holds dear : 
 
 Taice that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: 
 To Bristol's fount I bore witli trembling care 
 
 Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave. 
 And died ! Does youth, does beauty, read the 
 line? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? 
 Speak, dead Maria ! brcatiie a strain divine : 
 
 Even from the grave thou shalt have power to 
 charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; 
 
 Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free ; 
 
 As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. 
 Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die 
 
 ('Twas e'en to thee), yet the dread path onee 
 trod. 
 Heaven hfts its everlasting portals higli. 
 
 And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 
 
 AN ODE FROM CARAOTAOUS. 
 
 MoNA on Snowdon calls ; 
 Hear, tliou king of mountains, hear ; 
 
 Hark, she speaks from all her strings : 
 
 Hark, her loudest eciio rings ; 
 King of mountains, bend tliino car: 
 
 Send thy spirits, send them soon. 
 
 Now, wlien midniglit and the moon 
 Meet upon tliy front of snow ; 
 
 • The Inst four lines of tliia poem ore printed in Profesflor 
 ITrnry Reed's edition of Gray as the work of tiie latter poet. 
 Itiesc lines are the hest. 
 
 See, their gold and ebon rod, 
 
 Wlicre the sober sisters nod. 
 And greet in whispers sage and slow. • 
 Snowdon, mark! 'tis magic's hour. 
 Now tlie muttered spell hath power; 
 Power to rend thy ribs of rock, 
 Aud burst thy base with thunder's shock : 
 But to thee no ruder spell 
 Shall Moua use than those that dwell 
 In music's secret cells, and lie 
 Steeped in the stream of harmony. 
 
 Snowdon has heard tlie strain : 
 Hark, amid the wondering grove 
 
 Other harpings answer clear, 
 
 Other voices meet our car, 
 Pinions flutter, shadows move, 
 
 Busy murmurs hum around. 
 
 Bustling vestments brush the ground ; 
 RoiLud and roiuid and round they go, 
 
 Through the twilight, through the shade. 
 
 Mount the oak's majestic head. 
 And gild the tufted mistletoe. 
 Cease, ye glittering race of Ught, 
 Close your wings and check your flight; 
 Here, arranged in order due, 
 Spread your robes of saft'ron hue ; 
 For lo ! with more than mortal fire. 
 Mighty Mador smites the lyre: 
 Hark, he sweeps the master-strings ; 
 Listen all. — 
 
 AGAINST HOMICIDE, 
 
 Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms 
 The wretch's trembling soul, who launches forth 
 Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think. 
 And let the thought restrain tliy impious hand. 
 The race of man is one vast marshalled army. 
 Summoned to pass the spacious realms of time, 
 Tlicir leader the Almighty. In that march. 
 All ! who may quit his post? when high in air 
 The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand 
 
 wields 
 The imperial standard of Heaven's iirovidcnce, 
 Wliich, dreadful sweeping through the vaulted 
 
 sky, 
 Overshadows all creation. 
 
 Elfrida. 
 
 A SCENE OF PAGAN KITES. 
 
 Tins is the secret centre of the isle: 
 Here, Romans, pause, and let the eye of wonder 
 Gaze on the solemn scene ; behold yon oak. 
 How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown 
 
 arms 
 Chills the pale plain beneath him : mark yon altar, 
 Tlio dark stream bniwling round its rugged li.isc; 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 ON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS'S PAINTED WINDOW. 425 
 
 -ft 
 
 k 
 
 These cliffs, these yawning cavei-ns, this wide 
 
 circus, 
 Skirted with unhewn stone ; they awe my soul, 
 As if tlic very genius of the place 
 Himself appeared, and with terrific tread 
 Stallvcd througli his drear domain. And yet, my 
 
 friends. 
 If shapes Uke his be but tlie fancy's coinage, 
 Surely tliere is a hidden power that reigns 
 Mid the lone majesty of untamed nature, 
 Controlling sober reason ; tell me else. 
 Why do these haunts of barbarous superstition 
 O'ercome me thus ? I scorn them ; yet they awe 
 
 me. Caractacus. 
 
 EPITAPH ON GKAT. 
 
 No more the Grecian JMuse unrivalled reigns. 
 To Britain let the nations homage pay ; 
 
 She felt a Homer's fire in Milton's strains, 
 A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of Gray. 
 
 SHORT PASSAGES. 
 
 Time's gradual touch 
 Has moiddered into beauty many a tower 
 Wliich, when it frowned with all its battlements, 
 Was only terrible. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Many a glade is found 
 The haunt of wood-gods only ; where, if art 
 E'er dared to tread, 'twas with uusandalled foot, 
 Printless, as if 't were holy ground. 
 
 * * * 
 
 While through the west, where sinks the crimson 
 
 day, 
 Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners 
 
 gray- 
 
 * * ♦ 
 
 The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty. 
 
 THOMAS WARTON.* 
 
 1788-1790. 
 
 WRITTEN Df A BLANK LEAF OF DDGDALE'S 
 MOHASTICON. 
 
 Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, 
 
 By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled 
 
 Of painful pedantry, tlie poring child. 
 
 Who turns of those proud domes the lustoric page. 
 
 Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. 
 
 * Everybody loves tlie mere name of this leEirnetl and genial 
 historian of Entrlish poetry. He also is to he praised as one 
 of the few poets who, in the later portion of the ei<rhteenfli 
 century, prepared the {ground for the wonderful revival of 
 English poetry in the nineteentl). I 
 
 Tiiink'st thou the warbling muses never smiled 
 On his lone hours ? Ingenious views engage 
 His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled, 
 Intent. While cloistered Piety displays 
 Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores 
 New manners, and the pomp of elder days, 
 Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. 
 Not rough nor barren are tlie winding ways 
 Of hoar antiquity, but strewn wilii flowers. 
 
 ON REVISITING THE RIVER LODON. 
 
 An ! what a weary race my feet have run 
 Since first 1 trod thy banks with alders crowned. 
 And thought my way was all tlirongli fairy ground, 
 Beneath the azure sky and golden sun, — 
 ^Vhen first my Muse to lisp lier notes begun ! 
 AVhile pensive memory traces back the round 
 ^V'hicli fills the varied interval between ; 
 Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
 Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns so 
 
 pure 
 No more return to cheer my evening road ! 
 Yet stUl one joy remains, that not obscure 
 Nor useless all my vacant days liave flowed 
 From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime 
 
 mature, 
 Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed. 
 
 ON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS'S PAINTED VTINDOW 
 AT OXFORD. 
 
 Ye l)rawny jiropliets,' that in robes so rich, 
 At distance due, possess the crisped niche ; 
 Ye rows of patriarchs, that, sublimely reared. 
 Diffuse a proud primeval length of beard ; 
 Ye saints, who, clad in crimson's bright array. 
 More pride than humble poverty display ; 
 Ye virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown 
 Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown ; 
 Ye angels, that from clouds of gold recUue, 
 But boast no semblance to a race divine ; 
 Ye tragic tales of legendary lore. 
 That draw Devotion's ready tear no more ; 
 Ye martyrdoms of unenliglitened days. 
 Ye miracles that now no wonder raise ; 
 Shapes, that with one broad glare the gazer strike. 
 Kings, bisliops, nuns, apostles, all alike ! 
 Ye colors, that the unwary sight amaze. 
 And only dazzle in the noontide blaze I 
 No more the sacred window's round disgrace, 
 But yield to Grecian groups the shining space. 
 Lo ! from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne ; 
 Lo ! Picture's powers a new formation own ! 
 Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain. 
 With her own energy, the expressive stain ! 
 The mighty master spreads his mimic toil 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 426 
 
 AVARTON. 
 
 -n> 
 
 ^ 
 
 More wide, nor only blends the breathing oil; 
 But calls the lineaments of life complete 
 From genial alchemy's creative heat ; 
 Olji'dient forms to the bright fusion gives, 
 AVIiile in the warm enamel Nature lives. 
 Reynolds, 't is thine, from the broad window's 
 
 height, 
 To add new lustre to religious light ; 
 Not of its pomp to stri]) tliis ancient shrine. 
 But bid that jiomp with p\irer radiance shine : 
 Witii arts unknown before, to reconcile 
 Tiie wilhng Graces to the Gothic pile. 
 
 THE HAMLET. 
 
 The hinds how blest, who, ne'er beguiled 
 To quit their liamlet's hawthorn wild, 
 Nor luuuit the crowd, nor tempt tlie main, 
 For splendid care and guilty gain ! 
 
 When morning's twilight-tinctured beam 
 Strikes their low tliatch with slanting gleam, 
 Tiiey rove abroad in ether blue. 
 To dip tlie scythe in fragrant dew ; 
 Tiie slieaf to bind, the beecli to fell, 
 Tliat nodding shades a craggy dell. 
 
 Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear. 
 Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear : 
 On green untrodden banks they view 
 The hyacinth's neglected hue ; 
 lu their lone haunts and woodland rounds 
 They spy the squirrel's airy bounds. 
 And startle from her ashen spray 
 Across the glen the screaming jay ; 
 Each native charjn their steps explore 
 Of Solitude's sequestered store. 
 
 For them the moon with cloudless ray 
 
 Mounts to illume their homeward way ; 
 
 Their weary spirits to relieve. 
 
 The meadows incense breathe at eve. 
 
 No riot mars the simple fare 
 
 That o'er a glimmering hearth they share ; 
 
 But wlieu the curfew's measured roar 
 
 Duly, the darkening valleys o'er. 
 
 Has echoed from (he distant town, 
 
 They wisii no beds of cygnet-down. 
 
 No trophied canojnes, to close 
 
 Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 
 
 Their little sons, who spread the bloom 
 Of healtli around tlic clay-built room, 
 Or through the primrosed coppice stray. 
 Or giiml)ol ill thi' new-mown liay. 
 Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twilie, 
 Or drive alleld tiie tardy kinc, 
 Or Juvstcn from tlic sidtry hill 
 To loiter at the shady rill. 
 
 Or cUmb the tall pine's gloomy crest 
 To rob the raven's ancient nest. 
 
 Tlicir Immble porch with honeyed flowers 
 The curling woodbine's shade embowers ; 
 From the small garden's thymy mound 
 Their bees in busy swarms resound ; 
 Nor fell Disease before his time, 
 Hastes to consume life's golden prime, 
 But when their temples long have wore 
 The silver crown of tresses hoar ; 
 As studious stiU calm peace to keep. 
 Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 
 
 When now mature in classic knowledge. 
 The joyful youth is sent to college, 
 His father comes, a vicar plain, 
 At Oxford bred, in Anna's reign. 
 And thus, in form of humble suitor, 
 Bowing, accosts a reverend tutor : 
 " Sir, 1 'm a Glo'stcrshire divine, 
 And this my eldest son of nine ; 
 My wife's ambition and my own 
 AVas that this child shoidd wear a gown ; 
 I '11 warrant that his good behavior 
 Will justify your future favor ; 
 And, for his parts, to tell the truth, 
 My son 's a very forward youth ; 
 Has Horace all by heart, — you 'd wonder, — 
 And mouths out IlomeWs Greek like thunder. 
 If you 'd examine — and admit him, 
 A scholarship would nicely fit him ; 
 That he succeeds 't is ten to one ; 
 Ycnir vote and interest, sir ! " 'T is done. 
 
 Our pupil's hopes, thougli twice defeated. 
 Are with a scholarship completed : 
 A sehularship but half maintains. 
 And college rules are heavy chains : 
 In garret dark he smokes and puns, 
 A prey to discipline and duns ; 
 And now, intent on new designs, 
 Siglis for a fellowship — and fines. 
 
 When nine full tedious winters past, 
 That utmost wish is crowned at last ; 
 But tlic rich prize no sooner got, 
 Again he quarrels with his lot : 
 " Tiiesc fellowships are pretty things, 
 We live indeed like petty kings ; 
 ]5ut who can bear to waste his whole age 
 Amid the dulness of a college, 
 Deliarred the common joys of life. 
 And that prime bliss — a loving wife! 
 O. what 's a table richly spread, 
 Witliout a woman at its head ? 
 Would some snug benefice but. fall. 
 Ye feasts, ye dinners ! farewell all ! 
 
 ^ 
 
<&■ 
 
 THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUE. 
 
 427 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 To offices I 'd bid adieu, 
 
 Of Deau, Vice-Prses. — of Bursar too ; 
 
 Come, joys that rural quiet yields, 
 
 Come, tithes aud house and fruitful fields ! " 
 
 Too fond of freedom and of ease 
 A patron's vanity to please. 
 Long time he watches, and by stealth. 
 Each frail incumbent's doubtfiJ health; 
 At length, and in his fortieth year, 
 A living drops, — two liundred clear ! 
 Witli breast elate beyond expression, 
 He hurries down to take possession, 
 With rapture views the sweet retreat, — 
 " What a eonveuieut house ! how neat ! 
 For fuel here 's sufficient wood : 
 Pray God the cellars may be good ! 
 The garden — that nrust be new planned ; 
 Shall these old-fashioned yew-trees stand ? 
 O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise 
 The flowery shrub of thousand dyes ; 
 Yon wall, that feels the southern ray. 
 Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay ; 
 While thick beneath its aspect warm 
 O'er well-ranged hives the bees shall swarm, 
 From which, erelong, of golden gleam 
 Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream : 
 This awkward hut, o'ergrown witli ivy. 
 We '11 alter to a modern privy ; 
 "Up yon green slope, of hazels trim, 
 An avenue so cool and dim 
 Shall to an arbor, at the end. 
 In spite of gout, entice a friend. 
 My predecessor loved devotion. 
 But of a garden had no notion." 
 
 Continuing this fantastic farce on, 
 He now commences country parson. 
 To make his character entire. 
 He weds — a oousiu of the squire ; 
 Not over weighty in the purse, 
 But many doctors have done worse ; 
 Aud though slie boasts no charms divine. 
 Yet she can carve, and make birch wine. 
 
 Thus fixed, content he taps his barrel. 
 Exhorts his neighbors not to quarrel : 
 Finds his church-wardens have discerning 
 Both in good liquor and good learning ; 
 With titlies his barns replete he sees, 
 Aud chuckles o'er his surplice fees ; 
 Studies to find out latent dues, 
 Ajid regidates the state of pews ; 
 Rides a sleek mare with purple housing. 
 To share the monthly club's carousing ; 
 Of Oxford pranks facetious tells, 
 Aud — but on Sundays — hears no bells ; 
 Seuds presents of his choicest fruit, 
 Aud prunes himself each sapless shoot ; 
 Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear 
 The earhest melons of the year ; 
 
 Thmks alteration charming work is. 
 Keeps bantam cocks, aud I'eeds his turkeys ; 
 Builds iu his copse a favorite bench, 
 Aud stores the pond with carp and tench. 
 
 But, ah ! too soon his thouglitless breast 
 By cares domestic is opprest; 
 And a tliird butcher's bill, and brewing. 
 Threaten inevitable ruin : 
 For children fresh expenses yet, 
 Aud Dicky now for school is fit. 
 " Why did I sell my college life," 
 He cries, " for benefice and wife ? 
 Return, ye days, when endless pleasure 
 I found in reading or in leisure ! 
 When calm around the common-room 
 I puffed my daily ]iipe"s perfume ! 
 Rode for a stomach, and inspected, 
 At annual bottlings, corks selected ; 
 And dined untaxed, untroubled, under 
 The porti-ait of our pious founder ! 
 When impositions were supplied 
 To light my pipe — or soothe my pride — 
 No cares were then for forward peas, 
 A yearly longing wife to please ; 
 My thoughts no christening dinners crost. 
 No ciiildren cried for buttered toast ; 
 And every night I went to bed 
 Without a Modus iu my lieatl ! " 
 
 O trifling head and fickle heart ! 
 Chagrined at whatsoe'er thou art; 
 A dupe to follies yet untried. 
 And sick of pleasures scarce enjoyed ! 
 Each prize possessed, thy transport ceases, 
 Aud in pursuit alone it pleases. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF KING AETHUR.* 
 
 Stately the feast and high the cheer : 
 Girt with many an armed peer. 
 And canopied with golden pall, 
 
 * King Henry the Second, having undertaken an expedition 
 info Ireland, to suppress a rebellioa raised by Roderick, Kin:; 
 of Connauglit, eoninionly called O'Connor Dun, or The Brovrn 
 Monarch uf Irctand, was entertained, in his passage through 
 Wales, with the songs of the Welsli bards. The sub.ject of 
 their poetry was King Arthur, whose history had been so long 
 disguised by fabulous inventions that tlie place of his burial 
 was in general scarcely known or reineiiibcred. But in one of 
 these Welsh poems sung before Henry, it was recited that 
 King Arthur, after the battle of Camlan in Cornwall, was 
 interred at Glastonbury .\bbey, before the high altar, yet with- 
 out any external mark or memorial. Afterwards Henry visited 
 the abbey, and commanded the spot, described by the bard, to 
 he opened: when digging near twenty feet deep, they found 
 the body, deposited under a largo stone, inscrilied with Arthur's 
 name. This is tlie groundwork of the following ode ; but for 
 the better accommodation of the story to our present purpose, 
 it is told with some slight variations from the Cronich ofG/ns- 
 tonhnry. The Castle of Cilgarran, where this discovery is sup- 
 posed to have been made, now a romantic ruin, stands on a 
 rock descending to the river Teivi in Peuibrokeshire, and was 
 built by Roger Montgomery, who led the van of the Normans 
 at Hastings. 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 428 
 
 WARTON. 
 
 -Q5 
 
 ^ 
 
 Amid Cilgarraii's castle hall. 
 Sublime ill fonnidable btate 
 And warlike splendor Heury sate ; 
 Prepared to stain the briny Hood 
 Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood. 
 
 Illiimiiiiiig the vaulted roof, 
 A thousand torches flamed aloof; 
 From massy cups, with golden gleam 
 Sparkled the red methegliu's stream ; 
 To grace the gorgeous festival, 
 Along the hjfty-windowcd wall. 
 The storied t;ipcstry was hung ; 
 With minstrelsy the rafters rung 
 Of harps, that with reflected light 
 From the proud gallery glittered bright ; 
 While gifted bards, a rival throng 
 (From distant Mona, nurse of song, 
 From Teivi, tringed with umbrage brown, 
 From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown, 
 From many a shaggy precipice 
 That shades lerne's hoarse abyss, 
 And many a sunless solitude 
 Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude), 
 To crown the banquet's solemn close, 
 Tlicmes of British glory chose ; 
 And to the strings of various chime 
 Attempered thus the fabling rime : 
 
 " O'er Cornwall's clilTs the tempest roared, 
 High the screaming sea-mew soared ; 
 On Tintaggel's * topmost tower 
 Darksome fell the sleety sliower ; 
 Round the rough castle shrilly sung 
 The whirling blast, and wildly flung 
 On each tall rampart's tliunderiug side 
 The surges of the tumbhng tide. 
 When Arthur ranged his red-cross I'anks 
 On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks. 
 By Mordred's faithless guile decreed 
 Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed ! 
 Yet in vain a payiiim foe 
 Armed witii fate the mighty blow; 
 For when he fell, an eltin queen. 
 All in secret, and unseen. 
 O'er the fainting hero threw 
 Her mantle of ambrosial blue. 
 And bade her spirits bear him far. 
 In Merlin's agate-axled car, 
 To her green isle's euamelled stecp,t 
 In tiic navel of the deep. 
 O'er liis wounds she sprinkled dew 
 Fi'om (lowers that in Arabia grew : 
 
 • Tintiitrgel or Tintadgcl Castle, where Kin^: .\rthur is snid 
 to liave been born nntl to bnvc eliiefly rcsiiled. Some of its 
 biigo fragments still remniii, on a i-oek.v peninsular cape, of a 
 prodigious declivity towards tbe sea. and almost inaccessible 
 from the land side, on the southern coasts of Comwall. 
 + "An hoary pile 
 Mid the green navel of our isle." 
 
 Collins, Ode to Liberty. 
 
 On a rich, enchanted bed 
 She pillowed his majcstie head ; 
 O'er his brow, with whispers bland, 
 Thrice she waved an opiate wand ; 
 And to soft music's airy sound 
 Her magic curtains closed around. 
 There, renewed the vital spring, 
 Agaui he reigns a mighty king ; 
 And many a fair and fragrant clinic. 
 Blooming in immortal prime. 
 By gales of Eden ever fauued. 
 Owns the monarch's high command : 
 Thence to Britain shall return 
 (If right prophetic rolls I leanO, 
 Borne on Victory's spreading plume, 
 His ancient sceptre to resume ; 
 Once more, in old heroic pride, 
 His barbed courser to bestride ; 
 His knightly table to restore, 
 And the brave tournaments of yore." 
 
 They ceased : when on the tuneful stage 
 Advanced a bard, of aspect sage ; 
 His silver tresses, thin-besprent. 
 To age a graeefvd reverence lent ; 
 His beard, all white as spangles frore 
 Tiiat clotiie Plinlimmou's forests hoar, 
 Down to his harp descending flowed ; 
 With Time's faint rose his features glowed ; 
 His eyes diffused a softened fire. 
 And thus lie waked the warbling wire : 
 
 "Listen, Henry, to my rede ! 
 Not from fairy realms I lead 
 Bright-robed Tradition, to relate 
 In forged colors Arthur's fate. 
 Though much of old romantic lore 
 On the blest theme I keep in store ; 
 But boastful Fiction should be dumb 
 Where Truth the strain might best become. 
 If thine ear may still be won 
 With songs of Uthcr's glorious son, 
 Henry, I a talc unfold 
 Never yet in rliyme enrolled, 
 Nor sung nor harped in hall or bower, 
 Which in my youth's full early flower 
 A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line, 
 Wlio spoke of kings from ohl Loerine, 
 Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn, 
 Deep in a cliff'-eneirclcd lawn. 
 What time the glistening vapors fled 
 From elnud-cnvelo|)ed Clyder's* licad, 
 And on its sides the torrents gray 
 Shone to the morning's orient, ray. 
 
 " When Arthur bowed his haughty crest, 
 No princess, veiled in azure vest, 
 Snatched him, by Merlin's potent spell. 
 In groves of golden bliss to dwell ; 
 Where, crowned with wreaths of mistletoe, 
 • Or Glvder, a mountain in Caernarvonshire. 
 
 -^ 
 
<e- 
 
 THE FRIAE OF ORDERS GRAY. 
 
 429 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Slauglitered kings in glory go : 
 
 But when he fell, with winged speed 
 
 His champions, on a milk-white steed. 
 
 From the battle's hurricane, 
 
 Bore him to Joseph's towered faue, 
 
 lu the fair vale of Avalon : * 
 
 Tiiere, with chanted orison. 
 
 And the long blaze of tapers clear, 
 
 The st(5led fatliers met the bier ; 
 
 Through the dim isles, in order dread 
 
 Of martial Tvoe, the chief they led. 
 
 And deep entombed in holy ground, 
 
 Before the altar's solemn bound. 
 
 Around no dusky banners wave. 
 
 No mouldering trophies mark the grave : 
 
 Away the ruthless Dane has torn 
 
 Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn; 
 
 And long o'er the neglected stone 
 
 Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown : 
 
 The faded tomb, with honor due, 
 
 'T is thiue, Henry, to renew ! 
 
 Tiiithcr, when Conquest has restored 
 
 Yon I'ecreant isle, and sheathed the sword, 
 
 When Peace with palm has crowned thy brows. 
 
 Haste thee, to pay tliy pilgrim vows. 
 
 There, observant of my lore. 
 
 The pavement's hallowed depth explore ; 
 
 And thrice a fathom underneath 
 
 Dive into the vaults of death. 
 
 There shall tliine eye, with wild amaze, 
 
 On his gigantic stature gaze ; 
 
 There slialt thou hnd the monarch laid, 
 
 All in warrinr-wccds ai'rayed. 
 
 Wearing in death his helmet-crown. 
 
 And weapons huge of old renown. 
 
 Martial prince, 't is thine to save 
 
 From dark oblivion Arthur's grave ! 
 
 So may thy ships securely stem 
 
 The western frith ; thy diadem 
 
 Shine victorious in the van, 
 
 Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan : 
 
 Thy Normen pikemen win their way 
 
 Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay : 
 
 And from the steeps of rough Kildare 
 
 Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare ; 
 
 So may thy bow's unerring yew 
 
 Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue." 
 
 Amid the peaUng symphony 
 The spiced goblets mantled high. 
 With passions new the song impressed 
 The listening king's impatient breast : 
 Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes ; 
 He scorns awhile his bold emprise ; 
 Even now he seems, with eager pace. 
 The consecrated floor to trace; 
 Arid ope, from its tremendous gloom, 
 
 * Glastonbury Alit)ey, said to he founded by Joseph of Arima- 
 thea in a spot anciently called tlie island, or valley, of Avalonia, 
 
 Tlie treasure of the wondrous tomb : 
 Even now, he burns in thought to rear. 
 From its dark bed, the ponderous spear. 
 Rough with the gore of Pictish kings ; 
 Even now fond hope his fancy wings, 
 To poise the monarch's massy blade, 
 Of inagic-tempered metal made ; 
 And drag to day the dinted shield 
 That felt the storm of Camlan's field. 
 O'er the sepulchre profound 
 Even now, with arching sculpture crowned. 
 He plans the chantry's choral shrine. 
 The daily dirge, and rites divine. 
 
 THOMAS PERCY. 
 
 1728-1811. 
 
 THE FEIAE OF ORDERS GRAY,* 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray 
 
 Walked forth to tell Ins heads. 
 And he met with a lady fair 
 
 Clad ui a pilgrim's weeds. 
 
 " Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! 
 
 I pray thee tell to me. 
 If ever at yon holy shrine 
 
 My true-love thou didst see." 
 
 " And how should I know your true-love 
 
 From many another one ? " 
 "O, by his cockle hat and staff. 
 
 And by his sandal shoon : 
 
 " But chielly by his face and mien. 
 
 That were so fair to view, 
 His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. 
 
 And eyes of lovely blue." 
 
 " O lady, he is dead and gone ! 
 
 Lady, he 's dead and gone ! 
 At his head a green grass turf. 
 
 And at his lieels a stone. 
 
 " Within these holy cloisters long 
 
 He languislied, and he died 
 Lamenting of a lady's love. 
 
 And 'plaining of her pride. 
 
 " Here bore him barefaced on his bier 
 
 Six proper youths and tall ; 
 And many a tear bedewed iiis grave 
 
 Witliin yon kirkyard wall." 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth, 
 
 And art thou dead and gone ? 
 And didst thou die for love of me ? 
 
 Break, cruel heart of stone ! " 
 
 * Cunposcd mostly of fragments of ancient ballads. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 430 PERCY. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 fr 
 
 " O, weep not, lady, weep not so, 
 
 Some ghostly comfort seek ; 
 Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 
 
 Xor tears bedew thy cheek." 
 
 " O. do not, do not, holy friar, 
 
 My sorrow now reprove ; 
 For I have lost the sweetest youth 
 
 That e'er won lady's love. 
 
 "And now, alas ! for thy sad loss 
 
 I '11 evermore weep and sigh ; 
 For thee I only wished to live. 
 
 For thee I wish to die." 
 
 " Weep no more, lady, weep no more; 
 
 Thy sorrow is in vain: 
 For violets plucked, the sweetest shower 
 
 Will ne'er make grow again. 
 
 "Our joys as wiuged dreams do fly; 
 
 Wliy then should sorrow last ? 
 Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 
 
 Grieve not for what is past." 
 
 "0, say not so, thou holy friar ! 
 
 I pray thee say not so ; 
 For since my true-love died for me, 
 
 'T is meet my tears should flow. 
 
 " And will he never come again. 
 
 Will lie ne'er come again 'i 
 Ah, no ! he is dead, and laid in his grave, 
 
 Forever to remain. 
 
 " His cheek was redder tliau the rose. 
 
 The comcliest youth was he ; 
 But he is dead and laid in his grave, 
 
 Alas ! and woe is me." 
 
 " Sigh no more, 'lady, sigh no more, 
 
 Men were deceivers ever; 
 One foot on sea, and one on land, 
 
 Ti) one thing constant never. 
 
 " Hadst thou been fond, he liad been false, 
 
 And left thee sad and heavy ; 
 For young men ever were (ickle found. 
 
 Since summer trees were leafy." 
 
 " Now say not so, thou holy friar, 
 
 I ]u-ay thee say not so ; 
 My love lie iiad the truest heart, — 
 
 0, he was ever true ! 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou nuieh-loved youth? 
 
 And didst tho\i die for me? 
 Then farewell iiomc ; foreverniore 
 
 A pilgrim I will be. 
 
 " But first upon my true-love's grave 
 
 My weary limbs 1 '11 lay, 
 And thrice I '11 kiss the green grass turf 
 
 That wrajis his breathless clay." 
 
 " Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile 
 
 Beneatli this cloister wall ; 
 The cold wind through the hawthorn blows. 
 
 And drizzly rain doth fall." 
 
 " 0, stay me not, thou holy friar, 
 
 0, stay me not, I pray ; 
 No drizzly rain that falls on me 
 
 Can wash my fault away." 
 
 " Yet stay, fair lady, turn again. 
 
 And dry those pearly tears ; 
 For see, beneath this gowii of gray 
 
 Thy own tnie-love appears. 
 
 " Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, 
 
 These holy weeds I sought ; 
 And here, amid these lonely walls. 
 
 To end my days I thought. 
 
 " But haply, for my year of grace 
 
 Is not yet passed away, 
 Might I still hope to win thy love, 
 
 No longer would I stay." 
 
 "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
 
 Once more unto my heart ; 
 For since I 've found thee, lovely youth. 
 
 We .nevermore will part." 
 
 NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME? 
 
 O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me. 
 
 Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee. 
 
 The lowly cot and russet gown ? 
 Nac langer drcst in silken sheen, 
 
 Nae hingcr decked wi' jewels rare. 
 Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 
 
 O Nanny, when thou 'rt far awa. 
 
 Wilt thou not cast a look behind ? 
 Say, canst tliou face the flaky snaw. 
 
 Nor shrink before the winter wind? 
 0, can that soft and gentle mien 
 
 Severest hardships learn to bear. 
 Nor, sad. regret each courtly scene. 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 
 
 Nanny, canst thou love so true. 
 
 Through perils keen wi' me to gac ? 
 Or, when tliy swain mishap siiall rue, 
 Til share with him the ]>ang uf \\:ic 'i 
 
 ^ 
 
^^?--</ J.:^/.^^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 431 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Say, should disease or pain befall. 
 Wilt tliou assume the nurse's care, 
 
 Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall 
 Whore thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 And when at last thy loYC shall die. 
 
 Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? 
 Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 
 
 And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
 And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay 
 
 Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear ? 
 Kor then regret those scenes so gay, 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 o>«»«x>- 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 1728-1774. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER/ 
 
 fr 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
 Or by the lazy Scheld or wandering Po ; 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthiau boor 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
 My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. 
 And round his dwelhng guardian saints attend ; 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil and trim their evening fire ; 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 »Aud learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share. 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
 Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 
 * Macaulay says, " tlint in one respect The TrareUer dif- 
 fers from aU Gnldsniitli's other writings. In general his de- 
 signs were had and his execution good. In Tlif Travellrr 
 the execution, tliough deserving of much praise, is far inferior 
 to the desi;;u. No philosophical poem, ancient or modern, lias 
 a plan so noble and at the same time so simple. An English 
 wanderer, seated on a crag among the Alps, near the point 
 where three great countries meet, looks down on the hound- 
 less prospect, reviews his long pilgrimage, recalls the varia- 
 tions of scenery, of climate, of government, of religion, of 
 national character, which lie has observed, and comes to the 
 conclusion, just or unjust, that our happiness depends little 
 on political institutions, and much on the temper and regula- 
 tion of our own minds." 
 
 Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view ; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. 
 Allures from far, yet, as I foUow, flies ; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. 
 And find no spot of all the world my owa. 
 
 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, placed on high above the storm's career. 
 Look downward where a hundred realms a]ipear : 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 When thus creation's charms around combine, 
 Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom 
 
 vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
 These little things are great to httle man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glittering towns, with wealth and sjileiidor 
 
 crowned ; 
 Ye fields, wher<?summer spreads profusion round ; 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
 Eor me your tributary stores combine : 
 Creation's heir, the world, — the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
 Bends at his treasvire, counts, recounts it o'er ; 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
 Yet still lie sighs, for hoards are wanting stiU : 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 
 plies ; 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
 Some spot to real happiness consigned. 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at 
 
 rest. 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
 
 But where to find tiiat happiest spot below. 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his oimi ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease. 
 Tile naked negro, panting at the line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
 Basks in the glai'e, or stems the tejiid wave. 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
 His first, best country ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
 And estimate the blessings which they share. 
 
 -* 
 
cQ- 
 
 432 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 --^ 
 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all niaukiud ; 
 As dill'i'reut good, by art or nature given. 
 To (lilfcrent nations makes their blessings even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
 Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ; 
 With I'ood as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's cliffs as Anio's shelvy side ; 
 And, though the rocky crested summits frown, 
 Tlicse rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
 From Art more various are the blessings sent : 
 Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
 Yet tliese each other's power so strong contest, 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 
 
 fails; 
 And honor sinks whore commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, 
 Cunfonus and models life to that alone. 
 Each to the favorite happiness attends. 
 And spurns the plan tliat aims at other ends ; 
 Till, carried to excess iu each domain. 
 This favorite good begets peculiar paiu. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer eyes. 
 And trace them through the prospect as it Ue.s : 
 Here for a while, my proper cares resigned, 
 Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
 Like yon neglected shrub at random east, 
 Tiiat shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 
 
 Tar to the right, where Apennine ascends. 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends; 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different ehmcs are found. 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
 Tliese, here disporting, owii the kindred soil. 
 Nor ask hixuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round tlie smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all Ids manners reign ; 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive. 
 
 *- 
 
 Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; 
 
 And even in penance planning sins anew. 
 
 All evils here contaminate the mind. 
 
 That opulence departed leaves behind : 
 
 For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the date. 
 
 When Commerce proudly flourished through the 
 
 state ; 
 At her command the palace learnt to rise. 
 Again the long-fallen column sought the skies ; 
 The canvas glowed beyond e'en nature warm. 
 The pregnant quarry teemed with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
 Commerce on other shores displayed lier sail ; 
 While naught remained of all that riches gave. 
 But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave : 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless skiU, 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed. 
 The pasteboard trium))li and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions formed for piety and love, 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
 The sports of clnldren satisfy the child ; 
 Each nobler aim, represt by long control. 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low dcUghts, succeeding fast behind. 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
 As in those domes where Csesars once bore sway, 
 Defaced by time and tottering in decay. 
 There in tiie ruin, heedless of tlie dead. 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile. 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion 
 
 tread. 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : > 
 
 No product here the barren hills afford. 
 But man and steel, tlie soldier and his sword ; 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
 But winter lingering chiUs the lap of ilay ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Y'ct still, even here, content can spread a 
 
 charm. 
 Redress the elime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though 
 
 small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 
 ■--^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE TEAVELLER. 
 
 433 
 
 -Q) 
 
 i 
 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred iii ignorance and toil, 
 Each -n-ish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls the tinny deep, 
 Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the 
 
 steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the 
 
 way. 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, every labor sped. 
 He sits him down, tlie monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by liis cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 Ilis children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
 Wliile his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
 And haply too some pilgrim, tliither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus every good Ills native wilds impart, 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; 
 And e'en those ills, that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhanee the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
 And dear that hiU which lifts him to the storms ; 
 And as a child, when searing sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
 So tlie loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 Such are tlie charms to barren states assigned ; 
 Tlieir wants but few, their wishes all confuied. 
 Yet let them oidy share the praises due, ■ 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
 Eor every want that stimulates the breast 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redi"est. 
 Hence from such lands each pleasing science 
 
 flies, 
 That first excites desire, and then suppHes ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 
 
 flame, 
 Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the 
 
 frame. 
 Tlieir level life is but a smouldering fire, 
 Unquenehed by want, unfamied by strong de- 
 sire ; 
 Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a year, 
 In wild excess the vidgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bUss expire. 
 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow : 
 Their morals, hke their pleasures, are but low ; 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, 
 Unaltered, unimproved, the manners run ; 
 
 And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, hke falcons cowering on the nest ; 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 Through life's more cultured walks, and charm 
 
 the way. 
 These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly. 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 
 
 please. 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
 AVith tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! 
 Where shading elms among the margin grew. 
 And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew ; 
 And haply, though my harsh touch faltering still 
 But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's 
 
 skill ; 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
 And dance, forgetfid of the noontide hour. 
 Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful 
 
 maze ; 
 And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore. 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So lilcst a life these thoughtless realms dis- 
 play, 
 Tiius idly busy rolls their world away : 
 Theirs arc those arts that mind to inuid endear, 
 For honor forms the social temper here : 
 Honor, that praise which real merit gains. 
 Or even imaginary worth obtauis, 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand. 
 It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
 From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
 They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they 
 seem. 
 
 But while tills softer art their bliss supplies. 
 It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought. 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought: 
 And the weak soul, within itself imblest, 
 Ijcans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
 Pants for the vidgar praise which fools impart ; 
 Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
 Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting Fashion draws. 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 ^ ^# 
 
<&■ 
 
 43i 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
 Embosomed in the deep where Ilolhuid Ucs. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Wicre the bro;id Ocean leans against the land, 
 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift tile tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward metiiiuks, and diligently slow. 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
 While the pent Ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smUe ; 
 The slow caual, the yellow-blossomed vale. 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding saU, 
 Tiie crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. 
 
 Thus, wliile around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to rejieated toil. 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence tiiat springs, 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
 Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealtii 
 
 imparts 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
 But, view them closer, craft and fraud appear ; 
 Even liberty itself is bartered here. 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
 Here WTetches seek dishonorable graves, 
 And calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of 
 
 old! 
 Hough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each 
 
 brow ; 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her 
 wing. 
 And flies where Britain courts thcwestem spring; 
 AVhcrc hnvns extend tliat scorn Arcadian pride. 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspcs gUde. 
 Tiicre all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
 There gentle nnisic melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
 Stern o'er eacii bosom Reason holds her state 
 With daring aims irregularly great ; 
 Pride in their ])ort, defiance in their eye, 
 I sec the lords of humankind pass by ; 
 Intent on high designs, a thouglitful band. 
 By forms nnfashioncd frcsli from nature's hand, 
 Eierec in their native hardiness of soul. 
 True to imagined riglit, above control, — 
 
 While even the peasant boasts these rights to 
 
 scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Ereedom, tliine the blessings pictured 
 here. 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 
 Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy; 
 But, fostered even by freedom, ills annoy : 
 That independence Britons prize too high 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
 Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled ; 
 Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, 
 Represt Ambition struggles round her shore ; 
 Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealtli and law. 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
 And talent sinks, and Jlcrit weeps unkuo^vn ; 
 Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms. 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms. 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Wliere kmgs have toiled and poets wrote for fame. 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhouored die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings or court the great : 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun. 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 For just experience tells, in every soil. 
 That those wdio think must govern those that toil ; 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
 Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 O, tlien, how blind to all that truth requires, 
 Wlio think it freedom when a i)art aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor ajrt to rise in arms, 
 Excc])t when fast ajjproaehing danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs Ijlockadc the throne. 
 Contracting regal power to stretch their own; 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
 Each wanton judge new penal st^itutes draw. 
 
a- 
 
 THE DESEETED VILLAGE. 
 
 435 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the hiw ; 
 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam. 
 
 Pillaged from slaves to purehase slaves at home ; 
 
 Fear, pity, justiee, indignation, start, 
 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
 
 Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, brother, enrse with me that baleful hour, 
 Wlien first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 And thus, polluting honor in its source. 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ; 
 Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
 Lead stern dcpopidation in her train. 
 And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, 
 Li barren, solitary pomp repose ? 
 Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call, 
 The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? 
 lieheld the duteous son, the sire decayed. 
 The modest matron, and the blushing maid. 
 Forced from their homes, a melancholy train. 
 To traverse climes beyond the -westem main ; 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around. 
 And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? 
 
 Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Througli tangled forests and through dangerous 
 
 ways, 
 Wliere beasts with raaa divided empire claim. 
 And the brown Indian marks with murderous 
 
 aim; 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yeUs arise. 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine. 
 And bids Ins bosom sympathize with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vairt, my weary search to flud 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
 Why have I strayed from pleasui'c and repose. 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 lu every government, though terrors reign, 
 Tliough tyi-ant kings or tyrant laws restrain. 
 How small of all that human hearts endm'e. 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cui'c ! 
 Still to ourselves in every place consigned. 
 Our own felicity we make or find : 
 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 Glides the smooth cun-ent of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel. 
 To men remote from power but rarely known. 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience all onr own. 
 
 ^g— 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE,* 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Wliere health and plenty cheered the laboring 
 
 swain, 
 Where smilmg Spring its earhest visit paid, 
 jVnd parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed : 
 Dear lovely bowers of innooeuce and ease. 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could 
 
 please ! 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm. 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
 The ncver-failing brook, the busy miU, 
 The decent church that topt the neighboring hill. 
 The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
 For talkiug age aud whispering lovers made ! 
 How often have I blest the coming day. 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
 And all the village train, from laljor freC, 
 Led up then- sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 Wliile many a pastime circled in the shade. 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
 And many a gamljol frolicked o'er the ground, 
 Aud sleights of ai't and feats of strength went 
 
 round ; 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 
 By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 Wliile secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
 The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
 prove : 
 Tlicse were thy charms, sweet village ! sports 
 
 hke these. 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influeiiee 
 
 shed. 
 These were thy charms, — but all these charms 
 
 are fled. 
 
 Sweet sniihug village, lovehest of the lawn ! 
 Thy sports are fled, aud all thy charms with- 
 drawn; 
 
 * Macaulay has indicated the fundamental defect of this 
 charming poem. " It is made up," he says, "of iuroniriuous 
 parts. Tlic village in its happy days is a tvue English villnge. 
 The village in its decay is an Irish village. The felicity aud the 
 misery which Goldsmith has brought close together belong to 
 two different countries, and to two different stages in the prog- 
 ress of society. He had assuredly never seen in his native 
 island such a rural paradise, such a seat of plenty, content, and 
 tranquillity as'his Auburn. He had assuredly never seen in 
 Engl.nnd all the inhabitants of such a paradise turned out of 
 their homes in one day, and forced to emigrate in a body to 
 America. The hamlet he had probably seen in Kent ; the 
 ejectment he had probably seen in ^Innster ; but by joining 
 the two be has pi-oduced something which never was and 
 never will be seen in any part of the world." 
 
 4:: 
 
a- 
 
 43G 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 -ft 
 
 Amidst thy bowevs the tyrant's haud is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
 Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwmg ilies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 
 
 hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
 But a bold peasautry, their country's pride. 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
 When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
 For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
 His l)est companions. Innocence and Health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
 And every want to luxury allied. 
 And every pang that Folly pays to Pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
 Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
 Those healthfid sports that gi'aced the peaceful 
 
 scene, 
 Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 
 Tliese, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the bhssful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 
 
 grew, 
 Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 In all niy wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had ho|)es my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out hfc's taper at the close, 
 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
 I stiU liad hopes — for pride attends us still — 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-leanied skill, 
 Around ray fire an evening group to draw. 
 And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations ])ast. 
 Here to return, — and die at home at last. 
 
 O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline, 
 Ketreats from care, that never must be mine. 
 How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
 And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
 To spuni imploring famine from the gate : 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceivcd decay. 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 
 
 close . 
 Up yonder lull the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 
 Tiie mingling notes came softened from below ; 
 The swam responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful childi-cn just let loose from school ; 
 The watchdog's voice that bayed the whis])ering 
 
 wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind : 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murnmrs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 But all the bloomy blush of life is fled. 
 AU but you widowed, solitary tiling, 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 She, wretched matron, forced iu age, for bread. 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
 smiled. 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild. 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 
 -95 
 
C&- 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 437 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his 
 
 place ; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 Jlore bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant ti-ahi. 
 Ho chid their wanderings, but reUeved their pain; 
 The long-renicmbered beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims al- 
 lowed ; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 Sate by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of soitow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields 
 
 were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 
 
 glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe : 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
 And e'en his fadings leaned to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tiies 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 Aud sorrow, giuit, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair aud anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 
 
 raise. 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his hps prevailed with double sway. 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious mau. 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed, with endearing wUe, 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's 
 
 smile. 
 His ready smile a pai'cnt's wannth exprest. 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 
 
 trest ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given. 
 But all his serious thouarhts liad rest in heaven. 
 
 As some tall clilf that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
 
 storm. 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 
 spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggUng fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossomed furze unprofltably gay. 
 There, iu his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, 
 At all liis jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy wliisper, circling round. 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he fro'mied : 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how nmeh he knew ; 
 'T was certain he could Write, and cipher too ; 
 Lauds he could mcasui'C, terras and tides jjresage, 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge ; 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
 For e'en though vanquished he could argue stdl; 
 While words of learned length and thundering 
 
 sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The vciy spot, 
 Wiicre many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that hfts its head on high. 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
 Low Ues that house where nut-brown draughts 
 
 inspii-ed, 
 Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
 AV'here village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
 found, 
 Aud news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
 The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers and feuncl gay ; 
 Wliile broken teacups, wisely kept for show. 
 Ranged o'er the chinmey, glistened .in a row. 
 
 Vain, transitory splendor ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 
 -P 
 
ce- 
 
 438 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 Obscure it sinks, uor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
 The host himself uo longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bUss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, eongcuial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
 Tiie sold adopts, and owns their first-born sway; 
 Lightly tliey frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Uncnvied, unmolested, uneonfined : 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — 
 In these, ere triflers haK their wish obtain. 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'T is yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And i-ieh men lioek from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space tliat many poor su|)plied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in sdken sloth 
 Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their 
 
 growth ; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around tiic world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world suiijilics : 
 WiUe thus the land, adorned for pleasure all. 
 In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorned and plain. 
 Secure to please while youth eonlirnis her reign. 
 Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of iicr eyes ; 
 But when tliose cliarms are past, — for charms 
 
 arc frail, — 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
 
 ^ 
 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
 Tiius fares the land, by luxury betrayed, 
 In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed ; 
 But, verging to decline, its splendors rise. 
 Its vistas sti-ike, its palaces surprise ; 
 Wliile, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
 The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 
 
 WTiere then, ah ! where shall Poverty reside. 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Tliose fenceless fields the sous of wealth divide. 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
 To see profusion that he must not sliarc ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts comlnned 
 To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
 Extorted from his fcUow-creatures' woe. 
 Here whUe the courtier gUtters ui brocade, 
 Tiiere the pale artist phes the sickly trade ; 
 Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps 
 
 display. 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight 
 
 reign, 
 Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 
 Tumidtuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
 The I'attling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one imiversal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? All ! turn thine 
 
 eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female Ues. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the tiiorn; 
 Now lost to aU ; her friends, lier virtue fled. 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her liead, 
 And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 
 
 shower, 
 With lieavy heart de]>lores that luckless hour, 
 AVhen idly first, ambitious of the town. 
 She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 
 train. 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 
 
 Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 439 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlirougli torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild iUtama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charmed before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Tliose matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 
 
 crowned, 
 TV'here the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengefid snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
 And savage men more murderous still than they; 
 ^Miilc oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 Far dirt'erent these from every former scene, 
 Tlie cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what soreows gloomed that 
 
 parting day 
 That called them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
 Uung round the bowers, and fondly looked their 
 
 last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the Western main ; 
 And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Returned and wept, and stiU returned to weep ! 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 SUent went next, negleetfid of her charms. 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
 And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
 And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
 W'liilst her fond husliand strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
 Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
 Till sapped their strength, and every part un- 
 sound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 Even now the devastation is begun. 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 
 
 sail 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
 And piety with wishes placed above. 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my soUtary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me 
 
 so; 
 Thou giude, by which the nobler arts excel. 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell ; and O, where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Torno's cUffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
 Or Minter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevaiUng over time, 
 Redress the rigors of the inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him, that states of native strength pos- 
 
 sest. 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 TO LORD CLARE. 
 
 Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer 
 
 or fatter 
 Never ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter ; 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to study. 
 The fat was so white and the lean was so ruddy ; 
 Though my stomach was sharp, I conld scarce 
 
 help regretting 
 To spoil such a dehcate picture by eating ; 
 I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in 
 
 view. 
 To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtii ; 
 As iu some Irish houses, where things are so so. 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
 But, for eating a rasher of wliat they take pride in. 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 440 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 They 'd as soon tliink of eating the pan it is 
 
 fried ui. 
 But hold, — let me pause, — don't I. hear you 
 
 pronounce. 
 This tale of the bacon 's a damnable bounce ? 
 "Well, suppose it a bounce, — sure a poet may try. 
 By a bounce, now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 But, my Lord, it 's no bounce : I protest in 
 
 my turn 
 It 's a truth, and your Lordship may ask Mr. 
 
 Burn.* 
 To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch. 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds uudrest, 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 
 'T was a neck and a breast that might rival 
 
 Monroe's : 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled again. 
 With the hnw, and the who, and the where, and 
 
 the when. 
 There 's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and 
 
 H— if, 
 I think they love venison, — I know they love 
 
 beef. 
 There 's my countryman Higgins, — 0, let him 
 
 alone 
 For making a blunder or picking a bone ! 
 But hang it, — to poets who seldom can eat. 
 Your very good mutton 's a very good treat ; 
 Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. 
 It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a 
 
 shirt. 
 
 TVliile tlius I debated, in reverie centred. 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, 
 
 entered ; 
 An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 And he smiled as he looked at the venison and 
 
 me. 
 " What have we got here ? Why, this is good 
 
 eating ! 
 Your own, I suppose, — or is it in waiting ? " 
 " Wliy, whose should it be?" cried I, with a 
 
 flounce : 
 " I get these tilings often " ; — but that was a 
 
 bounce : 
 " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the 
 
 nation, 
 Are pleased to be kind, — but I hate ostenta- 
 tion." 
 
 "If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, 
 " I 'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 No words — I insist on 't — precisely aftbrcc : 
 
 * Lord Clare's iicptiew. 
 
 Wc '11 have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will 
 be there ; 
 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I 'd ask ray Lord 
 Clare. 
 
 And now that I think on 't, as I am a sinner ! 
 
 We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. 
 
 What say you, — a pasty, it shall, and it nnist, 
 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 
 Here, porter, — tliis venison with nie to Mile- 
 end; 
 
 No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my 
 dear friend ! " 
 
 Thus, snatching Ids hat, he brushed off like the 
 wind. 
 
 And the porter and eatables followed behind. 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf. 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself" ;* 
 Though I could not help thinking my gentleman 
 
 hasty. 
 Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison 
 
 pasty, 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
 Thougli clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his 
 
 wife. 
 So next day in due splendor to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to 
 
 dine 
 (A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by 
 
 nine). 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite 
 
 dumb 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not 
 
 come ; 
 "For I knew it," he cried, " both eteraally fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t' other with 
 
 Thrale ; 
 But no matter, I '11 warrant we '11 make up the 
 
 party. 
 With two full as clever and ten times as hearty. 
 The one is a Scotcliman, the other a Jew ; 
 They're both of them merry, and authors like 
 
 you; 
 The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; 
 Some think he writes Ciuna -. he owns to I'an- 
 
 urge." 
 While thus he described them by trade and by 
 
 name, 
 They entered, and dinner was served as they 
 
 came. 
 
 At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
 At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; 
 At the sides there was spinach and pudding made 
 hot ; 
 
 " Sec the letters tlmt pnssscd between liis Uoynl lli^'lmess 
 Henry Duke of Cuiiiberlnnd and Lndy Grosvenor. 17(19. 
 
 -g> 
 
C&- 
 
 EETALIATION. 
 
 441 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 In the middle a place where the pasty — was 
 not. 
 
 Now, my Lord, as for tripo, it 's my utter aver- 
 sion. 
 
 And your bacon I liate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
 
 So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, 
 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily round ; 
 
 But what vexed me most was that damned Scot- 
 tish rogue. 
 
 With his long- winded speeches, his smiles, and his 
 brogue, 
 
 And, " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my 
 poison, 
 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
 
 Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be curst, 
 
 But I 've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
 
 " The tripe ! " quoth the Jew, with his chocolate 
 cheek, 
 
 " Icoidd dine on this tripe seven days in the week; 
 
 I lilve these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 
 
 But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing 
 at all." 
 
 "Oh, oh!" quoth my friend, "he'D come on 
 in a trice. 
 
 He 's keeping a corner for something that 's nice : 
 
 There 's a pasty — " "A pasty ! " repeated the 
 Jew; 
 
 " I don't care If I keep a corner for 't too." 
 
 " What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! " re-echoed the 
 Scot; 
 
 "Though spKtting, I'll stdl keep a corner for 
 that." 
 
 " We '11 all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
 
 "We '11 all keep a corner," was echoed about. 
 
 While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed. 
 
 With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid : 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
 
 Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 
 
 But we quickly found out — for who could mis- 
 take her ? — 
 
 That she came with some terrible news from the 
 baker ; 
 
 And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
 
 Sad Philomel thus — hut let similes drop — 
 
 And now that I think on 't the story may stop. 
 
 To be plain, my good Lord, it 's but labor mis- 
 placed 
 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
 
 You 've got an odd something — a kind of dis- 
 cerning — 
 
 A rehsh — a taste — sickened over by learning ; 
 
 At least, it 's your temper, as very well known, 
 
 That you think very slightly of all that 's your 
 own : 
 
 So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
 
 You may make a mistake, and think slightly of 
 this. 
 
 EETALUTION/ 
 
 Of old, when Scarron his companions invited. 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was 
 
 united ; 
 If our landlord ^ supphes us with beef and with 
 
 fish, 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the 
 
 best dish ; 
 Our dean" shall be venison, just fresh from the 
 
 plains ; 
 Our Bnrke' shall be tongue, with the garnish of 
 
 brains ; 
 Our Will' shall be wildfowl, of excellent flavor, 
 And Dick' with his pepper shall heighten their 
 
 savor : 
 Our Cumberland's' sweetbread its place shall ob- 
 tain, 
 And Douglas' is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 Our Garriek 's* a salad ; for in him we see 
 on, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
 That Ridge' is anchovy, ajid Reynolds" is lamb ; 
 That Hickey's" a capon, and, by the same 
 
 nde. 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
 At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
 Wiio 'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
 Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I 'm 
 
 able, 
 Tdl all my companions sink under the table ; 
 Then, with chaos and blunders cncirehng my 
 
 head, 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I thuik of the 
 
 dead. 
 
 Here Ues the good dean, reunited to earth, 
 Who mixed reason with pleasure and wisdom 
 with mirth : 
 
 * Dr. Goldsmith and some of liis friends occasionally dined 
 at the St. James's CotFee-House. One day it was proposed to 
 write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person fur- 
 nished suljjects of witticism. He was called on for ketaUaiioii, 
 and at their next meeting produced this poem. 
 
 1 The master of the St. James's CofTce-IIouse, where the 
 Iloetor and the friends he has characterized in this poem oc- 
 casionally dined. 
 
 2 Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland. 
 
 3 Mr. Edmund Burke. 
 
 * Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and 
 member for Bedwin. 
 
 ^ Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. 
 
 6 Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the It'esl ludian, 
 Fiis/tkmnble Lorer, The Brothfrs, and other dramatic pieces. 
 
 ' Dr. Doufilas, eanon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gen- 
 tleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of 
 the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary 
 mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen ; particularly 
 Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Fopes. 
 
 * David Garriek. 
 
 " Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish 
 Bar. 
 
 Jo Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 ^^ An eminent attorney, whose hospitality and good-humor 
 acquired him in his club the title of " honest Tom Ilickey." 
 
 # 
 
a- 
 
 442 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ■fi> 
 
 fr 
 
 If lie had any faults, he has left us iu doubt, 
 At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 
 
 'em, 
 That slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund,' whose genius 
 was such 
 
 We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
 
 Who, born fen- the universe, naiTOwed his mind. 
 
 And to party gave up what was meant for man- 
 kind. 
 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining 
 his tliroat 
 
 To ))crsuade Tommy Townshend' to lend him a 
 vote ; 
 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on re- 
 fining. 
 
 And thouglit of convincing, while they thought 
 of dining : 
 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unlit ; 
 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 
 For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge disobe- 
 dient ; 
 
 And too fond of the riff/tS to pursue the expedient. 
 
 In short, 't was his fate, unemployed or in place, 
 sir. 
 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest WilUam, ' whose heart was a 
 
 mint, 
 WliUe the owner ne'er knew half the good that 
 
 was in 't ; 
 The pupU of impulse, it forced him along. 
 His conduct stjll right, with his argument 
 
 wrong ; 
 StiU aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home: 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were 
 
 his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard,' whose fate I must 
 
 sigh at ; 
 Alas that sucli frolic shoidd now be so quiet ! 
 What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim. 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ; 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to kec]) up the 
 
 ball, 
 Now leasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
 In sliort, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 That we wished him full ten times a day at Old 
 
 Nick ; 
 
 But, missing his niii'th and agreeable vein, 
 As often we wished to have Dick back again. 
 
 ^ Filmund Rurke. 
 
 2 Mr T, Townshcnil, member for Whitchurch. 
 
 3 Williftni Ilurkc. 
 • Mr. llirlinrcl Burke. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. 
 The Tei'ence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. 
 And comedy wonders at being so flue ; 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out. 
 Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their folhes so lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with theirown. 
 Say, where has our poet this malady caught, 
 Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
 Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from liimscK ? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax. 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
 Come, aU ye quack bards, and ye quacking di- 
 vines. 
 Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant 
 
 reclines : 
 Wlien satire and censure encircled his tlirone, 
 I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector. 
 Our Dodds' shall be pious, our Kenricks" shall 
 
 lecture ; 
 Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; 
 Our Townisheud make speeches, and I shall com- 
 pile ; 
 New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross 
 
 over, 
 No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in 
 the dark. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, confessed without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart. 
 The man had his failings, a du])C to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread, 
 And bcphistered willi rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simiile, atlceting; 
 'T was only that, when lie was olV, he was acting. 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He turned and he varied full ten times a day : 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly 
 
 sick 
 If they were not his own by finessing and triek. 
 He cast off his friends, as a lumtsman his pack ; 
 
 • Tlic Rev. Dr. Bodtl. 
 
 * Dr. Ivcnrick.who rend lectures at the Devil Tavern, under 
 the title of The School of Shakespeare. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE HEllMIT. 
 
 443 
 
 For Le knew, when he pleased, he could whistle 
 
 them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
 Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
 But let us be caudid, and speak out our mind. 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kmd. 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and 
 
 you gave ! 
 How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you 
 
 raised, 
 WhUe he was be-Rosciused and you were be- 
 
 praised ! 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 
 To act as an angel, and mix with the skies. 
 Tliose poets who owe their best fame to his skill 
 Shall stul be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
 Old Shakespeare receive liim with praise and with 
 
 love. 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his KcUys above. 
 
 Here Hickey rechnes, a most blunt, pleasant 
 
 creature, 
 And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
 He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper; 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a 
 
 thumper. 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : 
 I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go. 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! 
 Then what was his faihng? come, tell it, and 
 
 bum ye : 
 He was — could he help it? — a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind. 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
 Still born to improve us in every part. 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering ; 
 When they judged without skUl, he was still hard 
 
 of hearing : 
 IMien they talked of their Raphaels, Corrcggios, 
 
 and stuff. 
 He shifted liis trumpet, and only took snuff. 
 
 THE HERMIT." 
 " TuKN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 V-- 
 
 * See the Vicar of JTaXrefiehl, cap. Tiii. 
 
 " Por here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 With faintmg steps and slow ; 
 
 Wliere wilds, immeasurably spread. 
 Seem lengthening as I go." 
 
 " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 " Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it witB good will. 
 
 " Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 
 . Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 " No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter I condcimi ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them : 
 
 " But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits suppHed, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but httle here below,* 
 
 Nor wants that httle long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly bends. 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 A refuge to the neighboring poor. 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Required a master's care : 
 The wicket, opening with a latch. 
 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 
 To take their eveiung rest. 
 The Hermit ti-immcd his little fire. 
 
 And cheered his pensive guest; 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gayly pressed and smiled ; 
 
 And, skilled in legendary lore. 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 • " Man wants but little, nor that little long." — YoUN 
 Nil/lit ith. 
 
 -9> 
 
f 
 
 444 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 The cricket cliirrups on the hearth ; 
 
 The crackling fagot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 
 To sootlie the stranger's woe ; 
 For grief was heavy at his heart. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
 
 With answering care opprest : 
 " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 
 " Tlie sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 " From better habitations spurned, 
 
 Kcluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturned. 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 " Alas ! tlic joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trilling, and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 " And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that hdls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
 
 And leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair one's jest ; 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youtli ! thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And s]iurn the sex," he said ; 
 But, while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His lovelorn guest betrayed. 
 
 Surprised, he sees new beauties rise. 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colors o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confest 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 " And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wrctcli forlorn," she cried ; 
 " Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
 
 Where Heaven and you reside. 
 
 " But let a maid Ihy jiity share, 
 Whom love has taught to stray ; 
 
 Willi seeks for rest, but tiiids despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 " My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was marked as mine, — 
 
 He had but only mo. 
 
 " To win me from Ids tender arms. 
 
 Unnumbered suitors came ; 
 W^ho praised me for imputed charms. 
 
 And felt, or feigned, a flame. 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 
 With richest proffers strove : 
 Among the rest young Edwin bowed, 
 
 But never talked of love. 
 
 " In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth or power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were aU he had. 
 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 "And when beside me in the dale 
 
 He carolled lays of love. 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 " The blossom opening to the day. 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 Could naught of purity display 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 " The dew, the blossoms of the tree. 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 
 Their charms were Ids, but, woe to me ! 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 " For still I tried each fickle art. 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touched my heart, 
 
 I triumphed in his pain: 
 
 " Till, quite dejected with my scorn. 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 I '11 seek the solitude he sought. 
 
 And stretch ine where he lay. 
 
 "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I '11 lay me down and die ; 
 'T was so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 And so for liim will I." 
 
 " Forbid it, Heaven ! " the Hermit cried. 
 And clasped her to his breast : 
 
 The wondering fair one turned to chide, - 
 'T was Edwin's self that pressed. 
 
 " Turn. Angchna, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Tliy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Bestored to love and thee. 
 
 " Tims let me hold thee to my lieart, 
 
 And every care resign : 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 ]\Iv life, — my all that 's mine ? 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE WKETCH CONDEMNED WITH LIFE TO PART. 445 
 
 ■fo 
 
 V- 
 
 " No, never from this hour to part, 
 We '11 live and love so true : 
 
 The sigh that reuds thy constant heart 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 Good people all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song ; 
 And if you find it wondrous short, 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In IsUngton there was a man 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 A Iviiid and gentle heart lie liad. 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 
 The naked every day he clad. 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 And in that town a dog was found. 
 
 As many dogs there be. 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 T!ie dog, to gain liis private ends. 
 
 Went mad and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighboring streets 
 The wondering neighbors ran. 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad. 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light. 
 That showed the rogues they lied : 
 
 The man recovered of the bite ; 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HEE SEX, MKS. 
 MARY BLAIZE. 
 
 Good people all, with one aeeord. 
 
 Lament for Madam Blaize, 
 Who never wanted a good word — 
 
 Prom those who spoke her praise. 
 
 Tlie needy seldom passed her door. 
 
 And always foimd her kiad : 
 She freely lent to all the poor — 
 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighborhood to please, 
 With manners wondrous winning ; 
 
 And never followed wicked ways — 
 Uidess when she was siuning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satins new. 
 With hoop of monstrous size. 
 
 She never slumbered in her pew — 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver. 
 By twenty beaux and more ; 
 
 The king liimself has followed her — 
 Wlien she has walked before. 
 
 But now, her wealth and finery fled. 
 Her hangers-on eut short all ; 
 
 The doctors found, when slie was dead - 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 Let us lament in sorrow sore ; 
 
 Tor Kent Street well may say. 
 That had she lived a twelvemonth more. 
 
 She had not died to-day.* 
 
 THE WRETCH CONDEMNED WITH LIFE TO PART. 
 
 The wretch eondemned with life to part 
 
 StUl, still on hope relies ; 
 And every pang that rends the heart 
 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 
 
 Adorns and clieers the way ; 
 And still, as darker grows the night. 
 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 * This poem is an imitation of the chanson called le fa- 
 maix la GaUsse, homvic imaginaire, in fifty stanzas, printed 
 in the Menaijiana, IV. 191 ; — 
 
 " Messieurs, tous plait-il d'ouir 
 
 L'air dii famcux la Galisse, 
 II pourra vous rt^'jouir, 
 Pourvtt qtCil vous diveriisse. 
 » » # 
 
 "Bieu instruit d6s le herceau 
 
 Jamais, tant il fut honnfite, 
 II se mettoit son ehapeau 
 
 Qn^il ne se coittrU la tcte. 
 
 # » * 
 
 " On dit que dans ses amours 
 
 II fut caresse des belles, 
 Qui ie suivirent toujours, 
 
 Tant qu^il marcke dcEant dies. 
 
 ♦ » * 
 
 " II fut, par un triste sort, 
 
 Bless6 d'une main cruelle ; 
 On croit, puisqu'il est mort, 
 
 Que la plaie etait mortelle. 
 
 " Regrett^ de ses soldats, 
 
 II nioumt digne d'envie, 
 Et le jour de son trepas 
 
 Fut le dernier de sa vie" 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 446 
 
 CUNNINGHAM. — SCOTT. 
 
 -ft> 
 
 fr 
 
 WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY. 
 
 WilEN lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 And llnJs too late that men betray, 
 
 Wliat cluirra can soothe her melaueholy ? 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 And wi'ing his bosom, is — to die. 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 1729-1773. 
 
 MAY-EVE i OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. 
 
 TuE silver moon's enamored l)eam 
 
 Steals softly through the night. 
 To wanton with the winding stream 
 
 And kiss i-eflected light. 
 To beds of state go, balmy sleep 
 
 ('T is where you 've seldom been). 
 May's vigil while the shepherds keep 
 
 With Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Upon the green tie virgins wait, 
 
 In rosy chaplets gay, 
 TUl morn uub.ars her golden gate, 
 
 And gives the promised May. 
 Methiuks I hear the maids declare 
 
 The promised May, when seen, 
 Not half so fragrant, half so fair, 
 
 As Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 
 
 W^e '11 rouse the nodding grove ; 
 The nested birds shall raise their throats, 
 
 And hail the maid I love. 
 And see — the matin lark mistakes. 
 
 He quits the tufted green : 
 Fond bird ! 't is not the morning breaks, 
 
 'T is Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Now Kghtsome o'er the level mead, 
 
 Where midnight fairies rove. 
 Like them the jocund dance we 'II lead, 
 
 Or tune the reed to love : 
 For sec, the rosy May draws nigh ; 
 
 She claims a virgin qiiecn ; 
 And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, 
 
 " 'T is Kate of Aberdeen." 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 O'er moorlands and mountains rude, barren, and 
 bare. 
 As wildcrcd and wearied I roam, 
 
 A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair. 
 
 And leads me o'er lawns to her home. 
 Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had 
 crowned, 
 Green rushes were strewed on her floor. 
 Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly 
 round. 
 And decked the sod seats at her door. 
 
 Wo sat ourselves down to a cooling repast. 
 
 Fresh fruits, and she cidled me the best ; 
 Wilde thrown from my guard by some glances 
 she cast. 
 
 Love slyly stole into my breast 1 
 I told my soft wishes ; she sweetly replied, 
 
 (Ye virgins,, her voice was divine !) 
 " I 've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied. 
 
 But take me, fond shepherd, — I'm thine." 
 
 Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, 
 
 So simple, yet sweet were her charms ! 
 I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, 
 
 And locked the loved maid in my arms. 
 Now jocund together wc tend a few sheep. 
 
 And if, by yon prattler, the stream. 
 Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, 
 
 Her image stdl softens my dream. 
 
 Together we range o'er the slow-rising hUls, 
 
 Delighted with pastoral ^■iews, 
 Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils. 
 
 And point out new themes for my muse. 
 To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire. 
 
 The damsel 's of humble descent ; 
 The cottager Peace is well known for her sire. 
 
 And shepherds have named her Content. 
 
 JOHN SCOTT. 
 
 1730-1783. 
 
 ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM, 
 
 I n.4.TE that drum's discordant sound. 
 Parading round, and round, and round : 
 To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, 
 And lures from cities and from fields, 
 To sell their liberty for cliarms 
 Of tawdry lace and glittering arms ; 
 And when Ambition's voice commands. 
 To march, and fight, and fall in foreign lands. 
 
 I Iwt.e that drum's discordant sound. 
 Pai'ading round, and nnind, and round : 
 To me it talks of ravaged plains, 
 And burning towns, and ruined swains. 
 And mangled limbs, and dying groans, 
 And widows' tears, and orphans' moans ; 
 And all that Misery's hand bestows 
 To fdl the catalogue of human woes. 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ— 
 
 THE DUTIES, ETC., OE KINGS. 
 
 447 
 
 -a 
 
 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 1730 (!)- 1769. 
 
 THE WEEOKED SHIP. 
 
 ^ 
 
 And now, lashed on by destiny severe. 
 With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew 
 
 near ! 
 The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, 
 HeU yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar be- 
 neath ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 In vain the cords and axes were prepared, 
 Eor now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 
 High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade. 
 And o'er her burst, in tej'rible cascade. 
 Uplifted on the surge, to lieaven she flics, 
 Her sliattered top half buried in the skies. 
 Then headlong plunging tlumders on the ground, 
 Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps re- 
 sound ! 
 Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
 And quivermg with the wound, in torment 
 
 reels. 
 So reels, convidsed with agonizing throes, 
 The bleeding buU beneath the murderer's 
 
 blows. 
 Agaui she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 
 Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock ! 
 Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
 The fated victims shuddcriug roll their eyes 
 In wild despair, while yet another stroke, 
 With deep convulsion, rends the soUd oak ; 
 Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
 Tiie lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
 At length asunder torn her frame divides, 
 And crasliiug spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 
 
 * * * 
 
 As o'er the surf the stooping mainmast hung. 
 Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung : 
 Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast. 
 And there by oozy tangles grappled fast : 
 Awliile they bore the o'erwhelming bdlows' rage. 
 Unequal combat witli their fate to wage ; 
 Till all benumbed and feeble they forego 
 Tlieir slippery hold, and sink to shades below. 
 Some, from the maiu-yard-arm impetuous thrown 
 On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
 Three with Palemon on their skUl depend, 
 And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend. 
 Now on the mountain-wave on higii they ride. 
 Then downward plunge beneath the involving 
 
 tide; 
 Till one, who seems in agony to strive. 
 The whirling breakers heave on shore aUve ; 
 The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, 
 And pressed the stony beach, — a lifeless crew ! 
 
 The Shipwreck. 
 
 WILLIAM COAVPER. 
 
 1731-1800. 
 
 THE DUTIES, OPPORTmjITIES, MD DIFERMI- 
 TIES OF KIHaS. 
 
 B. Seldom, alas ! the power of logic reigns 
 'With much sufficiency in royal brams ; 
 Sucli reasoning falls like an inverted cone, 
 Wanting its proper base to stand upon. 
 Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim 
 That tell you so, — say, rather, they for him. 
 That were indeed a king-ennobling thought, 
 Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. 
 The diadem, with mighty projects lined, 
 To catch renown by ruining maukiud. 
 Is worth, with all its gold and ghttcriug store. 
 Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. 
 
 O, bright occasions of dispensing good, 
 How seldom used, how Uttle understood ! 
 To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; 
 Keep Vice restrained behind a double guard ; 
 To quell the faction that affronts the throne. 
 By silent magnanimity alone ; 
 To nurse with tender care the thriving arts ; 
 Watch every beam philosophy imparts ; 
 To give rehgion her unbridled scope. 
 Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; 
 With close fidelity and love unfeigned 
 To kee]3 the matrimonial bond nnstamed; 
 Covetous oidy of a virtuous praise ; 
 His life a lesson to the laud he sways ; 
 To touch the sword with conscientious awe. 
 Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw ; 
 To sheathe it in the peace-restoring close 
 With joy beyond what victory bestows ; 
 Blest country, where these kingly glories shiue ! 
 Blest England, if this happiness be thine ! 
 
 .-/. Guard what you say ; the patriotic tribe 
 Wdl sneer, and charge you with a bribe. — B. A 
 
 bribe ? 
 The worth of his three kingdoms I defy 
 To lure me to the baseness of a lie. 
 And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast), 
 The lie that flatters I abhor the most. 
 Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign. 
 But he that loves him has no need to feign. 
 
 A. Your smooth enlogium, to one crown ad- 
 
 dressed. 
 Seems to imply a censure on the rest. 
 
 B. Quevcdo, as he tells his sober tale. 
 Asked, when in hell, to see the royal jail ; 
 Approved their method in all other things : 
 
 " But where, good sir, do you confine your kings ? " 
 " There," said his guide," the group is fidl in view. " 
 "Indeed ! " replied the don, "there are but few." 
 His black iuterpreter the charge disdained, — 
 " Few, fellow ? — there are all that ever reigned." 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 448 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Wit, imdistuigiiishiiig, is apt to strike 
 
 The guilty and not guilty both alike : 
 
 I grant the sarcasm is too severe. 
 
 And \vc can readily refute it here ; 
 
 WhUe Alfred's name, the father of his age, 
 
 And the Sixth Edward's grace tlie historic page. 
 
 A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all : 
 By their own conduct they must stand or fall. 
 
 B. True. While they live, the courtly laui-eat 
 
 pays 
 His quitrent ode, his peppercorn of praise ; 
 And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, 
 Adds, as he can, his tributary mite : 
 A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, 
 A monarch's errors are forbidden game ! 
 Thus free from censure, overawed by fear. 
 And praised for virtues that they scorn to wear. 
 The tleeting forms of majesty engage 
 Respect, while stalking o'er hfe's narrow stage ; 
 Then leave their crimes for lustory to scan. 
 And ask with busy scorn. Was this the man ? 
 
 I pity kings, whom worship waits upon 
 Obsequious from the cradle to the throne ; 
 Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows. 
 And binds a wreath about their baby brows : 
 Whom education stirt'ens into state. 
 And death awakens from that dream too late. 
 0, if servility with supple knees. 
 Whose trade it is to snule, to crouch, to please ; 
 If smooth Dissimidation, skilled to grace 
 A devil's purpose with an angel's face ; 
 If smiling peeresses and simpering peers, 
 Encompassing his throne a few short years ; 
 If the gilt carriage and the pampered steed. 
 That wants no driviug, and disdains the lead ; 
 If guards, mechanically formed in ranks. 
 Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks. 
 Shouldering and standing as if struck to stone. 
 While condescending majesty looks on ; 
 If monarchy consist in such base things. 
 Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! 
 
 To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood. 
 E'en when he labors for his country's good ; 
 To see a band, called patriot for no cause. 
 But that they catch at popular applause 
 Careless of all the anxiety he feels. 
 Hook disappointment on the public wheels ; 
 With all their fli])])ant fluency of tongue, 
 Most confident, when palpably most wrong ; 
 If this be kingly, then farewell for me 
 AU kingship ; and may I be poor and free ! 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 THE ENGLISHMAN AND FRENCHMAN, 
 
 A. VoucniSArE, at least, to pitch the key of 
 rliyme 
 To themes more pertinent, if less sublime. 
 
 <^ 
 
 When ministers and ministerial arts ; 
 Patriots, who love good places at their hearts ; 
 When admirals, extolled for standing still. 
 Or doing notliing with a deal of skill ; 
 Generals, who will not conquer when they may, 
 Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay ; 
 Wlicn Freedom, wounded almost to despair. 
 Though discontent alone can find out where ; 
 When themes like these employ the poet's tongue, 
 I .hear as mute as if a siren sung. 
 Or teU me, if you can, what power maintains 
 A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains ? 
 That were a theme might animate the dead. 
 And move the lips of poets east in lead. 
 
 B. The cause, though worth the search, may 
 yet elude 
 Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. 
 Tlicy take pcrhajis a well-directed aim. 
 Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
 Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here 
 AVith stern severity deals out the year. 
 Winter invades the spring, and often pours 
 A ohiUing flood on summer's drooping flowers ; 
 Unwelcome vapors quench autunmal beams, 
 Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams : 
 The peasants urge their han'est, ply the fork 
 With double tod, and shiver at their work ; 
 Thus with a rigor, for his good designed. 
 She rears her favorite man of aU mankind. 
 His form robust and of elastic tone. 
 Proportioned weU, half muscle and half bone, 
 Supphes with warm activity and force 
 A mind well lodged, and mascnhue of course. 
 Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires 
 And kee])s alive his fierce but noble fires. 
 Patient of constitutional control. 
 He bears it with meek manliness of soul ; 
 But if authority grow wanton, woe 
 To him that treads upon his free-born toe : 
 Ouc step beyond the boundary of the laws 
 Fires him at once in Fi'cedom's glorious cause. 
 Thus proud prerogative, not much revered. 
 Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard ; 
 And in his cage, hke parrot flue and gay. 
 Is kept to stmt, look big, and talk away. 
 
 Born in a climate softer far than ours. 
 Not formed like us, with such Hcrcvdcan ))owers. 
 The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, 
 Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, 
 Is always happy, reign whoever may, 
 And laughs tlic sense of misery far away : 
 He drinks his simple beverage with a gust; 
 And, feasting on an onion and a crust. 
 We never feel the alacrity and joy 
 With wiiicli he shouts and carols " Vive le Roy," 
 Filled with as nuich true merriment and glee 
 As if he heard his king say, " Slave, be free." 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 EURAL SOUNDS. 
 
 449 
 
 -Q) 
 
 AKTIFICIAL AND NATURAL POETRY. 
 
 fr 
 
 A. At Westminster, where little poets strive 
 To set a distich upon six and five. 
 Where discipline helps opening buds of sense, 
 And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
 I was a poet too : but modem taste 
 Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste, 
 That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, 
 Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. 
 Thus all success depending on an ear. 
 And thinking I might purchase it too dear. 
 If sentiment were sacrificed to sound, 
 And truth cut short to make a period round, 
 I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse, 
 Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. 
 . B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit. 
 And some wits flag tiirough fear of losing it. 
 Give me the Hue that ploughs its stately course 
 Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by 
 
 force ; 
 That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, 
 Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. 
 When labor and when duluess, club in hand. 
 Like the two figures at St. Duustan's stand, 
 I5eating alternately, in measured time. 
 The clockwork tiutinnabulum of rhyme. 
 Exact and regular the sounds wiU be ; 
 But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 
 From him who rears a poem lank and long. 
 To him who strains his all into a song ; 
 Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air. 
 All birks and braes, though he was never there ; 
 Or, having whelped a prologue with great pains. 
 Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; 
 A pi-ologue interdashcd with many a stroke, — 
 An art contrived to advertise a joke. 
 So that the jest is clearly to be seen, 
 Not iu the words — but in the gap between ; 
 Manner is all in aU, whate'er is writ. 
 The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 CHATHAM. 
 
 A. Patriots, alas! the few that have been 
 
 found, 
 Wliere most they flourish upon EngUsh ground. 
 The country's need iiave scantily supplied. 
 And the last left the scene when Chatham died. 
 
 B. Not so, • — the virtue still adonis our age. 
 Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 
 
 In him Demosthenes was heard again ; 
 Liberty taught him her Athenian strain ; 
 She clothed him with authority and awe, 
 Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
 His speech, his form, his action, full of grace. 
 And all his country beaming in his face. 
 He stood, as some inimitable hand 
 
 Would strive to make a Paul or TuDy stand. 
 No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 
 Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
 And every vcn.al stickler for the yoke 
 Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 
 
 Such men are raised to station and command, 
 When Providence means mercy to a land. 
 He speaks, and tliey appear ; to him tlipy owe 
 Skill to direct and strength to strike the blow ; 
 To manage with address, to seize with power 
 The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
 So Gideon earned a victory not his own ; 
 Subserviency his praise, and that alone. 
 
 Poor England ! thou ai-t a devoted deer. 
 Beset with every ill but that of fear. 
 The nations hunt ; all mark thee for a prey ; 
 They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at 
 
 bay ; 
 Undaunted still, though wearied and perplexed, 
 Once Chatham saved thee ; but who saves thee 
 
 next ? 
 Alas ! the tide of pleasure sweeps aloug 
 All tiiat should be the boast of British song. 
 'T is not the wreath that once adorned thy brow. 
 The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. 
 Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race, 
 Patterns of every virtue, every grace. 
 Confessed a God; they kneeled before they fought. 
 And praised him m the victories he wrought. 
 Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
 Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth ; 
 Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, 
 Is but the fire without the sacrifice. 
 The stream that feeds the wellspring of the heart 
 Not more invigorates life's noblest part, 
 Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
 The powers that sin hath brought to a decline. 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 BURAL SOUNDS. 
 
 Nor niral sights alone, but rural sounds 
 Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
 The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds. 
 That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
 Of ancient growth, make music not uidike 
 The dash of Ocean on his winding sliorc, 
 And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
 Unnumbered branches waving in the blast. 
 And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. 
 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
 Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall 
 Upon loose pebbles lose themselves at length 
 In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
 Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate employs sweet soxmds. 
 
 ^ 
 
ce- 
 
 450 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 -ft) 
 
 But auiiiiated nature sweeter still, 
 To soothe aud satisfy the human ear. 
 Ten tliousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
 The livelong night : nor these alone, whose notes 
 Nice-fingered Art must enndate in vain, 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
 In still repeated circles, screaming loud. 
 The jay, the pie, and e'en tlie Ijoding owl. 
 That liails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh. 
 Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 
 And only there, please highly for their sake. 
 
 The Task, Book I. 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTET. 
 
 God made the country, and man made the town. 
 What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
 Tliat can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
 That life holds out to all, should most abound 
 And least be threatened in the fields and groves ? 
 Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about 
 In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 
 But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
 But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
 Your element; there only can je shine; 
 Thei-e oidy minds like yours can do no harm. 
 Our groves were planted to console at noon 
 The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 
 The moonbeam, sliding softly in between 
 The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish. 
 Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 
 The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
 Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
 Our more harmonious notes ; the thrush departs 
 Seared, and tlie offended nightingale is mute. 
 There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
 It plagues your country. Folly sucli as yours. 
 Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan. 
 Has made, what enemies coidd ne'er have done, 
 Our arch of empire, steadfast but for yon, 
 A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 
 
 Tlie T„st, Book I. 
 
 SLAVEKY. 
 
 O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness. 
 Some boundless contiguity of sliade, 
 Where rumor of oppression and deceit. 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
 Might never reach me more. Jly ear is pained, 
 My soul is sick, with every day's report 
 Of wrong and outrage with which eartli is filled. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
 It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
 Of brotiierhood is severed as the flax 
 That falls asunder at the to\ieh of fire. 
 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
 
 ^9-^ 
 
 Not colored like lus own ; and having power 
 To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountams interposed 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else 
 Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
 Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
 And, worse than all, and most to be deplored. 
 As human nature's broadest, foidest blot, 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
 With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 
 Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
 Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 
 And having human feelings, does not blush. 
 And hang his head to think himself a man ? 
 I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
 To carry nie, to fan me wlulc I sleep. 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just estimation prized above all price, 
 I had much rather be myself the slave, 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
 We have no slaves at home. Then why abroad ? 
 And they tliemselves once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us are emancipate and loosed. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their sliackles fidl. 
 That 's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then. 
 And let it circidatc through every vein 
 Of all your empire ; that wliere Britain's power 
 Is felt mankind may feel her mercy too. 
 
 The Task, Book II. 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still ; 
 My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
 Wliere English minds and manners may be found, 
 Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy 
 
 clime 
 Be fickle, and tliy year most ]iart deformed 
 With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
 And fields whhout a flower, for warmer France 
 With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
 To sliake thy senate, and from heights sublime 
 Of patriot eloquence to flash down lire 
 Upon thy foes, was never meant my task : 
 But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
 Tliy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 
 As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
 Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain 
 Frown at cITeminatcs, whose very looks 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE PULPIT. 
 
 451 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Refiect disliouor on the laud I love. 
 
 How, iu the name of soldiership and sense, 
 
 Should England prosper, when such tilings, as 
 
 smooth 
 And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er 
 With odors, and as profligate as sweet ; 
 Who sell their lam-el for a myrtle wreath. 
 And love when they should light ; when such as 
 
 these 
 Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 
 Of her magnifiecnt and awful cause ? 
 Time was when it was praise and boast enough 
 In every clime, and travel where we might. 
 That we were born her chddren. Praise enough 
 To lill the ambition of a private man. 
 That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,* 
 And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his 
 
 own. 
 Farewell those honors, and farewell with them 
 The hope of such hereafter ! They have fallen 
 Each in his field of glory ; one iu arms 
 And one in council, — Wolfe upon the lap 
 Of smiling Victory that moment won. 
 And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame ! 
 They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still 
 Consulting England's happiness at home. 
 Secured it by an unforgiving frown, 
 If any wronged her. Wolfe,, where'er he fought, 
 Put so much of his heart into his act. 
 That his example had a magnet's force. 
 And all were swift to follow whom all loved. 
 Those suns are set. O, rise some other such, 
 Or all that we have left is empty talk 
 Of old aehievements and despair of new. 
 
 77/ (? 7 ask, Book II. 
 
 THE PULPIT, 
 
 The pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled 
 With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
 With what intent I touch that holy thing) — 
 The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, 
 Strutting and vaporing in an empty school, 
 Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) — 
 
 * Macaulay, in referring, in his life of the younger Pitt, to 
 tlie latter's persistent neglect of literary men, as far as they 
 were the proper olijects of patronage, says. ".V few niontlis 
 after the <leath of Johnson appeared T/ie Tiisit, incomparably 
 the hest poem that any Englisliman then liviug had produced ; 
 a poem, loo, which could hardly fail to excite in a well-consti- 
 tuted mind a feeling of esteem and compassion for the poet, a 
 man of genius and virtue, whose means were scanty, and 
 whom the most cruel of all the calamities incident to humanity 
 had made incapahle of supporting himself hy vigorous and sus- 
 tained exertion. Nowhere had Chatham been praised with 
 more enthusiasm, or in verse more worthy of the subject, than 
 in The Task. The son of Chatham, however, contented him- 
 self with reading and admiring the hook, and left the author 
 to starve. The pension which, long after, enabled poor Cowper 
 to close his melancholy life unmolested by duns and bailiffs, 
 was obtained for him by the strenuous kindness of Lord Spen- 
 cer." 
 
 I say the pulpit (in the sober use 
 
 Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) 
 
 Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall 
 
 stand, 
 The most important and effectual guard. 
 Support, and ornament of virtue's cause. 
 There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
 The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine. 
 His office saered, his credentials clear. 
 I'ly him the violated law speaks out 
 Its thunders ; and by him, iu strains as sweet 
 As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. 
 He stablishes the strong, restores the weak. 
 Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart. 
 And, armed himself in panoply com])lete 
 Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
 Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule 
 Of holy diseiphne, to glorious war 
 The sacramental host of God's elect I 
 Are all such teachers ? — would to Heaven all 
 
 were ! 
 But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged 
 
 between 
 Two empirics he stands, and with swoln cheeks 
 Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
 Than all invective is his bold harangue. 
 While through that public organ of report 
 He hails the clergy ; and, defying shame. 
 Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
 He teaches those to read, whom schools dismissed, 
 And colleges, untaught ; sells accent, tone, 
 And emphasis iu score, and gives to prayer 
 The adagio and andante it demands. 
 He grinds divinity of other days 
 Down iuto modern use ; transforms old print 
 To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
 Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. 
 Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware ? 
 0, name it not in Gatli ! it cannot be 
 That grave and learned clerks should need such 
 
 aid. 
 He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, 
 Assuming thus a rank unknown before, — 
 Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church I 
 I venerate the man whose heart is warm. 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctriue and whose 
 
 life. 
 Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
 That he is honest in the saered cause. 
 To such I render more than mere respect. 
 Whose actions say that they respect themselves, 
 But loose in monals, and in manners vain. 
 In conversation frivolous, in dress 
 Extreme, at once rapacimis and profuse ; 
 Frerpieut iu park with lady at his side, 
 Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes ; 
 But rare at home, and never at his books. 
 Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card ; 
 
 — s> 
 
C&- 
 
 452 
 
 fOWPER. 
 
 -ft) 
 
 fr 
 
 Constant at routs, familiar with a round 
 
 Of ladyships, — a stranger to the poor ; 
 
 Ambitious of preferment for its gold, 
 
 And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth, 
 
 By infidelity and love of world, 
 
 To make God's work a sinecure ; a slave 
 
 To his own pleasures and his patron's pride : — 
 
 From such apostles, O ye mitred heads. 
 
 Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 
 
 On skulls that cannot teach and will not leani. 
 
 Would I describe a ])reacher, such as Paul, 
 Were he on earth, would bear, approve, and 
 
 own, — 
 Paul should himself direct me. I would trace 
 His master-strokes, and draw from his design. 
 I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
 In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain, 
 And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, 
 And natural in gesture ; much impressed 
 Himself, as conscious of his awful ciiarge. 
 And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds 
 May feel it too ; affectionate in look. 
 And tender in address, as well becomes 
 A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
 Bcliold the picture ! — Is it like ? — Like whom ? 
 The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
 And then skip down again ; pronounce a text ; 
 Cry — bem ; and reading what they never wrote 
 Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work. 
 And with a well-bred whisper close the scene ! 
 
 In man or woman, but far most in man, 
 And most of all in man that ministers 
 And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe 
 All afl"ectation. 'T is my perfect scorn ; 
 Object of my implacable disgust. 
 What ! — will a man play tricks, will he indulge 
 A silly fond conceit of his fair form. 
 And just proportion, fashionable mien. 
 And pretty face, in presence of his (jod ? 
 Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, 
 As with the diamond on his lily hand. 
 And jjlay his l)rilliaut parts before my eyes. 
 When I am hungry for the bread of life? 
 He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames 
 His noble office, and, instead of truth, 
 Displaying his own beauty, starves liis flock ! 
 Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare, 
 And start tlieatric, practised at the glass ! 
 I seek divine simplicity in him 
 Who handles things divine ; and all besides. 
 Though learned with labor, and though much 
 
 admired 
 By curious eyes and judgments ill informed, 
 To me is odious as tlic nasal twang 
 Heard at conventicle, wlierc worthy men. 
 Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
 Through the pressed nostril, .si)eetacle-bestrid. 
 Some, d(;cent in demeanor while tlu'V |)reacii. 
 
 That task peiformed, relapse into themselves ; 
 
 And, having spoken wisely, at the close 
 
 Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye. 
 
 Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not ! 
 
 Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke 
 
 An eyebrow ; next compose a straggling lock ; 
 
 Then with an air most gracefully performed 
 
 Fall back into our seat, extend an arm. 
 
 And lay it at its ease with gentle care. 
 
 With handkerchief in hand depending low : 
 
 The better band more busy gives the nose 
 
 Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye 
 
 With opera glass to watch the moving scene. 
 
 And recognize the slow retiring fair. 
 
 Now this is fulsome ; and oH'ends me more 
 
 Than in a churchman slovenly neglect 
 
 And rustic coai'seness would. A heavenly mind 
 
 May be iudilferent to her house of clay. 
 
 And sliglit the hovel as beneath her care ; 
 
 But how a body so fantastic, trim. 
 
 And quamt, in its deportment and attire. 
 
 Can lodge a heavenly mind — demands a doubt. 
 
 He that negotiates between God and man. 
 As God's ambassador, the grand concerns 
 Of judgment and of mercy, should beware 
 Of lightness in his speech. 'T is pitiful 
 To court a grui, when you shoiJd woo a soul ; 
 To break a jest, when pity would inspire 
 Pathetic exhortation ; and to address 
 The skittish fancy witli facetious tales, 
 Wlien sent with God's commission to the heart ! 
 So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip 
 Or merry turn in all he ever wrote. 
 And I consent you take it for your text. 
 Your only one, tiU sides and benches fail. 
 No : he was serious in a serious cause. 
 And understood too well the weighty terms 
 That be had taken in charge. He would not stoop 
 To conquer those by jocular exploits 
 Whom trutli and soberness assailed in vain. 
 
 Tlie Task, Book II. 
 
 COWPER'S ErPEEIENCE OF LIFE, 
 
 I WAS a stricken deer, tlial left the iicrd 
 Long since: with many an arrow deep infixed 
 My panting side was charged, when I with- 
 drew. 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 Tiiere was I found Ijy one who had liimself 
 Been hurt by the arciiers. In his side he bore, 
 .\n<l in his hands anil feet, the cruel scars. 
 With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
 lie drew them fortli, and healed, and bade me 
 
 live. 
 Since then, witli few associates, in remote 
 And silent woods I wander, far from those 
 My former partners of (lie peopled scene; 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 453 
 
 ^ 
 
 With few associates, and not wishing more. 
 Here much I ruminate, as mucli I may, 
 With other views of men and manners now 
 Tlian once, and others of a life to come. 
 I see that all are wanderers, gone astray 
 Each in his own delusions ; they are lost 
 In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed 
 And never won. Dream after dream ensues ; 
 And still they dream, that they shall still suc- 
 ceed; 
 And still are disappointed. Rings the world 
 ^Vlth the vain stir. I sum up half mankind. 
 And add two thirds of the remaining half. 
 And find the total of their hopes and fears 
 Dreams, empty dreams. 
 
 The Task, Book III. 
 
 THE WMTEE EVENING. 
 
 II.^RK ! 't is the twanging horn o'er yonder 
 bridge. 
 That with its wearisome but needful length 
 Bestrides the wintry ilood, in which tlie moon 
 Sees her unwriukled face reflected briglit ; — 
 ILe comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
 With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen 
 
 locks ; 
 News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-packed load be- 
 hind. 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
 Is to conduct it to the destined inn; 
 And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on. 
 Ho whistles as he goes, Ught-hearted wretch. 
 Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
 To liim indilfcrent whether grief or joy. 
 Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks. 
 Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
 With tears, that trickled down the writer's 
 
 cheeks 
 Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. 
 Or cluirged with amorous sighs of absent swains. 
 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 But O the important budget ! ushered in 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 What are its tidings ? have our troops awaked ? 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, 
 Suore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 
 Is India free ? and does she wear her plumed 
 And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, 
 Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 
 Tlie popular harangue, the tart reply, 
 Tiie logic, and the wisdom, and the wit. 
 And tlie loud laugh, — I long to know them all ; 
 I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free. 
 And give them voice and utterance once again. 
 
 Now stir the flre, and close the shutters fast. 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
 And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups. 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each. 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
 Not such his evening, who with shining face 
 Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
 And bored with elbow-points through both his 
 
 sides, 
 Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
 Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb. 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
 Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
 Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
 This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
 Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds 
 Inquisitive attention, while I read. 
 Fast bound in chains of sUence, which the fair. 
 Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; 
 What is it but a map of busy Ufe, 
 Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? 
 Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 
 That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
 The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 
 He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ! At his 
 
 heels. 
 Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends. 
 And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down. 
 And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
 Here rills of oily eloquence in soft 
 Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 
 The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 
 To engross a moment's notice ; and yet begs. 
 Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 
 However trivial all that he conceives. 
 Sweet bashfulness ! it claims at least this praise; 
 The dearth of information and good sense, 
 That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 
 Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 
 There forests of no meaning spread the page, 
 In which all comprehension wanders lost ; 
 While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
 With merry descants on a nation's woes. 
 The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
 But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 
 And lilies for the brows of faded age. 
 Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
 Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their 
 
 sweets, 
 Nectareous essences, Olympian dews. 
 Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs. 
 Ethereal journeys, svdjmarine exploits, 
 And Katerfelto, with his hair on end 
 At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 
 
 'T is pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat. 
 To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
 Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
 
 ■^ 
 
e 
 
 454 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 "^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 To hear the roar she seuds through all her gates 
 At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
 Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 
 Tims sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
 To some secure and more than mortal height, 
 That hbcrates and exempts me from them all. 
 It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
 With all its generations ; I behold 
 The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 
 Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
 Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
 And avarice that make man a wolf to man ; 
 Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats. 
 By which he speaks the language of his heart. 
 And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
 He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
 From Hower to flower, so he from land to laud ; 
 The manners, customs, policy of all 
 Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; 
 He sucks intelligence in every clime, 
 And spreads the honey of his deep research 
 At his return, — a rich repast for me. 
 He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
 Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 
 Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
 Sufler his woes, and share m his escapes ; 
 While fancy, Uke the finger of a clock, 
 Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. 
 
 The Task, Book III. 
 
 ■WINTEE. 
 
 O Winter, ruler of the inverted year. 
 Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, 
 Tliy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other 
 
 snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in 
 
 clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sUdiug ear, indebted to no wheels. 
 But urged by stonns along its slippery way, 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st. 
 And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 
 A prisoner in the yet undawuing east, 
 Siiortcning his journey between mom and noon. 
 And hurrying liim, impatient of his stay, 
 Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
 Compensating his loss with added hours 
 Of social converse anil instructive ease, 
 And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
 The family dis])ersed, and fixing thought. 
 Not less dispersed by dayligiit aiul its cares. 
 I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
 Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 
 .\nd all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of imdisturbcd lletiremcnt, and the hours 
 
 Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; 
 
 No powdered pert proficient in the art 
 
 Of sounding au alarm assaults these doors 
 
 Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 
 
 Cough their own knell, wlule, heedless of the 
 
 sound. 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake ; 
 But here the needle phes its busy task. 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower. 
 Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 
 Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and 
 
 sprigs 
 And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
 A wreatli, that cannot fade, of flowers that 
 
 blow 
 With most success when all besides decay. 
 The poet's or historian's page by one 
 Made vocal for the amusement of the rest ; 
 The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet 
 
 sounds 
 The touch from mauy a trembling chord shakes 
 
 out ; 
 And the clear voice, symi)honious, yet distiuct. 
 And in the charming strife triumphant still. 
 Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
 On female industry : the threaded steel 
 Flics swiftly, aud unfelt the task proceeds. 
 The volume closed, the customary rites 
 Of the last meal commence. A lloman meal, 
 Such as the mistress of the world once found 
 Dehcious, when her patriots of high note. 
 Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors. 
 And under an old oak's domestic shade. 
 Enjoyed, spare feast ! a radish aud au egg ! 
 Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull. 
 Nor such as with a frown forbids the ])lay 
 Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
 Nor do we madly, Hke an impious world. 
 Who deem religion frenzy, aud the God 
 That made them an intruder on their joys, 
 Start at liis awful name, or deem his praise 
 A jarring note. Tliemes of a graver tone. 
 Exciting oft our gratitude and love, 
 AVhile we retrace with Jlemory's pointing wand, 
 Tliat calls the past to our exact review, 
 Tiie dangers we have 'scaped, the broken 
 
 snare. 
 The disappointed foe, deliverance found 
 Unlooked for, life preserved, and peace restored. 
 Fruits of omnii)otent eternal love. 
 " O evenings worthy of the gods ! " exclaimed 
 The Sabine bard. " O evenings," I rci)ly, 
 " More to be prized and coveted than yours. 
 As more illumined, and with nobler truths, 
 That I, and mine, aud those we love, enjoy." 
 
 The Task, jjook IV. 
 
 -s> 
 
a- 
 
 THE FEEEMAN. 
 
 ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 
 
 455 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE FREEMAN. 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
 And all are slaves beside. There 's not a chain 
 That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
 Can wind aronnd him, but he casts it off 
 With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 OF nature, and, though poor perhaps compared 
 With those wliose mansions glitter in his sight, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the valleys his. 
 And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
 With a propriety that none can feel, 
 But who, with filial confidence inspired. 
 Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye. 
 And smiliug say, " My Father made them all ! " 
 Are they uot his by a pecuUar right, 
 And by an emphasis of interest his. 
 Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy. 
 Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted 
 
 mind 
 With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love 
 That planned, and built, and still upholds a world 
 So clothed \vith beauty for rebellious man ? 
 Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
 The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
 In senseless riot ; but ye will not find. 
 In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, 
 A liberty like his who, unimpeached 
 Of usurpation, and to no man's wi'ong. 
 Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
 And has a richer use of yom's than you. 
 He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth 
 Of no mean city ; planned or ere the hiUs 
 Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea 
 With all his roaring multitude of waves. 
 His freedom is the same in every state ; 
 And no condition of this changeful life. 
 So manifold in cares, whose every day 
 Brings its own evil with it, makes it less ; 
 For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, 
 Nor penuiy, can cripple or confine. 
 No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 
 With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds 
 His body bomid ; but knows not w-bat a range 
 His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
 And that to bind him is a vain attempt, 
 Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. 
 
 The Task, Book V. 
 
 ALEXANDER SELKIRK,* 
 
 I AM monarch of all I survey, 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 
 From the centre all round to the sea 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 * Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 
 during his solitary abode in the isladrt of Juan Fernandez. 
 
 Solitude ! where are the charms 
 That sages have seen in thy face? 
 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
 Thau reign in this horrible place. 
 
 1 am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I mast finish my journey alone. 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech, 
 
 I start at the somid of my own. 
 The beasts that roam over the plain 
 
 My form with indificrence see ; 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love. 
 
 Divinely bestowed upon man, 
 O, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again ! 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth. 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age. 
 
 And be cheered by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Rehgiou ! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More precions than silver and gold, 
 
 Or all that this earth can afl'ord ; 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 
 These valleys and rocks never heard. 
 Never sighed at the sound of a knell. 
 
 Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 
 
 Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial, endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 tell me I yet have a friend. 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight, 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
 Wlien I think of my own native laud. 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there ; 
 But alas ! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
 Even here is a season of rest. 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There 's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, eucouragmg thought ! 
 Gives even afliiction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 -9^ 
 
a- 
 
 450 
 
 COW PER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 EEPOKT or AN ADJUDGED CASE 
 
 NOT TO HE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 
 
 Betwekn Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
 The spectacles set them uiiliappily wrong ; 
 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world knows. 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of 
 learning ; 
 
 While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws. 
 So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 " In behalf of the Nose it wiU quickly appear. 
 And your lordship," he said, " will undoubtedly 
 find 
 That tlie Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
 Which amounts to possession time out of 
 mind." 
 
 Then Iiolding the spectacles up to the court, — 
 " Your lordship observes they are made with a 
 straddle, 
 
 As wide as the bridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
 Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 " Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
 ('T is a case that has happened, and may be again) 
 
 That tlie visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear spec- 
 tacles then? 
 
 " On the whole it appears, and my argument shows. 
 With a reasoning the court will never con- 
 demn. 
 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for them." 
 
 Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 
 
 But what were his arguments few people know, 
 Eor the court did not think they were equally 
 wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, 
 Decisive and clear, witliout one if or but, — 
 
 That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on. 
 By daylight or candlelight, — Eyes should be 
 shut ! 
 
 ODE TO PEACE. 
 
 Come, peace of mind, delightful guest ! 
 Kcturu and make tliy downy nest 
 
 Once more in this sad heart : 
 Nor riches I nor power pursue, 
 Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 
 
 We therefore need not part. 
 
 Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, 
 From avarice and ambition free. 
 
 ^- 
 
 And pleasure's fatal wiles ? 
 For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
 The sweets that I was wont to share, 
 
 The banquet of thy smiles ? 
 
 The great, the gay, shall they partake 
 The heaven that thou alone canst make ? 
 
 And wilt thou quit the stream 
 That murmurs tiirough the dewy mead, 
 Tlie grove, and the sequestered shed, 
 
 To be a guest with them ? 
 
 For thee I panted, thee I prized, 
 For thee I gladly sacrificed 
 
 AV'hate'er I loved before ; 
 And shall I see thee start away. 
 And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say. 
 
 Farewell ! we meet'no more ? 
 
 HUMAN FKAILTY. 
 
 We.\k and irresolute is man; 
 
 The purpose of to-day. 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 
 To-morrow rends away. 
 
 The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 
 
 Vice seems already slain ; 
 But Passion rudely snaps the string, 
 
 And it revives again. 
 
 Some foe to his upright intent 
 
 Finds out his weaker part ; 
 Virtue engages his assent. 
 
 But Pleasure wins his heart. 
 
 'T is here the folly of the wise 
 Through all his art we view ; 
 
 And wliilc his tougue the charge denies. 
 His conscience owns it true. 
 
 Bound on a voyage of awful length 
 
 And dangers little known, 
 A stranger to superior strength, 
 
 Man vainly trusts his own. 
 
 But oars alone can ne'er prevail 
 
 To reach the distant coast ; 
 The breath of Heaven must swell the sail. 
 
 Or all the toil is lost. 
 
 THE HOSE, 
 
 The rose had been washed, just washed in a 
 shower. 
 
 Which Mary to Anna conveyed,* 
 The ])leiitlful moisture encumbered the (lower, 
 
 And weighed down its beautiful head. 
 
 • This pnrtirtilnr line of a noted poem lias l)ecn declared by 
 a wit anil poet of our time to lie tlie flattest line in Knglish 
 p(irtry. • 
 
 -d> 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 457 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 The eup was all flUed, aud the leaves were all wet, 
 
 Aud it seemed to a laucitul view 
 To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, 
 
 Oil the flourisliing bush where it grew. 
 
 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 
 For a uosegay, so dripping aud drowned, 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 I snapped it, — it fell to the groimd. 
 
 " And sueh," I exelaiined, " is the pitiless part 
 
 Some act by the dehcate mind. 
 Regardless of wringing aud breaking a heart 
 
 Already to sorrow resigned. 
 
 " Tliis elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 Might have bloomed with its owner awhile ; 
 
 And the tear, that is wiped with a httle address. 
 May be followed perhaps by a smile." 
 
 PAmiNG-TarE anticipated. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 I SHALL not ask Jean Jaeques Rousseau * 
 If birds confabulate or uo ; 
 'T is clear that they wei'e always able 
 To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 
 And e'en the ehild who knows no better 
 Than to interpret by the letter 
 A story of a eock and bull. 
 Must have a most uneommou skull. 
 
 It chanced then on a winter's day, 
 But warm and bright and calm as May, 
 The birds, conceiving a design 
 To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
 In many an orchai-d, copse, and grove, 
 Assembled ou affairs of love, 
 And \vitli much twitter aud much chatter 
 Began to agitate the matter. 
 At length a bullfinch, who could boast 
 More years and wisdom than the most. 
 Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
 A moment's liberty to speak ; 
 Aud, silence publicly enjoined. 
 Delivered brieHy thus his mind : 
 
 " My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
 The subject npou which we meet ; 
 I fear we shall have winter yet." 
 
 A lineli, whose tongue knew no control. 
 With golden wing and satin poU, 
 A last year's bird, who ne'er had ti-ied 
 What marriage means, thus pert replied : 
 
 " Metliiuks the gentleman," quoth she, 
 " Opposite in the apple-tree, 
 
 * It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philoso- 
 pher, that all fables which ascribe reason anil speech to ani- 
 mals should he withheld from children, as being only vehicles 
 of deception. But what child was ever deceived hy them, or 
 can he, against the evidence of his senses ? 
 
 By Ids good-wiU would keep us single 
 
 Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 
 
 Or (which is likelier to befallj 
 
 TiU death exterminate us all. 
 
 I marry without more ado ; 
 
 My dear Dick Redcap, what say you ? " 
 
 Dick heard, and tweedliug, OgUng, bridling. 
 Turning short round, strutting, and sidling, 
 Attested, glad, his approbation 
 Of an immediate conjugation. 
 Their sentiments so well expressed 
 Inducnecd mightily the rest, 
 AH paired, and each pair built a nest. 
 
 But though the birds were thus in haste. 
 The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
 And destiny, that sometimes bears 
 An aspect stern on man's alfairs. 
 Not altogether smiled ou theirs. 
 The wind, of late breathed gently forth. 
 Now shifted east, and east by north ; 
 Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know. 
 Could shelter them from rain or snow. 
 Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 
 Tliemselves were chilled, their eggs were addled : 
 Soon every father bird and mother 
 Grew quarrelsome, and peeked each other, 
 Parted without the least regret. 
 Except that they had ever met. 
 And learned in future to be wiser 
 Thau to neglect a good adviser. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Misses ! the tale that I relate 
 This lesson seems to carry, — 
 
 Choose not alone a proper mate. 
 But proper time to marry. 
 
 THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE 
 PLANT, 
 
 An oyster, east ujjon tiie shore, 
 Was heard, though never heard before. 
 Complaining in a speech well worded, 
 And worthy thus to be recorded : 
 
 "Ah, hapless wretch ! condemned to dwell 
 Forever in my native shell ; 
 Ordained to move when others please. 
 Not for my own content or ease ; 
 But tossed and bufietcd about. 
 Now in the water and now out. 
 'T were better to be born a stone. 
 Of ruder sliape, and feeling none. 
 Than witli a tenderness like mine, 
 And sensibilities so fine ! 
 I envy that unfeehng shrub. 
 Fast rooted against every rub." 
 The plant he meant grew not far off, 
 And felt the sneer with scorn enough ; 
 
 -s> 
 
cQ- 
 
 458 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 I 
 
 Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, 
 And with asperity repUed : 
 
 " 'When,' cry the botanists, and stare, 
 ' Did plants called sensitive grow there ? ' 
 No matter when, — a poet's muse is 
 To make them grow just where she chooses. 
 
 " You shapeless nothiug in a dish, 
 You that are but almost a flsh, 
 I scorn your coarse insinuation, 
 And have most plentiful occasion 
 To wish myself the rock I view. 
 Or sucli another dolt as you ; 
 For many a grave and learned clerk. 
 And many a gay unlettered spark, 
 IV'ith curious touch examines me. 
 If I can feel as well as he ; 
 And when I bend, retire, and shrink. 
 Says, ' WcU, 't is more than one would think ! 
 Thus life is spent (0, fie upon 't !) 
 In being touched, and crying, Don't ! ' " 
 
 A poet, in his evening walk, 
 O'erhcard and cliecked this idle talk. 
 "And your fine sense," he said, "and yours, 
 Whatever evil it endures. 
 Deserves not, if so soon offended. 
 Much to be pitied or commended. 
 Disputes, though short, are far too long, 
 W'here both alike are in tiie wrong ; 
 Your feelings in their full amount 
 Are all upon your own account. 
 
 "You, in your grotto-work enclosed. 
 Complain of being thus exposed ; 
 Yet nothing feel in that rough coat 
 Save when tlie knife is at your throat, 
 AVhcrever driven by wind or tide, 
 Exempt from every ill beside. 
 
 " And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
 Who reckon every toucii a blemish. 
 If all tlie plants that can be found 
 Embellishing the scene around. 
 Should droop and wither where they grow. 
 You would not feci at all, — not you. 
 The noblest minds their virtue prove 
 By pity, sympathy, and love ; 
 These, these are feelings truly fine. 
 And prove their owner half divine." 
 
 His censure reached them as he dealt it. 
 And each by shrinking showed he felt it. 
 
 THE DIVEETINQ HISTOEY OF JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 SnOWINO HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE IN- 
 TENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown, 
 A trainband captain eke was lie 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
 
 "Though wedded we have been 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 " To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 " My sister, and my sister's child. 
 
 Myself, and children three. 
 Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 
 
 On horseback after we." 
 
 He soon replied, " I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one. 
 And you are she, my dearest dear. 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 " I am a linendraper bold. 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 And my good friend the calender 
 
 Will lend his horse to go." 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That 's well said; 
 
 And for that wine is dear. 
 We will be furnished with our own. 
 
 Which is both bright and clear." 
 
 John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 
 
 O'erjoyed was he to find. 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent. 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought. 
 
 But yet was not allowed 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stayed. 
 
 Where tliey did all get in ; 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. 
 
 Were never folks so glad ; 
 The stones did rattle underneath. 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 
 Sei/.ed fast, the flowing mane. 
 And u]) he got, in haste to ride, 
 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 For saddle-tree scarce reached had lie. 
 
 His journey to begin. 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 
 Tlirce customers come in. 
 
 ^ 
 
<Q- 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 459 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of tiiriR, 
 
 Although it grieved him sore. 
 Yet loss of pence, fuU well he knew, 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 'T was long before the customers 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 "VMien Betty screaming came down stairs, 
 
 " The wuie is left behmd ! " 
 
 " Good lack ! " quoth he, " yet bring it me. 
 
 My leathern belt hkewise. 
 In which 1 bear my trusty sword 
 
 When I do exercise." 
 
 Now Mistress Gil])in (careftd soul !) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found. 
 To hold the liquor that she loved, 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear. 
 Through wliioh the belt he drew, 
 
 And himg a bottle on each side. 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipped from top to toe, 
 His long red cloak, well brushed and neat. 
 
 He manfuUy did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his nimble steed. 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 The snorting beast began to trot. 
 
 Which galled him in his scat. 
 
 " So, fair and softly," John he cried. 
 
 But Juliu he cried m vain ; 
 That trot became a gallop soou, 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So stooping down, as needs be must 
 
 Who cannot sit upright, 
 He grasped the mane with both his hands, 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 
 Had handled been before, 
 What tiling upon liis back had got . 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 
 
 Away went hat and wig ; 
 He little dreamt, when he set out, 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamer long and gay. 
 Till, loop and button failing both, 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 The bottles he had slung ; 
 A bottle swinging at each side, 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children screamed. 
 
 Up flew the wmdows all ; 
 And every soul cried out, " Well done ! " 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, — who but he ? 
 
 His fame soon spread around, 
 " He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 
 
 'T is for a thousand pound ! " 
 
 And still as fast as he drew near, 
 
 'T was wonderful to view. 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low, 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 Were shattered at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road. 
 
 Most piteous to be seen, 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seemed to carry weight. 
 
 With leathern girdle braced ; 
 Eor all might see the bottle necks 
 
 Still dangling at liis waist. 
 
 Thus all through meri'y Islington 
 
 These gambols did he play, 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay ; 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 
 On both sides of the way, 
 Just like unto. a trundling mop. 
 
 Or a wUd goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 " Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here 's the house,' 
 
 They all at once did cry ; 
 " The dimier waits, and we arc tired." 
 
 Said Gilpin, " So am I ! " 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inchned to tarry there ; 
 For why ? — his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an archer strong ; 
 So did he fly — which brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 460 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against iiis will. 
 Till at his friend tlie calender's 
 
 His horse at last stood stiU. 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 
 His neighbor in such trim. 
 Laid doxvn his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 " TVhat news ? what news ? your tidings tell ; 
 
 Tell me you must and shall, — 
 Say why barelieaded you are come. 
 
 Or why you come at all ? " 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke ; 
 And thus unto tiie calender 
 
 In merry guise lie spoke : 
 
 " I came because your horse would come ; 
 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, 
 
 They are upon the road." 
 
 The calender, right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Returned him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house weut in ; 
 
 Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 
 
 A wig that flowed behind, 
 A hat not much tiie worse for wear. 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 
 Thus showed his ready wit, 
 " My head is twice as big as yours, 
 
 They therefore needs must fit." 
 
 " But let me scrape the dirt away 
 
 That hangs upon your face ; 
 Ajid stop and eat, for well you may 
 
 Be in a hungry case." 
 
 Said John, " It is my wedding-day. 
 
 And all tiio world would stare, 
 If wife siwndd dine at Edmonton, 
 
 And I should dine at Ware." 
 
 Si) turning to liis horse, ho said, 
 
 " 1 am in Inistc to dine ; 
 'T was for your pleasure you came here. 
 
 You shall go back for mine." 
 
 Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 
 
 For which lie paid full dear; 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing most loud and clear ; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 
 Had licard a lion roar, 
 A-ud galloped off with all his might, 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 
 He lost them sooner than at first. 
 
 For why ? — they were too big. 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 
 Her husband posting down 
 Into the eouutry far away. 
 
 She pulled out half a crowu ; 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said. 
 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 " This shall be yours, when you bring back 
 
 My husband safe and well." 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 Jolin coming back amain ; 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop 
 
 By catching at his rein ; 
 
 But not performing what he meaut, 
 
 And gladly would have done. 
 The frighted steed he frighted more. 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went postboy at his heels, 
 The postboy's iiovse right glad to miss 
 
 The lumbering of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road, 
 
 Tiuis seeing Gilpin fly. 
 With postboy scampering in the rear, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : — 
 
 " Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman ! ' 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all ami each that passed that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike-gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The toll-men thinking, as before, 
 
 That Giljiin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too. 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 Nor stopix'd till where he had got up 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now h't us sing, " Long live the king, 
 
 And (iilpin, long live he; 
 And when he next dotii ride abroad, 
 
 May I be there to see ! " 
 
 ■^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 ON THE EECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 
 
 461 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM. 
 
 A NIGHTINGALE, that all (lay louj? 
 Had cheered the village with his song, 
 Nor yet at eve his uote suspended, 
 Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
 Began to feel, as well he might, 
 The keen demands of appetite ; 
 When, looking eagerly around, 
 He spied far off, upon the ground, 
 A something shining in the dark, 
 And knew the glowworm by his spark ; 
 So stooping down from hawthorn-top, 
 He thought to put him in his crop. 
 The worm, aware of his intent. 
 Harangued hira thus, right eloquent : 
 
 "' Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, 
 " As much as I your minstrelsy, 
 You would abhor to do me wrong 
 As much as I to spoil your song ; 
 For 't was the selfsame Power Divine 
 Taught you to slug and me to sluuc ; 
 That you with music, I with light, 
 Might beautify and cheer the night." 
 The songster heard his short oi'ation, 
 And warbling out his approbation. 
 Released liim, as my story tells, 
 And found a supper somewhere else. 
 
 Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
 Their real interest to discern ; 
 That brother should not war with brother, 
 And worry and devour each other ; 
 But sing and shine by sweet consent, 
 Till life's poor transient night is spent, 
 Respecting in each otlier's case 
 The gifts of nature and of grace. 
 
 Those Christians best deserve the name 
 Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
 Peace both the duty and the prize 
 Of him that creeps and him that flics. 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 When the British warrior queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods. 
 
 Sought, with an indignant mien. 
 Counsel of her country's gods, 
 
 Sage beneath the spi'cading oak 
 Sat the Druid, hoary cliief ; 
 
 Every burning word he spoke 
 Full of rage and full of grief. 
 
 " Princess ! if our aged eyes 
 
 Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
 
 'T is because resentment ties 
 All the terrors of our tongues. 
 
 " Rome shall perish, — write that word 
 In the blood that she has spilt ; 
 
 Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 
 Deep iu ruin as in guilt. 
 
 "Rome, for fempire far renowned. 
 Tramples on a thousand states ; 
 
 Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — • 
 Hark'! the Gaul is at her gates ! 
 
 " Other Romans shall arise. 
 Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
 Harmony the path to fame. 
 
 " Then the progeny that springs 
 From the forests of our land. 
 
 Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
 Shall a wider world command. 
 
 " Regions Csesar never knew 
 
 Thy posterity shall sway ; 
 Wliere his eagles never flew. 
 
 None invincible as they." 
 
 Such the bard's prophetic words, 
 
 Pregnant with celestial fire. 
 Bending as he swept tlie chords 
 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre. 
 
 She, with all a monarch's pride. 
 Felt them in her bosom glow : 
 
 Ruslied to battle, fought, and died ; 
 Dying, hurled them at the foe. 
 
 Ruffiaus, pitiless as proud. 
 
 Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
 Empire is on us bestowed, 
 
 Shame and ruin wait for you. 
 
 ON THE EECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE, 
 
 OUT OF NORFOLK, 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 BODHAM. 
 
 MV COUSIN, ANN 
 
 THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 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 ; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 " Grieve not, my chUd, chase all thy fears away ! " 
 Tlie meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize. 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 
 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 \^'ho bidst me honor with an artless soug, 
 AH'cetionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 402 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were licr own : 
 And, while that face renews my fdial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysiau reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that tliou, art she. 
 
 My mother ! when I learned that thou wast 
 
 dead. 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the teai:g I shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 "Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though uufelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smde ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such ? It was. Where .thou art 
 
 gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 Tliy maidens, grieved tliemsclves at my concern ! 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed. 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
 By expectation every day beguiled. 
 Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 I learned at last submission to my lot, 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
 
 more. 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
 'T is now become a history little known. 
 That once we called the pastoral ho\isc our own. 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 StiU outlives many a storm, that has elfaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thon mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 
 The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 
 Tlie fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 By thy own haiul, till fresh they shone and 
 
 glowed : 
 All tills, and more endearing still than all, 
 Thy constant How of love, that knew no fall. 
 Ne'er roughened by those eat^iraets and breaks. 
 That humor interposed too often makes ; 
 All this still legible in memory's page. 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such lionors to thee as my numbers may ; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 
 
 hours, 
 ^Vlien, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 
 The violet, the pink, the jessamine, 
 I pricked them into paper with a pin 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 
 
 smile). 
 Could those few pleasant days 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 desired, perhaps I might. 
 But no, — what here we call our life is snch, 
 So little to be loved, 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 weathered and the ocean crossed) 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile. 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the 
 
 shore 
 " Wliere tempests never beat nor billows roar " ; * 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
 Always from ])ort withheld, always distressed, — 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest -tossed. 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass 
 
 lost. 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets nie more distant from a prosperous course. 
 Yet O 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 enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions I'ise, — 
 The son of parents passed into the skies. 
 And now, farewell, — Time unrevtiked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
 By eouleniplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
 Without the sin of violating thine; 
 And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 
 
 • Giirlli, 
 
 -g> 
 
e 
 
 WALKING WITH GOD. — RETIEEMENT. 
 
 463 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 WALKING WITH GOD. 
 
 FOR a closer walk witli God, 
 A calm and heavenly frame ; 
 
 A light to shine upon the road 
 That leads me to the Lamb ! 
 
 Where is the blessedness I knew 
 When first I saw the Lord ? 
 
 Where is the soul-refreshing view 
 Of Jesus and his word ? 
 
 Wliat peaceful hours I once enjoyed ! 
 
 How sweet their memory still ! 
 But they have left an aching void 
 
 The world can never fill. 
 
 Return, O holy Dove, return ! 
 Sweet messenger of rest : 
 
 1 hate the sins that made thee mourn, 
 And drove thee from my breast. 
 
 The dearest idol I have known, 
 
 Wliate'er that idol be. 
 Help me to tear it from thy throne. 
 
 And worship only thee. 
 
 So shall my walk be close with God, 
 Calm and serene my frame ; 
 
 So purer light shall mark the i-oad 
 That leads me to the Lamb. 
 
 THE LIOHT AND GLORY OF THE WORD. 
 
 The Sjiirit breathes upon the Word, 
 And brings the truth to sight ; 
 
 Precepts and promises afford 
 A sanctifying light. 
 
 A glory gilds the sacred page, 
 
 Majestic like the sun ; 
 It gives a light to every age. 
 
 It gives, but borrows none. 
 
 The hand that gave it still supplies 
 The gracious hght and heat : 
 
 His truths upon the nations rise. 
 They rise, but never set. 
 
 Let everlasting thanks be thine, 
 For such a bright display, 
 
 As makes a world of darkness shine 
 With beams of heavenly day. 
 
 My so\d rejoices to pursue 
 
 The steps of him I love, 
 Till glory breaks upon my view 
 
 In brighter worlds above. 
 
 LIGHT SHINniG OUT OF BARENESS. 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way 
 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea. 
 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Deep in unfathomable mines 
 
 Of uever-faUiug skill, 
 He treasures up his bright designs. 
 
 And works his sovereign will. 
 
 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, 
 The clouds ye so mucli 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 : 
 
 Behind a frowning providence 
 He hides a smiling face. 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast. 
 
 Unfolding every hour ; 
 The hud may have a bitter taste. 
 
 But sweet will be the flower. 
 
 Blind unbelief is sure to err,* 
 And scan his work in vain: 
 
 God is his own interpreter, 
 And he will make it plain. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 r.iR from the world, O Lord, I flee, 
 From strife and tumult far; 
 
 From scenes where Satan wages still 
 His most successful war. 
 
 The calm retreat, the silent shade. 
 With prayer and praise agree ; 
 
 And seem, by thy sweet bounty, made 
 For those who follow thee. 
 
 There if thy Spirit touch the soul. 
 And grace her mean abode, 
 
 O, with what peace and joy and love 
 She communes with her God ! 
 
 There like the nightingale she pours 
 
 Her solitary lays ; 
 Nor asks a witness of her song. 
 
 Nor thirsts for human praise. 
 
 Author and guardian of my life. 
 Sweet source of hght divine, 
 
 And (all harmonious names in one) 
 My Saviour, thou art mine ! 
 
 * Jolm xiii. 7- 
 
 -g> 
 
cQ- 
 
 4G4 
 
 COW PER. 
 
 What tlianks I owe thee, and what love, 
 
 A boundless, endless store, 
 Sliall eeho tlirougii the realms above 
 
 When time shall be no more. 
 
 JOT AND PEACE IN BELIEVING, 
 
 Sometimes a light surprises 
 
 Tiie Christian while lie sings ; 
 It is the Lord who rises 
 
 With hcaUng in his wings : 
 When comforts are declining. 
 
 He grants the soul again 
 A season of clear shining. 
 
 To cheer it after rain. 
 
 lu holy contemplation 
 
 AVe sweetly then pursue 
 The theme of God's salvation, 
 
 And And it ever new ; 
 Stt free from present sorrow. 
 
 We cheerfully can say. 
 E'en let the unknown to-morrow * 
 
 Bring with it what it may. 
 
 It can bring with it nothing 
 
 But he will bear us through ; 
 Who gives the lilies clothing. 
 
 Will clothe his people too ; 
 Beneatli the spreading heavens 
 
 No creature but is fed; 
 And he who feeds the ravens 
 
 Will give his children bread. 
 
 Tliough vine nor fig-tree neither t 
 
 Their wonted fruit shall boar. 
 Though all the field should wither, 
 
 Nor flocks nor herds be there : 
 Yet God the same abiding, 
 
 His praise shall tune my voice ; 
 For, while in him confiding, 
 
 I cannot but rejoice. 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Tlie brave that are no more ! 
 All sunk beneath the wave. 
 
 Fast by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, 
 Wliose courage well was tried, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel. 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land breeze shook the shrouds. 
 And she was overset ; 
 
 fr^ 
 
 • Mnltlipw vi. M. 
 
 + IlaliRlikiik iii. 17, IS. 
 
 Down w-ent the Koyal George, 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Kenipeufclt is gone ; 
 His last sea-fight is fought ; 
 
 His work of glory doae. 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 She sprang no fatal leak ; 
 
 She rau upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath ; 
 
 His fingers held the pen. 
 When Kcmpcnfelt went down 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 
 And miugle with our cup 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound. 
 
 And she may float again 
 Full charged witli England's thunder, 
 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone, 
 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 
 TO MRS. DNWIN, 
 
 Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 
 
 Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned 
 
 they drew. 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
 
 And uudcbased by praise of meaner tilings, 
 
 That, ei'c tlirough agc'or woe I shed my wings, 
 I may record thy worth witli honor due. 
 In verse as musical as thou art true. 
 
 And that immortalizes whom it sings. 
 
 But thou hast little need. There is a book 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light. 
 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
 A chronicle of actions just and bright ; 
 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine. 
 
 And, since thon own'st that praise, 1 spare thee 
 mine. 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 The twentieth year is wcllnigh p.ost 
 
 Since first our sky was overcast; 
 
 Ah, would that this might be the last ! 
 
 '^U ^larv ! 
 
 n 
 
 ^ 
 
THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 465 
 
 -0) 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter iiow, 
 
 I see thee daily weaker grow, — 
 
 'T was my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy needles, once a sliiuiug store. 
 For my sake restless heretofore. 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fidfil 
 The same kind office for me still. 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
 And all thy threads Tidth magic art 
 Have wound themselves about tliis heart, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 Like language uttered in a di'eam ; 
 Yet me they charm, wliate'er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For, could I view nor them nor thee. 
 What sight woi-th seeing could I see ? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline. 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet gently pi'essed, press gently mine. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou provest. 
 That now at every step thou movest 
 Upheld by two ; yet still thou lovest. 
 
 My Mary 1 
 
 And still to love, though pressed with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no cliill. 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 llj Mary ! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know 
 How oft the sadness that I show 
 Transforms thy smQes to looks of woe. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky, 
 The Atlantic bUlows roared. 
 
 Wlien such a destined wi-etch as I, 
 Washed headlong from on board. 
 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 
 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 ; 
 Nor soon he felt his sti-ength decUne, 
 
 Or courage die away : 
 But waged with death a lasting strife, 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted ; nor his friends had failed 
 To check the vessel's course. 
 
 But so the furious blast prevailed, 
 That, pitiless perforce. 
 
 They left their outcast mate behind, 
 
 And scudded still before the wind. 
 
 Some succor yet they could afford ; 
 
 And, such as storms allow. 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord. 
 
 Delayed not to bestow ; 
 But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, 
 Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he 
 Their haste himself condemn. 
 
 Aware that flight, in such a sea. 
 Alone could rescue them : 
 
 Yet bitter felt it stiU to die 
 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, self-upheld ; 
 And so long he, -nith unspent power. 
 
 His destiny repelled : 
 And ever, as the minutes flew. 
 Entreated help, or cried, " Adieu ! " 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 
 His comrades, who before 
 Had heard his voice in every .blast, 
 
 Coidd 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 
 
 Of naiTative 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. 
 
 ■# 
 
(&- 
 
 466 
 
 DAEWIN. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream, 
 
 Descanting on bis fate. 
 To give the more enduring theme 
 
 A more enduring date : 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 Its semblance ui another's case. 
 
 No voice divine the storm allayed, 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When, snatched from all effectual aid, 
 
 We perished, each alone : 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 And whelmed ui deeper gulfs thaa he. 
 
 ERASMUS DARAVIN.* 
 
 1731-1803. 
 
 PHILANTHEOPT OF HOWARD, 
 
 And now, philanthropy ! thy rays divine 
 Dart round the globe from Zembla to the liuc. 
 O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light. 
 Like northern lustres o'er the vault of niglit. 
 From realm to realm, with cross or crescent 
 
 crowned, 
 Where'er mankind and misery are found, 
 O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of 
 
 snow, 
 Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of woe. 
 Down many a winding step to dungeons dank, 
 Where auguish wails aloud and fetters clank ; 
 To caves bestrewed with many a mouldering 
 
 bone, 
 And cells whose echoes only learn to groan ; 
 Where no kind bars a whispering friend dis- 
 close, 
 No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows, 
 He treads, unemulous of fame or wealth. 
 Profuse of toil and prodigal of health. 
 With soft assuasive eloquence expands 
 Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching 
 
 hands ; 
 Leads stern-eyed Justice to the dark domains, 
 
 * This florid poet, very eminent in his own generation, was 
 the ijrnndfathcr of the fatuous naturalist who, in our time, has 
 struck the deadliest of all blows against any aristocracy found- 
 ed on descent fixTm remote forefathers. He has suggested 
 that, zoologically speaking, our more immediate forefather 
 was a gorilla; that the more remote forefather of the gorilla 
 was a queer aquatic animal, which he describes, hut forbears to 
 name; and that even this aquaticcreature was developed in some 
 mysterious way from the nebulous mist in which all life had 
 its origin. Considered as an observer, he must be ranked among 
 the greatest naturalists of the world ; as a tlieorizer, he should 
 be ranked far above his grandfather in all those elements of 
 inventiveness and ingenuity of fancy and imagination which 
 constitute the poet. Few naturalists have shown equal 
 sagacity in observing and classifying facts ; few poets ba^ e 
 . opened to stuilcnts of iiKin and nature a wider field for the 
 imagination to roam in. 
 
 If not to sever, to relax the chains ; 
 Or guides awakened mercy through the gloom. 
 And shows tlie piison, sister to the tomb ! 
 Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife. 
 To her fond husband liberty and life ! 
 The spirits of the good, who bend from iiigh 
 Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye. 
 When first arrayed in Virtue's purest robe, 
 Tliey saw her Howard traversing the globe ; 
 Saw round liis brows her sunlike glory blaze 
 In arrowy circles of unwearied rays ; 
 Mistook a mortal for an angel gflest. 
 And asked what seraph foot the earth imiiressed. 
 Onward he moves ! Disease and Death retire. 
 And murmuring demons hate him and admire ! 
 Loves of the Plants. 
 
 DEATH OF ELIZA AT THE BATTLE OF MINDEN, 
 
 So stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height. 
 O'er Miuden's plain, spectatress of the fight. 
 Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife 
 Her dearer self, tiie partner of her life ; 
 From hill to liill the rushing host pursued. 
 And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 
 Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread 
 Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ; 
 And one fair girl amid the loud alarm 
 Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ; 
 Wiiilc rovind her brows bright beams of honor 
 
 dart, 
 And love's warm eddies circle round her heart. 
 Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed. 
 Saw througli the driving smoke his dancing 
 
 crest ; 
 Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove, 
 Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love ; 
 Heard the exulting shout, " They run ! they 
 
 run ! " 
 " Great God ! " she cried, " he 's safe ! the bat- 
 tle 's won!" 
 A ball now liisses through the airy tides, 
 (Some fury winged it, and some demon guides !) 
 Parts the line locks her graceful head that deck. 
 Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; 
 The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, 
 Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 
 " Ah me ! " she cried, and sinking on the ground. 
 Kissed lier dear babes, regardless of the wound ; 
 " O, cease not yet to beat, thou vit,-il uru ! 
 Wait, giisliiiig life, O, wait my love's ivtiirn ! " 
 Hoarse barks tiie wolf, the vulture screams from 
 
 far! 
 The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ! 
 " O, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ; 
 On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your rage ! " 
 Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed, 
 And, sigliiiig, liid tliem in her blood-stained vest. 
 
 ^ 
 
 --^ 
 
cO- 
 
 LOVES OF THE PLANTS. 
 
 467 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, 
 Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes ; 
 Eliza's name along the camp he calls, 
 " Eliza" echoes through the canvas walls; 
 Quick through the murmuring gloom liis foot- 
 steps tread. 
 O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, 
 Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, 
 Lo ! dead Eliza weltering in her blood ! 
 Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, 
 With open arms and sparkUng eye he bounds. 
 " Speak low," tie cries, and gives his little hand, 
 " Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand." 
 Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers pressed. 
 And tried with pouting Ups her milkless breast ; 
 " Alas ! we both with cold and hunger quake, — 
 Why do you weep ? — Mamma will soon awake." 
 " She 'II wake no more ! " the hapless mourner 
 
 cried. 
 Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and 
 
 sighed ; 
 Stretched on the ground, a whUe entranced he 
 
 lay, 
 And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ; 
 And then upsprung with wild convulsive start, 
 And all the father kindled in his heart. 
 "0 heavens!" he cried, "my first rash vow 
 
 forgive ; 
 These bind to earth, for these I pray to live ! " 
 Round his chiU babes he wrapped his crimson 
 
 vest, 
 Aud clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. 
 Loves of the Plants. 
 
 THE MOTHER OF MOSES. 
 
 So the sad mother, at the noon of night, 
 From bloody Memphis stole her silent flight ; 
 Wrapped her dear babe beneath her folded vest, 
 And clasped the treasure to her throbbing breast; 
 With sootliing whispers hushed its feeble cry. 
 Pressed the soft kiss, aud breathed the secret 
 
 sigh. 
 With dauntless step she seeks the winding shore, 
 Hears unappalled the glimmering torrents roar ; 
 With paper-flags a floating cradle weaves, 
 Aud liides the smiling boy in lotus leaves ; 
 Gives her white bosom to his eager lips. 
 The salt tears mingling with the milk he sips ; 
 Waits on the reed-crowued brink with pious 
 
 guile. 
 And trusts the scaly monsters of the ?vile. 
 Erewhile majestic from his lone abode. 
 Ambassador of Heaven, the prophet trod ; 
 Wrenched the red scourge from proud oppres- 
 sion's hands. 
 And broke, cursed slavery ! thy iron bands. 
 
 Loi'es of the Plants, 
 
 THE AFRICAN SLAVE-TRADE, 
 
 Hark ! heard ye not that piercing ery. 
 Which shook the waves and rent the sky ? 
 E'en now, e'en now, on yonder western shores 
 Weeps pale despair, and writhing anguish roars ; 
 E'en now in Afric's groves, ■n'ith hideous yell, 
 Fierce slavery stalks, and slips the dogs of hell ; 
 From vale to vale the gathering cries rebound. 
 And sable nations tremble at the sound ! 
 Ye bands of senators ! whose sufli'age sways 
 Britannia's realms, whom either Ind obeys ; 
 Who right the injured and reward the brave, 
 Stretch your strong arm, for ye have power to 
 
 save ! 
 Throned in the vaulted heart, his dread resort. 
 Inexorable conscience holds his court ; 
 With still small voice the plots of guilt alarms, 
 Bares his masked brow, his lifted hand disarms ; 
 But wrapped iu night with terrors all his own, 
 He speaks in thunder when the deed is done. 
 Hear him, ye senates ! hear this truth sublime, 
 " He who allows oppression shares the crime ! " 
 Loves of the Plants. 
 
 THE EXTINCTION OF THE STARS. 
 
 Roll on, ye stars ! exult iu youthful prime, 
 Mark with bright curves the priutless steps of 
 
 Time ; 
 Near and more near your beamy cars approach, 
 And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach ; 
 Flowers of the sky ! ye, too, to age must yield, 
 Frail as your silken sisters of the field ! 
 Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, 
 Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush. 
 Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall. 
 And death, and night, and chaos mingle all ! 
 TUI o'er the ^vTeck, emerging from the storm. 
 Immortal Nature lifts her changeful form, 
 Jlounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame. 
 And soars and slunes, another and the same ! 
 
 Loses of the Plants, 
 
 LOVES OF THE PLANTS. 
 
 * » * 
 
 How snowdrops cold aud blue-eyed harebells 
 
 blend 
 Tlieir tender tears, as o'er the streams they bend; 
 The love-sick violet and the primrose pale 
 Bow their sweet heads and wliispcr to the gale; 
 With secret sighs the virgin Uly droops. 
 And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups. 
 How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride. 
 Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride ; 
 With honeyed lips enamored woodbines meet. 
 Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet ! 
 Stay thy soft murmuring waters, gentle riU ; 
 
 -^^ 
 
<fr 
 
 468 
 
 CHURCHILL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Husli, whispering ^•iuds ; ye rustliug leaves, be 
 
 still ; 
 . Rest, silver butterflies, your quivering wiugs ; 
 
 Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings ; 
 
 Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl. 
 
 Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks un- 
 curl; 
 
 Glitter, yc glowworms, on your mossy beds ; 
 
 Deseend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads; 
 
 Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnished 
 shells ; 
 
 Ye bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells ! 
 
 PREDICTION OF THE STEAMBOAT AND EAIL- 
 KOAD. 
 
 Soon slndl thy arm, unconquered Steam ! afar 
 Drag tiie slow barge, or drive the rapid car ; 
 Or on wide waving wings expanded bear 
 The flying chariot through the field of air. 
 
 The Botanic Garden. 
 
 o>»;o 
 
 CHARLES CHURCHILL.* 
 
 1731-1764. 
 
 CHAEACTEES OF QUIN, TOM SHEEIDAN, AND 
 GAEEICK. 
 
 QuiN, from afar, lured by the scent of fame, 
 A stage leviathan, put in his claim. 
 Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, 
 Sullen he walked, and deemed the chair his o^vii. 
 Por how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, 
 Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to 
 
 play ? 
 Gray-bearded veterans, wlio, with partial tongue. 
 Extol the times when they themselves were 
 
 young ; 
 Wlio, having lost all rehsli for the stage, 
 See not their o^vn defects, but lash the age. 
 Received with joyful murmurs of applause 
 Their darling chief, and lined his favorite cause. 
 
 Far be it from the candid Muse to tread 
 Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead. 
 But, just to living merit, she maintains, 
 And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius 
 
 reigns ;^ 
 .\ncients in vain endeavor to excel. 
 Happily praised, if they could act as well. 
 But though prescription's force we disallow. 
 Nor to antiquity submissive bow ; 
 
 * A coarse, brawny, piicnacirms, unscnipulons, bitter, and 
 intrepid satirist, not unsifted with discrimination when his 
 mind had free play. Cliurchill proved tliat the couplet of Dryden 
 and Pope, enfeel)led in his time by poetasters, mifrlit be made 
 the vehicle of strong thnu;_'ht and feelinij wlien it was wiehlcd 
 by a strong nature. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Though wc deny imaginary grace, 
 Foujided on accidents of time and place ; 
 Yet real worth of every growth shall bear 
 Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. 
 
 His words bore sterling weight, nervous and 
 strong. 
 In manly tides of sense they rolled along. 
 Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence 
 To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense. 
 No actor ever greater heights could reach 
 In all the labored artifice of speech. 
 
 Speech ! Is that all ? And shall an actor 
 found 
 A universal fame on pai'tial ground ? 
 Parrots themselves speak properly by rote 
 And, in six mouths, my dog shall howl by note. 
 I laugh at those who, when the stage they 
 
 tread. 
 Neglect the heart to compliment the head ; 
 With strict propriety their care 's confined 
 To weigh out words, while passion halts behind. 
 To syllable-dissectors they appeal. 
 Allow them accent, cadence, — fools may feel ; 
 But, spite of all the criticising elves. 
 Those who would make us feci must feel them- 
 selves. 
 
 His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, 
 Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soiJ. 
 Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, 
 Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. 
 When Hector's lovely widow sliincs in tears. 
 Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers. 
 With the same cast of features he is seen 
 To chide the libertine and court the queen. 
 From the tame scene, which without passion 
 
 flows. 
 With just desert his reputation rose; 
 Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan, 
 He was at once the actor and the man. 
 
 In Brute he shone unequalled : all agree 
 Garrick 's not half so great a brute as he. 
 When Cato's labored scenes are brought to view, 
 AYith equal praise the actor labored too ; 
 For still you '11 find, trace passions to their root, 
 Small ditTerence 'twixt the stoic and the brute. 
 In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan. 
 He could not, for a moment, sink the man ; 
 In whatc'cr cast his cliaracter was laid, 
 Self still, Uke oil, upon the surface played. 
 Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in : 
 Horatio, Dorax. FalstaiT, —still 'twas Quin. 
 
 Next follows Sheridan, — a doubtful name. 
 As yet unsettled in the rank of fame. 
 This, fondly lavish in his ]n'aiscs grown. 
 Gives him all merit ; that allows him none. 
 Between them both wc '11 steer the middle course. 
 Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force. 
 
 Just his conceptions, natural and great : 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE POET'S REMORSE. 
 
 4(39 I 
 
 His feelings stroug, liis words enforced with 
 
 weight. 
 Was speech-famed Quia himself to hear him 
 
 speak, 
 Envy would drive the color from his cheek : 
 But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace, 
 Denied the social powers of voice and face. 
 Fixed hi one frame of features, glare of eye, 
 Passions, hke chaos, in confusion lie ; 
 111 vain the wonders of his skill are tried 
 To form distinctions Nature hath denied. 
 His voice no touch of harmony admits. 
 Irregularly deep and shriU by fits : 
 The two extremes appear like mau and wife, 
 Coupled together for the sake of strife. 
 
 His action 's always stro)ig, but sometimes 
 
 such 
 That candor must declare he acts too much, 
 Why must impatience fall three paces back ? 
 Why paces three return to the attack ? 
 AVhy is the right leg, too, forbid to stir, 
 Unless in motion semicircular? 
 Why must the hero with the uaUer vie. 
 Ami hurl the close-clenched fist at nose or eye ? 
 lu royal John, with Philip angry grown, 
 I thought he would have knocked poor Davics 
 
 down. 
 Inhuman tyrant ! was it not a shame, 
 To fright a king so harmless and so tame ? 
 P)\it spite of all defects, his glories rise ; 
 And art, by judgment formed, with nature vies : 
 Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's sold, 
 ^Vhilst in his own contending passions roll ; 
 View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan, 
 And then deny him merit if you can. , 
 
 Where he falls short, 't is nature's fault alone ; 
 Wliere he succeeds, the merit 's all Ids own. 
 
 Last Garrick came. Behind him throng a train 
 Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 
 One finds out, "He 's of stature somewhat 
 
 low, — 
 Your hero always should be tall, you know. 
 True natural greatness all consists in height." 
 Produce your voucher, critic. " Sergeant Kite." 
 
 Another can't forgive the paltry arts 
 By which he makes his way to shallow hearts ; 
 Merc pieces of finesse, traps for applause — 
 " Avaunt, unnatural start, affected pause." 
 Por me, by nature formed to judge with 
 
 phlegm, 
 I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. 
 The best things carried to excess are wrong ; 
 The start may be too frequent, pause too long ; 
 But, only used in proper time and place. 
 Severest judgment must allow them grace. 
 If bunglers, fonned on imitation's plan, 
 Just in the way that monkeys mimic man, 
 Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace. 
 
 And pause and start with the same vacant face, 
 We join the critic laugh ; those tricks we scorn. 
 Which spod the scenes they mean them to ad^n-n. 
 But when, from nature's pure and genuine source. 
 These strokes of acting flow with generous force, 
 Wlicn in the feahires all the soul 's ptn-trayed, 
 And passions, such as Garrick's, are displayed. 
 To me they seem from quickest feehngs caught : 
 Each start is nature, and each pause is thought. 
 
 When reason yields to passion's wdd alarms. 
 And the whole state of man is up in ai-ms. 
 What but a critic could condemn the player 
 For pausmg here, when cool sense pauses there ? 
 Wlulst working from the heart the fire I trace. 
 And mark it strongly flaming to the face ; 
 WhUst in each sound I hear the very man ; 
 I can't catch words, and pity those who can. 
 
 Let wits, hke spiders, from the tortured bi-ain 
 Pine-draw the critic-web with curious pain ; 
 The gods — a kindness I with thanks must pay — 
 Have formed me of a coarser kind of clay : 
 Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, 
 A poor dull creature, still with nature pleased ; 
 Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree. 
 And, pleased with nature, must be pleased with 
 thee. 
 
 Now might I tell how silence reigned through- 
 out. 
 And deep attention hushed the rabble rout ! 
 How every claimant, tortured with desire, 
 Was pale as ashes or as red as fire : 
 But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, 
 Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts. 
 
 Tiie judges, as the several parties came, 
 With temper heard, with judgment weighed each 
 
 claim. 
 And, in their sentence happily agreed, 
 In name of both, greut Shakespeare thus decreed : 
 
 " If manly sense, if nature linked with art. 
 If thorough knowledge of the human heart. 
 If jiowers of acting vast and uneonfiued. 
 If fewest faults with greatest beauties joined, 
 If strong expression, and strange powers which 
 
 lie 
 Within the magic circle of the eye, 
 If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know, 
 And which no face so well as his can show. 
 Deserve the preference, — Garrick, take the 
 
 chair. 
 Nor qmt it — till thou place an equal there." 
 
 T/ie Rosciad. 
 
 THE POET'S EEMORSE. 
 
 Look back ! a thought which borders on despaii-, 
 Wliieh human nature must, yet cannot bear. 
 'T is not the babbling of a busy world. 
 Where praise or censure are at random hurled. 
 
 V- 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 470 
 
 CHURCHILL. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Wliich cau the meanest of my thoughts control, 
 Or shake one settled purpose of my soul ; 
 Free and at large might their wild curses roam, 
 If all, if all, alas ! were well at home. 
 No ; 't is the tale, which angry Conscience tells, 
 ^V'hen she with more than tragic horror swells 
 Each cireuinstanee of gidlt ; when stern, but true, 
 Slie brings bad actions forth into review. 
 And, like the dread handwriting on the wall. 
 Bids late remorse awake at reason's call ; 
 Armed at all points, bids scorpion vengeance pass. 
 And to the mind holds up reflection's glass, — 
 The mind wliich starting heaves the heart-felt 
 
 groan. 
 And hates that form she knows to be her own. 
 
 The Conference. 
 
 LAMPOON ON THE SCOTCH, 
 
 Two boys whose birth, beyond all question, 
 springs 
 From great and glorious, thougli forgotten kings. 
 Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred 
 On the same bleak and barren mountaui's head. 
 By niggard nature doomed on the same rocks 
 To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks. 
 Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist. 
 The mountain's top with usual dulness kissed, 
 Jockey and Sawney to their labors rose ; 
 Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes; 
 Where from their youtli inured to winter skies. 
 Dress and her vain refinements they despise. 
 
 Jockey, whose mauly high check-bones to 
 crown. 
 With freckles spotted flamed tlie golden down, 
 With meikle art could on the bagpipes play. 
 Even from the rising to the setting day ; 
 Sawney as long without remorse could bawl 
 Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fiugal : 
 Oft at his strains, all natural thougli rude. 
 The Highland lass forgot her want of food. 
 And, whilst she scratched her lover into rest. 
 Sunk pleased, though hungry, ou her Sawney's 
 breast. 
 
 Far as tlie eye could reach no tree was seen. 
 Earth, clad in russet, scorned the lively green : 
 The plague of locusts they secure defy, 
 For in three hours a grasshopper must die : 
 No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, 
 But the chameleon who can feast on air. 
 No birds, except as liirds of passage flew ; 
 No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo : 
 No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear, 
 Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here : 
 Ilcbellion's s])ring, which through the country 
 
 ran. 
 Furnished with bitter draughts the steady clan : 
 No flowers embalmed the air, but oik' white rose. 
 
 Which, oil the tenth of June, by instinct blows ; 
 By iustinct blows at morn, and, when the shades 
 Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 
 * * « 
 
 There webs were spread of more than common 
 
 size, 
 Aud half-starved spiders preyed on half-starved 
 
 flies. Prophecy of Famine. 
 
 POETS ABSOLVED FEOM TAXATION, 
 
 What is 't to us, if taxes rise or fall ? 
 Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all. 
 Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal, 
 Lament those hardships w-hich we cannot feel. 
 His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he please. 
 But must I bellow too, who sit at ease ? 
 By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow 
 Free as the light and air some years ago. 
 No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains 
 To tax our labors and excise our brains. 
 Burdens like these, vile earthly buildings bear ; 
 No tribute 's laid ou castles in the air ! 
 
 Nifjht. 
 
 A CEITICAL FEIBBLE, 
 
 Much did it talk, in its own pretty ])hrase, 
 Of genius aud of taste, of players aud plays ; 
 Much too of writings, which itself had wrote. 
 Of special merit, thougli of Uttle note ; 
 For Fate, in a strange humor, had decreed 
 Tliat what it wrote none but itself should 
 
 read ; 
 Much too it chattered of dramatic laws. 
 Misjudging critics, aud misplaced apjilause. 
 Then with a self-complacent jutting air. 
 It smiled, it smirked, it wriggled to the chair ; 
 Aud, with an awkward briskness not its own. 
 Looking around, and perking on the throne, 
 Triumphant seemed, when that strange savage 
 
 dame. 
 Known but to few, or only known by name. 
 Plain Common-sense, appeared, by nature there 
 Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard tlic chair. 
 Tlie pageant saw, and blasted with her frown. 
 To its first state of nothing melted down. 
 
 Nor sliall the 'Muse (for even there the )n-ide 
 Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) — 
 Nor shall the Muse (sliould fate ordain her 
 
 rhymes. 
 Fond, pleasing thought ! to live in after times) 
 With such a trifler's name lier pages blot ; 
 Known be the character, the tiling forgot ; 
 Let it, to disap])oint eaeli future aim, 
 Live without sex, and die without a name ! 
 
 The no3ci,j,r 
 
 ^9-- 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE SAILOE'S WIFE. 
 
 471 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 ROBERT LLOYD. 
 
 1733- 1764. 
 
 THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LITE. 
 
 Tub harlot muse, so passing gay, 
 Bewitclies only to betray. 
 Tliotigli for a while with easy air 
 She smoothes the rugged brow of care. 
 And laps the miud iu flowery dreams. 
 With Fancy's transitory gleams ; 
 Fond of the nothings she bestows. 
 We wake at last to real woes. 
 Through every age, in every place. 
 Consider well the poet's case ; 
 By turns protected and caressed, 
 Defamed, dependent, and distressed. 
 Tlic joke of wits, the bane of slaves, 
 The curse of fools, the butt of knaves ; 
 Too proud to stoop for servile ends, 
 To lackey rogues or flatter friends ; 
 With prodigahty to give, 
 Too careless of the means to live ; 
 The bubble fame intent to gain. 
 And yet too lazy to maintain ; 
 He (piits the world he never prized, 
 Pitied by few, by more despised. 
 And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes. 
 Sinks to the nothing whence he rose. 
 
 O glorious trade ! for wit 's a trade. 
 Where men are ruined more than made ! 
 Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay, 
 The shabby Otway, Dryden gray. 
 Those tuneful servants of the Nine 
 (Not that I blend their names with mine). 
 Repeat their lives, their works, their fame. 
 And teach the world some useful shame. 
 
 THE POET DOOMED TO BE USHER OF A SCHOOL. 
 
 Were I at once empowered to show 
 My utmost vengeance on my foe. 
 To punish with extremest rigor, 
 I could inflict no penance bigger. 
 Than, using him as learning's tool. 
 To make him usher of a school. 
 For, not to dwell upon the toil 
 Of working on a ban'en soil, 
 And laboring with incessant pains 
 To cultivate a blockhead's brains, 
 Tiie duties there but ill befit 
 The love of letters, arts, or wit. 
 
 For one, it hurts me to the soul 
 To brook confiucment or control; 
 Still to be pinioned down to teach 
 The syntax and the parts of speech ; 
 Or, what pftrhaps is drudgery worse, 
 
 The links, and points, and rules of verse ; 
 To deal out authors by retail. 
 Like penny pots of Oxford ale ; 
 0, 't is a service irksome more 
 Thau tugging at the slavish oar ! 
 Yet such liis task, a dismal truth. 
 Who watches o'er the bent of youth, 
 And while a paltry stipend earning. 
 He sows the richest seeds of learning. 
 And tiUs their minds with proper care. 
 And sees them their due produce bear; 
 No joys, alas ! his toil beguile, 
 His own lies fallow all the whde. 
 "Yet still he 's on the road," you say, 
 " Of learning." Why, perhaps lie may. 
 But turus like horses in a mill. 
 Nor getting on, nor standing still ; 
 For Uttle way his learning reaches, 
 W^ho reads no more than what he teaches. 
 
 WILLIAM JAMES MICKLE. 
 
 1734 - 1788. 
 
 THE SAILOE'S WIFE.* 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true ? 
 
 And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Ye jades, lay by your wheel ; 
 Is this the time to spin a thread, 
 
 When Colin 's at the door ? 
 Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay. 
 
 And see liim come ashore. 
 For there 's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There 's nae luck at a' ; 
 There 's little pleasure in the house 
 
 Wlien our guderaan 's awa'. 
 
 And gie to me my bigonet. 
 
 My bishop's-satln gown ; 
 For I maun tell the baillie's wife 
 
 That Colin 's in the town. 
 My Turkey slippers maun gae on. 
 
 My stoekins pearly blue ; 
 It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 
 
 For he 's baith leal and true. 
 
 Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 
 
 Put on the muekle pot ; 
 Gie little Kale her button gowu 
 
 And Joclc liis Sunday coat ; 
 
 * There appears to be a doubt as to the authorship of this 
 admirable lyric of home, so mucli admired by Burns. Mr. 
 Jolln Bartlett, quoting it in his Familiar (Quotations, adds 
 this ominous note ; " Tki; Mariner^s Wife is now given ' by 
 common consent,' says Sarah Tytlcr, to Jean Adam, 
 1765." 
 
 n, 1710- 1 
 
<^ 
 
 472 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 -9) 
 
 fr 
 
 And mak their slioon as black as slaes. 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 
 It 's a' to please my ain gudeman, 
 For he 's been long awa'. 
 
 There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop 
 
 Been fed this mouth and mair ; 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 
 
 That Colin weel may fare ; 
 And spread the table neat and clean, 
 
 Gfar ilka thing look braw, 
 For wha can tell how CoHn fared 
 
 When he was far awa' ? 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 
 
 His breath like caller air ; 
 His very foot has music in 't 
 
 As he comes up the stair, — 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 
 And will I hear liim speak ? 
 I 'm dowuriglit dizzy wi' the thought, 
 
 lu trotli, I 'm Uke to greet ! 
 
 If CoKn 's weel, and weel content, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave : 
 And gin I live to keep him sae 
 
 I 'm blest aboon the lave : 
 And will I see his face again. 
 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 
 
 In troth, I 'm like to greet. 
 For there 's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There 's nae luck at a' ; 
 There 's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudemmi 's awa'. 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 1735-1803. 
 
 TEE HEBMIT. 
 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulncss prove, 
 When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill. 
 And naught but the nightingale's song in the 
 
 grove : 
 'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, 
 Wliile his harp ruugsyinphonio\is, a hermit began: 
 No more with himself or witli nature at war. 
 He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 
 
 " Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe. 
 Why, lone riiilonicla, that languisliiiig fall ? 
 For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall : 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay. 
 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to 
 mourn ; 
 
 0, soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass 
 
 away : 
 Full quickly they pass, — but they never return. 
 
 " Now gUding remote on the verge of the sky, 
 The moon hah extinguished her crescent displays : 
 But lately I marked, when majestic on high 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
 The path that conducts thee to splendor again ; 
 But man's faded glory what change shall renew ? 
 Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
 " 'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more; 
 I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn uot for you ; 
 For morn is approaching, your charms to restore. 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering 
 
 with dew : 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. 
 But when shall spruag visit the mouldering urn ! 
 O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! 
 
 " 'T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed. 
 That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to bhnd ; 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward 
 
 to shade, 
 Destruction before me, and soitow behind. 
 '0 pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, 
 ' Thy creature, who fain would not wander from 
 
 thee ; 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only canst 
 
 free ! ' 
 
 " And darkness and doubt arc now flying away, 
 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 
 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
 
 See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triuniph de- 
 scending, 
 
 And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
 
 On the cold check of death smiles and roses are 
 blending, 
 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the Unnb." 
 
 THE MINSTREL) OK, THE PROGKESS OF GENIUS. 
 All ! who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 The stcej) where fame's proud temple shines 
 
 afar! 
 Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime 
 Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
 And waged witli Fortune an eternal war; 
 Checked by the scolV of iiride, by envy's 
 
 frown, 
 And ])overty's unconquerable bar. 
 In life's low vale remote has ))ined alone. 
 Then dropt into the grave, unpiticd and un- 
 known ! 
 
 ■w 
 
f 
 
 THE MINSTKEL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. 473 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Aud yet the languor of iuglorious days 
 Not equally oppressive is to aU : 
 Huu who ne'er listened to the voice of praise 
 The silence of neglect can ne'er appall. 
 There are, who, deaf to mad ambition's call, 
 "Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump 
 
 of fame ; 
 Supremely blest if to their portion fall 
 Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim 
 Had he, whose simple tale these artless Imes pro- 
 claim. 
 
 The rolls of fame I ^rill not now explore ; 
 Nor need I here describe, in learned lay. 
 How forth the Minstrel fared in days of yore, 
 Right glad of heart, though homely in array ; 
 His waving locks and beard all hoary gray ; 
 While from his bending shoulder decent hung 
 His harp, the sole companion of his way. 
 Which to the whistling wind responsive rung : 
 Aud ever as he went some merry lay he sung. 
 
 Fret not thyself, thou gUttermg child of Pride, 
 That a poor villager inspires my strain ; 
 With thee let pageantry and power abide : 
 The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign ; 
 Where through wild groves at eve the lonely 
 
 swaiu 
 Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms ; 
 They hate the sensual and scorn the vam, 
 The parasite their influence never warms. 
 Nor him whose sordid sold the love of gold 
 
 alarms. 
 
 Though richest hues the peacock's plumes 
 
 adorn. 
 Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. 
 Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn. 
 While warbling larks on russet pinions float ; 
 Or seek at noon the woodland scene rtmote. 
 Where the gray linnets carol from the hill : 
 0, let them ne'er, with artificial note. 
 To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, 
 But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander 
 
 where they will ! 
 
 Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand ; 
 Nor was perfection made for man below : 
 Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned. 
 Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. 
 With gold aud gems if Chilian mountains glow. 
 If bleak and barren Scotia's hiUs arise, 
 There plague and poison, lust and rapine, grow; 
 Here peaceful are the vales and pure the skies, 
 And freedom fires the soul and sparkles in the 
 eyes. 
 
 Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent 
 
 Muse 
 Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ; 
 
 'Q— 
 
 Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
 The imperial banquet and the rich attire : 
 Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. 
 Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined ? 
 No ; let thy Heaven-taught soul to Heaven 
 
 aspire. 
 To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned ; 
 Ambition's grovelling crew forever left behind. 
 
 Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul 
 In each line sense so exquisitely keen. 
 On the dull couch of luxury to loll. 
 Stung with disease aud stupefied with spleen ; 
 Fain to implore the aid of flattery's screen. 
 Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide 
 (The mansion then no more of joy serene). 
 Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide. 
 And impotent desire, and disappointed pride ? 
 
 0, how canst thou rcnoimee the boundless store 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore. 
 The pomp of groves, aud garniture of fields ; 
 All that the genial ray of morning gdds. 
 And all that echoes to the song of even. 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 Aud all the dread magnificence of heaven, 
 0, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- 
 given ! 
 
 These charms shall work thy soul's eternal 
 
 health. 
 And love and gentleness and joy impart. 
 But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth 
 E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart : 
 For, ah ! it poisons like a scorpion's dart ; 
 Prompting the ungenerous wish, the selfish 
 
 scheme, 
 The stern resolve unmoved by pity's smart. 
 The troublous day and long distressful dream. 
 Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed 
 
 theme. 
 
 There Uved in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
 A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree, 
 Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might 
 
 dwell, 
 Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; 
 But he, I ween, was of tlie north countrie, 
 A nation famed for song and beauty's charms ; 
 Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, thougli free ; 
 Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
 Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. 
 
 The shepherd-swam of whom I mention made. 
 On Scotia's mountains fed iiis little flock ; 
 The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed; 
 An honest heart was almost all liis stock : 
 His drink the living water from the rock ; 
 The milky dams supplied liis board, aud lent 
 
a- 
 
 474 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I 
 
 Tlioir kiuiUy fleece to baffle winter's shoek ; 
 And lie, though oft -n-ith dust and sweat be- 
 sprent, 
 Did guide and guard their wanderings, whereso- 
 e'er they went. 
 
 From labor health, from health contentment 
 
 springs : 
 Contentment opes the source of every joy. 
 He envied not, he never thought of, kings ; 
 Nor from those appetites sustained amioy. 
 That chance may frustrate or indulgence cloy : 
 Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled ; 
 He mourned no recreant friend nor mistress 
 
 coy. 
 For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled, 
 And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. 
 
 No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast. 
 Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife ; 
 Each season looked delightful, as it past. 
 To the fond husband and the faithi'id wife. 
 Beyond tlie lowly vale of shepherd life 
 They never roamed ; secure beneath the storm 
 ■\Vhich in ambition's lofty land is rife, 
 "Wliere peace and love are cankered by tlie 
 worm 
 Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 
 
 The wight whose tale these artless lines unfold 
 ■W'as all the offspring of this humble pair ; 
 His birth no oraeic or seer foretold. 
 No prodigy appeared in earth or air. 
 Nor aught that might a strange event declare. 
 You guess each eircnmstance of Edwin's birth; 
 The parent's transport and the parent's care ; 
 The gossip's prayer for wealth and wit and 
 worth ; 
 And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. 
 
 And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. 
 Deep thouglit oft seemed to fix his infant eye. 
 Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy. 
 Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy : 
 Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy ; 
 Aiul now his look was most demurely sad; 
 And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew 
 
 why. 
 The neighbors stared and sighed, yet blessed 
 the lad : 
 Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some be- 
 lieved him mad. 
 
 But why should I his childish feats display ? 
 Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled. 
 Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
 Of squabbling imps ; but to the forest sped. 
 Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head. 
 Or, where themazeof some bewildered stream 
 
 To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led. 
 There would he wander wdd, till Phcebus' beam. 
 Shot from the western cliif, released the weary 
 team. 
 
 The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed 
 
 To him nor vanity nor joy could bring. 
 
 His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would 
 
 bleed 
 To work the woe of any Uving thuig 
 By trap or net, by arrow or by shng ; 
 These he detested, those he scorned to wield : 
 He wished to be the guardian, not the king. 
 Tyrant far less, or traitor of tiie field; 
 And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might 
 
 yield. 
 
 Lo ! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, 
 
 roves 
 Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; 
 And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves. 
 From cUfl' to clitt' the foaming torrents shine : 
 Wilde waters, woods, and winds in concert join, 
 And echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
 Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
 For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? 
 All ! no : he better knows great Nature's charms 
 
 to prize. 
 
 'And oft he traced the uplands, to survey. 
 When o'erthe sky advanced the kindling dawn. 
 The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain 
 
 gray, 
 And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
 Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn. 
 Where twilight loves to linger for a while ; 
 And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 
 And villager abroad at early toil. 
 But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, 
 
 ocean, smile. 
 
 And oft the craggy cliff he loved to cUmb, 
 When all in mist the world below was lost. 
 What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sub- 
 lime. 
 Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, 
 And view- the enormous waste of vapor, tost 
 In billows, lengthening to the horizon round. 
 Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now 
 
 embossed ! 
 And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. 
 Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar pro- 
 found ! 
 
 In trutli he was a strange and wayward wight. 
 Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. 
 In darkness and m storm he found delight ; 
 Nor less than when on ocean wave serene 
 The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen 
 
 ■ — ^-Q) 
 
a- 
 
 THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OP GENIUS. 
 
 475 
 
 -& 
 
 ^ 
 
 Even sad vicissitude amused his soul : 
 And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, 
 And down liis olieek a tear of pity roll, 
 A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. 
 
 " ye wild groves, 0, where is nOw your 
 
 bloom ! " 
 (The Muse interprets thus his tender thought;) 
 " Your llowers, your verdure, and your balmy 
 
 gloom, 
 Of late so gratefid in the hour of drought ! 
 Why do the liirds, that song and rapture brought 
 Toallyourbowers,theirmausions now forsake? 
 Ah! why has flekle chance this ruin wrought? 
 For now the storm howls mournful through the 
 
 brake. 
 And the dead foliage fhes in many a shapeless flake. 
 
 " Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and 
 
 cool. 
 And meads, with life and mirth and beauty 
 
 crowned ! 
 Ah ! see, the unsightly slime and sluggish pool 
 Have all the solitary vale imbrowned ; 
 Fled each fair form, and mute each melting 
 
 sound. 
 The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray : 
 And, hark ! the rivei-, bursting every mound, 
 Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful 
 
 sway 
 Uproots the grove, and roUs the shattered rocks 
 
 away. 
 
 " Yet such the destiny of all on earth : 
 So flourishes and fades majestic man. 
 Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth. 
 And fostering gales awlule the nurshng fan. 
 O, smile, ye heavens, sei'ene; ye mildews wan. 
 Ye blighting wliirlwinds, spare Ixis balmy prime. 
 Nor lessen of his life the little span ! 
 Borne on the swift, though silent wings of 
 time. 
 Old age comes on apace to ravage all the cKnie. 
 
 " And be it so. Let those deplore their doom. 
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn; 
 But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb. 
 Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no moi-e return ? 
 Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed ? 
 Soon shall the orient with new lustre bum. 
 And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, 
 Again attune the grove, again adorn tlie mead. 
 
 " Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
 When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
 Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust. 
 Bid liirn, though doomed to perish, hope to hve ? 
 Is it for this fair .Virtue oft must strive 
 
 With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
 No : Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive. 
 And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
 Bright through the eternal year of Love's trium- 
 phant reign." 
 
 This truth sublime his simple sire had taught. 
 In sooth, 't was almost all the shepherd knew. 
 No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought. 
 Nor ever wished his Edwin to pursue. 
 "Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine 
 
 his view. 
 Be man's peculiar work his sole dehght." 
 And much and oft he warned him to eschew 
 Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the 
 
 right, 
 By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might. 
 
 "And from the prayer of want and plaint 
 
 of woe, 
 O, never, never turn away thine ear ! 
 Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below. 
 Ah, what were man, should Heaven refuse to 
 
 hear ! 
 To otliers do (the law is not severe) 
 What to thyself thou wishest to be done. 
 Forgive thy foes ; and love thy parents dear. 
 And friends, and native land ; nor those alone ; 
 All human weal and woe learn thou to make 
 
 tliine own." 
 
 See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
 The visionary boy from shelter fly ; 
 For now the storm of summer rain is o'er. 
 And cool and fresh and fragrant is the sky. 
 And, lo ! in the dark east, expanded high. 
 The rainbow brightens to the setting sun ! 
 Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory 
 
 nigh, 
 How vain the chase thine ardor has begun ! 
 'T is fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be ron. 
 
 Yet couldst thou learn that thus it fares with 
 
 age, 
 When pleasure, wealth, or power the bosom 
 
 warm, 
 This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's 
 
 rage, 
 And Disappointment of her sting disarm. 
 But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm ? 
 Perish the lore that deadens young desire ; 
 Pursue, poor imp, the imaginary charm, 
 Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire : 
 Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves 
 
 expire. 
 
 When the long-sounding curfew from afar 
 Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
 Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star. 
 
 -g> 
 
cfi- 
 
 476 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 i 
 
 Liugeriug and listening, wandered down the 
 
 vale. 
 There would he dream of graves, and corses pale ; 
 
 And ghosts that to the chaniel dungeon throng, 
 And drag a length of clanking chain, and wad. 
 Till silenced hy the owl's terrific song. 
 Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles 
 along. 
 
 Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed. 
 Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, 
 To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied. 
 Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; 
 And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
 A vision brought to his entranced sight. 
 And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep 
 Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright. 
 With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of 
 night. 
 
 Anon in view a portal's blazoned arch 
 Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
 And forth an host of httle warriors march, 
 Graspmg the diamond lance and targe of gold. 
 Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold, 
 And green their helms, and green their sdk 
 
 attire ; 
 And here and there, right venerably old, 
 Tlie long-robed minstrels wake the warbling 
 
 wii-e. 
 And some with mellow breath the martial pipe 
 
 inspire. 
 
 With merriment and song and timbrels clear, 
 A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; 
 The little warriors doff the targe and spear. 
 And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. 
 They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; 
 To right, to left, they tlirid the flying maze ; 
 Now bound aloft with vigorous spiing, then 
 
 glance 
 Rapid along : with many-colored rays 
 Of tapers, gems, and gold the echoing forests blaze. 
 
 Tiic dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day. 
 Who sear'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill. 
 Fell chanticleer ! who oft hast reft away 
 My fancied good, and l)rought substantial ill ! 
 to thy cursed scream, discordant still, 
 Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear ; 
 Tiiy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, 
 Insult thy crest, and glossy piirions tear. 
 And ever iu 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 amusement How! 
 Even now his eyes with smiles of i-apture glow. 
 
 As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, 
 
 Wicrc the fresh flowers in living lustre blow. 
 
 Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, 
 
 A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. 
 
 But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 
 The wdd brook babbling down the mountain 
 
 side; 
 The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple beU ; 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the cliff's above ; 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
 The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
 Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid 
 
 sings; 
 The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, 
 
 hark! 
 Down the rough slope the pondei'ous wagon 
 
 rings ; 
 Through rustling corn the hare astonished 
 
 springs ; 
 
 Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy liovir ; 
 
 The partridge bursts away on whining wings ; 
 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, 
 
 And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 
 
 O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
 Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 
 O for the voice and fire of scrapiiim, 
 To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 
 Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangliug crew. 
 From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty ; 
 And held high converse with the godlike few. 
 Who to the enraiiturcd heart and car and eye 
 Teach beauty, virtue, truth and love, and melody. 
 
 Hence ! ye who snare and stupefy the mind, 
 Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the banc ! 
 Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind. 
 Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, 
 And ever ply your venomed fangs amain ! 
 Hence to dark Error's den, whose i-ankling slime 
 First gave you form ! Hence ! lest the Muse 
 
 should deign 
 (Though loath on theme so mean to waste a 
 
 rhyme) 
 With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. 
 
 But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay. 
 Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth ! 
 Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay. 
 Amused my childhood and informed my youth. 
 O, let your spirit still my bosom soothe, 
 Lispire my dreams, and my wild wanderings 
 guide ! 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. 477 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Your voice each nigged path of Hfe cau smooth, 
 For well I know wherever ye reside. 
 There harmony and peace and innocence abide. 
 
 Ah me ! neglected on the lonesome plain. 
 As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, 
 Save when against the wmter's drenching rain 
 And driving snow the cottage shut the door. 
 Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, 
 Her legend when the beldam 'gau impart, 
 Or ciiaut the old heroic ditty o'er. 
 Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; 
 Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful 
 art. 
 
 Various and strange was the long-winded tale ; 
 And halls and knights and feats of arms dis- 
 played : 
 Or merry swains, who qualf the nut-l)rown ale. 
 And sing enamored of the nut-brown maid ; 
 The moonlight revel of the fairy glade ; 
 Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood. 
 And ply in caves the unutterable trade. 
 Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in 
 blood. 
 Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate 
 flood. 
 
 But when to horror his amazement rose, 
 A gentler strain the beldam would rehearse, 
 A tale of rural life, a talc of woes. 
 The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. 
 O cruel ! will no pang of pity pierce 
 That heart by lust of lucre seared to stone ? 
 For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse. 
 To latest times shall tender souls bemoan 
 Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts un- 
 done. 
 
 Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles 
 torn,* 
 
 The babes now famished lay them down to die ; 
 
 Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, 
 
 Folded in one another's arms they lie ; 
 
 Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry ; 
 
 "For from the town the man returns no more" ; 
 
 But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st 
 defy, 
 
 This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon de- 
 plore, 
 When death lays waste thy house and flames 
 consume thy store. 
 
 A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy 
 Brightened one moment Edwin's starting tear, 
 " But why shoiJd Gold man's feeble mind 
 
 decoy, 
 And Innocence thus die by doom severe ? " 
 O Edwin ! while thy heart is yet sincere. 
 
 See the fine old ballad called The Children in the Wood. 
 
 The assaults of discontent and doub{ repel ; 
 Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere ; 
 But let us hope ; to doubt is to rebel ; 
 Let us exult in hope that aU shall yet be well. 
 
 Nor be thy generous indignation checked, 
 Nor check the tender tear to misery given ; 
 From guilt's contagious power shall that pro- 
 tect. 
 Tills soften and refine the soul for heaven. 
 But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has 
 
 driven 
 To censure late, and pious hope forego : 
 Like yonder blasted boughs by Ughtniug riven. 
 Perfection, beauty, hfe, they never know. 
 But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe. 
 
 Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age 
 Scarce fiU the circle of one summer day. 
 Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage. 
 Exclaim that nature hastens to decay. 
 If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray, 
 If but a momentary shower descend ! 
 Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gain- 
 say. 
 Which bade the series of events extend 
 Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages 
 without end ! 
 
 One part, one little part, we dimly scan 
 Through the dark medium of hfe's feverish 
 
 dream ; 
 Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, 
 If but that little part incongruous seem. 
 Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem ; 
 Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. 
 O, then renounce that impious self-esteem. 
 That aims to trace the secrets of the skies ! 
 For thou art but of dust ; be humble, and be wise. 
 
 Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years, 
 For Nature gave him strength and fire, to soar 
 On fancy's wing above this vale of tears ; 
 Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, 
 
 pore 
 Through microscope of metaphysic lore : 
 And much they grope for Truth, but never hit. 
 For why ? Their powers inadequate before. 
 This idle art. makes more and more unfit ; 
 Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain 
 
 blunders wit. 
 
 Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth. 
 Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device 
 Oft cheered the shepherds round their social 
 
 hearth, 
 Wlioni levity or spleen could ne'er entice 
 To purchase chat or laughter at the price 
 Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed. 
 
 ■©> 
 
C&- 
 
 478 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. 
 Ah ! had they been of court or city breed, 
 Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. 
 
 Oft, when the winter storm had ceased to rave, 
 He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view 
 Tlie cloud stupendous, from the Atlantic wave 
 High-towering, sail along the horizon blue : 
 'Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new. 
 Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, 
 More wildly great than ever pencil drew, 
 Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, 
 And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts 
 rise. 
 
 Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, 
 The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. 
 Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
 Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array 
 When sulphurous clouds rolled on the autumnal 
 
 (lay. 
 Even then he hastened from the liaiuit of man. 
 Along the trembling wilderness to stray, 
 Wliat time the lightning's fierce career began. 
 And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thun- 
 der ran. 
 
 Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all 
 In sprightly dance the village youth were 
 
 joined, 
 Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, 
 Erom the rude gambol far remote rechned, 
 Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the 
 
 wind. 
 Ah then, all joUity seemed noise and folly, 
 To the pure soul by fancy's fire refined ! 
 Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy. 
 When with the charm compared of heavenly 
 
 melancholy ! 
 
 Is there a heart that music cannot melt ? 
 
 Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ; 
 
 Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt 
 
 Of solitude and melancholy born ? 
 
 He needs not woo the Muse ; he is her scorn. 
 
 The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine. 
 
 Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish jiage, or 
 
 mourn. 
 And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; 
 Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glut- 
 ton swine. 
 
 For Edwin, Eate a nobler doom had planned ; 
 Song was his favorite and first pursuit. 
 The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand. 
 And languished to his breath the plaintive flute. 
 His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute : 
 Of elegance as yet he took no care ; 
 For this of time and culture is tlie fruit; 
 
 And Edvrin gained at last this fruit so rare : 
 As in some future verse I purpose to declare. 
 
 Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new, 
 Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky. 
 By chance or search was offered to his view. 
 He scanned with curious and romantic eye. 
 Whate'er of lore tradition could supply 
 From Gothic tale, or song, or falile old, 
 Roused him, stiU keen to listen and to pry. 
 At last, though long by penury controlled, 
 And soUtude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold. 
 
 Thus on the dull Lapponian's dreai-j' land. 
 For many a long month lost in snow profound. 
 When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland. 
 And in their northern cave the storms are 
 
 bound ; 
 From silent mountains, straight, with startUng 
 
 sound, 
 Ton-ents are hurled; green hills emerge; audio, 
 The trees with foliage, eUffs with flowers, are 
 
 crowned ; 
 Pure rills through vales of verdure warbHng go ; 
 And wonder, love, and joy the peasant's heart 
 
 o'crflow. 
 
 Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while. 
 The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. 
 But on this verse if Montagu should smile, 
 New strains erelong shall animate thy frame. 
 And her appla\ise to me is more than fame; 
 For stiU with truth accords her taste refined. 
 At lucre or renown let others aim, 
 I only wish to please the gentle mind, 
 Whom Nature's charms mspire, aud love of hu- 
 man kind. 
 
 * « * 
 
 Vigor from toil, from trouble patience grows, 
 The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower. 
 Some tints of transient beauty may disclose. 
 But soon it withers in the chilling hour. 
 Mark yonder oaks ! Superior to the power 
 Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise. 
 And from the stormy promont(nT tower. 
 And toss their giant arms amid the skies. 
 While each assailing blast increase of strength 
 supplies. 
 
 And now the downy cheek and deepened voice 
 Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime ; 
 And walks of wider circuit were his choice. 
 And vales more wild, and mountains more 
 
 sublime. 
 One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme, 
 It was his chance to wander far abroad. 
 And o'er a lonely eminence to climb, 
 'Which heretofore his foot had never trode ; 
 A vale appeared below, a deep retired abode. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. 479 
 
 ^ 
 
 t 
 
 Thither he hied, enamored of the scene. 
 For reeks on rocks piled, as by magic spell, 
 Here scorched with lightning, there with ivy 
 
 green, 
 Fenced from the north and east this savage dell. 
 Southward a mountain rose with easy swell. 
 Whose long long groves eternal murmur made : 
 And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, 
 Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, sur- 
 veyed 
 Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold 
 arrayed. 
 
 * * * 
 
 " For though I fly to 'scape from fortune's rage. 
 And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn. 
 Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, 
 Yet with no impious spleen my breast is toni: 
 For virtue lost, and ruined man, I mourn. 
 O man ! creation's piide. Heaven's darUng 
 
 child, 
 Whom Nature's best, divuiest gifts adorn, 
 Wliy from thy home are truth and joy exiled, 
 And all thy favorite haunts with blood and tears 
 
 delilcd ? 
 
 " Along yon gUttering sky what glory streams ! 
 What majesty attends Night's lovely qiieen ! 
 Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams ; 
 And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, 
 And all conspire to beautify the scene. 
 But, in the mental world, what chaos drear ! 
 What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious 
 
 mien ! 
 0, when shall that eternal morn appear. 
 These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to 
 
 clear ! 
 
 " Thou, at whose creative smile yon heaven, 
 In aU the pomp of beauty, life, and Ught, 
 Rose from the abyss ; when dark Confusion, 
 
 driven 
 Down, downi the bottomless profound of night. 
 Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight ! 
 O, glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, 
 To blast the fury of oppressive might, 
 Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway. 
 And cheer the wandering soul, and Ught him on 
 
 the way ! " 
 
 * * * 
 
 And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze 
 
 The Muse of History unrolls her page. 
 
 But few, alas ! the scenes her art displays 
 
 To charm his fancy or his heart engage. 
 
 Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood 
 assuage. 
 
 And straight their flames with tenfold fierce- 
 ness burn : 
 
 Here smihng Virtue prompts the patriot's rage. 
 
 But lo, erelong is left alone to mourn, 
 And languish in the dust, and clasp the aban- 
 doned urn ! 
 
 " Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread, 
 Where ruin's gulf unfathomed yawns beneath? 
 Shall hfe, shall liljcrty, be lost," he said, 
 " For, the vain toys that pomp and power be- 
 queath ? 
 The car of victory, the plume, the wreath. 
 Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave : 
 No note the clarion of renown can breathe. 
 To alarm the long night of the lonely grave. 
 Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelm- 
 ing wave. 
 
 "Ah, what avails it to have traced the springs 
 That wlurl of empire the stupendous wheel ! 
 Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings, 
 Hands drenched in blood, and breasts begu-t 
 
 with steel ! 
 To those whom Nature taught to think and 
 
 feel. 
 Heroes, alas ! are things of small concern. 
 Could History man's secret heart reveal. 
 And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn, 
 Her transcripts to explore what bosom would 
 
 not yeam ! 
 
 ♦ * * 
 
 " Sweet were your shades, O ye primeval 
 groves ! 
 
 Whose boughs to man Ms food and slielter lent, 
 
 Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves. 
 
 His eyes still smiling, and his heart content. 
 
 Then, hand in hand, health, sport, and labor 
 went. 
 
 Nature supplied the wish she taught to crave. 
 
 None prowled for prey, none watched to cir- 
 cumvent. 
 
 To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave : 
 No vassal feared his lord, uo tyrant feared his 
 slave. 
 
 " But ah ! the historic Muse has never dared 
 To pierce those hallowed bowers ; 't is Fancy's 
 
 beam 
 Poured on the vision of the enraptured liard. 
 That pamts the charms of that delicious theme. 
 Then hail sweet Fancy's ray ! and hail the 
 
 dream 
 That weans the weary soul from guilt and woe ! 
 Careless what others of my choice may deem, 
 I long, where Love and Fancy lead, to go 
 And meditate on heaven; enough of earth I 
 
 know." 
 
 " I cannot blame thy choice," the sage rephed, 
 "For soft and smooth are fancy's flowery ways. 
 And yet, even there, if left without a guide. 
 
 -S> 
 
cfi- 
 
 480 
 
 BICKERSTAPF. 
 
 LANGHORNE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 The young adventurer unsafely plays. 
 
 Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays 
 
 In modest truth no light nor beauty find. 
 
 And who, my child, would trust the meteor- 
 blaze. 
 
 That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer 
 blind. 
 More dark aud helpless far, than if it ne'er had 
 shined? 
 
 " Fancy enervates, while it soothes, the heart. 
 
 And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight : 
 
 To joy each heightening charm it can impart, 
 
 But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night. 
 
 And often, where no real ills affright. 
 
 Its visionary fiends, an endless train. 
 
 Assail with equal or superior might, 
 
 And through the throbbing heart and dizzy 
 
 brain 
 
 And shivering nerves shoot stings of more than 
 
 mortal pain. , 
 
 * * * 
 
 " Many a long-lingering year, in lonely isle. 
 
 Stunned with the eternal turbidenee of waves, 
 
 Lo, with dim eyes, that never learned to smile, 
 
 Aud trembling hands, the famished native 
 
 craves 
 Of Heaven his wretched fare : shivering in 
 
 eaves. 
 Or scorched on rocks, he pines from day to 
 
 day; 
 But Science gives the word ; and lo, he braves 
 The surge aud tempest, lighted by her ray, 
 And to a happier land wafts merrily away ! 
 
 " And even where Nature loads the teeming 
 
 plain 
 With the full pomp of vegetable store, 
 Her bounty unimproved, is deadly bane. 
 Dark woods and raukliug wilds, from shore to 
 
 shore. 
 Stretch their enormous gloom ; wliich to explore 
 Even Fancy trembles, in her sprightUest mood ; 
 For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore, 
 Nestles each murderous and each monstrous 
 
 brood. 
 Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from 
 
 every flood. 
 
 " 'T was from Philosophy man learned to tame 
 The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed. 
 Lo, from the echoing axe and thundering flame 
 Poison and plague aud yelling Eage are fled ! 
 The waters, bursting from their sUmy bed. 
 Bring health and melody to every vale : 
 And, from the breezy main, and mountain's 
 
 head, 
 Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale, 
 To fan their glowiug charms, invite the fluttering 
 
 gale." The Minstrel, Books T., 11. 
 
 ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 
 
 1735 (!)- 1787. 
 
 THERE WAS A JOLLY IfflXLEE/ 
 
 There was a jolly miller once Uved on the river 
 
 Dee, 
 He danced and sang from mom till night, no lark 
 
 so bhthe as he. 
 And this the burden of his song forever used to be, 
 "I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for 
 
 me. 
 
 " I Uve by my miU, God bless her ! she 's kindred, 
 
 child, and wife, 
 I would not change my station for any other in 
 
 life: 
 No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat 
 
 from me, 
 I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for 
 
 me." 
 
 When spring begins his merry career, 0, how 
 his heart grows gay. 
 
 No summer's drought alarms liis fears, nor win- 
 ter's cold decay ; 
 
 No foresight mars the miller's joy, who 's wont 
 to sing and say, 
 
 " Let others toil from year to year, I live from 
 day to day." 
 
 Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice 
 
 and sing. 
 The days of youth are made for glee, and time is 
 
 on the wing ; 
 This song shall pass from me to thee, along the 
 
 jovial ring. 
 Let heart and voice and all agree to say, " Long 
 
 live the king." 
 
 JOHN LANGHORNE.t 
 
 1735-1779. 
 
 COUNTRY JUSTICES AND THE EUKAL POOR. 
 
 Let age no longer toil with feeble strife, 
 Worn by long service iu the war of life ; 
 
 * The last two stnnzas of this popular song appear to be by 
 clifTcmit bands, niul to have been successively added at differ- 
 ent times. The oritiinai idea is-evidently concluded with the 
 second stanza. 
 
 t There may be a question as to whether Pr. Langbome 
 was a g(wd ]>oct or a specially virtuous man. There can be no 
 question as to the instinctive pbibinthropy of his heart. The 
 shameful injustice done to the rural poor of England in his 
 time be resented in rhymes which have made bis name dear 
 to all wlio have a fellow-feeling with tbcir race. Nor are bis 
 rhymes by any means contemptible, as compared with those of 
 his I)rother poets. 
 
 -s> 
 
ca- 
 
 THE SAILOR'S FAEEWELL. 
 
 481 
 
 -a 
 
 fr 
 
 Nor leave the head, that time hath whitened,-bare 
 To the rude insults of the searching air; 
 Nor bid the iiuce, by labor hardened, bend, 
 tlioii, the poor man's hope, the poor man's friend ! 
 
 If, when from lieaven severer seasons fall. 
 Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering wall, 
 Eacli face the picture of a winter day, 
 Jlore strong than Teniers' pencil could portray ; 
 If then to thee resort the shivering train, 
 Of cruel days, and cruel man complain, 
 Say to thy heart (remembering him who said), 
 " These people come from far, and have no bread." 
 
 Nor leave thy venal clerk empowered to hear ; 
 The voice of want is sacred to tliy ear. 
 He wiiere no fees his sordid pen invite. 
 Sports witli their tears, too indolent to fl'rite ; 
 Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain 
 To hear more helpless animals complain. 
 
 But chief thy notice shall one monster claim ; 
 A monster furnished with a human frame, — 
 The parish-officer ! — though verse disdain 
 Terms that deform the splendor of the strain, 
 It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe 
 On the sly, pilfering, cruel overseer ; 
 The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust, 
 Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust ! 
 
 When the poor hind, with length of years de- 
 cayed, 
 Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade. 
 Forgot the service of his abler days, 
 Ilis ]n'olitable toil, and honest praise, 
 Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty bread. 
 This slave, whose board Ids former labors spread ? 
 
 "When harvest's burning suns and sickening air 
 From Labor's unbraced hand the gi'asped hook 
 
 tear. 
 Where shall the helpless family be fed. 
 That vainly languish for a father's bread ? 
 See the pale mother, sunk with grief aud care. 
 To the proud farmer fearfully repair ; 
 Soon to be sent with insolence away, 
 Referred to vestries and a distant day ! 
 Refen-ed — to perish ! Is my verse severe ? 
 Unfriendly to the human character ? 
 Ah ! to this sigh of sad experience trust : 
 The truth is rigid, but the tale is just. 
 
 If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear. 
 Think not that patience were a virtue here. 
 His low-born pride with honest rage control ; 
 Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul. 
 
 But, hapless ! oft through fear of future woe. 
 And certain vengeance of the insulting foe ; 
 Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, 
 The last extremes of penury they bear. 
 
 Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot oiEce higher ? 
 To something moi'C than magistrate aspire ! 
 And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind. 
 Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind ! 
 
 The game I start courageously pursue ! 
 Adieu to fear ! to insolence adieu ! 
 And first we '11 range this mountain's stormy side. 
 Where the rude wiuds the shepherd's roof deride, 
 As meet no more the wintry blast to bear. 
 And all the wild liostilities of air. 
 That roof have I remembered many a year ; 
 It once gave refuge to a hunted deer, — 
 Here, in those days, we found an aged pair ; 
 But time untenants — ha ! what seest thou there ? 
 " Horror ! — by Heaven, extended on a bed 
 Of naked feni, two human creatures dead ! 
 Embracing as alive ! — ah, no ! — no life ! 
 Cold, breathless ! " 
 
 'T is the shepherd and his wife. 
 I knew the scene, and brought tliee to behold 
 What speaks more strongly than the story told — 
 They died through want — 
 
 " By every power I swear. 
 If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air, 
 Tlirough whose default of duty, or design, 
 These victims fell, he dies." 
 
 They fell by thiue. 
 
 "Infernal!" Mine! by " 
 
 Swear on no pretence : 
 A swearing justice wants both grace and sense. 
 
 AN ADYICE TO THE MARRIED. 
 
 Should erring nature casual faidts disclose. 
 Wound not the breast that harbors your repose ; 
 For every grief that breast from you shall prove. 
 Is one link broken iu the chain of love. 
 Soon, with their objects, other woes are past, 
 But pains from those we love are pains that last. 
 Though faults or follies from reproach may fly. 
 Yet in its shade the tender passions die. 
 
 Love, like the flower that courts the sun's kind ray, 
 Wdl flourish only in the smiles of day ; 
 Distrust's cold air the generous plant annoys, 
 And one chill blight of dire contempt destroys. 
 O, shun, my friend, avoid that dangerous coast, 
 Where Peace expires and fair Affection 's lost ; 
 By wit, by grief, by anger urged, forbear 
 The speech contemptuous and the scornful air. 
 
 oi*<o 
 
 EDWARD THOMPSON. 
 
 1738-1786. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S FAEEWELL, 
 
 The topsails shiver in tiie wind. 
 The ship she casts to sea ; 
 
 But yet my soul, my heart, my mind. 
 Are, Mary, moored by thee : 
 
 -^ 
 
cfl- 
 
 482 
 
 WOLCOTT. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 For tliough tliy sailor 's bound afar, 
 Still love shall be liis leading star. 
 
 Sliould landmen flatter when we 're sailed, 
 
 O, doubt their artful talcs ; 
 No gallant sailor ever failed, 
 
 If Cupid filled his sails : 
 Thou art the compass of my soul, 
 W'liieh steers my heart from pole to pole. 
 
 Sirens in every port we meet, 
 More fell tlian rocks and waves ; 
 
 But sailors of the British fleet 
 Are lovers, and not slaves : 
 
 No foes our courage shall subdue. 
 
 Although we 've left our hearts with you. 
 
 These are our cares ; but if you 're kind. 
 We '11 scorn the dashing main. 
 
 The rocks, the billows, and the wind. 
 The powers of France and Spain. 
 
 Now Britain's glory rests with you, 
 
 Our sails are full, — sweet girls, adieu I 
 
 JOHN WOLCOTT (PETER PINDxiR).* 
 
 1738-1819. 
 
 TEE APPLE-DUMPLINGS AND A KING. 
 
 Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, 
 Whipping, and spurring, 
 Happy in worrying 
 A poor defenceless harmless buck 
 
 * This clever and impudent buffoon, under his assumed 
 name of" Peter Pindar," alternately amused and enraged the 
 readers of the age of George the Third. He had a high opin- 
 ion of Ills own abilities ; and, from his complaints, we should 
 suppose that, like Milton, lie had fallen on evil days. He was 
 hut a small poet, yet his rhymes, dealing boldly with person- 
 ages eminent for their rank, gave him a prominence which wag 
 altogellii-r disproportioiied to liis poetical merits. It is to he 
 said, however, that he understood the character of George the 
 Third and Queen Charlotte better than any other public man 
 of his time. His representations of the king were so true to 
 the life, that even " Farmer George " himself felt their force. 
 Perhaps his drolleries on the whole did much to aid the king's 
 popularity. Some intellectual radicals may .have felt outraged 
 at the idea of being governed by a man who had so much in 
 liini of the rustic and the boor, and whose talk was a mere 
 chatter, in which " What ! what! what! "was constantly in- 
 terpolated in the swift current of inanities which constituted 
 his " conversation." On the other side, a large proportion of 
 his sulijcets delighted in the fact that their king was like other 
 folks ; that he was as prejudiced and obstinate as the humblest 
 of those he governed ; and that his hnniely. unkingly manners 
 showed him to be a good, honest Uriton. eating his dinner of 
 mutton like other people, hating all French fricassees and 
 " kickshaws," and as shrewd at a bargain as any shopkeeper 
 in his wide domain. Sydney Smith warned every statesman of 
 large views to have his " foolometer " constantly by his side to 
 check him when he was inclined to indulge in wide designs 
 cither of policy or benelieence. George the Third was a 
 " foolometer " crowned. He was so closely in sympathy with 
 the average character of his people that he was naturally one 
 if the most popular of English sovereigns. 
 
 (The horse and rider wet as muck). 
 From his high consequence and wisdom stooping. 
 Entered through curiosity a cot 
 Where sat a poor old woman and her pot. 
 
 The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny. 
 In ihis same cot, illumed by mtiuy a cranny, 
 
 Had finished apple dumplings for her ])ot : 
 In tempting row the naked dumplings lay. 
 When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, 
 
 Like hghtuing spoke, " What 's this ? what 's this ? 
 what, wliat ? " 
 
 Then taking up a dumpling in his hand. 
 His eyes with admiration did expand ; 
 
 And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : he 
 cried, 
 " 'T is monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed ! 
 What makes it, pray, so hard ? " The dame re- 
 phed. 
 Low eourtesying, " Please your majesty, the 
 apple." 
 
 " Very astonisliing indeed ! strange tiling ! " 
 
 (Turning the dumpUng round) rejoined the king. 
 " 'T is most extraordinary, then, all this is, — 
 It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces ; 
 
 Strange I should never of a dumpling dream ! 
 
 But, goody, tcU me where, where, where 's the 
 seam ? " 
 
 " Sir, there 's no seam," quoth she ; " I never 
 
 knew 
 That folks did apple dumplings sewy 
 " No ! " cried the staring monarch with a grin ; 
 " How, how the devil got the apple iu ? " 
 
 On which the dame the curious scheme revealed 
 By which the apple lay so sly coueeidcd. 
 
 Which made the Solomon of Britain start; 
 Who to the p;ilaee with full s])ecd repaired, 
 Aiul ([ueen and princesses so beauteous scared 
 
 All with the wonders of the duiuiiliug art. 
 There did he hibor one whole week to show 
 
 The wisdom of an apple-dumpliug maker ; 
 And, lo ! so deep was majesty in dough. 
 
 The palace seemed the lodging of a baker ! 
 
 WHTTBREAD'S BREWERY VISITED BY THEIR 
 MAJESTIES. 
 
 Full of the art of brewing beer. 
 
 The mimareh heard of Whitbread's fame ; 
 
 Quoth he unto the queen, " My dear, my dear, 
 WhitbiTail hath got a marvellous great name. 
 
 Cli.-irly, wi^ must, must,, must see Whitbread brew •, 
 
 Rich as us, Charly, richer than a .Few. 
 
 Shame, shame we liavc not yet his brewhouse 
 
 Thus sweetly said the king unto tlie (pieeu ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 WHITBREAD'S BEEWERY. 
 
 483 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage. 
 To Mister Whitbread forth he sent a page, 
 
 To say that majesty proposed to view, 
 ^Vith thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed, 
 Ilis vats and tubs and hops and hogsheads 
 famed, 
 
 And learn the noble secret how to brew. 
 
 Of such undreamt-of honor proud. 
 Most reverently the brewer bowed ; 
 So humbly (so the humble story goes), 
 He touched e'en terra firma with his nose ; 
 
 Tlien said unto the page, bight Billy Ramus, 
 " Happyare we thatour great kingsbould nameus 
 As worthy unto majesty to show 
 How we poor Chiswell people brew." 
 
 Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought : 
 To majesty tlie welcome tidings brought. 
 
 How Whitbread staring stood like any stake. 
 And trembled ; then the civil tliLiigs he said ; 
 On which the king did smile and nod his head ; 
 
 For monarchs like to see their subjects quake ; 
 
 Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are. 
 Proclaiming reverence and humility : 
 
 High thoughts, too, all these shaking iits declare, 
 Of kingly grandeur and great capability ! 
 
 People of worship, wealth, and birth. 
 Look on the humbler sons of earth. 
 
 Indeed in a most humble light, God knows ! 
 High stations are hke Dover's towering cliffs, 
 W'herc ships below appear like little skifl's. 
 
 The people walking on the strand like crows. 
 
 Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made; 
 Poor gentleman ! most terribly ai'raid 
 
 He should not charm enough his guests divine, 
 He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and 
 
 smocks ; 
 And lo ! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks. 
 
 To make the apprentices and draymen fine : 
 Busy as horses in a field of clover. 
 Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled 
 
 over. 
 Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation. 
 To treat the lofty ruler of the nation. 
 
 Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand. 
 
 To visit the first brewer in the land ; 
 
 Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his 
 
 meat 
 In a snug corner christened Chiswell Street ; 
 But oftencr, charmed with fashionable air. 
 Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square. 
 
 Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also, 
 His Grace the Duke of Montague hke wise, 
 
 With Lady Harcourt joined the raree show. 
 And fixed all Smithficld's wondering eyes : 
 For lo ! a greater show ne'er graced those quar- 
 ters, 
 Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs. 
 
 Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling 
 
 noise, 
 Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys. 
 
 Devoured the questions that tlie king did ask; 
 In different parties were they staring seen. 
 Wondering to think they saw a king and queen ! 
 Behind a tub were some, and some behind a 
 cask. 
 
 Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty lun- 
 cheon) 
 Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon : 
 And through the bunghole winked with curious 
 eye. 
 To view and be assured what sort of things 
 Were prineesses and queens and kings. 
 For whose most lofty station thousands sigh ! 
 And lo ! of all the gaping puncheon clan. 
 Few were the mouths that had not got a man ; 
 
 Now majesty into a pump so deep 
 Did with an opera-glass so curious peep : 
 Examining witii care each wondrous matter 
 That brought up water ! 
 
 Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, 
 A chattering bird we often meet, 
 A bird for curiosity well known, 
 
 With head awry. 
 
 And cunning eye. 
 Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone. 
 
 And now his curious majesty did stoop 
 
 To couut the nails on every hoop ; 
 
 And lo ! no single thing eame in his way. 
 
 That, full of deep research, he did not say, 
 
 "What's this? hae hae ? What's that? What's 
 
 this? What's that?" 
 So quick the words too, when he deigned to 
 
 speak. 
 As if each syllable would bi'cak its neck. 
 
 Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl. 
 Our sovereign peeps into the world of small : 
 Thus microscopic geniuses ex])lore 
 
 Things that too oft the public scorn ; 
 Yet swell of useful knowledges the store. 
 
 By finding systems in a peppercorn. 
 
 Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare. 
 
 To make the majesty of England stare. 
 That he had butts enough, he knew. 
 Placed side by side, to reach to Kew ; 
 
 -9^ 
 
cO- 
 
 484 
 
 WOLCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Oil which the king with wonder swiftly cried, 
 " Wliut, if tliey reach to Kew, then, side by side, 
 
 Whut would they do, what, what, placed cud 
 to end? " 
 To whom, with knitted, calculatiug In-ow, 
 The man of beer most solemnly did vow. 
 
 Almost to Windsor that they would extend : 
 On which the king, with wondering mien. 
 Repeated it unto the wondering queen ; 
 On wiiicli, quick turning round his haltered head, 
 The brewer's horse, with face astonished, neighed ; 
 The brewer's dog, too, poured a note of thunder. 
 Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder. 
 
 Now did the king for other beers inquire. 
 For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire ; 
 And after talking of these different beers. 
 Asked 'VVliitbread if his porter equalled theirs. 
 
 This was a puzzling, disagreeing question, 
 Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion ; 
 A kind of question to the Man of Cask 
 That even Solomon himself would ask. 
 
 Now majesty, aUvc to knowledge, took 
 A very pretty memorandum book. 
 With gilded leaves of asses'-skin so white. 
 And in it legibly began to write: — 
 
 Memorandum, 
 A charming place beueath the grates 
 For roasting chestnuts or potates. 
 
 Mem. 
 'T is hops that give a bitterness to beer, 
 Hops grow in Kent, says Wliitbrcad, and else- 
 where. 
 
 Qucere. 
 Is there no cheaper stuff ? where doth it dwell ? 
 Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well ? 
 
 Mem. 
 To try it soon on our small beer, — 
 'T will save us several pounds a year. 
 
 Mem. 
 To remember to forget to ask 
 
 Old Whitbread to my house one day. 
 
 Mem. 
 Not to forget to take of beer the cask. 
 The brewer offered me, away. 
 
 Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd, 
 Sliarp as the point indeed of a new jiin, 
 
 His majesty his watch most sagely viewed. 
 And then put up his asses'-skin. 
 
 To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say, 
 " Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay? " 
 " Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes 
 The brewer answered, — " also, sire, of oats ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 Another thing my horses, too, maintains, 
 
 And that, an 't please your majesty, are grains." 
 
 "Grains, grains!" said majesty, "to fill their 
 
 crops ? 
 Grains, grains ! — that comes from hops, — yes, 
 
 hops, hops, hops ? " 
 Here was the kiug, like hounds sometimes, at 
 
 fault. 
 " Sire," cried the humble brewer, " give nie leave 
 Your sacred majesty to undeceive ; 
 Grains, sire, are never made from hojis, but malt." 
 
 " True," said the cautious monarch with a smile, 
 " From malt, malt, malt, — I meant malt all the 
 
 while." 
 " Y'es," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the 
 
 brewer, 
 " An 't please your majesty, you did, I 'm sure." 
 " Yes," answered majesty, with quick repiv, 
 " I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I." 
 
 Now did the king admire the bell so fine 
 
 That daily asks the draymen all to dine ; 
 
 On which the bell ruug out (how very proper !) 
 
 To show it was a bell, and had a clapper. 
 
 And now before their sovereign's curious eye — 
 
 Parents aud children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs. 
 All snulfling, squinting, grunting in their style — 
 
 Appeared the brewer's tribe of liaiidsome ])igs; 
 On wiiich the observant man who tills a throne 
 Declared the pigs were vastly like his own ; 
 On which the lircwer, swaUowod up in joys, 
 Fear and astonishment in both his eyes. 
 His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal. 
 
 Exclaimed, " heavens ! aud can my swine 
 
 Be deemed by majesty so fine ? 
 Heavens ! can my pigs compare, sire, \iitli pigs 
 
 royal ? " 
 To which the king assented with a nod ; 
 On which the brewer bowed, and said, " Good 
 
 God ! " 
 Then winked significant on Miss, 
 Significant of wonder and of bliss. 
 
 Who, bridling in lier ehiu divine. 
 Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid, 
 And then lier lowest courtesy made 
 
 For such high honor done her father's swine. 
 
 Now did his majesty, so gracious, say 
 To Mister Whitbread in his Hying way, 
 
 " \^'hithr(•a(l, d' ye nick tlie excisemen now and 
 tlien ? 
 Hae? wiiat? Miss Whitbread 's still a maid, a 
 maid ? 
 What, what's the matter with the men? 
 
 " D' ye iiunt ? — hae, hunt ? No, no, yon are too 
 old; 
 You '11 l)c lord-mayor, — lord-mayor one day ; 
 
 # 
 
a- 
 
 MAY-DAY. — THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 485 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Yes, yes, I 've heard so ; yes, yes, so I 'm told ; 
 
 Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay ; 
 I '11 prick you every year, man, I declare ; 
 Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord-mayor. 
 
 " Whitbread, d' ye keep a coach, or job one, pray? 
 Job, job. that 's cheapest ; yes, that 's best, 
 that 's best. 
 You put your liveries on the draymen, — hae ? 
 Hae, Whitbread ! you have feathered well your 
 nest. 
 What, what 's the price now, hae, of all your 
 
 stock ? 
 But, Whitbread, what 's o'clock, pray, what 's 
 
 o'clock ? " 
 Now Whitbread inward said, " May I be curst 
 If I know what to answer first." 
 
 Then searched his brains with ruminating eye; 
 But e'er the man of malt an answer found. 
 Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round. 
 Skipped off, and balked the honor of reply. 
 
 ■ MAT-DAT. 
 
 The daisies peep from every field. 
 And violets sweet their odor yield ; 
 The purple blossom paints the tlioru. 
 And streams reilect the blush of morn. 
 Then lads and lasses all, be gay, 
 For this is nature's holiday. 
 
 Let lusty Labor drop his flail. 
 Nor woodman's hook a tree assail ; 
 The ox shall cease his neck to bow. 
 And Clodden yield to rest the plough. 
 Then lads, etc. 
 
 Behold the lark in ether float, 
 While rapture swells the liquid note ! 
 What warbles he, with merry cheer '? 
 " Let love and pleasure rule the year ! ' 
 Then lads, etc. 
 
 Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye. 
 And thi-ows a smile around his sky ; 
 Embracing lull and vale and stream, 
 And warming nature with his beam. 
 Then lads, etc. 
 
 TO BOSWELL. 
 
 O BoswELL, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name, 
 Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame ; 
 Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth 
 To eat Maepherson midst his native north ; 
 To frighten grave professors witli his roar. 
 And shake the Hebrides from sliore to shore. 
 All hail ! 
 
 Triumphant thou through time's vast gulf shalt 
 
 sail, 
 The pilot of our literary whale ; 
 Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling, 
 Close as a supple courtier to a king ; 
 Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power; 
 Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower. 
 Nay, though thy Johnsou ne'er had blessed thy 
 
 eyes, 
 PaoU's deeds had raised thee to the skies : 
 Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad 
 
 hack), 
 A tom-tit twittering on an eagle's back. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Come, gentle sleep ! attend thy votary's prayer, 
 And, tliough death's image, to my couch repair; 
 How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie, 
 And, without dying, how sweet to die ! 
 
 • JANE ELLIOT. 
 
 About 17G0. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOEEST. 
 
 I 'vE heard the lilting at our yowe-milking. 
 Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day ; 
 
 But now they are moaning on ilka green loan- 
 ing,— 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wedc away. 
 
 At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are 
 
 scorning. 
 
 The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; 
 
 Nae dafiin', nae gabbiu', but sighing and sab- 
 
 bing. 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. 
 
 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are 
 jeering, 
 The bandsters arc lyart, and runkled, and gray; 
 At fair, or at preacliing, nae wooing, nae fleech- 
 
 Tlie Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At e'en, at the gloaining, nae swankies are roam- 
 ing, 
 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; 
 But ilk ane sits drearie, lameuting iier dearie, — 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the 
 Border ! 
 The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
 
 -P 
 
C&- 
 
 48G 
 
 COCKBUEN. — ELLIOT. — TOPLADY. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that foueht aye the 
 foremost. 
 The prime o' our land, are cauld iu the clay. 
 
 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; 
 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 ALICIA COCKBURN.* 
 
 -1794. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOEEST.* 
 
 I 'vE seen the smiling 
 
 Of Fortune beguiliug ; 
 I 've felt all its favors, and found its decay : 
 
 Sweet was its blessing. 
 
 Kind its caressing ; 
 But now 't is fled — fled far away. 
 
 I 've seen the forest 
 
 Adorned the foremost 
 With flowers of the fairest most pleasant ^nd gay; 
 
 Sae bonnie was their blooming ! 
 
 Their scent the air perfuming ! 
 But now tliey are withered and weeded away. 
 
 I 've seen the morning 
 
 With gold the hills adorning. 
 And loud tempest storming before the midday. 
 
 I 've seen Tweed's silver streams. 
 
 Shining in the sunny beams. 
 Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. 
 
 fickle Fortune, 
 
 Why this cruel sporting ? 
 0, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 
 
 Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, 
 
 Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
 For the Flowers of the Forest arc a' wedc 
 
 away. 
 
 o»io 
 
 fr 
 
 SIR GILBERT ELLIOT. 
 
 AMYNTA. 
 
 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of 
 love. 
 0, what had my youth with ambition to do ? 
 
 * This poem 19 a variation of Jane Elliot's. 
 
 Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? 
 
 0, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook re- 
 store. 
 
 And I 'U wander from love and Amynta no 
 more. 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I rove. 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! 
 fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
 A love so well founded, a passion so true ! 
 
 Alas ! 't is too late at thy fate to repine ; 
 Poor shepherd, Amynta ean never be thine : 
 Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain. 
 The moments neglected return not again. 
 
 A. TOPLADY. 
 
 1740-1778. 
 
 LOVE DIVINE, ALL LOVE EXCELLDfO. 
 
 Love divine, all love excelhng, 
 
 Joy of heaven to earth come down ; 
 Fix in us thy humble dwelhng. 
 
 All thy faithful mercies erown ; 
 Jesus, thou art all compassion ! 
 
 Pure unbounded love thou art ; 
 Visit us with thy salvation. 
 
 Enter every trembUug heart. 
 
 Breathe, 0, breathe thy loving spirit 
 
 Into every troubled breast ; 
 Let us all in thee inherit. 
 
 Let us find the ])romised rest ; 
 Take away the love of sinning, 
 
 Alpha and Omega be ; 
 End of faith, as its beginning. 
 
 Set our hearts at hbcrty. 
 
 Come, almighty to deUver, 
 
 Let us all thy life receive ; 
 Suddenly return, and never. 
 
 Never more thy temples leave : 
 Thee we would be always blessing, 
 
 Serve thee as thy hosts above ; 
 Pray and praise thee without ceasing, 
 
 Glory in thy precious love. 
 
 Finish then thy new creation, 
 
 Pure, unspotted may we be ; 
 Let us see thy great salvation 
 
 Perfectly restored by tiice : 
 Changed from glory into glory. 
 
 Till in heaven we take our place! 
 Till we east our crowns before tlice, 
 
 Lost in wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE TIIEEE WAENINGS. 
 
 487 
 
 ~Q) 
 
 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZL* 
 
 1740-1833. 
 
 THE THEEE WAENINGS. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 Least willing still to quit tlie ground ; 
 'T was therefore said by aucieut sages, 
 
 That love of life increased with years 
 So much, that in our latter stages, 
 Wlien pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 This great affection, to believe, 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail, 
 Be pleased to hear a modem tale. 
 
 "WTien sports went round, and all were gay. 
 On neighbor Dodsou's wedding-day, 
 
 * Hester Lynch Salusbury was first married to Mr. Thrale, 
 an eminent hrewer. As Mrs. Tlirale her name is inilissoluhly 
 connected with tliat of Dr. Johnson. She afterwards married 
 an accomplished Italian musician, Signor Piozzi, who appears 
 to have been an exemplary man in every respect, with no re- 
 corded vices and with many recorded virtues. This marriage 
 made her the object of the meanest find foulest imputations. 
 She was bi-utally assailed by the Loudon press on the ground 
 that in marrying a professor of one of the finest of the fine arts, 
 after she liad enjoyed the liigh distinction of l)eing the wife of 
 an opulent brewer of beer, she bad descended from her rank. 
 The social prejudices of the time may have given some faiut 
 excuse for the sarcasms of her contemporaries. Even as late 
 as 1B09, Lord Byron characterizes Catalaui and Naldi as 
 "amusing vagabonds." But Lord Macaulay had no such ex- 
 cuse. In the generation to which lie belonged an artist was as 
 socially respectable as a brewer, if he behaved himself like a 
 gentleman. Yet Lord Macaulay, in his Life of JoIidsou, sympa- 
 tliizes with the most snobbish prejudices of the year 1780. He 
 says that when Thrale died it would have been well if his wife 
 had been laid beside him. " She soon," he says, " fell in love 
 with a music-master from Brescia, in whom nobody but her- 
 self could see anything to admire. Her pride, and perhaps 
 some better feelings, struggled hard against this degrading 
 passion." The passion could be intrinsically degrading only 
 by the critic's adoption of the simple Vicar of Wakefield's no- 
 tions of monogamy. Then Macaulay proceeds, in referring to 
 Johnson's last years: "While sinking under a complication 
 of diseases, he heard that the woman whose friendship had 
 been the chief Iiappincss of sixteen years of his life had mar- 
 ried an Italian fiddler; that all London was crying shame upon 
 her ; and that the newspapers and magazines were filled with 
 allusions to the Ephcsian matron aud tlie two pictures in 
 Hamlet. He vehemently said that he would try to forget her 
 existence. He never uttered her name. E\ cry memorial of 
 her which met his eye he (lung into the fire. She, meanwhile, 
 fled from the laughter and hisses of her countrymen and 
 countrywomen to a land where she was uuknowu, hastened 
 across Mont Cenis, and learned, while passing a merry 
 Christmas of concerts and lemonade parties at Milan, that the 
 great man with whose name hers is inseparably associated 
 had ceased to exist." Macaulay has been frequently accused of 
 injustice ; but in the whole body of his writings there is 
 nothing more cruelly unjust than this judgment of the con- 
 duct of Mrs. Piozzi. It is false in every particular item of the 
 evidence on which it pretends to be founded. Piozzi, in fact, 
 was a much better man and a much more considerate hus- 
 band than Thrale ; and the phrase. " Italian fiddler," is 
 specially mean, ronveying as it does the impression that the 
 music-master was hardly more respectable than any one of 
 the organ-grinders who infest our streets. 
 
 <U- 
 
 Death caUed aside the jocund groom 
 With him iuto another room, 
 Ajid looking grave, " You must," says he, 
 " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." 
 " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? 
 With you ! " the hapless husband cried ; 
 " Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard ! 
 Besides, in truth, I 'm not prepared : 
 My thoughts on other matters go ; 
 This is my wedding-day, you know." 
 
 Wliat more he urged I have not heard, 
 
 His reasons could uot weU be stronger ; 
 So Death the poor delinquent spared. 
 
 And left to hve a little longer. 
 Yet calling up a serious look. 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke. 
 " Neighbor," he said, "farewell ! no more 
 Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
 And farther, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon my name. 
 To give you time for preparation. 
 And fit you for your future station, 
 Tliree several warnings you shall have. 
 Before you 're summoned to the grave ; 
 WUKug for once I '11 qiut my prey. 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve ; 
 In hopes you '11 have no more to say ; 
 But, when I call again this way. 
 
 Well pleased the world will leave." 
 To these conditions both consented. 
 And parted perfectly conteuted. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell. 
 How long he Uved, how wise, how well. 
 How roundly he pursued his course. 
 And smoked his pipe, aud stroked his horse. 
 
 The wiUiug muse shall tell : 
 He chaffered, then he bought and sold. 
 Nor once perceived his growing old. 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near : 
 His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
 Many his gains, his children few. 
 He passed his hours in peace. 
 But while he viewed his wealth increase. 
 While thus along life's dusty road 
 The beaten track content he trod. 
 Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares. 
 Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year, 
 Aud now, one night, in musing mood. 
 
 As all alone he sate. 
 The unwelcome messenger of Tate 
 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 HaK killed with anger smd surprise, 
 " So soon returned ! " old Dodson cries. 
 " So soon d' ye call it ? " Death replies ; 
 " Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest ! 
 
 -* 
 
cfi- 
 
 488 
 
 PENROSE. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Since I was here before 
 T is six-aud-tliirty years at least. 
 And you are now I'ourscore." 
 
 " So much the worse," the clown rejomed ; 
 " To spare the aged would be kind : 
 However, see your search be legal, — 
 And your authority, — is 't regal ? 
 Else you are come on a fool's errand. 
 With but a secretary's warrant. 
 Beside, you promised me three warnings, 
 Wliicli I have looked for nights and mornings ; 
 But for tliat loss of time and ease 
 I can recover damages." 
 
 " I know," cries Death, " that at the best 
 I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
 But don't be captious, friend, at least ; 
 I little thought you 'd still be able 
 To stump aljout your farm and stable : 
 Your years have run to a great length ; 
 I wish you joy, though, of your strength ! " 
 
 "Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast ! 
 I have been lame these four years past." 
 
 " And no great wonder," Death replies ; 
 " However, you still keep your eyes ; 
 And sure to see one's loves and friends. 
 For legs and arms would make amends." 
 
 "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might. 
 But latterly I 've lost my sight." 
 
 "This is a shocking tale, 't is true ; 
 But still there 's comfort left for you : 
 Each strives your sadness to amuse : 
 I warrant you hear all the news." 
 
 " There 's none," cries he ; " and if there were, 
 I 'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
 
 " Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 
 " Tiiese are unjustifiable yearnings ; 
 
 If you are lame and deaf and blind, 
 
 You've iiad your three sufficient warnings; 
 So come along, no more we '11 part." 
 He said, and touched him with his dart. 
 And now old Dodson, turning pale, 
 Yields to his fate, — so ends my tale. 
 
 •O^WiOo 
 
 THOMAS PENROSE. 
 
 1743-1779. 
 
 THE FIELD OF BATTLE 
 
 Faintly brayed the battle's roar 
 Distant down the hollow wind ; 
 
 Panting Terror tied before. 
 
 Wounds and death were left behind. 
 
 Tlie war-(iend cursed tlie sunken day, 
 Tliat. elieekcd his fierce pursuit too soon ; 
 
 Wliile, scarcely lighting to the prey, 
 
 Low hiuig, and lowered the bloody moon. 
 
 The field, so late the liero's ])ride. 
 
 Was now with various carnage spread ; 
 
 And floated with a crimson tide 
 
 That drenched the dying and the dead. 
 
 O'er the sad scene of dreariest view, 
 
 Abandoued all to horrors wild, 
 Witli frantic step Maria flew, 
 
 Tviaria, Sorrow's early child ; 
 
 By duty led, for every vein 
 
 Was warmed by Hymen's purest flame ; 
 With Edgar o'er the wintry main 
 
 She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came. 
 
 For well she thought a friend so dear 
 In darkest hours might joy impart; 
 
 Her warrior, faint witli toil, might cheer. 
 Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart. 
 
 Though looked for long, in chill affright 
 (The torrent bursting from her eye) 
 
 She heard the signal for the fight, 
 While her soul trembled iu a sigh, — 
 
 She heard, and clasped him to her breast, 
 Y et scarce could urge the inglorious stay ; 
 
 His manly heart the charm confessed, 
 
 Tlien broke the charm, — and rushed away. 
 
 Too soon in few but deadly words. 
 Some flying straggler breathed to tell. 
 
 That in the foremost strife of swords 
 The young, the gallant Edgar fell. 
 
 She pressed to hear, she caught the tale, — 
 At every sound her blood congealed ; — 
 
 With terror bold, with terror pale, 
 She sprung to search the fatal field. 
 
 O'er the sad scene in dire amaze 
 
 She went — with courage not her own ; 
 
 On many a corpse she cast her gaze. 
 And turned her ear to many a groan. 
 
 Drear anguish urged her to jircss 
 
 Full many a hand, as wild she mourned; — 
 Of comfort glad the drear caress 
 
 The damp, cliill, dying liand returned. 
 
 Her ghastly ho]ie was wellnigh fled, 
 
 Wien late ])ale Edgar's form she found. 
 
 Half l)uried witii the hostile dead. 
 
 And gored with many a grisly wound. 
 
 She k new— she sunk — the night-bird sci-eamed, 
 The moon withdrew her troubled light, 
 
 And left (he fair — tlioui;h fallen she seemed — 
 To win-sc than deatii — and deepest night 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 WASHING-DAY. 
 
 489 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 
 
 1743-1825. 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS. 
 
 Flowers to the fair : to you these flowers I bring. 
 And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. 
 Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you ; 
 Emblems of innocence, and beauty too. 
 With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, 
 And ilowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. 
 Flowers, the solo luxury wliich nature knew, 
 In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew. 
 To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned ; 
 The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind, 
 Tlie tougher yew repels invading foes, 
 And the tall piue for future navies grows : 
 But tills soft family to cares unknown. 
 Were born for pleasure and delight alone. 
 Gay withoiit toil, and lovely without art, 
 Tliey spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart. 
 Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these; 
 Your best, your sweetest empire is — to please. 
 
 HYMN TO CONTENT. 
 
 THOU, the nymph with placid eye ! 
 seldom found, yet ever nigh! 
 
 R:.'ceive my temperate vow: 
 Not all the storms that shake the pole 
 Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, 
 
 And smooth the unaltered brow. 
 
 come, in simple vest arrayed, 
 Witii all tliy sober cheer displayed. 
 
 To bless my longing sight; 
 Tliy mien composed, thy even pace. 
 Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 
 
 Aud chaste subdued deUght. 
 
 No more by varying passions beat, 
 0, gently guide my pilgrim feet 
 
 To find thy hermit cell; 
 Wliere in some pure aud equal sky, 
 Beneath thy soft indulgent eye. 
 
 The modest virtues dwell. 
 
 Simplicity ia Attic vest, 
 
 Aud Innocence with candid breast. 
 
 And clear undaunted eye ; 
 And Hope, who points to distant years. 
 Fair opening through this vale of tears 
 
 A vista to the sky. 
 
 There Health, through whose calm bosom glide 
 The temperate joys in eventide. 
 
 That rarely ebb or flow; 
 And Patience there, thy sister meek. 
 
 Presents her mild unvarying cheek 
 To meet the ottered blow. 
 
 Her influence taught the Phrygian sage 
 A tyrant master's wanton rage 
 
 With settled smiles to wait: 
 Inured to toil aud bitter bread. 
 He bowed his meek submissive head, 
 
 Aud kissed thy sainted feet. 
 
 But thou, nymph retired aud coy ! 
 In what brown handet dost thou joy 
 
 To tell thy tender tale ? 
 The lowUest children of the ground, 
 Moss-rose and violet, blossom round, 
 
 And lily of the vale. 
 
 O, say what soft propitious hour 
 I best may choose to hail thy power, 
 
 And court thy gentle sway 'i 
 When autumn, friendly to the Muse, 
 Shall thy own modest tints dift'use, 
 
 And shed thy milder day. 
 
 When Eve, her dewy star beneath, 
 Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 
 
 And every storm is laid ; 
 If such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
 Oft let me hear thy soothing voice 
 
 Low whispering through the shade. 
 
 WASHING-DAT, 
 
 The Muses are turned gossips ; they have lost 
 The buskined step, and clear high-sounding 
 
 phrase. 
 Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, 
 In shp-shod measure loosely prattling on. 
 Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds aud cream, 
 Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire 
 By little whimpering boy, with rueful face, — 
 Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing-day. 
 
 Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend. 
 With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 
 Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 
 Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs. 
 Nor comfort ; ere the first gray streak of dawn. 
 The red-armed washers come and chase repose. 
 
 Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth. 
 
 E'er visited that day ; the very cat, 
 
 From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth, 
 
 Visits the parlor, an unwonted guest. 
 
 The silent breakfast meal is soon despatched, 
 
 Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 
 
 Cast at the lowering sky, if sky sliould lower. 
 
 From that last evil, O, preserve us, heavens ! 
 For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 
 Remains of quiet ; then expect to hear 
 
 i 
 
C&- 
 
 490 
 
 BAEBAULD. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Of sad disasters, — dirt and gravel stains 
 Hard to eti'ace, and loaded lines at once 
 Snapped siiort, and linen-liorse by dog thrown 
 
 down, 
 And all the petty miseries of life. 
 
 Saints have been calm while stretched upon the 
 
 rack. 
 And Montezuma smiled on burning coals ; 
 But never yet did housewife notable 
 Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. 
 But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 
 Who call'st thyself, perchance, the master there. 
 Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat. 
 Or usual 'tendance; ask not, indiscreet. 
 Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents 
 Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 
 Some snug recess impervious. Shouldst thou try 
 The 'customed garden-walks, thine eye shall rue 
 The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs. 
 Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight 
 Of coarse-checked apron, with impatient hand 
 Twitched ofi' when showers impend ; or crossing 
 
 lines 
 Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet 
 I'laps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend 
 Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 
 On such a day the hospitable rites ; 
 Looks blank at best and stinted courtesy 
 Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his liopes 
 With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie. 
 Or tart or pudding ; pudding he nor tart 
 That day shall cat ; nor, though the husband try — 
 Mending what can't be helped — to kindle mirth 
 i'rom cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 
 Clear up propitious ; the unlucky guest 
 In silence dines, and early slinks away. 
 
 I well remember, when a child, the awe 
 This day struck into me ; for then the maids, 
 1 scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me 
 
 from them ; 
 Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 
 Usual indulgences ; jelly or creams, 
 llelic of costly suppers, and set by 
 For me their petted one ; or buttered toast, 
 When butter was forbid ; or thrilling tale 
 Of ghost or witch or murder. So 1 went 
 And sheltered me beside the parlor fire ; 
 There my dear grandmother, eldest of all forms. 
 Tended the little ones, and watched from harm ; 
 Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 
 With clliu cunning hid, and oft the pins 
 Drawn from her ravelled stocking might have 
 
 soured 
 One less indulgent. 
 
 At intervals my mother's voice was heard 
 Urging despatch ; briskly the work went on, 
 
 All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring. 
 Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. 
 
 Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 
 
 Why washings were ; sometimes througii hollow 
 hole 
 
 Of i)ipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 
 
 The Uoatuig bubbles ; little dreaming then 
 
 To see, MuntgoKior, thy silken ball 
 
 Ride buoyant through the clouds, so near ap- 
 proach 
 
 The sports of children and the toils of men. 
 
 Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles, 
 And verse is one of them, — this most of all. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE VIETUOUS. 
 
 Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies ! 
 
 When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
 How mildly beam the closing eyes. 
 
 How gently heaves the expiring breast I 
 
 So fades a summer cloud away, 
 
 So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 
 
 So gently shuts the eye of day. 
 So dies a wave along the shore. 
 
 Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 
 
 Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; — 
 
 M'here is, Grave ! thy victory now ? 
 And where, insidious Death ! thy sting ? 
 
 Farewell, conflicting joys and fears. 
 Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 
 
 How bright the unchanging morn appears ;- 
 Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 
 
 Bs duty done, — as sinks the day. 
 Light from its load the spirit flies; 
 
 While heaven and earth combine to say, 
 " Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies ! " 
 
 "COME UNTO ME," 
 
 Come, said Jesus' sacred voice, — 
 Come anil make my paths your choice ! 
 I will guide yon to your home, — 
 Weary pilgrim, hither come ! 
 
 Thou who, houseless, sole, forlorn, 
 Long hast borne the proud world's scorn, 
 Long hast roamed the barren waste, 
 Weary pilgrim, hither h.astc I 
 
 Yc who, tossed on beds of jiain, 
 Seek for case, but seek in vain, — 
 Ye wliose swollen anil sh'e]ilrss eyes 
 A\'atch to see the morning rise. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 491 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 Ye by fiercer anguisli torn, . 
 
 Ill strong remorse for guilt who mourn, 
 
 Here repose your heavy care, — 
 
 A wounded spirit who can bear ! 
 
 Sinner, come ! for here is found 
 Balm that flows for every wound, — 
 Peace, that ever shall endure, — 
 Rest, eternal, sacred, sure. 
 
 SLEEP, SLEEP TO-DAY, TOEMENTDfG CARES. 
 
 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
 
 Of earth and folly born ; 
 Ye shall not dim the light that streams 
 
 rrom this celestial morn. 
 
 To-morrow will be time enough 
 
 To feel your harsh control; 
 Ye shall not violate, this day. 
 
 The Sabbath of my soul. 
 
 Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts ; 
 
 Let fires of vengeance die ; 
 And, purged from sin, may I behold 
 
 A God of purity ! 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 God of my life ! and author of my days ! 
 Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 
 And trembluig take upon a mortal tongue 
 That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. 
 Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
 Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. 
 Worms, angels, men in evei'y tliffercnt sphere 
 Are equal all, — for all are nothing here. 
 All nature faints benealh the mighty name, 
 Which nature's works through all their parts pro- 
 claim. 
 I feel that name my inmost thoughts control. 
 And breathe an awful stillness through luy soul 
 As by a charm the waves of grief subside ; 
 Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide : 
 At thy felt presence all emotions cease. 
 And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, 
 TiU every worldly thought within me dies. 
 And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes; 
 Till all my sense is lost in infinite. 
 And one vast object fills my acliing sight. 
 
 But soon, alas ! tliis holy calm is broke ; 
 My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
 With shackled pinions strives to so.ir in vain. 
 And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
 But he, our gracious Master, kind as just. 
 Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
 His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
 
 Sees the first wish to better hopes incUncd ; 
 Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking (lax into a flame. 
 His cars are open to the softest cry. 
 His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; 
 He reads the language of a sdent tear. 
 And sighs ai'e incense from a heart sincere. 
 Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
 Accept the vow, and bid the suppUant live : 
 From each terrestrial bondage set me free ; 
 Still every wish that centres not in thee ; 
 Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease. 
 And point my path to everlasting peace. 
 
 If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads 
 By living waters and through flowery meads. 
 When all is smiling, trauqud, and serene. 
 And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
 O, teach me to elude each latent snare. 
 And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware ! 
 With caution let me hear the siren's voice, 
 And doubtful, with a •trembling heart, rejoice. 
 If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, 
 Wliere briers wound, and thorns perplex my 
 
 way, 
 Still let my steady soul thy goodness see. 
 And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; 
 With equal eye my various lot receive. 
 Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
 Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
 "RTiile God is seen in all, and all in God. 
 
 I read his awful name, emblazoned high 
 With golden letters on the Ulumined sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 Wrought in each flower, inscribed oii every 
 
 tree ; 
 In every leaf that trembles to the breeze 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees ; 
 With thee in shady solitudes I walk. 
 With thee in busy, crowded cities talk. 
 In every creature own thy forming power. 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 Thy hopes shall animate my droo])ing soul. 
 Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control : 
 Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms. 
 Secure within the temple of thiue arms ; 
 Prom anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free. 
 And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
 
 Then when the last, the closing hour draws 
 
 nigh, 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 I stand and stretch my view to either state : 
 Teaeli me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high. 
 And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 492 
 
 DIBDIN. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 LIFE, 
 "Animula, vagula, blandula." 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art, 
 But know that thou and I must part ; 
 And when, or how, or where we met 
 I own to nic 's a secret yet. 
 But this I know, wlien thou art fled. 
 Where'er they hiy these hmbs, this head, 
 No ckid so valueless sliall be, 
 As all that then remains of me. 
 O, wliither, whither dost thou fly, 
 Where bend unseen thy traekless course, 
 
 And in this strange divorce. 
 Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I ? 
 
 To the vast ocean of empyreal flame. 
 From whence thy essence came. 
 Dost thou thy flight pursue, when fi-eed 
 Prom matter's base eueumbering weed? 
 Or dost thou, hid from sight, 
 Wait, like some spell-bound knight, 
 Through blank, oblivious years the appointed 
 
 liour 
 To break tliy trance and reassunic tiiy power ? 
 Yet canst tliou, without tliuught or feeling be ? 
 O, say what art tliou, when no more thou 'rtthee ? 
 
 Life ! we've been long together 
 Through pleasant aud through cloudy weather; 
 'T is hard to part when friends are dear, — 
 Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
 Then steal away, give httle warning, 
 Choose thine own time ; 
 Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 
 Bid mc Good Morning. 
 
 CHARLES DIBDIN. 
 
 1745-1814. 
 
 TOM BOWLING. 
 
 IIerk. a sheer liulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 
 
 The darling of our crew; 
 No more he '11 hear the tempest liowling. 
 
 For death lias brought him to. 
 Ilis form was of tiie manliest beauty; 
 
 His lieart was kind and soft; 
 Faithful, below, he did his duty, 
 
 But now he 's gone aloft. 
 
 Tom never from his word departed, 
 
 Ilis virtues were so rare ; 
 His friends were many and true-hearted; 
 
 His Poll was kind and fair : 
 And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly; 
 
 Ah, many 's the time and oft ! 
 
 But mirth is turned to melancholy. 
 For Tom is gone aloft. 
 
 Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 
 
 When he, who all commands, 
 Shall give, to call life's crew together, 
 
 The word to pipe all hands. 
 Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 
 
 Li vain Tom's life has doffed ; 
 For though his body 's under hatches, 
 
 His soul is gone aloft. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION, 
 
 Ond night came on a hurricane, 
 
 The sea was mountains rolling. 
 When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 
 
 Aud said to Billy Bowling : 
 " A strong uor-wester's blowing, Bill ; 
 
 Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? 
 Lord help 'em, how I pities all 
 
 Uniiappy folks on shore now! 
 
 " Foolhardy chaps who live in town, 
 
 What danger they are all in, 
 And now are quaking in their beds. 
 
 For fear the roof should fall in : 
 Poor creatures, how they envies us, 
 
 Aud wishes, I 've a notion. 
 For our good luck, in such a storm, 
 
 To be upon the ocean. 
 
 " But as for them who 're out all day, 
 
 On business from their houses, 
 And late at night are coming home, 
 
 To cheer the babes and spouses ; 
 While you and I, Bill, on the deck. 
 
 Arc comfortably lying, 
 My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots 
 
 About their heads arc flying ! 
 
 " Aud very often have we heard 
 
 How men are killed and undone, 
 By overturns of carriages. 
 
 By thieves, and fires in London. 
 We know what risks all landsmen run, 
 
 From noblemen to tailors; 
 Then, Bill, let us Ihank Providence 
 
 That von and I arc sailors ! " 
 
 HEAVTOG OF THE LEAD. 
 
 Fob England when with favoring gale 
 Our gallant ship up channel steered. 
 
 And, scudding under easy sail. 
 
 The high blue western land appeared ; 
 
 To heave the lead the seaman sprung. 
 
 And to the pilot cheerly sung, 
 
 " By the deep — nine ! " 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 TRUE COURAGE. — LOVELY NAN. 
 
 493 
 
 -fi) 
 
 4 
 
 And bearing up to gain the port, 
 
 Some well-knowB object kept iu view ; 
 
 An abbey-tower, a harbor-fort, 
 Or beacon to the vessel true ; 
 
 "While oft the lead the seaman flung. 
 
 And to the pilot ohoerly sung, 
 
 '■ By the mark — seven ! " 
 
 And as the much-loved shore we near. 
 With transport we behold the roof 
 
 Where dwelt a friend or partner dear, 
 Of faith and love a matchless proof. 
 
 The lead once more the seaman flung, 
 
 .And to the watchful pilot sung, 
 
 " Quarter less — five ! " 
 
 Now to her berth the ship draws nigh ; 
 
 We shorten sail — she feels the tide — 
 " Stand clear the cable," is the cry, — 
 
 The anchor 's gone ; we safely ride. 
 The watch is set, and through the night 
 We hear the seamen with delight 
 
 Proclaim, — " AH 's well ! " 
 
 TKUE COURAGE 
 
 Wh y, what 's that to you if my eyes I 'm a-\viping ? 
 
 A tear is a pleasure, d' ye see, in its way ; 
 'T is nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping ; 
 
 But they that ha'n't pity, why 1 pities they. 
 
 Says the Captain, says he (I shall never forget it), 
 " If of courage you 'd know, lads, the true 
 from the sham, 
 
 'T is a furious lion in battle, so let it. 
 
 But, duty appeased, 't is iu mercy a lamb." 
 
 There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one 
 not caring, 
 
 Helter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive ; 
 Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing. 
 
 And as for a foe, why he 'd cat him ali\e. 
 
 But when that he found an old prisoner he 'd 
 wounded, 
 That once saved Ms life as near drowning he 
 swam, 
 The lion was tamed, and, with pity confounded. 
 He cried over him just all as one as a lamb. 
 
 That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue 
 
 from danger, 
 
 Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess. 
 
 Is nothing at all, — 't is the poor wounded 
 
 stranger. 
 
 And the poorer the more I shall succor distress : 
 
 For however their duty bold tars may delight in, 
 And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam, 
 
 Though the Hon may feel surly pleasure in fighting. 
 He '11 feel more by compassion when turned to 
 a lamb. 
 
 The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same 
 motiou. 
 And if both shed their drops 't is all to the 
 same end ; 
 And thus 't is that every tight lad of the ocean 
 Sheds liis blood for his country, his tears for 
 his friend. 
 
 If my maxim 's disease, 't is disease I shall die 
 on, — 
 
 You may snigger and titter, I don't care a flam ! 
 In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion, 
 
 But, the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb. 
 
 LOVELY NAN, 
 
 Sweet is the ship that under sail 
 Spreads lier white bosom to the gale ; 
 
 Sweet, 0, sweet 's the flowiug can : 
 Sweet to poise the laboring oar. 
 That tugs us to our native shore, 
 
 When the boatswain pipes the barge to mau : 
 Sweet sailing with a favoring breeze ; 
 But, O, much sweeter than all these 
 
 Is Jack's delight, — his lovely Nan. 
 
 The needle, faithful to the north, 
 To show of constancy the worth, 
 
 A curious lesson teaches mau ; 
 The needle time may rust, — a squall 
 Capsize the binnacle and all. 
 
 Let seamanship do all it can ; 
 My love in worth shall higher rise : 
 Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize 
 
 My faith and truth to lovely Nan. 
 
 When in the bilboes I was penned, 
 For serving of a worthless friend, 
 
 And every creature from me ran ; 
 No ship, performing quarantiue. 
 Was ever so deserted seen ; 
 
 None hailed me, — woman, child, nor man : 
 But though false friendship's sails were furled, 
 Tho\igh cut adrift by all the world, 
 
 I 'd all the world in lovely Nan. 
 
 I love my duty, love my friend. 
 Love truth and merit to defend. 
 
 To mourn their loss who hazard ran ; 
 I love to take an honest part, 
 Love beauty and a spotless heart. 
 
 But manners love to show the man ; 
 To sail through life by honor's breeze : — 
 'T was all along of loving tliese 
 
 First made me dofe on lovely Nan. 
 
 -4 
 
a- 
 
 494 
 
 HOLCROFT. 
 
 -n> 
 
 POOE JACK. 
 
 Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 
 
 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 
 A tiglit-water boat and good sea-room give me. 
 
 And it a'n't to a little I '11 strike. 
 Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack 
 smooth should smite. 
 
 And shiver each splinter of wood. 
 Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse every- 
 thing tight. 
 
 And under reefed foresail we '11 scud ; • 
 Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 
 
 To be taken for trifles aback ; 
 For they say there 's a Providence sits up aloft. 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 
 
 I heard our good chaplain palaver one day 
 
 About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; 
 Aiul, my timbers ! what lingo he 'd coil and belay; 
 
 Why, 't was just all as one as High Dutch ; 
 For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye 
 see, 
 
 Without orders that come down below ; 
 And a many line things that proved clearly to 
 me 
 
 Tliat Providence takes us in tow : 
 "For," says he, "do you mind mc, let storms 
 e'er so oft 
 
 Take the topsails of sailors aback. 
 There 's a sweet httle cherub that sits up aloft, 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! " 
 
 I said to our Poll, — for, d' yc see, she would cry, — 
 
 When last we weighed anchor for sea, 
 " Wiiat argufies snivelUug and piping your eye ? 
 
 Why, what a blamed fool you must be ! 
 Can't you see, the world 's wide, and there 's 
 room for us all. 
 
 Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
 And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, 
 
 You never will hear of me more. 
 Wiiat then ? All 's a hazard ; come, don't be so 
 soft : 
 
 Perhaps [ may laughing come back ; 
 For, d' ye see, tiiere 's a cherub sifs smiling aloft. 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! " 
 
 D' ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 
 
 All as one as a piece of the ship. 
 And with her brave the world not offering to 
 flinch 
 From the moment the anchor 's a-trip. 
 As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and 
 ends, 
 Naught 's a trouble from duty that springs. 
 For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino 's my 
 friend's. 
 And as for my will, 't is the king's. 
 
 Even when my time^omes, ne'er believe me so soft 
 
 As for grief to be taken aback ; 
 For the same httle cherub that sits up aloft 
 
 Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! 
 
 THOMAS HOLCROFT. 
 
 1745-1809. 
 
 GAITER GEAY, 
 
 llo ! why dost thou shiver and shake, 
 
 Gatier Gray ; 
 And why does thy nose look so blue ? 
 
 " 'T is the weather that 's cold, 
 
 'T is I 'm grown very old. 
 And my doublet is not very new, 
 
 Wcll-a-day ! " 
 
 Then line thy worn doublet with ale, 
 
 Gatfer Gray ; 
 And warm thy old heai-t with a glass. 
 
 " Nay, but credit I 've none. 
 
 And my money 's all gone ; 
 Then say how mav that come to pass ? 
 
 Well-a-day ! '' 
 
 Hie away to the house on the brow, 
 
 Gatfer Gray ; 
 And knock at tlie jolly priest's door. 
 
 " The priest often preaches 
 
 Against worldly riches. 
 But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 
 
 Well-'a-day ! " 
 
 The lawyer lives under the hill. 
 Gaffer Gray ; 
 
 Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 
 
 " He will fasten his locks. 
 
 And will threaten tlie stocks 
 Should he ever more find me in want, 
 
 AVcU-a-day ! " 
 
 The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 
 
 Gafler Gray ; 
 And the season will welcome you there. 
 
 " His fat beeves and his beer. 
 
 And ills merry new year. 
 Are all for tlie flush and the fair, 
 
 Well-a-day ! " 
 
 My keg is but low, I confess, 
 
 Galfer Gray ; 
 TVniat then ? While it lasts, man, we '11 live. 
 
 " Tiic poor man alone, 
 
 When he hears the poor moan. 
 Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
 
 ^VcU-a-day ! " 
 
 «s-*- 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 A PEESIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. 
 
 495 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 WILLIAM HAYLEY. 
 
 1745-1830. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMB OF COWPER. 
 
 Ye who with warmth the pubhc triumph feel 
 
 Of talents dignified by sacred zeal, 
 
 Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just. 
 
 Pay your foud tribute due to Cowper's dust ! 
 
 England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
 
 Ranks with her dearest sons his favorite name. 
 
 Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise 
 
 So clear a title to affection's praise : 
 
 His liighcst honors to the heart belong ; 
 
 His virtues formed the magic of his song. 
 
 ON THE TOIIB OF MRS. UNWIN. 
 
 Trusting in God with all her heart and mind. 
 
 This woman proved magnanimously kind ; 
 
 Endured affliction's desolating hail. 
 
 And watched a poet througli misfortune's vale. 
 
 Her spotless dust angelic guards defend ! 
 
 It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend. 
 
 That single title in itself is fame. 
 
 For all who read his verse revere her name 
 
 SIR WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 1746-1794. 
 
 ■ AN ODE, Df IMITATION OF ALCilUS. 
 
 Wii.\T constitutes a state? 
 Not higli-raiscd battlement or labored mound. 
 
 Thick wall or moated gate ; 
 Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ; 
 
 Not bays and broad-armed ports. 
 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 
 
 Not starred and spangled courts. 
 Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to 
 pride. 
 
 No : men, high-minded men. 
 With powers as far above dull brutes endued 
 
 In forest, brake, or den, 
 As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 
 
 Men who their duties know. 
 But know their i-ights, and, knowing, dare main- 
 tain. 
 
 Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
 And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 
 
 These constitute a state, 
 .A.nd sovereign Law, that state's collected will. 
 
 O'er thrones and globes elate, 
 Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill; 
 
 Smit by her sacred frown. 
 The fiend Discretion like a vapor sinks, 
 
 And e'en the all-dazzling Crown 
 Hides his faint rays, and at lier bidding shrinks. 
 
 Such was this heaven-loved isle. 
 Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shoi-e ! 
 
 No more shall Freedom smile? 
 Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 
 
 Since all must life resign. 
 Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 
 
 'Tis folly to decHnc, 
 And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 
 
 A PERSUU SONG OF HAFIZ. 
 
 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, 
 And bid these arms thy neck enfold ; 
 That rosy cheek, that lily baud. 
 Would give thy poet more delight 
 Than all Boeara's vaunted gold, 
 Than all the gems of Samarcaud. 
 
 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, 
 And bid thy pensive heart be glad, 
 Whate'er the frowning zealots say ; 
 Tell them their Eden cannot show 
 A stream so clear as Rocnabad, 
 A bower so sweet as Mosellay. 
 
 O, when these fair perfidious maids. 
 Whose eyes our secret haunts infest. 
 Their dear destructive charms display. 
 Each glance my tender breast invades, 
 And robs my wounded soul of rest. 
 As Tartars seize their destined prey. 
 
 In vain with love our bosoms glow : 
 Can all our tears, can all our sighs. 
 New lustre to those charms impart ? 
 Can cheeks, wlicre living roses blow. 
 Where nature spreads her richest dyes. 
 Require the borrowed gloss of art ? 
 
 Speak not of fate : all ! change the theme. 
 
 And talk of odors, talk of wine. 
 
 Talk of tlie flowers that round us bloom: 
 
 'T is all a cloud, 't is all a dream ; 
 
 To love and joy thy thoughts confine. 
 
 Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 
 
 Beauty has such resistless power. 
 That even the chaste Egyptian dame 
 Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy : 
 For her how fatal was the hour, 
 When to the banks of Nilus came 
 A youth so lovely and so coy ! 
 
 But ah ! sweet maid, my counsel hear 
 (Youth should attend when those advise 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 496 
 
 BRUCE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Whom long experience renders sage) : 
 While music charms the ravished ear, 
 ^Mide sparkling cups deUght our eyes, 
 Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. 
 
 What cruel answer have I heard ? 
 And yet, by Heaven, 1 love thee still : 
 Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? 
 Yet say, how foil that bitter word 
 From lips which streams of sweetness till. 
 Which naught but drops of honey sip ? 
 
 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, 
 
 Whose accents flow with artless ease, 
 
 Like orient pearls at random strung : 
 
 Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; 
 
 But O, far sweeter, if they please 
 
 The nymph for whom these notes are sung ! 
 
 NARAYENAi SPIRIT OF GOD. 
 
 Blue crystal vault and elemental fires 
 That in the aerial fluid blaze and breathe ! 
 Thou tossing sea, whose snaky branches wreath 
 This pensile orb with intertwisted gyves ; — 
 Mountains whose lofty radiant spires 
 Presumptuous rear their summits to the skies ; 
 Smooth meads and lawns that glow with vergant 
 
 dyes 
 Of dew-bespangled leaves and blossoms bright ! 
 Hence ! vanish from my sight : 
 Delusive pictures ! Unsubstantial shows ! 
 ily soul absorbed, one only Being knows; 
 Of all perceptions one abundant source ; 
 Whence every object every moment flows : 
 Suns hence derive their force ; 
 Hence planets learn their course ; 
 But suns and fading worlds I view no more : 
 God only I perceive ; God only I adore. 
 
 THE BABE, 
 
 Nafled on parent's knees, a new-born child. 
 Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : 
 So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep. 
 Thou then mayst smile while all around thee weep. 
 
 THE EMPLOYMENT OF THE DAY. 
 
 SIR EDWARD COKE : 
 
 Six hours in sleep, in law's grave study six. 
 Four spend in prayer, — the rest on nature fix. 
 
 RATHER : 
 
 Seven hours to law, to soothing slumber seven. 
 Ten to the world allot, and all to heaven. 
 
 fr 
 
 THE CONCLUDING SENTENCE OF BEEKELEY'S 
 SIRIS IMITATED. 
 
 Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth, 
 I kneel in manhood as 1 knelt in youth : 
 Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay, 
 kwA life's last shade be brightened by thy ray : 
 Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below. 
 Soar without bound, without consuming glow.* 
 
 MICH.IEL BRUCE. 
 
 1746-1767. 
 
 ELEGY I WRITTEN IN SPRING. 
 
 'T IS past : the iron North has spent liis rage ; 
 
 Stern "Winter now resigns the lengthening day ; 
 The stormy bowlings of the winds assuage, 
 
 And warm o'er ether western breezes play. 
 
 Of genial heat and cheerful light the source. 
 From southern climes, beneath another sky, 
 
 The sun, returning, wheels his golden course : 
 Before his beams all noxious vapors fly. 
 
 Far to the north grim Winter draws Ids train 
 To liis own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore ; 
 
 Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reigu ; 
 AVhere whirlwinds madden and where tempests 
 
 Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground 
 Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, 
 
 Again puts forth her flowers ; and all around, 
 Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. 
 
 .Behold ! the trees new deck their withered boughs ; 
 
 Their ample leaves, the hos])itable plane. 
 The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose ; 
 
 The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. 
 
 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen. 
 
 Puts on the I'obe she neither sewed nor spun ; 
 
 The birds on ground, or on the branches green, 
 Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. 
 
 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers. 
 From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings ; 
 
 And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers ; 
 Still higli she mounts, stUl loud and sweet she 
 
 sings. 
 
 On (he green furze, clothed o'er with golden 
 blooms 
 That fill (he air with fragrance all around, 
 
 * The following is tlic last sentence of the Siris: "He 
 thnt would ninke a real proj^rcss in knowledpc must dedicate 
 his a{:e as well as youth, the latter growth as well as the first 
 fruits, at the altar of Truth." 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 MART OF CASTLE GARY. 
 
 497 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The linnet sits, and tricks liis glossy plumes, 
 Wliilc o'er the wild his broken notes resound. 
 
 "Wliile the sim journeys down the western sky, 
 Along the greensward, marked with Roman 
 mound. 
 
 Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye. 
 The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. 
 
 Now is the time for those who wisdom love. 
 Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road, 
 
 Along the lovely paths of spring to rove. 
 And follow nature up to nature's God. 
 
 Thus Zoroaster studied nature's laws ; 
 
 Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind ; 
 Thus Heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty 
 cause. 
 
 And left the wondering multitude behind. 
 
 Thus Ashley gathered academic bays ; 
 
 Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roU, 
 Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, 
 
 Aud bear their poet's name from pole to pole. 
 
 Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn ; 
 
 My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; 
 Before the lark I 've sung the beauteous dawn. 
 
 And gathered health from all the gales of morn. 
 
 And, even when winter chilled the aged year, 
 I wandered lonely o'er the hoary plain : 
 
 Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, 
 Boreas, with all his tempests, warned ui vain. 
 
 Then, sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days ; 
 
 I feared no loss, my mind was all my store ; 
 No anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease ; 
 
 Heaven gave content and health, — I asked no 
 
 Now, spring returns : but not to me returns 
 The vernal joy my better years have known ; 
 
 Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, 
 And all the joys of life with health are flown. 
 
 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind. 
 Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, 
 
 Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, 
 And count the silent moments as they pass : 
 
 The winged moments, whose unstaymg speed 
 No art can stop, or in their course arrest ; 
 
 Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead. 
 And lay me down in peace with them at rest. 
 
 Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate ; 
 
 And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true. 
 Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate. 
 
 And bid the realms of light and Ufe adieu. 
 
 fr 
 
 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; 
 
 I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, 
 The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, 
 
 Which mortals visit, and return no more. 
 
 Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! 
 
 Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, 
 Where melancholy with still silence reigns. 
 
 And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless 
 ground. 
 
 There let me wander at the shut of eve. 
 
 When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes : 
 The world and all its busy foUies leave, 
 . And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. 
 
 There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay, 
 
 Wlien death shall shut these weary aching eyes ; 
 
 Rest in the hopes of an eternal day. 
 
 Till the long night is gone, and the last morn 
 arise. 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 1746-1818. 
 
 MART OF CASTLE CART. 
 
 " Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing. 
 
 Saw ye my true-love down on yon lea ; 
 Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming. 
 
 Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw- 
 tree? 
 Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white. 
 
 Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e ; 
 Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses. 
 
 Where could my wee thing wander frae me ?" 
 
 " I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain 
 thing. 
 Nor saw I your true-love down by yon lea ; 
 But I met my bounie thing late in the gloaming, 
 Down by the buniie where flowers the haw- 
 tree : 
 Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk- 
 white. 
 Dark was the blue of her soft roUing e'e ; 
 Red were her ripe hps and sweeter than roses — 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me." 
 
 "It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain 
 thing, 
 
 It was nae my true-love ye met by the tree : 
 Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature. 
 
 She never loved ony till ance she loed me. 
 Her name it is Mary, she 's frae Castle Cary, 
 
 Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee : 
 Pair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer. 
 
 Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to 
 thee." 
 
 ^ 
 
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 498 
 
 BLAMIRE. — LOGAN. 
 
 —^ 
 
 " It was then your Mary; she 's frae Castle Gary, 
 
 It was then your true-love I taet by the tree ; 
 Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 
 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me." 
 Sair gloomed Ids dark brow, blood-red liis cheek 
 grew, 
 
 "Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling,e'e : 
 " Ye 'se rue sair this morning your boasts and 
 your scorning. 
 
 Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie." 
 
 "Away wi' beguiling," cried the youth smiling, 
 
 Oil' went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, 
 The belted plaid fa'iug, her white bosom shawiug, 
 
 Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling 
 e'e. 
 " Is it ray wee thing, is it my ain tiling. 
 
 Is it my true-love here that I see ?" 
 " Jamie, forgie me, your heart 's constant to me, 
 
 I '11 never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee." 
 
 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
 
 1747-1794. 
 
 AULD KOBDf PORBES. 
 In the Cumberland dialect. 
 
 And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tern a dance, 
 I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ; 
 I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen. 
 And skipped wi' the best upon Forbes's green. 
 Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer. 
 It brings that that 's by-past and sets it down 
 
 here; 
 I see Willy as plaui as I dui this bit leace. 
 When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his 
 
 feaec. 
 
 The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see 
 In yen that was dark and hard-featured leyke me ; 
 And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' 
 
 my wit, 
 And slily tclt WUIy that cud n't be it. 
 But WUly he laughed, and he meade me his 
 
 weyfe. 
 And whea was mair happy thro' aw his lang 
 
 leyfc? 
 It 's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane, 
 That he offen said, — nea pleace was leyke his 
 
 awn heanie ! 
 
 I mind when I carried my wark to yon stcylc, 
 Where Willy was dcyken, the time to beguile. 
 He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast, • 
 And I hammered my noddle to mek out a jest. 
 But nicrrv or grave, "Willy often wad toll 
 
 There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my 
 
 awn sel ; 
 And he spak what he thout, for I 'd hardly a 
 
 plack 
 When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my 
 
 back. 
 
 Wlien the clock had struck eight I expected him 
 
 heame. 
 And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dum- 
 
 leane ; 
 Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me, 
 But now when it streykes there 's a tear i' my e'e. 
 O Willy ! dear Willy ! it never can be 
 That age, time, or death can divide thee and me ! 
 For that spot on earth that 's aye dearest to me. 
 Is the turf that has covered my Willy frae me. 
 
 •WHAT AILS THIS HEART 0' MINE? 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine ? 
 
 What ails this watery e'e ? 
 Wliat gars me a' tui-n pale as death 
 
 "Wlien I take leave o' thee ? 
 Wlien thou art far awa'. 
 
 Thou 'It dearer grow to me ; 
 But change o' place and change o' folk 
 
 May gar thy fancy jee. 
 
 When I gae out at e'en. 
 
 Or walk at morning air, 
 nk rusthng bush will seem to say 
 
 I used to meet thee there : 
 Then I '11 sit down and cry, 
 
 And hve aneath the tree, 
 And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 
 
 I '11 ca 't a word frae thee. 
 
 I '11 hie me to the bower 
 
 That thou wi' roses tied. 
 And where wi' mony a blusliing bud 
 
 I strove myself to hide. 
 I '11 doat on ilka spot 
 
 Where I ha'e been wi' thee ; 
 And ca' to mind some kindly word 
 
 By ilka burn and tree. 
 
 JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 1748-1788. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOa 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 
 
 Thou messenger of Spring ! 
 Now Heaven re]>airs thy rural seat. 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 
 (^ 
 
 -# 
 
f 
 
 WEITTEN AT THE CLOSE OE SPRING. 
 
 499 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 What time the daisy decks the green, 
 
 Thy certain voice we hear : 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
 
 Or mark the rolling year ? 
 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 
 I hail the time of flowers. 
 And hear the sound of music sweet 
 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
 The school-boy, wandering through the wood 
 
 To pull the primrose gay. 
 Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
 "What time the pea puts on the bloom. 
 
 Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
 An aimual guest in other lands. 
 
 Another spring to haU. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 
 
 No winter in thy year ! 
 
 0, could I fly, I 'd fly with thee ! 
 
 We 'd make, with joyful wing, 
 Our amiual visit o'er the globe. 
 
 Companions of the spring. 
 
 THE BEAES OF TAKKOW. 
 
 TiiY braes were bonny. Yarrow stream, 
 Wlien first on them I met my lover ; 
 Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream, 
 Wlieu now thy waves his body cover ! 
 Eorever now, Yarrow stream ! 
 Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
 For never on thy banks shall I 
 Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 
 
 He promised me a milk-white steed 
 
 To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
 
 He promised me a little page 
 
 To squire me to his father's towers ; 
 
 He promised me a wedding-ring, — 
 
 The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; — 
 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 
 Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 
 
 Sweet were his words when last we met ; 
 My passion I as freely told him ; 
 Clasped iu his arms, I Uttle thought 
 That I should nevermore behold him ! 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
 It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 
 And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. 
 
 His mother from the window looked 
 With all the longing of a mother ; 
 His Uttle sister weeping walked 
 The greenwood path to meet her brother ; 
 They sought him east, they sought him west, 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night, 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 
 
 No longer from thy window look, — 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 
 Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 
 No longer seek him east or west. 
 And search no more the forest thorough ; 
 For, wandering in the night so dark. 
 He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 
 
 The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
 No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
 I '11 seek thy body in the stream, 
 And then with thee I 'U sleep in Yarrow. 
 The tear did never leave her cheek, 
 No other youth became her marrow ; 
 She found his body in the stream. 
 And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 1749-1806. 
 
 ON THE DEPAKTUKE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 
 
 Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 
 Ah ! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew. 
 
 And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. 
 Whether on spring thy wandering flights await. 
 
 Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 
 The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate. 
 
 And still protect the song she loves so well. 
 With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 
 
 Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy 
 nest ; 
 And shepherd girls from eyes pi-ofane shall hide 
 
 The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
 For still thy voice shall soft aflections move. 
 And still be dear to sorrow and to love ! 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPBING, 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove ; 
 
 Each simple flower, which she had nursed in 
 dew. 
 Anemones that spangled every grove. 
 
 The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. 
 
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 500 
 
 BARNARD. 
 
 LOWE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 No more shall violets linger ill the deU, 
 
 Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
 TiU Spring again shall call forth every bell, 
 
 And dress with huniid hands her wreaths again. 
 Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair. 
 
 Are the fond visions of thy early day, 
 Till tyrant passion and corrosive care 
 
 Bid all thy fairy colors fade away ! 
 Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; 
 Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? 
 
 LADY ANNE BARNARD. 
 
 1760-1835. 
 
 ATJLD EOBDf GKAT. 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' 
 
 at hame, 
 Wlien a' the weary world to sleep are gane. 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, 
 While my gndeman lies sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his 
 
 bride; 
 But saving a crown, he had naething else beside. 
 To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to 
 
 sea; 
 And the crown and the pound, they were baith 
 
 for me ! 
 
 He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, 
 WTien my mither she fell sick, and the cow was 
 
 stown awa ; 
 My father brak his arm — my Jamie at the sea — 
 And Auld Robin Gray came a-oourtmg me. 
 
 My father couldna work, — my mither couldna 
 
 spin ; 
 I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna 
 
 win; 
 Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears 
 
 in his e'e, 
 Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, will you marry 
 
 me?" 
 
 My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back ; 
 But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a ^vrack ; 
 His ship it was a wrack 1 Why didna Jennie dec ? 
 And wherefore was I spar'd to cry, Wae is rae ! 
 
 My father argued sair — my mither didna speak. 
 But she look'd in my face till my heart was like 
 
 to break ; 
 They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the 
 
 sea; 
 And so AiJd Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me. 
 
 I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, 
 Wlicn, moumfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, 
 I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I couldna think it he. 
 Till he said, " I 'm come hame, my love, to marry 
 thee ! " 
 
 sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say : 
 Ac kiss we took — nae mair — I bad him gang 
 
 away. 
 
 1 wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee, 
 And why do I live to say, Wae is me ! 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
 I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. 
 But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, 
 Tor Auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 
 
 JOHN LOWE. 
 
 1750-1798. 
 
 MAEY'S DKEAM. 
 
 The moon has cUmbed the liighest liill 
 
 Wliich rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And fi-om the eastern summit shed 
 
 Her silver Ught on tower and tree ; 
 When Mary laid her down to sleep. 
 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, 
 Wlien, soft and low, a voice was heard. 
 
 Saying, " Mary, weep no more for me ! " 
 
 She from her pillow gently raised 
 
 Her head, to ask who there might be. 
 And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 
 
 With visage pale and hollow e'e. 
 " Mary dear, cold is my clay ; 
 
 It Ues beneath a stormy sea. 
 Far, far from thee I sleep in death ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 " Three stormy nights and stormy days 
 
 We tossed upon the raging main ; 
 And long we strove our bark to save. 
 
 But all our striving was in vain. 
 Even then, when hon-or chilled my blood. 
 
 My heart was liUcd with love for thee : 
 The storm is past, and I at rest ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 " maiden dear, thyself prepare ; 
 
 We soon shall meet ujioii that shore 
 Wlicrc love is free from doubt and care, 
 
 And thou and I shall part no more ! " 
 Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled. 
 
 No more of Sandy could she sec ; 
 But soft the passing spirit said, 
 
 " Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! " 
 
 ^ 
 
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SCOTTISH SCENEEY AND MUSIC. 
 
 501 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON. 
 
 1751-1774. 
 
 BEAID CLAITH, 
 
 Ye wha are fain to hae your name 
 Wrote i' the boimie book o' fame, 
 Let merit nae pretension claim 
 
 To laurelled wreath, 
 But Lap ye weel, baith back and wame, 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 He that some ells o' this may fa', 
 And slae-black hat on pow Uke snaw, 
 Bids bauld to bear the gree awa, 
 
 Wi' a' this graith, 
 When beiuly clad wi' shell fu' braw 
 
 O' guid braid claith. 
 
 Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't ! 
 For he 's a gowk they 're sure to geek at ; 
 A ehiel that ne'er wUl be respeekit 
 
 Wlule he draws breath, 
 TUl his four quarters are bedeckit 
 
 Wi' guid braid claith. 
 
 On Sabbath days the barber spark, 
 Wlien lie has doue wi' scrapin' wark, 
 Wi' siller broaohie in his sark. 
 
 Gangs trigly, faith ! 
 Or to the meadows or the park, 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 Weel might ye trow, to see them there, 
 That they to shave your haffits bare, 
 Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, 
 
 Woidd be right laith. 
 When paeiu' wi' a gawsy air 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 If ony mettled stin-ah green 
 For favor frae a lady's een. 
 He maunna care for bein' seen 
 
 Before he sheath 
 His body in a scabbard clean 
 
 0' guid braid claith. 
 
 For, gin he come -w-i' coat threadbare, 
 A feg for him she wiuna care, 
 But crook her bonny mou fou sair. 
 
 And soauld him baith : 
 Wooers should aye their travel spare, 
 
 Without braid claith. 
 
 Braid claith lends fouk an unca heeze ; 
 Maks mouy kail-worms butterflees ; 
 Gies mony a doctor his degrees, 
 
 For little skaith : 
 In short, you may be what you please, 
 
 Wi' guid braid claith. 
 
 For though you had as wise a snout on 
 As Shakespear or Sir Isaac Newton, 
 Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on, 
 
 I '11 tak my aith, 
 TUl they could see ye wi' a suit on 
 
 O' guid braid claith. 
 
 SCOTTISH SCENERY AND MUSIC. 
 
 The Arno and the Tiber lang 
 Hae run fell clear in Roman sang ; 
 But, save tlie reverence o' schools, 
 They 're baith but lifeless, dowie pools. 
 Bought they compare wi' bonuie Tweed, 
 As clear as ony lamraer bead ? 
 Or are their shores mair sweet and gay 
 Than Fortha's haiighs or banks o' Tay ? 
 Though there the herds can jink the showers 
 'Maug thriving vines and myrtle bowers, 
 And blaw the reed to kittle strains. 
 While echo's tongue commends their pains ; 
 Like ours, they eanna warm the heart 
 Wi' simple saft bewitcliing art. 
 On Leader haughs and Yarrow braes. 
 Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays. 
 To hear the mair melodious sounds 
 That Uve on our poetic grounds. 
 
 Come, Fancy ! come, and let us tread 
 The simmer's flowery velvet bed. 
 And a' your springs delightful lowse 
 On Tweeda's bank or Cowdenknowes. 
 That, ta'cn wi' thy enchanting sang. 
 Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang, 
 Sac pleased they '11 never fash again 
 To court you on Italian plain ; 
 Soon will they guess ye only wear 
 The simple garb o' nature here ; 
 Mair comely far, and fair to sight, 
 TVTien in her easy cleediu' dight. 
 Than in disguise yc was before 
 On Tiber's or on Arno's shore. 
 
 O Bangour ! * now the hiEs and dales 
 Nae mair gie back thy tender tales ! 
 The birks on Yarrow now deplore. 
 Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore. 
 Near what bright burn or crystal spring, 
 Did you your winsome whistle hing ? 
 The muse shall there, wi' watery ee, 
 Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee ; 
 And Yarrow's genius, dowie dame ! 
 Shall there forget her bluid-stained stream. 
 On thy sad grave to seek repose, 
 "RTio mourned her fate, condoled her woes. 
 
 Hame Content. 
 
 * Mr. Hamilton of Bangour, author of tie beautiful ballad, 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 
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 502 
 
 FERGUSSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 CAULEE WATEE. 
 
 When father Adie first pat spade in 
 Tlie bomiie yard o' ancient Eden, 
 His amry had nae liquor laid in 
 
 To fire his mou ; 
 Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin', 
 
 Por bein' fou. 
 
 A cauler bum o' siUer sheen 
 
 Ran cannUy out-owre the green ; 
 
 And wheu our gutcher's drouth had been 
 
 To bide right sair, 
 He loutit down, and drank bedeen 
 
 A dainty skair. 
 
 His bairns had a', before the flood, 
 A lauger tack o' flesh and blood, 
 And on mair pitliy shanks they stood 
 
 Than Noah's line, 
 Wha stiU hae been a feckless brood, 
 
 Wi' drinkin' wine. 
 
 The fuddhn' bardies, nowadays, 
 Rin maukiu-mad in Bacchus' praise ; 
 And limp aud stoiter through their lays 
 
 Anacreontic, 
 While each his sea of wine displays 
 
 As big 's the Pontic. 
 
 My Muse will no gang far frae hame, 
 Or scour a' airths to hound for fame ; 
 In troth, the jillct ye might blame 
 
 For tliinkin' on 't, 
 When eithly she can find the theme 
 
 O' aquafont. 
 
 Tills is the name that doctors use. 
 Their patients' noddles to confuse ; 
 Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse, 
 
 They labour still 
 lu kittle words to gar you roose 
 
 Their want o' skill. 
 
 But we 'U hae nae sic clitter-clatter ; 
 And, brielly to expound the mattei'. 
 It shall be ca'd guid cauler water ; 
 
 Thau whilk, I trow. 
 Few drugs in doctors' shops are better 
 
 For me or you. 
 
 Though johits be stiff as ony rung. 
 Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung. 
 Be you in cauler water flung 
 
 Out-owrc the lugs, 
 'T will raak you souplc, swack, and young, 
 
 Withouteu drugs. 
 
 Though cholic or the heart-scad teaze us ; 
 Or oiiv inward dwaam should seize us ; 
 
 It masters a' sic fell diseases 
 
 That would ye spnlzie. 
 
 And brings them to a canny crisis 
 Wi' Uttle tubie. 
 
 Were 't no for it, the bonnie lasses 
 Wad glower nae mair in keckin' -glasses ; 
 And soon tyne dint o' a' the graces 
 
 That aft couveen 
 In gleefu' looks, aud bounie faces. 
 
 To catch our een. 
 
 The fairest, then, might die a maid. 
 And Cupid quit his shootin' trade ; 
 For wha, through clarty masquerade. 
 
 Could then discover 
 Whether the features under shade 
 
 Were worth a lover ? 
 
 As simmer rains bring simmer flowers, 
 And leaves to deed the birken bowers, 
 Sae beauty gets by cauler showers 
 
 Sac rich a bloom. 
 As for estate, or heavy dowers. 
 
 Aft stands in room. 
 
 Wliat maks Auld Reekie's dames sae fair ? 
 It canna be the halesome air ; 
 But cauler bum, beyoud compare. 
 
 The best o' onie, 
 Tliat gars them a' sic graces skair, 
 
 Aud blink sae bonnie. 
 
 On May-day, in a fairy ring, 
 
 We 've seen them round St. Authon's sprmg,* 
 
 Frae grass the cauler dew-draps wring 
 
 To weet their cen. 
 And water, clear as crystal spring, 
 
 To synd them clean. 
 
 O may they still pursue the way 
 To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay ! 
 Then shall their beauties glance like May ; 
 
 And, like her, be 
 The goddess of the vocal spray. 
 
 The Muse and me. 
 
 A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH. 
 
 On Sunday, here, an altered scene 
 0' men and manners meets our cen. 
 Aue wad maist trow, some people chose 
 To change their faces wi' their clo'es, 
 And fain wad gar ilk neibour think 
 They thirst for guidncss as for drink; 
 But there 's an unco dearth o' grace. 
 That has nae mansion but the face, 
 
 • St. Antliony's Wc-Il, n ticnuliful small BimnR. on Arthur's 
 Sent, nc»v Edinburi;!!. Tliithcrit is still the practice of yoimg , i 
 Kilinl)ur;;li maiJriis to ri'sort on May-il»y. 
 
 ^ 
 
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 LOVE FOE LOVE. — LET THE TOAST PASS. 
 
 503 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Aud never can obtain a part 
 In benmost corner o' the heart. 
 Why should religion mak us sad, 
 If good frae virtue 's to be had ? 
 Na : rather gleefu' turn your face, 
 Forsake hypocrisy, grimace ; 
 And never hae it understood 
 You fleg mankind frae being good. 
 
 In afternoon, a' brawly buskit. 
 The joes and lasses loe to frisk it. 
 Some tak a great delight to place 
 The modest bon-grace owre the face ; 
 Though you may see, if so inclined, 
 The turning o' the leg behind. 
 Now, Comely Garden and the Park 
 Refresh them, after forenoon's wark : 
 Newhaven, Leith, or CanonraUls, 
 Supply them in their Sunday's gUls ; 
 Where writers often spend their pence, 
 To stock their heads wi' drink aud sense. 
 
 Win'le danderin cits delight to stray 
 To Castlehill or pubHo way. 
 Where they nae other purpose mean, 
 Thau that fool cause o' being seeu. 
 Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue. 
 Where bounie pastures meet the view, 
 And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues. 
 Befitting WilUc Shakespeare's muse. 
 If Fancy there would join the thrang, 
 The desert rocks and hills amang. 
 To echoes we should hit aud play. 
 And gie to mirth the live-lang day. 
 
 Or should some cankered biting shower 
 The day and a' her sweets deflower. 
 To Holyrood House let me stray, 
 Aud gie to musing a' the day ; 
 Lamenting what auld Scotland knew, 
 Ben days forever frae her view. 
 O Hamilton, for shame ! the Muse 
 Would pay to thee her eouthy vows. 
 Gin ye wad tent the humble strain. 
 And gie 's our dignity again ! 
 For, O, wae 's me ! the thistle springs 
 In domicile o' ancient kings. 
 Without a patriot to regret 
 Our palace and our ancient state. 
 
 yltdd Heekie. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 1751-1816. 
 
 LOVE rOK LOVE. 
 
 I ne'ee, coiJd any lustre see 
 
 In eyes that would not look on me ; 
 
 I ne'er saw nectar on a Up, 
 
 But where my own did hope to sip. 
 
 Has the maid who seeks my heart 
 Cheeks of rose, untouched by art ? 
 I will own the color true. 
 When yielding blushes aid their hue. 
 
 Is her hand so soft and pure ? 
 I must press it, to be sure ; 
 Nor can I be certain then, 
 Till it, grateful, press again. 
 Must I, with attentive eye. 
 Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
 I will do so, when I see 
 That heaving bosom sigh for me. 
 
 The Duenna. 
 
 CONDITIONS OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast. 
 But health and good-humor to make her his toast ; 
 If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat. 
 And six feet or four, — we '11 ne'er quarrel for that. 
 
 Whate'er her complexion I vow I don't care. 
 If brown, it is lasting, — more pleasing, if fair ; 
 And though in her face I no dimples should see. 
 Let her smile, — and each dell is a dimple to me. 
 
 Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen, 
 And her eyes may be e'en auy color but green ; 
 For in eyes, though so various the lustre and hue, 
 I swear I 've no choice, — only let her have two. 
 
 'T is true I 'd dispense with a throne on her back ; 
 And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black ; 
 A little round chin too 's a beauty, I 've heard ; 
 But I only desire she mayn't have a beard. 
 
 The Duenna. 
 
 LET THE TOAST PASS, 
 
 Here 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; 
 
 Here 's to the widow of fifty ; 
 Here 's to the flaunting extravagant quean. 
 And here 's to the housewife that 's thrifty. 
 Let the toast pass, , 
 Drink to the lass, 
 I '11 warrant she 'U prove an excuse for the glass. 
 
 Here 's to the charmer whose dimples we prize. 
 Now to the maid who has none, sir ; 
 
 Here 's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes. 
 And here 's to the nymph with but one, sir. 
 Let the toast pass, etc. 
 
 Here 's to the maid with a bosom of snow ; 
 
 Now to her that 's as brown as a berry ; 
 Here 's to the wife with a face fidl of woe. 
 
 And now to the damsel that 's merry. 
 
 Let the toast pass, etc. 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 504 
 
 EOSCOE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, 
 Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; 
 So fill a pint bumper quite up to tlie brim, 
 So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, 
 And let us e'en toast them together. 
 
 Let the toast pass, etc. 
 
 The School for Scandal. 
 
 EPILOaUE TO FATAL FALSEHOOD. 
 
 Unh-ujd me, gentlemen. By Heaven, I say, 
 I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way. 
 
 (^Behind the scenes.) 
 Forth let me come, — a poetaster true. 
 As lean as Euvy, and as baneful too ; 
 On the dull audience let me vent my rage, 
 Or drive these female scribblers from tiie stage. 
 For sense or history, we 've none but these : 
 The law of liberty and wit they seize ; 
 In tragic — comic — pastoral — they dare to 
 
 please. 
 Each puny bard must siu-ely burst with spite. 
 To find that women with such fame can write : 
 But 0, your partial favor is the cause. 
 Who feed their follies with such full applause ; 
 Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame, 
 And ridicule each fair pretender's aim, 
 Where the dull duties of domestic life 
 Wage with the muse's toils eternal strife. 
 
 What motley cares Gorilla's mind perplex, 
 •While maids and metaphors conspire to vex ! 
 In studious dishabille behold her sit, 
 A lettered gossip and a housewife wit ; 
 At once invoking, though for difl'ereut views. 
 Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse. 
 Round her stewed room a frippery chaos lies, 
 A checkered wreck of notable and wise ; 
 Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, 
 Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass ; 
 Unffcished here an epigram is laid. 
 And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid ; 
 Here new-born plays foretaste the town's ap- 
 plause, 
 There dormant patterns lie for future gauze : 
 A moral essay now is all her care ; 
 A satire next, and then a bill of fare : 
 A scene she now projects, and now a dish ; 
 Here 's act the first — and here — Remove with 
 
 fish. 
 Now while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, 
 That soberly casts up a bill for coals ; 
 Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks. 
 And tears and thread and bowls and thimbles 
 mix. 
 Sappho, 't is true, long versed in epic song, 
 For years esteemed all household studies wrong ; 
 When, dire mishap ! tliough neither shame nor 
 sill, 
 
 Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in. 
 The virgin Kiuc in terror fly the bower. 
 And matron Juno claims despotic power : 
 Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'crturn, 
 A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn ; 
 Nor books nor implements escape their rage. 
 They spike the inkstand, and they rend tlie page; 
 Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake ; 
 Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake ; 
 And Aristotle 's only saved — to wrap plum-eake. 
 
 Yet shall a woman tempt the tragic scene ? 
 And dare — but hold — I must repress my spleen : 
 I see your hearts are pledged to her applause, 
 While Shakespeare's spirit seems to aid her cause. 
 Well pleased to aid, — since o'er his sacred bier 
 A female hand did ample trophies rear. 
 And gave the gentlest laurel that is worshipped 
 there. 
 
 HAD I A HEART FOE FALSEHOOD FRAMED. 
 
 Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 
 I ne'er could injure you; 
 For though your tongue no promise claimed, 
 
 Your charms would make me true : 
 To you no soul shall bear deceit. 
 
 No stranger offer wrong ; 
 But friends in all the aged you '11 meet, 
 
 And lovers in the young. 
 
 For when they learn that you have blest 
 
 Another with your heart. 
 They '11 bid aspiring passion rest, 
 
 Ajid act a brother's part. 
 Then, lady, dread not here deceit. 
 
 Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
 For friends in all the aged you '11 meet, 
 
 And brothers iu tlie young. 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 1758-1770. 
 
 CHOEHS IN GODDWTN, A TRAGEDIE, 
 
 Wh.ui Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste. 
 To everie knyghte her warre-songe sinige, 
 Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde; 
 A gorie anlace by her honge. 
 
 She dauuccd onne the hcathe ; 
 She heardo the voice of deathe ; 
 Pale-eyed Affryghte, hys harte of silver hue. 
 In vajTie assay led' her bosom to acale; ° 
 She heardc onflcmed ' the shriekynge voice of woe. 
 And sadnessc yune the owlettc shake the dale ; 
 She shookc the burled' specrc. 
 
 ^ Eudenvorcd. 
 2 Freeze 
 
 * Undismayrtl. 
 
 * Armed, pointed. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 BEISTOW TEAGEDY. 
 
 505 
 
 -Q) 
 
 On hie she jeste' her sheelde, 
 Her foemeu' all appere, 
 Aud liizze' along the feelde. 
 Power, wythe his heafod' straught" ynto the 
 
 skycs, 
 Hys speere a somie-beame, and hys sheelde a 
 
 stan'e. 
 Alyche' t.waie' brendeyng' gronfyxes' rolls hys 
 
 eyes, 
 Chaftes'" with hys yronne feete, and soimdes to war. 
 She syttes upon a rocke, 
 She bendes before his speere, 
 She ryses from the shocke. 
 Wielding her own yn ayre. 
 Harde as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on, 
 Wy tte scillye " wy mpled ^ gies " ytte to hys crowne, 
 Hys longe sharpe speere, his spreddying sheelde 
 
 ys gon, 
 He falles, and faUynge rolleth thousandes down. 
 War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld '' arist " 
 Hys feyrie heaulme'" noddynge to the ayre, 
 Tenno bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyst. 
 
 THE MTNSTEELLES SONGE IN ELLA, A TEAGY- 
 CAL ENTEKLUDE. 
 
 0, STNGE untoe my roimdelaie, 
 
 O, droppe the bryuie teare wythe mee, 
 
 Dannce ue moe atte haUie dale, 
 
 Lycke a reyuyuge" ryver bee. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyUowe-tree. 
 
 Black hys cryne" as the wyntere nyght, 
 Wliyte hys rode*' as the sommer snowe, 
 Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, 
 Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to liys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyUowe-tree. 
 
 Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, 
 Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee, 
 Defte his taboure, codgelle stote, 
 O, bee lys bie the willowe-tree. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyUowe-tree. 
 
 ^ 
 
 * Hoisted on 
 
 bish, 
 
 raised. 
 
 " Closely. 
 
 2 Foes, enemies. 
 
 
 ^ Mantled, covered 
 
 8 Fly. 
 
 
 
 •3 Guides. 
 
 « Head. 
 
 
 
 " Armed. 
 
 5 Stretched. 
 
 
 
 »5 Arose. 
 
 8 Like. 
 
 
 
 »« Helmet. 
 
 ' Two. 
 
 
 
 " Running. 
 
 8 Flaming. 
 
 
 
 19 Hair. 
 
 9 Meteors. 
 
 
 
 19 Complexion. 
 
 '» Beats, stamps. 
 
 
 
 Harke ! the ravemie flappes hys wynge, 
 
 In the briered dell belowe ; 
 
 Harke ! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, 
 
 To the nyghte-mares as theyie goe. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyUowe-tree. 
 
 See ! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie ; 
 
 WliyteiTe ys mie true-loves shroude ; 
 
 Whyterre yanne the mornyng skie, 
 
 Whytcrre yanne the evenyuge cloude. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gone to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe-tree. 
 
 Heere, upon mie true-loves grave, 
 
 Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, 
 
 Ne one haUie seyncte to save 
 
 Al the cebiess of a mayde. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe-tree. 
 
 Wythe mie hondes I '11 dent the brieres 
 
 Rounde hys hallie corse to gre ; 
 
 Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres, 
 
 Heere mie boddie stille scbaUe bee. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 AJ under the wyUowe-tree. 
 
 Commc, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, 
 Drayne my hartys blodde awaie ; 
 Lyfo and all yttes goode I seorne, 
 Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyUowe-tree. 
 
 Water wytehes, crownede wythe reytes' 
 Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. 
 I die ; I ooninie ; mie true love waytes. 
 Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. 
 
 BRISTOW TRAGEDY; OR, THE DEATH OF SIE 
 CHARLES BAWDra.* 
 
 TuE feathered songster chanticleer 
 
 Had wound his bugle-horn. 
 And told the early villager 
 
 The coming of the morn : 
 
 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 
 
 Of light echpse the gray. 
 And heard the raven's croakiug throat 
 
 Proclaim the fated day. 
 
 1 Water-flags. 
 * The spelling in this fine baJlad is modernized. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 50G 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 " Tliou 'rt right," quoth he, " for by the God 
 
 That sits euthroned on liigh ! 
 Charles Bawdin, aud his fellows twain, 
 
 To-day shall surely die." 
 
 Then with a jug of nappy ale 
 
 His knights did on him wait ; 
 " Go tell the traitor that to-day 
 
 He leaves this mortal state." 
 
 Sir Canterlone then bended low. 
 
 With heart brimful of woe ; 
 He journeyed to the castle-gate, 
 
 And to Sir Charles did go. 
 
 But when he came, his children twain, 
 
 And eke his loving wife. 
 With briny tears did wet the floor, 
 
 Tor good Sir Charles's life. 
 
 " good Sir Charles ! " said Canterlone, 
 
 " Bad tidings 1 do bring." 
 "Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles; 
 
 " What says the traitor king ? " 
 
 " I grieve to tell : before yon sun 
 
 Does from the welkin fly, 
 He hath upon Ms honor sworn. 
 
 That thou shalt surely die." 
 
 " We aU must die," said brave Sir Charles ; 
 
 " Of that I 'm not afraid ; 
 What boots to Uve a little space ? 
 
 Thank Jesus, I 'm prepared. 
 
 " But tell thy king, for mine he 's not, 
 
 I 'd sooner die to-day. 
 Than live his slave, as many are, 
 
 Tliough I should live for aye." 
 
 Then Canterlone he did go out, 
 
 To tell the mayor straight 
 To get all things in readiness 
 
 For good Sir Charles's fate. 
 
 Then Mr. Canynge sought the king. 
 
 And fell down on his knee ; 
 " I 'm come," quoth he, " uuto your grace, 
 
 To move your clemency." 
 
 " Then," quoth the king, " your tale speak out. 
 
 You have been much our friend ; 
 Wliatcver your request may be. 
 
 We will to it attend." 
 
 " My noble liege ! all my request 
 
 Is for a noble knight, 
 Wlio, though mayhap he has done wrong, 
 
 He thought it still was right. 
 
 "He has a spouse and children twain; 
 All ruined arc for aye. 
 
 IS that you are resolved to let 
 Charles Bawdin die to-day." 
 
 " Speak not of such a traitor vile," 
 
 The king iu fury said ; 
 " Before the evening star doth sliine, 
 
 Bawdin shall lose his head : 
 
 " Justice docs loudly for him call, 
 
 Aud he shall have lus meed : 
 Speak, Mr. Canyuge ! what thing else 
 
 At present do you need ? " 
 
 " My noble liege ! " good Canynge said, 
 
 " Leave justice to our God, 
 And lay the iron rule aside ; 
 
 Be thine the oUve rod. 
 
 "Was God to search our hearts and reins, 
 
 The best were sinners great ; 
 Christ's vicar only knows no sin. 
 
 In all this mortal state. 
 
 " Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
 'T wiD fix thy crown full sure ; 
 
 Prom race to race thy family 
 All sovereigns shall endure : 
 
 " But if with blood and slaughter thou 
 
 Begm thy infant reign, 
 Thy crown upon thy chddren's brows 
 
 Will never long remain." 
 
 " Canynge, away ! this traitor vile 
 Has scorned my power and me ; 
 
 How canst thou then for such a man 
 Entreat my clemency ? " 
 
 " My noble liege ! the truly brave 
 
 Will valorous actions prize ; 
 Respect a brave and noble mind. 
 
 Although iu enemies." 
 
 " Canynge, away ! By God in heaven 
 
 That did me being give, 
 I will not taste a bit of bread 
 
 Whilst this Sir Charles doth live ! 
 
 " By Mary, and all saints in heaven, 
 
 This sun shall be his last ! " 
 Then Canynge dropped a briny tear. 
 
 And from the presence passed. 
 
 With heart brimful of gnawing grief 
 
 He to Sir Charles did go. 
 And sat him down u])ou a stool. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 " We all uuist die," said brave Sir Charles ; 
 
 " AVliat boots it how or when ? 
 Death is tlu; sure, the certain fate 
 
 Of all we mortal men. 
 
 <Q— 
 
 —9^ 
 
a- 
 
 BRISTOW TEAGEDY. 
 
 507 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 " Say why, my friend, thy honest soul 
 
 Kuus over at thine eye ; 
 Is it for my most welcome doom 
 
 That thou dost childlike cry ? " 
 
 Saith godly Canynge, " I do weep 
 
 That thou so soon must die. 
 And leave thy sous and helpless wife ; 
 
 'T is tliis that wets mine eye." 
 
 " Then dry the te^rs that out thine eye 
 
 From godly fountains spring ; 
 Death I despise, and all the power 
 
 Of Edward, traitor-king. 
 
 " Wlien through the tyrant's welcome means 
 
 I shall resign my life. 
 The God I serve will soon provide 
 
 For both my sons and wife. 
 
 " Before I saw the lightsome sun 
 
 This was appointed me ; 
 Shall mortal man repine or grudge 
 
 What God ordains to be ? 
 
 " How oft in battle have I stood. 
 
 When thousands died around ; 
 When smoking streams of crimson blood 
 
 Imbrued the fattened ground. 
 
 " How did I know that every dart 
 
 That cut the airy way 
 Might not find passage to my heart. 
 
 And close mine eyes for aye ? 
 
 " And shall I now, for fear of death, 
 
 Look wan and be dismayed ? 
 No ! from my heart fly childish fear ; 
 
 Be all the man displayed. 
 
 " Ah, godlike Henry ! God forefend. 
 
 And guard thee and thy son. 
 If 't is his will ; but if 't is not. 
 
 Why, then his will be done. 
 
 " My honest friend, my fault has been 
 
 To serve God and my prince ; 
 And that I no time-server am 
 
 My death will soon convince. 
 
 " In London city was I bom, 
 
 Of parents of great note ; 
 My father did a noble arms 
 
 Emblazon on his coat : 
 
 " I make no doubt but he is gone 
 
 TVTiere soon I hope to go, 
 Wliere we forever shall be blest. 
 
 From out the reach of woe. 
 
 " He taught me justice and the laws 
 With pity to unite ; 
 
 And eke he taught me how to know 
 The wrong cause from the right : 
 
 " He taught me with a prudent hand 
 
 To feed the hungry poor. 
 Nor let my servants drive away 
 
 The himgry from my door : 
 
 " And none can say but all my life 
 
 I have his wordis kept ; 
 And summed the actions of the day 
 
 Each night before I slept. 
 
 " I have a spouse, go ask of her 
 
 If I deffled her bed ? 
 I have a king, and none can lay 
 
 Black treason on my head. 
 
 " In Lent, and on the holy eve. 
 
 From flesh I did refrain ; 
 Why should I then appear dismayed 
 
 To leave this world of pain ? 
 
 " No, hapless Henry ! I rejoice 
 
 I shall not see thy death ; 
 Most willingly in tliy just cause 
 
 Do I resign my breath. 
 
 " fickle people ! ruined land ! 
 
 Thou wUt ken peace no moe ; 
 Wliile Richard's sons exalt themselves. 
 
 Thy brooks with blood will flow. 
 
 " Say, were ye tired of godly peace. 
 
 And godly Henry's reign. 
 That you did chop your easy days 
 
 For those of blood and pain ? 
 
 " What though I on a sledge be drawn. 
 
 And mangled by a hind, 
 I do defy the traitor's power, — 
 
 He cannot harm my mind ; 
 
 " WTiat though, uphoisted on a pole, 
 
 My Umbs shall rot in air. 
 And no rich monumeut of brass 
 
 Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 
 
 " Yet in the holy book above, 
 
 Which time can't eat away. 
 There with the servants of the Lord 
 
 My name shall Uve for aye. 
 
 " Then welcome death ! for life eterne 
 
 I leave this mortal life : 
 Farewell, vain world, and all that 's dear. 
 
 My sons and loving wife ! 
 
 " Now death as welcome to me comes 
 . As e'er the month of May ; 
 Nor would I even wish to live. 
 With my dear wife to stay." 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 508 
 
 CHATTEETON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Saith Canynge, " 'T is a goodly thing 
 
 To be prepared to die ; 
 Aud from tliis world of pain and grief 
 
 To God in heaven to fly." 
 
 And now the bell began to toll, 
 
 And clarions to sound ; 
 Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet 
 
 A-prauciug on the ground. 
 
 And just before the ofiicers 
 
 His loving wife eame in, 
 Weeping unfeigned tears of woe 
 
 With loud and dismal din. 
 
 " Sweet Florence ! now I pray forbear ; 
 
 la quiet let me die : 
 Pray God that every Christian soul 
 
 May look on death as I. 
 
 " Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears ? 
 
 They wash my soul away. 
 And almost make me wish for life. 
 
 With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 
 
 " 'T is but a journey I shall go 
 
 Unto tlie land of bUss ; 
 Now, as a proof of husband's love, 
 
 Receive this holy kiss." 
 
 " Then Florence, faltering in her say, 
 TrembUng these wordis spoke : 
 
 " Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king ! 
 My heart is wellnigh broke. 
 
 " Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go 
 
 Without thy loving wife ? 
 The cruel axe that outs thy neck, 
 
 It eke shall end my life." 
 
 And now the officers came in 
 
 To bring Sir Charles away. 
 Who turned to his loving wife. 
 
 And thus to her did say : 
 
 " I go to Kfe, and not to death ; 
 
 Trust thou in God above, 
 And teach thy sous to fear the Lord, 
 
 Aud in their hearts Mm love. 
 
 " Teach them to run the noble race 
 
 That I their father run ; 
 Florence ! should death thee take — adieu! 
 
 Ye officers, lead on." 
 
 Then Florence raved as any mad, 
 
 And did her tresses tear ; 
 " sf.ay, my husband, lord, and life ! " 
 
 Sir Charles then dropped a tear. 
 
 Till, tired out with raving loud, 
 She fell upon the floor ; 
 
 Sir Charles exerted all his might. 
 And marched from out the door. 
 
 Upon a sledge he mounted then. 
 With looks fuU brave and sweet ; 
 
 Looks that enshone no more concern 
 Than any in the street. 
 
 Before him went the couueilmen 
 
 In scarlet robes and gold, 
 And tassels spangUug ip the sun. 
 
 Much glorious to behold. 
 
 The friars of Saint Augustine next 
 
 Appeared to the sight, 
 AH clad in homely russet weeds. 
 
 Of godly monkish plight ; 
 
 In differents parts a godly psalm 
 Most sweetly they did chant ; 
 
 Behind their back six minstrels eame. 
 Who tuned the strange bataunt. 
 
 Then five-and-twenty archers eame ; 
 
 Each one the bow did bend, 
 From rescue of King Henry's friends 
 
 Sir Charles for to defend. 
 
 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 
 Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde. 
 
 By two black steeds in trappings white. 
 With plumes upon their head. 
 
 Behind him five-and-twenty more 
 Of archers strong and sto\it. 
 
 With bended bow each one in hand. 
 Marched in goodly rout. 
 
 Saint James's friars marched next. 
 Each one his part did chaut ; 
 
 Behind their backs six minstrels came, 
 Who tuned the strange bataunt. 
 
 Then came the mayor and aldermen, 
 
 In cloth of scarlet decked ; 
 And their attending men each one. 
 
 Like Eastern princes tricked. 
 
 And after them a multitude 
 
 Of citizens did tlirong ; 
 The windows were all full of heads 
 
 As he did pass along. 
 
 And when he came to the high cross. 
 Sir Charles did turn and say, 
 
 " Thou that savest man from sin. 
 Wash my soul clean this day." 
 
 At the great minster window sat 
 
 The king in micklc state. 
 To see Charles Bawdin go along 
 
 To Ills most welcome fate. 
 
 ■Q> 
 
a- 
 
 BRISTOW TRAGEDY. 
 
 509 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Soon as the sleddc drew nigh enough, 
 
 That Edward he might hear, 
 The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, 
 
 And thus his words declare : 
 
 " Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile ! 
 
 Exposed to infamy ; 
 But be assured, disloyal man, 
 
 I 'm greater now than thee. 
 
 " By foul proceedings, murder, blood. 
 
 Thou wearest now a crown ; 
 And hast appointed me to die 
 
 By power not thine own. 
 
 " Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ; 
 
 I have been dead till now. 
 And soon shall live to wear a crown 
 
 For aye upon my brow ; 
 
 "Wliilst thou, perhaps, for some few years 
 
 Shalt ride this fickle land, 
 To let them know how wide the ride 
 
 'Twixt king and tyrant hand. 
 
 Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave ! 
 
 Shall fall on thy own head " — 
 From out of hearing of the king 
 
 Departed then the sledde. 
 
 King Edward's soul rushed to his face. 
 
 He turned his head away, 
 And to his brother Gloucester 
 
 He thus did speak and say : 
 
 " To him that so-much-dreaded death 
 
 No ghastly terrors bring ; 
 Behold the man ! he spake the truth ; 
 
 He 's greater than a king ! " 
 
 " So let him die ! " Duke Richard said ; 
 
 " And may each one our foes 
 Bend down their necks to bloody axe. 
 
 And feed the carrion crows." 
 
 And now the horses gently drew 
 
 Sir Charles up the high hill ; 
 The axe did gUster in the sun, 
 
 His precious blood to spill. 
 
 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, 
 , As up a gilded car 
 Of victory, by valorous cliiefs 
 Gained in the bloody war. 
 
 And to the people he did say : 
 
 " Behold, you see me die 
 For serving loyally my king, 
 
 My king most rightfully. 
 
 " As long as Edward rules this land 
 No quiet you will know ; 
 
 Your sons and husbands shall be slain. 
 And brooks with blood shall flow. 
 
 " You leave your good and lawful king 
 
 When in adversity ; 
 Like me, unto the true cause stick, 
 
 And for the true cause die." 
 
 Then he, with priests, upon his knees 
 A prayer to God did make. 
 
 Beseeching him unto himself 
 His parting sold to take. 
 
 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head 
 Most seemly on the block ; 
 
 Which from his body fair at once 
 The able headsman stroke : 
 
 And out the blood began to flow. 
 And round the scaffold twine ; 
 
 And tears, enough to wash 't away, 
 Did flow from each man's eyne. 
 
 The bloody axe his body fair 
 
 Into four partis cut ; 
 And every part, and eke his head. 
 
 Upon a pole was put. 
 
 One part did rot on Kiiiwulph Hill , 
 
 One on the minster-tower. 
 And one from off the castle-gate 
 
 The crowen did devour. 
 
 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, 
 
 A dreary spectacle ; 
 His head was placed on the high cross, 
 
 In high street most noble. 
 
 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate : 
 God prosper long our king. 
 
 And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul. 
 In heaven God's mercy sing 
 
 WILLIAM ROSCOE. 
 
 1753-1831. 
 
 SONNET ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS. 
 
 As one who destined from his friends to part 
 Regrets his loss, but hopes again crewhile 
 To share their converse and enjoy their smile. 
 And tempers, as he may, atBiction's dart ; 
 Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
 Teachers of wisdom, who coidd once beguile 
 My tedious hours and hghten every toil, — 
 I now resign you ! Nor with fainting heart ; 
 For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold 
 
 -05 
 
(Or 
 
 510 
 
 CEABBE. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 *- 
 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 Wlien, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 Mind shall witli miud direct commuuiou hold. 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 
 
 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 1754-1838. 
 
 THE PARISH WOBKHOnSE AND APOTHECARY. 
 
 Theiks is yon house that holds the parish poor, 
 Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; 
 There, where the putrid vapors flagging play, 
 And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; 
 There children dwell who know no parents' care ; 
 Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; 
 Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed. 
 Forsaken wives and mothers never wed, 
 Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 
 And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; 
 The lame, the blmd, and, far the happiest they ! 
 The moping idiot and the madman gay. 
 
 Here too the sick their final doom receive. 
 Here brought amid the scenes of grief to grieve, 
 Where the loud groans from some sad chamber 
 
 flow. 
 Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; 
 Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. 
 And the cold charities of man to man : 
 Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide. 
 And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from 
 
 pride ; 
 But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 
 And pride imbitters what it can't deny. 
 Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes. 
 Some jarriug nerve that baffles your repose ; 
 Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance 
 With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; 
 Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, 
 To name the nameless ever-new disease ; 
 Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, 
 Wliich real pain and that alone can cure ; 
 How woidd ye bear in real pain to lie. 
 Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? 
 How would ye bear to draw your latest brcatli 
 Where all that 's wretched pave the way for death ? 
 Such is that room which one rude beam divides. 
 And naked rafters form the sloping sides; 
 Wiere the vile bands that bind the thatch arc seen. 
 And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 
 Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives 
 
 way 
 To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
 Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'crsprcad. 
 The drooping wretch reclines liis languid head ; 
 For him no hand Ihe cordial cup applies. 
 
 Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; 
 No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile. 
 Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. 
 
 But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, 
 Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls ; 
 Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat. 
 All pride and busmess, bustle and conceit. 
 With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, 
 With speed that, entering, speaks liis haste to go ; 
 He bids the gazing throng around him fly. 
 And carries fate and physic in his eye ; 
 A potent quack, long versed in human ills. 
 Who first insults the victim whom he kills ; 
 Whose murderous hand a drowsy bench protect. 
 And whose most tender mercy is neglect. 
 
 Paid by the parish for attendance here. 
 He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer ; 
 In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, 
 Impatience marked in his averted eyes ; 
 And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, 
 Without reply, he rushes on the door ; 
 His droopuig patient, long inured to pain. 
 And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain ; 
 He ceases now the feeble help to crave 
 Of man ; and sUent sinks into the grave. 
 
 T/ie nilage. 
 
 ISAAC ASHTOKD, THE PEASANT. 
 
 Next to these ladies, but in naught allied, 
 A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
 Noble he was, contemning all things mean. 
 His truth unquestioned and his soul serene : 
 Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
 At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed : 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ; 
 Yet while the serious thought his soul approved. 
 Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved; 
 To bliss domestic he his heart resigned. 
 And with the firmest, had the fondest mind : 
 Were others joyfid, he looked smiling on, 
 And gave allowance where he needed none ; 
 Good he refused with future ill to buy, 
 Nor knew a joy that caused redcetion's sigh; 
 A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 
 No envy stung, no jealousy distressed 
 (Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind 
 To miss one favor which their neighbors find) ; 
 Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ; 
 He felt humanely, and he warmly loved : 
 I marked his action when his infant died. 
 And his old neighbor for offence was tried ; 
 The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek, 
 Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. 
 If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride 
 Who, in their base contemjit, the great deride ; 
 Nor pride in learning, though mv clerk agreed, 
 
 — —*-^ 
 
<&r 
 
 PHCEBE DAWSON. 
 
 511 
 
 ^ 
 
 If fate should call him, Asliford might succeed ; 
 Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 
 None his superior, and his equals few: 
 But if that spirit in his soul had place. 
 It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 
 A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, 
 In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained ; 
 Pride in the power that guards his country 's coast. 
 And all that EngUshmeu enjoy and boast; 
 Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, 
 In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. 
 
 He had no party's rage, no sectary's whim ; 
 Ciiristian and countryman was all with him ; 
 True to his church he came ; no Sunday shower 
 Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
 Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect 
 By the strong glare of their new light direct ; 
 " On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze. 
 But shoidd be bhnd and lose it in your blaze." 
 
 lu times severe, when many a sturdy swain 
 Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain, 
 Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would 
 
 hide. 
 And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
 
 At length he found, when seventy years were run. 
 His strength departed and his labor done ; 
 When, save his honest fame, he kept no more ; 
 But lost his wife and saw his children poor ; 
 'T was then a spark of — say not discontent — 
 Struck on liis mind, and thus he gave it vent : 
 
 " Kind are your laws ('t is not to be denied) 
 That hi yon house for ruined age provide, 
 And they are just ; when young, we give you all. 
 And then for comforts in our weakness call. 
 Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, 
 To join your poor and eat the parish-bread ? 
 But yet I Unger, loath with liim to feed 
 Who gains liis plenty by the sons of need : 
 He who, by contract, all your paupers took, 
 And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
 On some old master I could well depend ; 
 See him with joy and thank him as a friend ; 
 But ill on him who doles the day's supply, 
 And counts our chances who at night may die : 
 Yet help me, Heaven ! and let me not complain 
 Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." 
 
 Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew; 
 Daily he placed the workhouse in his view ! 
 But came not there, for sudden was his fate. 
 He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. 
 
 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
 And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ; 
 I see no more those white locks thinly spread 
 Round the bald polish of that honored head ; 
 No more that awful glance on playful wight 
 Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight; 
 To fold his fingers all in dread the while, 
 Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile ; 
 
 No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
 
 Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there : 
 
 But he is blest, and I lament no more, 
 A wise good man contented to be poor. 
 
 Parish Register. 
 
 PHCEBE DAWSON. 
 
 Two summers smee I saw at Lammas fair 
 The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there ; 
 When Phffibe Dawson gayly crossed the green, 
 In haste to see and happy to be seen ; 
 Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired, 
 Courteous though coy, and gentle though .retired ; 
 The joy of youth and health her eyes disjilayed. 
 And ease of heart her every look conveyed; 
 A native skill her simple robes expressed. 
 As with untutored elegance she dressed ; 
 The lads around admired so fair a sight, 
 And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 
 Admirers soon of every age she gained. 
 Her beauty won them and her worth retained ; 
 Envy itself could no contempt display. 
 They wished her well, whom yet they wished away ; 
 Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place 
 Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace ; 
 But yet on Sunday eve, in freedom's hour. 
 With secret joy she felt that beauty's power ; 
 When some proud bliss upon the heart woiJd steal, 
 That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 
 
 At length, the youth ordained to move her breast 
 Before the swains with bolder spirit pressed ; 
 With looks less timid made his passion known. 
 And pleased by manners most unlike her o\vn ; 
 Loud though in love, and confident though young; 
 Fierce in liis air, and voluble of tongue ; 
 By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade. 
 He served the squire, and brushed the coat he 
 
 made ; 
 Yet now, would Phrebe her consent aff'ord, 
 Her slave alone, again he 'd mount the board ; 
 With licr should years of grooving love be spent. 
 And growing wealth : she sighed and looked con- 
 sent. 
 Now, through the lane, up hiU, and cross the 
 green 
 (Seen by but few and blushing to be seen, — 
 Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid). 
 Led by the lover, walked the silent maid : 
 Slow through the meadows roved they many a 
 
 mUe, 
 Toyed by each bank and trifled at each stUe ; 
 Wlicre, as he painted every blissful view. 
 And highly colored what he strongly drew, 
 The pensive damsel, prone to teiuler fears. 
 Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears : 
 Thus passed the allotted hours, till, lingering late, 
 The lover loitered at the master's gate ; 
 
 -S^ 
 
a- 
 
 512 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 There lie pronounced adieu ! and yet would stay, 
 Till cliiddeu, soothed, entreated, forced away ! 
 , He would of coldness, though indulged, complain. 
 And oft retire and oft return again ; 
 When, if his teasing vexed lier gentle mind. 
 The grief assumed compelled her to be kind ! 
 For he would proof of plighted kindness crave. 
 That she resented first, aud then forgave. 
 And to his grief and penauee yielded more 
 Than his presumption had required before : 
 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ; refrain ! refrain! 
 Each yielding maid and each presuming 
 swain ! 
 Lo ! now with red rent cloak aud bonnet black, 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains, 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains ; 
 Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread, 
 Wliose cares are growing and whose hopes arc 
 
 fled; 
 Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low. 
 And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 Erets the meek soul, and then she 's calm again ; 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes. 
 And every step with cautious terror makes ; 
 Eor not alone that infant in her arms. 
 But nearer cause her anxious soul alarms ; 
 With water burdened then she picks her way. 
 Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay ; 
 Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound. 
 And deeply plunges in the adhesive ground ; 
 Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, 
 W'hUe hope the mind as strength the frame for- 
 sakes ; 
 For when so full the eup of sorrow grows, 
 Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 
 And now her path but not her peace she gains. 
 Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; 
 Her home she reaches, open leaves the door. 
 And placing first her infant on the floor. 
 She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits. 
 And sobbing struggles with the rising fits ; 
 In vain, they come, she feels the inflating grief 
 That shuts the sweUing bosom from relief ; 
 That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed. 
 Or the sad laugh that cannot be repressed ; 
 The neighbor-matron leaves her wheel, and flies 
 With all the aid her poverty supplies ; 
 Uufecd, the calls of nature she obeys. 
 Not led by profit, not allured by praise ; 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease. 
 She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 
 
 Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy aid, 
 She cannot pay tlicc, but thou wilt be paid. 
 But who this child of weakness, want, and 
 care? 
 'T is Plm^bc Dawson, pride of Ijammas fair ; 
 
 Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes. 
 Expressions warm, and love-inspiring Ues : 
 Compassion first assailed her gentle heart 
 For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart : 
 " And then his prayers ! they would a savage 
 
 move, 
 And win the coldest of the sex to love " ; 
 But ah ! too soon his looks success declared. 
 Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired ; 
 The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, 
 A captious tyrant or a noisy sot : 
 If present, railiug till he saw her pained ; 
 If absent, spending what their labors gained : 
 Till that fair form in want aud sickness pined. 
 And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 
 
 Then fly temptation, youth ; resist ! refrain ! 
 
 Nor let me preach forever and in vain ! 
 
 Parish Reffistei: 
 
 DEEAM OF TEE CONDEMNED FELON. 
 
 Yes ! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain, 
 He hears the sentence and he feels the chaiu ; 
 He sees the judge and jury when he shakes. 
 And loudly cries, " Not guilty," and awakes : 
 Then cliilUng tremblings o'er his body creep, 
 Till worn-out nature is compelled to sleep. 
 
 Now comes the dream again : it shows each 
 scene. 
 With each small circumstance that comes be- 
 tween, — 
 The call to suffering, and the very deed, — 
 There crowds go with him, follow, and precede ; 
 Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn, 
 Wliile he in fancied envy looks at them : 
 He seems the place for that sad act to sec, 
 And dreams the very thirst whicli then will be ; 
 A priest attends, — it seems tlie one he knew 
 In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. 
 
 At this his terrors take a sudden flight ; 
 He sees his native village with delight ; 
 The house, the chamber, where he once arr.ayed 
 His youthful person, where he knelt and prayed ; 
 Then, too, the comforts he enjoyed at home, 
 The days of joy; the joys themselves are come; 
 The hours of innoccuec, the timid look 
 Of liis loved maid, when first her hand he took 
 Aud told his hope ; her trembling joy appears. 
 Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears. 
 All now are present, — 't is a moment's gleam 
 Of former sunsliinc, — stay, delightful dream ! 
 Let him within his pleasant garden walk. 
 Give him her arm, of blessings let tiicm talk. 
 
 Yes ! all are witli him now, and all the while 
 Life's early prosjiects and his Fanny's smile ; - 
 Then come his sister aud his nllage friend. 
 And he will now the sweetest moments s))end 
 Life has to yield : no, never will he find 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 STOEY OF A BETKOTHED PAIR IN HUMBLE LIFE. 
 
 513 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Again on earth such pleasure in his mind : 
 
 ite goes through shrubby wallcs these friends 
 
 among, 
 Love ill their looks and honor on the tongue ; 
 Nay, there 's a eharm beyond what nature shows, 
 Tlic bloom is softer, and more sweetly glows ; 
 Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire 
 For more than true and honest hearts require. 
 They feel the calm dehght, and thus proceed 
 Through the green lane, then linger in the mead. 
 Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, 
 And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum ; 
 Then through the broomy bound with ease they 
 
 pass, 
 And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass. 
 Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are 
 
 spread. 
 And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed ; 
 Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their 
 
 way 
 O'er its rough bridge, and there behold the bay; 
 The ocean smiling to the fervid sun. 
 The waves tliat faintly fall, and slowly run. 
 The ships at distance, and the boats at hand ; 
 And now they walk upon the seaside sand. 
 Counting the number, and what kind they be, 
 Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea ; 
 Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold 
 The glittering waters on the sliingles rolled : 
 The timid girls, half dreading their design, 
 Dip the small foot in the retarded brine. 
 And search for crimson weeds, which spreading 
 
 flow. 
 Or lie like pictures on the sand below ; • 
 With all those bright red pebbles that the sun 
 Through the small waves so softly sliines upon ; 
 And those live lucid jellies which the eye 
 Delights to trace as they swim ghttering by ; 
 Pearl shells and rubied star-fish they admire. 
 And will arrange above the parlor fire. 
 Tokens of bliss ! " O, horrible ! a wave 
 Roars as it rises, — save me, Edward, save ! " 
 She cries. Alas ! the watchman on his way 
 Calls, and lets in — truth, terror, and the day ! 
 
 The Borough. 
 
 STOEY or A BETROTHED PAIR IN HUMBLE LIFE. 
 
 Yes, there are real mourners ; I have seen 
 A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene ; 
 Attention through the day her duties claimed, 
 And to be useful as resigned she aimed ; 
 Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed to expect 
 Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; 
 But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep. 
 She soiiglit her place to meditate and weep : 
 Then to her mind was all the past displayed. 
 That faitliful memory brings to sorrow's aid ; 
 
 For then she thought on. one regretted youth. 
 Her tender trust, and his unqviestioned truth ; 
 In every place she wandered where they 'd been, 
 And sadly sacred held the parting scene 
 Where last for sea he took liis leave, — that place 
 With double interest would she nightly trace ; 
 For long the courtship was, and he would say. 
 Each time he sailed, " Tliis once, and then the 
 
 day"; 
 Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went 
 He drew from pitying love a full consent. 
 
 Happy he sailed, and great the care she took 
 .That he should softly sleep and smartly look ; 
 White was his better linen, and his check 
 Was made more trim than any on the deck ; 
 And every comfort men at sea can know. 
 Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow ; 
 For he to GreeiJand sailed, and much she told 
 How he should guard against the climate's cold, 
 Yet saw not danger, dangers he 'd withstood. 
 Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. 
 His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek. 
 And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak ; 
 For now he found the danger, felt the pain, 
 W^ith grievous symptoms he could not explain. 
 
 He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh 
 A lover's message, — " Thomas, I must die ; 
 Would I could see my Sally, and could rest 
 My throbbing temples on her faitliful breast. 
 And gazing go ! if not, this trifle take. 
 And say, till death I wore it for her sake. 
 Yes, I must die, — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on! 
 Give me one look before my life be gone ; 
 O, give me that ! and let me not despair, — 
 Onelastfond look, — and now repeat the prayer." 
 
 He had liis wish, and more. I will not paint 
 The lovers' meeting : she beheld him faint, — 
 With tender fears she took a nearer view, 
 Her terrors doubUng as her hopes withdrew ; 
 He tried to smile, and half succeeding, said, 
 "Yes, I must die," — and hope forever fled. 
 
 Still long she nursed him ; tender thoughts 
 meantime 
 Were interchanged, and liopes and views sublime. 
 To her he came to die, and every day 
 She took some portion of the dread away ; 
 With him she prayed, to him his Bible read. 
 Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head ; 
 She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer. 
 Apart she sighed, alone she shed the tear ; 
 Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
 Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 
 
 One day lie lighter seemed, and they forgot 
 The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; 
 They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think , 
 Yet said not so, — " Perhaps he will not sink." 
 A sudden brightness in his look appeared, 
 A sudden vipror in his voice was heard ; 
 
 ^^- 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 5U 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Slie had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 
 And led liim forth, and phiced him in Ins chair ; 
 Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew, 
 The friendly many, and the favorite few : 
 Nor one that day did he to mind reeall. 
 But she has treasured, and she loves them all. 
 When iu her way she meets them, they appear 
 Peculiar people, — death has made them dear. 
 He named his friend, but then his hand she pressed, 
 And fondly whispered, " Thou must go to rest." 
 " I go," he said, but as he spoke she found 
 His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ; 
 Then gazed aU'rightened, but she caught a last, 
 A dying look of love, and all was past. 
 
 She placed a decent stone his grave above. 
 Neatly engraved, an oft'eriug of her love : 
 For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, 
 Awake alike to duty and tlie dead. 
 She would have giieved had they presumed to spare 
 The least assistance, — 't was her proper care. 
 Here will she come, and on the grave will sit. 
 Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit ; 
 But if observer pass, will take her round, 
 And careless seem, for she would not be found ; 
 Then go again, and thus her hour em])loy, 
 Wliile visions please her, and while woes destroy. 
 ,^, The Borough. 
 
 THE LOVER'S JOUENET.* 
 
 It is the soul that sees ; the outward eyes 
 Present the object, but the mind descries ; 
 And thence delight, disgust, or cool indifference 
 
 rise; 
 When minds are joyful, then we look around. 
 And what is seen is all on fairy ground ; 
 Again they sicken, and on every view 
 Cast their own dull and melancholy hue; 
 Or, if absorbed by their peculiar cares, 
 The vacant eye on viewless matter glares. 
 Our feelings still upon our views attend. 
 And their own natures to the objects lend ; 
 Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure, 
 Long as the passion reigns the cfrcefs endure; 
 But Love in minds his various changes makes. 
 And clothes each object with the change he takes ; 
 His light and shade on every view he throws. 
 And on each object, what he feels, bestows. 
 
 Fair was the morning, and the montli was June, 
 When rose a lover ; love awakens soon ; 
 ]5rief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while 
 Of that day's meeting, and his Laura's smile ; 
 Fancy and love that name assigned to her, 
 Called Susan in the parish-register ; 
 And he no more was John — his Ijaura gave 
 The name Orlando to lier faithful slave. 
 
 Bright shone the glory of the rising day, 
 When the fond traveller took his favorite way ; 
 
 This Ink- lUckcns was never tired of praisin-;. 
 
 He mounted gayly, felt his bosom light. 
 And all he saw was pleasing in his sight. 
 
 " Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly. 
 And bring on hours of blest reahty ; 
 When I shall Laura see, beside her stand. 
 Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand." 
 
 First o'er a barren heath beside the coast 
 Orlando rode, and joy began to boast. 
 
 "This neat low gorse," said he, "with golden 
 bloom, 
 Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume ; 
 And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers, 
 A man at leisure migl-.t admire for hours ; 
 This green-fringed eup-moss has a scarlet tip. 
 That yields to nothing but my Ijaura's lip ; 
 And then how fine this herbage ! men may say 
 A heath is barren ; nothing is so gay : 
 Barren or bare to call such charming scene 
 Argues a mind possessed by care and spleen." 
 
 Onward he went, and fiercer grew tlie heat. 
 Dust rose in clouds before the horse's feet ; 
 For now he passed through lanes of burning sand. 
 Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured laud ; 
 Where the dark poppy flourished on the dry 
 And sterile soil, and mocked the thin-set rye. 
 
 " How lovely this ! " the rapt Orlando said ; 
 " With what delight is laboring man repaid ! 
 The very lane has sweets that all admire, 
 Tlie rambhng suckling and the vigorous brier ; 
 See ! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way. 
 Where dew-pressed yet the dog-rose bends the 
 
 spray ; 
 Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn, 
 .Vnd snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn ; 
 No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall, 
 They spring uncultured and they Ijlooni for all." 
 
 The lover rode as hasty lovers ride. 
 And reached a common jiasture wild and wide; 
 Small black-legged sheep devour wit h hunger keen 
 The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean ; 
 Sueli o'er thy level turf, Newmarket ! stray. 
 And there, with other black-legs, find their prey : 
 He saw some scattered hovels ; turf was piled 
 In square brown stacks ; a prospect bleak and wild ! 
 A mill, indeed, was in tlie centre found. 
 With short sere herbage withering all around ; 
 A smith's lilaek siiedop])osedawriglit'sloiigsho]). 
 And joined an inn where humble travellers stop. 
 
 " Ay, this is nature," said the gentle squire ; 
 " This ease, peace, pleasure, — who would not 
 
 admire ? 
 With what delight these sturdy children Jilay, 
 And joyful rustics at the close of day ; 
 Sport follows labor, on this even space 
 ^Vill soon commcnee the wrestling and the race ; 
 Then will the village-maidens leave their home, 
 And to the dance with buoyant spirits come ; 
 No afl'ectation iu I heir looks is seen. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
e 
 
 THE LOVER'S JOURNEY. 
 
 515 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Nor know they what disguise or flattery mean ; 
 Nor aught to move an envious pang they see. 
 Easy their service, and their love is free ; 
 llcuce early springs that love, it long endures, 
 And hfe's first cumt'ort, while they live, insures : 
 Tliey the low roof and rustic comforts prize. 
 Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes : 
 Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, 
 And leani what busier mortals feel and fear; 
 Secure themselves, although by tales amazed. 
 Of towns bombarded and of cities razed ; 
 As if they doubted, iu their still retreat. 
 The very news that makes their quiet sweet, 
 And their days happy, — happier only knows 
 He on wliom Laura her regard bestows." 
 
 On rode Orlando, counting all the while 
 The miles he passed and every coining mile; 
 Like all attracted tilings, he quicker tiies, 
 The place approaching where the attraction lies; 
 When next appeared a dam, — so call the place, — 
 Where lies a road conlliicd in narrow space ; 
 A work of labor, for on either side 
 Is level fen, a ])rospect wild and wide. 
 With dikes on cither hand by ocean's self supplied : 
 Far on the right the distant sea is seen, 
 And salt the s]n-iiigs that feed the marsh between : 
 Beneath an ancient bridge, the straitened flood 
 Rolls tiirough its sloping banks of slimy mud ; 
 Near it a sunken boat resists the tide. 
 That frets and hurries to the opposing side ; 
 The rusiies sharp, tiiat on the borders grow, 
 Bend their brown flowerets to the stream below. 
 Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow : 
 Here a grave Flora scarcely deigus to bloom, 
 Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume ; 
 The few dull flowers tliat o'er the place are spread 
 "Partake the nature of their fenny bed. 
 Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 
 Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume ; 
 Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh. 
 And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; 
 Low on the ear the distant billows sound, 
 And just iu view appears their stony bound ; 
 No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun ; 
 Birds, save a watery tribe, the district shun, 
 Nor chirpamong the reeds where bitter waters run. 
 
 " Various as beauteous. Nature, is thy face," 
 Exclaimed Orlando ; " All that grows has grace ; 
 All are appropriate , — bog, and marsh, and fen, 
 Are only poor to undiscerning men ; 
 Here may the nice and curious eye ex])lore 
 How Nature's hand adorns the rushy moor ; 
 Here the rare moss in secret shade is found, 
 Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground ; 
 Beauties are these that from tlie view retire. 
 But well repay the attention they require ; 
 For these my Laura will her home forsake. 
 And all the pleasures they afford partake." 
 
 Again the country was enclosed, a wide 
 And sandy road has banks on either side ; 
 Where, lo ! a hollow on the left apjicarcd. 
 And there a gypsy tribe their tent had reared ; 
 'T was open spread, to catch the niorniug sun. 
 And they had now their early meal begun, 
 When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, 
 The early traveller with their prayers to greet ; 
 While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, 
 He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 
 Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly. 
 Prepared the force of early [lowers to try ; 
 Sudden a look of languor he desciies. 
 And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes ; 
 Trained, but yet savage, in her speaking face 
 He marked the features of her vagrant race ; 
 When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed 
 The vice implanted in her youthful breast : 
 Forth from the tent her elder brother came, 
 Who seemed offended, yet forbore to blame 
 The young designer, but could only trace 
 The looks of pity iu the traveller's face. 
 Within tlie father, who from fences nigh 
 Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, 
 Watched now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected 
 
 by; 
 On ragged rug, just borrowed from the bed, 
 And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, 
 In dirty ])atchwork negligently dressed. 
 Reclined the wife, au infant at her breast ; 
 In her wild face some touch of grace remained. 
 Of vigor palsied and of beauty stained ; 
 Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 
 Were wrathful turned, and seemed her wants to 
 
 state. 
 Cursing his tardy aid. Her mother there 
 With gypsy state engrossed the only cliair ; 
 Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stands, 
 And reads the milkmaid's fortune in her hands, 
 Tracing the lines of life ; assumed through years. 
 Each feature now the steady falsehood wears; 
 Witli hard and savage eye she views the food. 
 And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 
 Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits. 
 Neglected, lost, and living but by fits ; 
 Useless, despised, his worthless labors done. 
 And lialf protected by the vicious son, 
 Who half supports him ; he with heavy glance 
 Views the young ruffians who around him dance; 
 And, by the sadness in his face, a])pears 
 To trace the progress of their future years; 
 Through what strange course of misery, vice, 
 
 deceit. 
 Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat -. 
 What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, 
 Sport of flerce passions, must each cliild sustain, 
 Ere they like him approach their latter end, 
 Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! 
 
 -8^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 51G 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 ■to 
 
 But this Orlando felt not; " Rogues," said lie, 
 " Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be; 
 They wander round the land, and be it true, 
 Tiiey break, the laws, — tiieu let the laws pursue 
 The wanton idlers ; for the life they live. 
 Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive." 
 This said, a portion from his purse was thrown, 
 And every heart seemed happy like his own. 
 
 He hurried forth, for now tlie town was nigh, — 
 "The happiest man of mortal men am I." 
 Thou art ! but change in every state is near 
 (So while the wretched hope, the blest may fear) ; 
 "Say, where is Laura?" "That her words 
 
 must show," 
 A lass replied ; " read this, aud thou shalt know ! " 
 
 "What, gone ! " — her friend insisted — forced 
 to go ; — 
 " Is vexed, was teased, could not refuse her !— No?" 
 " But you can follow." " Yes." " The miles are 
 
 few, 
 The way is pleasant ; will you come ? — Adieu ! 
 Tiiy Laura ! " " No ! I feel I must resign 
 The pleasing hope, thou hadst been here, if mine : 
 A lady was it? — Was no brother there? 
 But why should I afflict me if there were ? " 
 " The way is pleasant." " Wliat to me the way ? 
 I cannot reach her till the close of day. 
 My dumb companion ! is it thus we speed ? 
 Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed ; 
 Still art thou doom'd to travel and to pine, 
 For my vexation — What a fate is mine I 
 
 " Gone to a friend, she tells me ; 1 commend 
 Her purpose ; means she to a female friend ? 
 By Heaven, I wish she suffered half the pain 
 Of hope protracted through the day in vain : 
 Shall 1 persist to see the ungrateful maid ? 
 Yes, 1 will see her, slight her, and upbraid : 
 What ! in the very hour ? she knew the time. 
 And doubtless chose it to increase her crime." 
 
 Forth rode Orlando by a river's side, • 
 Liland and winding, smooth and full and wide. 
 That rolled majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide ; 
 The bottom gravel, flowery were the banks. 
 Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks; 
 The road, now near, now distant, winding led 
 By lovely meadows which the waters fed ; 
 He passed tlic wayside inn, the village spire. 
 Nor stopped to gaze, to question, or admire ; 
 On either side the rural mansions stood. 
 With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crowned with 
 
 wood. 
 And many a devioUs stream that reached the no- 
 bler flood. 
 " I hate these scenes," Orlando angry cried, 
 "And these proud farmers ! yes, I hate their pride: 
 See ! tiiat sleek fellow, how he strides along. 
 Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong; 
 Can yon close crops a single eye detain 
 
 But his who counts the profits of the grain ? 
 And these vile beans with deleterious smell. 
 Where is their beauty ? can a mortal tell ? 
 These deep fat meadows I detest ; it shocks 
 One's feelings there to see the grazing ox ; — 
 For slaugliter fatted, as a lady's smile 
 Rejoices man, and means his death the while. 
 Lo ! now the sons of labor ! every day 
 Employed in toil, aud vexed in every way; 
 Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal, 
 Li their affected joys, the ills they feel : 
 I hate these long green lanes ; there 's nothing seen 
 In this vile country but eternal green ; 
 Woods! waters! meadows! Will they never end? 
 'T is a vile prospect : ' Gone to see a friend ! '" 
 
 Still on he rode ! a mansion fair and tall 
 Rose on his view, — the pride of Loddon Hall : 
 Spread o'er the park he saw the grazing steer, 
 The full-fed steed, the herds of bounding deer : 
 On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams played, 
 Tlirough noble elms, and on the surface made 
 That moving picture, checkered light and shade; 
 The attended children, there indulged to stray, 
 Enjoyed and gave new beauty to the day ; 
 Whose happy parents from their room were seen 
 Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green. 
 
 " Well ! " said Orlando, "aud for one so blessed, 
 A thousand reasoning wretches are distressed ; 
 Nay, these so seeming glad are grieving like the 
 
 rest : 
 Man is a cheat, — and all but strive to hide 
 Their inward misery by their outward pride. 
 What do yon lofty gates and walls contain. 
 But fruitless means to soothe unconquered jiaiu ? 
 The parents read each infant daughter's smile. 
 Formed to seduce, encouraged to beguile; 
 They view the boys unconscious of their fate; * 
 Sure to be tempted, sure to take the bait ; 
 These will be Lauras, sad Orlandos these ; — 
 There 's guilt and grief in all one hears aud sees." 
 
 Our traveller, laboring up a hill, looked down 
 Upon a lively, busy, pleasant town ; 
 All he beheld were there alert, ahve. 
 The busiest bees that ever stocked a hive : 
 A pair were married, and the bells aloud 
 Proclaimed their joy, and joyful seemed the crowd; 
 And now proceeding on his way, he spied. 
 Bound by strong ties, the bridegroom and the 
 
 bride : 
 Each by some friends attended, near they drew, 
 And spleen beheld them with prophetic view. 
 
 "Married ! nay, mad ! " Orlando cried in scorn; 
 " Another wretch on this unlucky morn : 
 What arc this foolish mirth, these idle joys ? 
 Attempts to stifle doubt and fear by noise : 
 To me these robes, expressive of delight. 
 Foreshow distress, aud only grief excite ; 
 And for these elu-erful friends, will thev behold 
 
 ^ 
 
 -P 
 
<&- 
 
 SONG OF THE CRAZED MAIDEN. 
 
 )17 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Their wailiug brood in sickness, want, and cold ; 
 And Ills proud look, and her soft languid air 
 Will — but I spare you — go, unhappy pair ! " 
 
 And now approaching to the journey's end. 
 His auger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend, 
 He less offended feels, and rather fears to offend : 
 Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt. 
 And easts a sunsliine on the views without ; 
 And still reviving joy and lingering gloom 
 Alternate empire o'er his soul assume; 
 Till, long perplexed, he now began to find 
 The softer thoughts engross the settUug mind : 
 He saw the mansion, and should quickly see 
 His Laura's self, — and angry could he be ? 
 No ! the resentment melted all away, — 
 " For this my grief a single smile will pay," 
 Our traveller cried ; " and why should it offend, 
 That one so good should have a pressiug friend ? 
 Grieve not, my heart ! to find a favorite guest 
 Thy pride and boast, — ye selfish sorrows, rest ; 
 She will he kind, and I again be blest." 
 
 While gentler jjassions thus his bosom swayed. 
 He reached the mansion, and he saw the maid ; 
 " My Laura ! " — " My Orlando ! — this is kind ; 
 In truth I came persuaded, not inchned : 
 Our friends' amusement let us now pursue. 
 And I to-morrow will return with you." 
 
 Like man entranced, the happy lover stood, — 
 " As Laura wills, for slie is kuid and good ; 
 Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best, — 
 As Laura wills, I see her and am blest." 
 
 Home went the lovers through that busy place. 
 By Loddon Hall, the country's pride and grace ; 
 By the rich meadows where the oxen fed, 
 Th rough the green vale that formed the river's bed ; 
 And by unnumbered cottages and farms. 
 That have for musing minds unnumbered charms ; 
 And how affected by the view of these 
 Was then Orlando, — did they pain or please ? 
 
 Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield, — and 
 why? 
 The mind was fdled, was happy, and the eye 
 Roved o'er the fleeting views, that but appeared 
 to die. 
 
 Alone Orlando on the morrow paced 
 The well-known road ; the gypsy-tent he traced ; 
 The dam high-raised, the reedy dikes between. 
 The scattered hovels on the barren green. 
 The burning sand, the fields of thiu-set rye. 
 Mocked by tlie useless Flora, blooming by. 
 And last the heath with all its vaiious bloom, 
 And the close lanes that led the traveller home. 
 
 Then could these scenes the former joys renew? 
 Or was there now dejection in the view ? — 
 Nor one or other would they yield, — and why ? 
 The mind was absent, and the vacant eye 
 Wandered o'er viewless scenes, that but appeared 
 to die. 7/i/(',<. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 GRADUAL APPROACHES OF AQE, 
 
 Six years had passed, and forty ere the six. 
 When time began to play his usual tricks ; 
 The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, 
 Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching 
 
 white ; 
 The blood, once fervid, now to cool began. 
 And time's strong pressure to subdue the man. 
 I rode or walked as I was wont before. 
 But now the bounding spirit was no more ; 
 A moderate pace would now my body heat ; 
 A walk of moderate length distress my feet. 
 I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime. 
 But said, " The view is poor ; we need not cUmb." 
 At a friend's mansion I began to dread 
 The cold neat parlor and tlie gay glazed bed ; 
 At home I felt a more decided taste. 
 And must have all things in my order placed. 
 I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less, — 
 My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess. 
 I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute 
 Was disappointed that I did not shoot. 
 My morning walks I now could bear to lose. 
 And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose ; 
 In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ; 
 The active arm, the agile hand, were gone ; 
 Small daily actions into habits grew. 
 And new dishke to forms and fasliions new. 
 I loved my trees in order to dispose ; 
 I nnmbei-ed peaches, looked how stocks arose ; 
 Told the same story oft, — in short, began to pi-ose. 
 
 Ta/es of the Hall. 
 
 SONG OF THE CRAZED MAIDEN. 
 
 Let me not have this gloomy view 
 
 About my room, about my bed ; 
 But morning roses, wet with dew. 
 
 To cool my buniing brow instead ; 
 As flowers that once in Eden grew. 
 
 Let them their fragrant spirits shed. 
 And every day their sweets i-enew, 
 
 Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 
 
 O, let the herbs I loved to rear 
 
 Give to ray sense their perfumed breath! 
 Let them be placed about my bier. 
 
 And grace the gloomy house of death. 
 I '11 have my grave beneath a hill. 
 
 Where oidy Lucy's self shall know. 
 Where runs the pure pellucid rill 
 
 Upon its gravelly bed below : 
 There violets on the borders blow. 
 
 And insects their soft light display. 
 Till, as the morning sunbeams glow. 
 
 The cold phosphoric fires decay. 
 
 That is the grave to Lucy shovni ; 
 Tlie soil a pure and silver sand ; 
 
 ■^ 
 
518 
 
 GEANT. — GIFFORD. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 The green cold moss above it grown, 
 Unpliioked of all but maiden hand. 
 
 In virgin earth, till then unturned, 
 There let my maiden form be laid ; 
 
 Nor let my changed clay be spurned, 
 Nor for new guest that bed be made. 
 
 There will the lark, the lamb, in sport, 
 
 In air, on earth, securely play : 
 And Lucy to my grave resort. 
 
 As innocent, but not so gay. 
 I will not have the churchyard ground. 
 
 With bones all black and ugly grown, 
 To press my shivering body round. 
 
 Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 
 
 With ribs and skulls I will not sleep. 
 
 In clammy beds of cold blue clay. 
 Through which tiie ringed earthworms creep. 
 
 And on the shrouded bosom prey. 
 I will not have the bell proclaim 
 
 'Wlien those sad marriage rites begin. 
 And boys, without regard or shame. 
 
 Press tlie vde mouldering masses in. 
 
 Say not, it is beneath my care, — 
 
 I cannot these cold truths allow ; 
 These thoughts may not afflict me tlici-e. 
 
 But O, they vex and tease me now ! 
 Raise not a turf, nor set a stone. 
 
 That man a maiden's grave may trace. 
 But thou, my Lucy, come alone, 
 
 And let all'eetion find the place ! 
 
 Tales of the llall. 
 
 ANNE GRANT (OF LAGGAN). 
 
 1755-1838. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND POOK. 
 
 Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene. 
 
 The narrow opening glens that intervene 
 
 Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure. 
 
 One poorer than the rest, — where all are poor ; 
 
 Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief, 
 
 Who to her secret breast confines her grief; 
 
 Dejected sighs the wintry night away, 
 
 Aud lonely muses all the summer day : 
 
 Her gallant sons, who, sniit with honor's charms 
 
 Pursued the phantom Fame through \rar's alarms. 
 
 Return no more ; stretched on Hindostan's plain, 
 
 Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main ; 
 
 In vain her eyes the watery waste explore 
 
 For heroes, — fated to return no more ! 
 
 Let others bless the morning's reddening bea)n. 
 
 Foe to her peace, — it breaks the illusive dream 
 
 That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, 
 
 Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast ; 
 And as they strove, with smiles of filial love. 
 Their widowed parent's anguish to remove. 
 Through her small casement broke the intrusive 
 
 day. 
 And chased the pleasing images away ! 
 No time can e'er her banished joys restore. 
 For ah ! a heart once broken heals no more. 
 The dewy beams that gleam from ])ity's eye. 
 The "still small voice " of sacred sympathy, 
 In vain the mourner's sorrows woidd beguile. 
 Or steal from weary woe one languid smile ; 
 Yet what they can they do, — the scanty store. 
 So often opened for the wandering poor. 
 To her each cottager complacent deals. 
 While the kind glance the melting heart reveals ; 
 And still, when evening streaks the west with gold, 
 The milky tribute from the lowing fold 
 With cheerful haste officious children bring. 
 And every smiling flower that decks the spring : 
 Ah ! little know the fond attentive train. 
 That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain : 
 Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe, 
 And of their little all a part bestow. 
 Let those to wealth and proud distinction born. 
 With the cold glance of insolence and scorn 
 Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve 
 The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve : 
 Far ditVercnt these ; while from a bounteous heart 
 With the poor sutt'erer they divide a part ; 
 Humbly tlicy own that all they have is given 
 A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven : 
 And the next blighted crop or frosty spring 
 Themselves to equal indigence may bring. 
 
 o>«;o 
 
 WILLIAM GIFFORD. 
 
 1756-1836. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF ANNA.* 
 
 I WISH 1 was wlicre Anna lies, 
 For I am sick of lingering here ; 
 
 And every hour aifcction cries, 
 Go and partake her humble bier. 
 
 I wish I could ! For when she died, 
 I lost my all; and life has proved 
 
 • These feel)!e elegiac stanzas ore quoted merely to sliow 
 
 the ixjcticftl ineclioci-ity of the brutal critic who, ns editor of 
 the Quarlerhj lierietc, dul such gros3 wmuj; to poets infinitely 
 superior to himself. Shclluy, Kents, Hunt, and ninny others, 
 must, however, have often joined in lamenting, with him. 
 that his existence did not terminate with tliat of the faithful 
 doini'stic he here hcnioans; and they must tlurefon* Ii«\e 
 heartily echoed the desire expressed in the first line, varying 
 the pi-uuoun : — 
 
 "' I wish he was where Anna lies." 
 llnd GifTord's wish heen gratilird, he would, at least, have 
 been saved from ctJiiiniitting many inexpiable critical sins. 
 
a- 
 
 SONG OF THE VIRGINS. 
 
 )19 I 
 
 Siuce that sad liour a dreary void ; 
 A waste unlovely aud unloved. 
 
 But wlio, when I am turned to clay, 
 
 Shall duly to her grave repair, 
 And pluck the ragged moss away, 
 
 And weeds that have " no business there " ? 
 
 And who with pious hand shall bring 
 
 The flowers she cherished, snowdrops cold. 
 
 And violets that unheeded spring, 
 To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? 
 
 And who, while memory loves to dwell 
 
 Upon her name forever dear. 
 Shall feel his heart with passion swell, 
 
 Aud pour the bitter, bitter tear ? 
 
 I did it ; and woidd fate aUow, 
 
 Should visit still, should still deplore, — 
 
 But health and streugth have left me now. 
 And I, alas ! can weep uo more. 
 
 Take then, sweet maid ! tliis simple strain, 
 
 The last I offer at thy shrine ; 
 Thy grave must then undecked remain. 
 
 And all thy memory fade with mine. 
 
 Aud can thy soft persuasive look. 
 Thy voice that might with music vie. 
 
 Thy air that every gazer took. 
 Thy matchless eloquence of eye ; 
 
 Thy spirits frolicsome as good. 
 Thy courage by no ills dismayed. 
 
 Thy patience by no wrongs subdued. 
 Thy gay good-humor, can they fade ? 
 
 Perhaps, — but sorrow dims my eye ; 
 
 Cold turf which I uo more must view, 
 Dear name which I no more must sigh, 
 
 A long, a last, a sad adieu ! 
 
 WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 
 
 1767- 1833. 
 
 SON& OF THE VIRGINS CELEBRATING THE 
 VICTORY OF SAUL. 
 
 Daughtees of Israel ! praise the Lord of 
 Hosts ! 
 Break into song ! With harp and tabret lift 
 Your voices up, and weave with joy the dauce ; 
 And to your twnikUng footsteps toss aloft 
 Your arms ; and from the flash of cymbals shake 
 Sweet clangor, measuring the giddy maze. 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, " Saul hath 
 slain 
 
 fr 
 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain." 
 
 Sing a new soug. I saw them in their rage ; 
 I saw the gleam of spears, tlie flash of swords. 
 That raug against our gates. The warders' watch 
 Ceased uot. Tower answered tower : a warning 
 
 voice 
 Was heard without ; the cry of woe within : 
 The shriek of virgins, and the wail of her. 
 The mother, iu her anguish, who fore-wept. 
 Wept at the breast her babe as now no more. 
 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, "Saul hath 
 slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain." 
 
 Sing a new song. Spake not the insulting foe ? 
 I will pursue, o'ertake, divide the spoil. 
 My hand shall dash their infants on the stones ; 
 The ploughshare of my vengeance shall draw out 
 The furrow, where the tower and fortress rose. 
 Before my chariot Israel's chiefs shall clank 
 Their chains. Each side their virgin daughtei's 
 
 groan ; 
 Erewhile to weave my conquest on their looms. 
 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, " Saul hath 
 slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slam." 
 
 Thou heardst, O God of battle ! Thou, whose 
 look 
 Snappeth the spear in sunder. In thy strength 
 A youth, thy chosen, laid their champion low. 
 Saul, Saul pursues, o'crtakcs, divides the spoil ; 
 Wreathes round our uecks these chains of gold, 
 
 aud robes 
 Our liuibs with floating crimson. Then rejoice, 
 Daughters of Israel ! from your cymbals shake 
 Sweet clangor, hymning God ! the Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 Ye ! shout ! and ye ! make answer, " Said hath 
 slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain." 
 
 Such the hymned harmony, from voices 
 breathed 
 Of virgin minstrels, of each tribe the prime 
 For beauty, and fine form, and artful touch 
 Of instrument, and skill in dance and song ; 
 Ciioir answering choir, that on to Gibealuled 
 The victors back in triumph. On each neck 
 Played chains of gold; and, shadowing their 
 
 charms 
 With color like the blushes of the morn. 
 Robes, gift of Saul, round their light limbs, in 
 
 toss 
 Of cymbals, aud the many-mazed dance. 
 Floated like roseate clouds. Thus, these came on 
 In dance and song ; then, multitudes that swelled 
 The pomp of triumph, and in circles ranged 
 Around the altar of Jehovah, brought 
 Freely their offerings ; and with one accord 
 Sang, " Glory, and praise, and worship unto God." 
 
 Loud rang the exultation. 'T was the voice 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 520 
 
 BLAKE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Of a free people from impending chains 
 Redeemed ; a people proud, whose bosom beat 
 With fire of glory and renown in arms 
 Triumphant. Loud the exultation rang. 
 
 There, many a wife, whose ardent gaze from 
 far 
 Singled the warrior whose glad eye gave baek 
 Her look of love. There, many a grandsire held 
 A blooming boy aloft, and 'midst the array 
 In triumpii, pointing with his staff, exelaimed, 
 " Lo, my brave son ! I now may die in peaee." 
 
 There, many a beauteous virgin, blushing deep. 
 Flung baek her veil, and, as the warrior came, 
 Hailed her betrothed. 
 
 Saul. 
 
 oJOio 
 
 fr 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 1757-1827. 
 
 HOW SWEET I KOAMED FEOM FIELD TO PIELD, 
 
 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 gUde. 
 
 He sliowed me lUies 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. 
 And Phoebus fired my voeal rage; 
 
 He cauglit me in his silken net. 
 And shut me in his golden cage. 
 
 He loves to sit and hear me sing, 
 
 Tlicn, laughing, sports and plays with me ; 
 Then stretches out my golden wing 
 
 And mocks my loss of libei'ty. 
 
 MY SILKS AND FINE AKEAT, 
 
 ,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 ; 
 
 O, why to him was 't given, 
 Wliose licart is wintry cold ? 
 
 His brea.st is love's all-worshipped tomb, 
 
 Where all love's pilgrims come. 
 
 Bring me an axe and spade. 
 Bring me a winding-sheet ; 
 
 Wlien I my grave have made. 
 Let winds and tempests beat : 
 
 Then down I '11 he, as cold as clay. 
 True love doth pass away ! 
 
 I LOVE THE JOCUND DANCE, 
 
 I LOVE the jocund dance, 
 
 The softly breathing song. 
 Where innocent eyes do glance, 
 
 And where lisps the maiden's tongue. 
 
 I love the laughing vale, 
 
 I love the echoing hill. 
 Where mirth doe's never fail. 
 
 And the jolly swain laughs his fill. 
 
 I love the pleasant cot, 
 
 I love the innocent bower. 
 Where white and brown is our lot 
 
 Or fruit in the midday hour. 
 
 I love the oaken seat, 
 
 Beneath the oaken tree, 
 Where all the old villagers meet. 
 
 And laugh our sports to see. 
 
 I love our neighbors all. 
 
 But, Kitty, I better love thee ; 
 
 And love them I ever shall. 
 But thou art all to me. 
 
 TO THE MUSES, 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow 
 Or in the chambers of the East, 
 
 The chambers of the sun, that now 
 From ancient melody have ceased ; 
 
 Whether in heaven ye wander fair, 
 Or the green corners of tiie earth, 
 
 Or the blue regions of the air, 
 
 Whei'e the melodious winds liavc birth ; 
 
 Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, 
 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 ! 
 
 The languid strings do scarcely move. 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few ! 
 
 THE PIPEK, 
 
 Piping down the valleys wild, 
 Piping songs of pleasant glee. 
 On a cloud I saw a child. 
 And he laughing said to me : — 
 
 -^ 
 
C&- 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. 
 
 THE DIVINE IMAGE. 
 
 521 
 
 -n> 
 
 <Q- 
 
 " Pipe a song about a lamb " : 
 So I piped witli merry cheer. 
 " Piper, pipe that song again " : 
 So I piped ; he wept to hear. 
 
 " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 
 Sing thy songs of happy cheer" : 
 So I sung the same again, 
 WhUe he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 " Piper, sit thee down and write 
 In a book that all may read — " 
 So he vanished from my sight; 
 And I plucked a hollow reed, 
 
 And I made a rural pen. 
 And I stained the water clear, 
 And I wrote my happy songs 
 Every child may joy to hear. 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK EOT. 
 
 My mother bore me in tlie Soutliern wild. 
 And I am black, but 0, my soul is white ; 
 White as an angel is the English child. 
 But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 
 
 My mother taught me underneath a tree. 
 And sitting down before the heat of day. 
 She took me on her lap, and kissed me, 
 And, pointing to the east, began to say : — 
 
 " Look on the rising sun, — there God does Jive, 
 And gives his light, and gives his heat away ; 
 And flowers and trees and beasts and men re- 
 ceive 
 Comfort in morning, joy in the noon-day. 
 
 " And we are put on earth a little space. 
 That we may learn to bear t lie beams of love ; 
 And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 
 Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 
 
 " For when our souls have learnt the heat to bear. 
 The clouds will vanish, we sliall hear his voice, 
 Saying, ' Come out from tlic grove, my love and 
 
 care, 
 Aud round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " 
 
 Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; 
 
 And thus I say to little English boy, — ■ 
 
 " Wlien I from black, and he from white cloud 
 
 free. 
 And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, 
 
 " I 'U shade him from the heat, till he can bear 
 To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 
 And then I '11 stand, and stroke his silver liair. 
 And be like him, and he will then love me." 
 
 THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 
 
 When my mother died I was very young. 
 And my fatiier sold me whUe yet my tongue 
 Could scarcely cry " ' weep, ' weep, ' weep,' weep ! " 
 So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep. 
 
 There 's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his 
 
 head. 
 That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved ; so 
 
 I said : 
 " Hush, Tom, never mind it, for when your head 's 
 
 bare 
 You know that the soot cannot spoil your wliite 
 
 hair." 
 
 And so he was quiet ; and that very night. 
 As Tom was a-sleepiug, he had such a sight. 
 That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and 
 
 Jack, 
 Were all of them locked up in coflins of black. 
 
 And by came an angel who had a bright key. 
 And lie opened the cofiius and set tiiem all free; 
 Then down a green plain, leaping, laugiiing tliey 
 
 run. 
 And wash in a river and shine in the sun. 
 
 Then naked and white, all their bags left behind. 
 They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind ; 
 And the angel told Tom if he 'd be a good boy. 
 He 'd have God for his father and never want joy. 
 
 And so Tom awoke ; and we rose in the dark. 
 And got witli our bags and our bruslics to work. 
 Thougli the morning was cold, Tom was happy 
 
 and warm : 
 So if all do their duty they need not fear harm. 
 
 THE DIVINE IMAGE, 
 
 To mercy, pity, peace, and love 
 All pray in their distress ; 
 And to these virtues of delight 
 Return their thankfulness. 
 
 For mercy, pity, peace, and love 
 Is God our Father dear ; 
 And mercy, pity, peace, and love 
 Is man his eluld and care. 
 
 For mercy lias a human heart. 
 Pity, a liuman face ; 
 And love, the human form divine, 
 And peace, the human dress. 
 
 Then every man of every clime 
 That prays in his distress, 
 Prays to the human form divine. 
 Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. 
 
 -^ 
 
(Or 
 
 622 
 
 BLAKE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And all must love the human form 
 In heathen, Turk, or Jew ; 
 Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, 
 There God is dwelling too. 
 
 ON ANOTHER'S SORROW, 
 
 Can I see another's woe. 
 And not be in sorrow too ? 
 Can I see another's grief, 
 And not seeic for kind relief? 
 
 Can I see a falling tear. 
 And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
 Can a father see liis cliild 
 Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ? 
 
 Can a mother sit and hear 
 An infant groan, au infant fear ? 
 No, no, never can it be, 
 Never, never can it be. 
 
 And can He who smiles on all. 
 Hear the wren with sorrows small, 
 Hear the small bird's grief and care, 
 Hear the woes that infants bear, 
 
 And not sit beside the nest. 
 Pouring pity in their breast; 
 And not sit the cradle near. 
 Weeping tear on infant's tear. 
 
 And not sit, both night and day, 
 Wiping all our tears away ? 
 0, no, never can it be. 
 Never, never can it be. 
 
 He doth give his joy to all ; 
 He becomes an infant small ; 
 He becomes a man of woe ; 
 He doth feel the sorrow too. 
 
 Think not thou canst sigh a sigh 
 And thy Maker is not by ; 
 Think not thou canst weep a tear 
 And thy Maker is not near. 
 
 0, he gives to us his joy 
 That our grief he may destroy : 
 Till our grief is fled and gone 
 He dotii sit by us and moan. 
 
 THE TIGEE. 
 
 TiGKR, tiger, burning bright 
 In the forests of the night, 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
 
 On what wings dare lie aspire ? 
 What the hand dare seize the fire ? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art. 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
 And when tliy heart began to beat. 
 What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? 
 
 What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
 In what furnace was thy brain ? 
 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 ? 
 Did lie who made the lamb make thee ? 
 
 Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
 111 the forests of the night. 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 A LITTLE BOY LOST. 
 
 "Naught loves another as itself, 
 
 Nor venerates another so. 
 Nor is it possible to thought 
 
 A greater than itself to know : 
 
 " And, father, how can I love you 
 
 Or any of my brothers more ? 
 I love you like the little bird 
 
 That picks up crumbs around the door." 
 
 The priest sat by and heard the chUd, 
 In trembling zeal he seized his hair: 
 
 He led him by his little coat, 
 
 And all admired the priestly care. 
 
 And, standing on the altar high, 
 
 " Lo ! what a fiend is here ! " said he : 
 
 " One who sets reason up for judge 
 Of our most holy mystery." 
 
 The weeping child could not be heard. 
 The weeping parents wept in vain ; 
 
 They stripped him to his little shirt • 
 And bound him in an iron chain ; 
 
 And burned him in a holy ]>lace 
 
 Where many had been Inirned before : 
 
 Tlie weeping parents wept in vain. 
 
 Are such things done on Albion's shore? 
 
 A LITTLE BLACK THING AMONG THE SNOW, 
 
 A LITTLE black thing among the snow. 
 
 Crying, " ' weep ! ' weep ! " in notes of woe : 
 
 " Where are thy father and mother, say ? " 
 " They are both gone up to the church to pray. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE SMILE. — AUGURIES OP INNOCENCE. 
 
 52.3 
 
 ■tp 
 
 V- 
 
 " Because I was happy upon the heatli, 
 And smiled among the wmter's snow, 
 
 They clotlied mc in the clothes of death, 
 And taught nie to sing the notes of woe : 
 
 " And because I am happy, and dance and sing, 
 Tliey think they have done me no injury, 
 
 And are gone to praise God and his priest and 
 king 
 Who make up a heaven of our misery." 
 
 THE SMILE. 
 
 There is a smile of love, 
 
 And there is a smile of deceit. 
 
 And there is a smile of smiles 
 In which these two suules meet. 
 
 And there is a frown of hate. 
 
 And there is a frown of disdain, 
 And there is a frown of frowns 
 
 Wliich you strive to forget in vain. 
 
 • 
 
 For it sticks in the heart's deep core. 
 And it sticks in the deep backbone ; 
 
 And no smile that ever was smiled. 
 But only one smile alone, — 
 
 That betwixt the cradle and grave 
 It only onee smiled can be ; 
 
 But when it once is smiled 
 There 's an end to all misery. 
 
 THE LITTLE VAGABOND. 
 
 Deau mother, dear mother, the church is cold. 
 But the alehouse is healthy aud pleasant and 
 
 warm ; 
 Besides, I can tell where I am used well. 
 Such usage in heaven will never do well. 
 
 But if at the church they would give us some ale 
 And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, 
 We 'd sing and we 'd pray all the Uvelong day : 
 Nor ever once wish from the church to stray. 
 
 Then the parson might preach and drink and 
 
 sing, 
 And we 'd be as happy as birds in the spring : 
 And modest Dame Lurch, who is .always at church. 
 Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor 
 
 birch. 
 
 And God, like a father rejoicing to see 
 His children as pleasant and happy as he. 
 Would have no more quarrel with the devil or the 
 
 barrel. 
 But kiss him and give him both drink and apparel. 
 
 AUGUKIES OF INNOCENCE, 
 To see a world in a grain of sand. 
 
 And a heaven in a wild flower, 
 Hold intiuity in the palm of your hand 
 
 And eternity in an hour. 
 A robin-redbreast in a cage 
 Puts all heaven in a rage. 
 A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons 
 Shudders hell through all its regions. 
 A dog starved at his master's gate 
 Predicts the ruin of the state. 
 A horse misused upon the road 
 Calls to heaven for human blood. 
 Each outcry of the hunted hare 
 A fibre from the brain does tear. 
 A skylark wounded in the wing, 
 A cherubim does cease to sing. 
 The game-cock dipt and armed for fight 
 Does the rising sun affright. 
 Every wolfs and Uon's howl 
 Raises from hell a human soul. 
 The wild deer, wandering here and there. 
 Keeps the human soul from care. 
 The lamb misused breeds pubUc strife. 
 And yet forgives the butcher's knife. 
 The bat that flits at close of eve 
 Has left the brain that won't believe. 
 The owl that calls upon the night 
 Speaks tlie unbeliever's fright. 
 He who shall hurt the little wren 
 Shall never be beloved by men. 
 He who the ox to wrath has moved 
 Shall never be by woman loved. 
 The wanton boy that kills the tly 
 Shall feel the spider's enmity. 
 He who torments the chafer's sprite 
 Weaves a bower in endless night. 
 The caterpillar on the leaf 
 Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. 
 KUl not the moth nor butterfly, 
 For the last judgment draweth nigh. 
 He who shall train the horse to war 
 Shall never pass the polar bar. 
 The beggar's dog and widow's cat. 
 Feed them, aud thou wilt grow fat. 
 The gnat that sings his summer's song 
 Poison gets from slander's tongue. 
 The poison of the snake and newt 
 Is the sweat of Envy's foot ; 
 The poison of the honey-bee 
 Is the artist's jealousy. 
 The prince's robes and beggar's rags 
 Are toadstools on the miser's bags. 
 A truth that 's told with bad intent 
 Beats all the Hes you can invent. 
 It is right it should be so, 
 Man was made for joy and woe ; 
 And, when this we rightly know. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 524 
 
 BUENS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Through the world we safely go. 
 
 Joy and woe ai'e woven fine, 
 
 A clothing for the soul divine. 
 
 Under every grief and pine 
 
 Runs a joy with silken twine. 
 
 The babe is more than swaddling-bands ; 
 
 Throughout all these human lands, 
 
 Tools were made, and boru were hands, 
 
 Every farmer understands. 
 
 Every tear from every eye 
 
 Becomes a babe in eternity, 
 
 This is caught by females bright. 
 
 And returned to its own delight. 
 
 The bleat, the bark, bellow and roar, 
 
 Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. 
 
 The babe that weeps the rod beneath 
 
 Writes revenge in realms of death. 
 
 The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, 
 
 Do to rags the heavens tear. 
 
 Tiie soldier, armed with sword and gun. 
 
 Palsied strikes tiie summer's sun. 
 
 The poor man's farthing is worth more 
 
 Than all the gold on Afrio's shore. 
 
 One mite, wrung from the laborer's hands. 
 
 Shall buy and sell the miser's lands ; 
 
 Or, if protected from on high. 
 
 Do that whole nation sell and buy. 
 
 He who mocks the infant's faith, 
 
 Shall be mocked in age and death ; 
 
 He who shall teach the child to doubt, 
 
 The rotting grave shall ne'er get out ; 
 
 He who respects the infant's faith. 
 
 Triumphs over hell and deatli. 
 
 The child's toys, and the old man's reasons. 
 
 Are the fruits of the two seasons. 
 
 Tiie questioner, who sits so sly, 
 
 Shall never know how to reply ; 
 
 He who replies to words of doubt 
 
 Doth put the hght of knowledge out. 
 
 The strongest poison ever known 
 
 Came from Cffisar's laurel crown. 
 
 Naught can deform the human race, 
 
 Ijike to the armor's iron brace. 
 
 Wlicn gold and gems adorn the plough. 
 
 To peaecfid arts shall envy bow. 
 
 A riddle, or the cricket's cry, 
 
 Is to doubt a fit reply. 
 
 The emmet's inch and eagle's mile 
 
 Make lame pliilosopliy to smile. 
 
 He who doubts I'rom what he sees, 
 
 Will ne'er believe, do what you please ; 
 
 If the sun and moon should doubt, 
 
 They 'd immediately go out. 
 
 To be in a passion you good may do. 
 
 Hut no good if a passion is in you. 
 
 « * * 
 
 The harlot's cry from street to street 
 Shall weave old England's winding-sheet. 
 
 The winner's shout, the loser's curse, 
 
 Dance before dead England's hearse. 
 
 Every night and every morn 
 
 Some to misery are boru ; 
 
 Every raoru and every night 
 
 Some are born to sweet dehght ; 
 
 Some are boru to sweet deUglit, 
 
 Some are born to endless night. 
 
 We are Jed to believe a he. 
 
 When we see not through the eye, 
 
 Wliich 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 ; 
 
 But does a human form display 
 
 To those who dwell in realms of day. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 1759-1796. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATUEDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO UOBEKT AIKEN, ESQ.,' OF AYl!. 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. , 
 
 Gray. 
 
 My loved, my honored, much respected friend ! 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
 With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : 
 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
 
 The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 
 Tiie native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 
 Wliat Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
 Ah ! tliough his worth unknown, far happier 
 there I ween. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;^ 
 
 The shorteuing winter-day is near a close; 
 Tlie miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 
 The blackening trains o' eraws to their repose ; 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. 
 
 Tills night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 
 
 Hoping tlie morn in ease and rest to spend. 
 And weary, o'er the moor, liis course does liauie- 
 ward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 Beneath the slielter of an aged tree ; 
 
 ' Mr. Aikon was a " writer" in Ayr; Gilbert Rums affec- 
 tionately notices him in a letter to Curric, as a man of worth 
 and taste, and «-nrin nflVTticms, and who eagerly spread amon;; 
 his friends the merits of the new poet. 
 
 3 Rusliin;r siiund. 
 
 V> 
 
iormJ 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 525 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher' 
 through, 
 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin * noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thrit'tie wifie's smile. 
 The lisping infant prattHng on his knee. 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
 An' makes liim quite forget his labor an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve,' the elder bairns come drapping in. 
 
 At service out, aniang the farmers roun' ;' 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie* rin 
 
 A cannic errand to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest liope, their Jeiuiy, woman grown. 
 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
 Comes hanie, perhaps, to show a braw new gown. 
 
 Or deposite her sair-won pciiiiy-fce. 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeigned brotliers and sisters meet. 
 
 An' each for otlier's welfare kindly spiers : 
 The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos' that he sees or hears; 
 Tlie parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 
 
 Gars' auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
 
 The youukers a' are warned to obey ; 
 An' mind their labors wi' an eydent* hand. 
 
 An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
 " An', O, be sure to fear the Lord alway. 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, mora an' night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
 
 Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
 They never sought in vain that sought the I;ord 
 aright ! " 
 
 But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees tlie conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name. 
 
 While Jenny hafflins' is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel pleased the mother hears, it 's nae wild 
 worthless rake. 
 
 ' stagger. ' riuttering. » By and by. 
 
 * " Although the ' Cotter,' in the Snturdny NJijht, is an ex- 
 act copy of my father in liis manners, his family devotions, and 
 exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do not 
 apply to our family. None of us ever were ' At service out, 
 aniang the neebors roun*.* Instead of our depositing our 
 ' sair-won penny-fee * with our parents, my father labored 
 hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might 
 be able to keep his children at home." —Gilbert Burns to 
 I)B. CURRIE, Oct. H, 180n. 
 
 = Cautious. ' Makes. » Half 
 
 " News. ® Piligent. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'eu ; 
 
 The fatlier cracks' of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
 But, blate^ and laithfu',' scarce can weel be- 
 have ; 
 The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
 grave ; 
 Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected hke 
 the lave.' 
 
 happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 
 1 've paced much this weary, mortal round. 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare ; 
 " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'T is when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
 evening gale !" 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, — 
 
 A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
 Tliat can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembhng smooth ! 
 
 Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
 Then paints the ruined maid, and their distrac- 
 tion wild ! 
 
 Bii.t now the supper crowns their simple board, 
 
 The halesome parriteh, chief o' Scotia's food : 
 The soup their only hawkie' does afi'ord, 
 
 That 'yont thehallan' snugly chows her cood; 
 Tlie da-me brings forth in coinplimental mood. 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hained' kebbuck,' 
 feU, 
 An' aft he 's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
 
 The frugal wific, garrulous, will tell 
 How 't was a towmond' auld, sin' lint was i' 
 the bell.'" 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 
 His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets" wearing thin an' bare ; 
 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zioii glide, 
 
 1 Talks. 
 
 ' Well-sayed. 
 
 2 Bashful. 
 
 > Cheese. 
 
 ' Sheepish. 
 
 9 A twelvemonth. 
 
 « The rest. 
 
 i"* Since the flax was in flower 
 
 = Cow. 
 
 " Gray locks. 
 
 5 Partition wall. 
 
 
 -9> 
 
<&■ 
 
 526 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 He wales' a portion with judicious care ; 
 And "Let us worsliip God!" lie saj-s, with 
 solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures 
 rise, 
 
 Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble " Elgin " beets the heavenward flame. 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perliaps the Christian volume is the theme. 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was slicd ; 
 How he, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
 How his first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 Tiie precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 
 Heaven's command. 
 
 Tlien kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays; 
 Hope "springs exulting on triumphant \ving,"° 
 
 That thus they all sliall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed tlie bitter tear, 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 lu such society, yet still more dear ; 
 Wliile circling time moves round iu an eternal 
 sphere. 
 
 Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride. 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 Wlien men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's every grace, excejit the licart ! 
 The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, tlie sacerdotal stole; 
 But liaply, in some cottage far apart. 
 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the 
 soul; 
 And iu His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 
 
 OSes. ' " Pope's iriiijsor Forests — R. B. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their several way ; 
 
 The youughng cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
 That he, who stills the raven's clamorous nest. 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
 
 For them, aud for their little ones provide ; 
 But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine pre- 
 side. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
 springs, 
 
 That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but tiie breath of kings ; 
 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God " : 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
 What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied iu arts of hell, in wickedness refiued ! 
 
 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For wliom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, aud peace, and sweet 
 content ! 
 Aud, O, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and ^ilc ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 Aud stand a wall of fire around their nmch-loved 
 isle. 
 
 O thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 
 
 Thatstreamed thro' Wallace's imdauntedlicart; 
 Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
 (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art. 
 
 His friend, Lnspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
 O never, never Scotia's realm desert; 
 
 But still the patriot, aud the patriot-bard. 
 In bright succession riiise, her ornament and 
 guard ! 
 
 TAM O'SHANTEE.' 
 
 " Brownyis anil of Bogilis full is tins Buke." 
 
 Gawi.n DorcLAS. 
 
 Whkx chapman billies leave the street, 
 And dronthy neehors neebors meet, 
 As market-days are "wearing late, 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 
 * This poem was written to illustrate a drawinj; of Alloway 
 Kirk, liv Cnpinin Grose, in wliow; Jntiqttit'ies nf ScoUmtit it 
 was i)iililislu(I. The |H)i't vt-rsilii'il the chief ciicuiiistnticos of 
 the hisloiieni story. Gilbert Burns specifies those of "a man 
 ridiiif; home very late fi-om Ayr in a stonny nipht, his seeing a 
 ii>;ht in Alloway Kirk, his ha.> in-: tlie curiosity to look in, his 
 seeing a tlnucc of witches with the devil ploying on the Im;; 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 TAM O'SHANTEK. 
 
 527 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 While we sit. bousing at the nappy,' 
 An' getting fou and uuco liappy, 
 We tliinkua ou the lang Scuts miles. 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
 That lie between us and our hame, 
 Wliare sits our sulky sullen dame. 
 Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 Tills truth fand honest Tarn O'Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
 For honest men and bonuie lasses). 
 
 O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. 
 As ta'en thy aiu wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,'' 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;' 
 That I'rae November till October, 
 Ae market-day (hou was nae sober; 
 That nka meldcr,' wi' the miller. 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
 That every naig was ca'd a shoe ou. 
 The smitli and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
 That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, 
 Thou drank wi' Kirkton' Jean till Monday. 
 She prophesied that, late or soon. 
 Thou would he found deep drowned in Doon ; 
 Or catclied wi' warlocks ° i' the mirk,' 
 By Alloway's auld iiaunted kirk. 
 
 All, gentle dames ! it gars me greet' 
 To think how inouy counsels sweet, 
 How moiiy lengthened, sage advices, 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 But to our talc ; Ae market night, 
 Tam had got planted unco right ; 
 Past by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats,' that drank divinely ; 
 And at his elbow, Soiiter Johnny, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
 Tain lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
 Tliey had beeu fou for weeks thegitlier. 
 The night drave ou wi' saugs and clatter: 
 And ay tlie ale was growing better : 
 The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
 Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
 The souter" tauld his queerest stories ; 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
 The storm without might rair and rustle, 
 Tain didiia mind the storm a whistle. 
 Care, mad to sec a man sae happy, 
 
 pipe to them, tile scanty covering of one of the witches, wliicli 
 iiiaile liim so far forget himself as to cry, ' Weel loupen, short 
 sark ! ' with the melancholy catastrophe of the piece." The 
 poet has giiing a fuller anil racier description of the original 
 scene in a letter to Grose, 
 
 1 Ale. 2 Wortliless fellow. 3 jjie talker. 
 
 * Every time that corn was sent to he grouiul- 
 
 ^ Kirkton is the distinctive name of a village in which the 
 parish kirk stands. 
 
 ^ Wizards. " IMakcs me weak. lo Shoemaker 
 
 ' Dark. » Frothinir ale. 
 
 E'cu drowned liimself ainang the nappy ! 
 As bees llee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
 Tlie minutes winged their way wi' pleasure : 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
 O'er a' the Uls o' life victorious ! 
 
 But pleasures are hke jioppies spread. 
 You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
 Or like the snow falls in the river, 
 A moment white, then melts forever ; 
 Or like the borealis race. 
 That Hit ere you can pouit their place ; 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
 Evanishing amid tlie storm. 
 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
 The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
 That hour o' night's black areh the kcystane, 
 That dreary hour lie mounts his beast in ; 
 Aud sic a night he taks the road in. 
 As ne'er poor sinner was aliroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last, 
 The rattling showers rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 
 Loud, deep, and lang tlie thunder bellowed : 
 That night, a child might understand, 
 The Deil had business on his liand. 
 
 Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
 A better never lifted leg, 
 Tam skelpit' ou through dub and mire. 
 Despising wind, and rain, and lire ; 
 Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
 Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares. 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
 Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, 
 W'hare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford, 
 Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored;" 
 And past the birks' and meikle* stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak 's ueckbane ; 
 And through the whins, and by tlie cairn, 
 ^Vliare hunters fand the murdered bairn; 
 And near the thorn, aboou the well, 
 Wliare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. 
 Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
 The doubhng storm roars through the woods; 
 The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
 Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
 When, glimmering through the groaning trees. 
 Kirk Alloway seemed in a blecze ; 
 Through ilka bore' the beams were glancing; 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
 ^Hiat dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' ti)ipeuny, we fear nae evil ; 
 Wi' usquebae, we '11 face the Devil ! 
 The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle. 
 
 * Went at a smart pace. 3 Birches. ^ Hole in the wall. 
 - .Smothered. * Btg. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 528 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonished, 
 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonished. 
 
 She ventured forward on the light ; 
 
 And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
 
 Warlocks and witches iu a dance ; 
 
 Nae cotillon brent new I'rae France, 
 
 But hornpipes, jigs, stratiispeys, and reels, 
 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 
 At winnock-bnnker' in the east, 
 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
 
 A towzie" tyke, black, grim, and large, 
 
 To gic them music was his charge : 
 
 He screwed the ])ipes and gart ' them skirl,' 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 
 
 Cotflns stood round like open presses. 
 
 That shawcd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 
 And by some devilish cantrip' sleight 
 
 Each in its cauld liand held a light, — 
 
 By which heroic Tam was able 
 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; " 
 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unehristened bairns ; 
 
 A thief, new-euttcd frae a rape, 
 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
 
 Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted; 
 
 Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 
 A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
 
 A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
 
 "\Vl\om his ain son o' life bereft. 
 
 The gray hairs yet stack to tlie heft ; 
 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
 
 WHiich even to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tamniie glowered, amazed and curious. 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 They reeled, tliey set, tliey crossed, they clcekit. 
 Till ilka earlin swat and reekit. 
 And coost her duddies' to the wark. 
 And linket' at it in her sark ! 
 
 Now Tam, Tam ! had thae been queans 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie" llanuen. 
 Been snaw-white seventeen-hundor linnen ! '" 
 Thir" breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
 That ance were ))lusli, o' gude blue hair, 
 
 I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,'' 
 For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 
 
 But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
 Tligwoodic hags, wad spean a foal, 
 Lowping and Hinging on a crummoek," 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 ' Window-aent. * Scream. ' Clollic3. 
 
 2 SJiaggv. " Magic. " Tripped along. 
 
 3 FoiTcd. " Irons. ** Greasy. 
 
 10 " Tliemannrnrluring term forn tiiic liiicn, \vo\eii iii n reed 
 of 1700 divisions." — Cromkk. 
 
 II Tliese. " Loins. " ■^liort slalT. 
 
 But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie, 
 "There was ae winsome wench and walie," 
 That night enlisted iu the core, 
 (Lang after kend on Carriek shore; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
 And perished mony a bonnie boat. 
 And shook baith nieikle corn and bear,* 
 And kept the country-side in fear,) 
 Her cutty- sark, o' Paisley ham,* 
 That, while a lassie, she had worn. 
 In longitude though sorely scanty. 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
 Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie, 
 That sark she eoft' for her wee Nannie, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 
 Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 
 
 But here my Muse her wing maun cour; 
 Sic thghts arc far beyond her power ; 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flaug 
 (A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
 And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched, 
 And thought his very e'en enriched ; 
 Even Satan glowered, and fidged fu' fain. 
 And iiotched and blew wi' might and main : 
 Till first ae caper, syne' anither, 
 Tam tint" his reason a' thegither. 
 And roars out, '" \\ee\ done, Cutty-sark ! " 
 And in an instant all was dark : 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,' 
 When plundering herds assail their byke;' 
 As open pussie's mortal foes, 
 \Mien, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
 As eager runs the niarket-erowd. 
 When, " Catch the thief ! " resounds aloud ; 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 Wi' mony an eldritch skreeeh and hollow. 
 
 All, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou '11 get thy fairin ! 
 In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin ! 
 In vain thy Kate aw-aits thy comin ! 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 And w^iu the keystane' of the brig; 
 There at them thou thy tail may loss, 
 A running stream they dareiia cross. 
 But ere the keystane she eoidd make, 
 The tient a tail she had to shake ! 
 For Nannie, far befote the rest, 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 
 1 Barley. 
 
 2 Short. 
 
 3 Very coarse linen. 
 < Konslit. 
 
 » Then. 
 
 ■ Lost. 
 
 ' Bustle. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ' It is a M'cll-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, 
 liavc no [lower to follow a poor wight any farther tlinn the 
 middle of the next running stream. It may be pi-oper likewise 
 to mention to the lieniglited traveller, that wlien he falls in 
 with Ijogles, whateNer danger may he in his going forward, 
 there is inucli more hazard in tunimg hack " — U B. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 529 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Aud flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ;' 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle, — 
 Ae spring brought alF lier master hale, 
 But left behind her aiu gray tail : 
 The earliu elaught her by the rump, 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha tills tale o' truth shall read. 
 Ilk man aud mother's son, tak heed ; 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
 Or cuttv-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
 Remeiiilifr Tam O'Shauter's mare. 
 
 THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 'T WAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
 Tliat bears the name o' Auld King Coil,^ 
 Upon a bonnie day in June, 
 When wearing through the afternoon, 
 Twa dogs, that werena thrang ' at hanie, 
 Forgathered ance upon a time. 
 
 The first I '11 name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
 Was keepit for his Honor's pleasure : 
 His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,' 
 Shewed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
 But whalpit' some place far abroad, 
 lyiiare sailors gang to fisii for cod. 
 
 His locked, lettered, braw ° brass collar, 
 Shewed him the gentleman and scholar; 
 But though he was o' high degree, 
 Tlie fient' a pride, na pride had he; 
 But wad liac spent an hour careasin. 
 Even wi' a tiukler-gipsey's messin.' 
 At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,' 
 Nae tawtcd tyke," though e'er sac duddie, 
 Bvit he wad stau't, as glad to see him. 
 And stroan't on stanes and hiUocks wi' him. 
 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie," 
 A. rhyming, ranting, raving billie,'" 
 Wlia for liis friend and comrade had him, 
 And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
 After some dog in Highland sang," 
 Was made lang syne, — Lord knows how lang. 
 
 He was a gash " an' faithfu' tyke. 
 As ever lap a sheugh •* or dike. 
 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt '" face, 
 Ay gat him friends iu Uka place ; 
 His breast was white, his towzie " back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 
 1 Effort. 
 
 2 A Pictish king, said to have given a name to Kyle. 
 
 3 Bu3y. ' Fiend. if Dog witli matted hair. 
 * Ears. 8 \ gmall dog. " A country cur. 
 
 s Wlielped. *• X smitliy. ^2 _\ brother. 
 
 " Handsome. 
 
 13 Cuchillin'g dog in Ossian'g Fingal. — R. R. 
 
 " Wise. 10 White-striped. " Rough. 
 
 15 A ditch. 
 
 His gawcie ' tail, wi' upward curl, 
 Hung owre his hurdles - wi' a swirl. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
 An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
 Wi' social nose whyles snuffed aud snowkit ; 
 Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; * 
 Whyles scoured awa in lang excursion, 
 An' worried ither in diversion ; 
 Until wi' daffin weary grow^l, 
 Upon a knowe they sat them down. 
 An' there began a lang digression 
 About the lords o' the creation. 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 I 've aften wondered, honest Luath, 
 Wliat soi-t o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
 An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
 Wliat way poor bodies lived ava.' 
 
 Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
 His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents : ' 
 He rises when he Kkes himsel ; 
 His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
 He ca's liis coach : he ca'.s his horse ; 
 He draws a bonnie, silken purse 
 As lang 's my tail, wliare thro' the steeks,' 
 The yellow lettered Gcordie keeks.' 
 
 Frae morn to e'en it 's nought but toiling, 
 At l)aking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
 An' though the gentry first are stechin,' 
 Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechau" 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtiie, 
 That 's little short o' downright wastrie. 
 Our Wliipper-in, wee blastit wonner," 
 Poor worthless elf, it eats a dimier, 
 Better than ony tenant man 
 His Honor has in a' the Ian ; 
 An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch'- in, 
 I own it 's past my comprehension. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Trowth, Caesar, whyles they 're fash't enough. 
 A cotter howkin " in a slieugh, 
 Wi' dirty stanes biggm " a dyke, 
 Ban'ing a tjuarry, and sielike, 
 Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A smytrie '^ o' wee dudtlie '" weans," 
 An' nought but his han' darg," to keep 
 Them right an' tight in thack an' rape." 
 
 An' when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
 Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
 
 1 Large. 
 
 11 Wonder. 
 
 2 Loins. 
 
 12 Paunch. 
 
 s Scented. 
 
 13 Digging. 
 
 * Digged. 
 
 " Building. 
 
 5 At all. 
 
 IS A numerous collection 
 
 1 Dues of any kind. 
 
 i» Ragged. 
 
 ' Stitches. 
 
 " Children. 
 
 » Peeps. 
 
 IS Labor. 
 
 8 Cramming. 
 
 i» Clothing necessaries. 
 
 Stomach. 
 
 
 -p 
 
a- 
 
 530 
 
 BUENS. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
 But, how it comes, I never kend yet. 
 They 're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
 An' buirdly ' chiels, an' clever liizzics. 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 But then to see how ye 're negleckit, 
 How huffed, an' cull'ed, an' disrespeckit ! 
 Lord, man, our gentry care as little 
 For dclvers, ditclicrs, an' sic cattle, 
 They gang as saucy by poor folk. 
 As I wad by a stinking brock," 
 
 I 've noticed on our laird's court-day. 
 An' mony a time my heart 's been wae 
 Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
 How they maun thole ' a factor's snash : * 
 He '11 stamp an' threaten, curse and swear,^ 
 He '11 apprehend them, poind" their gear; 
 While they maiin stan', wi' aspect humble. 
 An' hear it a', an' fear and tremble ! 
 
 I see how folk live that hae riches : 
 But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They 're no sae wretched 's ane wad thuik, 
 Tliough constantly on poortith's' brink : 
 They 're sae accustomed wi' the sight. 
 The view o't gics them little fright. 
 
 Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. 
 They 're ay in less or mair provided ; 
 An' though fatigued wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest 's a sweet enjoyment. 
 
 The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
 Their grushie° weans an' faithfu' wives : 
 The prattling things are just their pride. 
 That sweetens a' their fireside. 
 
 An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
 Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
 Tiiey lay aside their private cares. 
 To mind the kirk and state affairs : 
 They '11 talk o' patronage and priests, 
 Wi' kindling fury i' tlieir breasts. 
 Or tell what new taxation 's comin, 
 And ferlie" at the folk in Lon'on. 
 
 As bleak-faced Hallowmass '° returns. 
 They get the jovial, ranting kirns," 
 ■ When rural life, o' every station, 
 Unite in common recreation ; 
 Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
 Forgets there 's care upo' the earth. 
 
 That merry day the year begins. 
 They bar the door on frosty wins ; 
 
 > stout-grown. ^ B.idgcr. ' Endure. 
 
 * AIiusc. 
 
 ^ My indignation yet boils at tlie recollection of the scoun- 
 drel factor's insolent threatening letters, which used to set us 
 all in tears. — ■ R. B. 
 
 fl Seize tliiir goods. * Thriving. ^0 .Slat October. 
 
 ^ Poverty. ^ Wonder. '* Harvest-suppers, 
 
 The nappy' reeks wi' mantling ream,' 
 An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
 The luntin^ pipe, an' sneeshin mill,' 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
 The eantie^ auld folks craekin crouse,' 
 The young anes ranting through the house, — 
 My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
 That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 
 
 Still it 's owre true that ye hae said. 
 Sic game is now owre aften played. 
 There 's nionie a creditable stock 
 0' decent, honest fawsont ' folk, 
 Are riven out baith root an' branch, 
 Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
 Wiia thinks to knit himsel the faster 
 Li favor wi' some gentle Master, 
 Wha, aiblins,' thrang a parliamentin. 
 For Britain's guid his saul indentin — ■ 
 
 C.tSAE. 
 
 Haith,' lad, ye little ken about it; 
 For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
 Say, rather, gaun as premiers lead him: 
 An' saying aye or no 's they bid him. 
 At operas an' plays parading, 
 Jlortgaging, gambling, masqueradiug: 
 Or maybe, in a frolic daft,'° 
 To Hague or Calais taks a waft. 
 To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
 To learn don ton, an' see the worl'. 
 
 There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
 He rives his father's auld entails ; 
 Or by Madrid he taks the rout, 
 To thrum guitars, an' feeht wi' nowt," 
 Or down ItaUau vista startles, 
 W — e hunting amang groves o' myrtles : 
 Then bouses drumly'- German water. 
 To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 
 An' clear the consequential sorrows. 
 Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 
 For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
 Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction ! 
 
 LU.WH. 
 
 Heeh," man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
 They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
 Are we sae foughten an' harassed 
 For gear to gang that gate at last ? 
 
 O would they stay aback frae courts, 
 An' please themsels wi' countra sports. 
 It wad for every ane l)c better. 
 The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter ! 
 For Ihae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
 
 3 Perhaps. 
 
 1 .\ potty oath. 
 ■0 Giddy. 
 
 " Fight with black cattle. 
 '= Muddy. 
 " O, strange. 
 
 1 Ale. 
 
 ' Cream. 
 
 3 Smoking. 
 
 ' SnufT-box. 
 
 » Cheerful. 
 
 Conversing merrily. 
 
 ' Seemly. 
 
 -P 
 
cS- 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
 
 531 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Fieut liaet ' o' them 's iU-licarted fellows ; 
 Except for breakiu o' their timmer,- 
 Or speakin lightly o' their liinmer/ 
 Or shootiii o' a hare or moor-cock, 
 The ne'cr-a-bit they 're ill to poor folk. 
 
 But will ye tell me. Master Csesar, 
 Sure great folk's life 's a life o' pleasure ? 
 Nae eauld nor liuiiger e'er gan steer ' them. 
 The vera thought o't neediia fear them. 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am. 
 The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
 It 's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
 Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
 They 've nac sair wark to craze their banes. 
 An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:* 
 But human bodies are sic fools. 
 For a' their colleges and schools, 
 Tiiat when nae real ills perplex them. 
 They mak enow themsels to vex them ; 
 Au' ay the less they hae to sturt ' them. 
 In hke proportion, less will hurt them. 
 
 A country fellow at the pleugh. 
 His acres tilled, he 's right eneugh, 
 A country girl at her wheel, 
 Her dizzens' done, she 's unco weel : 
 But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, 
 Wi' even down want o' wark are curst. 
 Tliey loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
 Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
 Their days insipid, dull, an' restless ; 
 Tlieir nights unquiet, lang, an' tasteless ; 
 An' even tlieir sports, their balls an' races, 
 Their galloping through public places. 
 There 's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
 Tlie joy can scarcely reach the iieart. 
 
 The men east out in party matches. 
 Then sowtlier' a' in deep debauches. 
 Tile ladies arm-iu-arm in clusters. 
 As great an' gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
 They 're a run deOs an jades tliegither.' 
 ^Vhyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie. 
 They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
 Or loe-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
 Pore owre the devil's pict\u'cd beuks ; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard. 
 An' cheat Uke ony unhanged blackguard. 
 
 There 's some exception, man an' woman ; 
 But tliis is gentry's life in common. 
 
 By this, the sun was out of sight. 
 An' darker gloaming brought the night ; 
 
 1 A petty oath of negation. 
 
 " Trouble. 
 
 2 Timber. 
 
 ' Dozens. 
 
 3 A woman of ill character. 
 
 8 Cement. 
 
 » Molest. 
 
 9 Together 
 
 6 Groans. 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 The bum-clock hummed wi' lazy drone. 
 The kye ' stood rowtin ^ i' the loan ; 
 When up they gat, an' shook their lugs, 
 Rejoiced they wereua me/i, but doi/s ; 
 An' each took aff his several way. 
 Resolved to meet some ither day. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL,' 
 
 " O Prince ! O Chief of many throned powers, 
 That led the embattled Seraphim to war." 
 
 M ILTON. 
 
 THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
 Auld Homie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
 Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie. 
 
 Closed under hatches, 
 Spairges* about the brunstane cootie,' 
 To scaud poor wretches. 
 
 Hear mc, auld Haugie, for a wee, 
 An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
 
 1 'm sure sma' ])lcasure it can gie, 
 
 Even to a deil. 
 To skelp" an' scaud poor dogs like me, 
 An' licar us squcel ! 
 
 Great is thy power, an' great thy fame ; ' 
 
 Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
 
 An' though yon lowin hough's' thy hame, 
 
 Tliou travels far; 
 An', faith ! thou 's neither lag nor lame. 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur.' 
 
 Whyles, ranging like a roariu hon, 
 For prey a' holes au' comers tryin ; 
 W^liyles on the strong-winged teiijpest flyin, 
 
 Tirhn' the kirks ; 
 Wliyles in the human bosom pryin. 
 
 Unseen tliou lurks. 
 
 I 've heard my reverent grannie say, 
 In lanely glens ye hke to stray ; 
 Or where auld ruined castles, gray, 
 
 Nod to the moon. 
 Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way, 
 
 Wi' eldritch croon." 
 
 ^Vlien twilight did my grannie summon, 
 To say her prayers, douce, lionest woman ! 
 
 * Cows. 2 Lowing. 
 
 3 " It was, I think, in the winter, as we were going together 
 with carts for coal to the family fire (and I could yet point 
 out the particular spot), that tlic author first repeated to me 
 the Address to the Beit. The curious idea of such an address 
 was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many 
 ludicrous accounts and representations we have from various 
 quarters of this august personage." — Gilbert Burns. 
 
 * Dashes!. 6 Wooden dish. o Strike. 
 ' Flaming pit. 
 
 8 Neither bashful nor apt to be scared. 
 " Uncovering. 
 '" Frightful moan. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 532 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Aft yont the dyke she 's heard you bummin,' 
 
 Wi' eerie drone ; 
 Or, rustlin, through the boortries* comhi, 
 
 Wi' heavy groau. 
 
 ht, 
 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
 Tiie stars shot down wi' sklentin' lig 
 Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 
 
 Ayout the lough ; 
 Ye, hke a rash-bush,* stood in sight, 
 
 Wi' waving sugh. 
 
 The cudgel in my nieve* did shake, 
 Each bristled hair stood like a stake. 
 When wi' an eldritch stoor," quaick, quaick, 
 
 Amang the springs, 
 Awa ye squattered,' like a drake. 
 
 On whistling wings. 
 
 Let warlocks' grim, an' withered hags. 
 Tell how wi' you on ragweed' nags, 
 Tliey skim the uuiirs, an' dizzy crags, 
 
 Wi' wicked speed ; 
 And in kirk-yards renew tiieir leagues, 
 
 Owre howkit" dead. 
 
 Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
 May plunge an' plunge the kirn" in vain ; 
 Per, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 
 
 By witching skill ; 
 An' dawtit,*^ twal-pint" Hawkie 's gacn 
 
 AsyeU's»thebill.'^ 
 
 Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse. 
 On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse ;'" 
 When the best wark-lume" i' the house, 
 • By eantraip^'wit. 
 
 Is instant made no wortli a 
 
 Just at the bit. 
 
 When thowes" dissolve the snawy hoord,** 
 An' float the jinglin' iey-boord, 
 Tlien water-kelpics haunt the foord. 
 
 By your direction. 
 An' nighted travellers are allured 
 
 To their destruction. 
 
 An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies" 
 Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
 The blcczin, curst, mischievous monkies 
 
 Delude his eyes. 
 Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 
 
 Ne'er mair to rise. 
 
 1 Humming. 
 
 2 Tlic shrub elder, common in the hedges of hnrnvfirds. 
 
 <&■ 
 
 3 Slanting. 
 * A bush of iiishcs. 
 Fist. 
 <i Hoarse. 
 ' Fluttered. 
 8 Wizards. 
 lUswort. 
 
 10 ]>igged up. 
 " Churn. 
 " Fondled. 
 « Twelve-pint. 
 ** Barren. 
 " Bull. 
 
 ^'^ CourapTOUs. 
 " Working tool. 
 '^ Magical. 
 1" Thaws. 
 «> Hoard. 
 »' Will-o'-wisp. 
 
 A\'iien masons' mystic word an' grij), 
 In storms an' tempests raise yon up, 
 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 
 
 Or, strange to tell ! 
 The youngest brother ye wad whip 
 
 Aff straught to hell. 
 
 Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
 When youthfu' lovers first were paired. 
 An' all the soul of love they shared. 
 
 The raptured hour. 
 Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird. 
 
 In shady bower : 
 
 Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing' dog ! 
 
 Ye came to Paradise incog, 
 
 An' played on man a cursed brogue,' 
 
 (Black be you fa ! ) 
 An' gied the infant warld a shog,' 
 
 'Maist ruined a'. 
 
 D' ye mind that day, when in a bizz,* 
 Wi' reekit duds,' and reestit gizz,° 
 Ye did present your smoutie ])liiz 
 
 'Mang better folk. 
 An' sklented' on the man of Uzz 
 
 Your spitefu' joke ? 
 
 An' how ye gat him i' your tlirall. 
 An' brak him out o' house an' hal'. 
 While scabs an' blotches did hiin gall, 
 
 Wi' bitter claw. 
 An' lowsed' his ill-tongucd, wicked scawl,' 
 
 Wast warst ava?" 
 
 But a' your doings to rehearse. 
 Your wily snai'es an' fcchtin" fierce, 
 Sin' that day ^Michael '- did you pierce, 
 
 Down to this time, 
 Wad ding " a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
 
 In prose or rhyme. 
 
 An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye 're tliinkin, 
 
 A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin. 
 
 Some luckless hour will scud him liiikiu" 
 
 To your black pit ; 
 But, faith ! he '11 turn a corner jinkin," 
 
 An' cheat you yet. 
 
 But, fare you weel, aidd Nickie-ben ! 
 
 wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
 Ye aiblins '" might — I diniia ken — 
 
 Still hae a stake — 
 
 1 'ni wac to thiuk upo' yon den. 
 
 Even for your sake ! 
 
 > Trick-contriving. 
 » Trick. 
 
 > Shock. 
 * Bustle. 
 
 " Smoky clothes. 
 « Stunted periwig. 
 ' Played, 
 s Loosed 
 
 » Scold. 
 
 " Of all. 
 
 " Fighting. 
 
 " rUe Milton, Book VI.- 
 
 's Worst. 
 
 " Tripping, 
 
 « Dodging. 
 
 l« I'erhnps. 
 
 R.B. 
 
 —g> 
 
ON PASTORAL POETRY. —TO A MOUSE. 
 
 533 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ON PASTORAL POETRY," 
 
 Hail, Poesie ! thou Nympli reserved ! 
 In chase o' thee what crowds hae swerved 
 Frae common sense, or suuk euerved 
 
 'Maug lieaps o' clavers; 
 And och ! owre aft thy joes hae starved. 
 
 Mid a' thy favors ! 
 
 Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
 Wliile loud tiie trump's heroic clang, 
 And sock or buskin skelp alang 
 
 To death or marriage : 
 Scarce anc has tried the shepherd-sang 
 
 But wi' miscarriage ? 
 
 In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
 Eschylus' pen Will Sliakespeare drives ; 
 Wee Pope, the knurlin,- till him rives 
 
 Horatian fame ; 
 In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 
 
 Even Sappho's flame. 
 
 But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
 They 're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
 Squire Pope but busks' his skinklin' patches 
 
 0' heathen tatters : 
 I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 
 
 That ape their betters. 
 
 In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
 Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
 Blaw sweetly in its native air 
 
 And rural grace ; 
 And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 
 
 A rival place ':" 
 
 Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callau — 
 There 's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
 Thou needna jouk ^ beiiint the hallan, 
 
 A chiel sae clever ; 
 The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan," 
 
 But thou 's forever ! 
 
 Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 
 
 In tliy sweet Caledonian lines ; 
 
 Nae gowden stream through myrtles twines. 
 
 Where Philomel, 
 AVhile nigbtly breezes sweep the vines, 
 
 Her griefs will tell ! 
 
 In gowany glens ' thy burnie strays. 
 Where bonnie lasses bleach their elaes ; 
 Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 
 
 Wi' hawthorns gray, 
 Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 
 
 At close o' day. 
 
 1 Gilbei-t Bums douljted tlie authenticity of these verses, 
 but surely without reason. 
 
 2 Dwarf. * Small. "^ The name of a castle, 
 
 3 Dresses. ^ Stoop. ' Daisied dales. 
 
 Thy rural loves are nature's scF ; 
 
 Nae bombast spates' o' nonsense swell; 
 
 Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 
 
 0' witehin' love ; 
 That charm that can the strongest quell, 
 
 The sternest move. 
 
 TO A MOUSE, 
 
 ON TURNING HER UP IN HEK NEST WITH THE 
 PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.2 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cowerin, timorous beastie, 
 O, what a panic 's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou needna start awa sae hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! ^ 
 I wad be laitb to rin an' chase thee, 
 
 Wi' murdering pattle ! ' 
 
 I 'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken Nature's social union. 
 An' justifies tliat ill opinion. 
 
 Which makes thee startle 
 At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 
 
 An' fellow-mortal ! 
 
 I doubtna, wliyles, but thou may thieve ; 
 What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
 A daimeu-icker ' in a thrave 
 
 'S a sma' request : 
 I Tl get a blessin wi' the lave, 
 
 And never miss 't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit bousie, too, in ruin ! 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
 An' naething, now, to big ' a new one, 
 
 0' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
 
 Baith snell' an' keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
 An' weary winter comin fast. 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
 
 Out through thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 Now thou 's turned out, for a' tliy trouble. 
 
 But liousc or liald,' 
 To thole ' the winter's sleety dribble. 
 
 An' cranreuch " cauld ! 
 
 ' Torrents. 
 
 2 A farm-servant, lately living, was driving the plough, 
 which Burns held, when a mouse ran across the field. The 
 man's first impulse was to rush after and kill it; but the poet 
 stopped him, and, soon turning thoughtful, the verses were 
 conceived and horn. 
 
 3 Hurry. 
 
 * Instrument for clearing the plough. 
 " An ear of com now and thcu; a thrave is twenty-four 
 sheaves. 
 •^ Build. 8 Without abiding-place. 'o Hoar-frost. 
 ' Bitter. » Endure. 
 
 -S^ 
 
a- 
 
 534 
 
 BUENS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no tliy lane,' 
 In proving foresight may be vaiu : 
 Tlie best-laid soiiemes o' mice an' men, 
 
 Gang aft a-gley,° 
 An' lea'e us nouglit but grief and pain, 
 
 Tor promised joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
 Tlie present only toucheth thee : 
 But, oeh ! I baci^ward cast my e'e 
 
 On ])rospects drear ! 
 An' forward, though I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear ! 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN 
 APRIL, 1786.^ 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower. 
 Thou 's met me iu an evil hour; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Tiiy slender stem : 
 To spare thee now is past my power. 
 
 Thou bonuie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it 's no thy ncebor sweet, 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending tliee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckled breast, 
 IVlicn upward-springing, blytlie, to greet 
 
 Tlie purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble bii-tk; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid tlie storm, 
 Scarce reared above the parent-earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield 
 High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield. 
 But thou beneath the random bield * 
 
 O' clod, or stane, 
 Adorns the histie' stibble-ficld, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There in thy scanty mantle clad. 
 Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 111 humble guise ; 
 But now tlie share uptears thy bed. 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the late of artless maid. 
 Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
 
 ' Thyself nlone. 
 ' Wrong. 
 
 * The daisy grew in the ficlil next to that in which the 
 phnigh hail turned n|) the nionse*s nest. 
 
 * Shelter. 
 " Dry. 
 
 By love's simplicity betrayed. 
 
 And guileless trust. 
 
 Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard, 
 
 On hfe's rough ocean luckless starred ! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of jn-udeut lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 
 
 And whelm him o'er I 
 
 Such fate to sufi'ering worth is given. 
 Who long with wauts and woes has striven, 
 By human pride or cunning driven 
 
 To misery's brink, 
 Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
 
 He, ruined, sink I 
 
 Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate. 
 That fate is thine — no distant date; 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshai-e drives, elate. 
 
 Full on thy bloom. 
 Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 EUAN FIRST. 
 
 The sun had closed the winter day, 
 The curlers- t|uat their roarin play, 
 And hungered Maukin' taen her way 
 
 To kail-yards green. 
 While faithless snaws dk step betray 
 
 Where she has been. 
 
 The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
 The Ice-lang day had tired me ; 
 And when the day had closed his e'e. 
 
 Far i' tlic west, 
 Ben i' the Spence,* right peusivelie, 
 
 I gaed to rest. 
 
 There, lauely, by the iugle-elieek, 
 I sat and eyed the S))ewing reek. 
 That filled, wi' hoast-prnvokiiig smeek. 
 The auld, clay bigirin ; 
 An' heard the restless rattons" squeak 
 
 All in this mottie, misty clime, 
 I baekxiard mused on wasted time. 
 How I had spent my youtlifu' prime. 
 An' done naething, 
 
 ' Duan, a term of Cisinn's for the different divisions of a 
 digressive poem. See his Cnlh-Loda, Vol. II. of M'l'iicrson's 
 translation. — K. H. 
 2 Plavers at a game on the ice, called curling, 
 8 iisro. " Ilousr 
 
 • The parlor. " Hals 
 
 ^ 
 
THE VISION. 
 
 535 
 
 T) 
 
 ^ 
 
 But striugiii blethers up in rhyme, 
 
 For fools to sing. 
 
 Had I to guid advice l)ut harkit, 
 I might, by tliis, hae led a market 
 Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 
 
 My cash-account : 
 Wliile here, haU'-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit^ 
 
 Is a' tlie amount. 
 
 I started, muttering, blockhead ! coof !' 
 And heaved on high my waukit loof,^ 
 To swear by a' yon starry roof. 
 
 Or some rash aith. 
 That I, hencefortli, woidd be rhyme-proof 
 
 Till my last breath— 
 
 When, click ! the string the snick* did draw ; 
 And, jec ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
 And by my iugle-lowe* I saw. 
 
 Now blcczin bright, 
 A tight, outlandish liizzie, braw. 
 
 Come full in sight. 
 
 Ye needua doubt, I held my whist ;° 
 The infant aith, hali'-formed, was crusht; 
 I glowered as eerie's I 'd been dusht' 
 
 111 some wild glen ; 
 When sweet, like modest wortii, she blusht, 
 
 And stepped ben.' 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
 "Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, 
 
 1 took her for some Scottish Muse, 
 
 By that same token ; 
 And come to stop those reckless vows. 
 
 Would soon been broken. 
 
 A " hair-brained, sentimental trace," 
 Was strongly marked in her face ; 
 A wildly-witty, rustic grace 
 
 Siione full upon her ; 
 Her eye, even turned on empty space, 
 
 Beamed keen with honor. 
 
 Down flowed her rol)e, a tartan sheen : 
 Till half a leg was scrimply' seen; 
 And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 
 
 Coidd only peer it; 
 Sae straught, sae taper, tiglit, and clean, 
 
 Nane else came near it. 
 
 Her mantle large, of greenisli hue. 
 
 My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
 
 Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 
 
 A lustre grand ; 
 Aud seemed, to my astonished view, 
 
 A well-known land. 
 
 ^ Half-provided with shirts. 
 
 2 Ninny. 
 
 3 Thickened or stained pnlm. 
 < Latch, 
 fi Hearth-flame. 
 
 fi Silence. 
 ' Struck down. 
 8 Inward. 
 » Partly. 
 
 Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
 There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
 Here, tumbUng billows marked the coast. 
 
 With surging foam ; 
 There, distant slione Art's lofty boa^t, 
 
 The lordly dome. 
 
 Here, Doon poured down his far-fetched floods ; 
 There, well-fed Irwiue stately thuds:' 
 Auld hermit Ayr staw- through his woods, 
 
 On to the shore ; 
 And many a lesser torrent scuds. 
 
 With seeming roar. 
 
 Low, in a sandy valley spread. 
 
 An ancient borough reared her head ; 
 
 StUl, as in Scottish story read. 
 
 She boasts a race. 
 To every nobler virtue bred, 
 
 And polished grace. 
 
 By stately tower or palace fair. 
 
 Or ruins peudeut in the air. 
 
 Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 
 
 I could discern ; 
 Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare. 
 
 With features stern. 
 
 My heart did glowing transport feel. 
 
 To see a racc^ heroic wheel. 
 
 And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 
 
 In sturdy blows : 
 While back-recoiling seemed to reel 
 
 Their Southron foes. 
 
 His Country's savior,* mark him well ! 
 Bold Rieharton's* heroic swell; 
 The Cliief on Sark° who glorious fell. 
 
 In high command ; 
 And he whom rathless fates expel 
 
 His native land. 
 
 There, where a sceptred Pictish shade' 
 Stalked round liis ashes lowly laid, 
 I marked a martial race, portrayed 
 
 In colors strong ; 
 Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed 
 
 They strode along. 
 
 • Tlirongh many a wild, romantic grove,' 
 Near many a licrmit-fancied cove, 
 
 ' .Sounds. ' The Wallaces. — R. B. 
 
 = Did steal. * William Wallace.— 11. 11. 
 
 's Adam Wallace, of Richarton, cousin of the immortal pre- 
 server of Scottish independence. — R. B. 
 
 « Wallace, Laird of Craigie, vvho was second in command, 
 under Ponglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the 
 liauks of Sark, fought anno IWS. 
 
 ' Coilus, King of the Piets, from whom the district of Kyle 
 is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the 
 family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his 
 burial-place is still shown. — R. B. 
 
 8 Barskimniiug, the seat of the late Lord Justice Clerk 
 [Miller].— R. B. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 536 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 ■Q) 
 
 (Fit haunts for Friendship or for Love 
 In musing mood,) 
 
 An aged judge, I saw him rove, 
 
 Dispensing good. 
 
 AVith deep-struck reverential awe 
 The learned sire and son 1 saw,' 
 To Nature's God and Nature's law 
 
 They gave their lore. 
 This, all its source and end to draw : 
 
 Tiiat, to adore. 
 
 Brydone's brave ward' I well could spy. 
 Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
 Wlio called on Fame, low standing by. 
 
 To hand him on. 
 Where many a patriot name on iiigli. 
 
 And hero shone. 
 
 DUAN SECOND. 
 
 With musing-deep, astonished stare, 
 I viewed the iieavenly-seeming Fair; 
 A wliisperiug throb did witness beai% 
 
 01' kindred sweet, 
 When with an elder sister's air 
 
 She did me greet. 
 
 " All hail ! my own inspired Bard ! 
 In me tliy native Muse regard ! 
 Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
 
 Thus poorly low ! 
 I come to give thee such reward 
 
 As we bestow. 
 
 " Know, the great Genius of this land 
 Has many a hgiit, aerial band, 
 Who, all beneath his iiigli command. 
 
 Harmoniously, 
 As Arts or Arms they undor.'^tand. 
 
 Their laljors ply. 
 
 " They Scotia's race among them share ; 
 Some fire the soldier on to dare : 
 Some rouse the patriot up to bare 
 
 Corruption's heart: 
 Some teach the bard, a darling care. 
 
 The tuneful art. 
 
 " 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
 Tliey, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
 Or, mid the venal senate's roar. 
 
 They, sightless, stand, 
 To mend the honest patriot-lore, 
 
 And grace the hand. 
 
 "And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
 Ciiarm or instruct the future age, 
 
 * Cntrinc, the sent of the Inte Doctor nnil present Professor 
 Stcwnrt. — R. B. 
 ! Colonel Fullnrton.— R. I!. 
 
 ^^-^ 
 
 They bind the wild, poetic rage 
 
 In energy. 
 Or point the inconclusive page 
 
 Full on the eye. 
 
 " Hence, FuUartou, the brave and young ; 
 Hence, Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
 Hence, sweet harmonious Beattic sung 
 
 His ' Minstrel lays,' 
 Or tore, with noble ardor stung, 
 
 The sceptic's bays. 
 
 "To lower orders are assigned 
 Tile humbler ranks of humau-kiiid, 
 The rustic bard, the laboring hind, 
 
 The artisan : 
 All choose, as various they 're inclined, 
 
 The various man. 
 
 "Wlien yellow waves the heavy grain, 
 Tiie threatening storm some, strongly, rein; 
 Some teach to meliorate the plain 
 
 With tillage-skill; 
 And some instruct tiie siiepherd-train, 
 
 Blythe o'er the hill. 
 
 " Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
 Some grace the maiden's artless smile; 
 Some soothe the laborer's weary toil. 
 
 For humble gains. 
 And make his cottage-scenes beguile 
 
 His cares and pains. 
 
 " Some, bounded to a district-space, 
 Explore at large man's infant race. 
 To mark tlie ebbryotic trace 
 
 Of rustic bard ; 
 And careful note each opening grace, 
 
 A guide and guard. 
 
 " Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
 
 And this district as mine 1 claim, 
 
 Wliere once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 
 
 Held ruling power : 
 I marked thy embryo-tuneful ll:uiie, 
 
 Tiiy natal hour. 
 
 "With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
 
 Fond, on thy little early ways, 
 
 Thy rudely-carolled, chiming phrase. 
 
 In uncouth rhymes, 
 Fired at the simple, artless lays 
 
 Of other times. 
 
 " I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
 Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
 Or when the North his fleecy store 
 
 Drove tlirough the sky, 
 I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 
 
 Struck thy young eve. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FEIEND. 
 
 537 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 "Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
 Warm-cherished every floweret's bii'th, 
 And joy and music pouring fortli 
 
 In evei-y grove, 
 I saw thee eye the general mirth 
 
 With boundless love. 
 
 " When ripened fields, and azure skies, 
 Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
 I saw thee leave their evening joys, 
 
 And lonely stalk. 
 To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
 
 In pensive walk. 
 
 " When youthful love, warm-blushing strong, 
 Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
 Those accents, grateful to thy tongue. 
 
 The adored name, 
 I taught thee how to pour in song, 
 
 To soothe thy flame. 
 
 " I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
 Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way. 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 
 
 By Passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from heaven. 
 
 " I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
 The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
 Till now, o'er all my wide domains 
 
 Thy fame extends ; 
 And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 
 
 Become thy friends. 
 
 " Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
 To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 
 
 With Shenstone's art ; 
 Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
 
 Warm on the heart. 
 
 " Yet, all beneath the unrivalled rose. 
 
 The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
 
 Though large the forest's monarch throws 
 
 His army shade, 
 Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
 
 Adown the glade. 
 
 " Then never murmur nor repine ; 
 Strive in thy humble s[)here to shine ; 
 And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 
 
 Nor kings' regard. 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
 
 A rustic bard. 
 
 " To give my counsels all in one, — 
 Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
 Preserve the dignity of man, 
 
 With soul erect ; 
 And trust, the universal plan 
 
 Will all protect. 
 
 " And wear thou this," she solemn said. 
 And bound the holly round my head : 
 The pohshed leaves, and berries red. 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 And, like a passing thouglit, she fled 
 
 In light away. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG PKIEND.' 
 
 MAY, 1786. 
 
 I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
 
 A something to have sent you. 
 Though it should serve' nae ither end 
 
 Than just a kind memento ; 
 But how the subjoct-theme may gang. 
 
 Let time and chance determine ; 
 Perh.aps it may turn out a sang, 
 
 Perhaps turn out a sermon. 
 
 Ye '11 try the world soon, my lad, 
 
 And, Andrew dear, believe nic, 
 Ye '11 find mankind an unco squad. 
 
 And muckle they may grieve ye : 
 For care and trouble set your tiiought. 
 
 Even wiien your end 's attained ; 
 And a' your views may come to nought. 
 
 Where every nerve is strained. 
 
 I '11 no say, men are villains a' ; 
 
 The real, hai-dencd wicked, 
 TVlia hae nae check but human law, 
 
 Are to a few restricked ; 
 But, och ! mankind ai'e unco weak. 
 
 An' Uttle to be trusted ; 
 If self the wavering balance shake. 
 
 It 's rarely right adjusted ! 
 
 Yet they wha- fa'^ in fortune's stiife. 
 
 Their fate we shouldna censure. 
 For still the important end of life 
 
 They equally may answer ; 
 A man may hae an honest heart, 
 
 Though poortith* hourly stare him ; 
 A man may tak a nccbor's part, 
 
 Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 
 
 Aye free, aff-han'' your story tell. 
 
 When wi' a bosom crony ; 
 But still keep something to yoursel 
 
 Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
 Conceal yoursel as wcel 's ye can 
 
 Frne critical dissection ; 
 But keek' through every other man, 
 
 Wi' sharpened, sly inspection. 
 
 1 Andrew Aiken, of Ayr, son of the friend to whom Burna 
 inscribed The Cotter's Saturdaii Night. 
 
 2 Who. « Poverty. • Peep, 
 s Fall. 6 OIT-liand. 
 
 -*-9> 
 
cfi- 
 
 538 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 The sacred lowe' o' weel-j)laced love, 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
 But never tempt the illicit I'ove, 
 
 Tliougli naething sliould divulge it; 
 I wave the quantum o' the sin, 
 
 The hazard o' concealing ; 
 But, ocli ! it hardens a' within. 
 
 And petrifies the feeling ! 
 
 To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile, 
 
 Assiduous wait upon her; 
 And gather gear by every wile 
 
 That 's justified by honor; 
 Not for to hide it in a hedge. 
 
 Nor for a train attendant ; 
 But for tlie glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent. 
 
 The fear o' licU 's a hangman's whip, 
 
 To iuiud the wretch in order ; 
 But where ye feel your honor grip, 
 
 Let that aye be your border ; 
 Its slightest touches, instant pause, — 
 
 Debai' a' side pretences ; 
 And resolutely keep its laws, 
 
 Uncaring consequences. 
 
 The great Creator to revere. 
 
 Must sure become the creature; 
 But still the preaching cant forbear, 
 
 And even the rigid feature; 
 Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 
 
 Be complaisance extended ; 
 An atiieist-laugh 's a poor exchange 
 
 For Deity offended ! • 
 
 AVhen ranting round in pleasure's ring, 
 
 Religion may be blinded ; 
 Or, if she gic a rajidom sting. 
 
 It may be little minded ; 
 But when on life we 're tempest-driven, 
 
 A conscience but a canker — 
 A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven 
 
 Is sure a noble anchor 1 
 
 Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 
 
 Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
 May prudence, fortitude, and trutli, 
 
 Erect your brow undaunting ! 
 In ploughman plirase, "God send you speed,' 
 
 Still daily to grow wiser ; 
 And may you better reck the rede,'' 
 
 Than ever did the adviser ! 
 
 TO DK. BLACKLOOK. 
 
 K1.1.1SI.AXI), ilst Ort. 1789. 
 
 AVow,' but your letter made me vaunt 
 
 ,\nd ai 
 
 liale, 
 
 fr 
 
 ' Vlaiiic, 
 
 2 Herd tlic counsel. 
 
 and weel, and cantic? 
 
 3 \u fxclaniatioii of pleasure. 
 
 1 kenned it stdl your wee bit jauiitie 
 
 Wad bring ye to : 
 Lord send you aye as weel 's 1 want ye, 
 
 And then ye '11 do. 
 
 The ill-thief blaw the Heron' south ! 
 And never drink be near his drouth ! 
 lie tald inysel by word o' mouth, 
 
 He 'd tak my letter ; 
 I li]jpencd to the cliiel in troutli, 
 
 And bade nae better. 
 
 But aiblins honest Master Heron 
 Had at the time some dainty fair one. 
 To ware his theologie care on. 
 
 And holy study; 
 And tired 0' sauls to waste his lear- on. 
 
 E'en tried the body. 
 
 But what d' ye think, my trusty tier,' 
 I 'in turned a ganger — Peace be here ! 
 Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear 
 
 Y'e '11 now disdain me ! 
 And then my fifty pounds a year 
 
 Will little gain me. 
 
 Ye glaikit, gleesonie, dainty daniies, 
 Wha, by Castalia's w-im))lin' streamies, 
 Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies. 
 
 Ye ken, ye ken, 
 That Strang necessity supreme is 
 
 'Mang sons o' men. 
 
 I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 
 
 They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ;' 
 
 Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, — 
 
 I neediia vaunt 
 But 1 '11 sued* besoms, — thraw saugli woodies," 
 
 Before they want. 
 
 Lord, help me through tliis warld o' care ! 
 I 'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
 Not but I hae a richer share 
 
 Than monie ithers; 
 But why should ae man better fare, 
 
 And a' men brithers? 
 
 Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, — 
 Thou stalk o' carl-hemp' in man ! 
 And let us mind, faint licart ne'er wau 
 
 A lady fair ; 
 Wha does the utmost that lie can, 
 
 Will whyles the mair. 
 
 But to conclude my silly rhyme 
 
 (I 'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time), 
 
 * llobcrt Heron, who wrote a History of Scotland and a Life 
 of Hurns. 
 
 2 Learning. " Lop. 
 
 ' lirotlicr. * Twist willow ropes. 
 
 * lla'.:s of clotlies. ' The male, or strontrcr stalk of lienip. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. — THE SODGEE'S RETURN. 
 
 539 I 
 
 ^ 
 
 To make a happy fireside clime 
 
 To weans and Tvife, 
 
 Tliat 's tlie true patlios and sublime 
 Of human life. 
 
 My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
 Aiid eke the same to honest Lucky, 
 I wat she is a dainty chuckle, 
 
 As e'er tread clay ! 
 And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 
 
 I 'ni yours for ay, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 BANNOCEBUEN.i 
 
 ROBERT BEUCe's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed. 
 Or to victorie. 
 
 Now 's the day, and now 's the hour 
 See the front o' battle lour : 
 See approach proud Edward's power, — 
 Chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Ereeman 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, 
 But tliey shall be free ! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty 's in every blow ! 
 Let us do, or die ! ° 
 
 ' ".\ friend had got a 'gray Highland shelty ' for Bums, 
 and he made a little excursion on it into Galloway. He was 
 particularly struck with the scenery round Keumore, From 
 that place lie and his companion took the Moor-road to Gate- 
 house, the dreary country heing lighted up hy frequent gleams 
 of a thunder-storm, which soon poured down a flood of raiu. 
 Burns spoke not a word. ' What do you think he was ahout ? ' 
 asked his fellow-traveller, relating the adventure. 'lie was 
 charging the English aimy along -with Bruce at Bannockburn. 
 He was engaged in the same manner on our ride home from 
 St. Mary's Isle. I did not disturb him. Ne,\t day he pi-oduced 
 tlie following address of Bruce to his troops.'" — Mr. Syme, 
 
 quoted hij CCRRIK, I. 211. 
 
 ^ "Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotchman, T have 
 rarely met with anything in history which interests my feel- 
 ings as a man equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the 
 one hand, a cruel but able usurper leading on the finest army 
 in Europe to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a 
 
 AFTON WATEK.' 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Alton, among thy green 
 
 braes, 
 Flow gently, I '11 sing thee a song in thy praise; 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through 
 the glen. 
 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
 bear, 
 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. 
 Far marked with the courses of clear, winding 
 
 rills. 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
 Wliere wild in the woodlands the primroses 
 
 blow; 
 There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
 How w"anton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
 As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 
 Flow geutly, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 THE SOD&ER'S RETUKN,= 
 
 When wild war's deadly blast was blafl^l, 
 
 And gentle peace returning, 
 Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
 
 And mony a widow mourning, 
 I left the lines and tented field. 
 
 Where lang I 'd been a lodger. 
 My humljle knapsack a' my wealth, 
 
 A poor and honest sodger. 
 
 A leal, light heart was in my breast. 
 My hand unstained wi' plunder; 
 
 And for fair Scotia, hame again, 
 I cheery on did wander. 
 
 greatly daring and greatly injured people; on the otlier hand, 
 the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting themselves 
 to rescue their bleeding country or to perish with her." — 
 Burns to Eari. ok Buchan, January 12, 1794. 
 
 1 Afton, a stream in .\yrshire. 
 
 2 A soldier, passing by the window of an inn, suggested 
 these touching lines. The poet called him in, and asked hira 
 to relate his adventures. 
 
 ■^ 
 
c0- 
 
 540 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 
 
 I thouglit upon my Nancy, 
 I thought upon tlie witching snule 
 
 That caught my youthful fancy. 
 
 At length I reached the bonnie glen, 
 
 Wliere early life I sported ; 
 I passed the mill, and trysting thorn, 
 
 Wliere Nancy aft I courted ; 
 Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 
 
 Down by licr mother's dweUing ! 
 And turned me round to hide the flood 
 
 That in my ecu was swelling. 
 
 Wi' altered voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 
 
 Sweet as yon hawthoni blossom, 
 O, happy, happy may he be. 
 
 That 's dearest to thy bosom ! 
 My purse is Ught, I 've far to gang. 
 
 And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
 I 've served my king and country lang, — ■ 
 
 Take pity on a sodger ! " 
 
 Sae wistfully she gazed on me. 
 
 And lovelier was than ever : 
 Quo' she, " A sodger ance I lo'ed, 
 
 Porget him shall I never : 
 Our humble cot and hamely fare 
 
 Ye freely shall partake it, 
 That gallant badge, tlie dear cockade. 
 
 Ye 're welcome for the sake o't." 
 
 She gazed — she reddened like a rose — • 
 
 Syne ' pale like ouie lily ; 
 She sank within my arms and cried, 
 
 " Art thou my ain dear Willie ? " 
 " By liim who made yon sun and sky. 
 
 By wliom true love 's regarded, 
 I am the man ; and thus may stiU 
 
 True lovers be rewarded ! 
 
 " The wars are o'er, and I 'm come hame, 
 
 And find thee still true-hearted ; 
 Though poor in gear, we 're rich in love. 
 
 And mair we'se ne'er be parted." 
 Quo' slie, " My grandsire left me gowd, 
 
 A mailen^ plenished fairly ; 
 And eome, my faithful sodger lad. 
 
 Thou 'rt welcome to it dearly ! " 
 
 For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
 
 The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
 But glory is the sodger's prize ; 
 
 The sodger's wealtli is honor ; 
 The brave poor .sodger ne'er despise. 
 
 Nor count him as a stranger. 
 Remember he 's his country's stay 
 
 In day and hour o' danger. 
 
 > Then. ' Fnnii. 
 
 PRATER FOR MARY.' 
 
 Powers celestial, whose protection 
 
 Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
 When in distant climes I wander. 
 
 Let my Mary be your care : 
 Let her form sae fair and faultless, 
 
 Fair and faultless as your own, — 
 Let my Mary's kindred spirit 
 
 Draw your choicest iuflueuce down. 
 
 Make the gales you waft around her 
 
 Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
 Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 
 
 Soothe her bosom into rest ; 
 Guardian angels, 0, protect her. 
 
 When in distant lands I roam ; 
 To realms unknown while fate exiles me. 
 
 Make her bosom still my home. 
 
 HIGHLAND MART, 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! ° 
 There simmer first unfald her robes. 
 
 And there the langest tarry; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 0' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
 As underneath their fragrant shade 
 
 I clasped her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings. 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me, as liglit and life. 
 
 Was my sweet Higliland Mary. 
 
 Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace. 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again. 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But oil ! foil death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green 's the sod, and eanld 's the clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hac kissed sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 
 
 Tiiat dwelt on me sac kindly ! 
 And mouldering now in silent dust, 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But stiU within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 1 Prohnl)ly written on Highlnnd Mnry, on the eve of the 
 poet's (U'pnrture to the West Indies. 
 ' Muililv. 
 
 W 
 
a- 
 
 THE BANKS O' BOON. —FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 541 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 TO MART Df HEATEN.i 
 
 Tiiou lingering star, Tvitli Icsscuiug ray, 
 
 Tliat loy'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in tlie day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is tliy place of Ijlissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget ? 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 't was our last ! 
 
 Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray, — 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 
 
 And fondly broods with miser cara ! 
 Time but the impression deeper makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 THE BANKS 0' DOON. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
 
 Hojv can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 An' I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
 
 Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbhng bird. 
 That wantons through the flowering thorn : 
 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys. 
 Departed — never to return. 
 
 Thou 'It break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 
 
 And wistna o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 
 * Mar>' Campbell. The stanzas were composed while Burns 
 lay on some sheaves in the harvest-field, with his eyes fixed on 
 a star of exceedinjr brightness. 
 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luvc. 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 
 And my fause luver stole my rose. 
 But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 JOHU ANDERSON, MT JO. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent. 
 Your locks were like the raven. 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; ' 
 But now your brow is beld, John, 
 
 Y^our locks arc like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 Jolni Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill tliegitlier ; 
 And monie a canty day, John, 
 
 We 've had wi' ane auither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we '11 go. 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty. 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Our toils obscure, and a' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp ; 
 The man 's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodden-gray,' ami a' that. 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man 's a man, for a' that ; 
 For a' that, and a' that : 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that : 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie,' ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
 Though hundreds worship at his word. 
 He 's but a coof * for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His riband, star, and a' that. 
 The man of independent mind. 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 * High and smooth. 
 5 Conceited fellow. 
 
 2 Coarse woollen cloth. 
 < Blockhead. 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 542 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 C3_ 
 
 A prince can iiiiik ri belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' tliat; 
 But an liouest man 's aboon his might, 
 Guid faith, he mauna fa' ' that ! 
 For a' thatj and a' that, 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that, 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 
 Are higlier ranks than a' tliat. 
 
 Tlien let us pray that come it may, 
 
 As come it will for a' that, 
 Tliat sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
 May bear the gree," and a' that ; 
 For a' that, and a' that ; 
 
 It 's coming yet, for a' that ; 
 
 That man to man, the warld o'er. 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 I LOVE MT JEAN. 
 
 Of a' the airts ' the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west. 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives. 
 
 The lassie 1 lo'e best ; 
 There wildwoods grow, and rivers row. 
 
 And monie a hill between ; 
 By day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I sec her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I sec her sweet and fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear lier cliarm the air : 
 There 's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
 There 's not a bonnie bird that sings. 
 
 But minds me o' mv Jean. 
 
 AE rOND KISS.-" 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae farewcel, alas ! foreve.r ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I 'II pledge thee, 
 AV'arring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. 
 AV'lio shall say that fortune grieves him ? 
 While the star of hope she leaves liini ? 
 .\lc, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I '11 ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her was to love her ; 
 Love but her, and love forever. 
 Had we never loved sae kindly. 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 
 I Try. ^ May Ijc conquerors. 
 
 3 Points of tlie compnss. 
 
 * " These cxtimsitely alTcpting stanzas contain tlie essence 
 of a tliousnnJ lu\c.lnle»." — Scott. 
 
 Never met, — or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae farewcel, alas ! forever ! 
 Deep in lieart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE UNCO QUID, 
 
 OK THE iiiGim.v nicnTEOL's. 
 
 " My son, lliese maxims nialcc a rule, 
 Anil lump Uicnl aye llicjritlier; 
 The Rigiil ilijrltteous is a fool. 
 
 The Rigid Wise anillicT: 
 Ttie cleanest corn Ihat e'er was dight 
 
 May liae some pylcs o' caff m ; 
 So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
 For random fits o' daffin." 
 
 Solomon, Eccles. vn. ]C. 
 
 YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 
 
 Sae pious and sae holy, 
 Yc 've nought to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your nccbor's fauts and folly I 
 Wiase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 
 
 Supplied wi' store o' water, 
 The li^apet liapper 's ebbing still. 
 
 And still the clap phiys clatter. 
 
 Hear me, ye venerable core,' 
 
 As counsel for poor mortals. 
 That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door. 
 
 For glaikit" Folly's portals ; 
 I, for thi'ir thoughtless, careless sakes. 
 
 Would here propone defences. 
 Their donsie ' tricks, their black mistakes. 
 
 Their failings and misehanccs. 
 
 Y'e see your state wi' theirs compar'd 
 
 And shudder at the nilTcr,' 
 But cast a moment's fair regard. 
 
 What maks the mighty differ? 
 Discount what scant occasion gave 
 
 That purity ye ])ridc in. 
 And (what 's aft mair than a' the lave) 
 
 Your better art o' liidin'. 
 
 Think, when your castigated pulse 
 
 Gics now and then a wallop. 
 What raging must his veins convulse. 
 
 That still eternal gallop: 
 Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 
 
 Right on ye scud your sea-way: 
 But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 
 
 It maks ail unco leeway. 
 
 Corps. 
 Viiliickv. 
 
 ' Careless. 
 * K\clinnge 
 
 -J 
 
a- 
 
 THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 543 
 
 ■a 
 
 See Social life and Glee sit do^vn, 
 
 All joyous and unthinking, 
 Till quite trausmugrified' they 're grown 
 
 Debauchery and Drinking : 
 0, would they stay to calculate 
 
 The eternal consequences ; 
 Or your moi-c dreaded hell to state, 
 
 Damnation of expenses ! 
 * * * 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man, 
 
 Still gentler sister woman ; 
 Thougli they may gang a kenuie ' wrang. 
 
 To step aside is human : 
 One point must still be greatly dark, 
 
 The moving ll'/ij/ they do it ; 
 And just as lamely can ye mark 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
 Who made the heart, 't is lie alone 
 
 Decidedly can try us, 
 Ho knows eacli chord, — its various tone. 
 
 Each spring, — its various bias : 
 Then at the balance let 's be mute. 
 
 We never can adjust it ; 
 Wliat 's done we jjartly may compute. 
 
 But know not what 's resisted. 
 
 0, MY LDVE 'S LIKE A EED, RED ROSE. 
 
 O, MY luve 's like a red, red rose 
 That 's newly sprung in June : 
 
 O, my luve 's like the melodic 
 That 's sweetly played in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 
 
 So deep in luve am I -. 
 And I w-iU luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
 And tlie rocks melt wi' the sun : 
 
 I will luve thee still, my dear. 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
 And fare tliee weel, my only luve ! 
 
 And fare thee weel awlide ! 
 And I will come again, my luve, 
 
 Thougli it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 AULD LANa SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And days o' lang syne ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eor auld lang syne, my dear, 
 For auld lang syne, 
 
 fr 
 
 1 Trnnsformci]. 
 
 - Small nmttcr. 
 
 We 'U tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 for auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes. 
 
 And pu'd the gowans.fme; 
 But we 've wandei'ed many a weary foot 
 
 Sin auld laug syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 We twa hae paidlct i' the burn, 
 
 From morniu sun till dine ; 
 But seas between us braid hae roared 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 Aud gie 's a hand o' thine ; 
 And we '11 tak a right guid willie-waught. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp. 
 
 And surely I '11 be mine ; 
 And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 THE LASS 0' BALLOCHMYLE.* 
 
 'T WAS even, — tlic dewy fields were green. 
 
 On every blade the pearls did hang, 
 The Zephyrs wantoned round the bean. 
 
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
 In every glen the mavis sang. 
 
 All nature listening seemed the while. 
 Except where greenwood echoes rang 
 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 With careless step I onward strayed. 
 
 My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
 TOicn musing in a lonely glade, 
 
 A maiden fair I clianced to spy ; 
 Her look was like the morning's eye. 
 
 Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
 Perfection whispered, passing by, 
 
 " Behold the Lass o' Ballochmyle ! " 
 
 Fair is the morn in flowery Jlay, 
 And sweet is night in autumn mUd, 
 
 * " T!ie Lass of Ballocllinyle " was Miss Alexander, whose 
 brother had recently come to reside in Ballochmyle House, of 
 which the pleasure-grounds extend along the north hank of the 
 Ayr. The Ihrni of Burns, Jlossgiel, was in the immediate 
 neighborhood. He enclosed a copy of the song to Miss Alexan- 
 der, and was extremely indignant at the lady's silence respect- 
 ing his letter. Of the verses his own opinion was justly high ; 
 " I think myself," he told Mrs. Stewart of Stair, " it has some 
 merit, both as a tolerable description of one of Nature's scenes, 
 — a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's 
 workmanship, — the finest indeed we know anything of, — an 
 amiable, beautiful voiin^ woman. " 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 544 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 V- 
 
 Wlicii roving tlirough the garden gay, 
 Or wandering iii a lonely wild : 
 
 Bnt AVonian, Nature's darling child ! 
 There all her charms she does compile ; 
 
 Even there her other works arc foiled 
 By the bonnie Lass o' Ballochniylc. 
 
 O, had she been a country maid. 
 
 And I tlie happy country swain, 
 Though sheltered in the lowest shed 
 
 That ever rose in Scotland's )ilain : 
 Tlirough weary winter's wind and rain, 
 
 With joy, with rapture, I would toil; 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 
 The bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 Then pride might climb the slippeiy steep, 
 
 Where fame and honors lofty shine ; 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 
 
 Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
 Give me the eot below the pine, 
 
 To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
 And every day have joys divine 
 
 With the bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 LOGAN BKAES,* 
 
 Logan, sweetly didst thovi glide 
 That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
 And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
 Like Logan to tlie simmer sun ; 
 But now thy flowery banks appear 
 Like drundie winter, dark and drear, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. 
 
 Again the merry month o' May 
 
 Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
 
 The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
 
 The bees hum round the breathing flowers; 
 
 Blithe morniug lifts liis rosy eye, 
 
 And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
 
 My soul, delightlcss, a' surveys, 
 
 While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 
 
 Within yon milk-wliitc hawthorn-bush, 
 Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush : 
 Her failhi'u' mate will share her toil. 
 Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
 But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
 Nac mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
 Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
 While Willie 's far frae Logan Braes. 
 
 0, wac upon you, men o' state. 
 That bretlircn rouse to deadly hate ! 
 
 * The song wb8 the fruit of "tlirtic quarters of an hour's 
 meditation" by the poet in liis elbow-chair, on the wickedness 
 of anil)ifinn. 
 
 As ye mak mouie a fond heart mourn. 
 Sac may it on your heads return ! 
 How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
 The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
 But soon may peace bring happy days, 
 And Willie hame to Logan Braes ! 
 
 M'PHEESON'S FAREWELL," 
 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
 
 Tlie Avretch's destinie : 
 M'Pherson's time will not be long 
 
 On yonder gallows-tree. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
 
 Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
 lie played a spring and danced it round, 
 
 Below the gaUows-tree. 
 
 0, what is death but parting breath ? — 
 
 On mony a bloody plain 
 I 'vc dared his face, and in this place 
 
 I scorn him yet again ! 
 
 Sae rantingly, etc. 
 
 Untie these bands from off my hands. 
 
 And bring to me my sword ! 
 And there 's no a man in all Scotland, 
 
 But I '11 brave liim at a word. 
 
 Sae rantingly, etc. 
 
 I 've liv'd a life of sturt° and strife ; 
 
 I die by treachery : 
 It liurns my heart I must depart 
 
 And not avenged be. 
 
 Sae rantingly, etc. 
 
 Now farewell, light, thou sunshine bright, 
 
 And all beneath the sky ! 
 May coward shame distain his name, 
 
 The wretch that dares liot die ! 
 
 Sae rantingly, etc. 
 
 MT BONNIE MART. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 
 An' fill it in a silver tassie ;' 
 That I may drink, before I go, 
 
 A service to my bonnie lassie. 
 The boat rocks at the ])icr o' Lcith ; 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
 The ship rides by the Bcrwiok-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 
 • A noted Highland robber, whose daring Is portrayed in 
 the verses. He broke his violin ot the foot of the gnllows. 
 ■ Troulile. * Measure. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 545 
 
 -fi) 
 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar. 
 The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
 
 But it 's no tlie roar o' sea or shore 
 Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ; 
 
 Nor shout o' war that 's heard afar, — 
 It 's leaving thee, my bonnic Mai'y. 
 
 MY WIPE'S A WINSOME WEE THDfG.' 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a bonnie wee thing. 
 This sweet wee wile o' mine. 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never loved a dearer, 
 
 And neist " my heart 1 '11 wear her, 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsome wee thing. 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 Tliis sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 The warld's wrack we share o't, 
 The warstle and the care o't ; 
 Wi' her I '11 bljthely bear it, 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 MY HEART 'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.' 
 
 ^ 
 
 Jly heart 's in tlie Highlands, my lieart is not 
 
 here ; 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a-ehasing the deer; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, — 
 Jly lieart 's in tlie Highlands wherever I go. 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell 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 highcovered with snow ; 
 I^arewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
 Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
 My licart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here. 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following tiie roe. — 
 My lieart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
 
 1 " There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, anil a 
 necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I 
 would rail the feature notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, 
 and lay liiai under almost msuperable difflculties. Tor in- 
 stance, m the air, ' My wife 's a wanton wee tiling,* if a few 
 lines, smootli and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can 
 expect. The following were made extempore to it : and thongli, 
 on fnrthei- sttidy, I might give you something more profound, 
 yet it miglit not suit the ligbt-borse gallop of the air so well as 
 this random cliuk." — Burns to Thomson. 
 
 2 Next, 
 
 3 " The first half-stanza of this song is old, the rest is 
 mine." — R. B. 
 
 BONNIE LESLEY,' 
 
 0, SAW ye bonnie Lesley, 
 
 As she gae'd o'er the border ? 
 
 She 's gane, like Alexander, 
 To spread her conquests farther. 
 
 To see her is to love her. 
 And love but her forever ; 
 
 For Nature made her wliat she is, 
 And ne'er made sic anither ! 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
 Thy subjects we, before thee : 
 
 Tliou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 The deil he couldna scaith thee. 
 Or aught that wad belaiig thee ; 
 
 He 'd look into thy bonnie face. 
 And say, " I canna wrang tliee." 
 
 The powers aboon will tent thee -. 
 
 Misfortune sha'na steer ^ thee ; 
 Thou 'rt like themselves, sae lovely. 
 
 That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. 
 
 Return again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie ! 
 That we may brag we liae a lass • 
 
 There 's nane again sae bonuie. 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 Maky, at thy window be. 
 
 It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see. 
 
 That make the miser's treasure poor. 
 How blithely wad I bide the stoure,' 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
 The dance gaed through the lighted ha' 
 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
 
 Though this was fair, and that was braw. 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 
 1 sighed, and said amang them a', 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
 
 Or canst thou break tliat heart of his, 
 Wliase only faut is loving thee ? 
 
 * Miss Lesley Baillie. The ballad was composed by Burns 
 after spending a day with the lady's family, then on their way 
 to England. 
 
 2 Unit. > Pust. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 5-16 
 
 BUKNS. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 k 
 
 If love for love thou vifilt na gie, 
 At least be pity to me shown ! 
 
 A thoiiglit imgeutle camia be 
 The thought o' Mary Morisou. 
 
 A BAED'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
 
 Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
 
 Owre blatc' to seek, owre proud to suool,' 
 
 Let him draw near; 
 And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
 
 And drap a tear. 
 
 Is there a bard of rustic song, 
 
 WliQ, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
 
 Tiiat weekly this area throng, 
 
 O, pass not by ! 
 But, with a frater-feeling strong, 
 
 Here, heave a sigh. 
 
 Is there a man whose judgment clear' 
 Can others teach the course to steer. 
 Yet runs, himself, life's mad career 
 
 Wild as the wave ; 
 Here pause, — and, through the starting tear, 
 
 Survey this grave. 
 
 Tiie poor inhabitant below 
 
 Was quick to learn and wise to know. 
 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
 
 And softer flame; 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low, 
 
 And stained liis name ! 
 
 Reader, attend, — wliether thy soul 
 Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
 Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 
 
 In low pursuit ; 
 Know, prudent, cautious sclf-eontrol 
 
 Is wisdom's root. 
 
 LAMElfT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.' 
 
 Now Nature hangg lier mantle green 
 
 On every blooming tree. 
 And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 
 
 Out owre the grassy lea : 
 
 ' liasliful. ' Sulimit tamely. 
 
 3 " Burns might Imvc remcrabereO Golilsniilh's picture of nn 
 autlior- A rhlfj of tjie public he is in all respects ; for while 
 he is so Rlile to direct others, how incapable is be frequently 
 found of guiding himself! His simiilicily exposes him to all 
 the insidious approaches of cunning; his sensibility, to the 
 slightest in\asions of contempt. Though possessed of forti- 
 tude to stand unmoved the expected hursts ot an earthquake, 
 yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant as to agoni^re under the 
 slightest di?appointfnent." — The Present Slute of Polite 
 Leani'nig, Chap. X. 
 
 * " Whether it is that the story of our Mary, Queen of Scots, 
 has a peculiar effect on the feelings of n poet, or whether I 
 
 Now Phcebus cheers the crystal streams, 
 
 And glads the azure skies; 
 But nougiit can glad the weary wight 
 
 Tliat fast in durance lies. 
 
 Now laverocks' wake the merry mom. 
 
 Aloft on dewy wing ; 
 The merle, in his noontide bower. 
 
 Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
 The mavis ° mild, wi' many a note, 
 
 Sings drowsy day to rest : 
 In love and freedom they rejoice, 
 
 Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 
 
 Now blooms the lily by the bank, 
 
 The primrose down the brae ; 
 The hawthorn 's budding in the glen. 
 
 And milk-white is the slae : 
 The meanest liind in fair Scotland 
 
 May rove their sweets amang ; 
 But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 
 
 Maun lie in prison Strang. 
 
 I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 
 
 Wliere happy I hae been, 
 Fu' lightly rase I in the mom. 
 
 As blythe lay down at e'en : 
 And I 'm the sovereign of Scotland, 
 
 And mony a traitor there ; 
 Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 
 
 And never-ending care. 
 
 But as for thee, thou false woman. 
 
 My sister and my fae. 
 Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 
 
 That through thy soul shall gae ; 
 The weeping blood in woman's breast 
 
 Was never known to thee ; 
 Nor tiie balm tliat draps on wounds of woe 
 
 Frae woman's pitying e'e. 
 
 My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 
 
 Upon thy fortune shine ; 
 And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 
 
 That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
 'God keep thee frae thy mother's facs. 
 
 Or turn their hearts to thec; 
 And where thou mcot'st thy mother's friend. 
 
 Remember him foi" me ! 
 
 O, soon, to me, may summer suns 
 
 Nae mair light up the morn ! 
 Nae mair, to me, the autumn \nnds 
 
 Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
 And in the narrow house o' death 
 
 Let winter round me rave ; 
 And tlie next flowers, that deck the spring. 
 
 Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 
 
 have. In the enclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
 success, I know not ; but it lias pleased nie beyond any effort 
 of my Muse for n good while past." — R. B. 
 
 ' Larks. = Tlintsh. 
 
 -^ 
 
CjT 
 
 JESSIE. — MY NANNIE, O. 
 
 5-t7 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 JESSIE. 
 
 True-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
 Yarrow, 
 
 And lair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
 But hy tlie sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 
 
 Are lovers as failiiful, and maidens as lair: 
 To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
 
 To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain; 
 Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover. 
 
 And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
 
 0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 
 
 And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
 But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 
 
 Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
 Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 
 
 Knthroncd in her een he delivers his la'. 
 .Vnd still to her charms she alone is a stranger, — 
 
 Her modest demeanor 's the jewel of a'. 
 
 THE HIOHLAND LASSIE,' 
 
 Nae gentle dames, though e'er sae fair, 
 Shall ever be my Muse's care ; 
 Their titles a' are empty show ; 
 Gie me my Highland lassie, 0. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 AVithin the glen sae bushy, O, 
 Aboon the [)laiu sae rusliy, O, 
 T set me down wi' rigiit good will, 
 To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 
 
 0, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
 Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
 The world tlien the love should know 
 I bear my Highland lassie, 0. 
 Within the glen, etc. 
 
 But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
 And I maun cross the raging sea; 
 But wliile my crimson currents flow 
 I'll love my Highland lassie, 0. 
 Within the glen, etc. 
 
 Although througli foreign climes I range, 
 I know her heart will never change. 
 For her bosom bums with honor's glow. 
 My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, etc. 
 
 For her I '11 dare the billow's roar. 
 For her I '11 dare the distant shore, 
 That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
 Around my Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, etc. 
 
 ' ** Mary Campliell.niy Tlislilaiid lassie.was a wnrm-]iearled, 
 charming ynuiig creature as e\er blessed a man witli generons 
 love."— R. B. 
 
 She lias my heart, she has my hand, 
 By sacred truth and honor's band I 
 Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
 I 'm thine, my Highland lassie, 0. 
 
 Fareweel the glen sae bushy, ! 
 Fareweel the plain sac rushy, ! 
 To other lands I now must go. 
 To sing my Highland lassie, ! 
 
 PEGQT'S CHARMS.' 
 
 My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
 The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
 My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
 Might charm the first of human kind. 
 I love my Peggy's angel air. 
 Her face so truly heavenly fair, 
 Her native grace so void of art : 
 But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
 The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
 The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
 Who but owns their magic sway, 
 Who but knows they all decay ! 
 The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
 The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
 The gentle look that rage disarms, — 
 These arc all immortal charms. 
 
 MT NANNIE, 0. 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
 'Mang moors an' mosses many, 0, 
 
 Tlie winlry sun the day has closed. 
 And I '11 awa to Nannie, O. 
 
 Tlic westlin wind blaws lond an' shrill : 
 The night's baith mirk and rainy, ! 
 
 But I '11 get my plaid, an' out I '11 steal. 
 An' owre the hill to Nannie, 0. 
 
 My Nannie 's charming, sweet, an' young ; 
 
 Nae artfn' wiles to win ye, O : 
 May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
 
 That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
 
 Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
 As spotless as she 's bonnic, : 
 
 The opening gowan, wat wi' dew, 
 Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 
 
 A country lad is my degree. 
 
 An' few there be that ken me, 0; 
 
 But what care I how few they be ? 
 I 'm welcome aye to Nainiie, 0. 
 
 My riches a's my penny-fee. 
 An' I maun guide it cannie, 0; 
 
 ' Peggv was Miss Margaret Clialmers. 
 
 -Q> 
 
(&- 
 
 548 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
 My thoughts are a', my Nannie, O. 
 
 Our auld guidman delights to view 
 His sheep an' kye thrive bounie, O ; 
 
 But I 'm as blytlie that bauds his plough, 
 An' has uae eare but Nannie, 0. 
 
 Come weal, come woe, I care na by, 
 I '11 tak what Heaven will sen' nie, ; 
 
 Nae ither care in life have I, 
 But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 
 
 GEEEN GEOW THE EASHES. 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ; 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ; 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spent. 
 
 Were spent amang the lasses, O ! 
 
 There 's nought but care on every ban', 
 
 In every hour that passes, O ; 
 What siguifies the life o' man, 
 
 Au' 't were na for the lasses, 0. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 The warly race may riches chase. 
 An' riches still may fly them, O; 
 
 An' tliougli at last they catch them fast, 
 Tlieir hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 
 Jly arms about my dearie, O ; 
 An' warly cai-cs, an' warly men. 
 
 May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 For you sac douse, ye sneer at this. 
 Ye 're nought but senseless asses, ; 
 
 The wisest man the warl e'er saw. 
 He dearly loved the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classes, O ; 
 
 Her 'prentice ban' she tried on man, 
 An' tlu'u she made the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 COMING THKOUGH THE KTE, 
 
 Coming through the rye, poor body. 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 Jenny 's a' wat, poor body, 
 
 Jenny 's seldom dry ; 
 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 
 Coming through the rye. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Coming through the rye ; 
 Gin a body kiss a body, — 
 
 Need a body cry ? 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Coming through the glen, 
 Gin a body kiss a body, — 
 
 Need the world ken ! 
 Jenuy 's a' wat, poor body ; 
 
 Jemiy 's seldom dry ; 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND LADDIE, 
 
 The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, 
 
 Bonnie Higliland laddie. 
 On his head a l)onnet blue, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 His loyal heart was firm and true, 
 
 Bomiie Highland laddie. 
 
 Trumpets sound and cannons roar, 
 
 Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie. 
 And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 
 
 Bonnie Lawland lassie. 
 Glory, honor, now invite, 
 
 Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, 
 For freedom and my king to fight, 
 
 Bonnie Lawland lassie. 
 
 The sun a backward course shall take, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, 
 Ere aught thy maidy courage shake ; 
 
 Bonnie Higliland laddie. 
 Go, for yoursel procure renown, 
 
 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 And for your lawful king his crown ; 
 
 Bonnie Highland laddie ! 
 
 THE BLDE-ETED LASSIE.' 
 
 I GAED a' waefu' gate yestreen, 
 A gate, I fear, 1 'II dearly rue ; 
 
 I gat my death frae twa sweet cen, 
 Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
 
 'T was not her golden ringlets bright. 
 Her lips like roses wet wi' dew, 
 
 Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; 
 It was her cen sac bonnie blue. 
 
 * Jrni» Jcffi-y. (laiii;htcr of the minister of I/irhmnhen. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOUEN. 
 
 549 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 She talked, she smiled, my heart she wyled. 
 She charmed my soul I wist iia how; 
 
 And aye the stound,' tlie deadly wound, 
 Cam frao her eeu sae bomiie blae. 
 
 But spare to speak, and spare to speed; 
 
 She '11 aibhiis listen to my vow : 
 Should she refuse, I '11 lay my dead 
 
 To her twa eeii sae bonnie blue. 
 
 EXTEMPORANEOUS EITUSION, ON BEING AP- 
 POINTED TO THE EXCISE, 
 
 Searciiikg auld wives' barrels, 
 
 Och, hou ! the day ! 
 That clartie ° barm should stain my laurels ; 
 
 But — what '11 ye say ? 
 These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans, 
 Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 
 
 THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN.' 
 
 The Deil cam fiddhag through the town, 
 
 And danced awa wi' the exciseman ; 
 And ilka wife cried, " Auld Mahonn, 
 We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 
 We '11 mak our maut, and brew our drink. 
 
 We '11 dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
 And monic thanks to the muckle black Deil 
 That daueed awa wi' the exciseman. 
 
 " Tiiere 's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
 There 's hornpipes and stratiispeys, man; 
 
 But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
 Was — The Deil 's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
 We '11 mak our maut," etc. 
 
 ON SENSIBILITY. 
 
 Sensibility, how charming. 
 
 Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 
 
 But distress, with horrors arming, 
 Tliou hast also known too well. 
 
 Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
 
 Blooming in the sunny ray : 
 Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
 
 See it prostrate on the clay. 
 
 Hear the wood-lark charm the forest. 
 
 Telling o'er his little joys ; 
 Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 
 
 To each pirate of the skies. 
 
 1 Pang. 2 nirty. 
 
 3 "Atameetingofhisbrotherexeisemen in Dumfries, Burns, 
 being called upon for a sonji. banded tbese verses to tlie presi- 
 dent, written on tlie back of a letter." — Ckomek. 
 
 Dearly bought, the hidden treasure 
 
 Finer feelings can bestow; 
 Chords, that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
 
 Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOUKN,' 
 
 WnKN chill November's surly blast 
 
 Made fields and forests bare. 
 One evening, as I wandered forth 
 
 Along the banks of Ayr, 
 I spied a man, whose aged step 
 
 Seemed weary, worn with care ; 
 His I'ace was furrowed o'er with years, 
 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 " Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" 
 
 Began the reverend sage ; 
 " Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
 
 Or youthfid pleasure's rage ■' 
 Or, haply, prcst with cares and woes. 
 
 Too soon thou hast began 
 To wander forth, with me, to moum 
 
 The miseries of man. 
 
 " The sun tliat overhangs yon moors. 
 
 Outspreading far and wide. 
 Where hundreds labor to support 
 
 A haughty lordling's pride ; 
 I 'vc seen yon weary winter sun 
 
 Twice forty times return ; 
 And every time has added proofs 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " O man ! while in thy early years, 
 
 How prodigal of time ! 
 Misspending all thy precious hours. 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
 Alternate follies take the sway; 
 
 Licentious passions burn; 
 Which tenfold force give nature's law. 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " Look not alone on youthful prime. 
 
 Or manhood's active might ; 
 Man then is usefid to his kind. 
 
 Supported is his right. 
 But see him on the edge of life. 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn; 
 Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched pair ! 
 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 1 " Several of tbe poems were produced for tbe purpose of 
 bringing forward some favorite sentiment of the autbor. lie 
 used to remark to me tbat be could not well. conceive a more 
 mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. 
 In casting about in bis niind liow this sentiment miglit be 
 brought forward, the elegy, ' Man was made to mourn,' was 
 composed." — Gii.bkrt Burns. 
 
 -d> 
 
a- 
 
 55" 
 
 MAYNE. 
 
 ■to 
 
 H 
 
 " A few seem favorites of fate, 
 
 In pleasure's la]) carest ; 
 Yet think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, oh ! what crowds in every land 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn. 
 Tlirough weary life this lesson learn. 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " Many and sharp the numerous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 . More pointed still we make ourselves. 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
 And man, whose heaven-erected face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 Man's inhumanity to man 
 
 Makes countless thousands mourn ! 
 
 " See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile. 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn, 
 UnmiiKlful, though a weeping wife 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 " If 1 'm designed yon lordling's slave, — 
 
 By Nature's law designed, — 
 Wliy was an independent wish 
 
 E'er planted in my mind ?■ 
 If not, why am I subject to 
 
 His cruelty or scorn ? 
 Or why has man the will and power 
 
 To make his fellow mourn ! 
 
 " Yet let not this too much, my son. 
 
 Disturb thy youthful breast : 
 This partial view of liuman kind 
 
 Is surely not the Ittsi '. 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man 
 
 Had never, sure, been born. 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 
 To comfort those that mourn ! 
 
 " O death ! tlie poor man's dearest friend. 
 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
 
 Are laid with Ihec at rest ! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
 But, oh ! a blest relief to those 
 
 That weary-laden mourn !' 
 
 I " Wlmtever mij?hl Ijc tlic casunl ttlca tliat set iIr' poet to 
 work, it is Ijut too cvitlcnt tlint he wi-olc from tiic lialiitiuit 
 feclini^s of Ilia own liosom. Tlie indignation witli wliicli lie 
 contemiilntctl the inequality of liiinian rciiulilion, ami paitiou- 
 larlv the contrast between his own wnrUlly nrpuinslanci's ami 
 
 tclleetuol rank, was never mure bitterly nor mine loftily 
 exjireased than in some of these 3tnn7aB." — IjOCKllAirr. 
 
 SKETCH. 
 
 A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. 
 And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
 Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
 Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
 A man of fashion too, he made his tour. 
 Learned vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour; 
 So travelled monkeys their grimace improve, 
 Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
 Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
 Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
 His solid sense, — by inches you must tell, 
 But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
 His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
 Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 
 
 JOHN MAYNE. 
 
 1761-1836. 
 
 LOGAN ERAES. 
 By Logan streams that rin sae deep, 
 Fu' aft wi' glee I 've herded sheep ; 
 Herded sheep and gathered slaes, 
 Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. 
 But wae 's my heart, thae days are gane. 
 And I wi' grief may hci'd alane. 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 Nae mair at Logan kirk will he 
 Atween the preachings meet wi' nie ; 
 Meet wi' me, or when it 's mirk. 
 Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. 
 I weel may sing thae days are gane: 
 Frae kirk and fair I come alaiie. 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 At e'en, when liope amaist is gane, 
 I dauner out and sit alane ; 
 Sit alane beneath the tree 
 Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. 
 Oh ! could I see thae days again. 
 My lover skaithless, and my aiii ! 
 Beloved by friends, revered by faes, 
 We 'd live in bliss on Logan braes ! 
 
 MUSTERING OF THE TRADES TO SHOOT FOB 
 THE SILLER GUN. 
 
 TiiK lift was clear, the morn serene. 
 The sun just glinting owre the scene, 
 When James M'Noe began again 
 
 To beat to arms. 
 Rousing the heart o' man and wean 
 
 Wi' war's alarms. 
 
 — P 
 
cfr 
 
 THE SILLER GUN. 
 
 551 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Frae far and near the country lads 
 (Their joes ahint them ou their yads) 
 rk)cked in to see the show in squads ; 
 
 And, what was dal'ter, 
 Their pawky niitliers and tlieir dads 
 
 Cam trotting after ! 
 
 And mony a heau and belle were there. 
 
 Doited wi' dozing on a chair; 
 
 For lest they 'd, sleeping, spoil their hair, 
 
 Or miss the sight, 
 The gowks, like bairns before a fair, 
 
 Sat up a' night ! 
 
 Wi' hats as black as ony raven, 
 
 Fresh as the rose, their beards new shaven. 
 
 And a' their Sunday's deeding having 
 
 Sae trim and gay. 
 Forth cam our trades, some ora saving 
 
 To wair that day. 
 
 Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl, 
 Weel may he bruik his new apparel ! 
 And never dree the bitter snarl 
 
 O' scowling wife ! 
 But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel. 
 
 Be blithe through hfe ! 
 
 Hech, sirs ! what crowds cam into town. 
 To see them mustering up and down ! 
 Lasses and lads, sunbnrnt and brown, — ■ 
 
 Women and weans. 
 Gentle and semple, mingling, crown 
 
 The gladsome scenes ! 
 
 At first, forenent ilk deacon's hallan, 
 His ain brigade was made to fall in ; 
 And, while the muster-roll was calling, 
 
 And joybells jowing, 
 Hct-pints, weel spiced, to keep the saul in, 
 
 Around were flowing ! 
 
 Broiled kipper, cheese, and bread, and ham. 
 Laid tlie foundation for a dram 
 O' whiskey, gin frae Rotterdam, 
 
 Or cherry brandy ; 
 Whilk after, a' was fish that cam 
 
 To Jock or Sandy : 
 
 O, weel ken they wha lo'e tlieir ehappln. 
 Drink niaks the auldest swack and strapping; 
 Gars Care forget the ills that happen — 
 
 The blate look spruce — 
 And even the f howless cock their tappin, 
 
 And craw fu' eroose ! 
 
 The muster owre, the different bands 
 File aff in parties to the sands ; 
 
 Where, mid loud laughs and clapping hands, 
 
 Gley'd Geordy Smith 
 Reviews them, and tlieir Une expands 
 
 Alang the Nith ! 
 
 But ne'er, for uniform or air. 
 
 Was sic a group reviewed elsewhere ! 
 
 The short, the tall ; fat folk, and spare ; 
 
 Syde coats, and dockit; 
 Wigs, queues, and clubs, and curly hair ; 
 
 Round hats, and cockit ! 
 
 As to their guns, — thae fell engines, 
 Borrowed or begged, were of a' kinds 
 For bloody war, or bad designs. 
 
 Or shooting cushies, — 
 Lang fowling-pieces, carabines. 
 
 And blunderbusses I 
 
 Maist feck, though oiled to niak tlicm gUmmer, 
 Iladna been shot for mony a simmer ; 
 And Fame, the story-telling kimmer. 
 
 Jocosely hints 
 That some o' them had bits o' timmer 
 
 Instead o' flints ! 
 
 Some guns, she threeps, within her ken. 
 Were spiked, to let uae priming ben ; 
 And, as in twenty there were ten 
 
 Worm-eaten stocks, 
 Sae, here and there, a rozit-end 
 
 Held on their locks ! 
 
 And then, to show what difference stands 
 Atwceii the leaders and their bands, 
 Swords that, unsheathed since Prestonpans, 
 
 Neglected lay, 
 Were furbished up, to grace the hands 
 
 O' chiefs this day ! 
 
 " Ohon ! " says George, and ga'e a grane, 
 " The age o' chivalry is gano ! " 
 Syne, having owre and owrc again 
 
 The hale surveyed. 
 Their route, and a' things else, made plain, 
 
 He snuffed, and said : 
 
 " Now, gentlemen ! now, mind the motion. 
 And dinna, this time, mak a botion : 
 Shouther your arms ! O, ha'd them tosh on. 
 
 And not athraw ! 
 Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean. 
 
 And march awa ! " 
 
 Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound, 
 Fifes, clarionets, and hautboys sound ! 
 Through crowds on crowds, collected round, 
 
 The corpoi'ations 
 Trudge alf, while echo's self is drowned 
 
 In acclamations ! 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 562 
 
 BAILLIE. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 1762-1851. 
 
 THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD. 
 
 TuE gowan glitters on tlie sward, 
 
 The laverock 's in the sky, 
 And Collie on my plaid keeps ward. 
 And time is passing by. 
 0, no ! sad and slow. 
 
 And lengthened on tlie ground ; 
 The shadow of our trysting bush 
 It wears so slowly round. 
 
 My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, 
 
 My lambs are bleating near ; 
 But still the sound that I love best. 
 Alack ! I canna hear. 
 O, no ! sad and slow, 
 
 The shadow lingers still ; 
 And like a lanely ghaist I stand, 
 And croon upon the hUl. 
 
 I hear below the water roar. 
 The mill wi' clacking din, 
 And Lucky scolding frae the door. 
 To ca' the bairuies in. 
 0, no ! sad and slow, 
 
 These are nae sounds for me ; 
 The shadow of our trysting bush 
 It creeps sac drearily. 
 
 I coft yesti-een, frae cliapman Tam, 
 
 A snood o' bonnie blue. 
 And promised, when our trysting cam', 
 To tie it round her brow. 
 0, no ! sad and slow. 
 
 The mark it winua' pass ; 
 The shadow o' that dreary bush 
 Is tethered on the grass. 
 
 0, now I see lier on the way ! 
 
 She 's past the witch's knowe ; 
 She 's climbing up the brownie's brae ; 
 My heart is in a lowe, 
 O, no ! 't is not so, 
 
 'T is glamrie I hae seen ; 
 The shadow o' that hawthoni busli 
 Will move nac mair till e'en. 
 
 My book o' grace I '11 try to read, 
 
 Thougli conned wi' little skill ; 
 Wlien Cullies l)arks I 'U raise my head. 
 And dud her on the hill. 
 O, no ! sad and slow, 
 
 The time will ne'er be ganc ; 
 Tlie shadow o' our trysting bush 
 Is fixed like nnv stane. 
 
 THE KrrTEN, 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play 
 Beguiles the rustic's closing day. 
 When drawn the evening fire about. 
 Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout. 
 And child upon his three-foot stool. 
 Waiting till his supper cool ; 
 And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose. 
 As bright the blazing fagot glows. 
 Who, bending to the friendly light. 
 Plies her task with busy sleight ; 
 Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces. 
 Thus circled round with merry faces. 
 
 Backward coiled, and crouching low. 
 With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe. 
 The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
 Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 
 Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
 Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
 Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring 
 Upon the futile, faithless thing. 
 Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill. 
 Thy bo-peep tail provokes tlice stUl, 
 As oft beyond thy curving "side 
 Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 
 Till, from thy centre starting fair, 
 Thou sidelong rcarest, with rump in air. 
 Erected stiff, and gait awry, 
 Like madam in lier tantrums high : 
 Though ne'er a madam of them all, 
 Whose silken kirtle sweeps tlic hall, 
 More varied trick and whim displays, 
 To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 
 » * » 
 
 The featcst tumbler, stage-bedight. 
 To thee is but a clumsy wiglit, 
 Who every limb and sinew strains 
 To do what costs thee little pains ; 
 For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
 Bequites him oft with plaudits loud. 
 But, stopped the while thy waiitou play. 
 Applauses, too, thi/ feats repay : 
 For then beneath some urchin's hand. 
 With modest pride thou takcst thy stand. 
 While many a stroke of fondness ghdes 
 Along thy back and tabby sides. 
 Ddatcd .swells thy glossy fur. 
 And loudly sings thy busy pur, 
 As, timing well the equal sound. 
 Thy clutching feet bcpat the ground, 
 And all their harmless claws disclose. 
 Like prickles of an early rose ; 
 While softly from thy whiskered check 
 Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 
 
 But not alone by cottage-fire 
 Do rustics rude thy feats admire; 
 The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
 
 -9> 
 
DE MONTFORT AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 553 
 
 -Q) 
 
 O-^ 
 
 Tlie widest range of human lore, 
 Or, witli unfettered fancy, fly 
 Through airy heights of poesy, 
 Pausing, smiles with altered air 
 To sec thee climb his elbow-chair. 
 Or, struggling on the mat below. 
 Hold warfare with his slippered toe. 
 Tlie widowed dame, or lonely maid, 
 Wlio in the still, but cheerless shade 
 Of home unsocial, spends her age, 
 And rarely turns a lettered page ; 
 Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
 The rounded cork, or paper-ball. 
 Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
 The ends of ravelled skein to catch, 
 But lets thee have thy wayward will. 
 Perplexing oft her sober skill. 
 Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 
 In lonely tower or prison pent. 
 Reviews the coil of former days. 
 And loathes the world and allits ways ; 
 What time tlie lamp's unsteady gleam 
 Doth rouse him from his moody dream. 
 Feels, as tliou gambolest round liis seat. 
 His iieart witii pride less fiercely beat, 
 And smiles, a link in thee to find 
 That joins him still to living kind. 
 
 Wlicnce hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, 
 Tlie magic power to charm us thus ? 
 Is it, that in thy glaring eye. 
 And rajnd movements, we desciy, 
 While we at ease, secure from ill. 
 The chimney-corner snugly fill, 
 A lion, darting on the prey, 
 A tiger, at his ruthless play ? 
 Or is it, that in thee we trace. 
 With all thy varied wanton grace. 
 An emblem viewed with kindred eye, 
 Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 
 Ah ! many a liglitly sportive child. 
 Who hath, like tliee, our wits beguiled. 
 To dull and sober manhood grown. 
 With strange recoil our hearts disown. 
 Even so, poor Kit ! must thou endure, 
 Wlieu thou becomcst a cat demure, 
 Full many a cuff and angry word. 
 Chid rouglily from the tempting board. 
 And yet, for that thou hast, I ween. 
 So oft our favored playmate been, 
 Soft be the change which thou shalt prove. 
 When time hath spoiled thee of our love ; 
 Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, 
 A comely, careful, mousing cat, 
 Wliose dish is, for the public good, 
 Replenished oft with savory food. 
 
 Nor, when thy span of life is past. 
 Be thou to pond or dungliill cast ; 
 But, gently borne on good man's spade, 
 
 Beneath the decent sod be laid, 
 
 And children show, with gUstening eyes. 
 
 The place where poor old Pussy lies. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF JANE DE MONTFOKT.* 
 
 P.\GE. Madam, there is a lady in your hall 
 Who begs to be admitted to your presence. 
 Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends ? 
 Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stran- 
 ger. 
 Lady. How looks her countenance ? 
 Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so 
 noble, 
 I shrunk at first in awe ; but when she smiled, 
 Methought I could have compassed sea and 
 
 land 
 To do her bidding. 
 
 Lady. Is she young or old ? 
 Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is 
 fair. 
 For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her. 
 As he, too, had been awed. 
 
 Lady. The foolisli stripling '. 
 She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stat- 
 ure? 
 Page. So stately and so graceful is her form, 
 I thought at first her stiiture was gigantic ; 
 But on a near approach, I found, in trutii. 
 She scarcely does surpass the middle size. 
 Lady. What is her garb? 
 Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it : 
 She is not decked in any gallant trim. 
 But seems to me clad in her usual weeds 
 Of high habitual state ; for as she moves. 
 Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold. 
 As I have seen unfurled banners play 
 Witli the soft breeze. 
 
 Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy ; 
 It is an apparition thou hast seen. 
 
 Freberg (starfinff from Ids seal, where he 
 hax been silling during the ronoersation 
 belireen the Lady and the Page). It is an 
 apparition he has seen, 
 
 Or it is Jane de Montfort. 
 
 Se MoHlfort. 
 
 DE MONTFORT AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 Jane, \^'hat sayst thou, Montfort? 0, what 
 words are these ! 
 They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. 
 I do bescecli thee, speak ! 
 By the affection thou didst ever bear me ; 
 By the dear memory of our infant days ; 
 By kindred living ties — ay, and by those 
 
 * Supposed to have beeu intended as a description of Mrs. 
 Siddons, 
 
 ^-8^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 554 
 
 BAILLIE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
 I do conjure thee, speak ! 
 
 Ha ! wilt thou not ? 
 Then, if affection, most unwearied lovo. 
 Tried early, long, and never wanting found. 
 O'er generous man hatli more autliority. 
 More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, 
 I do command thee ! 
 
 De Montfort, do not thus resist my love. 
 Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. 
 Alas ! my brother ! 
 
 De Montfort {^raising her and kneeling) . Thus 
 let him kneel who should the abased be, 
 Aiul at thine honored feet confession make. 
 I '11 tell thee all — but, 0, thou wilt despise mc. 
 For iu my breast a raging passion burns. 
 To wliich thy soul no sympathy will own, — 
 A passion which liath made my nightly couch 
 A |)lace of torment, and the light of day, 
 With the gay intercourse of social man. 
 Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence. 
 
 Jane ! thou wilt despise me. 
 Jane. Say not so : 
 
 1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
 A lover's jeidousy and hopeless pangs 
 No kiiully heart contemns. 
 
 De Mont. A lover's, say'st thou ? 
 No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
 Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred 
 
 peace. 
 From social pleasure, from my native home. 
 To be a sullen wanderer on tlie earth. 
 Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed. 
 
 Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible ! 
 What being, by tlie Almiglity Father formed 
 Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. 
 Could iu thy breast such horrid tempest wake. 
 Who art thyself his fellow ? 
 Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath- 
 clenched hands. 
 Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates 
 To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother! 
 Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy heart ; 
 'T is tlie degrader of a noble heart. 
 Curse it, and bid it part. 
 
 De Mont. It will not part. I 've lodged it 
 here too long. 
 "With my first cares I felt its rankling touch. 
 I loathed him when a boy. 
 
 Jank. Wlioin didst thou say? 
 
 De Mont. Detested Rczenvelt ! 
 E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps 
 Of lioslile breed, instinctively averse, 
 Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge. 
 And frowned defiance. As we onward passed 
 From youth to man's estate, his narrow art 
 And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled 
 In the affected carelessness of mirth, 
 
 Still more detestable and odious grew. 
 There is no Uving being on this earth 
 Who can conceive the mahce of his soul, 
 With all his gay and damned merriment, 
 To those by fortune or by merit placed 
 Above his jialtry self. When, low in fortune. 
 He looked u])on the state of prosperous men. 
 As niglitly birds, roused from their murky holes. 
 Do scowl and chatter at tlie light of day, 
 1 could endure it ; even as we bear 
 The iuipotent bite of some half-trodden worm, 
 1 could endure it. But when honors came, 
 And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; 
 Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his 
 
 praise. 
 And grovelling idiots grinned applauses on him; 
 O, then I could no longer suffer it ! 
 It drove me frantic. What, what would T give, — 
 What would I give to crush the bloated toad. 
 So rankly do I loatlie him ! 
 
 Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very 
 man 
 Who gave to thee that life lie might have taken? 
 That life whicii thou so rashly didst expose 
 To aim at his ? 0, this is horrible ! 
 
 De Mont. Ha! tliou hast heard it, then! 
 From all the world. 
 But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. 
 
 Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved 
 Upon the instant to return to thee. 
 Didst thou receive my letter? 
 
 Dii Mont. I did!" I did! 'T was that which 
 drove me hither. 
 I could not bear to meet thine eye again. 
 
 Jaxk. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, 
 I ever left thy house ! Tliese few past months, 
 These absent months, have brought us all this 
 
 woe. 
 Had I remained with thee, it had not been, 
 And yet, methinks, it sliould not move you thus. 
 You dared him to the field ; both bravely fought; 
 He, more adroit, disarmed you ; courteously 
 Returned tlie forfeit sword, which, so returned. 
 You did refuse to use against him more ; 
 And then, as says report, you parted friends. 
 
 De Mont. When he disarmed this cursed, 
 this worthless hand 
 Of its most worthless weapon, lie liut spared 
 From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss 
 In seeing mc thus fettered, shamed, subjected 
 With the vile favor of his pocn- forbeanincc ; 
 Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow. 
 And basely baits me like a muzzled cur. 
 Who cannot turn again. 
 Until that day, till that accursed day, 
 I knew not half the torment of tliis hell 
 Wliich burns within my breast. Heaven's light- 
 niuETS blast him ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 TO A CHILD. — PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 555 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Jane. O, this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear! 
 Lest Heaven's vengeance hght upon thy head 
 For this most impious wish. 
 
 Dji Mont. Tiien let it light. 
 Tornioiits more fell than I have known already 
 It cannot send. To be annihilated, 
 What all men shrinlc from ; to be dust, be noth. 
 
 iiig, 
 Were bliss to me, compared to what 1 am ! 
 
 Jane. O, wouldst thou kill me with these 
 dreadful words ? 
 
 De Mont. Let me but once upon his ruin look, 
 Then close mine eyes forever ! — 
 Ha ! how is this ? Thou 'rt ill ; thou 'rt very pale ; 
 What have I done to thee ? Alas ! alas ! 
 I meant not to distress thee, — O my sister ! 
 
 Jane. I cannot now speak to thee. 
 
 De Mont. I have killed thee. 
 Turn, turn thee not away ! Look on me still ! 
 O, droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ! 
 Look on me yet again. 
 
 Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, 
 In better days were wont to be my pi'ide. 
 
 De Mont. I am a wretch, most wretched in 
 myself. 
 And still more wretclied in the pain I give. 
 O, curse that villain, that detested villain ! 
 He has spread misery o'er my fated life ; 
 He will undo us all. 
 
 Jane. I 've held my warfare through a troubled 
 world. 
 And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 
 For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. 
 But now the wane of life comes darkly on. 
 And hideous passion tears thee from my heart. 
 Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive witli this. 
 
 De Mont. What shall I do ? 
 
 lie Montfort. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek. 
 
 And curly pate, and merry eye. 
 And arm and shoulder round and sleek. 
 
 And soft and fair ? — thou urchin sly ! 
 
 What boots it who with sweet caresses 
 First called thee his, — or squire or hind ? 
 
 Since thou in every wight that passes. 
 Dost now a friendly playmate find. 
 
 Tliy downcast glances, grave, but cunning. 
 
 As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; 
 Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, 
 
 Is infantine coquetry all. 
 
 But far afield thou hast not flown ; 
 
 With mocks and threats half lisped, half 
 spoken, 
 
 I feel thee pulling at my gown. 
 Of right good-will thy simple token. 
 
 And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 
 A mimic warfare with me waging ; 
 
 To make, as wily lovers do. 
 
 Thy after kindness more engaguig. 
 
 The wilding rose, sweet as thyself. 
 
 And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure : 
 
 I 'd gladly part with worldly pelf 
 To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 
 
 But yet, for all thy merry look, 
 
 Tliy frisks and wiles, the time is coming 
 When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, 
 
 The weary spell or hornbook thumbing. 
 
 Well ; let it be ! — through weal and woe, 
 TIkui know'st not now thy future range ; 
 
 Life is a motley, shilting show. 
 
 And thou a thing of liope and change. 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND PREEDOM. 
 
 Insensible to high heroic deeds. 
 
 Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds. 
 
 Who at the patriot's moving story. 
 Devoted to his country's good. 
 
 Devoted to his country's glory. 
 Shedding for freemen's liglits his generous 
 blood, — 
 
 Listeneth not with deep-heaved sigh. 
 
 Quivering nerve, and glistening eye, 
 Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, 
 That witli the hero's worth may iuimble kindred 
 claim ? 
 
 If such there be, still let him plod 
 On the dull foggy paths of care, 
 
 Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod 
 To view creation fair : 
 
 What boots to him the wondrous works of 
 God? 
 His soul with brutal tilings hath ta'en its earthly 
 lair. 
 
 O, wlio so base as not to feel 
 
 The pride of freedom once enjoyed, 
 Tliough hostile gold or hostile steel 
 
 Have long that bliss destroyed ? 
 
 The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt 
 Of independent sires, wlio bore 
 Names known to fame in days of yore. 
 
 Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt ; 
 But recent freedom lost, — wliat heart 
 Can bear the humbling thought, — tlie quicken 
 ing, maddening smart ? 
 
 4 
 
cfi- 
 
 556 
 
 CHERRY. 
 
 BRYDGES. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 1763-1812. 
 
 THE BAY OF BISCAY, 01* 
 
 Loud roared the dreadful tliunder. 
 
 The rain a deluge showers, 
 The clouds were rent asunder 
 
 By lightning's vivid powers ; 
 The night both drear and dark, 
 Our poor devoted bark. 
 Till next day, there she lay, 
 In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 
 
 Now dashed upon the billow, 
 
 Our opening timbers creak. 
 Each fears a watery pillow. 
 
 None stops the dreadful leak ; 
 To cling to slippery shrouds 
 Each breathless seaman crowds, 
 As she lay, till the day. 
 In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 
 
 At length the wished-for morrow, 
 
 Broke through the hazy sky. 
 Absorbed in silent sorrow, 
 
 Each heaved a bitter sigh ; 
 The dismal wreck to view. 
 Struck horror to the crew. 
 As she lay, on that day. 
 In the Bay of Biscay, ! 
 
 Ilcr yielding timbers sever. 
 
 Her pitchy seams are rent. 
 When Heaven all bounteous ever. 
 
 Its boundless mercy sent; 
 A sail in sight appears, 
 We hail her with three cheers, 
 Now we sail, with the gale, 
 Erom the Bay of Biscay, ! 
 
 SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES. 
 
 1763-18.37. 
 
 ECHO AND SILENCE.t 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly. 
 And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, 
 As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 
 Tlirough glens untrod, and woods that frowned 
 
 on high, 
 Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! 
 
 * This fton(;. aB a specinica of literary composition, is un- 
 M'orthy of the favor and reputation it has acquired. 
 
 + Wordsworth declared tliis sonnet the hest in ttie lali^rungc ; 
 aud Southcy said tlint he knew of none in any language 
 more licantifully imaginative. 
 
 And, lo, she 's gone ! — lu robe of dark-green 
 
 hue 
 'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew, 
 
 Forquick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ! 
 In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
 Not so her sister. Hark ! for onward still, 
 Witii far-heard step, she takes her listening way, 
 Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. 
 Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play 
 With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest 
 fill! 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 Sublime the pleasure, meditating song, 
 Lulled by the piping of the winds to lie, 
 While, ever and anon collecting, fly 
 The choir still swelling as they haste along, 
 And shake with full iEolian notes the sky. 
 A pause ensues : the sprites, that lead the throng, 
 I{ecall their force ; and first, begin to sigh ; 
 Tiien howls the gathering stream the rocking 
 
 domes among. 
 Mctliinks I hear the shrieking spirits oft 
 Groan in the blast, and flying tempests lead : 
 While some aerial beings sighing soft 
 Round once-loved maids, their guardian wishes 
 
 plead ; 
 Spirits of torment shrilly speak aloft, 
 Aud warn the wretch, who rolls in guilt, to heed. 
 
 TO EVENING. 
 
 Sweet Eve, of softest voice and gentlest beam. 
 Say, since the pensive strains thou once didst 
 
 hear 
 Of him,' tlie bard sublime of Aran's stream, 
 Will aught beside delight thy nicer ear ? 
 Me wilt thou give to praise thy shadowy gleam. 
 Thy fragrant breath, and dying murmurs dear ; 
 The mists, tliat o'er thee from thy valleys steam, 
 And elfin shapes that round thy car apjicar ; 
 The nuisic that attends thy state ; tlie bell 
 Of distant fold ; the gently warbling wind 
 And watcli-dog's hollow voice from cottaged dell? 
 For these to purest pleasure wake the mind ; 
 Lidl each tumultuous passion to its cell ; 
 And leave soft, sootliing images behind. 
 
 TO AUTUMN, NEAR HER DEPARTURE. 
 
 Thou maid of gentle light ! thy straw-wove vest, 
 And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged luiir; 
 Thy melancholy voice, and languid air. 
 As if, shut up within that pensive breast, 
 Some ne'er-to-be-divulged grief was prest ; 
 
 • Collins. 
 
 -Q5 
 
a- 
 
 TO MARY. — THE BEGGAR. 
 
 557 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Tliy looks resigned, that smiles of patience wear, 
 While Winter's blasts thy scattered tresses tear ; 
 Tliee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest ! 
 Let blooming Spring with gaudy liopes delight 
 That dazzling Summer shall of her be born; 
 Let Summer blaze; and Winter's stormy train 
 Breathe awful music in the ear of Night; 
 Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forloni. 
 And from thy glance will catcii the inspired strain. 
 
 TO MART. 
 
 Where art thou, Mary, pure as fair. 
 And fragrant as the balmy air, 
 That, passing, steals upon its wing 
 The varied perfumes of the spring ? 
 With tender bosom, white as snow ; 
 With auburn locks, that freely flow 
 Upon thy marble neck ; with cheeks 
 On which the blush of morning breaks ; 
 Eyes, in whose pure and heavenly beams 
 Tiie radiance of enciiantment seems ; 
 A voice, whose melting tones would still 
 The madness of revenge from ill ; 
 A form of such a graceful mould. 
 We scarce an earthly shape behold ; 
 A mind of so divine a fire 
 As angels only could inspire ! 
 Wliere art thou, Mary ? For the sod 
 Is hallowed where thy feet have trod ; 
 And every leaf that 's touched by thee 
 Is sanctified, sweet maid, to me. 
 Where dost tliou lean thy pensive head ? 
 Thy tears what tender tale can slied ? 
 Where dost thou stretch tiiy snowy arm ? 
 And with thy plaintive accents charm ? 
 But liold ! that image through my frame 
 Raises a wild tempestuous flame. 
 
 GEORGE COLMAN,THE YOUNGER. 
 
 1762-1836. 
 
 SIR MARMADTJKE, 
 
 Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight ; 
 
 Good man ! old man ! 
 He 's painted standing bolt upright, 
 
 With bis hose rolled over his knee ; 
 His periwig 's as white as chalk ; 
 And on his fist he holds a hawk, 
 
 And he looks like the head 
 Of an ancient family. 
 
 His dining-room was long and wide ; 
 Good man ! old man ! 
 
 His spaniels lay by the fireside ; 
 
 And in other parts, d' ye see 
 Cross-bows, tobacco-jiipes, old hats, 
 A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; 
 
 And he looked like the head 
 Of an ancient family. 
 
 He never turned the poor from gate ; 
 
 Good man ! old man ! 
 But always ready to break the pate 
 
 Of his counti"y's enemy. 
 What knight could do a better thing 
 Than serve the poor and fight for his king ? 
 And so may every head 
 Of an ancient family. 
 
 T/ie Iron Cliest. 
 
 THOMAS RUSSELL. 
 
 1768-1788. 
 
 SONNET TO VALCLUSA, 
 
 What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled. 
 That wooed his fair in thy sequestered bowers. 
 Long loved her living, long bemoaned her dead. 
 And hung her visionary shrine with flowers ! 
 Wliat tliough no more he teach thy shades to mouni 
 Tlie hapless chances tliat to love belong, 
 As erst when drooping o'er her turf forlorn. 
 He charmed wild Echo with his plaintive song. 
 Yet still, enamored of the tender tale. 
 Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom. 
 Yet still soft music breathes in every gale. 
 Still undecayed the fairy garlands bloom. 
 Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale, 
 Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb. 
 
 <3>»<0 
 
 THOMAS MOSS. 
 
 1740-1808. 
 
 THE BEaOAR, 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! 
 
 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your 
 door, 
 Wliose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
 
 0, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 
 
 These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, 
 These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ; 
 
 And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek 
 Has been the channel to a stream of tears. 
 
 Yon house, erected on the rising ground. 
 
 With tempting aspect drew me from my road 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 558 
 
 BOWLES. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 For plenty there a residence has found. 
 And grandeur a magnificent abode. 
 
 (Hard is the fate of tlie infirm and poor ! ) 
 Here eraving for a morsel of their bread, 
 
 A |ianipered menial forced me from the door, 
 To seek a shelter in a humbler slied. 
 
 O, take me to your hospitable dome. 
 
 Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! 
 
 Short is my passage to tlie I'riendly tomb. 
 For 1 am poor and miserably old. 
 
 Should I reveal the source of every grief. 
 If soft humanity e'er touched your breast. 
 
 Your hands would not withhold the kind relief. 
 And tears of pity could not be repressed. 
 
 Heaven sends misfortunes, — why sliould we 
 repine ? 
 'T is Heaven has brouglit me to the state you 
 see: 
 And your condition may be soon like mine. 
 The cliild of sorrow and of misery. 
 
 A little farm was my paternal lot. 
 
 Then, like tlie lark, I sprightly liailed the mom; 
 But ah ! oppression forced me from my cot ; 
 
 My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 
 
 My daughter, — once the comfort of my age ! 
 
 Lured by a villain from her native home. 
 Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage. 
 
 And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. 
 
 My tender wife, — sweet soother of my care ! -^ 
 Struck witli sad anguish at the stern decree. 
 
 Fell, — lingering fell, a victim to despair. 
 And left the world to wretchedness and me. 
 
 Pity tlie sorrows of a poor old man! 
 
 A\'hose trerablLig limbs have borne him to your 
 door, 
 Wliose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
 
 O, give relief, and Heaven will bless vour store. 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.* 
 
 1763- 1850. 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence 
 (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
 
 * The sonnets of Bowles exerted eonsidcralile Influcnre on 
 the niiiids of ninny yonthful men nfgennis. ColcndjiespiTinltv 
 acknowledges his indebtedness to IJoM'les. As we rend llie 
 sonnets now, their chief clinrncterislic appears to he n kuid 
 of tender feehieness, — a sweet and pensnc thonglitfuliicsg 
 
 The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away; 
 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
 
 And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
 
 That flows in vain 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 departing liour, 
 
 Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, 
 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : 
 
 Yet, ah ! how much must that poor heart endure 
 
 Which hopes from thee, and tliee alone, a cure ! 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, 
 "Weary has watched tlic lingering night, and 
 
 heard. 
 Heartless, the carol of the matin bird 
 Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn 
 Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; 
 He the green slope and level meadow views. 
 Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews ; 
 Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountahi's liead. 
 In varying forms, fantastic wander white ; 
 Or turns ills ear to every random song 
 Heard the green river's winding marge along, 
 Tlie wiiilst each sense is steeped in still delight : 
 With such delight o'er till my heart I feel 
 Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing in- 
 cense steal. 
 
 TO THE KIVER TWEED, 
 
 O Tweed ! a stranger, that with wandering feet 
 O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a mile 
 (If so his weary thouglits he might beguile), 
 Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. 
 The waving brandies tiiat romantic bend 
 O'er thy tall banks, a soothing ciiarm bestow; 
 The murmurs of thy wandering wave below 
 Seem to iiis ear the pity of a friend. 
 Delightful stream ! tliougli now along thy shore, 
 When spring returns in all her wonted pride, 
 Tlie shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more, 
 Yet here with pensive ])cace could I abide. 
 Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar. 
 To muse n])on tliy banks at eventide. 
 
 WRITTEN AT TTNEMOUTH AFTER A TEMPES- 
 TUOUS VOYAGE. 
 
 As slow I climbed the clilf's ascending side, 
 Much musing on the track of terror past, 
 When o'er the dark wave rode the iiowling blast, 
 
 which nielodionsly veils an absence of vi^rous thinking:. It 
 is not to be wondered at tlmt Iwth Byron and Campbell felt 
 that an essentially minor poet like Howies exposed himself to 
 ridicule in derlnrin}: that Pope was not a poet. Bowles had the 
 right poetic feeling, but lacked the true jwetie faculty 
 
 ■#• 
 
a- 
 
 THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS. — THE GLOWWORM. 559 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide 
 Tliat laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam 
 Of evening smiles on the gray battlement, 
 And yon Ibrsakcn tower that Time has rent: — 
 The lifted oar far olf with silver gleam 
 Is tnuehcd, and hushed is all the billowy deep ! 
 So ithcd by the scene, thus on tired Nature's 
 
 breast 
 A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest; 
 While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep. 
 Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre. 
 Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire ! 
 
 THE GREENWICH PENSIONEES. 
 
 When evening listened to the dripphig oar, 
 
 Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, 
 
 By tlic green banks, where Thames, with conscious 
 
 pride. 
 Reflects that stately structure on his side. 
 Within wliose walls, as their long labors close. 
 The wanderers of the ocean find repose, 
 We wore in social ease tiie hours away, 
 The passing visit of a summer's day. 
 
 Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, 
 I lingered on the river's marge alone ; 
 Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray. 
 And watclied the last bright sunshine steal away. 
 
 As tlius I mused amidst the various train 
 Of toil-worn wanderers of tlie perilous main, 
 Two sailors — well I marked tliem (as tlie beam 
 Of parting day yet lingered on tlie stream. 
 And the sun sunk behind the shady reach) ■ — 
 Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach. 
 Tlic one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight; 
 Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight 
 Forever ! As I drew more anxious near, 
 I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear ; 
 But neither said a word ! He who was blind 
 Stood as to feel the comfortable wind 
 Tiiat gently lifted liis gray liair: his face 
 Seemed tlien of a faint smile to wear the trace. 
 
 Tlie other fixed his gaze upon the light 
 Parting ; and wlieu the sun had vanished quite, 
 Methought a starting tear that Heaven might 
 
 bless, 
 Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness. 
 Came to liis aged eyes, and touched liis cheek ! 
 And then, as meek and silent as before, 
 Back hand in iiand they went, and left the shore. 
 
 As tiiey departed through the unheeding crowd, 
 A caged bird sung from tiie casement loud ; 
 And then I heard alone that blind man say, 
 " Tlie music of the bird is sweet to-dav '. " 
 
 ^6— 
 
 I said, " O Heavenly Father ! none may know 
 The cause these have for silence or for woe I " 
 Here they appear heart-stricken or resigned 
 Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind. 
 
 There is a world, a pure unclouded clime, 
 A^Tiere there is neither grief nor death nor 
 
 time ! 
 Nor loss of friends ! Perhaps when yonder bell 
 Beat slow, and hade the dying day farewell, 
 Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night. 
 They thought upon that world of distant liglit ; 
 And when the blind man, lifting light his hair. 
 Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer; 
 Then sighed, as tlie blithe bird sung o'er his 
 
 head, 
 " No morn wdl shine on me till I am dead ! " 
 
 THE GREENWOOD. 
 
 0, WHEN 't is summer weather, 
 
 And the yellow bee, with fairy sound, 
 
 The waters clear is humming round, 
 
 And the cuckoo sings unseen, 
 
 And the leaves are waving green, — 
 
 0, then 't is sweet, 
 
 In some retreat, 
 To licar the nuirmuring dove, 
 Witli those whom on earth alone we love. 
 And to wind tlirougli the greenwood together. 
 
 But when 't is winter weather. 
 
 And crosses grieve, 
 
 And friends deceive, 
 
 And rain and sleet 
 
 The lattice heat, — 
 
 O, then 't is sweet 
 
 To sit and sing 
 Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring 
 We roamed through tiie greenwood together. 
 
 THE GLOWWORM. 
 
 0, WHAT is this which sliines so bright, 
 
 And in the lonely place 
 Hangs out his small green lamp at night, 
 
 The dewy bank to grace ? 
 
 It is a glowworm, — still and pale 
 It shines the whole night long. 
 
 When only stars, O nightingale. 
 Seem listening to thy song. 
 
 And so, amid the world's cold night, 
 
 Through good report or ill, 
 Shines out the humble Ciiristian's light. 
 
 As lonely and as still. 
 
 ■^ 
 
C&- 
 
 560 
 
 EOGEKS. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 fr 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 1763 - 1855. 
 
 FROM "PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 
 
 Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village- 
 
 grccu, 
 With magic tints to liarmonize the scene. 
 Stilled is the lium that through the liamlet broke. 
 When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play. 
 And games and carols closed the busy day. 
 Her wheel at rest, the matron tliriUs no more 
 With treasured tales and legendary lore. 
 All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
 What secret charms this silent spot endear ? 
 Mark yon old mansion frowning tlirough the 
 
 trees, 
 Whose hollow turret wooes the -whistling breeze. 
 That casement, arched witli ivy's brownest shade, 
 First to tlicse eyes the liglit of heaven conveyed. 
 The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown 
 
 court, 
 Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; 
 When all things pleased, for life itself w-as new. 
 And the heart promised what the i'ancy drew. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
 T!ie gypsy's fagot, — there we stood and gazed; 
 Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe. 
 Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw ; 
 Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; 
 The drowsy brood tliat on her back she bore. 
 Imps, in the liarn with mousing owlet bred, 
 from rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
 Wliosc dark eyes flashed through locks of black- 
 est shade, 
 When in the breeze the distant watch-dog 
 
 bayed ; — 
 And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call, 
 Wliose elfin prowess sealed the orchard-w-all. 
 As o'er my pahn the silver piece she drew. 
 And traced the line of life with searching view, 
 How throbbed my fluttering pulse witii hopes 
 
 and fears. 
 To learn the color of my future years ! 
 
 * * ♦ 
 
 Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain. 
 
 Our thoughts arc linked by many a hidden chain. 
 Awake Imt one, and, lo ! what myriads rise ! 
 Kach stamps its image as the other flies. 
 Each, as the various avenues of sense 
 Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense. 
 Brightens or fades ; yet all, with magic art, 
 Control the latent til)res of the heart. 
 As studious Prospcro's mysterious spell 
 
 Drew every subject-spirit to his cell ; 
 Each, at thy call, advances or retires. 
 As judgment dictates or the scene inspires. 
 Eacli thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
 Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 
 And through the frame invisibly convey 
 The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; 
 Man's little uni\erse at once o'ereast. 
 At once illumined when the cloud is past. 
 * * * 
 
 Recall the traveller, whose altei'ed form 
 Has born the buffet of the mountain-storm ; 
 And wiio will first his fond impatience meet? 
 His faithful dog 's already at his feet ! 
 Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door. 
 Though all, that knew him, know his face no 
 
 more, 
 His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, 
 With that mute eloquence which passes s))eech. — 
 And see, the #iaster but returns to die ! 
 Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly? 
 The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of 
 
 earth, 
 The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth. 
 These, when to guard ]\Iisfortune's sacred grave. 
 Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. 
 
 » * * 
 
 Hark ! the bee winds her small but mellow 
 
 horn. 
 Blithe to salute the sunny smile of mom. 
 O'er thy my downs she bends her busy course, 
 And many a stream allm-es her to its source. 
 'T is noon, 't is uight. That eye so finely 
 
 wrought, 
 Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, 
 Now vaiidy asks the scenes she left beliiud ; 
 Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
 Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? 
 Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell ? 
 With conscious truth retrace the mazy clew 
 Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she 
 
 flew? 
 Hail, Memory, hail ! thy universal reign 
 Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 
 » » • 
 
 The beauteous maid who bids the world adieu. 
 Oft of that world will snatch a fond review : 
 Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace 
 Some social scene, some dear, familiar fare : 
 And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell 
 Bursts through the cypress-walk, the eonvcnt- 
 
 eell, 
 Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive. 
 To love and joy still tremblingly alirc ; 
 The whis])ered vow, the chaste caress j)rolong. 
 Weave the light dance and swell the elionil song ; 
 With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, 
 And, as it melts along the moonlisht-ghide. 
 
 -^-9> 
 
(Q— 
 
 PROM "HUMAN LIFE." 
 
 —n> 
 
 561 
 
 To each soft note return as soft a sigh, 
 
 And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. 
 
 ♦ ' * * 
 
 "VVlien the bhthe son of Savoy, journeying 
 round 
 With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, 
 From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, 
 And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies ; 
 Though far below the forked lightnings play. 
 And at liis feet the thunder dies away, 
 Ol't, in tlic saddle rudely rocked to sleep, 
 While his mule browses on the dizzy steep. 
 With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees 
 His children sport beneath their native trees. 
 And bends to hear their cherub-voices call. 
 O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall. 
 
 * * * 
 
 thou ! with whom my heart was wont to 
 share 
 From reason's dawn each pleasure and each 
 
 care ; 
 With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know 
 The humble walks of happiness below ; 
 If tliy lilcst nature now unites above 
 An angel's pity witii a brother's love. 
 Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control. 
 Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
 Grant me tiiy peace and purity of mind, 
 Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned ; 
 Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no dis- 
 guise. 
 Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise. 
 To meet the changes time and chance present 
 "With modest dignity and calm content. 
 When thy last Ijreatli, ere nature sunk to rest. 
 Thy meek submission to thy God expressed; 
 When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
 A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; 
 What to thy soul its glad assurance gave. 
 Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave ? 
 The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth, 
 Tlic still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth ! 
 Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine 
 From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
 Thought and her sliadowy brood thy call obey, 
 And place and time are subject to thy sway ! 
 Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone ; 
 The only pleasures we can call our own. 
 Liglitcr than air, hope's summer-visions die. 
 If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; 
 If l)ut a beam of sober reason play, 
 Lo ! fancy's i'airy frost-work melts away ! 
 But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, 
 Snatcli the ricli relics of a well-spent hour ? 
 These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
 Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
 And gild lliose pure and perfect realms of rest, 
 Wlirrc Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 
 
 FKOM "HUMAN LIFE." 
 
 The day arrives, themoment wished and feai-ed ; 
 The child is born, by many a pang endeared. 
 And now the mother's ear has caught his cry ; 
 0, grant the cherub to her asking eye ! 
 He comes, — she clasps him. To her bosom 
 
 pressed. 
 He drinks the balm of life and drops to rest. 
 
 Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows ; 
 How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
 As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy. 
 What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
 He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
 His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. 
 And ever, ever to her lap he flies. 
 When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
 Locked in her arms, liis arms across her flung 
 (That name most dear forever on his tongue). 
 As with soft accents round her neck he clings. 
 And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings. 
 How blest to feel the beatings of his heart. 
 Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss im- 
 part ; 
 Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. 
 And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 
 
 But soon a nobler task demands her care. 
 Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
 Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! 
 And now the volume on her knee has caught 
 His wandering eye, — now many a written 
 
 thought. 
 Never to die, with many a lisping sweet, 
 His moving, murmuring lips endeavor to repeat. 
 
 Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; 
 O, he would follow, — follow through the sky ! 
 Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain, 
 And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; 
 Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, 
 Sends his brave ship in triumpli down the tide, 
 A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can, 
 If now he wears the habit of a man, 
 Fhngs off the coat so much liis pride and pleasure, 
 And, like a miser digging for his treasure, 
 His tiny spade in his own garden plies. 
 And in green letters sees his name arise ! 
 Where'er he goes, forever in her sight, 
 She looks, and looks, and still with new delight ! 
 
 Ah ! who, wlien fading of itself away, 
 Would cloud the svmshine of his little day ! 
 Now is the May of life. Exulting round, 
 Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground ! 
 Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say. 
 When the rich casket shone in bright array, 
 " These are >ii^ jewels ! " Well of such as he. 
 When Jesus spake, well might the language be, 
 " Suffer these little ones to come to me ! " 
 
 Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres 
 
 ^ 
 
 -P 
 
cS- 
 
 562 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 The brow engraven with the tlioughts of years ; 
 Close by her side liis silent homage given 
 As to some pure intelligence from Heaven ; 
 His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame, 
 His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or 
 
 blame. 
 At once lit up as with a holy tlame ! 
 He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire ; 
 And soon witii tears relinquislied to the sire. 
 Soon in his hand to 'Wisdom's temple led, 
 Holds secret converse with tlie miglity dead ; 
 Trembles and thrills and weeps as tiiey inspire. 
 Burns as they burn, and with congenial lire ! 
 Like her most gentle, most unfortunate. 
 Crowned but to die, — who in her chamber sate 
 Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown, 
 And every ear and every heart was won. 
 And all in green array were chasing down the sun! 
 
 Then is the Age of Admiration ! Then 
 Gods walk the earth, or beings more tlian men ; 
 AVho breathe the soul of inspiration round, 
 A\ hose very sliadows consecrate the ground ! 
 All ! tiien comes thronging many a wild desire, 
 And high imagining and tliought of fire ! 
 Then from witliin a voice exclaims, " Aspire ! " 
 Phantonis, that upward point, before him pass. 
 As in the cave athwart the wizard's glass; 
 They, that on youtli a grace, a lustre slied, 
 Of every age, — the living and liic dead ! 
 Thou, all-accomplished Surrey, thou art known; 
 The flower of knigiithood, nipt as soon as blown! 
 Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone ! 
 And, with his beaver up, discovering there 
 One who loved less to conquer than to spare, 
 Lo ! the Black Warrior, he, who, liattle-spent, 
 Barelieaded served the captive in liis tent ! 
 
 Young B in the groves of Academe, 
 
 Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream ; 
 Orwhere the wild bees swarm witli ceaseless hum, 
 Dreaming old dreams, — a joy for years to come; 
 Or on the rock witliin the sacred fane ; — 
 Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain : 
 And Milton's self (at that tlirice-honorcd name 
 Well may we glow, — as men, we share his fame) 
 And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye, 
 Manning he knows not what, — that shall not die! 
 * * * 
 
 The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, 
 And the swart seaman, sailing far below, 
 Not undclighted wateh the moriiiug ray 
 PurpUng the orient, — till it breaks away. 
 And burns and blazes into glorious day ! 
 But happier still is he who bends to trace 
 That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face; 
 Tlic burst, llic glow, the animating stril'e, 
 Tiic thoughts and passions stirring into life ; 
 The forming utteranee, the inquiring glance, 
 Th;^ giant waking from his tenfold trance, 
 
 Till up lie starts as conscious whence he came. 
 
 And all is light within the trembling frame ! 
 
 Wiat then a father's feelings ? Joy and fear 
 
 In tuni prevail, — joy most ; and through the year 
 
 Tempering the ardent, urging night and day 
 
 Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, 
 
 Praising each highly, — from a wish to raise 
 
 Tbeir merits to the level of his praise. 
 
 Onward in their observing sight he moves, 
 
 Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves ! 
 
 Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ? 
 
 Who, when he slumbers, hope to fix a stain? 
 
 He lives a model in his life to show. 
 
 That, when he dies and through the world they go, 
 
 Some men may pause and say, when some admire, 
 
 " They are liis sons, and worthy of their sire ! " 
 * * * 
 
 And now heboid him u]i the hill ascending, 
 Jlemory and Hope like evening stars attending ; 
 Sustained, excited, till his course is run, 
 By deeds of virtue done or to be done. 
 When on his coucli lie sinks at length to rest. 
 Those by his counsel saved, liis power redressed. 
 Those by the world shunned ever as unblest, 
 At whom the rich man's dog growls from the 
 
 gate. 
 But whom he sought out, sitting desolate, 
 Come and stand round, — the widow with her 
 
 child. 
 As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! 
 They, who watch by him, see not ; but he sees, 
 Sees and exults. Were ever dreams like these ? 
 They, who watch by him, hear not ; but lie hears, 
 And earth recedes, and heaven itself appears ! 
 
 'T is past ! That baud wc grasped, alas ! in 
 vain ! 
 Nor shall we look upon Iris face again ! 
 But to his closing eyes, for all were there, 
 Nothing was wanting; and through many a year 
 We shall remember with a fond delight 
 The words so precious which wc heard to-night; 
 His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows. 
 Like setting suns or music at the close ! 
 
 Then was the drama ended. Not till then. 
 So full of chance and change the lives of men. 
 Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure 
 From pain, from grief, and all that we endure. 
 He slept in peace, — say rather soared to heaven, 
 Upborne from earth by Him to whom 't is given 
 In his right hand to hold the golden key 
 That opes the portals of eternity. 
 
 A PROPHECY OF ITALIAN EMANCIPATION, 
 
 O Italy, how beautiful lluni art! 
 Yet I could weep, — for thou art lying, alas! 
 Low in the dust ; and we admire Ihec now 
 As we admire the beautiful in death. 
 
 ^Q— 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 563 
 
 -Q) 
 
 h 
 
 Thine was a dangerous gift, when tliou wert born, 
 The gift of beauty. Would thou hadst it not; 
 Or wert as once, awing tlie caitiffs vile 
 That now beset thee, making thee their slave ! 
 Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee 
 
 more ! 
 — But why despair? Twice iiast thou lived 
 
 already ; 
 Twice shone among the nations of the world, 
 As the sun shines among the lesser lights 
 Of heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall come, 
 AVhen they who tliink to bind the ethereal spirit, 
 Wlio, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, 
 Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike 
 
 again 
 If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess 
 Their wisdom folly. Even now tiie flame 
 Bursts fortli where once it burnt so gloriously. 
 And, dying, left a splendor like the day, 
 That like the day diffused itself, and still 
 Blesses the earth, — the light of genius, virtue. 
 Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death. 
 Godlike example. Echoes that have slept 
 Since Athens, Lacedfemon, were tlienisclves. 
 Since men invoked " By those in Marathon!" 
 Awake along the iEgean ; and the dead. 
 They of tliat saered shore, have heard the call. 
 And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are 
 
 seen 
 Jloving as once they were, — instead of rage 
 Breathing deliberate valor. 
 
 Italy. 
 
 VEUICE 
 
 TuERE is a glorious city in the sea. 
 The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, 
 Ebbing and (lowing; and the salt sea-weed 
 Clings to the marble of her palaces. 
 No track of men, no footsteps to and fro. 
 Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea. 
 Invisible ; and from the land we went. 
 As to a floating city, — steering in, 
 And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 
 So smoothly, silently, — by many a dome, 
 Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. 
 The statues ranged along an azure sky; 
 By many a pile in more tlian Eastern pride. 
 Of old the residence of merchant-kings ; 
 The fronts of some, though time had shattered 
 
 them, 
 Still glowing with the richest hues of art, 
 As though the wealth within them had run o'er. 
 * * * 
 
 Gliding on, 
 At length we leave the river for the sea. 
 At length a voice aloft proclaims " Venezia ! " 
 And, as called forth, she comes. 
 
 A few in fear, 
 Flying away from him whose boast it was 
 That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, 
 Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl. 
 They built their nests among the ocean waves ; 
 And where the sands were shifting, as the wind 
 Blew from the north or south, — where they that 
 
 came 
 Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, 
 Rose, like an exhalation from the deep, 
 A vast metropolis, with glistering spires. 
 With theatres, basilicas adorned ; 
 A scene of light and glory, a dominion, 
 That has endured the longest among men. 
 
 And whence the talisman, whereby she rose, 
 Towering? 'Twas found there in the barren 
 
 sea. 
 Want led to Enterprise ; and, far or near, 
 Wlio met not the Venetian ? — now among 
 The yEgean Isles, steering from port to port. 
 Landing and bartering ; now, no stranger there, 
 In Cairo, or without the eastern gate. 
 Ere yet the Cafiia came, listening to hear 
 Its hells approaching from the Red Sea coast ; 
 Then on the Euxine, and that smaller Sea 
 Of Azoph, in close converse with the Kuss 
 And Tartar ; on his lowly deck receiving 
 Pearls from the Persian Gulf, gems from Gol- 
 
 conde ; 
 Eyes brighter yet, that shed the liglit of love, 
 From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round. 
 When in the rich bazaar he saw, displayed, 
 Treasures from climes unknown, he asked and 
 
 learnt. 
 And, travelling slowly upward, drew erelong 
 From the well-head, supplying all below ; 
 Making the imperial city of the East, 
 Herself, his tributary. If we turn 
 To those black forests, where, througli many an 
 
 age. 
 Night without day, no axe the silence broke. 
 Or seldom, save where Rhine or Danube rolled ; 
 Where o'er the narrow glen a castle hangs. 
 And, like the wolf that hungered at his door, 
 The baron lived by rapine, — there we meet, 
 In warlike guise, the caravan from Venice ; 
 When on its march, now lost and now beheld, 
 A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout 
 Sent and recalled), but at a city-gate 
 All gayety, and looked for ere it comes ; 
 Winning regard with all that can attract, 
 Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert. 
 Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Cliarlcmain, 
 And his brave peers, each with his visor up. 
 On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, 
 W'hen the Venetian to their eyes disclosed 
 The wonders of the East ! Well miglit they then 
 Sigh for new conquests ! 
 
 -P 
 
cQr 
 
 564 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Tims (lid Venice rise, 
 Tlius (lourisli, till the ini-n-elcome tidings came, 
 That in the Tagus had arrived a tlcet 
 From India, from the region of the sun, 
 Fragrant with spices, — that a way was found, 
 A channel opened, and the golden stream 
 Turned to enrich another. Then she felt 
 Her strength departing, vet awhile maintained 
 Her state, her splendor; till a tempest shook 
 All things most held in honor among men. 
 All that the giant with the scythe had spared, 
 To their foundations, and at once she fell ; 
 She who had stood yet longer than the last 
 Of the four kingdoms, — who, as in an ark, 
 Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks. 
 Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, 
 From the last glimpse of civilized life — to where 
 Light shone again, and with the blaze of noon. 
 
 Italy. 
 
 GDfEVEA. 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance 
 To Modena, where still religiously 
 Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandiue), 
 Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsiui. 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
 Will long detain thee ; through their arched walks, 
 Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dames such as in old romance. 
 And lovers such as in heroic song, — 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight. 
 That in the spring-time, as alone they sate. 
 Venturing togetlier on a tale of love. 
 Head only part that day. A summer sun 
 Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go, 
 Enter the house — prithee, forget it not — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'T is of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race. 
 Done by Zampieri, — but by whom I care not. 
 He who observes it, ere he passes on. 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
 That he may call it u]) when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
 Her lijis half open, and her linger up. 
 As though she said " Beware ! " her vest of gold 
 Broidcred with flowers, and clasped from head 
 
 to foot, 
 An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pcaris. But then lior face, 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
 The overflowings of an innocent lienrt, — 
 
 It liaunts me still, though many a year has fled. 
 Like some wild melody ! 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion. 
 An oaken chest, half eatcu by the worm. 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With scripture-stories from the life of Christ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
 That by the way — it may be true or false — 
 But don't forget tlie picture ; and thou wilt not. 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me 
 there. 
 
 She was an only child ; from infancy 
 The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire. 
 Her mother dying of the gift she gave, 
 That jirecious gift, what else remained to him ? 
 The young Ginevra was his all in life. 
 Still as she grew, forever in his sight ; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride. 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress. 
 She was all gentleness, all gayety. 
 Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
 Now-, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time. 
 The nurse, that ancieut lady, preached decorum ; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave' 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
 Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast. 
 When all sate down, the bride was wanting tlicrc. 
 Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
 " 'T IS but to make a trial of our love I " 
 And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back and flying still, 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
 Nor from that hour could anything be guessed 
 But that she was not ! — Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Orsini lived; and long was to be seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something. 
 Something he could not find, — he knew not what. 
 AVhen he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tcnantlcss, — then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were Jiast, and all forgot. 
 When on an idle day, a day of search 
 Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
 That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas 
 
 said 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as (iinevra, 
 "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 
 'T was done as soon as said ; but on the w'ay 
 It burst, it fell ; and, lo ! a skeleton, 
 
 V- 
 
 -^ 
 
(Qr 
 
 JORASSE. 
 
 565 T 
 
 With here and there a pearl, <an emerald stone, 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
 All else had perished, — save a nuptial ring. 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy. 
 Engraven witli a name, the name of hoth, 
 " Gincvra." — There, then, had she found a grave! 
 Within that cliest had she concealed hei'sell', 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of tlie inijipy; 
 AVhen a spring-lock, that lay in ambusli there, 
 Fastened her down forever ! 
 
 I/a/;,. 
 
 JOKASSE. 
 
 JoKASSE was in his three-lmd-tweuticth year; 
 Graceful and active as a stag just roused ; 
 Gentle withal, and pleasant in his spcecli. 
 Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up 
 Among tlie hunters of the Higher Alps ; 
 Had caught tlieir starts and fits of thoug]itfulnes.s. 
 Their haggard looks, and strange sohloquies, 
 Arising (so say tliey that dwell below) 
 From fref(uciit dealings witli (he Mountain- 
 
 S|)iri(s. 
 But other ways had taught him better things ; 
 And now he numbered, marching by my side. 
 The great, the learned, that with liim had crossed 
 The frozen tract, — witli him familiarly 
 Through the rough day and rouglier night con- 
 versed 
 In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror, 
 Romid Tacul, Tour, Well-horn, and Rosenlau, 
 And her whose throne is inaccessible. 
 Who sits, withdrawn in virgin majesty, 
 Nor oft unveils. Anon an avalanche 
 Rolled ils long thunder; and a sudden crasli, 
 Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear 
 Told that far down a continent of ice 
 Had burst in twain. But he had now begun ; 
 And with what transport he recalled the hour 
 When, to deserve, to win'his blooming bride, 
 Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound 
 The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod 
 Tlie upper realms of frost ; then, by a cord 
 Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright, 
 Aiul gathered from above, below, around, 
 The pointed crystals ! — Once, nor long before 
 (Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet. 
 And with an eloquence that Nature gives 
 To all her children, — breaking oft' by starts 
 Into the harsh and rude, oft as the mule 
 Drew his dis])leasure), once, nor long before, 
 Aloue at daybreak on the Mettenberg 
 He slipped and fell ; and, through a fearful cleft 
 Gliding insensibly from ledge to ledge, 
 From deep to deeper and to deeper still, 
 Went to the underworld ! Long while he lay 
 Upon his rugged bed, — then waked like one 
 
 Wishing to sleep again and sleep forever ! 
 For, looking round, he saw, or thought he saw, 
 Luiumerable branches of a cave. 
 Winding beneath that solid crust of ice ; 
 With here and there a rent lliat showed the stars ! 
 What then, alas ! was left him but to die? 
 What else in those immeasurable chambers. 
 Strewn with the bones of miserable men. 
 Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on. 
 Till cold and hunger set his spirit free I 
 And, rising, he began his dreary round ; 
 When hark ! the noise as of some mighty flood 
 Working its way to light ! Back he withdrew. 
 But soon returned, and, fearless from despair. 
 Dashed down the dismal channel ; and all day, 
 K day could be where utter darkness was, 
 Travelled incessantly ; the craggy roof 
 Just overhead, and the impetuous waves. 
 Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength. 
 Lashing him on. At last as in a pool 
 The water slept ; a ])ool sullen, profound. 
 Where, if a billow chanced to heave and swell. 
 It broke not ; and the roof, descending, lay 
 Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood. 
 His journey ended ; when a ray divine 
 Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to her 
 Whose cars are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, 
 He plunged and swam, — and in an instant rose. 
 The b:irrier passed, in sunshine ! Through a vale. 
 Such as in Arcady, where many a thatch 
 Gleams through the trees, half seen and half 
 
 embowered. 
 Glittering the river ran ; and on the bank 
 The young were dancing ('twas a festival-day) 
 All in their best attire. There first he saw 
 His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear, 
 When all drew round, inquiring ; and her face. 
 Seen behind all and varying, as he spoke. 
 With hope and fear and generous sympathy, 
 Subdued him. From that very hour he loved. 
 
 The tale was long, but coming to a close. 
 When his wild eyes fiashed fire ; and, all forgot. 
 He listened and looked up. 1 looked up too ; 
 And twice there came a hiss that through me 
 
 thrilled ! 
 'Twas heard no more. A chamois on the dill" 
 Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear. 
 And all were gone. But now the theme was 
 
 changed ; 
 And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes, 
 When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay 
 (His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung. 
 His axe to hew a stairway in the ice). 
 He tracked their wanderings. By a cloud sur- 
 prised, 
 Where the next step had plunged them into air, 
 Long liad they stood, locked in each other's arms, 
 Amid the gulfs that yawned to swallow them ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 -55 
 
a- 
 
 56G 
 
 ROGEES. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Each guarding each through many a freezing 
 
 hour 
 As on some temple's highest pinnacle, 
 From treacherous slumber. 0, it was a sport 
 Dearer than life, aiul hut with lil'e relinquished ! 
 " My sire, my grandsire died among these wihls. 
 As for myself," he cried, and he held forth 
 His wallet in his hand, " this do I call 
 My winding-sheet, — for I shall have no other ! " 
 
 And he spoke truth. Within a little month 
 He lay among these awful solitudes 
 ('T was on a glacier, — half-way u]) to lieaven), 
 Taking his final rest. Long did his wife. 
 Suckling her babe, her only one, look out 
 The way he went at parting, — but he came not; 
 Long fear to close her eyes, from dusk till dawn 
 Plying her distaff tlirough the silent hours. 
 Lest he appear before her, — lest in sleep. 
 If .sleep steal on, lie come, as all are wont. 
 Frozen and ghastly blue or black with gore. 
 To plead for the last rite. 
 
 Itali/. 
 
 PaiSTUM.* 
 
 Til KY stand between the mountains and the sea ; 
 Awful memorials, but of whom we know not ! 
 The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. 
 The bulfalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, 
 Points to the work of magic and moves on. 
 Time was they stood along the crowded street, 
 Temples of gods ! and on their ample steps 
 What various habits, various tongues, beset 
 The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice ! 
 Time was perhaps the third was sought for jus- 
 tice; 
 And here tiicaccuser stood, and there the accused ; 
 And here the judges sate, and heard, and judged. 
 All silent now ! — as in the ages past. 
 Trodden underfoot and mingled, dust with dust. 
 
 How many centuries did the sun go round 
 From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene Sea, 
 Wiiile, by sonu^ s|iell rendered invisible. 
 Or, if approaclied, approached by him alone 
 Who saw as though he saw not, they remained 
 As. in the darkness of a sepulchre, 
 Waiting the appointed time ! Ail, all within 
 Proclaims tliat Nature had resumed her right. 
 And taken to herself what man renounced ; 
 No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus. 
 But with tlilek ivy hung or brandling fern ; 
 Their iron-bi'own o'crs|)read with brightest ver- 
 dure ! 
 
 From my youth u|nvard have I longed to tread 
 This classic ground. And am I here at last 'i 
 
 * Tlic teini)lcs of Pa'stum are ttirce in mnnl)cr: nnd Iinvc 
 survived, lu-ariy nine enUuries, the total (U-struetioii of the 
 city. Tradition is silent coiieerning ttiem ; hut tlicy nluslha^c 
 evisted now helween two and three tliouaand \ear3. 
 
 Wandering at willMlirougli the long porticos. 
 And catching, as through some majestic grove, 
 Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like. 
 Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up. 
 Towns like the living rock from which they grew? 
 A cloudy region, bhtek and desolate. 
 Where once a slave* withstood a world in arms. 
 
 The air is sweet with violets, running wihlj 
 Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals ; 
 Sweet as when TuUy, writing down his thoughts. 
 Those thoughts so ])rceious and so lately lost 
 (Turning to thee, divine Philosophy, 
 Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul), 
 Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, 
 For Athens ; when a ship, if northeast winds 
 Blew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her 
 course. 
 
 On as he moved along the level shore, 
 Tliese temples, in tlieir splendor eminent 
 Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers. 
 Reflecting back the radiance of the west. 
 Well might he dream of glory ! Now, coiled up, 
 The serpent sleeps within thcni ; the she-wolf 
 Suckles her young : and, as alone I stand 
 In this, the nobler pile, the elements 
 Of earth and air its only floor and roof. 
 How solemn is the stillness ! Nothing stirs 
 Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 
 On the rough pediment to sit and sing; 
 Or the green lizard rustling through the grass, 
 And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring, 
 To vanish in tiie chinks that time has made. 
 
 In sucli an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 
 Seen at his setting, and it flood of light 
 Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries 
 (Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, 
 Athwart the innumerable columns fliiiig), — 
 In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 
 Led by the mighty genius of tlie place. 
 
 Walls of some capital city first appetired. 
 Half razed, half sunk, 'or scattered as in scorn ; 
 — And what within them ? what btit in the midst 
 These tlirce in more than tlieir original grandeur. 
 And, round about, no stone upon another? 
 As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, 
 And, turning, left tliem to the elements. 
 
 'T is said a stranger in the days of old 
 (Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite ; 
 But distant things are ever lost in ekuids), — 
 'T is said a stranger came, and, with his |)lough, 
 Traced out the site; and PosidoniaJ rose, 
 Severely great, Neptune the tutelar god ; 
 
 * Spartacug. 
 
 + The violets of Piesluni were as proverhial as the roses. 
 Martial mentions theui with the honey of Ityliln. 
 
 X Originally a Greek city under that name, and nftei-wards 
 n Uoman eity under the name of Picstum. It was surprised 
 and destroyed by the Saracens at the beginnini^ of the tenth . 
 renturv. 
 
 . ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 THE BOY OP EGEEMOND. 
 
 567 
 
 ■n> 
 
 A Homer's language inurmuriug in her streets, 
 And iu her haven many a mast from Tyre. 
 Then came another, an unbidden guest. 
 He knocked and entered with a train in arms ; 
 And all was changed, her very name and language ! 
 Tiic Tyrian merchant, shipping at liis door 
 Ivory and gold, and silk, and I'rankincense, 
 Sailed as before, but, saiUng, cried, " For Pa;s- 
 
 tum ! " 
 And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung 
 Pastum's twice-blowing roses ; while, within. 
 Parents and children mourned, — and, every year 
 ('T was on the day of some old festival). 
 Met to give way to tears, and once again 
 Talk in the ancient tongue of things gone by.* 
 At length an Arab climbed the battlements. 
 Slaying the sleepers iu the dead of night ; 
 And from all eyes tlie glorious vision fled ! 
 Leaving a place lonely and dangerous, 
 Wiiere whom the robber spares, a deadlier foef 
 Strikes at unseen, — and at a time when joy 
 Opens the licart, when summer skies are blue. 
 And the clear air is sol't and delicate ; 
 For then tiic demon works, — then with that air 
 The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle poison 
 Lulling to sleep ; and, when he sleeps, he dies. 
 But what are tliese still standing in the midst? 
 The earth lias rocked beneath ; the thunderbolt 
 Passed thi'ough and through, and left its traces 
 
 there ; 
 Yet still they stand as by some unknown charter I 
 0, they are Nature's own !{ and, as allied 
 To the vast mountains and the eternal sea, 
 They want no written history ; theirs a voice 
 Forever speaking to the heart of man ! 
 
 I/a/ff. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 
 A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
 A willowy brook, that turns a mill. 
 
 With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch. 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 • Allienffius, ,MV. + The Malaria. 
 
 % " And Nature gladly gave tliem place, 
 Adopted them into her race, 
 And granted them an equal date 
 With .\Ddes aud with Ararat." 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 <Q— 
 
 The village church, among the trees. 
 
 Where first our marriage vows were given, 
 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
 ON A TEAR, 
 
 TUAT the chemist's magic art 
 
 Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 
 
 Long shoidd it glitter near my heart, 
 A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
 
 The little briUiant, ere it fell. 
 
 Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 
 
 Then, trembling, left its coral cell, — 
 The spring of sensibility ! 
 
 Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 
 
 In thee the rays of virtue shine ; 
 More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
 
 Than any gem that gilds the mine. 
 
 Benign restorer of the soul ! 
 
 Who ever flyest to bring relief, 
 ^Vhcn first we feel the rude control 
 
 Of love or pity, joy or grief. 
 
 The sage's and the jioet's theme. 
 
 In every clime, in every age ; 
 Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream. 
 
 In reason's philoso[)hic page. 
 
 That very law which moulds a tear, 
 And bids it trickle from its source, — 
 
 That law preserves the earth a sphere. 
 And guides the planets in their course. 
 
 TO THE BUTTERFLY, 
 
 Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, 
 Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light ; 
 And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold. 
 Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. 
 There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky. 
 Expand and' shut with silent ecstasy ! 
 Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept 
 On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. 
 And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
 To burst a seraph iu the blaze of day ! 
 
 THE BOY OF E6REM0ND. 
 
 " Say, what remains when hope is fled ?" 
 She answered, " Endless weepmg ! " 
 
 For in the herdsman's eye she read 
 Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 
 
 At Embsay rung the matin-bell. 
 The stag was roused on Bardcn-fell ; 
 
 -^-^ 
 
(&-*- 
 
 568 
 
 GRAHAME. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The mingled sounds were swelling, dying. 
 
 And down tlie Wliai-fe a hern was flying ; 
 
 When near the cabin in the wood, 
 
 In tarlan-clad and forest-green, 
 
 AVith hound in leash and hawk in hood, 
 
 Tlie boy of Egreniond was seen. 
 
 Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; 
 
 But wliere the rock is rent in two. 
 
 And the river rushes through. 
 
 His voice was heard no more ! 
 
 'T was but u step ! the gulf he passed ; 
 
 But that step, — it was his last ! 
 
 As through the mist he winged his way 
 
 (A cloud that hovers night and day), 
 
 The hound hung back, and back he drew 
 
 The nwster and his merlin too. 
 
 That narrow place of noise and strife 
 
 Received their little all of life ! 
 
 There now the matin-bell is rung; 
 The " Miserere ! " duly suug ; 
 And holy men in cowl and hood 
 Are wandering up and down the wood. 
 But what avail they ? Ruthless lord, 
 Thou didst not .shudder when the sword 
 Here on the young its fury spent. 
 The helpless and the innocent. 
 Sit now and answer, groan for groan. 
 The child before thee is thy own. 
 And she who wildly wanders there. 
 The mother in her long despair, 
 Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping. 
 Of tliose who by the Wliarfe were sweeping ; 
 Of those who would not be consoled 
 When red with blood the river rolled. 
 
 JAMES GRAHAME. 
 noB-isii. 
 
 FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. 
 
 How pleasant came thy rushiug, silver Tweed ! 
 Upon my ear, when, after roaming long 
 In southern plains, I 've reached thy lovely bank ! 
 How bi'iglit, renowned Sark ! thy little stream. 
 Like ray of columned light, chasing a shower. 
 Would cross my homeward path ; how sweet the 
 
 sound. 
 When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply, 
 Would ask thy well-known name ! 
 
 And must I leave, 
 Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales, 
 Each haunted by its wizard stream, o'erhung 
 With all the varied charms of bush and tree ? 
 And must I leave tlie friends of youthful years. 
 And mould my heart anew, to take the stamj) 
 Of foreign friendships in a foreign land, 
 
 And learn to love the music of strange tongues ! 
 Yes, 1 may love the musie of strange tongues. 
 And mould my heart anew to take the stamp 
 Of foreign friendships in a. foreign land ; 
 But to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue, 
 My fancy fade into the yellow leaf. 
 And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb. 
 If, Scotland ! thee and thine 1 e'er forget. 
 
 CHURCH WORSHIP, 
 But ehiedy man the day of rest enjoys. 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
 On other days, the man of toil is doomed 
 To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground 
 Both seat and board, screened from the winter's 
 
 cold 
 And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree ; 
 But on this day, embosomed ki his home. 
 He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; 
 With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy 
 Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form, 
 A wcn'd and a grimace, but reverently. 
 With covered face and upward earnest eye. 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day : 
 The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 
 The morning air pure from the city's smoke ; 
 While wandering slowly up the river-side. 
 He meditates on him whose power he marks 
 In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough. 
 As in the tiny dew-beut flowers that bloom 
 Around the roots ; and while he thus surveys 
 AV'ith elevated joy each rural charm. 
 He hopes (yet fears presumption in the liopc) 
 To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends. 
 
 But now liis steps a welcome sound recalls : 
 Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, 
 Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe : 
 Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved 
 
 ground ; 
 The aged man, the bowed down, the blind 
 Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes 
 With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well- 
 pleased ; 
 These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach 
 The house of God, — tiiese, spite of all their ills, 
 A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise 
 They enter in ; a placid stillness rcigus, 
 Until the man of God, worlliy the name, 
 Opens the book, and reverentially 
 The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. 
 The organ bivallies its distant thunder-notes, 
 Tlien swells into a diapason full : 
 The people rising sing, " With harp, with harp. 
 And voice of psalms " ; harmoniously attuned 
 The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles. 
 At every close, the lingering strahi i)ro!ong. 
 And now the tubes a Miricncd slop controls; 
 
 ^ 
 
 -^-^ 
 
a- 
 
 A SCOTTISH COUNTRY WEDDING. 
 
 569 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 III softer Imrinony the people join, 
 ^Vhile liquid whispers from yon orphan baud 
 Kccall the soul from adoration's trance, 
 And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears. 
 Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets 
 Tlic hallelujahs of the choir. Sublime 
 A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, 
 As if the w-hole were one, suspended high 
 In air, soaring heavenward : afar they float. 
 Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch : 
 Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close. 
 Yet thinks lie hears it still : his heart is cheered ; 
 He smiles on death; but ah ! a wish will rise, — 
 "Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! 
 No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow ; 
 My heai-t would sing ; and many a Sabbath-day 
 Jly steps sliould thither turn ; or, wandering far 
 In solitary paths, where wild-flowers blow, 
 Tliere woidd I bless His name who led me forth 
 From death's dark vale, to walk amid those 
 
 sweets, — 
 Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow 
 Upon this clieck, and lights this languid eye." 
 
 The Sabbath. 
 
 THE BLIND OLD MAN AND HIS DOG. 
 
 When homeward bands their several ways dis- 
 perse, 
 I love to linger in the narrow field 
 Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb, 
 And think of some who silent sleep below. 
 Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms 
 Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered 
 
 grass : 
 The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep, 
 rill up the furrows 'tween the hillockcd graves. 
 But list that moan ! 'tis the ))oor blind man's dog, 
 His guide for many a day, now come to mourn 
 The master and the friend, — conjunction rare ! 
 A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul, 
 Thouffh bretl to brave the deep : the lightning's 
 
 " flash 
 Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless 
 
 eyes. 
 He was a welcome guest through all his range 
 (It was not wide) ; no dog would bay at him : 
 Children would run to meet him on his way. 
 And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
 His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales. 
 Then would he teach the elfins how to plait 
 The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship : 
 And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
 Upon t heir heads, while silent moved his lips. 
 Peace to tliy spirit, that now looks on me 
 Perhaps with greater pity than I felt 
 To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 
 
 The Sabbath. 
 
 A SCOTTISH COUNTRY WEDDING, 
 
 Now, mid the general glow of opening blooms. 
 Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the gift 
 From neighboring fair brought home, till now 
 
 refused. 
 Swains, seize tlie sunny hours to make your liay. 
 For woman's smiles arc fickle as the sky ; 
 Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too. 
 Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns. 
 
 The appointed day arrives, a blithesome day 
 Of festive jollity, yet not devoid 
 Of soft regret to her about to leave 
 A parent's roof; yes, at tlie word, join hands, 
 A tear reluctant starts, as she beholds 
 Her mother's looks, her father's silvery hairs. 
 But serious thoughts take flight, when from the 
 
 barn. 
 Soon as the bands arc knit, a jocund sound 
 Strikes briskly up, and nimble feet beat fast 
 Upon the earthen floor. Through many a reel 
 With various steps uncouth, some new, some old, 
 Some all the danger's own, with Highland flings 
 Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive 
 To dance each other down ; aiul oft when quite 
 Forespent, the fingers merrily cracked, the bound. 
 The rallying shout well-timed, and sudden change 
 To sprightlier time, revive the flagging foot, 
 And make it feel as if it tripped in air. 
 
 When all are tired, and all his stock of reels 
 The minstrel o'er and o'er again has i-un, 
 The cheering flagon circles round; meanwhile, 
 A softened tune, and slower measure, flows 
 Sweet from the strings, and stills the boisterous 
 
 Maybe The lionni/ Broom of Cowileiikiioices 
 (If simply played, though not with master hand). 
 Or Piitie's Mill, or Bush Ahouii Traquair, 
 Inspire a tranquil gladness through the breast; 
 Or that most mournful strain, the sad lament 
 For Flodden-field, drives mirth from every face. 
 And makes the firmest heart strive hard to curb 
 The rising tear ; till, with unpausing bow. 
 The blithe strathspey springs up, reminding some 
 Of nights when Gow's old arm (nor old the tale). 
 Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round. 
 Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. 
 Alas ! no more shall we behold that look 
 So venerable, yet so blent with mirth. 
 And festive joy sedate ; that ancient garb 
 Unvaried, — tartan hose and bomiet blue ! 
 No more shall beauty's partial eye draw forth 
 The full intoxication of his strain. 
 Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich ! 
 No more amid the pauses of the dance 
 Sliall he repeat those measures, that in days 
 Of other years could soothe a falling prince. 
 And light his visage with a transient smile 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 570 
 
 BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 -^Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Of melauclioly joy, — like autumn suu 
 Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam ! 
 Oi' play to sportive cliildren on the green 
 Dancing at gloaming jiour ; or willing cheer, 
 With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal day ! 
 But light now failing, glimmering candles shine 
 lu ready chandeliers of moulded clay 
 Stuck roiuid tlie walls, displaying to the view 
 The ceiling rich witli cobweb-drapery hung. 
 Jleanwhile, from mill and sniiddy, field and barn, 
 Fresh groups come hastening in; but of tbeni 
 
 all, 
 Tlie miller bears the gree, as rafter high 
 He leaps, and, lighting, sliakes a dusty cloud all 
 
 round. 
 In harmless merriment, protracted long. 
 The hours glide by. At last, the slocking 
 
 thrown. 
 And duly every gossip rite performed. 
 Youths, maids, and matrons take their several 
 
 ways ; 
 Wliile droutiiy carles, waiting for the moon, 
 Sit down again, and quail' till (faylight dawn. 
 
 British Georgics. 
 
 o>Ko 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 1766 - 1833. 
 
 THE SOLDIEE'S HOME. 
 
 My untried Muse shall no high tone assume. 
 Nor strut in arms, — farewell my cap and plume ! 
 Brief be my verse, a task within my power ; 
 I tell my feelings in one happy hour : 
 But what an liour was that ! when from the main 
 I reached this lovely valley once again ! 
 A glorious harvest filled my eager sight, 
 Half shocked, lialf waving in a tiood of Uglit ; 
 On that poor cottage roof where I was born, 
 The sun looked down as in life's early morn. 
 I gazed around, but not a soul ajipcared ; 
 1 listened on the threshold, nothing heard ; 
 I called my father thrice, but no one came ; 
 It was not fear or grief tiiat shook my frame. 
 But an o'crpnwering sense of peace and home. 
 Of tods gone l)y, periiaps of joys to come. 
 Tlie door invitingly stood open wide ; 
 I shook my dust, and set my statf aside. 
 
 How sweet it was to brcatlie that cooler air, 
 And take possession of my father's chair ! 
 Beueatli my elbow, on the solid frame, 
 Appeared the rough initials of my name, 
 Cut forty years before ! The same old clock 
 St ruck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock 
 I never can forget. A short breeze sprung. 
 And wliile a sigh was trembling on my tongue. 
 
 Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, 
 And up they flew like banners in the wind ; 
 Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went. 
 And told of twenty years that I had spent 
 Far from my native land. That instant came 
 A robin on the threshold ; though so tame. 
 At first he looked distrustful, almost shy. 
 And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye. 
 And seemed to say (past friendship to renew), 
 " Ah ha ! old worn-out soldier, is it you ? " 
 Tlirongh the room ranged the imprisoned humble- 
 bee. 
 And boomed, and bounced, and struggled to be 
 
 free ; 
 Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, 
 That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; 
 That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed. 
 O'er undulating waves the broom iiad made ; 
 Reminding me of those of hideous forms 
 That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms, 
 ^V'here high and loud they break, and peace comes 
 
 never ; 
 They roll and foam, and roll and foam forever. 
 But here was peace, that peace which home can 
 
 yield ; 
 The grasshopper, the partridge in the field. 
 And ticking clock, were all at once become 
 The substitute for clarion, fife, and drum. 
 While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, 
 On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, 
 I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen 
 Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, 
 And guessed some infant hand had placed it 
 
 there. 
 And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. 
 Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; 
 My heart felt everything Init calm repose ; 
 1 could not reckon mimitcs, hours, nor years, 
 But rose at once, and bursted into tears; 
 Then, like a fool, eoul'uscd, sat down again. 
 And thought upon the past with shame and pain ; 
 I raved at war and all its horrid cost. 
 And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. 
 On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused. 
 And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. 
 
 Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard. 
 One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared. 
 In stepped my father with convulsive start. 
 And in an instant clasped mc to his heart. 
 Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid; 
 And stooping to the child, the old man said, 
 " Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again. 
 This is your Uncle Charles, come luune from 
 
 Spain." 
 The child approached, and witli her fingers light 
 Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. 
 But why thus spin my talc, — thus tedious be? 
 Happv old soldier! what 's the world to mo ! 
 
 '. -^ 
 
e 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 
 
 571 
 
 -9) 
 
 CAROLINA, LADY NAIRN. 
 
 1766-1845. 
 
 TEE LAND 0' THE LEAL. 
 
 I 'm wearing awa', Jean, 
 
 Like siiaw when its thaw, Jean, 
 
 I 'in wearing awa' 
 
 To tlie land o' tlie leal. 
 There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, 
 Your task 's ended noo, Jean, 
 And I '11 welcome you 
 
 To the land o' tiic leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, 
 She was baitli guid and fair, Jean, 
 0, we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal ! 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean ; 
 We '11 meet and aye be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 ALEXANDER WILSON. 
 
 1766-1813. 
 
 A VILLAGE SCOLD SUKPRISING HER HUSBAND 
 IN AN ALEHOUSE. 
 
 I' THE thrang o' stories tclliu, 
 Shakiu hands and jokin queer, 
 
 Swith ! a chap comes on the hallan, — 
 " Mungo I is our Watty here ? " 
 
 Maggy's wccl-kcnt tongue and hurry 
 Darted through him like a knife : 
 
 Up the door flew, — like a fury 
 In came Watty's scoldin wife. 
 
 " Nasty, gude-for-naething being ! 
 
 ye suuffy drucken sow ! 
 Bringin wife and weans to ruin, 
 
 Drinkin liere wi' sic a crew ! 
 
 " Rise ! ye drucken beast o' Bethel ! 
 
 Drink 's your night and day's desire ; 
 Rise, this precious hour ! or faith I '11 
 
 Fling your wiiiskey i'the fire !" 
 
 fr 
 
 Watty heard her tongue unhallowed, 
 Paid his groat wi' little din. 
 
 Left the house, while Maggy fallowed, 
 Flytiug a' the road behin'. 
 
 Folk frae every door came lampin, 
 Maggy curst them aue and a', 
 
 Clapped wi' her Jiands, and stampin. 
 Lost her bauchels i' the snaw. 
 
 Hanie, at length, she turned the gavel, 
 Wi' a face as white 's a clout, 
 
 Ragiu Uke a very devil, 
 
 Kiekin stools and chairs about. 
 
 " Ye '11 sit wi' your limmers round ye, - 
 Hang you, sir, I '11 be your death ! 
 
 Little hands my hands, confound you. 
 But I cleave you to the teeth I " 
 
 Watty, wha, midst this oration. 
 
 Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak. 
 
 Sat, like ]ratient Resignation, 
 Trembling by the ingle-cheek. 
 
 Sad his wee drap brose he sippet 
 (Maggy's tongue gacd like a bell). 
 
 Quietly to his bed he slippet, 
 Sighin aften to himsel, — 
 
 " Nane are free frae some vexation. 
 Ilk aue has his ills to dree ; 
 
 But through a' the hale creation 
 Is luic mortal vexed like me." 
 
 AMELIA OPIE. 
 
 1769-1853. 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOT'S TALE. 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake. 
 
 And liear a helpless oqilian's tale. 
 Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake, 
 
 'T is want that makes my clieek so ])ale. 
 Yet I was once a mother's jiride. 
 
 And my brave father's hope and joy; 
 But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 
 
 And I am now an orphan boy. 
 
 Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I 
 
 Wlieu news of Nelson's victory came. 
 Along the crowded streets to fly. 
 
 And see tlie liglited windows llame ! 
 To force me home my mother sought. 
 
 She could not bear to see my joy; 
 For with my father's life 't was bought, 
 
 And made me a poor orphan boy. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 572 
 
 PRERE. 
 
 -9) 
 
 fr 
 
 Tlie people's shouts were long and loud. 
 
 My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; 
 " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd ; 
 
 My mother answered with her tears. 
 " Why are you crying thus," said I, 
 
 "While others laugh and shout witii joy? " 
 Siic kissed me, — and with such a sigh ! 
 
 Slie called me her poor orphan boy. 
 
 " Wliat is an orphan boy ? " I cried, 
 As in her face T looked, and smiled; 
 
 My mother through her tears replied, 
 " You '11 know too soon, ill-fated child ! " 
 
 And now they 've tolled my mother's knell, 
 And I 'm no more a parent's joy; 
 
 lady, I liave learned too well 
 What 't is to be an orphan boy! 
 
 O, were I by your bounty fed ! 
 
 Nay, gentle lady, do not ehide — 
 Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 
 
 The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
 Lady, you weep ! — ha ? — this to me ? 
 
 You '11 give me clothing, food, employ? 
 Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 
 
 Your happy, happy orphan boy ! 
 
 JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE. 
 
 1769 - 1846. 
 
 PROSPECTUS AND SPECIMEN OF AN INTENDED 
 NATIONAL WORK, 
 
 BY WILLIAM AND ROBKRT WHISTLECRAVT, Or STOW-MARKKT, 
 IN SUKKOLK, HAHNKSS AND COLLAR-MAKKRS ; INTKNDKl) 
 TO COMPRISK THK MOST INTERBSTING PARTICULARS RE- 
 LATING TO KING ARTHUR AND HIS ROUND TABLE. 
 
 THE PROEM. 
 I 'vE often wished that I could write a book, 
 Such as all English people might peruse ; 
 I never should regret the pains it took, 
 
 That 's just the sort of fame that I should 
 eh use : 
 To sail about the world like Captain Cook, 
 
 1 'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse, 
 And we 'd take verses out to Demarara, 
 To New South Wales, and up to Niagara. 
 
 Poets consume excisable commodities, 
 
 Tiiey raise the nation's spirit when victorious. 
 
 They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, 
 Making our conimeree and revenue glorious ; 
 
 As an industrious and painstaking body 't is 
 Tiiat poets should be reckoned meritorious ; 
 
 And therefore I submissively propose 
 
 To erect one board for verse and one for prose. 
 
 Princes protecting sciences and art 
 1 've often seen, in copperplate and print ; 
 
 I never saw them elscwhei'c, I'or my part, 
 And therefore I eouelude there 's nothing in 't; 
 
 But everybody knows the Regent's heart ; 
 I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint; 
 
 Each board to have twelve members, witli a seat 
 
 To bring tliem in per anu. five hundred neat : — 
 
 From princes I descend to the nobility; 
 
 In former times all persons of high stations, 
 Lords, baronets, and persons of gentility. 
 
 Paid twenty guineas for the dedications ; 
 This practice was attended with utility; 
 
 The patrons lived to future generations, 
 The poets lived by their industrious earning, — ■ 
 So men alive and dead could live by learning. 
 
 Then, twenty guineas was a little fortune ; 
 
 Now, we must starve unless the times should 
 mend ; 
 Our poets nowadays are deemed importune 
 
 If tlicir addresses are diffusely penned ; 
 Most fashionable authors luake a short one 
 
 To their own wife, or child, or in-ivate friend. 
 To show their independence, I suppose ; 
 And that may do for gentlemen like those. 
 
 Lastly, the common people I beseech — 
 Dear people ! if you think my verses clever, 
 
 Preserve with care your noble parts of speech. 
 And take it as a maxim to endeavor 
 
 To lixlk as your good mothers used to teach. 
 And then these lines of mine may last forever ; 
 
 And don't confound the language of the nation 
 
 With long-tailed words in ositi/ and ulioii. 
 
 I think that poets (whether Whig or Tory) 
 (Whether they go to meeting or to church) 
 
 Should study to promote their country's glory 
 With patriotic, diligent research; 
 
 That eliildren yet unborn may learn tlie story, 
 With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch ; 
 
 It stands to reason. This was Homer's |)lan. 
 
 And we must do — like him — the best we can, 
 
 Madoc and Marmion, and many more, 
 
 Arc out in print, and most of them arc sold; 
 
 Perhaps togetlier they may make a score ; 
 Riciiard the First has had his story told, 
 
 But there were lords and |ninees long befnre 
 Tiiat. had behaved themselves like warriors bold ; 
 
 Among the rest there was the great King Arthur, 
 
 A^Hiat hero's fame was ever carried farther ? 
 
 King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table, 
 Were reckoned the best king, and bravest lords, 
 
 Of all that flourished since the tower of Babel, 
 At least of all that historv reeord.s ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 WAR-SONG ON THE VICTORY OF BRUNNENBURG. 573 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 Therefore I sluiU endeavor, if I 'in able, 
 
 To paint tlieir famous actions by my words : 
 Heroes exert themselves in liopes of fame, 
 And liaving sncli a strong decisive claim, 
 
 It grieves me mncli, that names that were respected 
 In former ages, persons of such mark. 
 
 And countrymen of ours, should lie neglected. 
 Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark: 
 
 An error such as this should be corrected. 
 And if my Muse can strike a single spark. 
 
 Why then (as poets say) I '11 string my lyre ; 
 
 And then I '11 light a great poetic hre ; 
 
 I 'U air them all, and rub down the Roiind Table, 
 And wash the canvas clean, and scour the frames, 
 
 And put a coat of varnish on the fable. 
 
 And try to puzzle out the dates and names ; 
 
 Then (as I said before) [ '11 heave my cable, 
 And take a pilot, and drop down the Thames, — 
 
 — These first eleven stanzas make a proem. 
 
 And now I must sit down and write my poem. 
 
 SIR GAWAIN. 
 
 Sir Gawain may be painted in a word, — 
 
 He was a perfect loyal cavalier; 
 His courteous manners stand upon record, 
 
 A stranger to the very thought of fear. 
 The proverb says, yh hrave as his own sword ; 
 
 And like liis weapon was that worthy peer, 
 Of admirable temper, clear and bright. 
 Polished yet keen, though pliant yet upright. 
 
 On every point, in earnest or in jest,. 
 
 His judgment and his prudence and his wit 
 
 Were deemed the very touchstone and the test 
 Of what was proper, graceful, just, and fit; 
 
 A word from him set everything at rest. 
 His short decisions never failed to hit ; 
 
 His silence, his reserve, his inattention. 
 
 Were felt as the severest reprehension : 
 
 His memory was the magazine and hoard. 
 Where claims and grievances, from year to .year, 
 
 And confidences and complaints were stored. 
 From dame and knight, from damsel, boor, 
 and peer : 
 
 Loved by his friends, and trusted by his lord, 
 A generous courtier, secret and sincere. 
 
 Adviser-general to the whole community. 
 
 He served his friend, but watched liis opjiortunity. 
 
 One ridille I could never understand, — 
 
 But his success in war was strangely various ; 
 
 In executing schemes that others planned. 
 He seemed a very Ca;sar or a Marius ; 
 
 Take his own plans, and place liim in command. 
 Your prospect of success became precarious : 
 
 His plans were good, but Launcelot succeeded 
 And realized them better far than he did. 
 
 His discipline was steadfast and austere, 
 Unalteralily fixed, but calm and kind ; 
 
 Founded on admiration more than fear. 
 It seemed an emanation from his mind ; 
 
 The coarsest natures that approached him near 
 Grew courteous for the moment and refined; 
 
 Beneath his eye the poorest, weakest wight 
 
 Felt full of point of honor, like a knight. 
 
 In battle he was fearless to a fault, 
 
 The foremost in the thickest of the field; 
 
 His eager valor knew no pause nor halt, 
 And the red rampant lion in his shield 
 
 Scaled towns and towers, the foremost in assault. 
 With ready succor where the battle reeled : 
 
 At random like a thunderbolt he ran, 
 
 And bore down shields and pikes and horse and 
 man. 
 
 THE GIANTS AND THE ABBEY. 
 
 Oft that wild untutored, race would draw, 
 Led by the solemn sound and sacred light, 
 Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw. 
 To listen all the livelong summer night. 
 Till deep, serene, and reverential awe 
 Environed them with silent calm delight, 
 Contemplating the minster's midnight gleam. 
 Reflected from the clear and glassy stream. 
 
 But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had shed 
 O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue, 
 Their passive hearts and vacant i'aneies fed 
 With thouglits and aspirations strange and new. 
 Till their brute souls with inward working bred 
 Dark hints that in the depths of instinct grew 
 Subjective, — not from Locke's associations. 
 Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations. 
 
 Each was ashamed to mention to the others 
 
 One half of all the feelings that he felt. 
 
 Yet thus far each would venture : " Listen, 
 
 brothers. 
 It seems as if one heard heaven's thunders melt 
 In music ! " 
 
 WAK-SONG ON THE VICTORY OF BRUNNENBURG. 
 
 TuE gates were then thrown open, and forth at 
 
 once they rushed, 
 The outposts of the Jloorish hosts back to the 
 
 camp were pushed ; 
 The camp was all in tumult, and there was such 
 
 a thunder 
 Of cymbals and of drums, as if earth would cleave 
 
 in sunder. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 574 
 
 SMITH. — CANNING. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 There you inigiit see the Moors arming them- 
 selves iu haste 
 And the two maiu battles how they were forming 
 
 fast; 
 Horsemen and footmen mixt, a countless troop 
 
 and vast. 
 The Moors are moving forward, the battle soon 
 
 must join, 
 " My men, stand here in order, ranged upon a line ! 
 Let not a man move from his rank before I give 
 
 the sign." 
 Pero Bcrmuez heard the word, but he could not 
 
 refrain. 
 He held tlic banner in his hand, he gave his horse 
 
 tiie rein ; 
 " You see yon foremost squadron there, the 
 
 tliickest of the foes, 
 Noble Cid, God be your aid, for there your ban- 
 ner goes ! 
 Let him that serves and honors it show the 
 
 duty that he owes." 
 Earnestly tlie Cid called out, " For heaven's sake, 
 
 be still ! " 
 Bermuez cried, " I cannot hold," so eager was 
 
 his will. 
 He spurred his horse, and drove him on amid 
 
 the Moorish rout : 
 They strove to win the banner, and compassed 
 
 him about. 
 Had not his armor been so true, he had lost 
 
 either life or limb ; 
 The Cid called out again, " For heaven's sake, 
 
 succor him ! " 
 Their shields before their breasts, forth at oncn 
 
 they go, 
 Their lances in the rest levelled fair and low; 
 Their banners and their ci'ests waving in a 
 
 row. 
 Their heads all stooping down towards the saddle- 
 bow. 
 The Cid was in the midst, his shout was heard afar, 
 " I am Rui Diaz, tlic champion of Bivar; 
 Strike amongst them, gentlemen, for sweet mer- 
 cies' sake ! " 
 There where Bermuez fought amidst the foe they 
 
 brake ; 
 Three hundred bannered knights, it was a gallant 
 
 show; 
 Three hundred Moors they killed, a man at every 
 
 blow : 
 When they wheeled and turned, as many more 
 
 lay slain, 
 You might see them raise their lances, and level 
 
 them again. 
 Tiicre you might see the breastplates, how they 
 
 were cleft in twain. 
 And many a Moorish shield lie scattered on the 
 
 plain. 
 
 The pennons that were white marked with a 
 
 crimson stain, 
 The horses running wild wiiose riders had been 
 
 slain. 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 1769-1845. 
 
 A EECEPE FOR A SALAD, 
 
 To make this condiment, your poet begs 
 Tlie pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs ; 
 Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve. 
 Smoothness and softness to the salad give. 
 Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl. 
 And, half suspected, animate the whole. 
 Of mordant mustard add a single spoon. 
 Distrust the condiment tliat bites so soon ; 
 But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault. 
 To add a double quantity of salt. 
 Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca brown, 
 And twice with vinegar procured from town ; 
 And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 
 A magic soupfon of anchovy sauce. 
 O, green and glorious ! 0, herbaceous treat ! 
 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat : 
 Back to the world he 'd turn his fleeting soul, 
 And plunge his fingers iu tlie salad bowl ! 
 Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
 " Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day. " 
 
 PAEODT ON POPE, 
 
 Why has not man a collar and a log ? 
 For this plain reason, — man is not a dog. 
 Why is not man served up with sauce in dish ? 
 For this plain reason, — man is not a fish. 
 
 GEORGE CANNING. 
 
 1770-1827. 
 
 THE FEIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE- 
 GRINDER, 
 
 "Coll! was tlie nighl-wiiKl- diircing fast the snows fell; 
 Wide were the downs, nnd slielterless and naked; 
 When a poor wanderer strugjrled on lier journey, 
 Weary and way-sore." 
 
 SOLTHEY. 
 FRIEND op HUMANITY. 
 
 Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? 
 Rough is your road, your wliecl is out of order; 
 Bleak blows the blast,— your hat has got a hole 
 in 't. 
 So have your brecelics ! 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST SON. 
 
 575 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Weary knife-grinder ! little think tlie proud ones, 
 AViio in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
 road, what hard work 't is crying all day, " Knives 
 and 
 Scissors to grind ! " 
 
 Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind 
 
 knives ? 
 Did some rich man tyraumeally use you ? 
 Was it the squire, or parson of the parish. 
 Or the attorney ? 
 
 Was it the squire, for killing of his game ? or 
 Covetous parson, for his tithes disti'aining ? 
 Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little 
 All iu a lawsuit ? 
 
 (Have you not read the Rights of JIau, by Tom 
 
 Paine ? ) 
 Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
 Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your 
 Pitiful story. 
 
 KNIFE-GKINDER. 
 
 Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; 
 Only, last night, a-driuking at the Chequers, 
 This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
 Torn in a scuttle. 
 
 Constables came up for to take me into 
 Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
 Justice Oldmixou put me in the parish- 
 stocks for a vagrant. 
 
 I should be glad to drink your honor's health in 
 A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
 But for my part, I never love to meddle 
 With politics, sir. 
 
 FRIEND or HUMANITY. 
 
 I give thee sixpence 1 1 will see thee d d first, — 
 
 Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to 
 
 vengeance, — 
 
 Sordid, unfeeling, rejirobate, degraded. 
 
 Spiritless outcast ! 
 
 {Kicks the Knife-Grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in 
 a transport of republitan enthusiasm and universal philnn- 
 thropi/.) 
 
 SONG BY EOGEEO IN "THE EOVEKS," 
 
 Whexe'er with haggard eyes I view 
 This dungeon that I 'm rotting in, 
 I think of those companions true 
 Who studied with me at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 {JTeeps and pults out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his 
 eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds :) 
 
 Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, 
 Wliich once my love sat knotting in — 
 
 fr 
 
 Alas, Matilda then was true ! 
 At least I thought so at the U- 
 
 uiversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 {At the repetition ofthisline'B.OGEZO clanks his chai7isiu cadence.) 
 
 Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew 
 
 Her neat ]iost- wagon trotting in ! 
 Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
 Forlorn I languished at tlie U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 
 
 This blood my veins is clotting in, 
 My years are many — they were few 
 When first I entered at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 There first for thee my passion grew, 
 
 Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen I 
 Thou wast the daughter of my Tu- 
 tor, law professor at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, 
 
 That kings and priests are plotting, in : 
 Here doomed to starve on water gru- 
 el, never shall I see the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 {During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly 
 against the walls of his prison ; and fnally so hard as to pro- 
 duce a visible contusion, he then throws himself on the floor 
 in an agony. The curtain drolls, the music still continuing to 
 play till it is wholly fallen.) 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST SON, 
 
 Though short thy span, God's unimpeached de- 
 crees, 
 
 Wliich made that shortened span one long disease; 
 
 Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope 
 
 Per mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope. 
 
 Meek resignation, pious charity ; 
 
 And, since this world was not the world for thee. 
 
 Par from thy path removed, with partial care. 
 
 Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare ; 
 
 Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by, 
 
 And fixed on Heaven thine unrevertcd eye ! 
 
 O, marked from birth, and nurtured for the 
 skies! 
 
 In youth, with more than learning's wisdom wise ! 
 
 As sainted martyrs, patient to endure ! 
 
 Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure ! 
 
 Pure from all stain (save that of human clay. 
 
 Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed 
 away ! ) 
 
 ■# 
 
cfi- 
 
 576 
 
 SPENCER. 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, 
 Mount, sinless spirit, to tliy destined rest ! 
 Wliile I — reversed our nature's kindlier doom- 
 Pour fortli a father's sorrows on thy tomb. 
 
 WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. 
 
 1770- 1834. 
 
 BETH GEIERT, OR THE GRAVE OF THE 
 GRE1 HOUND* 
 
 The spearmen heard the bugle sound. 
 
 And cheerly smiled the morn ; 
 And many a brach, and many n hound. 
 
 Obeyed Llewelyn's horn. 
 
 And still he blew a louder blast. 
 
 And gave a lustier cheer, 
 " Come, Gelcrt, come, wert never last 
 
 Llewelyn's horn to liear. 
 
 0, where docs faithful Gelert roam. 
 
 The flower of all his race. 
 So true, so brave, — a lamb at home, 
 
 A lion in the eliase ? " 
 
 'T was only at Llewelyn's board 
 
 The fait,hful Gelert fed ; 
 He watched, he served, he cheered his lord. 
 
 And sentinelled his bed. 
 
 In sooth he was a peerless hound, 
 
 The gift of royal John; 
 But now no Gelert could be found. 
 
 And all the chase rode on. 
 
 And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 
 
 The gallant chitbngs rise. 
 All Suowdon's craggy chaos yells 
 
 The many-mingled cries ! 
 
 That day Llewelyn little loved 
 
 The chase of hart and hare ; 
 And scant and small the booty proved, 
 
 For Gelert was not there. 
 
 Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied, 
 
 When, near the portal seat. 
 His truant Gelert he espied, 
 
 Bounding his lord to greet. 
 
 But, when he gained his castlc-door. 
 
 Aghast Ihe chieftain stood ; 
 The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; 
 
 His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 
 
 • This toiiclitng ballad is an illiislralion of Colcrlilpc's re- 
 mark, that the do;; alone, of all hriilcanuiiats, lias au alTectlon 
 npwnr<ls (o man. 
 
 Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; 
 
 Unused such looks to meet, 
 His favorite cheeked his joyf\il guise, 
 
 And crouched, and licked his feet. 
 
 Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed, 
 
 And on went Gelert too ; 
 And still, where'er his eyes he cast, 
 
 Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. 
 
 O'ertumed his infant's bed he found, 
 With blood-stained covert rent; 
 
 And all around the walls and ground 
 With recent blood besprent. 
 
 He called his child, — no voice replied, — 
 He searched with terror wild ; 
 
 Blood, blood he found on every side. 
 But nowhere found his child. 
 
 "Hell-hound ! my child 's by thee devoured 
 
 The frantic father cried ; 
 And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
 
 He plunged in Gelert's side. 
 
 His suppliant looks, as prone he fell. 
 
 No pity coidd impart ; 
 But still his Gelert's dying yell 
 
 Passed heavy o'er his heart. 
 
 Aroused by Gelert's dying yell. 
 Some slumberer wakened nigh : 
 
 What words the parent's joy could tell. 
 To hear his infant's cry ! 
 
 Concealed beneath a tumbled heap 
 His hurried search had missed. 
 
 All glowing from his rosy sleep, 
 The cherub boy he kissed. 
 
 Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread. 
 
 But, the same coucli beneath. 
 Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead. 
 
 Tremendous still in death. 
 
 Ah ! what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 
 
 For now the truth was clear; 
 His gallant hound the wolf had slain 
 
 To save Llewelyn's heir : 
 
 Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's wo ; 
 
 " Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
 The frantic blow which laid thee low 
 
 This heart shall ever rue." 
 
 And now a gallant tomb they raise. 
 
 With costly sculpture decked; 
 And marbles storied with his praise 
 
 Poor Gelert's bones protect. 
 
 There, never could the spearman pass. 
 Or forester unmoved ; 
 
 i 
 
a- 
 
 EPITAPH ON THE YEAR 180G. 
 
 577 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 There, oft tlie tear-besprinkled grass 
 Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 
 
 And there he hung his horn and spear, 
 
 And there, as evening fell, 
 In fancy's car he oft would hear 
 
 Poor Gelert's dying yell. 
 
 And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 
 And cease tlic storm to brave, 
 
 The consecrated spot shall hold 
 The name of " Gelert's Grave." 
 
 WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 AVnKN the black -lettered list to the gods was 
 
 presented 
 
 (The list of what fate for each mortal intends), 
 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
 
 And slipped in three blessings, — wife, children, 
 
 and friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, 
 For justice divine could not compass its ends ; 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was de- 
 feated, 
 For earth becomes heaven with — wife, chil- 
 dren, and friends. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands 
 vested. 
 The fund, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 But the heart issues bills which arc never pro- 
 tested, 
 "When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Though valor still glows in his life's dying em- 
 bers, 
 The death-wounded far, who liis colors defends, 
 Droiis a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
 How blessed was his home with — wife, chil- 
 dren ajid friends. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 
 Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 
 
 With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
 For one happy day with — wife, children, and 
 friends. 
 
 Though spice-breathing gales on liis caravan 
 hover, 
 Though for liim all Arabia's fragrance ascends. 
 The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that 
 cover 
 The bower where he sat with — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sor- 
 row. 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 
 But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow 
 No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Let the breath of renown ever freshen and 
 nourish 
 The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends ; 
 O'er me wave the willow, and long may it 
 flourish. 
 Bedewed with the tears of — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and 
 graver, 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue 
 shall flavor 
 The glass whieli I fill to — wife, children, and 
 friends. 
 
 TOO LATE I STAYED,- FORGIVE THE CRIME, 
 
 Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime ; 
 
 Unlieeded flew the hours; 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
 
 That only treads on flowers ! 
 
 Wliat eye with clear account remarks 
 
 The ebbing of the glass. 
 When all its sands are diamond sparks, 
 
 That dazzle as they pass ! 
 
 0, who to sober measurement 
 Time's happy swiftness brings, 
 
 \Micn birds of Paradise have lent 
 Their plumage for his wings ! 
 
 EPITAPH UPON THE TEAR 1806, 
 
 'Tis gone, with its thonis and its roses! 
 
 With the dust of dead ages to mix ! 
 Time's charuel forever encloses 
 
 Tlie year Eighteen Hundred and Six ! 
 
 Though many may question thy merit, 
 
 I duly thy dirge will perform. 
 Content if thy heir but inherit 
 
 Thy portion of sunshine and storm. 
 
 My blame and my blessing thou sharest, 
 For black were thy moments in part; 
 
 But 0, thy fair days were the fairest 
 That ever have shone on my heart ! 
 
 If thine was a gloom the completest 
 
 That death's darkest cypress could throw, 
 
 Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest 
 That life in full blossom could sliow ! 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 578 
 
 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 One hand gave tbe balmy corrector 
 Of ills wliicli the other li:ul brewed, — • 
 
 One draught I'rom tliy chalice of nectar 
 All taste of thy bitter subdued. 
 
 'T is gone, with its thorns and its roses ! 
 
 With mine, tears more precious may mix 
 To iiallow this midnight wliich closes 
 
 The year Eighteen Hundred and Six ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WiiKN midnight o'er the moonless skies 
 Her pall of transient death has spread, 
 
 When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, 
 Aud naught is wakeful but the dead : 
 
 No bloodless shape my way pursues. 
 No siieeted gliost my coucii annoys ; 
 
 Visions more sad my fancy views, 
 Visions of long-departed joys ! 
 
 The shade of yovithful hope is there. 
 That lingered long, and latest died ; 
 
 Ambition all dissolved to air. 
 
 With phantom honors by his side. 
 
 What empty shadows glimmer nigh? 
 
 Tliey once were Friendship, Truth, and Love ! 
 0, die to thought, to memory die. 
 
 Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! 
 
 WILLIAM AVORDSWORTH. 
 
 1770-1850. 
 
 MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD. 
 
 My heart leaps up wlicn I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my lil'e began ; 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old. 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The cliild is father of the man ; 
 And 1 could wish my days to be 
 Bound eacli to each by natural piety. 
 
 1304. 
 
 LUCY GEAY, 
 
 Oft T had heard of Lucy f!ray ; 
 And, when I crossed the wiKl, 
 1 clianeed to see, at break of day, 
 The solitary child. 
 
 ^ 
 
 No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
 
 The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon tlie green; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 " To-night will be a stormy night, — 
 You to the town must go ; 
 And take a lantern, child, to liglit 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, father ! will 1 gladly do ; 
 'T is scarcely afternoon, — 
 The minster-elock has just struck two. 
 And yonder is the moon ! " 
 
 At this the fatlier raised his hook. 
 And snapped a fagot-band ; 
 He plied liis work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse tiie powdery snow. 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb. 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went slioutyig far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve tiiem for a guide. 
 
 At daybreak on the hill they stood 
 That overlooked tlie moor ; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 Tliey wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 
 " Li heaven we all shall meet " ; — 
 WHicn in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small; 
 And through tlie broken iiawthorn-hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall ; 
 
 And then an open field tliey crossed : 
 The marks were still the same ; 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
 And to t!ie bridge they eame. 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footnuirks, one by one, 
 Lito the middle of the i)lank ; 
 And furtiier there were none ! 
 
 -^ 
 
^i'^'^^^-^-.-^w--^'^ 
 
WE ARE SEVEN. — LOUISA. 
 
 579 
 
 -6) 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to tbis day 
 She is a living child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 1799. 
 
 ■WE ABE SEVEN.* 
 
 A SIMPLE child. 
 That lighlly draws its breath, 
 And feels its lite in every limb. 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl: 
 She was eiglit years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 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 y " 
 " 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 Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 " Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 Mj sister and my brother; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " 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, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we; 
 
 * Tliis, perhaps the most popular of tlie author's minor 
 poems, was published in the tirst Aolunie of Lyrical BiilUiJs 
 (1798). Woi'Isworth remarks that a friend who saw it as it 
 was passing llirough the press implored him not to print it. 
 " One eveninf:,'* lie says, '* lie came to mc with a grave face, 
 and said, ' Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that you are 
 about to puhlisli. There is one poent in it whirli I earnestly 
 entreat you to cancel ; for, if pul)lished, it will make von ever- 
 lastingly ridiculous.* I answered that I felt mucli obliged by 
 the interest he took in my good name as a writer, and l)egged 
 to knov\' what was tlie nnlbrtunate piece he alluded to. He 
 said, ' It is called, If^e are Seven.* ' ^'ay,' said I, 'that shall 
 take its chance, however'; and he leU me iu despair." The 
 poem was I'ouiidcd on a real occurrence; and Wordsworth 
 afterwards tried in vain to ascertain vvhat kind of maiden or 
 wife the child lie celebrated had grown to be. 
 
 Two of US in the churchyard lie, 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 " Y'ou run about, my little maid. 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid, 
 Theu ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 The little maid replied, 
 
 " Twelve steps or inore fi'om my mother's door, 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit. 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 " And often after sunset, sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 1 take my little porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was sister Jane ; 
 Li bed she moaning lay. 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And, when the gi'ass was dry, 
 Togetlier round her grave we played. 
 My bi'otlier John and I. 
 
 "And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 
 My brother John was forced to go. 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many arc you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 Quick was the httle maid's reply, 
 " O master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they arc dead ; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
 'T was throwing words away ; for still 
 The little maid would have her will. 
 And said, " Nav, we are seven ! " 
 
 1798. 
 
 LOUISA, 
 
 AFTEK ACCOMPANYING HEK ON A MOUNTAIN 
 EXCURSION. 
 
 I MET Louisa in the shade. 
 
 And, having seen that lovely maid. 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 
 That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong. 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 
 Like rivulets in Mav V 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 580 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 —9) 
 
 h- 
 
 She loves her fire, her cottage home ; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 And when against the wind she strains, 
 O, might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek ! 
 
 Take all that 's mine " beneath the moon,' 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 
 M'hen up she winds along the brook 
 
 To hunt the waterfalls. 
 
 1803. 
 
 SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WATS. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A maid whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 Pair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 
 But she is in her grave, and oh ! 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 1799. 
 
 HEK EYES ARE WILD. 
 
 Hek eyes are wild, her head is bare. 
 
 The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 
 
 Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, 
 
 And she came far from over the main. 
 
 She had a baby on her arm. 
 
 Or else she were alone : 
 
 And underneath the liaystaek warm. 
 
 And on the greenwood stone, 
 
 She talked and sung the woods among, 
 
 And it was in the English tongue. 
 
 " Sweet babe ! they say that T am mad ; 
 But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 
 And I am happy when T sing 
 Full many a sad and doleful thing : 
 Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 
 I pray thcc have no fear of me ; 
 But safe as in a cradle, here, 
 My lovely baby ! thou shall be : 
 To thcc I know too much I owe ; 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 
 
 " A fire was once within my brain ; 
 And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
 
 And fiendish faces, one, two, tliree, 
 Hung at my breast, and pulled at me. 
 But then there came a sight of joy ; 
 It came at once to do me good : 
 I waked, and saw my little boy, 
 My little boy of flesh and blood ; 
 O, joy for me that sight to see ! 
 For he was here, and only he. 
 
 " Suck, little babe, 0, suck again ! 
 It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
 Thy lips, I feel tliem, baby ! they 
 Draw from my heart the pain away. 
 O, press me with thy little hand ! 
 It loosens something at my chest ; 
 About that tight and deadly band 
 I feel thy little fingers prest. 
 The breeze I see is in the tree : 
 It comes to cool my babe and me. 
 
 " O, love me, love me, little boy ! 
 Thou art tliy mother's only joy ; 
 And do not dread the waves below. 
 When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 
 The high crag cannot work me harm. 
 Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 
 The babe I carry on my arm. 
 He saves for me my precious soul ; 
 Then hap])y lie ; for blest am I ; 
 Without me my sweet babe would die. 
 
 " Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 
 
 Bold as a lion will I be ; 
 
 And I will always be thy guide, 
 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
 
 I 'II build an Indian bower ; I know 
 
 The leaves that make the softest bed : 
 
 And, if from me thou wilt not go. 
 
 But still be true till I am dead. 
 
 My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
 " Thy father cares not for my breast, 
 'T is thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 
 'T is all thine own ! — and if its hue 
 Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
 'T is fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
 My beauty, little child, is flown. 
 But thou wilt live with me in love ; 
 And wli;it if my poor cheek be brown ? 
 'T is well for me thou canst not sec 
 How ixdc 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 
 Wr two will live in honesty. 
 
 ^ 
 
a— 
 
 LOVE. — TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 581 
 
 -Q) 
 
 If liis sweet boy he could forsake, 
 AVitii nic lie never would have stayed : 
 From liiiii no harm my babe can take ; 
 But he, poor man, is wrctciied made ; 
 And every day we two will pray 
 For him that 's gone and far away. 
 
 " I '11 teach my boy the sweetest things : 
 
 I '11 teach him how tlie owlet sings. 
 
 My little babe ! thy lips are stiU, 
 
 And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 
 
 — Where art thou gone, iny own dear child? 
 
 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, 
 
 Then 1 nmst be forever sad. 
 
 " O, smile oa me, my little Iamb ! 
 For I thy own dear mother am : 
 My love for thee has well been tried : 
 I 've sought thy father far and wide. 
 I know the poisons of the shade ; 
 I know the earth-nuts fit for food : 
 Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; 
 We '11 find thy father in the wood. 
 Now laugh and bo gay, to the woods 
 And there, my babe, we '11 live for ayi 
 
 away ! 
 e." 
 
 1798. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Thus, not without concurrence of an age 
 Unknown to memory, was an earnest given 
 By ready nature for a life of love, 
 For endless constancy, and placid truth ; 
 But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay 
 Reserved, had fate permitted, for support 
 Of their maturer years, his present mind 
 Was under fascination ; — he beheld 
 A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
 Arabian fiction never filled the world 
 With half the wonders that were wrought for 
 
 him. 
 Earth breathed in one great presence of the 
 
 spring; 
 Life turned the meanest of her implements. 
 Before his eyes, to price above all gold ; 
 The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine ; 
 Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
 Tlie portals of the dawn ; all paradise 
 Could, by the simple opening of a door. 
 Let itself in upon liim : — pathways, walks. 
 Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank. 
 Surcharged, within him, overblest to move 
 Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world 
 To its dull round of ordinary cares ; 
 A man too happy for mortality ! 
 
 Vandrarour and Jttlia^ 1805. 
 
 TIHTERN ABBEY.* 
 
 LINES CO.MPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 
 ABIiEV, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE 
 DURING A TOUR, JULY 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have past; five summers, with the 
 
 length 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 Tliese waters, rolhng from their mountain-springs 
 With a soft inland murmur.t — Once again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 Tliat on a wild, secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose tiiemselves 
 Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
 These hedge -rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms. 
 Green to tlie very door; and wreaths of smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms. 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye; 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 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. 
 With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps. 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Kor less, I trust. 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 Of aspect more sublime : that blessed mood, 
 In which the burden 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 afTectious gently lead us on, 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even tlie motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 
 * This is not only the moat originnl poem since the time of 
 MiUon, hut it soun-ds tlie Iceynote of the most profound poeti-y 
 of tlie nineteenth century. 
 
 + The river is not aft'ectcd by the tides a few miles above 
 Tintern. 
 
 ^9— 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 582 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -^ 
 
 k 
 
 Of harinouy, and tlie deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If tliis 
 Be b\it a vain belief, yet, 0, liow oft — 
 111 darkness and amid the many shajies 
 Of joyless daylight; when the fretfnl stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 Have liuug upon tlie beatings of my heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of lialf-extinguished 
 
 thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad pcr])lexity, 
 The ]iieture of the mind 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 
 For future years. And so I dare to liope. 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when 
 
 first 
 
 1 came among these hills ; when lilce a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever nature led ; more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days 
 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me hke a passion: the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
 Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm 
 By thougliis supplied, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 
 And all its aching joys are now no more. 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
 Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe. 
 Abundant recoiii])ense. For I have learned 
 To look on nat\ire, not as in the hour 
 Of tlioughtless youtli ; but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, sad music of luimaiiity. 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deejily interfused, 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean, and the living air. 
 And tlic blue sky, and in tlie mind of man: 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
 And mountains; and of all that wc behold 
 From this green earth ; of all the mighty wculd 
 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create,* 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
 In nature and the language of the sense. 
 The anchor of my purest thonglits, the nurse. 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 Of all my moral beuig. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 F(n' thou art with me here upon the banks 
 Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend. 
 My dear, dear friend ; and in thy voice I cateli 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting liglits 
 Of thy wild eyes. 0, yet a little while 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 ]My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make. 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege. 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or di.sturb 
 Our cheerful faith, tliat, all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let tiic moon 
 Shine on thee in tliy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and, in after years, 
 Wien these wild ecstasies sliall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure ; when tliy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; O, then. 
 If solitude or fear or pain or grief 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 Of tender joy w'ilt thou remember me. 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, — 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 Tliy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 
 
 gleams 
 Of past existence, — will thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 We stood together; and that I, so long 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love, — 0, with far dcejier zeal 
 
 * " Tliia line tins « rlose rcapmhlnncc to on Bdniirnble line 
 of Vounij's. llie exact expression of wliieli I do not recoMect " — 
 TliK .\lTHriK 
 
 -05 
 
a- 
 
 THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 583 
 
 -0) 
 
 Of liolier love. Nor wilt thou then forget 
 Tluit after iiiaiij waiulerings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 
 
 TO A SKYLARK, 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with mc ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot whicii seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary. 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a faery. 
 
 Up to tlice would I fly. 
 
 Tlierc is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In tliat song of thine; 
 
 Lift me, guide me liigh and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-plaee in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning. 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Tliou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. 
 And, though little troubled with sloth. 
 Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loath 
 To be sueli a traveller as I. 
 Happy, happy liver. 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 rugged and uneven. 
 
 or dusty ways must 
 
 k 
 
 Alas ! my journey, 
 Through prickly moors 
 
 wind ; 
 But hearing tlice, or others of thy kind. 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is 
 
 done. 
 
 .o.^ — . 1805. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK.* 
 
 Ethebeal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth wliere cares abound ? 
 Or, w'liile the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Tliy nest, which thou canst drop into at will. 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music 
 still ! 
 
 * This is Wordswortli's second poriii on the Skylark. The 
 first he classes under " Poems of Fancy,'* tlie second under 
 
 Poems of Imagination." It will be noticed that the lirst was 
 written in 180.^, the second in 1835. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
 A privacy of glorious liglit is thine ; 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 
 
 1825. 
 
 THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 That way look, my infant, lo ! 
 
 What a pretty baby-show ! 
 
 See the kitten on the wall. 
 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
 
 Witliered leaves, — one, two, and three, — 
 
 From the lofty elder-tree ! 
 
 Through the calm and frosty air 
 
 Of this morning bright and fair. 
 
 Eddying round and round, they sink 
 
 Softly, slowly : one might think. 
 
 From the motions that are made, 
 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 
 Sylpli or faery hither tending, — 
 
 To this lower world descending. 
 
 Each invisible and mute, 
 
 Li his wavering parachute. 
 
 — But the kitten, how she starts. 
 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
 
 First at one, and then its fellow 
 
 Just as light and just as yellow ; 
 
 There are many now, — now one, — 
 
 Now tliey stop and there are none : 
 
 Wliat intenseness of desire 
 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 
 With a tiger-leap half-way 
 
 Now she meets the coming prey. 
 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 
 Has it in her power again : 
 
 Now she works with three or four. 
 
 Like an Indian conjurer ; 
 
 Quick as he in feats of art, 
 
 Far beyond in joy of lieart. 
 
 Were her antics played in the eye 
 
 Of a thousand standers-by. 
 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare. 
 
 What would little Tabby care 
 
 For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
 
 Over happy to be proud. 
 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 
 
 'T is a pretty baby-treat ; 
 Nor, I deem, for mc unmeet ; 
 Here for neither babe nor me 
 Other playmate can I see. 
 Of the countless living things. 
 That with stir of feet and wings 
 (In the sun or xinder sliade. 
 Upon bougli or grassy blade). 
 
 -^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 584 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And with busy revelliiigs, 
 Chii-p and song, and muraiurings, 
 Made tins orcliard's naiTow space, 
 And this vale, so bhthe a place ; 
 Multitudes are swept away, 
 Nevermore to breathe the day : 
 Some are sleeping ; some in bauds 
 Travelled into distant lands ; 
 Others slunk to moor and wood. 
 Far from human neighborhood ; 
 And, among the kinds that keep 
 With us closer fellowship, 
 With us openly abide. 
 All have laid their mirth aside. 
 
 Wliere is he, that giddy sprite. 
 Blue-cap, with his colors bright, 
 Who was blest as bird could be, 
 Feeding in the ap])le-tree ; 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout. 
 Turning blossoms inside out ; 
 Hung, head pointing towards the ground, 
 Fluttered, perched, into a round 
 Bound himself, and then unbound; 
 Lithest, gaudiest harlequin ! 
 Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! 
 Light of heart, and light of limb ; 
 What is now become of him ? 
 Lambs, that through the mountains went 
 Frisking, bleating merriment, 
 Wlien the year was in its prime. 
 They are sobered by this time. 
 If you look to vale or hdl. 
 If you listen, all is still. 
 Save a little neighboring rill, 
 That from out tlie rocky ground 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 Vainly glitter hill and plain, 
 And the air is calm in vain ; 
 Vainly morning spreads the lure 
 Of a sky serene and pure ; 
 Creature none can she decoy 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 Of the dreary season near? 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 Sweeter even than gayety ? 
 
 Yet, wliate'er enjoyments dwell 
 In the impenetrable cell 
 Of tlie silent heart which Nature 
 Furnislies to every creature ; 
 Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
 Too sedate for outward show, — 
 Such a light of gladness breaks. 
 Pretty kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 O'er my little Dora's face ; 
 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
 Thee, baby, laughing in my arms, 
 That almost I could repuie 
 That your transports are uot mine. 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless pair I 
 And I will have my careless season 
 Sjiite of melancholy reason. 
 Will walk through life iu such a way 
 That, when time brings on decay. 
 Now and then I may possess 
 Hours of perfect gladsomencss. 
 Pleased by any random toy, — 
 By a kitten's busy joy, 
 Orau infant's laugliing eye 
 Sharing in the ecstasy, — 
 I would fare hke that or this. 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake. 
 And have faculties to take, 
 ■ Even from things by sorrow wrought. 
 Matter for a jocund thought. 
 Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
 To gambol with life's falling leaf. 
 
 1804. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that iu the great world be, 
 
 Daisy ! again I talk to thee. 
 
 For thou art worthy. 
 Thou unassuming commonplace 
 Of Nature, with that homely face. 
 And yet with something of a grace 
 
 Which love makes for thee I 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit, and jilay with sinnles, 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising : 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame. 
 As is the humor of the game. 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure, of lowly port ; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of love's court, 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seems to suit lliee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten and defy. 
 That thought comes next, — and instantly 
 The freak is over. 
 
 -^-P 
 
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OP DELIGHT. 
 
 585 
 
 -f0 
 
 The sliape will vanish, — and behold 
 A silver shield with boss of gold, 
 That spreads itself, some faery bold 
 In figlit to cover ! 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar, — 
 And then thou art a ))retty star ; 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seeni'st to rest ; — 
 !May peace come never to his nest. 
 
 Who sliall reprove tiiee ! 
 
 Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet, silent creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My licart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BT.ITIIE new-comer! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 Cuckoo ! shall 1 call thee bird. 
 Or but a Avandering voice V 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout 1 hear. 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
 At once far off, and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale, 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 Thou bringcst unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the s]n'ing ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 1 listened to ; that cry 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways. 
 In bush and tree and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is lit home for thee ! 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 
 Not loath to furnish weapons for the bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed the 
 
 sea 
 And drew their sounding bows at Agincour, 
 Perhaps at earlier Crccy, or Poicticrs. 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 This solitary tree ! a living thing 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
 Are those fraternal F'our of Bori-owdale, 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a 
 
 growth 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; 
 Nor uninformed with fantasy, and looks 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade. 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown Inie, 
 By shcddings from the pining umbrage tinged 
 Perennially, — beneath whose sable roof 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
 With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes 
 May meet at noontide : F'earand trembling Hope, 
 Silence and Foresight, Death the skeleton 
 And Time the shadow ; — there to celebrate. 
 As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 
 United worship ; or in mute repose 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
 1803. 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELiaHT.* 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 Prom May-time and the clierrful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image g,\y, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 * It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that the woman 
 here celebrated was the poet's wife. 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 586 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her liouseliold motions liglit and free. 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in wliicli did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too brigiit or good 
 
 For liuman nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death ; 
 Tiie reason firm, the temperate will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit stiU, and bright 
 With something of angelic light. 
 
 18M. 
 
 THEEE YEAKS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWEE, 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Tiicn Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 ■ On eartli was never sown ; 
 This child I to myself will take ; 
 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. 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 
 Sliall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She sliall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs; 
 And hers sliall be tlie breathing balm. 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute, insensate things. 
 
 " Tlie floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 Nor shall slie fail to see. 
 Even in the motions of the storm, 
 Grace (hat shall mould the maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 " The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her ; and she shall lean lier car 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 ,\ud beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Sliall p.iss into her face. 
 
 " And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height. 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake. Tlie work was done. 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And nevermore will be. 
 
 1799 
 
 THE DAITODILS. 
 
 I WANDERED louelv as a cloud 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 "V^'hen all at once I saw a crowd, 
 A host, of golden datfodils ; 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the Milky-Way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 Tlie waves beside them danced ; but they 
 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay. 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed, — and gazed, — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought : 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 111 vacant or in pensive mood. 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 
 Her father took another mate ; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted cliild, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill. 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw. 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her liirtli had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 <&-- 
 
 -^ 
 
RUTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Beneath lici- father's roof, alone 
 
 Slie seemed to hve ; lier thoughts her own ; 
 
 Herself licr own delight ; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; 
 
 And, passing thus the livelong day, 
 
 She grew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a youth from Georgia's shore, — 
 
 A mililary casque he wore. 
 
 With splcMdid feathers drcst; 
 
 He brouglit them from the Cherokees ; 
 
 The featliers nodded in the breeze, 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him .sprung: 
 But no ! he spake tlie English tongue, 
 And bore a soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his elieek, 
 In finest tones the youth could speak : 
 — While he was yet a boy. 
 The n\oon, the glory of the sun, 
 And streams that murmur as they run, 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in tlie wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And wlien he chose to sport and play. 
 
 No dolplnn ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought, 
 Aud with him many talcs lie brought 
 Of pleasure aud of fear; 
 Such tales as told to any maid 
 By such a youth, in the green shade. 
 Were ])erilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls — a hap|)y rout ! — 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian lowu, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long; 
 
 Iletuniing with a choral sung 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants (hat hourly change 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 Of intermingling hues ; 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers. 
 They stand the wonder of ihc bowers 
 From morn to evennig dews. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high overhead ! 
 The cypress and her spire ; — 
 Of floW'Crs that with one scarlet glean\ 
 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The youth of green savannas spake. 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 " How pleasant," then he said, " it were, 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there. 
 
 In sunsliinc or in shade 
 
 To wander with an easy mind ; 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade I 
 
 "What days and what bright years! Ah me! 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss. 
 
 And all the while," said he, " to know 
 
 That we are in a world of woe. 
 
 On such an earth as this ! " 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love : 
 "For there," said he, "are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties. 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 " Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with mo 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be. 
 
 Our shed at night to rear; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the Hying deer ! 
 
 " Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear : 
 
 She thought again, — and did agree. 
 With him to sail across the sea. 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 " And now, as fitting is and right, 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 A husband and a wife." 
 Even so they did ; and 1 may say 
 That to sweet Rulli that hap|)y day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That on those lonesome floods 
 And green savannas she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wdd woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told. 
 This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold. 
 
 -9> 
 
a— 
 
 oj;^ 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 —9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 And, witli his dancing crest. 
 So beaulil'ul, through savage lauds 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, tlie tempest roaring high, 
 The tuTuult of a tropic sky, 
 Miillit well be dangerous food 
 For him, a youth to whom was given 
 So mucli of earth, so mucli of heaven, 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Wliatever in those climes tie found 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 Did to his mind impart 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought. 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought. 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those favored bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, mucli evil saw, 
 AVitli men to whom no better law 
 Xor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately, and undeceived, 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 ^Vere thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A man who without self-control 
 ^\'ould seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 Had wooed the maiden, day and night,. 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 A\'hal could he less than love a maid 
 Wiose heart- witii so much nature played : 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 
 " O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and v;un. 
 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 
 When I, in confidence and pride, 
 
 Had crossed the Atlantic main. 
 
 " Before me shone a glorious world, — 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 
 To music suddenly: 
 I looked upon those hUls and plains. 
 And seemed as if let loose from chains, 
 To live at liberty. 
 
 " No more of this ; for now, by thee. 
 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free, 
 With nobler zeal I burn ; 
 My soul from darkness is released. 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone ; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 They stirred him now no more ; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwliile, as thus with liim it fared. 
 They for the voyage were prepared. 
 And went to the sea-shore ; 
 But when they thither came, the youth 
 Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee. Ruth ! Such pains she had, 
 
 That she in half a year was mad. 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 
 And there, with many a doleful song 
 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew. 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May ; 
 Tliey all were with her in her cell ; 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 Wien Ruth three seasons thus had lain. 
 There came a respite to her pain ; 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 But of the vagrant none took thought ; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again : 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free ; 
 .\nd, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest, and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The Vernal leaves. — she loved them still; 
 
 -EP 
 
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 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 589 
 
 -ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 Niir over taxed them with the ill 
 AVhich had been done to her 
 
 A barn her winter bod supplies ; 
 
 But till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree), 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day, 
 
 Be broken down and old : 
 
 Sore aohos she needs must have ! but less 
 
 Of mind than body's wretchedness. 
 
 From damp and rain and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food, 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Re]iairs to a roadside ; 
 And there she begs at one steep jjlaoe 
 Where up and down, with easy paee, 
 The horseman-travellers ride. 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute. 
 Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers : 
 This llute, made of a hemlock stalk. 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantoek woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the liills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild, — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy child ! 
 
 Farewell ! and when tliy days are told, 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth, in liallowed mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be. 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring. 
 
 And all the eongrcgation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL.* 
 
 The kniglit had ridden down from Wensley 
 
 Moor, 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
 And now, as lie approaohed a vassal's door, 
 " Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 
 
 " Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal heard. 
 And saddled his best steed, a comely gray ; 
 
 * " Il.nrt-Leap Well isasninll spriiigof water, altout five miles 
 from Richriiond in Yorksiiire, and near the side of tlie road 
 that leads from Ilicliniond to .\skri^g. Us name is derived 
 from a reniarkalile cliase, the memory of whjcli is preserved 
 hy tlie monuments spoken of in the second part of the follow- 
 ing poem, whicli monuments do now exist as 1 have tliere 
 described them." — The Author. 
 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
 The horse and hoi'seman are a happy pair; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
 There is a doleful sUeuce in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall. 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
 But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Such race, 1 think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The knight hallooed, he cheered and eliid them on 
 With su])pliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
 The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race '^ 
 Tlic l)iigles that so joyfully were blown ? 
 — Tliis chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; 
 Sir Walter and the hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ; 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died; 
 But now the knight beholds him lying dead. 
 
 Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
 He neither cracked his wiiip, nor blew his horn. 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned. 
 And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the hart was lying stretched : 
 His nostril touohed a spring beneath a hill. 
 And with tlie last deep groan liis breath had 
 
 fetched 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 
 ( Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 
 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darhug spot. 
 
 And elimbing up the hill (it was at least 
 Four roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof-marks whieh the liunted beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
 
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 ^ 
 
 Tlirce leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
 " I '11 build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 Ami a small arbor, made for rural joy ; 
 'T will be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 A ))lace of love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 " A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 A basin for that fountain in t[ie dell ! 
 Ami they who do make mention of the same, 
 I'roin this day forth, shall call it Hart-Leap 
 Well. 
 
 " And, gallant stag ! to make thy praises known, 
 Anollier monument shall here be raised ; 
 Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone. 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 
 
 " And in the summer-time, when days are long, 
 I will come hitlicr with my paramour; 
 And witli the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 
 
 ■ Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 My maiisit)n with its arl)or shall endure; — 
 The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
 .'\ml llnMM who dwell among the woods of Ure !" 
 
 Then home he went, and left the hart, stone-dead. 
 With breathless nostrils stretched above the 
 
 spring. 
 — Soon did the knight perform what he had said, 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 
 
 Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, 
 A cup of stone received the living well; 
 Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared. 
 And bnilt a house of pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, llowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, — 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were long, 
 Sir Walter led his wondering paramour ; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 
 
 The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And 1 to tliis would add another tale. 
 
 .PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade ; 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 'T is my delight, alone in summer shade. 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 As 1 from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
 Three aspens at three corners of a square; 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine: 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
 The last stone pillar on a dark hiU-toi). 
 
 The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ; 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 "Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near, — 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost. 
 When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired. 
 Came up the hollow; — him did I accost, 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 
 
 The shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
 " A jolly place," said lie, " in times of old ! 
 But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 
 
 " You see these lifeless stumps of aspen-wood, — 
 Some say that they are beeches, others clins, — 
 These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 
 
 "The arbor does its own condition tell; 
 Yon see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; 
 But as to the great lodge ! you might as well 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 "There 's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep. 
 Will wet his lips within tliat cup of stone; 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 "Some say that here a murder has been done, 
 And blood cries out for blood ; but, for my |)art, 
 I 've guessed, when I 've been silting in the sun, 
 Tliat it was all for tiiat unhappy hart. 
 
 " What thoughts must through the creature's 
 
 brain have past ! 
 Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep. 
 Arc but three bounds, — and look, sir, at this 
 
 last ! 
 O master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 
 " For thirteen Innirs he ran a desperate race ; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the hart might have to love this place 
 And come and make hi^ dealh-hcd near thi 
 
 ::^ 
 
<&■ 
 
 SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 5'Jl 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Here on the grass perliaps asleep he sank, 
 Lulled by the I'ouutaiii in tiie summer-tide ; 
 This water was perhaps the lirst lie drauk 
 When lie had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
 " Li April here beneatli the flowering thorn 
 He heard the birds their nioriuug carols sing; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not half a furlong from that selfsame spring. 
 
 " Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
 
 The sun on drearier lioUow never shone; 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said, 
 
 Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." 
 
 " Gray-headed sheplierd, thou hast spoken well ; 
 Small dilfereuee lies between thy creed and mine : 
 This beast not unobserved by nature fell ; 
 His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 
 
 " The Being, that is in tiie clouds and air. 
 That is iu the green leaves among the groves. 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the uuolTending creatures whom he loves. 
 
 " The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before. 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 " She leaves these objects to a slow decay. 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 But at the coming of the milder day 
 These monuments shall all bo overgrown. 
 
 " One lesson, shc])licrd, let us two divide. 
 Taught both by what slie shows and what con- 
 ceals ; 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 
 
 1800. 
 
 TEE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 O listen ! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No niglitingale did ever chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt. 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird. 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
 
 Perliaps the plaintive numbers How 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things. 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay. 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
 
 That lias been, and may be again ? 
 
 Wliate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened, motionless and still; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill. 
 The music in my heart 1 bore. 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 1803. 
 SOUa AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 UPON Tllp; RESTOltATlON OF LOUD CLIFFOUD, THE 
 SHEPHKKD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOKS OF HIS 
 ANCESTORS. 
 
 High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate. 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the song. 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 ."V festal strain that hath been silent long : — 
 
 "From town to town, from tower to tower. 
 The red rose is a gladsome flower. 
 Her thirty years of winter past, 
 Tlie red rose is revived at last; 
 She lifts her head for endless spring, 
 For everlasting blossoming: 
 Both roses flourish, red and white ; 
 In love and sisterly deliglit 
 The two that were at strife are blended, 
 And all old troubles now are ended. 
 Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 
 Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 
 Behold her how she smiles to-day 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 From every corner of the hall ; 
 But eliiefly from above the board 
 Where sits in state our rightful lord, 
 A Chlford to his own restored ! 
 
 " They came with banner, spear, and shield ; 
 And it was proved in Bosworth Field. 
 Not long the avenger was withstood, — 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
 St. George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessed angels crowned the riglit. 
 Loud voice tlie land has uttered forth, 
 
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 592 
 
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 ^ 
 
 We loudest in tlie faithful North : 
 Our fields rejoice, our mountauis ring, 
 Our streams ])roclaiin a weleoming ; 
 Our strong ahodes and castles see 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 " How glad is Skipton at this hour, — 
 Though lonely, a deserted tower ; 
 Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom; 
 We have them at the feast of Brougham. 
 How glad I'endragon, — though the sleep 
 Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 Rejoiced is Brough, right glad 1 deem 
 Beside her little humble stream ; 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 
 They both are happy at this hour. 
 Though each is but a lonely tower : 
 But iiere is perfect joy and pride 
 For one fair house by Emont's side. 
 This day, distinguished without peer. 
 To see her master and to cheer — 
 Him, and his lady mother dear ! 
 
 " O, it was a time forlorn 
 Wlien the fatherless was born ! — 
 Give her wings that she may lly. 
 Or she sees her infant die ! 
 Swords that are witli slaughter wild 
 Hunt the mother and the child. 
 Who wdl take tliem from the light ? 
 — Yonder is a man in sight, — 
 Yonder is a house, — but where ? 
 No, they must not enter there. 
 To the caves, and to the brooks. 
 To the clouds of heaven she looks; 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghostly agonies. 
 Blissful Mary, mother mild. 
 Maid aiul mother undefiled. 
 Save a mother and her child ! 
 
 "Now who is he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy ? 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 Can tills be he wlio lather came 
 In secret, like a smotliered flame ? 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
 For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
 God loves the child ; and God hath willed 
 That those dear words should be fnllllled. 
 The lady's words, wlien forced away. 
 The last she to her babe did say : 
 ' j\Iy own, my own, thy fellow-guest 
 I may not be; but rest thee, rest, 
 For lowly shepherd's life is best ! ' 
 
 " Alas ! when evil men are strong. 
 No life is good, no pleasure long. 
 The boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
 And leave Blcncathara's rugged coves, 
 And quit the flowers that summer brings 
 To Glenderamakiu's lofty s|iiings ; 
 Must vanisli, and his careless cheer 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
 Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
 Thou tree of covert and of rest 
 
 For this young bird that is distrest ; 
 Among thy branches safe he lay. 
 And he was free to sport and play. 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
 "A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth I 
 Our Clifford was a happy youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time. 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 
 — Again he wanders forth at will. 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
 His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
 Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
 Hath he, a child of strength and state ! 
 Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 
 Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
 
 To his side the fallow deer 
 
 Came, and rested without fear ; 
 
 The eagle, lord of land and sea. 
 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 
 And both the undying fish that swim 
 
 Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; 
 
 The pair were servants of liis eye 
 
 Li tiieir immortality ; 
 
 And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright. 
 
 Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
 
 He knew the rocks wliich angels haunt 
 
 Upon the mountains visitant ; 
 
 He hath kenned them taking wing : 
 
 And into caves where fairies sing 
 
 He liath entered; and been told 
 
 By voices how men lived of old. 
 
 Among the heavens his eye can see 
 
 The face of thing that is to be; 
 
 And, if that men report him right, 
 
 His tongue could wiiisper words of might. 
 
 — Now another day is come. 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 
 He lialh thrown aside his crook, 
 And hath buried deep his book; 
 Armor rusting in Ids halls 
 
 On the blood of Clill'ord calls ; — 
 
 ■^ 
 
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 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 593 
 
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 fr 
 
 ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance, — 
 
 ' Bear me to the heart of France,' 
 
 Is the longing of the shield, — ■ 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling field; 
 
 Field of death, where'er thou be. 
 
 Groan thou with our victory ! 
 
 Happy day, and mighty hour, 
 
 When our shepherd, in bis power, 
 
 JMailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 
 
 To his ancestors restored . 
 
 Like a reappearing star. 
 
 Like a glory fi'om afar, 
 
 First shall head the flock of war ! " 
 
 Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not know 
 How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart 
 
 was frajned : 
 How he, long forced in humble walks to go, 
 Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love bad be found in huts where poor men lie ; 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In liim the savage virtue of the race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts, were dead : 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth ; 
 The shepherd-lord was honored more and more; 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 " The good Lord Clifford " was tlie name lie bore. 
 
 1807. 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER. 
 
 Mid crowded obelisks and urns 
 
 I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 
 
 Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns 
 
 With sorrow true. 
 And more would grieve, but that it turns 
 
 Trembling to you ! 
 
 Through twilight shades of good and ill 
 
 Ye now are panting up bfe's iiill, 
 
 And more than common strength and skill 
 
 Must ye display. 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Hath nature strung your nerves to bear 
 Intemperance wit-li less harm, beware ! 
 But if the poet's wit ye share, — 
 
 Like hiui can speed 
 The social hour, — of tenfold care 
 
 There will be need ; 
 
 For honest men delight will take 
 To spare your failings for his sake, 
 
 Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 
 
 Your steps pursue ; 
 And of your father's name will make 
 
 A snare for you. 
 
 Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
 And add your voices to the choir 
 That sanctify the cottage fire 
 
 With service meet ; 
 There seek the genius of j'our sire. 
 
 His spirit greet ; 
 
 Or where, mid " lonely heights and hows,' 
 He paid to nature tuneful vows ; 
 Or wiped his honorable brows 
 
 Bedewed with toil. 
 While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 
 
 Upturned the soil ; 
 
 His judgment with benignant ray 
 Siiall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 Let faith be given ; 
 Nor deem that "light which leads astray. 
 
 Is light from Heaven." 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
 Be independent, generous, brave; 
 Your father such example gave. 
 
 And such revere ; 
 But be admonished by his grave. 
 
 And think, and fear. 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIKL, 
 
 AT INVEKSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 Sweet Highland girl, a very shower 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower I 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 And these gray rocks ; that household lawn ; 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmur near the silent lake ; 
 This little bay ; a quiet road 
 That holds in shelter thy abode, — • 
 In truth together do ye seem 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 Such forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 But, O fair creature ! in the light 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 I bless tliee, vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human lieart ; 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far awav : 
 
 J 
 
a- 
 
 594 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -^ 
 
 I 
 
 For never saw I mien, or face, 
 In wliicli more plainly I eould trace 
 Bemgiiity and homebred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scattered, like a random seed. 
 Remote from men, thou dost not need 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress. 
 And maidenly shamcfacedness : 
 Thou wearest upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a mountaiueer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And scemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 "IV'ith no restraint but such as springs 
 From quick aud eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 Wiat hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside tliee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A shepherd, thou a sliepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for tliee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of tlic wild sea; and I would have 
 Souie claim upon thee, if I could, 
 Thougii but of common neighborhood. 
 What joy to hear tliee, and to see ! 
 Thy elder brother I would be. 
 Thy fatiier, — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now tlianks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hatli led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going iience 
 
 1 bear away my recompense. 
 
 In s])ots like these it is we prize 
 Our memory, feel that she hatii eyes : 
 Then, why should I be loath to stir? 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 Continued long as life siiall last. 
 Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart. 
 Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part; 
 For I, melhinks, till I grow old. 
 As fair before me sliall behold, 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
 And thee, the spirit of them all ! 
 
 1803. 
 
 KOB KOT'S GRAVE,* 
 
 A F.vMoi's man is Robiu Hood, 
 
 The EugUsh ballad-singer's joy ! 
 
 And Scotland has a thief as good. 
 
 An outlaw of as daring mood ; 
 
 She has !ier brave Rob Roy ! 
 
 Then clear the weeds from off his grave, 
 
 And let us chant a passing stave, 
 
 lu honor of that hero brave ! 
 
 Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
 Aud wondrous length and strength of arm : 
 Nor craved lie more to quell his foes, 
 Or keep his frieuds from harm. 
 
 Yet was Rob Roy as tcise as brave ; 
 Forgive me if the plirase be strong; — 
 A poet worthy of Rob Roy 
 Must scorn a timid song. 
 
 Say, then, that he was wise as brave ; 
 As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
 For in the principles of things 
 IJe sought his moral creed. 
 
 Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
 Burn all the statutes and their shelves : 
 They stir us up against our kind ; 
 And worse, against ourselves. 
 
 " We have a passion, — make a law, 
 Too false to guide us or control ! 
 And for tiie law itself we fight 
 In bitterness of soul. 
 
 " And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
 Distinctions that are plain and few : 
 These find I graven on my heart : 
 T/iat tells me what to do. 
 
 " The creatures see of flood and field. 
 And those that travel on the wind ! 
 With them no strife can last; they live 
 In peace, and peace of mind. 
 
 " For why ? — because the good old rule 
 Sulliceth them, the simple plan. 
 That they should take who have the power, 
 And they should keep who can. 
 
 " A lesson that is quickly learned, 
 A signal (his which all can see ! 
 Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
 To wanton cruelty. 
 
 " All freakishness of mind is checked ; 
 He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
 
 * Tlic hiatory of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; lii3gi-a\t 
 13 ncnr tlie hrntl of Locli Kcttrrint', in one of those sninll pin^ 
 folil-likr bnrinl-irronncls, of neslfcti-tl nnd ilesolntc nppcnrnnce, . - 
 wlitcli tlic truvcllcr meets with in the Hi;;lilantls of Scotland 
 
 -EP 
 
YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 595 
 
 ■to 
 
 While to the measure of his might 
 Each fashions his desires. 
 
 " All kinds and creatures stand and fall 
 By strength of prowess or of wit : 
 'T is God's appointment who must sway, 
 And who is to submit. 
 
 " Since, then, the rule of right is plain, 
 And longest life is but a day ; 
 To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
 1 '11 take the shortest way." 
 
 And thus among these rocks he hved. 
 Through summer heat and winter snow : 
 The eagle, he was lord above, 
 And Rob was lord below. 
 
 So was it, — would, at least, have been 
 But through untowardness of fate ; 
 For polity was then too strong, — 
 He came an age too late ; 
 
 Or shall we say an age too soon ? 
 For, were the bold man living zioje, 
 How might he flourish in his pride. 
 With buds on every bough ! 
 
 Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
 Sherilfs, and lairds, and their domains. 
 Would all have seemed but paltry things. 
 Not worth a moment's pains. 
 
 Rob Roy had never lingered here. 
 To these few meagre vales confined ; 
 But thought how wide the world, the times 
 How fairly to his mind ! 
 
 And to his sword he would have said, 
 " Do thou my sovereign will enact 
 From land to land through half the earth ! 
 Judge thou of law and fact ! 
 
 " 'T is fit that we should do our part. 
 Becoming that mankind should learn 
 That we are not to be surpassed 
 In fatherly concern. 
 
 " Of old things all are over old. 
 Of good tilings none are good enough ; — 
 We '11 show tliat we can help to frame 
 A W'Orld of other stuff. 
 
 " I, too, will have my kings, that take 
 From me the sign of life and death : 
 Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds. 
 Obedient to my breath." 
 
 And if the word had been fulfilled. 
 As iiiiff/ii have been, then, thought of joy I 
 France wovdd have had her present boast. 
 And we our own Rob Roy ! 
 
 O, say not so ! compare them not ; 
 I would not wrong thee, champion brave ! 
 Would wrong thee nowhere ; least of all 
 Here standing by thy grave. 
 
 For thou, although with some wUd thouglits. 
 Wild chieftain of a savage clan ! 
 Hadst this to boast of: thou didst love 
 The liberie of man. 
 
 And had it been thy lot to live 
 With us who now behold the light, 
 Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thyself, 
 And battled for the right. 
 
 For thou wex-t still the poor man's stay. 
 The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand ; 
 And all the oppressed, who wanted strength. 
 Had thine at their command. 
 
 Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
 Of thoughtful herdsman when he strays 
 Alone upon Loch Vool's heights. 
 And by Loch Lomond's braes. 
 
 And, far and near, through vale and hill. 
 Are faces that attest the same ; 
 The proud heart flashing tlu-ough the eyes 
 At sound of Rob Roy's name. 
 
 1803. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED, 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had ti-avcUed ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my " winsome marrow," 
 " Wliato'er betide, we '11 turn aside. 
 And see the braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Let Yarrow foIk,/r«e Selkirk town, 
 Who have been buying, selling. 
 Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own ; 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 
 Hares eoueh, aiul rabbits burrow ! 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 " There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 Both lying riglit before us ; 
 
 And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 
 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
 
 There 's pleasant Teviotdale, a land 
 
 Wade blithe with plough and harrow : 
 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 " What's Yarrow but a river bare. 
 That glides the dark hills under ? 
 
 ^ 
 
(&r 
 
 59G 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 As worthy of your wonder." 
 
 Strange words they seemed of shght and scorn; 
 
 My true-love sighed for sorrow. 
 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 " O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Tair hangs the apjile frae the rock. 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er liilly path, and open strath, 
 We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Y'arrow. 
 
 " Let beeves and homebred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and siiadow ! 
 We will not see them ; will not go 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
 Enough, if in our hearts we know 
 There 's such a place as Y'arrow. 
 
 " Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We '11 keep them, winsome marrow ! 
 For when we 're there, altiiough 't is fair, 
 'T will be another Yarrow ! 
 
 " If eare with freezing years should come. 
 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 Sliould we be loath to stir from home, 
 
 And yet be melanciioly, — 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 'T will soothe us in our sorrow. 
 
 That earth has sometliing yet to show, 
 
 Tiie bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 
 
 1803. 
 
 TAEEOW VISITED, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 181i. 
 
 And is this — Yarrow ? — T/iis the stream 
 Of which my fancy cherished. 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 An image that hath pcrisiicd ! 
 that some minstrel's harp were near, 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 Aiul chase tliis silenpc from tlic air, 
 Thiit fdls my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet wliy ? — a silvery current flows 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 ^9— 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, througli her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror shglited. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Y'arrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun dift'used, 
 
 A tender, hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous ilower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding ; 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool. 
 
 Now peaceful as tlie morning. 
 
 The water-wraith ascended thrice. 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the lay that sings 
 
 The liaunts of happy lovers, 
 
 The |)ath that leads them to the grove. 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And pity sanctities the verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow. 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in tiic light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rieli groves of lofty stature, 
 
 With Yai-row winding through the ])onip 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves. 
 
 Behold a ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's towers. 
 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youtli to stray in; 
 
 For manhood to enjoy iiis strength, 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts, that nestle there, — 
 
 Tlie brood of chaste alTeetion. 
 
 ld^ 
 
THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
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 How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
 The wildwood fruits to gather. 
 And on mv true-love's forehead plant 
 A erest of blooming heather ! 
 And what if I inwreathed my own ! 
 'T were no offence to reason ; 
 The sober hills thus deck their brows 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see, — but not by siglit alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives, — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe. 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapors linger round the heights. 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine, — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish. 
 But that I know, where'er I go. 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me, — to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes 
 While in a grove I sat reclined, 
 Li that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul tliat through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that green bower. 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 And 't is my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 Tiie birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 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 can. 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from Heaven be sent. 
 If such be Nature's lioly plan. 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 
 ^Vhat mau has made of man ? 
 
 1798. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 
 " Why, William, on that old gray stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 Wliy, William, sit you thus alone. 
 And dream your time away ? 
 
 " Where are your books ? that light bequeathed 
 To beings else foi-Ioni and blind ! 
 Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 " You look round on your Mother Earth, 
 As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
 As if you were her first-born birth. 
 And none had lived before you ! " 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite Lake, 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why. 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And tlius I made reply : — 
 
 " The eye, — it cannot choose but see ; 
 We cannot bid tlie year be still ; 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 Against or with our wiU. 
 
 " Nor less T deem that there are powers 
 Wliich of themselves our minds impress ; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 " 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 wlierefore, here, alone. 
 
 Conversing as I may, 
 
 I sit upon this old gray stone, 
 
 Aud dream my time awav." 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books. 
 Or surely you '11 grow double : 
 Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Wliy all this toil and trouble ? 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long, green fields lias spread. 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife : 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
 How sweet his music ! on my life, 
 There 's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 J 
 
a- 
 
 598 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Aiid hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into tlie light of things. 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She lias a world of ready wealth. 
 Our minds aud liearts to bless, — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 
 May teach you more of man. 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Thau all the sages can. 
 
 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. ; 
 
 Close up those barren leaves ; 
 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 
 That watches and receives. 
 
 1798. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a statist, in the van 
 Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
 First learn to love one living mau ; 
 Then niayst thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A lawyer art thou ? — draw not uigh ! 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practised eye, 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a man of purple cheer ? 
 A rosy man, right plump to see? 
 Approach ; yet, doctor, not too near. 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant jiride, 
 A soldier aud no man of chaff? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? — one all eyes, 
 riiilosopher ! — a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O, turn aside, and take, 1 pray, 
 That he below may rest in |)cace, 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 
 
 A moralist perchance appears ; 
 ]jcd, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
 And he has neither eyes nor cars ; 
 Himself liis world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can chng 
 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 ; 
 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 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew. 
 Or fountain in a noonday grove ; 
 Aud you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky aud earth. 
 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. 
 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 ; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. 
 
 1799, 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 "Jam nou consilio bonus, sed more cb pcriluctus, ut non 
 tautuiu rectfe facere possim, sed nisi recte facerenon possim." 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God I 
 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love, 
 
 ^Vho art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove; 
 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 
 When empty terrors overawe. 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free. 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
 Tliere are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no mi.sgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 Who do thv work, and know it not : 
 
 -9> 
 
ca- 
 
 CHAKACTER OF THE HAPPY WARKIOR. 
 
 599? 
 
 fr 
 
 0, if througli confidence misplaced 
 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! aroimd 
 tUem cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright. 
 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 
 Wlien love is an unerring ligiit. 
 
 And joy its own security. 
 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
 
 Live in the spirit of this creed; 
 
 Yet seek tliy linn supjjort, according to their need. 
 
 1, loving freedom, and untried, 
 No sport of every random gust. 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly liave reposed my trust : 
 
 And oft, when iu my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 The task, iu smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 (Jr strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I su])plicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this uncliartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 !My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy I'ace ; 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
 Thou dost preserve tlie stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are 
 fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 1 call thee: I myself commend 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this liour ; 
 
 0, let my weakness have an end ! 
 
 Give unto me, mjde lowly wise. 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And iu the light of truth thy bondman let me live ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 Who is the happy warrior? Who is he 
 That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
 It is tiie generous spirit, who, when brought 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 Ujion the plan that pleased his boyish thought: 
 Whose higli endeavors are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright : 
 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. 
 But makes his moral being his prime care : 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower; 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
 By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
 Is placable, because occasions rise 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure. 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 As more exposed to suifering and distress ; 
 Tiience, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 'T is he whose law is reason; who depends 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends; 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted stiU 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill. 
 And what in quahty or act is best 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 
 He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 Wlio, if he rise to station of command. 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 On honorable terms, or else i"etire. 
 And in himself possess his own desire : 
 Wio comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 Keeps I'aithful with a singleness of aim ; 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
 Whom tliey must follow, on whose head nuist fall. 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common 
 
 strife. 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 A constant influence, a pecidiar grace ; 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind. 
 Is happy as a lover ; and attired 
 With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
 Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
 He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
 And faeidty for storm and turbulence. 
 Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be. 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love: — 
 
 — g^ 
 
cfr 
 
 600 
 
 WOllDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 h 
 
 "I is, finally, the man, wlio, lifted high, 
 Conspicuous object in a nation's eye. 
 Or lel't unthought of in obscurity, — 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not. 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Wiere what lie most duth value must be won : 
 Wliom neither shape of danger can dismay. 
 Nor thought of tender liappiness betray ; 
 Wlio, not content that former worth stand fast, 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
 Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
 Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. 
 And leave a dead, unprofitable name, 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 And, wliilc the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : — 
 This is the happy warrior ; this is he 
 That every man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 1800. 
 
 GOODY BLAKE AND HAEKY GILL 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 O, WHAT 's the matter ? what 's the matter ? 
 Wiat is 't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter. 
 Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
 Of waistcoats Harry has uo lack, 
 Good duffle gray, and flannel fine ; 
 He has a blanket on his back. 
 And coats enough to smother nine. 
 
 In March, December, and July, 
 'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 The neighbors tell, and tell you truly. 
 His teeth they cliatler, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
 His teeth tliey chatter, chatter stdl ! 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover. 
 And who so stout of limb as he ? 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 
 Old Goody Blake was old and poor ; 
 111 fed she was and thinly clad ; 
 And any man who passed her door 
 Might sec how poor a hut she liad. 
 
 All day she spun in her poor dwelling : 
 And then her three liours' work at night, 
 Alas ! 't was hardly worth the telling. 
 It would not i)ay for candleliglit. 
 Remote from sheltered village-green, 
 On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 
 
 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean. 
 And hoary dews are slow to melt. 
 
 By the same fire to boil their pottage. 
 Two ))Oor old dames, as 1 have known. 
 Will often live in one small cottage ; 
 But she, poor woman ! housed alone. 
 'T was well enough when summer came. 
 The long, warm, lightsome sunnner-day ; 
 Then at her door the f««/y dame 
 Would sit, as any linnet gay. 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 O, then how her old bones would shake ! 
 You would have said, if you had met her, 
 'T was a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dead : 
 Sad ease it was, as you may think. 
 For very cold to go to bed. 
 And theu for cold not sleep a wuik. 
 
 joy for her ! whene'er in winter 
 The winds at night had made a rout, 
 And scattered many a lusty splinter 
 Aiul many a rotten bmigli about. 
 Yet never had she, well or sick. 
 As every man who knew her says, 
 A |)ile beforehand, turf or stick. 
 Enough to warm her for three days. 
 
 Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
 And made her poor old bones to ache. 
 Could anything be more alluring 
 Than an old liedgc to Goody Blake ? 
 And, now and then, 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 ! 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspected 
 This trespass of old Cioody Blake ; 
 And vowed that she should be detected, — 
 That he on her would vengeance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire he "d go. 
 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, 
 Tims looking out did Harry stand : 
 The moon was full and shining clearly. 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
 — He hears a noise, — he 's all awake, — 
 Again? — on tiptoe down the hill 
 He softly creeps, — t' is Goody Blake ; 
 She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 
 
 Bight glad was lie when he beheld her ; 
 Slick after stick did Goody pull: 
 He stood behind a hush of elder. 
 Till she had filled her .'ipron full. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 THE OLD CUM13EKLAND BEGGAE. 
 
 COl 
 
 -9) 
 
 Wlien with her load she turned about, 
 The by-way back again to take, 
 He started forward with a shout, 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 
 
 And fiercely by the arm he took her, 
 And by the arm he held her fast. 
 And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
 And cried, " I 've caught you then at last ! " 
 Then Goody, who had nothing said, 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
 And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
 To God that is the judge of aU. 
 
 She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
 While Harry held her by the arm, — 
 " God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 O, may he nevermore be warm ! " 
 The cold, cold moon above her head, 
 Thus on her knees did Goody pray : 
 Young Harry heard what she had said ; 
 And icy cold lie turned away. 
 
 He went complaining all the morrow 
 That he was cold and very chill : 
 His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
 Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
 That day he wore a riding-coat. 
 But not a whit the warmer he : 
 Another was on Tluirsday brought. 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
 'T was all in vain, a useless matter. 
 And blankets were about him pinned ; 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
 And all who see him say 't is plain, 
 That, live as long as live he may, 
 He never will be warm again. 
 
 No word to any man he utters. 
 Abed or up, to young or old ; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 " Poor Harry GUI is very cold." 
 Abed or up, by night or day. 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 Now tliink, ye farmers all, I pray. 
 Of Goody Bl'ake and Harry Gill ! 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 WRITTEX IN HER ALBUM. 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts : 
 Of humblest friends, bright creature ! scorn not 
 
 one : 
 The daisy, by the sliadow that it casts, 
 , Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. 
 
 <^ 
 
 THE OLD CUMBEELASD BEGGAB. 
 
 I SAW an aged beggar in my walk ; 
 And he was seated, by the highway-side. 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 Who lead their horses down the steep, rough 
 
 road 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged man 
 Had placed his stall' across a broad, smooth stone 
 That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 All white with flour, the dole of village dames. 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one. 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 Of idle computation. In the sun. 
 Upon the second step of that small pile, 
 Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills. 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand. 
 That, still attempting to prgvent the waste. 
 Was baflled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain 
 
 birds. 
 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 travels on, a sohtary man. 
 So lieli)less in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering horseman throws not with a slack 
 And careless hand his alms upon tlie ground. 
 But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
 Within the old man's hat ; nor quits him so, ' 
 But still, when he has given 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 
 The aged beggar coming, quits her work. 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 The postboy, when his ratthng wheels o'ertake 
 The aged beggar in the woody lane, 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and il", thus warned. 
 The old man does not change his course, tiie boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 Upon ids lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary man ; 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
 T/ie^ move along the ground ; and, evermore. 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale. 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day. 
 Bow-bent, his eyes forever on tlie ground. 
 He plies his weary journey ; seeing still. 
 
 -* 
 
cQ- 
 
 002 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And seldom kiiowiug that lie sees, some straw. 
 Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one 
 
 track, 
 The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left 
 Ini|)ressed on the white road, — in the same line, 
 At tlistanco still the same. Poor traveller I 
 His staff trails with hiin ; scarcely do his feet 
 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. 
 And urchins newly breeched, — all pass him by: 
 Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves behind. 
 
 But deem not 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 contemplate 
 Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not 
 A burden of the earth ! 'T is nature's law 
 That none, the meanest of created t hings. 
 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 and soul, to every mood of being 
 Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
 That least of all can aught — that ever owned 
 Tlie heaven-regarding eye and front sublime 
 Which man is born to — sink, howe'er depressed. 
 So low as to be scorned without a sin ; 
 Without olTence to God, cast out of view ; 
 Like the dried remnants of a garden-flower 
 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
 Worn out and worthless. While from door to 
 
 door 
 This old man creeps, the villagers in him 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 Past deeds and offices of charity. 
 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years. 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives. 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 To selfishness and cold, oblivious cares. 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 Hamlets and thinly scattered villages. 
 Where'er the aged beggar takes his rounds, 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
 Of reason ; yet prepai'es that after-joy 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul. 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
 Dotli liiid herself insensibly disposed 
 To virtue and true goodness. 
 
 Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And hajipiness, whieli to the cud of time 
 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such 
 
 minds 
 In childhood, from this solitary being, 
 Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do \) 
 That lirst mild touch of sympathy and thought. 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Wicrc want and sorrow were. The easy man 
 Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear 
 That overhangs his head from the green wall. 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young. 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 Of their own kindred; — all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 JIust needs impress a transitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
 His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance. 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 And circums])eetion needful to preserve 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 The respite of the season, he at least. 
 And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further. Many, I believe, there are, 
 Wio live a life of virtuous decency. 
 Men who can hear the decalogue, and feel 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent 
 111 acts of love to those with whom they dwell. 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers jicace! 
 
 — But of the ])Oor man ask, the abject poor ; 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here, 
 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul ? 
 
 No, — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 
 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 
 ^Vhen they can know and feel that they have 
 
 been. 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 
 Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause. 
 That we have all of us one human lieart. 
 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind lieiiig known. 
 My neiglibor, when with puuetual care, each 
 
 week, 
 Duly as Friday conies, though jiresscd herself 
 By licr own wants, she from her store of meal 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 Of this old mendicant, and, from her door 
 lleturuiiig with exhilarated heart, 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And wliile, in lliat vast solitude to which 
 
a- 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 603 
 
 -ft) 
 
 fr 
 
 The tide of tilings has borne him, he appears 
 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 
 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
 
 The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
 
 Has hung around him : and, whde Ul'e is his, 
 
 Still let him jironipt tlie unlettered villagers 
 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 
 
 — Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 
 And, long as lie can wander, let him breathe 
 
 The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath 
 
 Beat his gray locks against his withered face. 
 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousiiess 
 
 Gives tiie last human interest to his iieart. 
 
 May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
 
 Make him a captive! — for that pent-up din. 
 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, 
 
 Be iiis th.e natural silence of old age ! 
 
 Let liiiii be free of mountain solitudes ; 
 
 And have around him, whether heard or not. 
 
 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. 
 
 Rising or setting, let the light at least 
 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 
 And let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 
 Beneath tlie trees, or on a grassy bank 
 
 Of higliway-side, and with the little birds. 
 
 Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, fmally. 
 
 As in the eye of Nature he lias lived. 
 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 
 1798. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS, 
 
 SUGGESTED DY A PICTURE OK PEELE CASTLE, IN A 
 STORM, PAINTED BY SIB GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
 Thy Ibrm was slee])iiig on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
 ^Vhene'er I looked, thy image still was there ; 
 It trembled, but it never passed away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ; 
 No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
 
 Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the painter's hand, 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
 The liglit that never was, on sea or land. 
 The consecration, and the poet's dream ; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary pUe, 
 Amid a world how diii'crent from this I 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bUss. 
 
 Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house 
 
 divine 
 Of iieaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven ; — 
 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine, 
 The very sweetest had to thee been given. 
 
 A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysiau quiet, witiiout toil or strife ; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze. 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Sueh, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 
 Such picture would I at that time have made : 
 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 
 A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 't is so no more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control ; 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath liumanized iny soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
 Tlie feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
 This, which I know, 1 speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, friend ! who would have been 
 
 the friend. 
 If he had lived, of him * whom I deplore. 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 0, 't is a passionate work ! — yet wise and well. 
 Well chosen is the s]:iirit that is here ; 
 That hulk which labors in the deadly swell. 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge castle, standing here sublime, 
 I love to see the look with which it braves. 
 Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time. 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling 
 waves. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone. 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind ! 
 Sueh happiness, wherever it be known. 
 Is to be pitied ; for 't is surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 1805. 
 * Ills brother, Captaiu Jotm Wordsworth, who was lost at 
 
 -* 
 
cQ- 
 
 G04 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 WuEN first, descending from the moorlands, 
 
 I saw tlie stream of Yarrow glide 
 
 Along a bare and open valley. 
 
 The Ettrick shepiierd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 Tlirougli groves that liad begun to shed 
 Tiieir golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty minstrel breathes no longer. 
 Mid mouldering ruins low he hes ; 
 And deatli upon the braes of Yarrow 
 Has closed the shepherd-poet's eyes ; 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 Trom sign to sign, its steadfast course. 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 The rapt one, of tiie godlike forehead. 
 The licaven-eycd creature sleeps in earth : 
 And Lamb, tlie frolic and the gentle. 
 Has vanished from iiis lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother followed brother, 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 Y'et I, wliose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Wlio next will drop and disappear ? " 
 
 Our liauglity life is crowned with darkness. 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 On wliich, witli thee, Crabbe ! forth-looking, 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed. 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
 O'er ri])e fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Siiould frail survivors lieave a sigh ? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy spirit. 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
 For her who, ere her summer faded. 
 Has sunk info a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows. 
 For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maid! 
 Witli siiari)Cr grief is Y'arrow smitten. 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their poet dead. 
 
 Kov. 1835. 
 
 fr 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 " With sacrifice before tlie rising morn 
 Vows have I made by fruitless iujpe inspired; 
 And from the infernal gods, mid shades forlorn 
 Of night, my slauglitered lord liave 1 required : 
 Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
 Restore him to my sight, — great Jove, restore ! " 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her 
 
 liauds; 
 While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 
 Her countenance brightens and her eye expands ; 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! 
 What doth she look on? — whom doth she behold? 
 Her hero slain upon the beach of Troj' ? 
 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
 It is, — if sense deceive her not, — 't is he ! 
 And a god leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake, — and touched her with his 
 
 wand 
 That calms all fear : " Such grace hath crowned 
 
 thy prayer, 
 Laodann'a ! tliat at Jove's command 
 Tiiy husband walks the patiis of upper air : 
 He comes to tarry with thee tiiree hours' space; 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to 
 
 clasp; 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 
 But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 
 As often as that eager grasp was nuide. 
 The phantom parts, — but parts to reunite. 
 And reassume his place before her sight. 
 
 " Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
 This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
 Speak, and tlie iloor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
 Not to appall me have the gods bestowed 
 This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." 
 
 " Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect ; — spectre though I be, 
 
 1 am not sent to scare tlice or deceive ; 
 But in reward of tliy fidelity. 
 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 For fearless virtue bringetli boundless gain. 
 
 " Tiiou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan 
 
 strand 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 
 A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 605 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And fortli I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
 A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." 
 
 " Supreme of heroes ! bravest, noblest, best ! 
 Thy niatehk'ss courage 1 bewail no more. 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
 Thou found'st, — and I forgive thee, — here thou 
 
 art, — 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 " But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 
 And he whose power restores tliee hath decreed 
 Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave : 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 As when their breath enriched Thessaliau air. 
 
 " No spectre greets me, — no vain shadow this; 
 Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side I 
 Give, on this well-known couch, one nupti;d kiss 
 To me, this day a second time thy bride ! " 
 Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parca; 
 
 threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even if tlie 
 
 joys 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
 Those raptures duly, — Erebus disdains : 
 Calm pleasures there abide, — majestic pains. 
 
 " Be taught, O faithful consort, to control 
 Rebelhous passion : for the gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 
 
 " Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. 
 And iEson stood a youth mid youtliful peers. 
 
 " The gods to us are merciful, and they 
 Yet further may relent ; for mightier far 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
 Of magic potent over sun and star, 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
 And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's 
 breast. 
 
 " But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " he 
 
 said ; — 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 
 
 ^^- : 
 
 The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 
 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared 
 
 Elysiau beauty, melancholy grace. 
 
 Brought from a pensive, though a happy place. 
 
 He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 No fears to beat away, — no strife to heal, — ■ 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 Kevived, willi finer harmony pursued; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
 In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air. 
 And llclds invested with purpureal gleams ; 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest 
 
 day 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned 
 That privilege by virtue. " 111," said he, 
 " The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 
 WHiile tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 
 
 " And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
 (Each hero following his pecuhar bent) 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
 Cliieftains and kings in council were detained; 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 
 
 " The wished-for wind was given ; — I then re- 
 volved 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost ])row in pressing to the strand, — 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 " Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
 And on the joys we sliared in mortal life, — 
 The paths which we had trod, — these fountains, 
 
 flowers, — 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 
 
 "But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 Y'et of their number no one dares to die ! ' 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 Old frailties then recurred ; but lofty thought. 
 In act embodied, my deUverauce wrought. 
 
 "And thou, though strong in love, art all too 
 
 weak 
 In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 GOG 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest reunion in the shades below. 
 
 The invisiljle world with tliee hath sympathized; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 
 
 " Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, — 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was given. 
 Encouraged, sanetimied, chiefly for that end ; 
 For this the passion to excess was driven, — 
 That self might be annidled ; her bondage prove 
 Tlic letters of a dream, opposed to love." ■ 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 
 Round the dear shade she would have clung, — 
 
 't is vain : 
 The houi's are past, — too brief had they been 
 
 years ; 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly 
 
 day. 
 He through the portal takes his silent way, 
 And on the palacc-Uoor a lifeless corse she lay. 
 
 Tiius, all in vain exhorted and reproved, . 
 Slie perisiicd ; and, as for a wilful crime, 
 By tlie just gods, wlioni no weak pity moved. 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
 Apart from happy ghosts, tliat gatlier llowers 
 Of blissful quiet mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'ertbrown 
 Are mourned Ijy man, and not by man alone, 
 As fondly lie believes. Upon tlic side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 From out the tomb of iiim for whom she died ; 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 
 The trees' tall summits withered at tlic sight; 
 A constant interchange of growth and bliglit!* 
 
 !8M. 
 
 DION. 
 I. 
 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
 Where'er he turned, a swanlike grace 
 Of haughtiness witliout pretence. 
 And to unfold a still magnificence, 
 Whs princely Dion, in the power 
 .\iid beauty of his happier hour. 
 And what pure homage i&en did wait 
 On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 
 Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere. 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 
 Sol'tening their inbred dignity austere, — 
 
 That he, not too elate 
 
 With self-sufficing solitude, 
 
 * For (he nccouiit of tlu-gir long-livctl trcca, sec Pliny's Nnt- 
 uiiil History, Lili. XVI, Cnp. U. 
 
 But with majestic lowliness endued. 
 Might in the universal bosom reign, 
 And from all'eetionate observance gain 
 Help, under every change of adverse fate. 
 
 II. 
 
 Five thousand warriors, — tlie rapturous day ! — 
 Eacli crowned with flowers, and armed with spear 
 
 and shield. 
 Or ruder weapon whicli their course might yield. 
 To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
 Who leads them on ? — Tlie anxious people see 
 Long-exiled Dion marching at their bead. 
 He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
 And iu a white, far-beaming corselet clad ! 
 Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 
 The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain. 
 Salute those strangers as a holy train 
 Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
 That brought their precious liberty again. 
 Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, 
 Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine 
 
 In seemly order stand. 
 On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — 
 And, as the great deliverer marches by, 
 He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn; 
 .4.nd flowers are on his person thrown 
 
 In boundless prodigality ; 
 Nor doth the general voice abstain fi-om prayer, 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
 As if a very deity he were ? 
 
 III. 
 
 ilourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn, 
 Ilissns, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks and 
 
 shades ! 
 For him who to divinity aspired. 
 Not on the breath of popular applause. 
 But through dependence on the sacred laws 
 Framed in the schools wliere Wisdom dwelt 
 
 retired. 
 Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
 (More fair than iieaven's broad causeway paved 
 
 witli stars) 
 Which Dion learned to measure with sublime de- 
 light;— 
 Rut lie bath overleaped the eternal bars; 
 And, following guides whose craft holds no con- 
 sent 
 With aught that breathes the ethereal element. 
 Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood. 
 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
 ^Vhcnce doubts that came too late, and wishes 
 
 vain. 
 Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain; 
 And oft his cogit.ations sink as low 
 As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 607 
 
 # 
 
 h 
 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go. 
 
 But wlience tliat sudden check ? tliat rearl'ul start? 
 He hears an uncouth sound, — 
 Anon liis Kfted eyes 
 
 Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
 
 A shape of more than mortal size 
 
 And hideous aspect, stalking round and round ! 
 A woman's garb the phantom wore. 
 And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 
 Like Auster whirliug to and fro. 
 His force on Caspian foam to try; 
 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 
 That skims the plains of Thessaly, 
 
 Or when aloft on Msenalus he stops 
 
 His flight, mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 
 
 So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
 Tiie sullen spectre to her purpose bowed. 
 
 Sweeping, — vehemently sweeping, — 
 No pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
 " Avaunt, inexplicable guest ! — avaunt ! " 
 Exclaimed the chieftain ; — " let me rather see 
 The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
 The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. 
 And the long train of doleful pageantry 
 Wiiich they behold whom vengeful Furies haunt ; 
 Who, while tliey struggle from the scourge to flee. 
 Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, 
 And, in tlieir anguish, bear what other minds have 
 borne '. " 
 
 V. 
 
 But shapes that come not at an earthly caU 
 Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
 Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid. 
 Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
 Ye Gods, thought he, that servile implement 
 
 Obeys a mystical intent ! 
 Your minister would brush away 
 Tlic spots that to my soul adhere ; 
 But shoidd she labor night and day. 
 They will not, cannot disappear; 
 Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
 Which no philosophy can brook ! 
 
 TU-fated chief ! there are whose hopes are built 
 
 Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
 
 Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 
 
 Pursue thee witli their deadly aim ! 
 
 O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
 
 Of iuonstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade. 
 
 Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid 
 
 The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
 
 Shuddered the walls, — the marble city wept, — 
 
 And sylvan places lieaved a pensive sigh ; 
 
 But in calm ])eace the appointed victim slept. 
 
 As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 
 
 Of spirit too capacious to require 
 
 That Destiny her course should change ; too just 
 
 To his own native greatness to desire 
 
 That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. 
 
 So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
 
 The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
 
 Bclcased from life and cares of princely state. 
 
 He left this moral grafted on his fate : 
 
 " Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends. 
 
 Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends. 
 
 Whose means are fair and spotless as his cuds." 
 
 181G. 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS, 
 
 " Not to the earth coulined, 
 Ascend to heaven." 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing powers. 
 
 The spirits of the new-born flowers? 
 
 They wander with the breeze, they wind 
 
 Where'er the streams a passage find ; 
 
 Up from their native ground they rise 
 
 In mute aerial harmonies ; 
 
 From humble violet, modest thyme. 
 
 Exhaled, the essential odors climb. 
 
 As if no space below the sky 
 
 Their subtle flight could satisfy : 
 
 Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 
 
 If like ambition be l/ieir guide. 
 
 Roused by tiiis kindliest of May showers. 
 The spirit-quickencr of the flowers. 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
 The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats, — 
 Here cheeked by too impetuous haste, 
 ■Wliile there the music runs to waste 
 With liounty more and more enlarged. 
 Till the whole air is overcharged ; 
 Give ear, man ! to their appeal. 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal. 
 Thou, who canst (/ii>:k as well as feel. 
 
 Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral choir. 
 In strains that from their solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 
 Kich fragrance in embodied wreaths ; 
 Or, flung from swinguig censer, shrouds 
 The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic forms, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill. 
 That on the service wait concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed. 
 — Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
 And for no transient ecstasies ! 
 Wltat else can mean the visual plea 
 Of still or moving imagery, — 
 
 -* 
 
C&- 
 
 G08 
 
 WORDSWOHTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The iterated summons loud. 
 Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
 Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
 Hurrying the busy streets along? 
 Alas ! the sanctities combiued 
 By art to unsensualize the mind. 
 Decay and languisli ; or, as creeds 
 And humors change, are spumed like weeds : 
 The priests are from their altars tlirust ; 
 Temples are levelled with the dust; 
 And solenni rites and awful forms 
 rounder amid fanatic storms. 
 Yet evermore, through years renewed 
 In undisturbed vicissitude 
 Of seasons balancing their flight 
 On the swift wings of day and night. 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 Wide open for the scattered poor. 
 ^Vliere flower-l)reathed incense to the skies 
 Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
 And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
 Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; 
 Wlicre birds and brooks from leafy dells 
 Chime forth unwearied canticles, 
 And vapors magnify and spread 
 The glory of the sun's bright head, — 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 Conforming to the Eternal Will, 
 Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
 Divine monition Nature yields. 
 That not by bread alone we live, 
 Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 
 That every day should leave some part 
 Free for a sabbath of the heart -. 
 So shall the seventh be tinjly blest, 
 From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 
 
 1832. 
 
 ^ 
 
 PETER BELL, 
 
 He roved among the vales and streams, 
 In the green wood and hollow dell ; 
 They were his dwellings night and day, — 
 But Nature ne'er could find the way 
 Into the heart of Peter Bell. 
 
 In vain, through every changeful year, 
 Did Nature lead him as before ; 
 A primrose by a river's brim 
 A yellow primrose was to liim, 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 Small change it made in Peter's heart 
 To sec his gentle panniercd train 
 With more than vernal ])lcasurc feeding, 
 ^Vhere'er the tender grass was leading 
 Its earliest green along the lane. 
 
 In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
 The soul of happy sound was spread, 
 
 When Peter on some April morn. 
 Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
 Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 
 
 At noon, when by the forest's edge 
 He lay beneath the branches high, 
 Tlie soft blue sky did never melt 
 Into his heart ; he never felt 
 The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 
 
 On a fair prospect some have looked 
 And felt, as I have heard them say, 
 As if the moving time had been 
 A thing as steadfast as the scene 
 On which they gazed themselves away. 
 
 Within the breast of Peter Bell 
 These silent raptures found no place ; 
 He was a carle as wild and rude 
 As ever hue-and-cry pursued. 
 As ever ran a felon's race. 
 
 Of all that lead a lawless life. 
 
 Of all that love their lawless lives. 
 
 In city or iu vUlage small. 
 
 He was the wildest of them all ; — 
 
 He had a dozen wedded wives. 
 
 Nay, start not ! — wedded wives, and twelve ! 
 But how one wife could e'er come near him, 
 In simple truth I cannot tell; 
 For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
 To see him was to fear him. 
 
 Though Nature could not touch his heart 
 By lovely forms, and silent weather. 
 And tender sounds, yet you might see 
 At once, that Peter Bell and she 
 Had often been together. 
 
 A savage wildness round him hung, 
 As of a dweller out of doors ; 
 In liis whole figure and his mien 
 A savage character was seen 
 Of mountains and of dreary moors. 
 
 To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 
 
 Which solitary Nature feeds 
 
 Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 
 
 Had Peter joined whatever vice 
 
 The cruel city breeds. 
 
 His face was keen as is the wind 
 That cuts along the hawthorn-fence ; 
 Of courage yon saw little there, 
 But, in its stead, a medley air 
 Of cunning and of impudence. 
 
 He had a dark and sidelong walk, 
 And long and slouching was his salt ; 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 ODE. 
 
 (109 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 
 You might perceive, ids spirit cold 
 Was playing with sonic inward bait. 
 
 His forehead wrinkled was and furred; 
 A work, one half of which was done 
 By thinking of his wheiis and hows ; 
 And half, by knitting of his brows 
 Beneath the glaring sun. 
 
 There was a hardness in iiis cheek, 
 There was a hardness in his eye, 
 As if the man had fixed his face, 
 In many a solitary place. 
 Against the wind and open sky ! 
 
 ODE/ 
 
 INTIMATIONS OP IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC- 
 TIONS OF EARLY CniLUHOOD. 
 
 The child is fatiier of the man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to eacli by natural piety. 
 
 I. 
 
 TiiEEE was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream. 
 The earth, and every common sigiit. 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freslmess of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no 
 more. 
 
 II. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 
 * In this meraoi-able ode we have the loftiest flight of Words- 
 worth's spiritual genius. Its pubhcation was an event in 
 literary histoi^. Mr. Emerson finely says that it indicates 
 the high-water mark to which the poetry of the nineteenth 
 century has attained. In his Notes, Wordsworth says: "This 
 ode was composed during my residence at Townend, Gras- 
 mere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the 
 lirst four stanzas and the renuiining part. To the attentive 
 and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; 
 i>ut there iTiay be no harnr in advertitig here to particular feel- 
 ings or experiences of my own mind on wliich the structure 
 of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difticult for me 
 in cliildliood than to admit the notmn of death as a state appli- 
 cable to my own being. I used to brood over the stories of 
 Enoch and Elijah, aud almost to persuade myself that, what- 
 ever might become of others, I should be translated, in some- 
 tliing of the same way. to heaven. With a feeling congenial 
 to tliis, I was often unable to thinlc of cxtemal things as hav- 
 ing external existence; and I communed with all that I saw- 
 as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own imma- 
 terial nature. Many times while going to school have 1 
 grasped at a wall or tree, to recall myself from this abyss of 
 idealism to the reality. At that time I was afraid of such 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hatli passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now, while the birds tlius sing a joyous song. 
 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 
 To me alone there came a thouglit of grief: 
 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 
 
 stce|i; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
 I hear the echoes through the monutains 
 
 throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
 And all tlie earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity. 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
 Thou child of joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy sliouts, thou 
 iiappy shepherd-boy I 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The ftdness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
 e\'il day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May nioniing, 
 And the children are culling. 
 
 On every side. 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 
 processes. In later periods of life 1 have deplored, as we all 
 have reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character. To 
 that dreamlike vividness and splendor which invest objects 
 of sight ni childhood, every one, 1 believe, if he would look 
 back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here; 
 but, having in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence 
 of a prior st.^te of existence, 1 think it right to protest against 
 a conclusion, wliicll has given pain to some good and ])ious 
 persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief lint let us 
 bear in mind thai, though the idea is not advanced in reve- 
 lation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of 
 man presents an analogy in its favor. Accordingly, a pre- 
 existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many 
 nations; and, among all persons acquainted with classic lit- 
 erature, is known as an ingredient in the Plalonie philoso]diy. 
 Arehimrdcs said that he could move the world, if he had a 
 point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the 
 same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind ? Hav- 
 ing to wield some of its elements when I was imjielled to write 
 this poem on the ImraortulH;/ of the Soul, 1 look hold of the 
 notion of prc-existcnce as having sufficient foundation in 
 humanity for nnlhorizing me to make for my purpose the best 
 use of it I could as a poet." 
 
 XP 
 
a- 
 
 610 
 
 AVORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 4 
 
 I hear, I bear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there 's a tree, of many, cue, 
 A single field which I have looked upon. 
 Both of tlieni speak of somclhing that is gone : 
 The pausy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is iled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulncss, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy, 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The youth, wlio daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the Ught of common day. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Earth fJls her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
 And no unwortliy aim. 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 
 Forget the glories he hath known. 
 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 vir. 
 Behold the child among his new-boni blisses, 
 A six years' darling of a pygmy size ! 
 See, where mid work of his own hand he lies. 
 Fretted by sallies of his motlicr's kisses, 
 Witli liglit upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some Uttle plan or chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of liumau life. 
 Shaped by himself with newly learned art; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 And tills hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this lie frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be throwu aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another jiart ; 
 Filling from time to time his " luimorous stage" 
 
 With all the persons, down to palsied age. 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 AVcre endless imitation. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — • 
 
 Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest. 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A presence which is not to be put by; 
 Thou little cliild, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's heiglit. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- 
 voke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly 
 
 freight. 
 And custom he upon thee with a weight. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is sometliiug that doth live. 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
 Dehght and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in liis 
 breast : — 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishiiigs ; 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
 But for those first afiVctions, 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 Which, be they what tliey may. 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us. cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake, 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 611 
 
 ^ 
 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun sliiues warm, 
 And the lialje leaps up on liis motlicr's arm : — 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Wiioh neither hstlessness, nor mad endeavor, 
 
 Nor man nor boy, 
 Nor all tliat is at enmity with joy. 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Thougli inland far we be, 
 Our souls have siglit of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hitiicr. 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 Aud hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 Aud let tlie young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye tiiat play. 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so 
 
 bright 
 Be now forever taken from my sight, 
 
 Thougli notliing can bring back the liour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in tlie flower; 
 
 We wiU grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which, having been, must ever be ; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suftering; 
 
 In tlie faith that looks through death. 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the brooks which down their channels 
 
 fret 
 Even more than when I tripped hglitly as they; 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do lake a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are 
 
 won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which wc live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 1803-6. 
 
 ON THE POWER OF SOUND.* 
 I. 
 
 TuY functions are ethereal. 
 
 As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind. 
 
 Organ of vision ! And a spirit aerial 
 
 Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind ; 
 
 Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
 
 To enter than oracular cave ; 
 
 Strict passage, through which sighs are brought. 
 
 And whispers for the heart, their slave ; 
 
 And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
 
 Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air. 
 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 
 The chains of frenzy, or entice a smUe 
 
 Into the ambush of despair ; 
 
 Hosannas pcahug down the long-drawn aisle. 
 
 And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 
 
 Devoutly, in life's last retreats I 
 
 II. 
 
 The headlong streams and fountains 
 Serve thee, invisible spirit, with untired powers ; 
 Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains. 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand 
 
 flowers. 
 T/itit roar, the prowling lion's Here I iim. 
 How fearful to the desert wide ! 
 That bleat, liow tender ! of the dam 
 Calling a straggler to her side. 
 Shout, cuckoo ! — let the vernal soul 
 Cio with thee to the frozen zone ; 
 ToU from thy loftiest porch, lone bell-bird, toll 
 At the still hour to Mercy dear, 
 Slerey from her twilight throne 
 Listening to nun's faint tlirob of holy fear. 
 To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea. 
 Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 
 
 III. 
 Ye voices, and ye shadows 
 And images of voice, — to hound and horn 
 From rocky steep and rock-bestuddcd meadows 
 Flung back, and, in the sky's blue eaves, reborn, — 
 On with your pastime ! till the church-tower bells 
 A greeting give of measured glee ; 
 And milder echoes from their cells 
 Repeat the bridal symphony. 
 Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
 Where mists are breaking up or gone, 
 And from aloft look down into a cove 
 Besprinkled with a careless choir, 
 Happy milkmaids, one by one 
 Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
 A liquid concert matchless by nice art, 
 A stream as if from one full heart. 
 
 * It is sin;;ular ttiat this remarkalili; ode should have at- 
 tracted so little attention. It is one of tlie greatest of Words- 
 wortii's poems, and one of the noblest odes in our language. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 612 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 4 
 
 Blest be tlie song that bi'iglitens 
 
 Tlio blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's 
 
 niiitli; 
 Unscornetl the peasant's whistling brcatii, that 
 
 lightens 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green eartli. 
 For the tired slave, song lifts the languid oar. 
 And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
 That beautifies the fairest shore. 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 Yon pilgrims see, — in lagging file 
 They move ; but soon the appointed way 
 A choral Jce Marie shall beguile, 
 And to their hope the distant shrine 
 Glisten with a livelier ray : 
 Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, 
 Who from the wellspring of his own clear 
 
 breast 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 V. 
 
 When civic renovation 
 
 Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
 
 Best eloquence avails not, insjiiration 
 
 Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
 
 Piping through cave and battlemented tower; 
 
 Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
 
 That voice of freedom, in its power 
 
 Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
 
 Who, from a ma.x\\\\\ pugeunt, spreads 
 
 Incitements of the battle-day, 
 
 Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless 
 
 heads ? — 
 Even she whose Lydiau airs inspire 
 Peaceful striving, gentle play 
 Of timid hope and innocent desire 
 Shot from the dancing graces, as tliey move 
 Fanned by the plausive wings of love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How oft along thy mazes, 
 
 Regent of sound, have dangerous passions trod ! 
 
 thou, through whom tlie t,om]ile rings with 
 
 praises, 
 And blackening clouds in thuiuler speak of God, 
 Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
 Thy votaries, wooingly resigned 
 To a voluptiu)us inllucnce 
 That taints the purer, better mind ; 
 ]^ut lead sick fancy to a harp 
 That hath in noldc tasks been tried ; 
 And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sluirp, 
 Soothe it into patience, — stay 
 The uplifted arm of suicide; 
 And let some mood of thine in firm array 
 Knit every thought the impending issue needs. 
 Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 
 
 As conscience to the centre 
 
 Of being, smites with irresistible paiu. 
 
 So shall a suleuni cadence, if it enter 
 
 The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's braiu, 
 
 Transmute him to a wretch from quiet iiurled, — 
 
 Convidscd as by a jarring din; 
 
 And then aghast, as at the world 
 
 Of reason partially let in 
 
 By concords winding with a sway 
 
 Terrible for sense and soul ! 
 
 Or, awed, he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an art 
 
 Lodged above the starry pole, — 
 
 Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
 
 Of Divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, 
 
 With Order dweU, in endless youth? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 
 All treasures hoarded by the miser Time. 
 
 Orphean insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 
 
 To the first leagues of tutored passion climb. 
 
 Where Music deigned within this grosser sphere 
 
 Her subtle essence to enfold. 
 
 And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
 
 Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
 
 Yet sireimoitx was the infant age : 
 
 Art, daring because souls could feel, 
 
 Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
 
 Of wrapt imagination sped her march 
 
 Through the realms of woe and weal : 
 
 Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper arch 
 
 Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 
 
 Her wan disasters could disperse. 
 
 The gift to King Aniphion 
 
 That walled a city with its melody 
 
 Was for belief no dream : — thy skill, Ariou ! 
 
 Could liuuianize the creatures of the sea, 
 
 AVhere men were monsters. A last grace he 
 
 craves, 
 Leave for one chant ; the dideet sound 
 Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 
 And listening dolphins gather round. 
 Self-oast, as with a desperate course. 
 Mid tliat strange audience, lie bestrides 
 A ))roud one docile as a managed horse ; 
 And singing, while the accordant iiand 
 Sweeps his harp, the master ndcs ; 
 So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 
 Ami he, with his preserver, shine star-bright 
 In memory, through silent night. 
 
 X. 
 
 The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 
 
 Couched in the shadow of Mtcnalian pines. 
 
 Was passing sweet ; (he eyeballs of the leopards. 
 
 -9^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "THE PRELUDE.' 
 
 CIS 
 
 -9) 
 
 That in high triumph drew the lord of vines, 
 
 Hciw did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 
 
 While I'auus and satyrs beat the ground 
 
 Li cadence, and Silenus swang 
 
 Tliis way and that, with wild-llowers crowned. 
 
 To life, to life give back thine ear : 
 
 Ye who are longing to be rid 
 
 Of f ible, though to truth subservient, hear 
 
 The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
 
 Echoed from the coffin-hd ; 
 
 The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; 
 
 " The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore. 
 
 Repeated, — heard, and heard no more ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 For terror, joy, or pity. 
 
 Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : 
 
 From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city. 
 
 Rolling a solemn, sea-like base, tiiat floats 
 
 Far as the woodlands, — -with the trill to blend 
 
 Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
 
 Might tempt an angel to descend, 
 
 Wliile hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
 
 Ye wandering ntterances, has earth no scheme, 
 
 No scale of moral music, to unite 
 
 Powers that survive but in the faintest dream 
 
 Of memory ? — O that ye might stoop to bear 
 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 
 As labored minstrelsies through ages wear ! 
 
 for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 
 Of the unsubstantial, pondered well ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 By one pervading Spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all tilings are controlled. 
 
 As s;iges tauglit, where faith was found to merit 
 
 Initiation in that mystery old. 
 
 Tlie heavens, wiiose aspect makes our minds as 
 
 still 
 As they themselves appear to be, 
 Innumerable voices fill 
 With everlasting harmony ; 
 The towering headlands, crowned with mist. 
 Their feet among tlie billows, know 
 That ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 
 Thy piuions, universal air. 
 Ever waving to and fro. 
 Are delegates of harmony, and bear 
 Strains that support the seasons in their round ; 
 Stern winter loves a dirge-like sound. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Break forth into thanksgiving. 
 
 Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ! 
 
 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 
 
 Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 
 
 Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead. 
 
 Nor mute the forest hum of noon; 
 
 Tliou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
 
 From snowy peak and cloud, attime 
 
 fr 
 
 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 Of joy, that from Iier utmost walls 
 The six-days' work by flaming seraphim 
 Transmits to heiiven ! As deep to deep 
 Shouting through one valley calls, 
 All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A voice to light gave being ; 
 
 To time, and man his cartli-born chronicler ; 
 
 A voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 
 
 And sweep away life's visionary stir ; 
 
 The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride. 
 
 Arm at its blast for deadly wars), 
 
 To .archaugelic lips applied, 
 
 Tlie grave shall open, quench the stars. 
 
 O Silence ! are man's noisy years 
 
 No more than moments of thy life ? 
 
 Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears. 
 
 With her smooth tones and discords just, 
 
 Teuipered into rapturous strife. 
 
 Thy destined bond-slave 'f No ! though eartli be 
 
 dust 
 And vanish, thougli the heavens dissolve, her stay 
 Is in the Word, that shall not pass away. 
 
 EXTKACTS FEOM "THE PEELITDE," • 
 
 WiSDOJi and Spirit of the universe ! 
 Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought. 
 That givest to forms and images a Ijreath 
 And everlasting motion, not in vain 
 By day or star light thus from my first dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up our human soul ; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man. 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, — 
 With life and nature, purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thouglit. 
 And sanctifying, by such discipline. 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognize 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the iieart. 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 With stinted kindness. In November days. 
 When vapors rolling down the valley made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods. 
 At noon and mid the calm of summer nigiits, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
 Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
 Mine was it in the fields botii day and night. 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 
 And iu the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 * " An Orphic simi; indeed, 
 A song divine of higli and passionate tlioughts 
 To their own music clinnted ! " 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 -u> 
 
cfr 
 
 GU 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Was set, and visible for mauy a mile 
 
 The cottage windows blazed through twilight 
 
 gloom, 
 I heeded not tlieir summons : happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us, — for nie 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 Tlie village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about. 
 Proud and exulting like au untired horse 
 That cares not for his liome. All shod with steel. 
 We liissed along the poUshed ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn. 
 The pack loud ehiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So tlirough the darkness and tlic cold we flew. 
 And uot a voice vj'as idle ; with the din 
 Smitten, tlie precipices rang aloud; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tiukled like iron ; whUe far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent au alien sound 
 Of melanciioly not unnoticed, while the stars 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 Tlie orange sky of evening died away. 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sjjortively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
 Upou the glassy plain; and oftentimes. 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 Aiul all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning 
 
 still 
 Tlie rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 Stopped short; yet still the solitary elifls 
 \\'heeled by me, — even as if tlie earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch iu solemn train, 
 Fceliler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye presences of nature in the sky 
 And on the earth ! Ye visions of the hills ! 
 And souls of lonely places ! can I think 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
 Sueli ministry, wlien ye through many a year 
 llimuting me tlnis among my boyish sports. 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 
 Imin-essed upon all forms the cliaracters 
 Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
 Tiie surface of the universal earth 
 Witii triumph and delight, witii hope and fear, 
 Work like a sea ? 
 
 • * « 
 
 Tiie evangelist St. John my ])atron was : 
 Three Gothic courts are his, and in tlie first 
 Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure ; 
 Right underneath, the college kitchens made 
 A humming sound, less tunable than bees, | 
 
 But hardly less industrious ; with shrill notes 
 Of sharp eommand and scolding intermixed. 
 Near nie hung Trinity's loquacious clock, 
 Wlio never let the quarters, night or day. 
 Slip by him unproelaimed, and told the liours 
 Twice over with a male and female voice. 
 Her pealing orgau was my neighbor too ; 
 And from my pillow, looking forth by light 
 Of moon or favoring stars, I could behold 
 The anteehapel where the statue stood 
 Of Newton, with his prism and silent face. 
 The marble index of a mind forever 
 Voyaging through strange seas of thought, 
 alone. 
 
 * * * 
 
 As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained, 
 I looked for universal things ; perused 
 The common couuteuance of earth and sky : 
 Earth, nowhere unenibellislied by some trace 
 Of that first Paradise whence man was driven ; 
 And sky, whose beauty and bounty are ex- 
 pressed 
 By the proud name she bears, — the name of 
 
 Heaven. 
 I called on both to teach me what they might ; 
 Or, turning the mind iu upon lierself. 
 Pored, watched, expected, hstened, spread my 
 
 thouglits 
 And spread them with a wider creeping; felt 
 Incumbencies more awful, visit ings 
 Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul. 
 That tolerates the indignities of time, 
 And, from the centre of eternity 
 All finite motions overruling, lives 
 In glory immutable. But peace ! enough 
 Here to record that 1 was mounting now 
 To such community with highest truth , — 
 A track pursuing, not uiitrod before. 
 From strict analogies by thought sup))lied 
 Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 
 To every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower. 
 Even the loose stones that cover the highway, 
 I gave a moral life : I saw them feel. 
 Or linked them to some feeling: the great mass 
 Lay lioddcd iu a quickening soul, and all 
 That 1 beheld respired with inward meaning. 
 .\dd that whate'er of terror or of love 
 Or beauty Nature's daily face |)ut oil 
 From transitory passion, unto this 
 I was as sensitive as waters are 
 To tlie sky's influence in a kindred mood 
 Of ])assion ; was obedient as a lute 
 That waits upon the touches of the wind. 
 Unknown, nnthouglit of, yet I was most rich, — 
 I had a world about nic, — 't was my own ; 
 I made it, for it only lived to me, 
 And to the God who sees into the heart. 
 Such sympathies, though rarely, were betrayed 
 
 -P 
 
e— 
 
 PRELUDE TO 'THE EXCUKSION. 
 
 01 5 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 By oiitvvard gestures and by visible looks : 
 
 Some ealled it iiiadiicss, — so indeed it was, 
 
 If childlike IVuitfuhiess iu passing joy, 
 
 It' steady moods of thoughtl'ulness matured 
 
 To inspiration, sort witli such a name ; 
 
 If prophecy be madness ; if things viewed 
 
 By poets in old time, and higher up 
 
 By the first men, earth's first inhabitants, 
 
 May in tiicse tutored days no more be seen 
 
 With undisordered siglit. But leaving this. 
 
 It was no madness, for the bodily eye 
 
 Amid my strongest workings evermore 
 
 Was searching out the lines of difference 
 
 As they lie hid in all external forms. 
 
 Near or remote, minute or vast, an eye 
 
 Wliich from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf, 
 
 To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 
 
 Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars. 
 
 Could find no surface where its power might 
 
 sleep ; 
 Wliich spake perpetual logic to my soul, 
 And by an unrelenting agency 
 Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 
 * * * 
 
 Beside the pleasant mill of Trompington 
 I laughed with Chaucer in the hawtliorn shade ; 
 Heard him, wlnle birds were warbling, tell his 
 
 tales 
 Of amorous passion. And that gentle bard, 
 Chosen by the Muses for their page of state, — 
 Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded 
 
 heaven 
 '\^'ith the moon's beauty and the moon's soft 
 
 pace, — 
 I called liim brother, Englishman, and friend ! 
 Yea, our blind poet, who in his later day 
 Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth, 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice beliind, 
 Soul awful, — if the earth has ever lodged 
 An awful soul, — I seemed to see him here 
 Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
 Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth, — 
 A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 
 Angelical, keen eye, courageous look. 
 And conscious step of purity and pride. 
 Among the band ot my compeers was one 
 Wliom chance liad stationed in the very room 
 Honored by Milton's name. O temperate bard ! 
 Be it confessed tliat, for the first time, seated 
 Witliin thy innocent lodge and oratory, 
 One of tlic festive circle, I poured out 
 Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
 Ami gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 
 Never excited by the fumes of wine 
 Before that hour, or since. 
 
 » * * 
 
 Tlicre was a boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
 And ishinds of Winander ! — many a time 
 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the bills 
 Kising or setting, would lie stand alone 
 Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake. 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both liands 
 Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
 That they might answer him ; and they would 
 
 shout 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again. 
 Responsive to his call, with quivering ])eals. 
 And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud. 
 Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild 
 Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause 
 Of silence came and baffled his best skill. 
 Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild sur|)rise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind, 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 1805. 
 
 PRELUDE TO " THE EXCURSION." ' 
 
 DESIGN OF " THE EXCURSION." 
 
 On man, on nature, and on human life, 
 Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight. 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 Or elevates the mind, intent to weigh 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 — To these emotions, wbencesoe'er they come. 
 Whether from breatli of outward circumstance. 
 Or from the soul, — an impulse to herself, — 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
 Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope. 
 And melaiieholy fear subdued by faith ; 
 Of blessed consolations in distress; 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual power; 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
 Of the individual mind that keeps her own 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 To conscience only, and the law su]ireme 
 Of that intelligence which governs all, — 
 I sing: — "fit audience let me find, though few ! " 
 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the 
 bard, — 
 In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
 
 * Tliis introduction to tlie poem is perhaps nobler, on tlie 
 wlinle, than any passages in the poem itself. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 WORDSWOHT 
 
 i^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tliy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descciicl to earth or dwell iu highest lieaveu ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, must siuk 
 Deep, — and, alol't ascending, breathe iu worlds 
 To wliich the licavcu of heavens is but a veil. 
 All strengtli, — all terror, suigle or iu bands. 
 That ever was put forth in personal form, — 
 Jehovah, — with his thuuder, and the choir 
 Of shouting angels, and the empyreal tiirones, — 
 I pass tliem unaiarmed. Not Chaos, not 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 Nor auglit of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear aud awe 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 Into our minds, into the mind of man, — 
 My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
 
 — Beauty — a living presence of the earth. 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal forms 
 Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed 
 From eartli's inalerials — waits upon my steps ; 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move. 
 
 An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and graves 
 Elysian, fortunate fields, — like those of old 
 Sought in the Atlantic Main, — why should they be 
 A history only of departed things. 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
 For the discerning intellect of man. 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 A simple ])roduee of tlie common day. 
 
 — I, long before the blissful hour arrives. 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, llic spousal verse 
 Of this great consummation : — and, by words 
 Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 
 Would I arouse tlie sensual from their sleep 
 
 Of death, and win the vacant and liie vain 
 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
 
 How exquisitely the individual mind 
 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 
 Of the whole species) to the external world 
 
 Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too, — • 
 
 Theme this but little heard of among men, — 
 
 The external world is fitted to the mind; 
 
 And the creation (by no lower name 
 
 Can it be called) wliieh they with blended might 
 
 Accomphsh ; — tiiis is our high argument. 
 
 — Sucli grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 Must turn clsewiiere, — to travel near the tribes 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 
 Of madding passions mutually inflamed; 
 Must hear humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish ; or must iiang 
 Brooding al)ove the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadocd evermore 
 AVithin the walls of cities, — may these sounds 
 Have their authentic comment; that, even these 
 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
 Descend, prophetic spirit ! that inspir'st 
 
 The liuumn soul of universal earth. 
 Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess 
 A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
 Of mighty poets : upon me bestow 
 A gift of gi-nuiue insight ; that my song 
 I With star-like virtue iu its place nuiy shine. 
 Shedding benignant influence, and secure. 
 Itself, from all malevolent edeet 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — Aud if with 
 
 this 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the tiling 
 Contemplated, deserilje the mind and man 
 Contemplating; and who and what he was, — 
 The transitory being tliat behehl 
 This vision ; when and where, and how he 
 
 lived; — 
 Be not this labor useless. If such theme 
 May sort with highest objects, then — dread 
 
 power ! 
 Wliose gracicms favor is the primal source 
 Of all illumination — may my life 
 Express the image of a better time. 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 
 My lieart in genuine freedom: — allpure thoughts 
 Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
 Guide, and sujiport, and cheer me to the end ! 
 
 TTNEECOGNIZED POETS." 
 
 0, M.\N"Y are the poets that are sown 
 
 By nature ; men endowed with highest gilts, 
 
 The vision and the faculty divine ; 
 
 Yet wanting tlie accomplisiiment of verse 
 
 (Which, hi the docile season of their youth. 
 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books. 
 
 Or haply by a temper too severe. 
 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame), 
 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
 
 By circumstance to take unto the heiglit 
 
 The measure of tiiemsclves, these favored beings. 
 
 All but a scattered few, live out their time. 
 
 Husbanding that which they possess witliiu. 
 
 And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest 
 
 minds 
 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 
 Hears least. 
 
 The Excursion, Book I. 
 
 * '■ Sucli scntimenU in such language do one's licart good ; 
 tbougli I, for my part, liave nol tlic fullest faitli iu tlic tnitli of 
 llie ot)ser\atio». Wlirn 1 tiiul. even iu situalions the most fa- 
 vorable, nccoi'diu? to Mr. Wordsvvortli, for tile furmatiou of a 
 pure aud poetical language, —in situations winch insure fa- 
 miliarity vvilh tlic grandest objects of the imagination, — but 
 oitf Burns among the shepherds of Scollnnd, and not a single 
 poet ol humble life among those of English lakes anil moun- 
 tains, 1 conclude that poetic genius is not only a very delicate 
 but a very rare plant." — Culkriugf.. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 
 
 r,i', 
 
 -9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 GENIUS IN COMMUNION WITH NATURE. 
 
 Sucir was Uio boy, — but for the growing 
 
 youth 
 AVluit soul was his, when, from tlie naked top 
 or some bold headland, he beheld the suu 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He 
 
 looked : 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
 Heneath him ; far and wide the clouds were 
 
 touched, 
 And in their silent faces could he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none. 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and form, 
 All melted into him; they swallowed up 
 His animal being ; in tliem did he live. 
 And by them did lie live ; they were his life. 
 In such access of mind, in such Iiigh hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, lie proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still conununion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 T/ti' Ercursion, Book I. 
 
 THE SUN GLORIFYING THE MIST. 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground. 
 And with their freight homeward the shepherds 
 
 moved 
 Through the dull mist, I following, when a step, 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 Of the blind vapor, opened to my view 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
 The appearance, instantaneously disclosed. 
 Was of a mighty city, — boldly say 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 And scll'-w-ithdrawn into a boundless de])th. 
 Far sinking into splendor, — without end ! 
 Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold. 
 With alabaster domes, and silver spires. 
 And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
 Uplifted; hei-e, serene pavilions bright. 
 In avenues disposed ; tliere, towers begirt 
 With battlements that on their restless fronts 
 Bore stars, — illunn'nation of all gems ! 
 By earthly nature liad the effect been wrought. 
 Upon the dark materials of the storm 
 Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 
 And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 
 The vapors had receded, taking there 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 0, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emer- 
 ald turf. 
 Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky. 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
 Molten together, and composing thus. 
 Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
 Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
 Fantastic pomp of structure without name. 
 In fleecy fold voluminous enwrapped. 
 Right in the midst, where inters|)ace ajipcared 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 Under a shining canopy of state 
 Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 
 To implements of ordinary use. 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
 Such as by Hebrew prophets were beheld 
 In vision, — forias uncouth of mightiest power 
 For admiration and mysterious awe. 
 This little vale, a dwelling-place of man, 
 Lay low beneath my feet ; 't was visible, — 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 That which I smo was the revealed abode 
 Of spirits in beatitude : my lieart 
 Swelled in my breast. " I have been dead," I 
 
 cried, 
 " And now I live ! O, wherefore do I live ? " 
 And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! 
 
 Tlie Ei-cursion, Book IT. 
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 
 
 Cii.\LDEAS shepherds, ranging trackless fields. 
 Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
 Si>read like a sea, in boundless solitude. 
 Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
 .\nd guardian of their course, that never closed 
 His steadfast eye. The planetary five 
 With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
 Watched, from the centre of their sleeping 
 
 flocks. 
 Those radiant mercuries, that seemed to move. 
 Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 
 Decrees and resolutions of the gods ; 
 And, by their aspects, signifying works 
 Of dim futurity, to man revealed. 
 — The imaginative faculty was lord 
 Of observations natural ; and, thus 
 Led on, those shepherds made report of stars 
 In set rotation passing to and fro, 
 Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
 And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
 With answering constellations, under earth. 
 Removed from all a])proach of living sight 
 But present to the dead ; who, so they deemed, 
 Like those celestial messengers beheld 
 All accidents, and judges were of all. 
 
 The lively Grecian, in a land of bills. 
 
 —^ 
 
a- 
 
 G18 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding siiores, — 
 
 Under a cope ol' sky more variable, 
 
 Could find commodious place lor every god, 
 
 Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
 
 From tlie surrounding countries, at tlie choice 
 
 Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill. 
 
 As nicest observation funiisiicd hints 
 
 For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed 
 
 On lluent operations a fixed shape ; 
 
 Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
 
 And yet, — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 
 Of art, this palpable array of sense. 
 
 On every side encountered ; in despite 
 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in tlie streets 
 
 By wandering rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 
 Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
 
 Amid the wrangling schools, — a spirit hung. 
 
 Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms. 
 
 Statues and tem|)les, and memorial tombs ; 
 
 And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
 
 Of immortality, in Nature's course, 
 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 
 As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
 
 And armed warrior; and in every grove 
 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 
 
 When piety more awful had relaxed. 
 
 " Take, running river, take these locks of mine," 
 
 Thus would the votary say, — " this severed hair, 
 
 My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 
 Thankful for my beloved child's return. 
 
 Thy Ijanks, Cephisus, he again liath trod. 
 
 Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal 
 
 lymph 
 With wliich thou dost refresh the thirsty lip. 
 And, all day long, moisten these fiowery fields ! " 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was 
 
 shed 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thonglit arose 
 Of life continuous, being unimpaired ; 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident; 
 Froui diminution safe and weakening age; 
 While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; 
 And countless generations of mankiml 
 Depart, and leave no vestige where Ihey troil. 
 We live by admiration, hope, and love ; 
 And, even as these arc well and wisely fixed. 
 In dignity of being we ascend. 
 
 The Excursion. Book IV. 
 
 THE PAGAN MYTHOLOGY, 
 
 Once more to distant ages of the world 
 Let ns revert, and place before our tho\ights 
 The face which rural solitude might wear 
 To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece. 
 
 — In that fair chine, the lonely herdsman, 
 
 stretched 
 On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
 With music lulled liis indolent repose : 
 And, in some fit of weariness, if he. 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
 Which his ))oor skill could make, his fancy 
 
 fetched. 
 Even from tlie blazing chariot of the sun, 
 A beardless youth, wlio touched a golden lute. 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
 The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
 Uptmvards the crescent moon, with grateful heart 
 Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport: 
 And hence, a beaming goddess with licr nymphs, 
 Across the lawn and through the darksome grove. 
 Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
 By echo multiplied from rock or cave. 
 Swept in the storm of chase ; as moon and stars 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven. 
 When winds are blowing strong. The traveller 
 
 slaked 
 His thirst from rill orgu,shijig fount, and thanked 
 The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
 Gliding apace, with shadows in their train. 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 The zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings. 
 Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they 
 
 wooed 
 With gentle whisper. Withered boughs gro- 
 tesque, 
 Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age. 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain-side; 
 And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 
 (3f the live deer, or goat's depending beard, — 
 These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
 Of gamesome deities; or Ban himself. 
 The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god I 
 
 The Excursion, Book IV. 
 
 SCIENCE AND POETIC FAITE 
 
 Shall men for whom our age 
 Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared, 
 To explore the world without and worid within. 
 Be joyless as the blind '? Ambitious spirits, — 
 Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced 
 To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
 .\nd they who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
 Have solved the elements, or analyzed 
 The thinking principle, — shall they in fact 
 Prove a degraded race ? and what avails 
 
 --^ 
 
e 
 
 IMAGINATION. — THE WHITE DOE. 
 
 G19 
 
 -Q) 
 
 k 
 
 Renown, if tlieiv presumption make tliem such ? 
 O, there is laughter at their work in heaven ! 
 Inquire of ancient wisdom ; go, demand 
 Of luiglity Nature, if 't was ever meant 
 That wc should pry far off, yet be unraised ; 
 That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 
 Viewing all objects unremittingly 
 In disconnection dead and spiritless ; 
 And still dividing, and dividing still. 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 May yet l)ecome more little ; waging thus 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 Of our own souls ! 
 
 And if indeed there be 
 An all-pervading spirit, upon whom 
 Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
 Tliat this magnifieeut effect of power, 
 Tiic earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
 By day, and all the pomp which night reveals, — 
 That these — and that superior mystery, 
 Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, 
 And the dread soul within it — should exist 
 Only to be examined, pondei'cd, searched. 
 Probed, vexed, and criticised ? Accuse me not 
 Of arrogance, unknown wanderer as I am, 
 If, having walked with nature threescore years, 
 And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to truth, 
 I now aflimi of nature and of truth, 
 ^Vhom I have served, that their divinity 
 Revolts, offended at the ways of men 
 Swayed by such motives, to such ends employed; 
 Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
 Be of a thousand faculties composed. 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
 This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
 No more than as a mirror that reflects 
 To proud self-love her own intelligence ; 
 That one poor, finite object, in the abyss 
 Of infinite being, twinkUng restlessly ! 
 
 T/ie Ejcursion, Book IV. 
 
 IMAGINATION, 
 
 Within the soul a faculty abides. 
 That with hiterpositious, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal that they become 
 Coutingeuoies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
 Her native brightness. As the ample nioou, 
 In the deep stUlness of a summer even 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty grove. 
 Burns, Kke an unconsuming fire of light. 
 In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the du.sky veil 
 Into a substance glorious as her own. 
 Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
 
 Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
 
 In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
 
 Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
 
 From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
 
 From error, disappointment, — nay, from guilt ; 
 
 And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
 
 From palpable oppressions of despair. 
 
 Tfie £.rcursw/i, Book IV. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE SHELL. 
 
 I HAVE seen 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 Ijistened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 Brightened with joy; for from within were 
 
 heard 
 Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 
 ilysterious union with its native sea. 
 Even such a shell the universe itself 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth imijart 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 
 Adore, and worslii)!, when you know it not ; 
 Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
 Devout above the meaning of your will. 
 
 TheExcinsioit, Book IV. 
 
 THE WHITE DOE. 
 
 A MOMENT ends the fervent din. 
 
 And all is hushed, without and within ; 
 
 For though the priest, more tranquilly. 
 
 Recites the holy liturgy. 
 
 The only voice which you can hear 
 
 Is the river murmuring near. 
 
 When soft ! the dusky trees between. 
 
 And down the path tlirough the open green, 
 
 AVhere is no living thing to be seen, — 
 
 And through yon gateway, where is found. 
 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
 
 Free entrance to the churchyard ground, — 
 
 Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
 
 Comes gliding in serene and slow. 
 
 Soft and silent as a dream, 
 
 A solitary doe ! 
 
 White she is as lily of June, 
 
 And beauteous as the silver moon 
 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven 
 
 And she is left alone in heaven ; 
 
 -9^ 
 
e 
 
 620 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Or like a ship some gentle day 
 In sunsliine sailing far away, 
 A glittering sliip, tiiat liatii tiie plain 
 or ocean t'ur lier own domain. 
 
 The U'ldie Doe of Ri/lsloiie 
 
 THE EEALiri AMD THE REFLECTION. 
 Forth we went. 
 And down the vale along the streamlet's edge 
 Pursued our way, a broken company, 
 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
 Thus having reached a bridge, tiiat overarched 
 The hasty rivulet wliere it lay becalmed 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 A twofold image ; on a grassy bank 
 A snow-wiiite ram, and in the crystal flood 
 Another and the same ! Most beautifid. 
 On the green turf, with iiis imperial front 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 
 Tiie breathing creature stood ; as beautiful. 
 Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart. 
 Each had his glowing mountanis, each his sky, 
 And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other, 
 Yet, iu partition, witli their several splieres, 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 
 
 The £j-cursiod, Book IX. 
 
 SONNETS, 
 
 NTTNS FEET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S 
 NARROW ROOM. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 And students witli tlieir pensive citadels ; 
 Maids at the wiicel, the weaver at his loom. 
 Sit blitiie and liappy ; bees that soar for bloom. 
 High as the highest peak of Furness-fells, 
 Will murmur by tlie iiour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth the prisou, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, 
 In sundry moods, 't was pastime to he bound 
 Witliiu the sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
 Pleased if some souls (for such there needs nuist 
 
 be) 
 Who 've felt tlie weight of too much liberty, 
 Siiould find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 
 ^ 
 
 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
 
 Tiie holy time is quiet as a nun 
 
 Breal hless witii adin-at ion ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 Tile gentleness of lieavcn broods o'er the sea : 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Ucing is awake, 
 
 Ami dotii witli his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder, — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child! dear girl! that walkest witli me 
 
 here, 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought. 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
 And worshippest at the temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and 
 
 soon. 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
 Little we see in nature that is ours; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid 
 
 boon ! 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 T!ie winds that will be howling at all hours. 
 And are up-gathered now hke sleeping flowers ; 
 Fen- tliis, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. Great God I I 'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea. 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 WEAK IS THE WILL OF MAN, HIS JUDGMENT 
 BLIND. 
 
 " Weak is the will of man, his judgment blind; 
 Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays ; 
 Heavy is woe ; and joy, for human-kind, 
 A mournful thhig, so transient is the blaze ! " 
 Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days 
 Wlio wants the glorious faculty assigued 
 To elevate the more-than-reasoning mind, 
 And color life's dark cloud with orient rays. 
 Imagination is that sacred power, 
 Imagination lofty and refined : 
 'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
 Of faith, and round the surterer's temples hind 
 ^Vroaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower. 
 And do not sliriuk from sorrow's keenest wind. 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, yon have frowned, 
 Mindless of its just honors ; with this key 
 Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; 
 With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 
 The sonnet glittx;red a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 His visionary brow; a glowworm lamp, 
 It cheered mild Sjicnscr, called from fa 
 
 fairv-hiiul [ 
 
 — 9> 
 
c^- 
 
 A POET! HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO SCHOOL. 
 
 621 
 
 -Q) 
 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 
 Soul-aiiimating strains, — alas ! too few. 
 
 NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS 
 SWELL. 
 
 Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, 
 Nor duty struggling with afflictions strange, — 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; 
 But where untroubled peace and concord dwell. 
 There also is the iluse not loath to range, 
 ^Vatching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, 
 Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor. 
 And sage content, and placid melancholy; 
 She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, — 
 Diaphanous because it travels slowly ; 
 Soft is the music that would charm forever ; 
 The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 
 
 TO LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 Lady ! the songs of spring were in the grove 
 While I was shaping beds for winter flowers; 
 AV'hile I was planting green unfading bowers. 
 And shrubs, — to hang upon the warm alcove 
 And sheltering wall ; and still, as fancy wove 
 The dream, to time and nature's blended powers 
 I gave this paradise for winter hours, 
 A labyrinth, lady ! wliieh your feet shall rove. 
 Yes ! when the sun of life more feebly shines. 
 Becoming thoughts, 1 trust, of solemn gloom 
 Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; 
 And these perennial bowers and murmuring 
 
 ])ines 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all tlie mighty ravishment of spring. 
 
 THERE IS A PLEASURE IN POETIC PAINS. 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 Which Old)/ poets hioto ; — 't was rightly said ; 
 Whom could the iluses else allure to tread 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest 
 
 chains ? 
 ^Vhen happiest fancy has inspired the strains, 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 Pursues the enthusiast to the social board. 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
 Yet ho repines not, if his thought stand clear, 
 At last, of hindrance and obscurity. 
 Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn ; 
 Bright, speckless, as a softly moulded tear 
 The moment it has left the virgin's eye, 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEM- 
 BER o, 1^11:!. 
 
 Earth has not anything to sliow more fair: 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty: 
 This city now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 Sliips, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields and to the sky. 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep. 
 In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glidcth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 TO , IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAH. 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! lady bright. 
 Whose mortal liueaments seem all refined 
 By favoring nature and a saintly mind 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 Than flesh and blood ! whene'er thou nicct'st my 
 
 sight, 
 When I behold thy blanched, uuwithered cheek, 
 Thy temples fringed w-ith locks of gleaming 
 
 white, 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek. 
 Thee with the welcome snowdrop I compare; 
 That child of winter, prompting thoughts that 
 
 climb 
 From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
 Or with the moon conquering earth's misty air. 
 And filling more and more with crystal light 
 As pensive evening deepens into night. 
 
 <^~- 
 
 A POET I HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO SCHOOL * 
 
 A POET ! He hath put his heart to school. 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
 Which art hath lodged within his hand, must 
 
 laugh 
 By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 
 Thy art be nature ; the live current quaff. 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant ])ool. 
 In fear that else, when critics grave and cool 
 Have killed him. Scorn should write his epitaph. 
 How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold? 
 Because the lovely little flower is free 
 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 
 And so the grandeur of the forest-tree 
 Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
 But from its own divine vitality. 
 
 * It would be a curious qucsfion to decide whether Words- 
 worth did not mean some of the earlier poems of Tenuyson in 
 lliis diatril)e agaiust Art in poetry as rontvasted witli Nature. 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 622 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I GRIEVED FOR BITONAPARTfi. 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, witli a vaiii 
 And an uutluiikiiig griol' ! The teiiderest mood 
 Of that man's mind, — what can it be? what food 
 Fed his first hopes? wiiat knowledge could /te 
 
 gain ? 
 'T is not in battles that from youth we train 
 The governor who must be wise and good, 
 And temper with the sternness of tiie brain 
 Thouglits motherly, and meek as womanliood. 
 Wisdom doth live witii children round lier knees : 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
 Man holds witli week-day man in the liourly walk 
 Of tiie mind's business : these are the degrees 
 By which true Sway dutli mount; tliis is tiie stalk 
 True Power doth grow on ; and her riglits are these. 
 
 1801. 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
 REPUBLIC. 
 
 Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee, 
 And was the safeguard of tiie AVest : the worth 
 Of Venice did not fall lielow iier birth, 
 Venice, tiie eldest child of Liberty. 
 Slie was a maiden city, bright and free; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 And when she took unto herself a mate, 
 Siie must espouse the everlasting sea. 
 And wliat if she liad seen those glories fade. 
 Those titles vanisli, and tliat strengtii decay ; 
 Yet sliall some tribute of regret be paid 
 Wlien her long life hatli reached its final day; 
 j\[en are we, and must grieve wlien even the sluade 
 Of that which once was great is passed away. 
 
 TO TOtJSSAINT L'OITVERTTTRE. 
 
 Touss.viNT, the most unliappy man of men! 
 Wlietliei>the whistling rustic tend liis plough 
 Witliin tliy liearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; 
 O miserable chieftain ! where and when 
 Wilt thon find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 
 Wear ratlier in tliy bonds a clicerful brow: 
 Though I'allcii tliyself, never to rise again, 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, aud 
 
 skies : 
 There 's not a I)reatliing of the common wind 
 Tliat will forget tliee ; thou hast great allies ; 
 Tliy friends are exultations, agonies, 
 And love, and man's unconquerahle mind. 
 
 ^ 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER. 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear. 
 The coast of France, — the coast of France how 
 near ! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. 
 I shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is tliere ! 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 Even so doth God protect us, if we be 
 Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll. 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
 Spake laws to ihem, and said that by the soul 
 Only, the nations shall be great aud free. 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION 
 OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Two voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
 One of the mountains; each a mighty voice : 
 Li both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
 They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 
 There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
 Thou fought'st against hiiii ; but hast vainly 
 
 striven : 
 Thou from thy Alpiue holds at length art driven. 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
 Then cleave, O, cleave to that which still is left ; 
 For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be 
 That mountain floods should thunder as before. 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 O FRIEND ! I know not which way I must look 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 To think that now our life is only drcst 
 For show ; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook. 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest ; 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 
 This is idolatry; and these wc adore: 
 Plain living and high thinking arc no more: 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 Aud pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 Milton I thou shouldst be living at this hour: 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We iire selfish men ; 
 O, raise us np, return to us ag.ain ; 
 .\ml give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! 
 
 -^^ 
 
a— 
 
 THE SAVAGE MAN. 
 
 623 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : 
 Tliou liadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 lu eheci-ful godliness ; and yet tliy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG tTS. 
 
 Gkeat men have been among us ; hands that 
 
 penned 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom, — better none : 
 The later Sidney, Marvell, Harrington, 
 Young Vane, and otiiers who eaUed MUton friend. 
 These moralists could act and comprehend : 
 Tliey knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 In splendor : what strength was, that would not 
 
 bend 
 But in magnanimous meekness. Trance, 't is 
 
 strange. 
 Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 
 Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 
 No single volume paramount, no code. 
 No master spirit, no determined road ; 
 But equally a want of books and men ! 
 
 BRITISH FREEDOM. 
 
 It is not to be thouglit of, tliat the flood 
 Of British freedom, which to the open sea 
 Of the world's praise from dark antiquity 
 Hath flowed, " witli pomp of waters, un withstood," 
 Roused thougli it be full often to a mood 
 Which spurns the check of salutary bands, — 
 That this most famous stream in bogs and sands 
 Siioukl perish ; and to evil and to good 
 Be lost forever. In our lialls is liung 
 Armory of the invincible knights of old : 
 Wc must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 Tliat Sliakespcai'e spake; the faith and morals 
 
 hold 
 Which IMilton held. In everything we are sprung 
 Of cartli's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 These times strike moneyed worldlings with dis- 
 may: 
 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 
 With words of apprehension and despair : 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, 
 ilen unto whom suflicieut for the day 
 .\nd minds not stinted or untillcd are given, 
 Sound, healthy children of tlie God of heaven, 
 And cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
 What do we gather lience but iirmer faith 
 That every gift of noble origin 
 
 Is breatlied upon by Hope's perpetual breath ; 
 
 That virtue and tlie faculties within 
 
 Are vital, — and that riclies are akin 
 
 To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death ? 
 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 Vji.NGL'ARD of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 
 Ye children of a soil that doth advance 
 Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
 To Prance be words of invitation sent ! 
 They from their fields can see the countenance 
 Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance. 
 And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
 LeI't single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. 
 Did from tlie Norman win a gallant wreath ; 
 Confirmed the cluirters that were yours before ; — 
 No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
 We all are with you now from shore to shore ; 
 Ye men of Kent, 't is victory or death ! 
 
 PATRIOTIC INSTINCTS. 
 Al.is ! what boots tlie long, laborious quest 
 Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill ; 
 Or pains abstruse, to elevate the wiU, 
 And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
 Where every passion shall the sway attest 
 Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill; 
 What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
 If sapient Germany must lie deprest 
 Beneath the brutal sword? — Her haughty schools 
 Shall blush ; and may not we witli sorrow say, 
 A few strong instincts and a fe-n' jilain rules, 
 Among the herdsmen of the Aljis, have wrought 
 More for mankind at this unha])jiy day 
 Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 
 
 THE SAVAGE MAN. 
 What aspect bore tlie man who roved or fled. 
 First of liis tribe, to this dark dell, — who first 
 In this pellucid current slaked his thirst 'i 
 What hopes came with him ? what designs were 
 
 spread 
 Along his path ? His unprotected bed 
 What dreams encompassed? Was the intruder 
 
 nursed 
 In hideous usages, and rites accursed. 
 That thinned tlie living and disturbed the dead ? 
 No voice replies ; — both air and earth are mute ; 
 And thou, blue streamlet,* murmuring yield'st no 
 
 more 
 Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit 
 Of ignorance tliou mightst witness lieretofore, 
 Thy function was to heal and to restore. 
 To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute ! 
 
 The river Diiddo; 
 
 ^9^- 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 G24 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 -^ 
 
 AFTERTHOUGHT. 
 
 I THOUGHT of thee, my partner and my guide, 
 As lieiiig passed away. Vain sympatliics ! 
 For, backward, Duddon ! as I cast my eyes, 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
 Still glides the stream, and shall forever glide ; 
 The form remains, the function never dies ; 
 While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise. 
 We men, who in our morn of youth delied 
 The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
 Enough, if something from our hands have 
 
 power 
 To live, and act, and serve tlie future hour ; 
 And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, 
 Thro\igh love, through hope, and faith's transcend- 
 ent dower. 
 We feel that we are greater than we know. 
 
 EMINENT REFORMERS. 
 
 Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil. 
 Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, 
 Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave 
 To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
 The gift exalting, and with playful smile : 
 For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
 The donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? — 
 More sweet than odors caught by him who 
 
 sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet. 
 The freight of holy feeling which we meet. 
 In thouglitful moments, wafted by the gales 
 From lields where good men walk, or bowers 
 
 wherein they rest. 
 
 INSIDE OF lUNG'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 T.\x not the royal saint with vain expense, 
 With ill-matched aims the architect who 
 
 planned — 
 Albeit laboring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed scholars only — this immense 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence ! 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the 
 
 lore 
 Of nicely calculated less or more ; 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 
 These lofty ])illars, spread that braneliing roof 
 Self-]ioised, and scooped into ten thousand cells. 
 Where light and shade repose, where music 
 
 dwells 
 Lingering, and wandering on as loath to die ; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth 
 
 proof 
 That tliev were born for immoHality. 
 
 WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES. 
 
 TiiKRE are no colors in the fairest sky 
 
 So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen 
 
 Was shajied that traced the lives of these good 
 
 men. 
 Dropped from au angel's wing. With moist- 
 ened eye 
 AVe read of faith and purest charity 
 Li statesman, priest, and humble citizen : 
 0, could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die I 
 Wethinks their very names sliine still and bright ; 
 Ajiart, — like glowworms on a summer night ; 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they iling 
 A guiding ray ; or seen, like stars on high, 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 Arouud meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
 PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH COVE- 
 NANTERS. 
 
 When Alpine vales tlirew forth a suppliant cry^ 
 
 The majesty of England interposed 
 
 And the sword sto])pcd ; the bleeding wounds 
 
 were closed ; 
 And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
 How little boots that precedent of good, 
 Scorned or forgotten, thou canst testify. 
 For England's shame, O Sister Realm ! from 
 
 wood, 
 Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, \i'liere 
 
 lie 
 The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
 Slain by compatriot Protestants that draw 
 From councils senseless as intolerant 
 Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword-law ; 
 But who would force the soul, tilts with a straw 
 Agaiust a champion cased in adamant. 
 
 ^9— 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of tliis spot, — fit school 
 For the presumptuous thoughts that would 
 
 assign 
 Mechanic laws to agency divine ; 
 And, measuring heaven by earth, wouhl over- 
 rule 
 Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule, 
 Eximuding yet precise, the roof embowed. 
 Might seem designed to Inuuble man, wh?n 
 
 proud 
 Of his best workmanship by plan and tool. 
 Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight 
 Of tide and tenqicst on that strueture's base. 
 And llasliiug to that strueture's topmost height. 
 Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace 
 In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
 Of softest unisie some responsive place. 
 
 ^ 
 
J(ycM^yi^y^ 
 
a- 
 
 TRANQUILLITY. — THE OLD MINSTEEL. 
 
 625 
 
 ■^ 
 
 TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou 
 In lieatlien schools of philosophic lore ; 
 Heart-stricken by stem destiny, of yore 
 The tragic muse thee served with thoughtfiJ 
 
 vow ; 
 And what of hope Elysium could allow 
 Was fondly seized by Scidpturc, to restore- 
 Peace to tlie mourner. But when He who wore 
 The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow 
 Warmed our sad being with celestial light, 
 T/iea arts which still had drawn a softening 
 
 grace 
 Erom shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
 Communed with that idea face to face : 
 And move around it now as planets run, 
 Each in its orbit, round the central sun. 
 
 SIR ¥ALTER SCOTT. 
 
 1771-1838. 
 
 THE OLD MINSTKEL, 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold. 
 
 The minstrel was infirm and old : 
 
 His withered check, and tresses gray, 
 
 Seemed to have known a better day; 
 
 The harp, his sole remaining joy. 
 
 Was carried by an orphan boy. 
 
 The last of all the bards was he. 
 
 Who sung of Border chivalry : 
 
 For, well-a-day ! their date was fled. 
 
 His tuneful brethren all were dead; 
 
 And he, neglected and oppressed. 
 
 Wished to be with them, and at rest. 
 
 No more on prancing palfrey borne. 
 
 He carolled light as lark at morn ; 
 
 No longer courted and caressed, 
 
 Higii placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
 
 He poured, to lord and lady gay. 
 
 The unpremeditated lay : 
 
 Old times were changed, old manners gone : 
 
 A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 
 
 Tlie bigots of the iron time 
 
 Had called his harmless art a crime. 
 
 A wandering harper, scorned and poor. 
 
 Ho begged his bread from door to door. 
 
 And tuned, to please a ])easant's ear. 
 
 The harp a king had loved to hear. 
 
 He passed where Newark's stately tower 
 Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: 
 The minstrel gazed with wishful eye, — 
 No humbler resting-place was uigh ; 
 With iiesitating step, at last, 
 Tiie Ciubattled ])ortal arch he passed, 
 Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
 
 <Q-^ 
 
 Had oft rolled back the tide of war. 
 But never closed the iron door 
 Against the desolate and poor. 
 The duchess marked his weary pace, 
 His timid mien, and reverend face. 
 And bade her page the menials tell 
 That they should tend the old man well : 
 For she had known adversity. 
 Though born in such a high degree ; 
 In pride of power, in beauty's bloom. 
 Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb ! 
 
 When kindness had his wants supplied, 
 And tiie old man was gratified. 
 Began to rise his minstrel pride; 
 And he began to talk anon 
 Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone. 
 And of Earl Walter, rest him, God ! 
 A braver ne'er to battle rode ; 
 And how full many a tale he knew 
 Of the old warriors of Buccleuch : 
 And would the noble duchess deign 
 To listen to an old man's strain, 
 Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, 
 He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, 
 That, if she loved the harp to hear. 
 He could make music to her ear. 
 
 The humble boon was soon obtained ; 
 The aged minstrel audience gained. 
 But, when he reached the room of state 
 Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
 Perchance he wished his boon denied : 
 For, when to tune his harp lie tried. 
 His trembling hand had lost the case 
 Which marks security to please ; 
 And scenes, long past, of joy and pain. 
 Came wildering o'er his aged brain, — 
 He tried to tune his harp in vain I 
 The pitying duchess praised its chime, 
 And gave him heart, and gave him time. 
 Till every string's according glee 
 lYas blended into iiarniony. 
 And then, he said, he would fidl fain 
 He could recall an ancient strain 
 He never thought to sing again. 
 It was not framed for village churls. 
 But for high dames and mighty earls ; 
 He had played it to King Charles the Good, 
 Wlien he kept court in Holyrood ; 
 And much he wished, yet feared, to try 
 The long-forgotten melody. 
 Amid the strings his fingers strayed, 
 And an uncertain warbling made, 
 And oft he shook his hoary head. 
 But when he caught the measure wild. 
 The old man raised his face, and smiled, 
 And lightened up his faded eye, 
 With all a poet's ecstasy ! 
 In varying cadence, soft or strong. 
 
 ^ 
 
62G 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 He swept the sounding chords along : 
 The present scene, the future lot, 
 His toils, his wants, were all forgot : 
 Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 
 In the full tide of song were lost ; 
 Each 1)Iank in faithless memory void, 
 Tlie poet's glowing thought supplied ; 
 And, while iiis harp responsive rung, 
 'T was thus tlie latest minstrel sung. 
 * * * 
 
 Hushed is tiie harp, — the minstrel gone. 
 
 And did he wander forth alone ? 
 
 Alone, in indigence and age. 
 
 To linger out his pilgrimage ? 
 
 No ! — close beneath proud Newark's tower 
 
 Arose the minstrel's lowly bower ; 
 
 A simple hut ; but there was seen 
 
 The little garden hedged with green, 
 
 The chccrfid hearth, and lattice clean. 
 
 There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze. 
 
 Oft heard the tale of other days ; 
 
 Tor nuieh he loved to ope his door. 
 
 And give the aid lie begged before. 
 
 So passed the winter's day ; but still, 
 
 WlK'n summer smiled on sweet Bow Hill, 
 
 And July's eve, with balmy breath, 
 
 Waved the liluebells on Newark heath ; 
 
 Wicn throstles sung in Hairheadshaw, 
 
 And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
 
 And flourished, broad Blackandro's oak. 
 
 The aged harper's soul awoke ! 
 
 Then would he sing aehievements high. 
 
 And circumstance of chivalry. 
 
 Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
 
 Forgetful of the closing day ; 
 
 And noble youths, tlie strain to hear, 
 
 Forsook the hunting of the deer ; 
 
 And Yarrow, as lie rolled along. 
 
 Bore burden to the minstrel's song. 
 
 Lay of the Last Mvistrel, Canto I. 
 
 BKMKSOME TOWER. 
 
 The feast was over in Branksome tower. 
 And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower ; 
 Her bower that was guarded by word and by 
 
 spell, 
 Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell, — 
 Jcsu Maria, shield us well ! 
 No living wight, save the Ladye alone, 
 Had dared to cross the thresliold stone. 
 
 The tables were drawn, it was idlessc all ; 
 
 Knight and page and household squire. 
 Loitered througli the hifty hall, 
 
 Or crowded round the ample fire ; 
 The stag-hounds, weary with the chase. 
 
 Lay stretched ui>an the nisliy floor. 
 
 And urged, in dreams, the forest race, 
 From.Teviot stone to Eskdale moor. 
 
 Nine-and-twcnty knights of fame 
 
 Hung their shields in Branksome Hall ; 
 Nine-aud-twenty squires of name 
 
 Brought them their steeds to bower from 
 stall; 
 Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 
 Waited, duteous, on them all : 
 They were all knights of metal true, 
 Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 
 
 Ten of them were sheathed in steel, 
 AVith belted sword, and spur on heel : 
 They quitted not their harness bright. 
 Neither by day, nor yet by night ; 
 
 They lay down to rest, 
 
 With corselet laced, 
 PiUowed on buckler cold and hard ; 
 
 They carved at the meal 
 
 With gloves of steel, 
 And they drank the red wine through the helmet 
 barred. 
 
 Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, 
 Waited the beck of the warders ten ; 
 Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight. 
 Stood saddled in stable day and iiiglit. 
 Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow. 
 And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow : 
 A hundred more fed free in stall ; — 
 Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. 
 
 Why do these steeds stand ready dight ? 
 
 Why watch tliese warriors, armed, by night ? 
 
 They watch to hear the bloodhound baying : 
 
 They watch to hear the war-horn braying ; 
 
 To see St. George's red cross streaming. 
 
 To see the midnight beacon gleaming ; 
 
 They watch against Southern force and guile, 
 Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers. 
 Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, 
 
 From Warkwortli, or Naworth, or nieiTy Car- 
 lisle. 
 
 Lay of ihe Last Minstri'l, Canto I. 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY, 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose * aright, 
 Go visit it by the pale nioonhght ; 
 For the gay beams of liglitsome day 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 When the liroken arches arc blaek in niglit. 
 And eacli shafted oriel glimmers white ; 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 Streams on the ruined central tower; 
 
 * It is snid tlint Scott never saw Melrose liy moonliglit. 
 
 ■# 
 
LOVE. 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 627 
 
 -9) 
 
 Wlieu buttress and buttress, alternately, 
 
 Seem franietl of ebon aud ivory ; 
 
 When silver edges tbe imagery, 
 
 Aud the scrolls tliat teach thee to live and die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 
 And the owlet to boot o'er the dead man's 
 
 grave, 
 Then go — but go alone tbe while — 
 Then view St. David's ruined pile ; 
 Aud, home returning, sootlily swear. 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 Lay of the Last Uinstrel, Canto II. 
 
 LOVE, 
 
 And said I that my Umbs were old. 
 And said I tiiat my blood was cold. 
 And that my kindly fire was fled. 
 And my poor witliered heart was dead, 
 
 And that I might uot sing of love ? — 
 How could I, to tbe dearest theme 
 That ever warmed a minstrel's dream, 
 
 So foul, so false a recreant prove ! 
 How could I name love's very name. 
 Nor wake my heart to notes of flame ! 
 
 In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's reed ; 
 
 In war, he mounts tlie warrior's steed ; 
 
 In halls, iu gay attire is seen ; 
 
 In hamlets, dances on tbe green. 
 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
 
 And men below, and saints above ; 
 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 
 
 * * * 
 
 True love 's the gift which God has given 
 To man alone beneath the heaven ; 
 It is not fantasy's hot fire, 
 
 Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; 
 It Uveth not in fierce desire. 
 
 With dead desire it doth not die ; 
 It is the secret sympathy. 
 The silver link, the silken tie. 
 Which heart to heart, and mind to mind. 
 In body and iu soul can bind. 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto III. 
 
 THU POET. 
 
 Call it not vain : — they do not err 
 Who say, that when the poet dies. 
 
 Mute Nature mourns her worshipper. 
 And celebrates his obsequies : 
 
 Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, 
 
 For the departed bard make moan ; 
 
 That mountains weep in crystal rill ; 
 
 That flowers in tears of balm distil ; 
 
 Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, 
 
 Aud oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; 
 
 And rivers teach their rushing wave 
 To murmur dirges round his grave. 
 
 Not that, iu sooth, o'er mortal urn 
 
 Those things inanimate can mourn ; 
 
 But that the stream, tbe wood, the gale, 
 
 Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
 
 Of those, who, else forgotten long, 
 
 Lived in the poet's faithful song, 
 
 And, with the poet's parting breath, 
 
 Whose memory feels a second death. 
 
 The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot. 
 
 That love, true love, should be forgot, 
 
 From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
 
 Upon the gentle minstrel's bier : 
 
 The phantom knight, his glory fled. 
 
 Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; 
 
 Mounts the wild blast, that sweeps amain. 
 
 And shrieks along the battle-plain. 
 
 The chief, whose antique crownlet long 
 
 Still sparkled in the feudal song, 
 
 Now, from tlie inouutain's misty throne, 
 
 Sees, in the thanedom once his own. 
 
 His ashes undistinguished lie, 
 
 His place, his power, his memory die : 
 
 His groans the lonely caverns fill. 
 
 His tears of rage impel the riU ; 
 
 AU moum the minstrel's harp unstrung, 
 
 Their name unknown, their praise unsung. 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto V. 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead. 
 Who never to himself hath said. 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Wliose heart hath ne'er within him burned. 
 As home bis footsteps lie bath turned 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
 High though his titles, proud his name. 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
 Unwept, unhonoi'ed, and unsung. 
 
 O Caledonia ! stem and wild. 
 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 
 Land of brown heath aud shaggy wood, 
 
 Land of the mountain and the flood. 
 
 Land of my sires I what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the flhal band 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 
 Still, as I view each well-known scene. 
 
 -s> 
 
#■ 
 
 G28 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tliluk what is now, and what hath been, 
 
 Seems as, to nie, of all l)erel't. 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; 
 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 
 By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 
 
 Tiiough none should guide my feeble way ; 
 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettvick break, 
 
 Although it chill my withered clieek ; 
 
 Still lay my head by Teviot stone. 
 
 Though there, forgotten and alone. 
 
 The bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 Laij of tlie Last .Mi?islrtl, Canto VI. 
 
 EOSABELLE. 
 
 O, LISTEN, listen, ladies gay ! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! 
 
 And, gentle ladye, deign to stay ! 
 Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 "The blackening wave is edged with white; 
 
 To inch and rock tlie sea-mews fly ; 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 
 
 " Last night the gifted seer did view 
 A wet sliroud swathed round ladye gay ; 
 
 Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch; 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? " — 
 
 " 'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 
 
 But tliat my ladye-mother there 
 Sits lonely in her castle hall. 
 
 " 'T is not because the ring tliey ride. 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well. 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide. 
 If 't is not filled by KosabcUe." 
 
 O'er Roslin all that dreary nigiit 
 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
 
 'T was broader than the watchfirc's light, 
 And redder than the bright niooiibeani. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 
 It ruddied all the copsewood glen ; 
 
 'T was seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
 And seen from caverned Hawthomden. 
 
 Seemed all on fire that chapel ))roud, 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncotfined lie. 
 
 Each baron, for a sal)Ic shroud. 
 Sheathed in his iron paiio]ily. 
 
 Seemed all on fire within, around, 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
 Shone every |iillar foliage-ljouud. 
 
 And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and phmet high. 
 
 Blazed every i-ose-carved buttress fair, — 
 
 So still they blaze wdieu fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high St. Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold, — ■ 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 And each St. Clair was buried there, 
 With candle, with book, and with knell ; 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI. 
 
 HYMN FOE THE DEAD. 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadfid day, 
 When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
 What power shall be the sinner's stay ? 
 How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 
 
 When, shrivelling like a parched scroll. 
 The flaming heavens together roll ; 
 When louder yet, and yet more dread. 
 Swells the higli trump that wakes the dead ! 
 
 O, on that day, tliat wrathful day. 
 When man to judgment wakes from clay. 
 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. 
 Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 
 
 Lai/ of the Last Minstrel, Cnnto VI. 
 
 LOCHINVAE. 
 
 O, YorNG Lochinvar is conic out of the west, 
 Through all the wide Border his steed was the 
 
 best ; 
 And save his good broadsword he weapons had 
 
 none. 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knightlikc the young Lochinvar. 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for 
 
 stone. 
 He swam the Eskc River where ford there was 
 
 none ; 
 But ere he alighted at Nctlicrby gate. 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 MARMION AND DOUGLAS. 
 
 G29 
 
 ■fo 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 'Moug bride's-meu, and kinsmen, and brothers, 
 
 and all : 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 
 
 sword 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 
 
 word), 
 " 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Loehin- 
 
 var? " 
 
 " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you de- 
 nied ; — 
 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 
 tide, — 
 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of 
 mine, 
 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 
 wine. 
 
 There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by 
 far, 
 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Looh- 
 iuvar." 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took 
 it up. 
 
 He quaifed off the wine, and he threw down the 
 cup. 
 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 
 sigh. 
 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 
 bar, — ■ 
 
 " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Loch- 
 invar. 
 
 So stately bis form, and so lovely her face, 
 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did 
 fume, 
 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 
 and plume ; 
 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, '"T were bet- 
 ter by far 
 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young 
 Locliinvar." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 When they reached the hall door, and the charger 
 
 stood near ; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swiing. 
 So light to the saddle before her lie sprung ! 
 "' She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, 
 
 and scaur ; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 
 
 yoimg Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Grsemes of the 
 Netherby clan ; 
 
 '^ 
 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 
 
 and they ran : 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they 
 
 see. 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- 
 
 uivar ? Marmion, Canto V. 
 
 MARMIOH AND DOUGLAS. 
 
 Not far advanced was morning day, 
 Wlien Marmion did his troop array 
 
 To Sun'ey's camp to ride ; 
 He had safe -conduct for his band. 
 Beneath the royal seal and hand. 
 
 And Douglas gave a guide ; 
 The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
 . Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
 And whispered in an undertone, 
 " Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 
 The train from out the castle drew. 
 But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : 
 "Though something I might plain," he said, 
 " Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
 Sent hither by your king's behest, 
 
 While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, 
 Part we in friendship from your land. 
 And, noble Earl, receive my hand." 
 But Douglas round him drew his cloak. 
 Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : 
 " My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
 Be open, at my sovereign's will, 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
 My castles are my king's alone. 
 From turret to foundation-stone, — 
 The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
 And never shall in friendly grasp 
 The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 
 
 Burned Marmion's swarthy check like fire. 
 And shook his very frame for ire. 
 
 And — " This to me ! " he said, — 
 '■ And 't were not for tliy hoary beard. 
 Such hand as Marmion's liad not spared 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer. 
 He, who does England's message here, 
 Although the meanest in her state. 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
 And, Douglas, more I tell thee here. 
 
 Even in thy pitcli of pride. 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near 
 (Nay, never look upon your lord. 
 And lay your hands upon your sword), 
 
 I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! 
 And if thou saidst, I am not peer 
 
 ^ 
 
f 
 
 G30 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 To any lord in Scotland here, 
 Lowland or Highland, far or near, 
 
 Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " 
 On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
 O'ereame the ashen hue of age : 
 Fierce he broke forth, — "And dar'st thou then 
 To beard the lion in liis den. 
 
 The Douglas in his hall ? 
 And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
 No, by Saint Bride of Eotlnix'll, no ! 
 Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, warder, ho ! 
 
 Let the portculhs fall." 
 Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, — 
 And dashed the rowels in his steed. 
 Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
 The ponderous grate behind him rung ; 
 To pass there was such scanty room, , 
 The bars, descending, razed his plume. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
 
 Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
 
 Nor Ughter does the swallow skim 
 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
 
 And when Lord Marmion reached his band. 
 
 He halts, and turns with clenched hand. 
 
 And shout of loud defiance pours. 
 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 
 " Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and 
 
 chase ! " 
 But soon he reined his fury's pace : 
 " A royal messenger be came. 
 Though most unworthy of the name. — 
 A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! 
 Did ever kniglit so foul a deed ! 
 At first in heart it liked nie ill, 
 WHien tlie king praised his clerkly skill. 
 Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine. 
 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a hue : 
 So swore L siiid I swear it still. 
 Let my boy-bisliop fret his fill. — 
 Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 
 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
 I thought to slay him where he stood. 
 'T is pity of him too," he cried ; 
 " Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, 
 I warrant liim a warrior tried." 
 With this his mandate he recalls. 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 Marmion, Canto VI. 
 
 THE BATTLE OP FLODDEK. 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the hill ; 
 On whicli (for far the day was spent) 
 Tiie western sunbeams now were bent. 
 Tlie cry they heard, its meaning knew. 
 Could plain their distant comrades view : 
 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
 " Unworthy office here to stay ! 
 No hope of gilded spurs to-day. 
 But see ! look up, — on Flodden bent 
 The Scottisii foe has fired his tent." 
 
 And sudden, as he spoke, 
 From the sharp ridges of the hill. 
 All downward to the banks of Till, 
 
 Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
 Volumed and fast, and rolling far. 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. 
 
 As down the hill they broke; 
 Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. 
 Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
 At times one warning trumpet blown. 
 
 At times a stifled hum. 
 Told England, from his mountain-throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. 
 Scarce could they hear or see their foes. 
 Until at -weapon-point they close. 
 They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
 With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust; 
 
 And such a yell was there, 
 Of sudden and portentous birth. 
 As if men fought upon the earth, 
 
 And fiends in upper air ; 
 0, life and death were in the shout, 
 Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 
 
 And triumph and despair. 
 Long looked the anxious squires; their eye 
 Could in the darkness naught descry. 
 
 At length the freshening western blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle east ; 
 And, first, tlie ridge of mingled spears 
 Above the brightening cloud appears ; 
 And in tiie smoke the pennons fiew, 
 As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
 Then marked they, dashing broad and far. 
 The broken billows of tlie war. 
 And plumed crests of chieftains brave 
 Floating like foam upon tlie wave; 
 
 But naught distinct they see: 
 ■Wide raged the battle on the jilain ; 
 Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 
 
 Wild and disorderly. 
 Amid the scene of tumult, high 
 Tliey saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
 And stainless Tunstall's lianncr white. 
 And Edmund Howanl's lion bright. 
 Still liear tliem bravely in the fight; 
 
 Altliougli against them come 
 Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
 And many a stublxini Badenocli-nian, 
 And many a nigged Border clan. 
 
 With Huntly, and with Home. 
 
 ^- 
 
 ■^ 
 
 i 
 
cfr 
 
 THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 
 
 631 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Fiir oil tlie left, unseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
 Though there the western mountaineer 
 Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
 And flung the feeble targe aside 
 And with both hands the broadsword phed, 
 'T was vain : — But Fortune, on the right. 
 With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
 Then fell that spotless banner white. 
 
 The Howard's lion fell ; 
 Yet still Lord JIarmion's falcon flew 
 With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 
 
 Around the battle-yell. 
 The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
 A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 
 
 Loud were the clanging blows ; 
 Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high. 
 
 The pennon sunk and rose ; 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gale. 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 
 
 It wavered mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could bear : 
 " By heaven and all its saints ! I swear, 
 
 I will not see it lost ! 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 
 
 I gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray he rode amain, 
 Followed by all the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
 Made, for a space, an opening large, — 
 
 The rescued banner rose, — 
 But darkly closed the war around. 
 Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 
 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 Then Eustace mounted too : — yet stayed. 
 As loath to leave the helpless maid. 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly. 
 Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
 The loose rein dangling from his head, 
 Housing and saddle bloody red. 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 
 A look and sign to Clara east. 
 
 To mark he would return in haste. 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 
 Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
 Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
 
 Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; 
 Perchance a courage, not her own. 
 Braces her mind to desperate tone. 
 
 The scattered van of England wheels : 
 She only said, as loud in air 
 The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there ? " 
 They fly, or, maddened by despair, 
 Fight but to die, — " Is Wilton there ? " 
 
 With tliat, straight up the hill there rode 
 
 Two horsemen drenched with gore. 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore. 
 His hand stdl strained the broken brand ; 
 His arms were smeared with blood and sand. 
 Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
 With dinted shield, and helmet beat. 
 The falcon-crest and plumage gone. 
 Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . . 
 Young Blount his armor did unlace, 
 And, gazing on his ghastly face. 
 Said, "By Saint George, he 's gone ! 
 That spear-wound has our master sped, — 
 And see the deep cut on liis head ! 
 Good-night to Marmion." 
 " Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease : 
 He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace ! " 
 
 When, dofi'ed his casque, he felt free air. 
 
 Around 'gan Marmion wildly st<are : 
 
 " Wliere 's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace where ? 
 
 Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
 
 Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
 
 Cry, ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
 
 Last of my race, on battle-plain 
 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
 
 Yet my last thought is England's, — fly, 
 To Dacre bear my signet ring : 
 Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
 Tunstall lies dead upon the field. 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 
 Edmund is down : — my life is reft ; 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host. 
 Or victory and England 's lost. — 
 Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly ! 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 They parted, and alone he lay ; 
 Clare drew her from the sight away, 
 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan. 
 
 And half he murmured, " Is there none. 
 Of all my halls have iiurst. 
 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
 
 Of blessed water from the spring. 
 To slake my dying thirst ! " 
 
 O woman ! in our hours of ease. 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please. 
 And variable as the shade 
 By the hght quivering aspen made ; 
 Wlien pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 A ministering angel thou ! 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
 Wlien, with the baron's casque, the maid 
 To the nigh streamlet ran : 
 
 ■w 
 
f 
 
 G32 SCOTT. 
 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
 Tlie plaintive voice alone she hears. 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stooped her by the runnel's side, 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
 Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 
 
 Was curdhng in tlie streamlet blue. 
 Wliere shall she turn ! — behold her mark 
 
 A little fountain cell, 
 Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 
 
 lu a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some linlf-worn letters say, 
 Srink.tocarn. pilgrim. Drtnft. ana. prag. 
 JJ'or.tljr.hinl.saul.of.Sgliil.Grag. 
 
 S53 1)0. built. tijis. cross. anil. bjcU. 
 She hllcd tlie helm, and back she hied, 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 
 A monk supporting ilarmion's head ; 
 A pious man, wliom duty brought 
 To dul)ious verge of battle fought. 
 
 To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Mavmion of the wave, 
 And, as she stooped his brow to lave, 
 " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 " Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose, — ■ 
 " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 
 
 I must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words, ai'e mine to spare ; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " 
 
 " Alas ! " she said, " the while, — 
 0, think of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
 
 She — died at Holy Isle." 
 Lord Marmion started from the gromid, 
 As light as if he felt no wound : 
 Though in the action burst the tide, 
 In torrents, from his wounded side. 
 " Then it was truth," he said, — "I knew 
 That the dark presage must be true. 
 I would the fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
 And priests slain on the altar stone, 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! — this dizzy trance, — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 
 And doulily cursed my failing brand ! 
 A sinful iicart makes feeble hand." 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. 
 Supported by the trembling monk. 
 
 -a 
 
 t 
 
 With fruitless labor, Clara bound, 
 
 And strove to stanch tlic gushing wound : 
 
 Tlie monk, with unavailing cares, 
 
 Exiiausted all the church's prayers. 
 Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
 A lady's voice was in his ear. 
 And that tlie priest he could not hear, 
 
 For that she ever sung, 
 " III the lost battle, borne iloicii bi/ thejli/liig. 
 Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the 
 (li/ing ! " 
 
 So the notes rung; — 
 " Avoid thee, fiend ! • — with cruel hand 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
 O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 
 
 O, think on faith and bliss ! — 
 By many a death-bed I have been. 
 And many a sinner's parting seen, 
 
 But never aught like this." 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swelled the gale. 
 
 And — Stanley ! was the cry, — 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread. 
 
 And fired his glazing eye : 
 With dying hand, above his head. 
 He shook the fragment of his blade. 
 
 And shouted, " Victory ! — 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on I " 
 Were the last words of Marmiou. 
 
 By this, though deep the evening fell, 
 Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
 For still the Scots, around their king. 
 Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
 Where 's now tiieir victor vanward wing, 
 
 Where Huntly, and where Home ! — 
 O for a blast of that dread horn. 
 On Fontai-abian echoes borne. 
 
 That to King Charles did come,- 
 'VMien Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
 And every paladin and peer, 
 
 On Ronccsvalles died ! 
 Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
 To quit the plunder of the slain. 
 And turn tlie doubtful day again, 
 
 While yet on Flodden side. 
 Afar, the Royal Standard flics, 
 And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 
 
 Our Caledonian pride ! 
 In vain tlie wish, — for far away. 
 While spoil and havoc mark their way. 
 Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. 
 " O lady," cried the monk, " away ! " 
 
 And placed her on her steed, 
 And led her to the chapel fair 
 
 Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. 
 There all the night they spent in prayer, 
 And, at t lie dawn of morning, there 
 She met her kinsman. Lord Fitz-Clare. 
 
 Jftirmioii, Canto VI. 
 
 —O^ 
 
a- 
 
 HAEP OF THE NORTH. — BOAT-SONG. 
 
 633 
 
 -Q) 
 
 HARP OF THE NORTH, 
 
 Hakp of the North ! that mouldering long hast 
 liung 
 
 On the witch-elm that shades Sauit Fillan's 
 spring, 
 And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, 
 
 Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
 Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, - 
 
 O Minstrel Harp, still must thiue accents sleep? 
 Mid rustling leaves and fuiintaius murmuring, 
 
 Still must thy sweeter sounds their sUence keep. 
 Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep ? 
 
 Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
 
 Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, 
 When lay of hopeless love, or glory won. 
 
 Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. 
 At each according pause was iieard aloud 
 
 Thine ardent symphony sublime and high ! 
 Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed ; 
 
 For stiU the burden of thy minstrelsy 
 Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's 
 matcldess eye. 
 
 0, wake once more ! how rude soe'er the hand 
 
 That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray ; 
 0, wake once more I though scarce my skill 
 command 
 
 Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay : 
 Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away. 
 
 And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 
 Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway. 
 
 The wizard note has not been touched in vain. 
 
 Then silent be no more ! Enchantress, wake again I 
 
 Ladi/ of the Lake, Canto I. 
 
 ELLEN, THE LADY OF THE LAKE,* 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 
 Of finer form or lovelier face ! 
 
 "Wliat though the sun, with ardent frown. 
 
 Had shghtly tinged her cheek with brown, — 
 
 The sportive toil, which, short and light, 
 
 Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. 
 
 Served too in hastier swell to show 
 
 Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 
 
 * We have nn conception r.t present of the enthusiasm with 
 which Scott's poems were welcomed hy sympathetic minds 
 at the time of their publication. Washington Irving tells 
 ns that when, in 1810, he was at lIotTman's country-seat on 
 tlie Hudson River he contrived to horrow a copy of The Lady 
 of the Lake before it had been reprinted in the United States; 
 and he thus records his deliglit : " ylufjust 12, 181n. — Seated, 
 leaning against a rock, with a wild-cherry tree o\ cr my head, 
 reading Scott's Lndij of the Lake. The busy ant hurrying over 
 tlie page, crickets skipping into my bosom, wind rustling 
 among the lop branches of the trees." And he notes the rap- 
 , ture of surprise which made him start to his feet when he 
 learned that " Snowdon's knight is Scotland's king! " 
 
 What though no rule of courtly grace 
 
 To measured mood had trained her pace, — 
 
 A foot more light, a step more true, 
 
 Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew ; 
 
 E'eii the sUght harebell raised its head. 
 
 Elastic from lier airy tread : 
 
 What though upon her speech there hung 
 
 The accents of the mountain tongue, — 
 
 Those silver sounds, so soft, so clear, 
 
 The listener held his breath to hear ! 
 
 A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid ; 
 Her satin snood, her silken plaid. 
 Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. 
 And seldom was a snood amid 
 Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 
 Whose glossy black to shame might bring 
 The plumage of the raven's wing ; 
 And seldom o'er a breast so fair. 
 Mantled a plaid with modest care, 
 And never brooch the folds combined 
 Above a heart more good and kind. 
 Her kindness and her worth to spy. 
 You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 
 Not Katrme, in her mirror blue, 
 Gives back the sliaggy banks more true. 
 Than every free-born glance confessed 
 The guileless movements of lier breast ; 
 Whether joy danced hi her dark eye. 
 Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, 
 Or filial love was glowing there, 
 Or meek devotion poured a prayer. 
 Or tale of injury called forth 
 The indignant spirit of the North. 
 One only passion unrevealed 
 With maiden pride the maid concealed, 
 Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 
 0, need I tell that passion's name ? 
 
 Ladif of the Lake, Canto I. 
 
 BOAT-SON&. 
 
 Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances I 
 
 Honored and blessed be the evergreen pine ! 
 Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, 
 Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! 
 Heaven send it happy dew. 
 Earth lend it sap anew, 
 Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 
 Wiile every Highland glen 
 Sends our slioiit back again, 
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dim, ho ! ieroe ! " 
 
 Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, 
 Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; 
 
 When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on 
 the mountain. 
 The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. 
 
 ^9-^ 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi— 
 
 634 SCOTT. 
 
 Moored in tlie rifted rock. 
 Proof to the tempest's shock, 
 Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow : 
 Meuteith and Breadalbane, then, 
 Echo his praise again, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, lio ! ieroe ! " 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Proudly our pibroch lias tlirilled in Glen Fruin, 
 And Bannachar's groans to our slogan re- 
 plied ; 
 Glen Luss and Ross-dhu,theyare smoking in ruin, 
 And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her 
 side. 
 Widow and Saxon maid 
 Long shall lament our raid, 
 Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe ; 
 Lennox and Leven-glen 
 Shake when they hear again, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " 
 
 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! 
 
 Streteli to your oars for the evergreen pine ! 
 that tlie rosebud that graces yon islands 
 Were wreathed in a garland around him to 
 twine ! 
 O that some seedling gem. 
 Worthy such noble stem. 
 Honored and blessed in their shadow might 
 grow ! 
 Loud should Clan-Alpine tiien 
 Ring from her deepmost glen, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " 
 
 Lady of the Lake, Canto II. 
 
 CORONACH. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain. 
 
 He is lost to the forest. 
 Like a summer-dried fountain. 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 Tlie font, reappearing. 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
 But to us comes no checriug. 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 The hand of tlie reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary, 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest, 
 But our flower was in flusliing, 
 
 Wiieu biighling was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red liaud in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber ! 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain. 
 
 Like the foam on the river. 
 Like the bubble on the fountain. 
 
 Thou art gone, and forever ! 
 
 Lady of the Lake, Canto III. 
 
 THE HE4TH THIS NI&HT MUST BE MT BED. 
 
 TuE heath this night must be my bed. 
 The bracken curtain for my head. 
 My lullaby the warder's tread. 
 
 Far, far, from love and thee, Mary ; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 
 
 It will not waken me, Mary ! 
 
 I may not, dare not, fancy now 
 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 
 
 I dare not think upon thy vow. 
 
 And all it promised me, Mary. 
 No fond regret must Norman know ; 
 Wliea bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
 His heart must be like bended bow. 
 
 His foot Uke arrow free, Mary. 
 
 A time wiU come with feeling fraught, 
 For, if I fall in battle fought. 
 Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
 
 Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
 And if returned from conquered foes. 
 How blithely will the evening close. 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose. 
 
 To my young bride and me, Mary ! 
 
 Lady of the Lake, Canto III. 
 
 HYMN TO THE VIEQIN, 
 
 Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 
 
 Listen to a maiden's prayer ! 
 Thou canst hear though from the wild. 
 
 Thou canst save amid despair. 
 Safe may we sleep beneath tliy care, 
 
 Tiiough banished, outcast, and reviled, — 
 Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 
 
 Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 
 Ave Maria ! undcfiled ! 
 
 The flinty couch we now must share 
 Shall seem with down of eider piled. 
 
 If thy protection hover there. 
 The murky cavern's lieavy air 
 
 Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled : 
 
 Then, maiden ! iiear 
 
 a maulen s jirayer. 
 
 Mother, list a su|)])hant child ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 
 Are Maria ! Staiidess styled ! 
 Foul demons of the carih and air, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 MEERY IT IS IN THE GOOD GREENWOOD. 
 
 635 
 
 ■^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Fi'om this their wonted haunt exiled. 
 Shall flee before thy presence fair. 
 We bow us to our lot of care. 
 
 Beneath thy guidance reconciled : 
 Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer. 
 And for a father liear a child ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 
 Lady of the Lake, Canto III. 
 
 MEKRT IT IS DT THE GOOD GREENWOOD, 
 
 Mekry it is in the good greenwood. 
 When the mavis and merle are singing, 
 
 Wlicn the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are 
 in cry, 
 And the hunter's horn is ringing. 
 
 " Alice Brand, my native land 
 
 Is lost for love of you ; 
 And we must hold by wood and wold, 
 
 As outlaws wont to do. 
 
 " O Alice, 't was all for thy locks so bright, 
 And 't was all for thine eyes so blue. 
 
 That on tlie night of our luckless flight 
 Thy brother bold I slew. 
 
 " Now must I teach to hew the beech 
 
 The hand that held the glaive, 
 For leaves to spread our lowly bed. 
 
 And stakes to fence our cave. 
 
 " And for vest of pall, thy fingers small. 
 
 That wont on harp to stray, 
 A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer, 
 
 To keep the cold away." 
 
 " Richard ! if my brother died, 
 
 'T was but a fatal chance ; 
 For darkling was the battle tried. 
 
 And fortune sped the lance. 
 
 " If pall and vair no more I wear. 
 
 Nor thoa the crimson sheen. 
 As warm, we '11 say, is the russet gray. 
 
 As gay the forest-green. 
 
 " And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 
 
 And lost thy native land. 
 Still Alice has her own Richard, 
 
 And he his Alice Brand." 
 
 'T is merry, 't is merry, in good greenwood ; 
 
 So blithe Lady Alice is singing ; 
 On tlie beech's pride, and oak's brown side, 
 
 Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 
 
 Up spoke the moody elfin king. 
 
 Who wonned within the hill, — 
 Like wind in the porch of a ruined church. 
 
 His voice was gliostly shriU. 
 
 " Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 
 
 Our moonlight circle's screen ? 
 Or who comes here to chase the deer, 
 
 Beloved of our elfin queen ? 
 Or who may dare on wold to wear 
 
 The fairies' fatal green ? 
 
 " Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie, 
 
 For thou wert christened man ; 
 For cross or sign thou wilt not fly. 
 
 For muttered word or ban. 
 
 " Lay on him the curse of the withered heart. 
 
 The curse of the sleepless eye ; 
 Till he wish and pray that his life would part. 
 
 Nor yet find leave to die." 
 
 'T is merry, 't is merry in good greenwood, 
 Though the birds have stilled their singing ; 
 
 The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 
 And Richard is fagots bringing. 
 
 Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, 
 
 Before Lord Richard stands, 
 And, as he crossed and blessed himself, 
 " I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf, 
 
 " That is made with bloody bauds." 
 
 But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 
 
 That woman void of fear, — 
 " And if there 's blood upon his hand, 
 
 'T is but the blood of deer." 
 
 " Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood ! 
 
 It cleaves unto his hand, 
 The stain of thine own kindly blood. 
 
 The blood of Ethert Brand." 
 
 Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand, 
 
 And made the holy sign, — 
 " And if there 's blood on Richard's hand, 
 
 A spotless hand is mine. 
 
 " And I conjure thee, demon elf. 
 
 By Him whom demons fear. 
 To show us whence thou art thyself. 
 
 And what thine crraud here ? " 
 
 " 'T is merry, 't is merry, in fairy -land, 
 
 Wlien fairy birds are singing, 
 Wlien the court doth ride by their monarch's side, 
 
 W'ith bit and bridle ringing : 
 
 " And gayly sliines the fairy-land, — 
 
 But all is glistening show, 
 Like the idle gleam that December's beam 
 
 Can dart on ice and snow. 
 
 " And fading, like that varied gleam. 
 
 Is our inconstant shape. 
 Who now like knight and lady seem, 
 
 Aiul now like dwarf and ape. 
 
 -* 
 
#■ 
 
 G3G 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 *- 
 
 " It was between tlic night and day, 
 
 When the fairy king has power, 
 That I sunk down in a sinful fray. 
 And, 'twixt life and death, was snatched away 
 
 To the joyless elfin bower. 
 
 " But wist I of a woman bold. 
 
 Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
 I might regain my mortal mould, 
 
 As fair a form as thine." 
 
 She crossed him once, — shecrossedhimtwice, — 
 
 That lady was so brave ; 
 The fouler grew his gobhn hue. 
 
 The darker grew the cave. 
 
 She crossed him thrice, that lady bold ; 
 
 He rose beneath her liaud 
 The fairest knight on Scottish mould, 
 
 Iler brother, Ethert Brand ! 
 
 Merry it is in good greenwood, 
 
 AV'lien tlie mavis and merle are singing. 
 
 But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray. 
 When all the bells were ringing. 
 
 Ladij of the Lake, Canto IV. 
 
 nTZ-JAMES AND KODERICK DHU. 
 
 TltE Gael beheld liim grim the wliile, 
 And answered with disdainful smile : 
 " Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
 I marked thee send deliglitcd eye 
 Far to the south and east, where lay, 
 Extended in succession gay. 
 Deep waving llclds and pastures green, 
 ^Vitli gentle slopes and groves between : — 
 These fertile plains, that softened vale, 
 Were once the birthrigiit of tlie Gael : 
 The stranger came witii iron hand, 
 And from our fathers reft the land. 
 M'here dwell wc now ? See, rudely swell 
 Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. 
 Ask wc this savage hill we tread, 
 For fattened steer or household bread ; 
 Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 
 And well the mountain might reply, 
 ' To you, as to your sires of yore. 
 Belong the target and claymore ! 
 I give you shelter in my breast. 
 Your own good blades must win the rest.' 
 I'ent in this fortress of the NortJi, 
 Thiuk'st thou we will not sally forth, 
 To spoil the spoiler as we may. 
 And from the robber rend tiie prey ? 
 Ay, by my soul ! — While on yon plain 
 The Saxon rears one shock of grain ; 
 AVliile, of ten thousand herds, there strays 
 But one along yon river's maze, — 
 
 The Gael, of plain and river heir. 
 
 Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share, 
 
 Wlierc live the mountain chiefs who hold 
 
 That plundering Lowlaud field and fold 
 
 Is aught but retribution true ? 
 
 Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu." 
 
 Answered Eitz-James : " And, if I sought, 
 
 Think'st thou no other could be brought ? 
 
 What deem ye of my path waylaid ':' 
 
 My life given o'er to ambuscade ? " 
 
 " As of a meed to rashness due : 
 
 Hadst thou sent warning fair and true, — 
 
 I seek my hound, or falcon strayed, 
 
 I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — 
 
 Eree hadst tliou been to come and go ; 
 
 But secret path marks secret foe. 
 
 Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 
 
 Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die. 
 
 Save to fulfil an augury." 
 
 " Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 
 
 Eresh cause of enmity avow, 
 
 To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 
 
 Enough, I am by promise tied 
 
 To match me with this man of pride : 
 
 Twice have I souglit Clan-Alpine's glen 
 
 In peace ; but when I come again, 
 
 I come with banner, brand, and bow. 
 
 As leader seeks his mortal foe. 
 
 For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower. 
 
 Ne'er panted for the appointed hour. 
 
 As I, until before me stand 
 
 This rebel chieftain and liis band ! " 
 
 " Have, then, thy wish ! " He whistled shrill. 
 
 And he was answered from the hill ; 
 
 Wild as the scream of the curlew, 
 
 From crag to crag the signal flew. 
 
 Instant, through copse and heath, arose 
 
 Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; 
 
 On riglit, on left, above, below, 
 
 Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; 
 
 From shingles gray their lances start, 
 
 The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 
 
 The rushes and the willow-wand 
 
 Are bristling into axe and brand. 
 
 And every tul't of broom gives life 
 
 To plaided warrior armed for strife. 
 
 That whistle garrisoned tiic glen 
 
 At once with full five hundred men. 
 
 As if the yawning hill to iieaven 
 
 A subterranean host luid given. 
 
 Watching tlicir leader's bock and will, 
 
 All silent there they stood, and still. 
 
 Like the loose crags wiiose threatening mass 
 
 Lay tottering o'er the iiollow pass. 
 
 As if an infant's touch could .urge 
 
 Tlieir headlong passage down the verge, 
 
 AVith stc)) aud weapon forward flung, 
 
 -s> 
 
FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU. 
 
 037 
 
 -ft 
 
 Upou the mountain-side they hung. 
 
 Tiie mountaineer cast glance of pride 
 
 Along Bcnledi's living side, 
 
 Then flxed his eye and sable brow 
 
 Full on Fitz- James : " How say'st thou now ? 
 
 These arc Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; 
 
 And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu ! " 
 
 Fitz-James was brave : Though to his heart 
 
 The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, 
 
 He manned himself with dauntless air, 
 
 Returned the chief his haughty stare, 
 
 His back against a rock he bore, 
 
 And firmly placed his foot before : 
 
 " Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
 
 From its firm base as soon as I. " 
 
 Sir Roderick marked, and in his eyes 
 
 Respect was mingled with surprise. 
 
 And the stern joy whicli warriors feel 
 
 In foemen worthy of their steel. 
 
 Short pace he stood, then waved his hand : 
 
 Down,sunk the disappearing band ; 
 
 Each warrior vanislied where he stood, 
 
 In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; 
 
 Suuk brand and spear and bended bow, 
 
 In osiers pale and copses low ; 
 
 It seemed as if their mother Earth 
 
 Had swallowed up her warlike birth. 
 
 The wind's last breath had tossed in air 
 
 Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair, — 
 
 The next but swept a lone liillside, 
 
 Wierc heath and fern were waving wide : 
 
 The sun's last glance was glinted back, 
 
 From spear and glaive, from targe and jack, — 
 
 The next, all unreflected, shone 
 
 On bracken green, and cold gray stone. 
 
 Fitz-James looked round, yet scarce believed 
 
 The witness that iiis sight received ; 
 
 Such apparition well might seem 
 
 Delusion of a dreadl'ul dream. 
 
 Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed. 
 
 And to his look the chief replied : 
 
 " Fear naught — nay, that I need not say — 
 
 But — doubt not aught from mine array. 
 
 Thou art my guest ; — I pledged my word 
 
 As far as Coilantogle ford : 
 
 Nor would I call a clansman's brand 
 
 For aid against one valiant liand, 
 
 Tiiough on our strife lay every vale 
 
 Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. 
 
 So move we on ; — I only meant 
 
 To show the reed on which you leant, 
 
 Deeming tliis patli you might ])ursue 
 
 Without a jiass from Roderick Dhu." 
 
 They moved ; — I said Fitz-James was brave. 
 
 As ever knight that belted glaive ; 
 
 Yet dare not say, tliat now his blood 
 
 Kept on its wont and tempered flood. 
 As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 
 That seeming lonesome pathway through, 
 Wiiich yet, by fearful proof, was rife 
 With lauces, that, to take liis life. 
 Waited but signal j'rom a guide, 
 So late dishonored and defied. 
 Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 
 Tlie vanislied guardians of the ground, 
 And still, from copse and heather deep. 
 Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep. 
 And in the plover's shrilly strain 
 Tile signal wliistle heard again. 
 Nor breathed he free till far behind 
 The pass was left ; for then they wind 
 Along a wide and level green. 
 Where neither tree nor tuft was seen. 
 Nor rush nor bush of broom was near. 
 To hide a bonnet or a spear. 
 
 The chief in silence strode before, 
 
 And reached that torrent's sounding shore, 
 
 Which, daughter of tiiree mighty lakes. 
 
 From Vennachar in silver breaks. 
 
 Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines 
 
 Ou Bochastle the mouldering lines. 
 
 Where Rome, the empress of the world, 
 
 Of yore her eagle wings unfurled. 
 
 And here his course the chieftain stayed. 
 
 Threw do-nii his target and his plaid. 
 
 And to the Lowland warrior said : 
 
 '■ Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
 
 Vieh-Alpinc has discharged his trust. 
 
 This murderous chief, this ruthless man. 
 
 This head of a rebellious clan, 
 
 llath led thee safe, through watch and ward, 
 
 Far past Clan-Alpuic's outmost guard. 
 
 Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
 
 A chieftain's vengeance tliou slialt feel. 
 
 See, here, all vautagcless I stand. 
 
 Armed, like thyself, with single brand : 
 
 For this is Coilantogle ford. 
 
 And thou must keep thee with thy sword." 
 
 The Saxon paused : " I ne'er delayed. 
 
 When foenian bade me draw my blade ; 
 
 Nay more, brave chief, I vowed thy death ; 
 
 Yet sure thy fair and generous faith. 
 
 And my deep debt for lil'e preserved, 
 
 A better meed have well deserved : 
 
 Can naught but blood our feud atone ? 
 
 Are there no means ? " " No, stranger, none ! 
 
 And hear, — to fire tliy flagging zeal, — 
 
 The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; , 
 
 For thus spoke fate, by prophet bred 
 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 
 ' Who spills the foremost foeman's life. 
 
 His party conquers in the strife. ' " 
 
 " Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 638 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 " The riddle is already read. 
 Seek yonder brake beueatli the cliff, — 
 There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. 
 Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy, 
 Tiien yield to Fate, and not to me. 
 To James, at Stirhng, let us go. 
 When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
 Or if tlie king shall not agree 
 To grant thee grace and favor free, 
 I plight mine honor, oath, and word 
 That, to thy native strengths restored, 
 With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
 That aids thee now to guard thy land." 
 
 Dark liglitning flashed from Roderick's eye : 
 " Soars thy presumption, then, so high. 
 Because a wretched kem ye slew, 
 Homage to name to Roderick Dim ? 
 He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! 
 Thou add'st but fuel to my hate : — 
 My clansman's blood demands revenge. 
 Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change 
 My thought, and hold tliy valor light 
 As that of some vain carpet kniglit, 
 Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
 And whose best boast is but to wear 
 A braid of his fair lady's hair." 
 " I thank thee, Roderick, for tlie word ! 
 It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; 
 For I have sworn this braid to stain 
 In the best blood that warms tliy vein. 
 Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — 
 Yet think not that by thee alone. 
 Proud chief ! can courtesy be shown ; 
 Tiiough not from copse, or heath, or cairn. 
 Start at my whistle clausmcn stern, 
 Of this small horn one feeble blast 
 W^ould fearful odds against thee cast. 
 But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt — 
 We try this quarrel hilt to liilt." 
 Then each at once his falchion drew. 
 Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
 Each looked to sun and stream and plain, 
 As wliat they ne'er might see again ; 
 Then foot and point and eye opposed, 
 In dubious strife they darkly closed. 
 Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
 That on the field iiis targe lie threw, 
 Wliosc brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
 Had death so often dashed aside ; 
 For, trained abroad his arms to wield, 
 Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
 He practised every pass and ward. 
 To tlirust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; 
 Wliile less exjiert, tliougii stronger far. 
 The Gael maintained unequal war. 
 Tlirec times in closing strife, they stood, 
 And thrice (he Saxon blade drank UIikhI : 
 
 ^g-^ 
 
 No stinted draught, no scanty tide, 
 The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
 Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. 
 And showered his blows like wintry rain ; 
 And, as firm rock, or castle-roof, 
 Against the winter shower is proof, 
 The foe, imodnerable still, 
 Foiled his wild rage by steady skill ; 
 Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
 Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
 And backward borne upon the lea, 
 Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 
 
 " Now yield thee, or by Him who made 
 The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade ! " 
 " Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
 Let recreant yield, who fears to die." 
 Like adder darting from liis coil. 
 Like wolf that dashes through the toil. 
 Like mountain-cat who guards her young, 
 Fidl at Fitz-Jamcs's throat he sprung ; 
 Received, but recked not of a wound, 
 And locked his arms his foeman roun9. 
 Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
 No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
 That desperate grasp thy frame might feel 
 Through bars of brass and triple steel ! 
 They tug, they strain ! down, down they go. 
 The Gael above, Fitz-James below. 
 The chieftain's gripe his throat compressed, 
 His knee was planted on his breast ; 
 His clotted locks he liackward threw. 
 Across his brow his hand he drew. 
 From blood and mist to clear his sight. 
 Then gleamed aloft iiis dagger bright ! 
 But hate and fury ill su]iplied 
 The stream of Kfe's exhausted tide, 
 And all too late the advantage came. 
 To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
 For, while the dagger gleamed on higli, 
 Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. 
 Down came the blow ! but in the lieath 
 The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
 The struggling foe may now unclasp 
 The fainting chief's relaxing grasp ; 
 Unwouuded from tlie dreadful close. 
 But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 
 
 Ladijoflhe Lake, Canto V. 
 
 BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE. 
 
 The minstrel came once more to view 
 The eastern ridge of Benvcnue, 
 For ere he jiartcd, he would say 
 Farewell to lovely Loch Achray, — 
 Wlicre shall he find, in foreign land, 
 So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! — 
 There is no breeze upon the fern. 
 
 —^ 
 
(0- 
 
 BATTLE OF BEAL" AN DUINE. 
 
 639 
 
 -Q) 
 
 No ripple on the lake, 
 Upon lier eyry nods the erne, 
 
 The deer has sought the brake ; 
 The small birds will not sing aloud. 
 
 The springing trout lies still. 
 So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, 
 That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 
 
 Beiiledi's distant hill. 
 Is it tlie thunder's solemn sound 
 That mutters deep and dread, 
 Or echoes from the groaning ground 
 
 The warrior's measured tread ? 
 Is it the lightning's quivering glance 
 
 Tliat on the thicket streams, 
 Or do they (lash on spear and lance 
 The sun's retiring beams ? 
 — I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
 I sec the Moray's silver star. 
 Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war. 
 That up the lake comes winding far ! 
 To hero boiuid for battle-strife. 
 
 Or hard of martial lay, 
 'T were worth ten years of peaceful life. 
 One glance at their array ! 
 
 Their light-armed archers far and near 
 
 Surveyed the tangled ground. 
 Their centre ranks, witli pike and spear, 
 
 A. twihght forest frowned, 
 Their barbed horsemen, in the rear. 
 
 The stern hattaUa crowned. 
 No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang. 
 
 Still were the pipe and drum ; 
 Save heavy tread, and armor's clang. 
 
 The sullen march was dumb. 
 There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 
 
 Or wave their flags abroad ; 
 Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake. 
 
 That shadowed o'er their road. 
 Their vaward scouts no tidings bring. 
 
 Can rouse no lurking foe. 
 Nor spy a trace of Uving thing. 
 
 Save when they stirred the roe ; 
 The host moves like a deep-sea wave. 
 Where rise no rocks its power to brave, 
 High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
 The lake is passed, and now they gain 
 A narrow and a broken plain. 
 Before the Trosach's rugged jaws ; 
 And here the horse and spearmen pause. 
 While, to explore the dangerous glen. 
 Dive through the pass the archer-men. 
 
 At once there rose so wild a yell 
 Witliin that dark and narrow dell. 
 As all the fiends, from heaven that fell. 
 Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! 
 Forth from the pass in tumult driven. 
 
 Like chaff before the wind of heaven. 
 
 The archery appear : 
 Tor life ! for life ! their plight they ply, — 
 And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry. 
 And plaids and bonnets waving high. 
 And broadswords flashing to the sky. 
 
 Are maddening in the rear. 
 Onward they drive, in dreadful race. 
 
 Pursuers and pursued ; 
 Before that tide of flight and chase. 
 How shall it keep its rooted place. 
 
 The speai-men's twilight wood ? — 
 "Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances 
 down ! 
 
 Bear back both friend and foe ! " — ♦ 
 Like reeds before the tempest's frown. 
 That serried grove of lances brown 
 
 At once lay levelled low ; 
 And closely shouldering side to side. 
 The bristling ranks the onset bide — 
 " We '11 quell the savage mountaineer. 
 
 As their Tinchel cows the game ! 
 They come as fleet as forest deer. 
 
 We '11 drive them back as tame." 
 
 Bearing before them, in their course, 
 The relies of the archer force, 
 Like wave with crest of sparkling foam. 
 Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 
 Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
 Was brandishing like beam of light. 
 
 Each targe was dark below ; 
 And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
 Wlien heaving to the tempest's wing. 
 They hurled them on the foe. 
 I heard the lance's shivering crash. 
 As when the whirlwind rends the ash ; 
 I heard the broadsword's deadly clang. 
 As if an hundred anvils rang ! 
 But Moray wheeled his rearward rank 
 Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, 
 " My banner-man, advance ! 
 I see," he cried, " their column shake. 
 Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake. 
 
 Upon them with the lance ! " — 
 The horsemen dashed among the rout. 
 As deer break through the broom ; 
 Their steeds are stout, their swords are 
 out. 
 They soon make lightsome room. 
 Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne, — 
 
 Where, where was Roderick then ! 
 One blast upon his bugle-horn 
 Were worth a thousand men. 
 And refluent through the pass of fear 
 
 The battle's tide was poured ; 
 Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear. 
 Vanished the mountain-sword. 
 
 _g) 
 
cfi- 
 
 G40 SCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I 
 
 As Braokliun's cliasm, so black and steep, 
 
 Receives her roaring linn, 
 As the dark caverns of the deep 
 Suck the wild whirlpool in. 
 So did the deep and darksome pass 
 Devour the battle's mingled mass ; 
 None linger now upon the plain, 
 Save those wlio ne'er sliall fight again. 
 
 Now westward rolls tlie battle's din, 
 That deep and doubling pass within, 
 — Minstrel, away ! the work of fate 
 Is bearing on : its issue wait, 
 Where the I'ude Trosaoh's dread defile 
 Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. 
 Gray Benvenue I soon repassed. 
 Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
 The sun is set ; — the clouds are met. 
 
 The lowering scowl of lieaven 
 An inky hue of livid blue 
 To the deep lake has given ; 
 Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen 
 Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. 
 I heeded not the eddying surge. 
 Mine eye but saw the Trosaoh's gorge. 
 Mine car but iieard the sullen sound. 
 Which like an eartliquake shook the ground, 
 And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
 Tliat parts not but with parting life. 
 Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll 
 The dirge of many a passing soul. 
 
 Nearer it comes, — the dim-wood glen 
 The martial flood disgorged again, 
 
 But not in mingled tide ; 
 Tlic plaided warriors of the North 
 Higii on the mo\intain thunder forth 
 
 And overhang its side ; 
 While by the lake below appears 
 The darkening cloud of Saxon spears. 
 At weary bay each shattered band. 
 Eying their foeman, sternly stand ; 
 Tlieir banners stream like tattered sail. 
 That flings its fragments to the gale. 
 And broken arms and disarray 
 Marked the fell havoc of the day. 
 
 Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, 
 The Saxon stood in sullen trance. 
 Till Moray pointed with his lance. 
 
 And cried : " Behold yon isle ! — 
 See ! none are left to guard its strand, 
 But women weak, that wring the liand : 
 'T is there of yore the robber band 
 
 Their booty wont to pile ; — 
 My purse, witii bonnet-pieces store, 
 To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, 
 And loose a shallop from the shore. 
 LiKhtlv we '11 tame the war-wolf then. 
 
 Lords of his mate, and brood, and den." 
 Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung. 
 On earth his casque and corselet rung. 
 
 He plunged him in the wave : — 
 All saw the deed, — the puqjose knew. 
 And to their clamors Benvenue 
 
 A mingled echo gave ; 
 The Saxons shout, their mate to ebeer, 
 The helpless females scream for fear. 
 And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
 'T was tiien, as by the oiitcry riven. 
 Poured down at once the lowering heaven : 
 A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast. 
 Her billows reared their snowy crest. 
 Well for the swimmer swelled they high. 
 To mar the Highland marksman's eye ; 
 For round him showered, mid rain and hail, 
 The vengeful arrows of the Gael. 
 In vain. He nears the isle, — and lo ! 
 His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
 Just then a flash of lightning came. 
 It tinged the waves and strand with flame ; 
 I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame, 
 Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
 A naked dirk gleamed in her hand : — 
 It darkened, — but amid the moan 
 Of waves, I heard a dying groan ; — 
 Another flash ! — the spearman floats 
 A weltering corse beside the boats, 
 And the stem mati-on o'er him stood. 
 Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 
 
 " Revenge ! revenge ! " the Saxons cried, 
 Tlie Gaels' exulting shout repUed. 
 Despite the elemental rage, 
 Again they hurried to engage ; 
 But, ere they closed in desperate fight. 
 Bloody with spurring canie a knight. 
 Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag. 
 Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 
 Clarion and trumpet by his side 
 Rung forth a truce-note high and wide. 
 While, in the monarch's name, afar 
 An herald's voice forbade the war, 
 For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold, 
 Were both, he said, in captive hold." 
 
 But here the lay made sudden stand, 
 
 The harp escaped the minstrel's hand ! 
 
 Oft had he stolen a glance, to s])y 
 
 How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy : 
 
 At first, the chieftain, to the chime, 
 
 With lifted hand, kept feeble time; 
 
 That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong 
 
 Varied his look as changed the song; 
 
 At length, no more his deafened car 
 
 The minstrel melody can hear ; 
 
 His face grows sharp, — his hands are clenched. 
 
 As if some pang his heart-strings wrenelied ; 
 
 -5^ 
 
ce-^ 
 
 ALLEN-A-DALE. — THE HARP. 
 
 G41 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Set are bis teeth, his fading eye 
 Is sternly fixed on vacancy ; 
 Tims, niotioidess and moauless, drew 
 His parting breath, stout Rodericlc Dim ! 
 Ladi/ of Ike Lake, Canto VI. 
 
 ALLEN-A-DALE. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
 Alleu-a-Dale lias no furrow for turning, 
 AlIeu-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
 Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. 
 Come, read me my riddle ! come, iiearken my tale ! 
 And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
 And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. 
 Tlie mere for his net, and the land for his game, 
 The cliase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; 
 Yet the fish of the lake, and tlie deer of the vale. 
 Are less free to Lord Daere than Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 
 Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as 
 
 bright; 
 Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord. 
 Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word ; 
 And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail. 
 Who at ]{ere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a- 
 Dale. 
 
 Allcn-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 
 
 The mother, she asked of his household and home ; 
 
 " Though tlie castle of Richmond stand fair on 
 the hill. 
 
 My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gallanter still : 
 
 'T is the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent 
 so pale, 
 
 And with all its bright spangles ! " said Allen-a- 
 Dale. 
 
 The father was steel, and tlie mother was stone ; 
 They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone ; 
 But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry : 
 He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black 
 
 eye, 
 And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 
 And the youth it was told by was AUen-a-Dalc ! 
 Rokelnj, Canto III. 
 
 BERTRAM. 
 
 JIucii in the stranger's mien appears. 
 
 To justify suspicious fears. 
 
 On his dark face a scorching clime. 
 
 And toil, had done the work of time, — 
 
 Roughened the brow, the temples bared, 
 
 And sable hairs with silver shared, 
 
 Yet left — what age alone could tame — 
 
 fr 
 
 The lip of pride, the eye of flame ; 
 The full-drawn lip that upward curled. 
 The eye that seemed to scorn the world. 
 That lip had terror never blenched; 
 Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quenched 
 The flash severe of swarthy glow, 
 That mocked at pain, and knew not woe. 
 Inured to danger's direst form, 
 Tornade and earthquake, flood and storm, 
 Death had he seen by sudden blow, 
 By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
 By nunc or breach, by steel or ball, 
 Knew all his shapes, and scorned them all. 
 
 But yet, though Bertram's hardened look. 
 Unmoved, could blood and danger brook, 
 Still worse than apathy had place 
 On his swart brow and callous face ; 
 For evil passions, cherished long. 
 Had ploughed them with impression strong. 
 All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
 Light folly, past with youth away. 
 But rooted stood, in manhood's hour, 
 The weeds of vice without their flower. 
 And yet the soil in which they grew. 
 Had it been tamed when life was new, 
 Had depth and vigor to bring forth 
 The hardier fruits of virtuous worth. 
 Not that, e'en then, his heart had known 
 The gentler feeUngs' kindly tone ; 
 But lavish waste had been refined 
 To bounty in his chastened mind. 
 And lust of gold, that waste to feed, 
 Been lost in love of glory's meed, 
 And, frantic then no more, his pride 
 Had ta'eu fair virtue for its guide. 
 
 Rokehi/, Canto I. 
 
 THE HARP. 
 
 I WAS a wild and wayward boy, 
 
 My childhood scorned each childish toy; 
 
 Retired from all, reserved and coy. 
 
 To nuising prone, 
 I wooed my sohtary joy, 
 
 My harp alone. 
 
 ily youth, with bold ambition's mood. 
 Despised the humble stream and wood. 
 Where my poor father's cottage stood, 
 
 To fame unknown ; 
 What should my soaring views make good ? 
 
 My harp alone I 
 
 Love came with all his frantic fire, 
 And wild romance of vain desire : 
 The baron's davighter heard my lyre, 
 
 And praised the tone ; 
 What could presumptuous hope inspire ? 
 
 My harp alone I 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 642 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 At mauhood's touch the bubble burst, 
 Aud niiuihood's pride the vision curst, 
 And all that had my folly nursed 
 
 Love's sway to own ; 
 Yet spared the spell that lulled me first. 
 
 My harp alone ! 
 
 Woe came with war, and want with woe ; 
 And it was mine to undergo 
 Eacli outrage of the rebel foe : 
 
 Can aught atone 
 My fields laid waste, my cot laid low ? 
 
 My harp alone ! 
 
 Ambition's di'eam I 've seen depart. 
 Have rued of penury the smart, 
 Have felt of love the venomed dart. 
 
 When hope was flown ; 
 Yet rests one solace to my heart, — 
 
 My harp alone ! 
 
 Then over mountain, moor, and hill, 
 My faithful harp, I 'U bear thee stiU ; 
 And when this hfe of want and ill 
 
 Is wellnigh gone. 
 Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill, 
 
 My harp alone ! 
 
 Rokeby, Canto V. 
 
 THE OKIEF OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows, 
 Is like the dewdrop on the rose ; 
 When next tlie summer breeze comes by 
 And waves the bush, tlie flower is dry. 
 Won by their care, the orphan child 
 Soon on his new protector smiled. 
 With dimpled cheek aud eye so fair. 
 Through his thick curls of flaxen hair. 
 But blithest laughed that cheek and eye, 
 When Rokeby's little maid was nigh ; 
 'T was his, with elder brother's pride, 
 Matilda's tottering steps to guide ; 
 His native lays in Irish tongue 
 To soothe her infant ear he sung, 
 And primrose twined with daisy fair, 
 To form a chaplet for lier hair. 
 By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand. 
 The children still were hand in hand. 
 And good Sir Kichard smiling eyed 
 The early knot so kindly tied. 
 
 Rokebij, Canto VI. 
 
 BEKTEAM'S DEATH. 
 
 The outmost crowd have heard a sound. 
 Like horse's lioof on hardened ground ; 
 Nearer it came, and yet more near, — 
 The very death's-mcn paused to licar. 
 'T is in the churchyard now, — the tread 
 
 Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
 Fresh sod and old sepulchral stone 
 Return the tramp in varied tone. 
 All eyes upon the gateway hung. 
 When through the Gothic arch there sprung 
 A liorscman armed, at headlong speed, — 
 Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. 
 Fire fronr the flinty floor was spurned. 
 The vaults unwonted clang returned ! — 
 One instant's glance around lie threw. 
 From saddle-bow his pistol drew. 
 Grimly determined was his look ! 
 His charger with the spurs he strook, — 
 All scattered backward as he came. 
 For all knew Bertram Kisiiigham ! 
 Three bounds that noble courser gave ; 
 The first has reached the central nave. 
 The second cleared the ehanecl wide, 
 The third — he was at Wycliffe's side. 
 Full levelled at the Baron's liead. 
 Rung the report, — the bullet sped, — 
 And to his long account, and last, 
 Without a groan dark Oswald past ! 
 All was so quick, that it might seem 
 A flash of lightning, or a dream. 
 
 While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
 Bertram his ready charger wheels ; 
 But floundered on the pavement floor 
 The steed, aud down the rider bore, 
 Aud, bursting in the lieadlong sway. 
 The faitldcss saddle-girths gave, way. 
 'T was while he toiled liini to be freed. 
 And with the rein to nusc the steed, 
 That from amazement's iron trance 
 All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. 
 Sword, halberd, muskct-but, their blows 
 Hailed upon Bertram as he rose ; 
 A score of pikes, with each a wound. 
 Bore down and pinned him to the ground ; 
 But still liis struggling force he rears, 
 'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears ; 
 Thrice from assailants shook him free, 
 Once gained his feet, aud twice his knee. 
 By tenfold odds oppressed at length. 
 Despite his struggles and his strength. 
 He took a hundred mortal wounds, 
 As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds : 
 And when he died, his parting groan 
 Had moi'e of laughter than of moan ! 
 — They gazed, as when a lion dies. 
 And hunters scarcely trust theii^eyes, 
 But bend their weapons on the slaili, 
 Lest the grim king should rouse again! 
 Tbcn blow and insult some renewed. 
 And from tlie trunk the liead had hewed. 
 But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; 
 A mantle o'er tiic corse he laid ; — 
 
 ^ 
 
e— 
 
 THE BATTLE OE BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 043 
 
 -Q) 
 
 " Fell as lie was in act and mind, 
 He left no bolder heart behind : 
 Tlien give him, for a soldier meet, 
 A soldier's cloalv i'or winding-sheet." 
 
 Ilokebij, Canto VI. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 On Gillie's liiU, whose height eomniands 
 The battle-field, lair Edith stands, 
 "With serf and page unfit for war, 
 To eye the coufliet from afar. 
 O, with what doidjtfiil agony 
 She sees the dawning tint the sky ! — 
 Xow on the Ochils gleams the sun, 
 And glistens now Demayet dim; 
 Is it the lark tliat carols shrill. 
 
 Is it the bittern's early hum ? 
 No ! — distant, but increasing still, 
 Tlie trumpet's sound swells up the hiU, 
 
 With the deep nuirmur of the drum. 
 Responsive from the Scottish host. 
 Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were tossed, 
 His breast and brow each soldier crossed, 
 
 And started from the ground ; 
 Armed and arrayed for instant fight 
 Rose archer, spearman, squire, and knight. 
 And in tlie pomp of battle bright 
 
 The dread battalia frowned. 
 * » * 
 
 Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high. 
 Just as the Northern ranks arose. 
 Signal for England's archery 
 
 To halt and beiul their bows. 
 Tlien stepped eacli yeoman fortli a pace. 
 Glanced at; the intervening space. 
 
 And raised his left hand high ; 
 To the right ear the cords they bring ; 
 At once ten thousand bowstrings ring. 
 
 Ten thousand arrows fly ! 
 Nor paused on the devoted Scot 
 The ceaseless fury of their shot ; 
 
 As fiercely and as fast. 
 Forth whistling came the gray-goose wing 
 As the wild luiilstones pelt and ring 
 
 Adown December's Ijlast. 
 Nor mountain-targe of tough bull-hide, 
 Nor lowland mail, that storm may l)iJe ; 
 A\'oe, woe to Scotland's bannered pride. 
 
 If the fell shower may last ! 
 Upon the right, behind the wood, 
 Each by hts steed dismounted, stood 
 
 The Scottish chivalry ; 
 With foot in stirrup, liand on mane. 
 Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain 
 His own keen heart, his eager train. 
 Until the archers gained the plain ; 
 Then " ilount, ve gallants free ! " 
 
 I He cried ; and, vaulting from the ground, 
 His saddle every horseman found. 
 On high their glittering crests they toss. 
 As springs the wildfire from the moss ; 
 The shield hangs down on every breast, 
 Each ready lanee is in the rest, 
 
 And loud shouts Edward Bruce, — 
 "Forth, marshal ! on the peasant foe ! 
 We '11 tame the terrors of their bow. 
 
 And cut the bowstring loose ! " 
 
 Then spurs were dashed in chargers' flanks. 
 They rushed among the archer ranks. 
 No spears were there the shock to let, 
 No stakes to turn the cliarge were set. 
 And liow shall yeoman's armor slight 
 Stand the long lance and mace of might: 
 Or wlu\t may their short swords avail, 
 'Gainst l)arbed horse and sliirt of mail ? 
 Amid their ranks the chargers sprung, 
 Iligli o'er their heads the weapons swung. 
 And shriek and groan and vengeful shout 
 Give note of triumph and of rout ! 
 Awhile, with stubborn hardihood, 
 Tiieir English hearts the strife made good. 
 Borne down at length on every side. 
 Compelled to flight they scatter wide. 
 Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee. 
 And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee ! 
 Tlie broken bows of Bannock's shore 
 Shall in the greenwood ring no more ! 
 Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now 
 The maids may twine the summer bough. 
 May northward look witli longing glance, 
 For those that wont to lead tlie dance, 
 For the blithe archers look in vain ! 
 Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en. 
 Pierced through, trod down, by thousands slain, 
 They cumber Bannock's bloody plain. 
 
 The king with scorn beheld their flight. 
 " Are these," he said, " our yeomen wight? 
 Each braggart churl could boast before 
 Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! 
 Fitter to plunder chase or park 
 Tluui make a manly foe their mark. 
 Forward, each gentleman and kniglit ! 
 Let gentle blood sliow generous might. 
 And chivalry redeem the fight ! " 
 To riglitward of tlie wild afl'ray 
 The field showed fair and level way ; 
 
 But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care 
 Had bored the ground with many a pit. 
 With turf and brushwood hidden yet, 
 
 Tliat formed a gliastly snare. 
 Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came. 
 With spears in rest, and hearts on flame, 
 
 That panted for the shock ! 
 
 -9^ 
 
a- 
 
 G44 SCOTT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 V- 
 
 With blazing crests and banners spread, 
 And trumpet-clang and clamor dread, 
 The wide plain thundered to their tread. 
 
 As far as Stirling rock. 
 Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow. 
 Horseman and horse, the I'oremost go. 
 
 Wild floundering on the field ! 
 The first are in destruction's gorge, 
 Their foUowers wildly o'er them urge ; 
 
 The knightly helm and shield, 
 The mail, the acton, and the spear. 
 Strong hand, high heart, are useless here ! 
 Loud from the mass confused the cry 
 Of dying warriors swells on high. 
 And steeds that shriek in agony ! 
 They came like mountain-torrent red. 
 That thunders o'er its rocky bed ; 
 They broke like that same torrent's wave. 
 When swallowed by a darksome cave. 
 Billows on billows burst and boil, 
 Maintaining still the stern turmoil. 
 And to their wild and tortured groan 
 Each adds new terrors of his own ! 
 
 Too strong in. courage and in might 
 Was England yet, to yield the fight. 
 
 Her noblest all are here ; 
 Names that to fear were never known. 
 Bold Norlolk's Earl De Brotherton, 
 
 And Oxford's famed De Vcre. 
 There Gloster plied the bloody sword. 
 And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford, 
 
 Bottetourt and Sanzavere, 
 Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came. 
 And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame, — 
 Names known too well in Scotland's war, 
 At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar, 
 Blazed broader yet in after years. 
 At Cressy red and fell Poitiers. 
 Pembroke with these, and Argentine, 
 Brought up the rearward battle-line. 
 With caution o'er the groujid they tread, 
 Slippery with blood and piled with dead, 
 Till, hand to hand in battle set. 
 The bills with spears and axes met, 
 And, closing dark on every side, 
 Kagcd the full contest far and wide. 
 Then was tlie strength of Douglas tried. 
 Then proved was Randoliili's generous pride. 
 And well did Stuart's actions grace 
 The sire of Scotland's royal race I 
 
 Eirndy they kept their ground : 
 As firndy England onward pressed. 
 And down went many a noble crest, 
 And rent was many a valiant breast. 
 
 And Slaughter revelled round. 
 
 Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set, 
 Unceasing blow by blow was met ; 
 
 The groans of those who fell 
 Were drowned amid the shriller clang 
 That from tlie blades and harness rang. 
 
 And in the battle -yell. 
 Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot. 
 Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot ; 
 And O, amid that waste of life. 
 What various motives fired the strife ! 
 The aspiring noble bled for fame. 
 The patriot for his country's claim ; 
 Tills knight his youthful strength to prove. 
 And that to win his lady's love ; 
 Some fought from ruffian tliirst of blood. 
 From hal)it some, or hardihood. 
 But ruffian stern, and soldier good. 
 
 The noble and the slave. 
 From various cause the same wild road. 
 On the same bloody morning, trode, 
 
 To that dark inn, the grave ! 
 
 The tug of strife to flag begins. 
 Though neither loses yet uor wins. 
 High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust 
 And feebler speeds the blow and thrust. 
 Douglas leans on his war-sword now. 
 And Randolph wipes his bloody brow ; 
 Nor less had toiled each Southern knight, 
 From morn till midday in the fight. 
 Strong Egremont for air must gasp, 
 Beauehamp undoes his visor-clasp. 
 And Montague must quit his spear. 
 And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vera ! 
 The lilows of Berkley fall less fast. 
 And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast 
 
 Hath lost its lively tone ; 
 Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word, 
 And Percy's shout was fainter heard, — 
 
 " My merrymen, fight on ! " ' 
 
 Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, 
 The slackening of the storm could spy. 
 " One effort more, and Scotland 's free ! 
 Lord of the Lsles, my trust in thee 
 
 Is firm as Ailsa Rock ; 
 Rush on with Highland sword and targe, 
 I, with my Carrick spearmen, charge ; 
 
 Now forward to the shock ! " 
 At once the spears were forward thrown. 
 Against the sun tlie broadswords shone; 
 The pibroch lent its niaddeiiing tone, 
 And loud King Robert's voice was known, - 
 " Carrick, press on, — they fail, Ihey fail ! 
 Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, 
 
 Tlie foe is fainting fast ! 
 Each strike for parent, child, and wife, 
 For Scotland, liberly, and life, — 
 
 The battle cannot last! " 
 The fresh and desperate onset bore 
 
 J> 
 
EEBECCA'S HYMN. —BOEDER SONG. 
 
 645 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The Ibes tliree fui-longs back and more, 
 Leaving tlicir uoblcst iu their gore. 
 « « * 
 
 The multitude that watclied afar. 
 Rejected from the ranks of war, 
 Had not unmoved beheld the light. 
 When strove the Bruce for Scotland's right ; 
 Each heart had caught the patriot spark, 
 Old man and striphng, priest and clerk. 
 Bondsman and serf ; even female hand 
 Stretched to the hatchet or the brand ; 
 But, when mute Amadiue they heard 
 Give to their zeal his signal-word, 
 
 A frenzy lired the throng; — 
 "Portents and miracles impeach 
 Our sloth, — the dumb our duties teach, — 
 And he that gives the nmtc his speech, 
 Can bid the weak be strong. 
 To us, as to our lords, are given 
 A native earth, a promised heaven ; 
 To us, as to our lords, belongs 
 The vengeance for our nation's wrongs ; 
 The clioice, 'twixt death or freedom, warms 
 Our breasts as theirs, — To arms ! to arms !" 
 To arms they flew, — axe, club, or spear, — 
 And mimic ensigns higli they rear, 
 And, like a bannered host afar, 
 Bear down on England's wearied war. 
 
 Already scattered o'er the plain. 
 Reproof, command, and counsel vain. 
 The rearward squadrons fled amain, 
 
 Or made but doubtful stay ; — 
 But when they marked the seeming show 
 Of fresh and fierce and marshalled foe. 
 
 The boldest broke array. 
 O, give their hapless prince iiis due ! 
 In vain the Royal Edward tiirew 
 
 His person mid the spears. 
 Cried, " i'ight ! " to terror and despair. 
 Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair. 
 
 And cursed their caitilf fears ; 
 Till Pembroke turned his bridle-rein. 
 And forced him from the fatal ])laiu. 
 With them rode Argentine, until 
 They gained tiie summit of tiic hill. 
 But quitted there the traiu : — 
 " In yonder field a gage I left, 
 I must not live of fame bereft ; 
 
 I needs must turn again. 
 Speed hence, my liege, for on your trace 
 The fiery Douglas takes the chase, 
 
 I know his banner well. 
 God send my sovereign joy and bliss. 
 And many a liappier field tlian this ! — 
 
 Once more, my liege, farewell ! " 
 
 The Lord of The Isles. 
 
 KEBECCA'S HYMN, 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 
 
 Out from the land of bondage came. 
 Her fathers' God before lier moved, 
 
 An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
 By day, along the astonished lands, 
 
 The cloudy pillar glided slow : 
 By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 
 
 Returned the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hymn of praise. 
 
 And trump and timbrel answered keen. 
 And Ziou's daughters poured their lays. 
 
 With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
 No portents now our fues amaze, 
 
 Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
 Our fathers would not know tliy ways. 
 
 And thou hast left them to their own. 
 
 But present still, though now unseen ! 
 
 A\'hen brightly shines the prosijcrous day. 
 Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen 
 
 To temper the deceitful ray. 
 And 0, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In shade and storm the frequent night. 
 Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 
 
 A burning and a shining light ! 
 
 Our harps we left by Babel's streams. 
 
 The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
 No censer round our altar beams, 
 
 And mute are timbrrl, liar]), and horn. 
 But thou hast said, " The blood of goat, 
 
 The flesh of rams^ I will not prize ; 
 A contrite heart, a humble thought. 
 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice." 
 
 Ivanhoe. 
 
 BOKDEK SONG. 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
 
 Why the deU dimia ye march forward in order ? 
 March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
 
 All the Blue Bonnets are bound fur the Border. 
 
 Many a banner spread 
 
 Flutters above your head, 
 Many a crest that is famous in story. 
 
 Mount and make ready then, 
 
 Sons of the mount<iin glen, 
 Fight for the queeu and the old Scottish glory. 
 
 Come from the hills where the hirscls are grazing. 
 Come from the glen of the buck and the 
 roe ; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing. 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, and the 
 bow. 
 Trumpets are sounding. 
 War-steeds are bounding. 
 
 -s> 
 
a- 
 
 G4G 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Stand to your arms, then, and march in good 
 order, 
 England shall many a day 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 
 When the Blue I5onnuts eame over the 
 Border. The Monastery. 
 
 COOTTY GUT. 
 
 All ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 
 
 The sun has left the lea. 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who thrilled all day. 
 
 Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
 Breeze, bird, and llower confess the hour, 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 The village maid steals through the shade, 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to liear ; 
 To beauty shy, by lattice high. 
 
 Sings high-born cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above, 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 
 And high and low the influence know, ^ 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 Qimtin Diirward. 
 
 THE LAY OF POOE LOUISE. 
 
 An, poor Louise ! the livelong day 
 Slie roams from cot to castle gay ; 
 And still her voice and viol say, 
 Ah, maids, beware the woodland way, 
 
 • Think on Louise. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high. 
 It smirched her cheek, it dimmed her eye. 
 The woodland walk was cool and nigh. 
 Where birds with chiming streamlets vie 
 To cheer Louise. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear 
 Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair; 
 Tlie wolves molest not paths so fair, — 
 But better far had such been there 
 
 For poor Louise. 
 
 All, poor Louise ! In woody wold 
 She met a huntsman fair and bold; 
 His baldric was of silk and gold, 
 And many a witching talc he told 
 
 To poor Louise. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine 
 Hadst thou for treasures of tlie mine ; 
 For peace of mind, that gift divine. 
 And spotless innoeence, were thine. 
 
 Ah, poor Ijouise ! 
 
 Ah, ])()or Louise ! Thy treasure 's reft ! 
 I know not if bv foire or theft, 
 
 Or part by violence, part by gift ; 
 But misery is all that 's left 
 
 To poor Louise. 
 
 Let poor Louise some succor have ! 
 She will not long your bounty crave. 
 Or tire the gay with warning stave, — 
 For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave. 
 For poor Louise. 
 The Fair Maid of Perth. 
 
 0, BOBIN HOOD WAS A BOWMAN GOOD. 
 
 O, IloBiN Hood was a bowman good, 
 
 And a bowman good was he. 
 And he met a maiden in merry Sherwood, 
 
 AH under the greenwood tree. 
 
 " Now give me a kiss," quoth bold Robin Hood, 
 
 " Now give me a kiss," said he, 
 "For there never came maid into merry Sherwood 
 
 But she paid the forester's fee." 
 
 Tlie Doom of DecorgoU. 
 
 HELVELLTN. 
 I CLIMBED tiic dark brow of the mighty Helvcl- 
 
 lyn, 
 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty 
 and wide ; 
 All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yell- 
 ing. 
 And starting around me the echoes rejAied. 
 On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was 
 
 bending, 
 And Catehedicani its left verge was defending, 
 One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascend- 
 ing. 
 When 1 marked the sad spot where the wan- 
 derer had died. 
 
 Dark green was that spot mid the brown moun- 
 tain heather, 
 "Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in 
 decay. 
 Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, 
 Till tile mouiitaiu-w-inds wasted the tcuantless 
 clay. 
 Nor yet quite deserted, thougli lonely extended, 
 For, failhl'ul in death, liis mute I'avorite .-it tended, 
 The much-loved remains of her master defended. 
 And clmsed the liill-l'ox and the raven away. 
 
 IIiiw loiiK didst thou think that his silence was 
 
 shiiiiber ? 
 When the wind waved his garment, how oft 
 
 didst, thou start? 
 IIow many long days and long weeks didst ihou 
 
 number, 
 
 9> 
 
f 
 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 
 
 PIBEOCH OF DONUIL DHU. 647 
 
 -^ 
 
 fe- 
 
 Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
 And, 0, was it meet, tliat — no requiem read o'er 
 
 !iim, 
 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 
 And thou, httle guardian, alone stretched before 
 him — 
 Unhonored the pilgrim from Ufe siiould depart ? 
 
 When a prince to the fate of the peasant has 
 yielded. 
 The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted 
 ball ; 
 With scutcheons of silver tiie coffin is sliielded. 
 And pages stand mute by the canopied pall ; 
 Tiirough the courts, at deep midnight, the torches 
 
 are gleaming ; 
 In the proudly arched chapel the banners are 
 
 beaming ; 
 Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming. 
 Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 
 
 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. 
 To lay down thy head like the meek mountain 
 lamb, 
 When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in 
 stature, 
 And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 
 And more stately thy couch by this desert lake 
 
 lying, 
 
 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, 
 With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying 
 In the arms of Helvellyn and Catehcdieam. 
 
 1805. 
 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 
 
 " Why wec]) ye by the tide, ladie ? 
 
 Wliy weep ye by the tide ? 
 I '11 wed ye to my youngest son. 
 
 And ye sail be his bride : 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sac comely to be seen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 " Now let this wilfu' grief be done. 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha'. 
 
 His sword in battle keen" — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 " A chain of gold ye sail not lack. 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair; 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
 And you, the foremost o' them a'. 
 
 Sail ride our forest queen " — 
 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was decked at morning-tide. 
 
 The tapers glimmered fair ; 
 The priest and Ijridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 And dame and knight are there. 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha'; 
 
 The ladie was not seen ! 
 She 's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 1816. 
 
 PIBEOCH OF DONUIL DHU. 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan Conuil. 
 Come away, come away, 
 
 Hark to the summons ! 
 Come in your war array. 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountain so rocky. 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlocky. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 Trae heart that wears one. 
 Come every steel blade, and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd. 
 
 The flock without shelter; 
 Leave the corpse uninterred, 
 
 The bride at the altar ; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer. 
 
 Leave nets and barges : 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the vfinds come, when 
 
 Forests are rended : 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 
 Navies are stranded : 
 Faster come, faster come. 
 
 Faster and faster, 
 Ciiief, vassal, page and groom. 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come ; 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 W^ide waves tlie eagle plume. 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set I 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,' 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 
 
 J 
 
a- 
 
 648 
 
 MILLIKEN. — MONTGOMERY. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 PEOUD MAISm IS IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
 
 Walking so early ; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 "Tell me, tliou bonny bird. 
 When shall 1 marry me ? " 
 
 " \^'hen six braw gentlemen 
 Kirk ward shall carry ye." 
 
 " Wlio makes the bridal bed. 
 
 Birdie, say truly ? " 
 " The gray-headed sexton, 
 
 That delves the grave duly. 
 
 "The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Shall light thee steady ; 
 The owl from the steeple sing 
 
 Welcome, proud lady." 
 
 The Heart of Mid Lothian. 
 
 RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKEN. 
 
 1767 - 1815. 
 
 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 
 
 The groves of Blarney they look so charming, 
 
 Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks, — 
 All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow there. 
 
 Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
 'T is tliere the daisy, and the sweet carnation, 
 
 The blooming pink, and tile rose so fair ; 
 Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly, — • 
 
 All llowers that scent the sweet, open air. 
 
 'T is Lady JefFers owns tliis plantation. 
 
 Like Alexander, or like Helen fair ; 
 There 's no connnander in all the nation 
 
 For regulation can with her compare. 
 Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 
 
 Could ever plunder her place of strength; 
 But Oliver Cromwell, lie did her pommel. 
 
 And made a breach in her battlement. 
 
 There 's gravel walks there for speculation. 
 And conversation in sweet solitude ; 
 
 'T is there the lover may hear the dove, or 
 The gentle plover, in the aflcmooii. 
 • * • 
 
 'T is there 's the lake that is stored with perches. 
 And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
 
 Besides the lecehos, and the groves of beeches. 
 All standing in order for to guard the flood. 
 
 'T is there's the kitchen Jiangs many a fliteli in. 
 With the maids a-stitcliing upon the stair ; 
 
 The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey. 
 Would make you frisky if you were there. 
 
 'T is there you 'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 
 A washing jiratics foreneut the door, 
 
 With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy, 
 
 All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore. 
 
 There 's statues gracing this noble place in. 
 
 All heathen goddesses so fair, — 
 Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, 
 
 All .standing naked in the open air. 
 So now to finish tliis brave narration. 
 
 Which my poor geni' could not entwine ; 
 But were 1 Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar, 
 
 'T is in every feature I would make it shine. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 1771-1854. 
 
 NIGHT ON THE ALPS. 
 
 CoiiE, golden Evening, in the west 
 Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, 
 And let the triple rainbow rest 
 O'er all the mountain-tops : — 'T is done ; 
 The deluge ceases ; bold and briglit 
 The rainbow shoots from hill to hill ; 
 Down sinks the sun ; on presses night ; 
 — Mont Blanc is lovely still. 
 
 There take thy stand, my spirit; — spread 
 The world of shadows at tliy feet ; 
 And mark how calmly, overhead, 
 The stars like saints in glory meet: 
 While hid in solitude sublime, 
 Methiiiks I muse on Nature's tomb. 
 And hear the passing foot of Time 
 Step through the gloom. 
 
 AU'in a moment, crash on crash, 
 From precipice to precipice, 
 An avalanche's ruins dash 
 Down to the nethermost abyss ; 
 Livisible, the ear alone 
 Follows the uproar till it dies ; 
 Echo on echo, groan for groan, 
 From deep to deep replies. 
 
 Silence again the darkness seals, — 
 Darkness that may be felt ; — but soon 
 The silvcr-eh)uded east reveals 
 Tlie miiluight si)ectrr of the moon ; 
 \\\ half-eelipse she lifts her horn, 
 Yet, o'er the host of heaven supreme, 
 Brings the faint semblance of a morn 
 With her awakening beam. 
 
 -P 
 
NIGHT. — THE GEAVE. 
 
 649 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Ha ! at her touch these Alphie heights 
 
 Unreal moekeries appear ; 
 
 With l)lacker shadows, ghasthcr hghts, 
 
 Eiihirgiug as she chmbs the sphere ; 
 
 A erowd ol' apparitions pale ! 
 
 I hold my breath in ehiU suspense, — 
 
 They seem so exquisitely frail, — 
 
 Lest they should vanish hence. 
 
 I breathe again, I freely breathe ; 
 
 Lake of Geneva ! thee I trace, 
 
 Like Dian's crescent far beneath, 
 
 And beautiful as Dian's face. 
 
 Pride of this land of liberty ! 
 
 All that thy waves reflect I love ; 
 
 Where heaven itself, brought down to thee, 
 
 Looks fairer than above. 
 
 Safe on thy banks again I stray, 
 The trance of poesy is o'er, 
 And I am here at dawn of day. 
 Gazing on mountains as before ; 
 For all the strange mutations wrought 
 Were magic feats of my own mind ; 
 Thus, in tiie fairy-land of thought, 
 Whate'er I seek I find. 
 
 Yet, ye everlasting hills ! 
 Buildings of God not made with hands, 
 Wliose word performs whate'er he wills. 
 Whose word, thougli ye shall perish, stands ; 
 Can there be eyes that look on you. 
 Till tears of rapture make them dim, 
 Nor in his works the Maker view. 
 Then lose his works in Itim ? 
 
 By me, when I beliold him not 
 
 Or love him not when I behold. 
 
 Be all I ever knew forgot ; 
 
 My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold ; 
 
 Transformed to ice, 'twixt eartb and sky. 
 
 On yonder cliff my form be seen. 
 
 That all may ask, but uone reply. 
 
 What my offence hath been. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Night is the time for rest ; 
 
 How sweet, when labors close, 
 To gather round an aeliing breast 
 
 The curtain of repose, 
 Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
 Upon our own deliglitful bed ! 
 
 Night is the time for dreams ; 
 
 Tiie gay romance of life. 
 When (ruth tliat is and truth that seems, 
 
 Blend in fantastic strife ; 
 Ah ! visions less beguiling far 
 Than waking dreams by daylight are 1 
 
 Night is the time for toil ; 
 
 To plough the classic field. 
 Intent to find the buried spoil 
 
 Its wealthy furrows yield; 
 Till all is ours that sages taught. 
 That poets sang or heroes wrought. 
 
 Night is the time to weep ; 
 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 Those graves of memory where sleep 
 
 The joys of other years ; 
 Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
 But perished young hke tlungs on earth ! 
 
 Night is the time to watch ; 
 
 On ocean's dark expanse 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 
 The full moon's earliest glance. 
 That brings unto the home-sick mind 
 All we have loved and left behind. 
 
 Night is the time for care ; 
 
 Brooding on hours misspent, 
 To see the spectre of despair 
 
 Come to our lonely tent ; 
 Like Brutus, midst liis slumbering host, 
 Startled by Csesar's stalwart ghost." 
 
 Night is the time to muse ; 
 
 Then from the eye the soul 
 Takes flight, and with expanding views 
 
 Beyond the starry pole. 
 Descries atiiwart the abyss of night 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 Night is the time to pray ; 
 
 Our Sanour oft withdrew 
 To desert mountains far away; 
 
 So will his followers do ; 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
 And hold communion there with God. 
 
 Night is the time for death ; 
 
 When all around is peace. 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath. 
 
 From sin and suffering cease : 
 Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
 To parting friends, — such death be muie ! 
 
 THE GEAVE. 
 
 TuERE is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found, 
 They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
 
 Low in tlie ground. 
 
 The storm tliat wrecks the winter sky 
 No more disturbs their deep repose, 
 Than summer evening's latest sigh 
 That shuts the rose. 
 
 —9^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 G50 
 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 — 9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 I long to lay this painful head 
 And acliing hoart hciicatli the soil, 
 To slumber in that dreandess bed 
 Eroni all my toil. 
 
 For misery stole me at my birtli, 
 And cast me helpless on tlie wild ; 
 I perish ; O, my motlier earth ! 
 
 Take home thy child ! 
 
 On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 
 Shall gently moulder into thee ; 
 Nor leave one wretciied trace behind 
 Resembling me. 
 
 Hark ! a strange sound affrights nunc ear ; 
 My pulse, my brain runs wild, — 1 rave ; 
 Ah! who art thou whose voice I heari' 
 " 1 am the Grave ! 
 
 " The Grave, that never spake before. 
 Hath found at lengtli a tongue to chide : 
 0, listen ! I will speak no more : 
 Be silent, pride ! 
 
 " Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn, 
 The victim of consuming care? 
 Is thy distracted conscience torn 
 By fell despair? 
 
 " Do foul misdeeds of former times 
 Wring with remorse thy guilty breast? 
 And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
 Murder thy rest? 
 
 " Lashed by the furies of tlie mind. 
 From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee? 
 Ah ! think not, hope not, fool ! to lind 
 A friend in me. 
 
 " By all the terrors of the tomb. 
 Beyond the power of tongue to tell ! 
 By the dread secrets of my womb ! 
 By death" and hell! 
 
 " I charge thee live ! repent and pray ; 
 In dust tliine infamy deplore ; 
 There yet is mercy ; go thy way, 
 And sin no more. 
 
 " Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known 
 The joy of innocent delights? 
 Endearing days forever flown. 
 
 And tranquil nights ? 
 
 "O, live! and deeply cherish still 
 Tin' sweet remembrance of the past : 
 Rely on Heaven's unchanging will 
 For peace at last. 
 
 " Art thon a wanderer? Hast thou seen 
 O'erwhelmiiig tempests drown thy hark ? 
 A siiipwrecked sull'ercr, hast thou been 
 Misfortune's mark ? 
 
 "Though long of winds and waves tiie sport, 
 Condenuicd in wretchedness to roam. 
 Live ! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, 
 A quiet home. 
 
 " To friendship didst thou trust thy fame ? 
 And was thy friend a deadly foe, 
 AVho stole into thy breast, to aim 
 A surer blow? 
 
 " Live ! and repine not o'er his loss, 
 A loss unworthy to be told : 
 Thou hast mistaken sordid dross 
 
 For friendship's gold. 
 
 " Go, seek that treasure, seldom found. 
 Of power tlie fiercest griefs to calm, 
 And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
 With heavenly balm. 
 
 " Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, 
 And did the fair one faithless prove ? 
 Ilatli she betrayed thee with her smile. 
 And sold thy love? 
 
 " Live ! 't was a false bewildering fire : 
 Too often love's insidious dart 
 Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, 
 But kills the heart. 
 
 " Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear. 
 To gaze on listening beauty's eye ! 
 To ask, — and pause iu hope and fear 
 Till she reply! 
 
 " A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
 A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
 Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
 In woman's love. 
 
 " Whate'er thy lot, wlioe'er tliou be. 
 Confess thy folly, — kiss the rod. 
 And in thy chastening sorrows see 
 Tlie hand of (lod. 
 
 " A ^)ruised reed lie will not break ; 
 Afflictions all his children feel; 
 He wounds them for his mercy's sake ; 
 He wounds to heal ! 
 
 " Humbled beneath his mighty hand. 
 Prostrate his Providence adore : 
 'T is done ! — Arise ! He bids thee stand. 
 To fall no more. 
 
 " Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! 
 To realms of everlasting light. 
 Through time's dark wilderness of years, 
 Pursue Ihy flight. 
 
 " There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary |)ilgrims found ; 
 And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
 Low in the ground ; 
 
 -d> 
 
#- 
 
 PRAYER. —A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 651 [ 
 
 ^- 
 
 " The soul, of origin divine, 
 God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
 lu heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
 A star of day ! 
 
 " The sun is but a spark of fire, 
 A transient meteor in the sky; 
 The soul, immortal as its sire. 
 
 Shall never die." 
 
 PEATER. 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 
 
 Uttered or unexpressed ; 
 The niotinu of a hidden lire 
 
 That trembles iu the hreast. 
 
 Prayer is tlic burden of a sigh. 
 
 The falling of a tear ; 
 The upward glancing of an eye, 
 
 When none but God is near. 
 
 Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
 
 That infant lips can try; 
 Prayer the subliuiest strains that reach 
 
 The Majesty on high. 
 
 Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 
 
 The Cliristiau's native air; 
 His watchword at tlic gates of death ; 
 
 He enters heaven by jn'aycr. 
 
 Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
 
 Returning from his ways ; 
 While angels in their songs rejoice, 
 
 And say, " Behold he prays ! " 
 
 The saints in prayer appear as one. 
 In word and deed and mind, 
 
 Wheu with the Father and his Son 
 Tiicir fellowsliip they find. 
 
 Nor prayer is made on earth alone-: 
 
 The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
 And Jesus, on the eternal throne, 
 
 For sinners intercedes. 
 
 O Thou, by whom we come to God, 
 The life, the truth, the way, 
 
 The path of prayer thyself hast trod : 
 Lord, teach us how to pray ! 
 
 HOME. 
 
 There is a land, of every laud the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light. 
 And milder moons emparadise the night; 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth. 
 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enciuanting shores, 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; 
 In every clime the magnet of liis soul. 
 Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; 
 For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace. 
 The licritage of nature's noblest race, 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
 AVhere man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride. 
 While in his softened looks benignly blend 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ; 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. 
 Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ! 
 In the clear heaven of her dclightfid eye. 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? 
 Art thou a man'? a patriot? look around; 
 O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 That laud ///y country, and tliat spot i/ii/ home ! 
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE, 
 
 A mother's love, — how sweet the name ! 
 
 What is a mother's love ? 
 — A noble, pure, and tender llame. 
 
 Enkindled from above. 
 To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
 The warmest love that can grow cold ; 
 
 This is a mother's love. 
 
 To bring a helpless babe to light, 
 
 Then, while it lies forlorn. 
 To gaze upon that dearest sight. 
 
 And feel herself new-born. 
 In its existence lose her own. 
 And live and breathe in it alone; 
 
 This is a mother's love. 
 
 Its weakness in her arms to bear ; 
 
 To cherish on her breast. 
 Feed it from love's own fountain there. 
 
 And lull it there to rest ; 
 Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath, 
 As if to guard from instant death ; 
 
 This is a mother's love. 
 
 To mark its growth from day to day. 
 
 Its opening charms admire. 
 Catch from its eye the earliest ray 
 
 Of intellectual fire ; 
 To smile and listen while it talks. 
 And lend a finger when it walks ; 
 
 This is a mother's love. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 Go:; 
 
 MONTGO.MHUY. 
 
 ■fp 
 
 fr 
 
 And Ciiii a mother's love grow cold y 
 
 Can slie forget lier buy ? 
 His pleading innocence behold. 
 
 Nor weep for grief — for joy ? 
 A mother may forget her cliilj, 
 While wolves devour it on the wild ; 
 
 Is this a mother's love ? 
 
 Ten thousand voices answer, " No ! " 
 
 Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; 
 Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; 
 
 Yet, ah! remember tiiis, — 
 Tiie infant, reared alone for earth, 
 May live, may die, — to curse his birth ; 
 
 — Is this a mother's love ? 
 
 A parent's licart may prove a suare ; 
 
 The child she loves so well. 
 Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 
 
 Down the smooth road to hell ; 
 Nourish its I'rame, — destroy its mind: 
 Thus do tlie blind mislead the bUud, 
 
 Even with a mother's love. 
 
 Blest infant ! whom his mother taught 
 
 Early to seek the Lord, 
 And poured upon his dawning tliouglit 
 
 The day-spring of the word ; 
 This was tlie lesson to her sou 
 
 — Time is eternity begun: 
 Bcliold that mother's love. 
 
 Blest mother ! who, in wisdom's path 
 
 By her own parent tiod. 
 Thus tauglit her son to flee the wratli, 
 
 And kuow the fear, of God ; 
 Ah. youtli ! like him enjoy your prime; 
 Begin eternity in time, 
 
 Tauglit by that mother's love. 
 
 That mother's love ! — how sweet the name ! 
 What was that mother's love ':' 
 
 — The noblest, purest, teuderest flame, 
 That kindles from above, 
 
 AVilliiu a heart of earthly mould, 
 As much of heaven as heart can iiold, 
 Nor tlirough eternity grows cold: 
 Tliis was that mother's love. 
 
 TO A DAISY. 
 
 Tmeke is a flower, a little flower 
 With silver crest and golden eye, 
 
 That welcomes every ciianging hour, 
 And weathers every sky. 
 
 The prouder beauties of the field 
 In gay but quick succession sliinc; 
 
 Race after race their honors yield. 
 They flourish and decline. 
 
 But this small flower, to Nature dear, 
 Wliile moons and stars their courses run, 
 
 Enwreathes the circle of the year, 
 Compauiou of the sun. 
 
 It smiles upon the lap of May, 
 
 To sultry August spreads its charm. 
 
 Lights pale October on his way, 
 And twines December's arm. 
 
 The pnrple heath and golden broom 
 On moory mountains catch the gale ; 
 
 O'er lawus the lily sheds perfume, 
 The violet iu the vale. 
 
 But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
 Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
 
 Plays on the margin of the rill. 
 Peeps round the fox's den. 
 
 Within the garden's cultured round 
 It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; 
 
 And blooms on consecrated ground 
 In honor of the dead. 
 
 The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
 
 The wild bee nuirmurs on its breast ; 
 Tiie blue-fly bends its ])ensile stem. 
 
 Light o'er the skylark's nest. 
 
 'T is Flora's page, — in every place. 
 In every season, fresh and fair ; 
 
 It opens with perennial grace. 
 And blossoms everywhere. 
 
 On waste and woodland, rock and phiiu, 
 Its liumble buds unheeded rise ; 
 
 The rose lias but a summer rcigu; 
 The daisv never dies ! 
 
 FEIENDS. 
 
 Friend after friend departs; 
 
 Wlio liatii not lost a friend? 
 There is no union here of hearts 
 
 Tiial fiiuls not here an end ! 
 Were this fr;iil world our linal rest. 
 Living or dying none were blest. 
 
 Beyond the flight of time, — 
 Beyond the reign of death, — 
 
 There surely is some blessed clime 
 Where life is not a breath ; 
 
 Nor life's affections transient fire. 
 
 Whose sparks fly upwards and expire ! 
 
 There is a world above 
 
 Wheix' parting is unknown ! 
 
 A long eternity of love 
 
 Formed for the good alone ; 
 
 W 
 
<& 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. — THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND. 
 
 G53 
 
 -a 
 
 fr 
 
 And faith beholds the dying here 
 Translated to that glorious sphere ! 
 
 Thus star by star deeliiies 
 
 Till all are past away ; 
 As morning high and liigher shines 
 
 To pure and perfect day : 
 Nor sink, tliose stars in empty night, 
 But hide themselves in heaven's own light. 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 Once, in the (light of ages jiast, 
 
 There lived a man : and who was he ? 
 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 That man resembled thee. 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth, 
 
 The land in which lie died unknown : 
 
 His name has perished from the earth. 
 This truth survives aloue : 
 
 That joy and grief and liojic and fear. 
 Alternate triumphed in his breast ; 
 
 His bliss and woe, — a smUe, a tear ! 
 Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
 The changing spirits' rise and fall ; 
 
 We know that these were felt by him. 
 For these are felt by all. 
 
 He suffered, — b\it his pangs are o'er ; 
 
 Enjoyed, — but his delights arc fled; 
 Had friends, — his friends are now uo more ; 
 
 And foes, — his foes are dead. 
 
 He loved, — but wluuu lie loved the grave 
 Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
 
 0, she was fair ! but naught could save 
 Her beauty from the tomb. 
 
 He saw whatever tliou hast seen ; 
 
 Encountered all that troubles thee : 
 He was — whatever thou hast been; 
 
 He is, — what tliwu slialt be. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 
 ErewhUe liis portion, life, and light. 
 To him exist in vain. 
 
 The clouds aud sunbeams, o'er liis eye 
 That ouee their shades and glory threw, 
 
 Have left in yonder silent sky 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 The annals of the human race. 
 
 Their ruins, since tiic world began, 
 
 Of Him afi'ord no other trace 
 
 Than this, — there lived a man ! 
 
 THE SOUL'S LONGING FOR ITS HOME. 
 
 Here in the body pent. 
 Absent from Him 1 roam. 
 
 Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
 A day's march nearer home. 
 
 THOMAS DIBDIN. 
 
 1771-1841. 
 
 THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND. 
 
 Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say, 
 
 " If ever I lived upon dry land, 
 The spot I should hit on would be Little Britain!" 
 Says Freedom," Why, that's my own island! " 
 O, it 's a snug little island ! 
 A right little, tight little island ! 
 Search the globe round, none can be found 
 So hapjiy as this little island. 
 
 Julius Caesar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, 
 Came by water, — lie could n't come by land ; 
 And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turned 
 their backs on. 
 And all for the sake of our island. 
 ( ), what a snug little island ; 
 They 'd all have a touch at the island ; 
 Some were shot dead, some of them fled. 
 And some stayed to live on the island. 
 
 Then a very great war-man, called Billy the 
 Norman, 
 Cried, "Hang it, I never liked my land. 
 It would be much more handy, to leave this Nor- 
 mandy, 
 And live on your beautiful island." 
 
 Says he, " 'T is a snug little island ; 
 Sha' n't us go visit tlie island ? " 
 Hop, skip, and jump, there he was ])lump. 
 And he kicked up a dust in the island. 
 
 But party deceit helped the Normans to beat ; 
 
 Of traitors they managed to buy land ; 
 By Dane, Saxon, or Piet, Britons ne'er had been 
 licked. 
 Had they stuck to the king of their island. 
 Poor Harold, the king of our island ! 
 He lost both his life and his island. 
 That 's all very true : what more couhl he do? 
 Like a Briton he died for his island ! 
 
 The Spanish armada sot out to invade — a, 
 'T will sure, if they ever come nigh land. 
 They could n't do less than tuck up Queen Bess, 
 And take their full swing on the island. 
 the poor Queen of the island ! 
 Tlie Dons came to plunder the island ; 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 054 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 But snug in her hive, the queen was aUve, 
 And " buzj; " was the word of the ibland. 
 
 Tlicse proud puffcd-up cakes thought to make 
 ducks and drakes 
 Of our wealtli ; but they hardly could spy land, 
 When our Drake had the luck to make their j)ride 
 duek 
 And stoop to the lads of the island ! 
 The good wooden walls of the island ; 
 Devil or Don, let tlicm come on ; 
 
 And see how they'd come oft' the island I 
 
 Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept 
 
 lime. 
 
 In each saying, " This shall be my land" ; 
 
 Should the " Army of England," or all it could 
 
 bring, land, 
 
 We 'd show 'em some play for the island. 
 
 We 'd figlit for our right to the island ; 
 We 'd give them enough of the island ; 
 Invaders should just — bite once at the 
 dust, 
 But not a bit more of the island. 
 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 Desekted by the waning moon, 
 
 When skies proclaim night's cheerless uoon, 
 
 On tower or fort or tented ground 
 
 The sentry walks his lonely round ; 
 
 .\iid should a footstep haply stray 
 
 AVhcre caution marks the guarded way, 
 
 Who goes there ? Stranger, quickly tell ; 
 
 A friend — the word. Good night; all 's well. 
 
 Or sailing on the midnight deep. 
 When weary messmates soundly sleep. 
 The careful watcli jiatrols the deck. 
 To guard the ship from foes or wreck ; 
 And while his thoughts oft homewards veer. 
 Some friendly voice salutes his ear, — 
 ■Wliat cheer? brother, quickly tell; 
 Above — below. Goodnigiit; all 's well. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 1773-1835. 
 
 KILMENT. 
 
 V- 
 
 Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 
 But it wasua to meet Duneira's men, 
 Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 
 For Kilmeny was pure as pure eouhl be. 
 It was only to hear the Yorlin sing. 
 And pu' the cress-flower round the spring. 
 
 The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry. 
 
 And the nut that iiung frae the hazel-tree; 
 For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
 But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', 
 And hing may she seek i' the greenwood shaw ; 
 Lang the laird of Duneira blame. 
 And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hamc. 
 
 When many a day had come and fled. 
 When grief grew cabn, and hope was dead, 
 AV'hcn mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, 
 ^\'hcn the bedesman had prayed, and the dead- 
 bell rung. 
 Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still. 
 When the fringe was red on the wcstlin hill, 
 The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
 The reek o' the cot hung over the plain. — 
 Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane, — 
 When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, 
 Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame ! 
 
 " Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 
 Lang hae we sought baith holt and can ; 
 ]\v linn, by ford, and greenwood tree ; 
 Yet you are halcsome and fair to see. 
 Where gat you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
 That bonny snood of the birk sae green? 
 And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? 
 Kiliiiiiiy, Kilmeny, where have you been? " 
 
 Kilmeny looked U]) with a lovely grace, 
 But nae smile was seen on Kilmeuy's face i 
 As still was her look, and as still was her c'c. 
 As the stillness that lay on the emcrant lea, 
 Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
 For Kilmeny had been slie knew not where, 
 And Kilmeny had seen what she could notdeclarc; 
 Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 
 Where the rain never fell, and the wind never 
 
 blew ; 
 But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung. 
 And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, 
 Wlien she spake of the lovely forms she had seen. 
 And a land where sin had never been, — 
 A land of love, and a land of light, 
 AV'itlioutcn sun or moon or night ; . 
 AVIiere the river swa'd a living stream, 
 .\nd the light a pure celestial beam : 
 The land of vision it would seem, 
 A still, an everlasting dream. 
 
 Li yon greenwood there is a walk, 
 And in that walk there is a wcne, 
 
 And in that wene there is a maike, 
 That neitlier has flcsli nor blood nor banc ; 
 .\ud down in yon greenwood he walks his lane. 
 
 Li thatgrecu wene Kilmeny lay. 
 Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay ; 
 But the air was soft, aiul the silence deep, 
 And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep; 
 
 -P 
 
(&■ 
 
 KILMENY. 
 
 65o 
 
 ■n> 
 
 Slie kemied uae malr, nor opened lier e'e, 
 Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 
 
 She 'wakened on a couch of the silk sae shm, 
 All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim, 
 And lovely beings around were rife, 
 Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
 Aud aye they smiled, and 'gau to speer ; 
 " What spirit has brought this mortal here ! " 
 
 " Lang have I journeyed the world wide," 
 A meek aud reverend fere replied ; 
 " Baitli night and day I have watched the fair 
 Eident a thousand years and mair. 
 Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree, 
 Wherever blooms femenitye ; 
 But sinless virgin, free of stain. 
 In mind and body, fand I nane. 
 Never, since the banquet of time, 
 Foimd I a virgin in her prime, 
 Till late this bonny maiden I saw, 
 As spotless as the morning snaw. 
 Full twenty years she has hved as free 
 As the siiirits that sojourn in this countrye. 
 I have brought her away frae the snares of men. 
 That sin or death she may never ken." 
 
 They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair; 
 They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair ; 
 Aud round came many a blooming fere. 
 Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye 're welcome here ; 
 Women are freed of the littand scorn ; 
 O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
 Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
 Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
 Many a lang year in sorrow and pain. 
 Many a lang year through the world we 've gane, 
 Commissioned to wateh fair womankind, 
 For it's they who nurice the immortal mind. 
 We have watched their steps as the dawning 
 
 shone, 
 And deep in the greenwood walks alone ; 
 By lily bower and silken bed 
 The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 
 Have soothed their ardent nnnds to sleep. 
 Or left the couch of love to weep. 
 We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time must 
 
 come. 
 And the angels will weep at the day of doom ! 
 
 " 0, would the fairest of mortal kind 
 Aye keep the holy truths in mind. 
 That kindred spirits their motions see. 
 Who watch their ways with anxious e'e, 
 And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 
 O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer. 
 And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
 Aud dear to Heiiven the words of truth 
 And tlie praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 
 
 fr 
 
 And dear to the viewless forms of air 
 The minds that kythe as tlie body fair ! 
 
 " bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain, 
 If ever you seek the world again, — 
 That world of sin, of sorrow and fear, — 
 0, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 
 Aud tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
 Of the times that are now, and the times that 
 
 shall be." 
 They lifted Kihneny, they led her away, 
 Aud she walked in the light of a sunless day ; 
 The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 
 The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
 The emerald fields were of dazzling glow. 
 And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
 Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 
 That her youth aud beauty never might fade ; 
 And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 
 In the stream of life that wandered by. 
 And she lieard a song, — she heard it sung. 
 She kenn'd not where ; but sae sweetly it rung. 
 It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn, — 
 " O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
 Now shall the land of the spirits see. 
 Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
 The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
 A borrowed gleidfrae the fountain of light ; 
 And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun. 
 Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun. 
 Shall wear away, aud be seen nae mair ; 
 And the angels shall miss them, travelling the air. 
 But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
 When the sun and the world have edyed away. 
 When the sinner has gane to his wacsome doom, 
 Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom ! " 
 
 They bore lier away, she wist not how, 
 For she felt not arm nor rest below ; 
 But so swift they waiued her through Ihc light, 
 'T was like the motion of sound or sight; 
 They seemed to split the gales of air, 
 And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 
 Unnumbered groves below them grew ; 
 They came, they past, and backward ilew, 
 Like floods of blossoms gliding on. 
 In moment seen, in moment gone. 
 O, never vales to mortal view 
 A])peared like those o'er which they flew. 
 That land to human spirits given. 
 The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 
 From wliencc they can view the world below. 
 And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow, — 
 More glory yet unmeet to know. 
 
 They bore her far to a mountain green, 
 To see what mortal never had seen ; 
 Aud they seated her high on a purple sward. 
 And bade her heed Avliat she saw and heard. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 G5G HOGG. 
 
 -^-Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And note tlie changes the spirits wrought; 
 For now she lived in the hmd of tlioiight. 
 Slie kioked, and slie saw nor sun nor skies, 
 But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes ; 
 She looked, and she saw nae laud aright, 
 But an endless whirl of glory and light ; 
 And radiant beings went and came. 
 Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame ; 
 She hid her een frae the dazzling view; 
 She looked again, and the scene was new. 
 
 She saw a sun on a summer sky, 
 And clouds of amber sailing by ; 
 A lovely land beneath her lay. 
 And that land had gleus and mountains gray; 
 And that land had valleys and hoary piles. 
 And marled seas, and a thousand isles ; 
 Its fields were speckled, its forests green. 
 And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 
 Like magic mirrors, where sluinbcriug lay 
 Tlie siui aud the sky and the cloudlet gray, 
 Wliich iieaved and trembled, and gently swung; 
 On every shore they seemed to be hung ; 
 For there they were seen on their downward 
 
 plain 
 A thousand times and a thousand again ; 
 In winding lake and placid flrth. 
 Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. 
 
 Kilmeny sighed aud seemed to grieve, 
 For she found her lieart to tliat land did cleave ; 
 She saw the corn wave on the vale ; 
 She saw the deer run down tiie dale ; 
 She saw the plaid and the broad claymore. 
 And the brows that the badge of freedom bore ; 
 Aud she thought she had seen the laud before. 
 
 She saw a lady sit on a throne. 
 The fairest tliat ever the sun shone on ! 
 A lion licked her hand of milk. 
 And siie held him in a leish of silk, 
 Aud a leifu' maiden stood at iier knee. 
 With a silver waud and melting e'e, — 
 Her sovereign shield, till love stole in. 
 And poisoned all the fount within. 
 
 Tlu'u a gruir, untoward bedesman came, 
 Aud hnndit the lion on his dame ; 
 And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless e'e, 
 She dropped a tear and left her knee ; 
 And slie .saw till the queen frae tlie lion fled. 
 Till the l)oniiicst flower of the world lay dead ; 
 A colliu was set on a distant plain, 
 And slic saw the red blood fall like rain. 
 Then bonny Kilmcny's lieart grew sair, 
 And she turned away, and CDuhl look iiac mail'. 
 
 Then the gruff, grim carle girin'd amain, 
 And lliey trampled him down, — but he rose 
 again ; 
 
 And he baited tiie lion to deeds of weir. 
 Till lie lapped the blood to the kingdom dear: 
 And, weening iiis licad was dauger-precf 
 When crowned witii the rose and clover leaf. 
 He growled at tiie carle, and chased him away 
 To feed wi' the deer on tiie mountain gray. 
 He growled at the carle, aud he gecked at 
 
 Heaven ; 
 But his mark was set, and his arles given. 
 Kilmeny awliile her een withdrew ; 
 She looked again, and the scene was new. 
 
 She saw below her, fair unfurled. 
 One half of all the growing world. 
 Where oceans rolled and rivers ran, 
 To bound the aims of sinful man. 
 Slie saw a people fierce and fell. 
 Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
 Tliere lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 
 Aiul she herked on her ravening crew. 
 Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a blaze. 
 And tlie thunder it roared o'er the lands and the 
 
 seas. 
 The widows they wailed, and the red blood ran, 
 And she threatened an end to the race of man ; 
 She never lened, nor stood in awe. 
 Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
 O, then the eagle swinked for life. 
 And lu'ainzelled up a mortal strife ; 
 But flew she north, or flew she south. 
 She met wi' tiie growl of the lion's nioutli. 
 
 With a mooted wing and waefu' maeu. 
 The eagle sought her eiry again ; 
 But lang may she cower in her bloody nest. 
 And lang, lang sleek iier wounded breast, 
 Before siie sey another flight, 
 To play wi' the norland lion's might. 
 
 But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw. 
 So far sur]iassing Nature's law. 
 The singer's voice wad sink away. 
 And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 
 But she saw till tiie sorrows of man were by, 
 And all was love and harmony ; 
 Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, 
 Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 
 
 Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
 The friends she had left in her own countrye. 
 To tell of the ]ihiee where she had been, 
 And the ghn-ics that lay in the land unseen ; 
 To warn the living maidens fair, 
 The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, 
 That all whose minds unineled remain 
 Shall bloom in beauty when time is gaue. 
 
 With distant music, soft and deep, 
 They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep; 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 THE SKYLARK.— THE WOMEN EO'K. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Oo( 
 
 fr 
 
 And \ilicu slie awakened, she lay her lane. 
 
 All happed with flowers in the greenwood 
 
 wene. 
 When seven long years had come and fled ; 
 When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
 "Wlien scarce was remembered Kilnieny's name. 
 Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame ! 
 And 0, her beauty was fair to see. 
 But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
 Such beauty bard may never declare. 
 For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
 And the soft desire of maidens' een. 
 In that mild face could never be seen. 
 Her seymar was the lily flower, 
 And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; 
 And her voice like the distant melodye 
 That floats along tlie twilight sea. 
 But she loved to raike the lanely glen. 
 And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 
 Her iioly hynms unheard to sing, 
 To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 
 But wherever her peacefvd form appeared, 
 Tlio wild beasts of the hills were cheered ; 
 The wolf played blithely roimd the field, 
 The lordly bison lowed and kneeled ; 
 The dun deer wooed with manner bland, 
 And cowered aneath her lily hand. 
 And when at even the woodlands rung. 
 When hymns of other worlds she sung 
 In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
 O, then the glen was all in motion ! 
 The wild beasts of the forest came. 
 Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame. 
 And goved around, ciiarmed and amazed ; 
 Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 
 And murmured and looked with anxious pain, 
 for something the mystery to explain. 
 The buzzard came with the throstle-eock, 
 The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
 The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
 The liind came tripping o'er the dew ; 
 The wolf and the kid their raike began ; 
 And the tod, and the Iamb, and the leveret 
 
 ran ; 
 The hawk and the hem atour them hung. 
 And the nierl and the mavis foriiooyed their 
 
 young ; 
 And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : 
 It was like aneve in a sinless world ! 
 
 When a month and a day had come and 
 gane, 
 Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene ; 
 There laid her down on the leaves sae green, 
 And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
 But O, the words that fell from her mouth 
 Were words of wonder, and words of truth ! 
 But all the laud were in fear and dread, 
 
 For they kenned na whether she was living 
 
 dead. 
 It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain; 
 She left this world of sorrow and pain, 
 And returned to the laud of thought again. 
 
 THE SKTLAKK. 
 
 BiKD of the wilderness, 
 
 BUthesome and cumberless. 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 
 0, to abide in tlie desert with thee ! 
 
 Wild is thy lay and loud, 
 
 Far in the downy cloud. 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
 
 Where, on thy dewy wing. 
 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green. 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim. 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes. 
 
 Low in the heather blooms 
 Sweet will Ihy welcome and bed of love be ! 
 
 Emblem of iiappincss. 
 
 Blest is tliy dwelling-place, — 
 0, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 THE WOMEN FO'K.* 
 
 O, s.viRLY may I rue the day 
 
 I fancied first the womcnkind; 
 For aye sinsyne I ne'er can liae 
 
 Ac quiet thougiit or peace o' mind ! 
 They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e. 
 An' teased an' flattered me at will, , 
 
 But aye, for a' their witchcrye. 
 The pawky things I lo'o them still. 
 
 O the women fo'k ! the women fo'k ! 
 But they hae been the wreck o' me ; 
 O weary fa' the women fo'k. 
 For they winna let a l)ody be ! 
 
 I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, 
 I 've studied them wi' a" my skill, 
 
 * " The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music 
 I)y Heather, aud most beautifully set too. It was aftenvavda 
 set l>y llewar. whether with the same acconipaninieilts or not, 
 I have forgot. It is my own favorite liuuiorous.soll;!, when 
 forced to sing hy ladies against my will, which too frequently 
 happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild.it «iU 
 neicr lie sung hy any so well again." — Hogg's Iniroiliic- 
 tion. 
 
 -9> 
 
(&■ 
 
 658 HOGG. 
 
 -ft 
 
 V- 
 
 I 've lo'd them better than mysell, 
 I 've tried agaiu to like tlicm ill. 
 
 Wlia sairest strives, will saircst rue, 
 To comprehend what nae man can ; 
 
 T^Hien he has done what man can do. 
 
 He '11 end at last where lie began. 
 
 the women fo'k, etc. 
 
 That they hae gentle forms an' meet, 
 
 A man wi' half a look may see ; 
 An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, 
 
 An' waving curls aboon the bree ; 
 An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud. 
 
 And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare, 
 Wad lure the laverock frae tlie cludd, — 
 
 But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair ! 
 O the women fo'k, etc. 
 
 Even but this niglit nae farther gane, 
 
 The date is neither lost nor lang, 
 I tak ye witness ilka ane. 
 
 How fell they fought, and fairly dang. 
 Their point they 've carried right or wraug. 
 
 Without a reason, rhyme, or law. 
 An' forced a man to sing a sang. 
 That ne'er could sing a verse ava. 
 
 the women fo'k! the women fo'k ! 
 But they hae been tlic wreck o' me ; 
 weary fa' the women fo'k, 
 For they winna let a body be ! 
 
 THE MAD) OF THE SEA.* 
 
 Come from the sea. 
 
 Maiden, to me. 
 Maiden of mystery, love, a:id pain ! 
 
 Wake from thy sleep, 
 
 Low in the deep, 
 Over thy green waves sport again ! 
 Come to this sequestered spot, love, 
 Death 's wliere thou art, as where thou art not, 
 love ; 
 
 Then come unto nie. 
 
 Maid of the Sea, 
 Rise from the wild and stormy main ; 
 
 • "This is one of the many songs which Moore caused me 
 to cancel, for nothing that 1 know of, Ijut because they ran 
 counter to his. It is quite natural and reasonable that an 
 autlior sliould claim a copyright of a sentiment ; iiut it never 
 struck iiie that it coultl he so exclusively his, as that another 
 had not a right to coiitrailict it. This, however, seenw to he 
 the case in the London law ; for true it is that my songs were 
 cancelled, and the pulilic may now judge on what grounds, by 
 comparing them with Mr. .Moore's. I liavc neither forgot nor 
 forgiven it; and I have a great mind to force liiiu to cancel 
 Lritlu Roukh fur stealing it wholly from the (Quern's truie, 
 which is so apparent In tlie plan, that cvi'ry London judge will 
 give it in my favor, although he ventured only on the character 
 of one accomplished bard, and I on seventeen. He had better 
 have let my [cw trivial songs alone. It was once set to music 
 by Smith." —Hogg's Tntruduction. 
 
 Wake from thy sleep, 
 Calm in the deep. 
 Over thy green waves sport again ! 
 
 Is not the wave 
 
 Made for the slave, 
 Tyrant's chains, and stern control ; 
 
 Land for the free 
 
 Spirit like thee ? 
 Thing of delight to a rainstrel's soul, 
 Come, with thy soug of love and of sadness, 
 Beauty of face and rapture of maduess; 
 
 O, come unto ine, 
 
 Maid of the Sea, 
 Rise from the wild and surging main ; 
 
 Wake from thy sleep. 
 
 Calm in the deep. 
 Over thy green waves sport again ! 
 
 THEEE 'S GOWD IN THE BREAST, 
 
 TuEKE 's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, 
 
 An' sUler in every blossom ; 
 There 's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, 
 
 And health in the wildwood's bosom. 
 Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, 
 
 When warbling birds sing o'er us : 
 Sweet nature for us lias no alloy. 
 
 And the world is all before us. 
 
 The courtier joys in bustle and power. 
 
 The soldier in war-steeds bounding. 
 The miser in hoards of treasured ore, 
 
 The proud in their pomp surrounding : 
 But wo hae yon heaven, sae bonny and blue. 
 
 And laverocks skimming out o'er us ; 
 The breezes of health and the valleys of dew, — 
 
 O, the world is all before us ! 
 
 THE HARP OF 0S8IAN,* 
 
 Old harp of the Highlands, how long hast thou 
 slumbered 
 
 In eave of the eorrci, uugarnislied, unstrung ! 
 Thy minstrels no more with thy lieroos are 
 numbered. 
 
 Or deeds of thy heroes no more dare be sung. 
 A seer late heard, from thy cavern ascending, 
 
 A low sounding chime, as of sorrow and dole. 
 Some spirit unseen on the relic attending, 
 
 Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul : 
 
 * " I have been sorely blamed by some friends for n sentiment 
 expressed in this song; but 1 have always felt it painfully 
 that the name of Scotland, the superior nation in everything 
 but wealth, should be lost, not in lirilain, for that is iiroper, 
 hut in England. In all despatches m-c are deiioniinaled the 
 Entflisfi, forsooth ! We know ourselves, however, that wc are 
 not English, nor ever iutend lo be." — Hogg's Introduction. 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 A FATHER'S LAMENT. — CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. C59 
 
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 fr 
 
 " My country, farewell ! for the days are expired 
 
 On which I could hallow the deeds of the free ; 
 Thy heroes have all to new houors aspired, 
 
 They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me. 
 All lost is our sway, aud the name of our nation 
 
 Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe ; 
 Then wliy should the lay of our last degradation 
 
 Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow ? 
 
 "My coimtry, farewell ! for the murmurs of sorrow 
 
 Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become ; 
 Iler sous condescend from new models to borrow, 
 
 Aud voices of strangers prevail in the hum. 
 Hcforc the smooth face of our Saxon invaders 
 
 Is quenched the last ray in the eye of the free ; 
 Then, O, let me rest in the caves of my fatliers. 
 
 Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee ! " 
 
 A FATHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 How can you bid this heart be blithe, 
 
 When blitlie this heart can never be? 
 I 've lost the jewel from my crown, — 
 
 Look round our circle, and you '11 see 
 That there is ane out o' the ring 
 
 Wlio never can forgotten be, — 
 Ay. tliere 's a blauk at my right hand 
 
 That ne'er can be made np to me ! 
 
 'T is said as water wears the rock. 
 
 That time wears out the deepest line ; 
 It. may be true wi' hearts enow. 
 
 But never can apply to mine. 
 For 1 have learned to know and feel — 
 
 Though losses should forgotten be — • 
 That still tlie blank at my right hand 
 
 Can never be made up to me ! 
 
 I blame not Providence's sway, 
 
 For I have many joys beside, 
 Aud fain would I in grateful way 
 
 Enjoy the same, whate'er betide. 
 A mortal tiling should ne'er repine, 
 
 But stoop to the Supreme decree ; 
 Yet, 0, the blank at my right hand 
 
 Can never be made up to me ! 
 
 WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY. 
 
 O, WUAT will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggy gangs awav ? 
 0, what will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggy gangs away ? 
 There 's no' a heart in a' the glen 
 
 That disna dread the day. 
 O, what will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 Young Jock has ta'en the hill for 't, — 
 
 A waefu' wight is he ; 
 Poor Harry 's ta'en the bed for 't, 
 
 An' laid him down to dee ; 
 An' Sandy 's gane unto the kirk, 
 
 Aud learnin' fast to pray. 
 And, O, what will the lads do 
 
 When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw 
 
 Has drunk her health in wine ; 
 The priest has said — in confidence — 
 
 The lassie was divine, — 
 And that is mair in maiden's praise 
 
 Than ony priest should say : 
 But, O, what will the lads do 
 
 When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 The wailing in our green glen 
 
 That day will quaver high, 
 'T will draw the redbreast frae the wood. 
 
 The laverock frae the sky ; 
 The fairies frae their beds o' dew 
 
 W^ill rise an' join the lay : 
 An' hey ! what a day will be 
 
 When Maggy gangs away ! 
 
 CBAKLIE IS MY DARLING. 
 
 'T WAS on a Monday morning. 
 
 Right early in the year. 
 That Charlie came to our town. 
 The young Clievalier. 
 
 An' Charlie is my darling. 
 My darling, my darling, 
 Charlie is my darling. 
 The young Chevalier. 
 
 As Charlie he came up the gate, 
 His face shone like the day ; 
 
 I grat to see the lad eome back 
 That had been lang away. 
 
 An' Charlie is my darling, etc. 
 
 Then ilka bonny lassie sang. 
 
 As to the door she ran. 
 Our king shall liae his ain again. 
 
 An' Charlie is the man ; 
 
 For Charlie he 's my darling, etc. 
 
 Outowcr yon moory mountain. 
 
 An' down the craigy glen, 
 Of naethiiig else our lasses sing 
 
 But Charlie an' his men. 
 
 All' Charlie he 's my darling, etc. 
 
 Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, 
 An' glow without a stain ; 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 660 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Our Highland swords are metal keen, 
 An' Charlie he 's our ain. 
 An' Cliarlie he 's my darling, 
 
 My darlijig, my darling; 
 Charlie he 's my darling. 
 The young Clievalier. 
 
 KEG 0' IIAELET.* 
 
 O, KEN ye Meg o' Marley glen, 
 
 The bonny blue-e'ed dearie ? 
 She 's played the deil amang the men. 
 
 An' a' the land 's grown eery. 
 She 's stown tlie " Bangor" frae the clerk, 
 
 An' snooled him wi' t he shame o't ; 
 The minister 's I'a'ii through the text, 
 
 An' 
 
 Meg gets a' the blame o't. 
 
 ^ 
 
 The ploughman ploughs witliout the sock ; 
 
 The gadman whistles sparely ; 
 The shepherd pines amang his flock. 
 
 An' turns his een to Marley ; 
 The tailor lad 's fa'n ower the bed ; 
 
 The cobbler ca 's a parley ; 
 The weaver's neb 's out through the web, 
 
 An' a' for Meg o' Marley. 
 
 Wliat's to be done, for our gudeman 
 
 Is flyting late an' early ? 
 He rises but to curse an' ban. 
 
 An' sits down but to ferly. 
 But ne'er had love a brighter lowe 
 
 Than light his torches sparely 
 At tlie briglit een an' blilhesonie brow 
 
 0' bonny Meg u' Marley. 
 
 BONNY MAET.t 
 
 WnERf; Yarrow rows amang tlie rocks. 
 
 An' wheels an' boils in mony a linn, 
 A brisk young shepherd fed his Hocks, 
 
 Unused to wraiiglcment or din ; 
 But love its silken net had thrown 
 
 Around his breast, so brisk an' airy. 
 An' his blue eyes wi' moisture slione, 
 
 As thus he sang of bonny Mary. 
 
 • " NoETH. You were once so good as to flatter me, by say- 
 ing that 1 ought to go into Parlmnient. Xow, James, if you 
 wish it, I 'II liring you in. ^ 
 
 "Shki'iikrd. I liacna the least amhition. Sne far frae envy- 
 ing the glory o' the orators i' that house, 1 wadna swap am- o' 
 luy aiii wee hits o' snugs wi' tlic langest-winiUt speech that 
 has l)een ' Hear! lu-nr'il ! ' tliis session. 
 
 "TicKi.KR. James, let us liavc Meg o' Marley.'* — Nodes 
 Amhrosiantr. 
 
 t "TlcKLKE, Kqnnl to anything in Burns! 
 
 " North. Not a l)etler in nil George Thomson's eolleetion. 
 Thank you, James, — God hless you, James. Give me vour 
 hand. You 're a most admirahle fellow, and there 's no end to 
 your genius. 
 
 " SllKPHKED. A man may hesnir mista'en ahout many things, 
 
 Mary, thou 'rt sae mild and sweet, 
 My very being clings about thee; 
 
 Tills heart would rather cease to heat. 
 Than beat a lonely thing without thee. 
 
 1 see thee in the evening beam, — 
 A radiant, glorious apjiarition ; 
 
 I see thee in the midnight dream, 
 By the dim light of lieavcnly vision ! 
 
 Wlien over Benger's haughty head 
 
 The morning breaks in streaks sae bonny, 
 1 climb the mountain's velvet side. 
 
 For quiet rest I get nae ony. 
 How dear the lair on yon hill cheek, 
 
 Where many a weary hour I tarry. 
 For there I see the twisting reek 
 
 Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary ! 
 
 When Pho?bus keeks outower the muir, 
 
 His gowden locks a' streaming gayly ; 
 When Morn has breathed her fiagrancc pure. 
 
 An' life an' joy ring through the valley, 
 I drive my flocks to yonder brook, — 
 
 The feeble in my arms I carry, 
 Then every lammie's harmless look 
 
 Brings to my mind my bonny Mary ! 
 
 Oft has the lark sung ower my head, 
 
 And siiook the dewdrops frae his wing, — 
 Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed. 
 
 An' round their shepherd formed a ring. 
 Their looks condole the lee-lang day. 
 
 While mine are fixed and never vary. 
 Aye turning down the westlin brae. 
 
 Where dwells my loved, my bomiy Mary ! 
 
 When gloaming, creeping west the lift, 
 
 Wraps in deep shadow dcU and dingle, 
 An' lads an' lasses mak a shift 
 
 To raise some fun around tlie ingle, 
 Regardless o' the wind or rain, 
 
 Wi' cautious step and prospect wary, 
 I often trace tlie lonely glen 
 
 To steal a sight o' bonny Mary ! 
 
 Wlicn midnight draws her curtain deep. 
 An' lays the breeze amang the bushes, 
 
 An' Yarrow in her sounding sweep. 
 By rock and ruin raves and rushes, 
 
 sic as yepics, an' tragedies, an' tales, an' even lang set elegies 
 nhnut the death o' great public characters, nn' hymns, an' 
 odes, an' the like, but he eanna be mista'en about n sang. As 
 sune as it 's down on the sclate, I ken whriber it 'a gude, bad. 
 or middlin'. If ony o' the twa last, I dight it out wi' my 
 elbow, — if the first, I copy it ower into writ, and then get it 
 atr by heart, when it 'a as sure o' no being lost as it war en- 
 gi'nven on a brass plate. For though I line a treneherous 
 memory about things in ordinnr, a* my hnjip) snugs will clen\e 
 to my heart till my dying day ; an' 1 shniildiin wonder gin ] 
 war to croon a verse or twa frne some o' them on my death- 
 bed." — Nodes Amhrosianir, No. XXVII. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 AULD JOE NICHOLSON'S NANNY. 
 
 GGl 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Tliuugh suuk iu deep and quiet sleep, 
 i[y fancy wings her fliglit so aiiy, 
 
 Tu whoi-e sweet guardian spirits keep 
 Their watch around tlie couch of Mary ! 
 
 The exile may forget his home 
 
 Where blooming youth to niauhood grew ; 
 The bee forget the honeycomb, 
 
 Nor witli the spring his toil renew ; 
 The sun may lose his light and heat, 
 
 The planets in their rounds miscarry, 
 Hut my fond heart shall cease to beat 
 
 When I forget my bonuy Mary ! 
 
 LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS,* 
 
 I LATELY lived in quiet case, 
 
 An' never wished to marry, ! 
 But when I saw my Peggy's face, 
 
 I felt a sad quandary, ! 
 Tliough wild as ony Atliol deer, 
 
 Slie has trepanned me fairly, O ! 
 Her cherry cheeks au' een sae clear 
 Torment me late an' early, ! 
 0, love, love, love ! 
 
 Love is like a dizziness ; 
 It wiuua let a poor body 
 Gang about his biziness ! 
 
 To tell my feats this single week 
 
 Wad mak a daft-like diary, O ! 
 I drave my cart outower a dike. 
 
 My horses in a miry, O ! 
 I wear my stockings white an' blue. 
 
 My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O ! 
 I drill tlie land that I should plough. 
 
 An' plough the drills entirely, O ! 
 O, love, love, love ! etc. 
 
 Ac moniing, by the dawn o' day, 
 
 I rase to theek the stable, O ! 
 I keust my coat, an' plied away 
 
 As fast as I was able, O ! 
 I wrouglit that morning out an' out, 
 
 As I 'd been redding fire, O ! 
 AVhen I had done an' looked about, 
 
 Gudefaith, it was the byre, O ! 
 O, love, love, love ! etc. 
 
 Her wily glance I '11 ne'er forget, 
 
 The dear, the lovely blinkin o't 
 Has pierced me through an' through the heart, 
 
 Au' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't. 
 
 * " Tlie following ridiculous song, whicli was written twenty- 
 six years ago, lias been so long a favorite with the country 
 tads and lasses, that for their salves I insert it, knowing very 
 well they would he much disappointed at missing it outof this 
 volume.'* — Note to " Songs hij the Ettrick Shepherd." 
 
 ^&— 
 
 I tried to sing, I tried to pray, 
 
 ' I tried to drown 't wi' drinkiu' o't, 
 I tried wi' sport to drive 't away. 
 But ne'er can sleep for think in' o't. 
 O, love, love, love ! etc. 
 
 Nae man can tell what pains I prove, 
 
 Or how severe my pliskie, O ! 
 I swear I 'ni sairer drunk wi' love 
 
 Thau ever I was wi' wliiskey, O ! 
 For love has raked me fore an' aft, 
 
 I scarce can lift a leggie, O ! 
 I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft. 
 An' soon I '11 dee for Peggy, O ! 
 O, love, love, love ! 
 
 Love is like a dizziness ; 
 It winna let a poor body 
 Gang about his biziness ! 
 
 AULD JOE NICHOLSON'S NANNY. 
 
 The diiisy is fair, the day-lily rare, 
 
 Tiie bud o' the rose as sweet as it 's bonuy ; 
 But there ne'er was a flower, in garden or bower, 
 Like auld Joe Nicholson's boimy Nauuy ! 
 
 O, my Niiuuy ! 
 
 My dear little Nanny ! 
 My sweet little niddlety-uoddlety Naimy ! 
 
 There ne'er was a flower. 
 
 In garden or bower. 
 Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonny Nanny ! 
 
 Ac day she came out, wi' a rosy blush. 
 
 To milk her twa kie, sac couthy and canny ; 
 
 I cowered me down at the l)ack o' the bush, 
 To watch the air o' my bonny Nauuy. 
 O, my Naimy, etc. 
 
 Her looks that strayed o'er nature away, 
 Fi-ae bonny blue een sae mild an' mellow. 
 
 Saw uaething sae sweet in nature's array. 
 
 Though clad in the morning's gowden yellow. 
 O, my Nanny, etc. 
 
 My heart lay beating tlie flowery green 
 
 In quaking, quivering agitation, 
 Au' the tears cam' trieklin' down frae my een, 
 
 Wi' ])crfeet love an' wi' admiration. 
 O, my Nanny, etc. 
 
 There 's mony a joy in this warld below. 
 
 An' sweet the hopes that to sing were uncanny ; 
 But of all the pleasures I ever can know. 
 There 's uaue like the love o' my bonny Nanny 
 
 O, my Nanny ! 
 
 My dear little Nanny ! 
 My sweet little niddlety-uoddlety Nanny ! 
 
 There ne'er was a flower. 
 
 In garden or bower. 
 Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonny Nanny ! 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 662 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 THE SPECTRE'S CKADLE-SONG. 
 
 Hush, my boimy babe ! luisli, and be itill ! 
 Thy mother's arms shall guard thee from ill ; 
 Far have I borne thee iu sorrow and pain, 
 To drink the breeze of the world again. 
 The dew shall moisten thy brow so meek. 
 And the breeze of midnight fan thy cheek ; 
 And soon shall we rest, in tlie how of the hill, — 
 Hush, my boimy babe ! hush, and be still ! 
 
 For thee have I travailed in weakness and 
 
 woe. 
 The world above and the world below ; 
 My heart was kind, and I feU in the snare, 
 Thy father was cruel, but thou wert fair. 
 I simied, I sorrowed, — I died for thee. 
 Then O, my bonny babe, smile on me ! 
 And weep thou not for thy mother's ill, — 
 Hush, my bonny babe ! hush, and be still ! 
 
 See yon thick clouds of the murky hue, 
 
 Yon star that peeps from its window blue 
 
 Above yon clouds that are wandering far. 
 
 Away and beyond yon little star, — 
 
 There 's a home of peace that soon shall be 
 
 tliine. 
 And there shalt thou see thy father and mine, 
 Away from sorrow, away from ill, — 
 Hush, my Ijonny babe 1 hush, and be still ! 
 
 Tiie flowers of this world will bud and decay, 
 The trees of the forest be weeded away. 
 And all yon stars from the milky-way, 
 But thou shalt bloom for ever and aye. 
 The time will come I shall follow thee. 
 But long, long hence that time shall be. 
 O, weep not so for thy mother's ill ! — 
 Hush, my bonny babe ! hush, and be still ! 
 
 WHEN THE KTE COMES HAM?. 
 
 Come, all ye jolly shepherds 
 
 That whistle through the glen, 
 I '11 tell ye of a secret 
 
 That courtiers dinna ken : 
 What is tlie greatest bliss 
 
 That the tongue o' man can name ? 
 'T is to woo a bonny lassie 
 Wlien the kye comes hamc. 
 AVlieu the kye conies hame, 
 "Wlien tile kye comes liame, 
 'Twcen the gloaming and the mirk. 
 When tlic kye comes hame. 
 
 'T is not beneath the coronet, 
 
 Nor canopy of state, 
 ' T is not on couch of velvet, 
 
 Nor arbor of the great, — 
 
 'T is beneath the spreading birk, 
 In the glen without the name, 
 
 Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, 
 When the kye comes hamc. 
 When the kye comes hame, etc. 
 
 There the blackbird bigs his nest 
 
 For the mate he loes to see. 
 And on the topmost bough, 
 
 O, a happy bird is he ; 
 Where he pours his melting ditty, 
 
 And love is a' the theme, 
 And he '11 woo his bonny lassie 
 
 Wiieu the kye comes hame. 
 When the kye comes hame, etc. 
 
 When the blewart bears a pearl. 
 
 And the daisy turns a pea. 
 And the bonny lucken gowan 
 
 Has fauldit up her ee, 
 Then the laverock frae the blue lift 
 
 Doops down, an' tliiuks uae shame 
 To woo his bonny lassie 
 
 WTien the kye comes hamc. 
 When the kye comes hamc, etc. 
 
 See yonder pawkie shepherd, 
 
 That lingers on the hdl. 
 His ewes are in the fauld, 
 
 An' his lambs are lying still ; 
 Yet he downa gang to bed. 
 
 For his heart is in a flame. 
 To meet his bonny lassie 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 When the kye comes hamc, etc. 
 
 Wlien the little wee bit heart 
 
 Rises high in the breast, 
 An' the little wee bit starn 
 
 Eises red in the east, 
 O there 's a joy sae dear. 
 
 That the heart can hardly frame, 
 Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, 
 
 When tlie kye comes hame ! 
 When the kye comes hame, etc. 
 
 Then since all nature joins 
 
 In this love without alloy, 
 O, wha wad prove a traitor 
 To Nature's dearest joy ? 
 O, wha wad choose a crown, 
 Wi' its perils and its fame. 
 And miss his bonny lassie 
 When the kye comes liame ? 
 Wlipii tlic kye comes hame, 
 Wlicn the kye comes hamc, 
 'Tween the gloaming and tlie mirk, 
 Wlien the kve comes liame ! 
 
 -J 
 
ca- 
 
 THE WITCH OF FIFE. 
 
 GG3 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 THE WITCH OF FIFE. 
 
 " WiiKRK liave ye been, ye ill woman, 
 These three l.ing nights frae liame? 
 
 What gars the sweat di'ap fi'ae ycr brow, 
 Ijike drops o' the saut sea-faeni ? 
 
 " It fears me mucklc ye have seen 
 
 What glide man never knew ; 
 It fears me muekle ye have been, 
 
 Where the gray cock never crew. 
 
 "But the spell may crack, and the bridle break, 
 
 Tlien sharp yer word will bo ; 
 Ye had belter sleep in ycr bed at hame, 
 
 Wi' yer dear little bairns and me." 
 
 " Sit dune, sit dune, my leal auld man, 
 
 Sit dune, and listen to me ; 
 I '11 gar the hair stand on yer crown. 
 
 And the cauld sweat blind ycr c'e. 
 
 " But tell nae words, my gude auld man, 
 
 Tell never a word again ; 
 Or dear shall be your courtesy, 
 
 And driche and sair ycr |)ain. 
 
 " The first leet nigiit, when the new moon set, 
 
 Wlien .all was doullc and mirk. 
 We saddled our nags wi' the moon-fern leaf. 
 
 And rode frae Kilmerrin kirk. 
 
 " Some horses were of the brume-cow frauied, 
 
 And some of the green bay-tree ; 
 B\it mine was made of ane hendock shaw. 
 
 And a stout stallion was he. 
 
 " We raide the tod doune on the hill, 
 
 The martin on the law ; 
 And we luinted tiie owlet out o' breath, 
 
 And forced liini doune to fa'." 
 
 " What guid was that, ye ill woman ? 
 
 What guid was that to thee ? 
 Ye would better have been in yer bed at hame, 
 
 Wi' yer dear little bairns and me." 
 
 " And aye we rode, as sae merrily rode, 
 Through the merkest glolis of the night; 
 
 Aud we swam t,he flood, and we darnit the wood. 
 Till we came to the Louiuiond height. 
 
 " And when we came to the Lonimond height, 
 
 Sae liglitly we lighted doune ; 
 And we drank frae the liorus that uevcr grew, 
 
 Tlie beer that was never browin. 
 
 "Then up there rose a wee wee man. 
 
 From neath the moss-gray staiie; 
 His face was wan like the collillowcr, 
 
 For lie neither had blude nor bane. 
 
 " He set a reed-pipe till his mouth ; 
 
 And lie played sae bonnily, 
 Till the gray curlew, and the black-cock flew 
 
 To listen his melodye. 
 
 " It rang sae sweet through the green Lomimmd, 
 That the night-wind lowner blew ; 
 
 And it soupit alang the Loch Leven, 
 And wakened the white sea-mew. 
 
 " It rang sae sweet through the green Lommoiid, 
 
 Sae sweetly and sac shrill. 
 That the weasels leaped out of their mouldy holes. 
 
 And danced on the midnight hill. 
 
 "The corby crow came gledging near, 
 
 The erne gaed veering bye ; 
 And the trouts leaped out of the Leven Loch, 
 
 Charmed with the mclodyc. 
 
 "And aye we danced on the green Lonimond, 
 
 Till the dawn on the ocean grew : 
 Nae wonder I was a weary wight 
 
 When I cam hame to you." 
 
 " WHiat guid, what guid, my weird, weird wyfe. 
 
 What guid was that to thee ? 
 Ye wad better have been in yer bed at hame, 
 
 Wi' yer dear little bairns and me." 
 
 " The second night, when the new moon set. 
 
 O'er tlie roaring sea we flew; 
 The cockle-shell our trusty bark, 
 
 Our sails of the green sea-rue. 
 
 " Aud the bauld winds blow, and the fire-tlaiiehls 
 flew. 
 And the sea ran to the sky ; 
 And the thunder it growled, and the sca-dngs 
 howled. 
 As we gaed scurrying by. 
 
 "And aye we mounted tiie sea-green hills. 
 Till we brushed through the clouds of heaven, 
 
 Then soused downright like the stern-shot light, 
 Fra the lift's blue casement driven. 
 
 " But our tackle stood, and our bark was good, 
 And sae pang was our pearly prow; 
 
 When we couldna speil the brow of the waves. 
 We needled them through below. 
 
 " As fast as the hail, as fast as the gale. 
 
 As fast as the midnight Icme, 
 We bored the breast of the bursting swale, 
 
 Or fluired in the floating faem. 
 
 "And when to the Norroway shore we wan, 
 W^e mounted our steeds of the wind, 
 
 And we splashed tiie floode, ajid we daniit the 
 wood. 
 And we left the shore behind. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 OGi HOGG. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 g- 
 
 "Fleet is the roe ou the green Lommoud, 
 
 And swil't is the couryug grew ; 
 The reindeer dun can eitlily run. 
 
 When the hounds and the liorus pursue. 
 
 " But neitiier the roe, nor the reindeer dun, 
 
 The hind nor the couryng grew. 
 Could fly o'er mountain, moor, and dale, 
 
 As our braw steeds they flew. 
 
 " The dales were deep, and the Dofl'rins steep. 
 
 And we rose to the skies ee-bree : 
 White, white was our road that was never trode, 
 
 O'er the snows of eternity. 
 
 " Aiid wlieu we came to the Lapland lone. 
 
 The fairies were all in array. 
 For all the genii of the north 
 
 Were keeping their holiday. 
 
 '■ The warlock men and the weird women. 
 And the fays of tiie wood and the steep. 
 
 And the phantom hunters all were there. 
 And the nierinaids of the deep. 
 
 " And tliey washed us all with the witch-water. 
 
 Distilled IVae the moorland dew, 
 Till our beauty bloomed like the Lapland rose. 
 
 That wild in the foreste grew." 
 
 " Ye lee, ye lee, ye ill woman, 
 
 Sac loud as I hear ye lee ! 
 For the wnrst-faured wyfe on the shores of Fyfe 
 
 Is comely compared wi' thee." 
 
 " Then the mermaids sang, and the woodlands 
 rang, 
 
 Sae sweetly swelled the ehoir ; 
 On every cliff'e a harp they hang. 
 
 On every tree a lyre. 
 
 " And aye they sang, and the woodlands rang. 
 And we drank, and we drank sae deep ; 
 
 Tlien soft in tjie arms of the warlock men. 
 We laid us dune to sleep." 
 
 " Away, away, ye ill woman. 
 
 An ill deatli might ye dee ! 
 IVlien ye hae proved sae false to yer God, 
 
 Ye can never prove true to me." 
 
 " And tlicre we learned frae the fairy folk. 
 
 And frae our master true, 
 Tiic words tliat can bear us through the air, 
 
 And locks and bars undo. 
 
 " Last niglit wc met at Maisry's cot; 
 
 night well the words we knew ; 
 And we set a foot on the black cruik-shcU, 
 
 And out at the luin we flew. 
 
 " And we flew o'er hill, and we flew o'er dale, 
 
 And we flew o'er tirth and sea. 
 Until we cam to merry Carlisle, 
 
 Where we lighted on the lea. 
 
 " M'e gaed to the vault beyond the tower. 
 
 Where we entered free as air ; 
 And we drank, and we drank of the bishop's wine 
 
 Till we could drink nae mair." 
 
 " Gin that be true, my gude auld wyfe, 
 
 Whilk thou hast tauld to me. 
 Betide my death, betide my lyfe, 
 
 1 '11 bear thee company. 
 
 " Next time ye gang to merry Carlisle 
 
 To drink of the blude-red wine, 
 Beshrew my heart, I '11 fly with thee. 
 
 If the deil should fly behind." 
 
 " Ah ! little ye ken, my silly auld man. 
 
 The dangers we maun dree ; 
 Last night we drank of tlie bishop's wine. 
 
 Till near near tacn were we. 
 
 "Afore we wan to the sandy ford, 
 
 Tlie gor-cocks nichering flew ; 
 The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen 
 
 Was waved about wilii blue. 
 And, llichtcring through the air, we fand 
 
 The chill chill morning dew. 
 
 " As we flew o'er the hills of Braid, 
 
 The sun rose fair and clear ; 
 Tlieir gurly James, and his barons braw. 
 
 Were out to hunt the deer. 
 
 " Their bows they drew, their arrows flew, 
 
 And pierced the air witli speed. 
 Till ]iurple fell the morning dew 
 
 With witch-blude rank and red. 
 
 " Little ye ken, my silly auld man. 
 
 The dangers we maun dree ; 
 Ne wonder I am a weary wight 
 
 When I come liame to thee." — 
 
 " But tell me the word, my gude auld wyfe. 
 
 Come tell it mc speedily ; 
 For I long to drink of the gude red wine, 
 
 And to wing the air witli thee. 
 
 " Y'er hellish horse T willna ride. 
 
 Nor sail the seas in tlie wind; 
 But I can flee as well as liiee. 
 
 And 1 '11 drink till ye be blind." 
 
 "0 fy ! O fy ! my leal auld man, 
 
 That word I darcna tell ; 
 It woidd turn this warld all upside down, 
 
 And make it warse tlian hell. 
 
 -g> 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE WITCH OP FIFE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 G65 
 
 ^ 
 
 " For all tlie lasses in the laud 
 
 Wald iiiouut tlie wind and fly ; 
 And the men would doff their doublets syde, 
 
 And after them wonld ply." 
 
 But the auld gudeman was a cunning auld man, 
 
 And a cunning auld man was lie ; 
 And lie watched and lie watched for moiiy a night, 
 
 The witches' flight to see. 
 
 One night he dariiit iu Maisry's cot ; 
 
 The fearless hags came in ; 
 And he heard the word of awesome weird; 
 
 And he saw their deeds of sin. 
 
 Then ane by ane, they said that word, 
 
 As fast to the fire they drew ; 
 Then set a foot on the black cruik-shell. 
 
 And out at the lum they flew. 
 
 The auld gudeman came frae his hole 
 
 With fear and muckle dread, 
 But yet lie couldna think to rue, 
 
 For the wine came in his head. 
 
 lie set his foot in the black cruik-slicll, 
 
 With a fixed and a wawling e'e; 
 And he said the word that I darena say, 
 
 And out at the lum flew he. 
 
 The witches scaled the moonbeam pale ; 
 
 Deep groaned the trembling wind ; 
 But tliey never wist that our auld gudeman 
 
 Was hovering them behind. 
 
 They flew to the vaults of merry Carlisle, 
 
 Where they entered free as air ; 
 And they drank, and they drank of the bishop's 
 wine 
 
 Till they coulde drink nae mair. 
 
 The auld gudeman he grew sae crouse. 
 He danced on the mouldy ground. 
 
 Arid he sang tlie bonniest songs of Fife, 
 And he tuzzlit the kerlyugs round. 
 
 And aye he pierced the tither butt. 
 
 And he sucked, and he sucked sae lang, 
 
 Till liis ecu they closed, and his voice grew low. 
 And his tongue would hardly gang. 
 
 The kcrlyngs drank of the bisliop's wine 
 Till they scented the morning wind ; 
 
 Then chive again the yielding air, 
 Aud left the auld man behinde. 
 
 And aye he slept on the damp damp floor, 
 
 He slept and he snored amain ; 
 He never dreamed he was far frae hame. 
 
 Or tliat the auld wives were gane. 
 
 And aye he slept on the damp damp floor. 
 
 Till past the midday heighte, 
 When wakened by five rough Englishmen, 
 
 That trailed him to the lighte. 
 
 " Now wlia are ye, ye silly aidd man, 
 That sleeps sae sound and sae weel ? 
 
 How gat ye into the bishop's vault 
 Through locks and bars of steel? " 
 
 The auld gudeman he tried to speak. 
 
 But ane word he couldna finde ; 
 He tried to think, but his head whirled round, 
 
 And ane thing he couldna minde ; 
 " I cam frae Fyfe," the auld man cried, 
 
 " And I cam on the midnight wiude." 
 
 They nicked the auld man, and they pricked the 
 auld man, 
 
 And they yerked his limbs with twine, 
 Till the red blude ran in his hose and shoon. 
 
 But some cried it was wine. 
 
 They licked the auld man, and they pricked the 
 auld man. 
 
 And they tyed him till ane stone ; 
 And they set ane bele-fire him about. 
 
 To burn him skin and bone. 
 
 " O wac to me ! " said the puir auld man, 
 
 " Tiiat ever I saw the day 1 
 And wae be to all the ill women 
 
 That lead puir men astray ! 
 
 " Let nevir ane auld man after this 
 
 To lawless greede incline ; 
 Let never ane auld man after this 
 
 Rin post to the deil for wine." 
 
 The rceke flew up iu the auld man's face. 
 
 And choked him bitterlye ; 
 And the low cam up with an angry blaze, 
 
 And he singed his auld breek-nee. 
 
 He looked to the land frae whence he came, 
 
 For looks he eoulde get ne niae ; 
 And he thoughte of his dear little bairns at hame. 
 
 And O, the aidd man was wae ! 
 
 But they turned their faces to the sun. 
 
 With gloffc and wonderous glare. 
 For they saw ane thing baith large and dun, 
 
 Comin sweeping down the aire. 
 
 Tliat bird it cam frae the lands o' Fife, 
 
 Aud it cam right tymeouslye, 
 For who was it but the auld man's wife, 
 
 Just coined Ids death to see. 
 
 She put ane red cap on his heade. 
 And the auld gudeman looked fain, 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 6CG 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Then whispered ane word iiitil his lug. 
 And toved to the aire again. 
 
 The auld gudeiimii he gae ane bob 
 
 I' tlie midst o' tlie buruing lowe ; 
 And the shackles that bound iiini to the ring, 
 
 They fell frae his arms like towe. 
 
 He drew his breath, and he said the word, 
 
 And he said it with nmckle glee. 
 Then set his feet on the burning pile, 
 
 And away to the aire flew he. 
 
 Till ance he cleai'ed the swirling reeke, 
 
 He lukit baitli feared and sad ; 
 But when he wan to the light blue aire, 
 
 He laughed as he 'd been mad. 
 
 His arms were spread, and his heade was highe. 
 
 And his feet stuck out behinde ; 
 And the laibies of the auld man's coat 
 
 Were wauffiug in the wind. 
 
 And aye he neicherit, and aye he flew 
 For he thought the ])lay sac rare ; 
 
 It was like the voice of tiie gander blue, 
 When he flees through the aire. 
 
 He looked back to the Carlisle men 
 
 As he bored tlie norlan sky ; 
 He nodded liis heade, and gave ane girn, 
 
 Eut he never said gude-bye. 
 
 They vanished far i' the lift's blue wale, 
 
 Nae maire the English saw. 
 But the auld man's lauglie came on the gale, 
 
 With a lang and a loud gaffaw. 
 
 Jlay evcrilke man in the land of Fife 
 Read what the drinker's dree ; ' 
 
 And never curse his pair auld wife, 
 Riffhte wicked altho she be. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 17'78-1834. 
 
 GENEVIEVE* 
 
 Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve ! 
 In beauty's light you glide along : 
 Your eye is like the star of eve, 
 And sweet your voice as seraph's song. 
 Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 
 This heart with passion soft to glow : 
 Within your soul a voice there lives ! 
 It bids you hear the talc of woe. 
 
 " Coleridge tells us that this porin was writloii wlini he 
 was a hoy. 
 
 When sinking low the sufferer wan 
 Beholds no hand outstretched to save, 
 Fair, as the bosom of the swan 
 That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
 I 've seen your breast with pity heave, 
 And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT, 
 
 Ere sin eouhl blight or scu'row fade. 
 Death came with friendly care ; 
 
 The opening bud to hea\en conveyed, 
 And bade it blossom there. 
 
 DOMESTIC PEACE, 
 
 Tell me, on what holy ground 
 May domestic peace be found — 
 Halcyon daughter of the skies ! 
 Far on fearful wings she Hies, 
 From the pomp of sceptred state. 
 From the rebel's noisy hate, 
 In a cottaged vale she dwells 
 Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
 Still around her steps are seen 
 Spotless Honor's meeker mien. 
 Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
 Sorrow, smiling through her tears, 
 And, conscious of the past employ, 
 Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 
 
 1794 
 
 SONNET TO SCHILLER, 
 
 Schiller ! that hour I would have wished to die, 
 If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
 From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent 
 Tliat fearful voice, a famished father's cry — 
 Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
 Jlight stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
 Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout 
 Diminished shrunk from the more withering 
 
 scene ! 
 Ah ! bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
 Could I behold thee iu thy loftier mood 
 Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye 
 Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
 Awhile with mute aw-e-gazing I would brood : 
 Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! 
 
 THE SENSUAL AND THE DARK REBEL IN VAIN, 
 
 The scnsu.'d and the dark ivliel iu vain, 
 Slaves by their own eompnlsion ! In mad game 
 They burst tiieir manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
 O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
 Have I imrsued thee, many a weary hour; 
 
 _S) 
 
a- 
 
 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 GG7 
 
 f}) 
 
 ^ 
 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor 
 ever 
 Didst breatlie tliy soul iu forms of human power. 
 Ahke from all, howe'er they praise thee 
 (Nor prayer nor boastful name delays thee), 
 
 Alike from priestcraft's harpy minions. 
 And factious blaspliemy's obscener slaves. 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of 
 
 the waves ! 
 And there 1 felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's 
 verge 
 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze 
 above, 
 Had made one murmur w-ith the distant surge ! 
 Yes, wliile I stood and gazed, my temples bare, 
 And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, 
 Possessing all things with inteiisest love, 
 O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee tliere. 
 
 France: Jn Ode. 1797. 
 
 riEE, FAliniE, AND SLAUGHTEE.* 
 
 A WAR ECLOGUE. 
 
 Scene, a desolated Iract in La Vendee. Famine 
 is discovered lyinfj on the ground ; to her enter 
 FiKE and Slaughter. 
 
 Famine. Sisters! sisters! who sent you here? 
 
 Slaughter (to Fike). I will whisper it in 
 her ear. 
 
 Fire. No ! no! no ! 
 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'T will make a holiday in hell. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 ilyself, I named him once below, 
 And all the souls that damned be, 
 Leaped up at once in anarchy, 
 Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
 They no longer lieeded me ; 
 But laughed to liear hell's burning rafters 
 Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'T will make a holiday in lu'll ! 
 
 Fam. Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
 Iu a dark liint, soft and slow. 
 
 * The " letters four" in this poem form the name of Pitt. 
 Mnoaulay, in his Life of William Pitt, referring to the obloquy 
 that Pitt's foreign policy called down upon him, remarks, in 
 allusion to this poem ; " A satirist of great genius introduced 
 the liends of Famine, Slaughter, and Fire, pvoclaiming that 
 they had received their commission from one whose name was 
 formed of four letters, and promising to give their employer 
 ample proofs of gratitude. Famine would gnaw the multitude 
 till they should rise up against him in madness. The demon 
 of Slaughter would impel them to tear huu limb from limb. 
 Uut Fire boasted that she alone could reward him as he de- 
 served, and that she would cling round him to all eternity." 
 Coleridge, in his introduction to the poem, when republished, 
 gave an elaborate apology for the fierceness of its sentiments. 
 
 Slau. Letters four do form his name, — 
 And who sent you ? 
 
 BoTU. The same ! the same ! 
 
 Slau. He came by stealth, and unlocked my 
 den, 
 And I have drunk the blood since then 
 Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 
 
 BoTU. Who bade you do it ? 
 
 Slau. The same ! the same ! 
 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose and cried " Halloo I " 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Fam. Tlianks, sister, thanks ! the men have 
 bled, 
 Their wives and tlieir cliildren faint for bread. 
 I stood iu a swampy iield of battle; 
 With bones and skulls 1 made a rattle. 
 To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
 And the homeless dog, — but they would not 
 
 go- 
 So off I flew : for how could I bear 
 To see them gorge their dainty fare ? 
 I heard a groan and a peevish squall. 
 And through the chink of a cottage wall. — 
 Can you guess what I saw there ? 
 
 Both. Whisper it, sister ! in our ear. 
 
 Fam. A baby beat its dying mother: 
 I had starved the one and was starving the otlicr ! 
 
 Both. Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 Fam. The same ! the same ! 
 
 Letters four do fonn his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, " Halloo ! " 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Fire. Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 
 Hedge and cornfields all on flame, 
 I triumphed o'er the setting sun ! 
 And all the while the work was done, 
 On as I strode w'itli my huge strides, 
 I flung back my head and I held my sides. 
 It was so rare a piece of fun 
 To see tiie sweltered cattle run 
 With uncouth gallop througli the night. 
 Scared by the red and noisy light ! 
 By the light of his own blazing cot 
 Was many a naked rebel shot : 
 The liouse-stream met tlie flame and hissed, 
 While crasli ! fell in the roof, I wist, 
 On some of those old bed-rid nurses. 
 That deal in discontent and ctn-ses. 
 
 Both. Who bade you do 't? 
 
 Fire. The same ! the same! 
 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, " Halloo ! " 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 All. He let us loose, and cried, " Halloo ! " 
 How shall we yield liim honor due ? 
 
 Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. 
 I '11 gnaw, I '11 gnaw the multitude, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 G(i8 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 H 
 
 Till the eup of rage o'erbrim : 
 
 Tlipy sliall seize him and his brood — 
 
 Slau. They shall tear liini limb from limb ! 
 
 Fire. O tiiaiikless beldames and untrue ! 
 
 And is this all tiiat you can do 
 
 For liini, who did so much for you ? 
 
 Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
 
 Hath richly catered for you both ; 
 
 And in an iiour would you repay 
 
 An eight years' work ? — Away ! away ! 
 
 I alone am faithful ! I 
 
 Cling to him everlastingly. 
 
 1790. 
 
 KUBLA KEM.* 
 
 In Xanadu did Kulda Khau 
 A stately pleasnre-doine decree : 
 Where Alpli, the sacred river, ran 
 Tlirough caverns measureless to man 
 Down to a suidess sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And there were gardens bright with siuuous rills, 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills. 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But 0, that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 
 Down the green hill atlnvart a eedarn cover ! 
 
 A savage ])laee ! as holy and enchanted 
 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 
 By woman wailing for her demon lover ! 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 
 
 seething, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 
 * " In tile summer of the year 1797 the author, then in ill- 
 health, had retired to a lonely lavm-Iiouse between Porioek and 
 Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire, 
 In consequence of a slifjht indisposition, an anodyne had heen 
 prescribed, from the effect of which he fell asleep in his chair 
 at the moment lie was reading the following sentence, or 
 words of the same substance, in Fnrchaj^s Filffrinifii/e . 
 ' Here the Khan Kuhla commanded a palace to he built, and 
 a stately jjarden thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile ground 
 were enclosed with a wall,' The author continued for aliiuit 
 three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, 
 during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he 
 could not have composed less than from two to three hundred 
 lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all 
 the images rose up before liim as things, with a parallel pro- 
 duction of the correspondent expressions, witliout any sensa- 
 tion or consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to 
 himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and, taking 
 his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the 
 lines that are here [ireserved. At this moment be was unfor- 
 tunat(dy called out by a person on business from Porioek, and 
 detained by him above an liour, and on his return to his room 
 fcntnd, to his no small surprise and mortilication. that though he 
 still retained some vague ami dim recollection of the general 
 purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or 
 ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away, 
 like the images on the surface of a stream into which a slonc 
 had been cast, but, alas 1 witliout the after restoration of the 
 latter." — The Author, 1616. 
 
 A mighty fouutain momently was forced ; 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chall'v grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
 And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 Tlirough wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank iu tumult to a hfeless ocean : 
 And mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war I 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 From the fouutain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 In a vision once I saw : 
 It was an Abyssinian maid. 
 And ou her dulcimer she played, 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 Could I revive within me 
 Her symphony and song. 
 To such a deep delight 't would win me, 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome iu air. 
 That siiuny dome ! those eaves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should sec them there. 
 And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair I 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 F'or he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 1797, 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All iire but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour. 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with t he lights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leaned against the armdd man, 
 The statue of the armi'd knight ; 
 She stood and listened to my lay. 
 Amid the lingeruig light. 
 
 W 
 
THE NIGHT-SCENE. 
 
 6G9 
 
 ■fb 
 
 Tew sorrows hath she of her own. 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Geuevieve ! 
 She luves me best, whene'er 1 sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 1 sang an old and moving story, — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could uot choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tijuo 
 With which I sang another's love 
 Interpi-eted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and n)odest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunuy glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a tiend. 
 This miserable knight ! 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did. 
 He leaped amid a murderous band, 
 Ajid saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; — 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knees : 
 And how she tended him in vain, — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The sconi that crazed his brain ; — ■ 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away. 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; — 
 
 His dying words, — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of sold and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
 The music and the doleful tale. 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng. 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherished long ! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight. 
 She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
 And, like the murnuir of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside. 
 As conscious of my look she stept, — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
 She fled to mo and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And, bending back her head, looked uj). 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 't was a bashful art, 
 That I might rather feel, than see. 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so 1 won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride. 
 
 THE NIGHT-SCENE. 
 A DIl.\MATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 Sandoval. You loved the daughter of Don 
 Manrique ? 
 
 Eabl Henky. Loved? 
 
 Sand. Did you not say you wooed her ? 
 
 Earl H. Once I loved 
 
 Her whom I dared not woo ! 
 
 Sand. And wooed, perchance, 
 
 One whom you loved not ! 
 
 Earl H. Oh ! I were most base. 
 
 Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her. 
 Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
 j\Iet my advances with impassioned pride, 
 That kindled love with love. And when her sire, 
 Who in his dream of hope already grasped 
 The golden circlet in his hand, rejected 
 My suit with insult, and in memory 
 Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head. 
 Her blessings overtook and baffled them ! 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 670 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 V- 
 
 But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance 
 Art inly reasoning wliilst tliou Ustenest to me. 
 
 S.\ND. Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
 But Oropeza — 
 
 E.vRL H. Blessings gather round her ! 
 Within this wood there winds a secret passage, 
 Beneath the walls, which opens out at length 
 Into the gloomiest covert of the garden. 
 The night ere my departure to the army. 
 She, nothing trembhng, led me through tiiat 
 
 gloom. 
 And to that covert by a silent stream, 
 Wliich, with one star rellccted near its marge. 
 Was the sole object visible around me. 
 No leaflet stirred ; the air was almost sultry ; 
 So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
 No leaflet stirred ; yet pleasure hung upon 
 Tlie gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. 
 A little further on an arbor stood, 
 Fragrant with flowering trees, — I well remember 
 What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness 
 Tlieir snow-white blossoms made, — thither she 
 
 led me, 
 To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza trembled, — 
 I heard her heart beat, — if 't were not my own. 
 
 S.\ND. A rude and searing note, my friend. 
 
 Earl II. Oh ! no ! 
 
 I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
 The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
 Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : 
 So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
 Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy. 
 The stars above our heads were dim and steady. 
 Like eyes sufl'used with rapture. Life was in us : 
 We were all life, eacli aloin of our frames 
 A living soul, — I vowed to die for her : 
 With the faint voice of one who, having spoken, 
 Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it : 
 Tliat solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 
 A nuirmur breathed against a lady's ear. 
 Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure. 
 Deep self-possession, an intense repose. 
 
 Sand, (mit/i a sarcaslic smite). No other than 
 as Eastern sages paint. 
 The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf, 
 Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking, 
 Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble. 
 Relapses into bliss. 
 
 Eari, H. Ah! was that bliss 
 
 Feared as an alien, ami too vast for man ? 
 For suddenly, impatient of its silcnee, 
 Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead, 
 i caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on 
 
 them. 
 Through the dark bowershe sent a hollow voice ; 
 " Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou ? " 
 T swore, and with an inward tlumght that seemed 
 The purpose and the substance of my being. 
 
 I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
 I would exchange my unblenched state with 
 
 hers. 
 Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower 
 I now will go, — all objects there will teach 
 
 me 
 Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
 Go,. Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her, — 
 Say nothing of me, — I myself will seek her, — 
 Nay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment 
 And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. 
 
 (Earl Henry retires into the v:ood.) 
 Sand, (dtoiie). Henry! always striv'st thou 
 
 to be great 
 By thine own act, — yet art thou never great 
 But by the inspiration of great passion. 
 The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
 And shape themselves : from eartli to heaven 
 
 they stand. 
 As though they were the pillars of a temple. 
 Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! 
 But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
 Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand. 
 And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins ! 
 
 THE EOLUN HARP. 
 
 COMPOSED Al' CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSniRE. 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
 Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
 To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
 With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved 
 
 myrtle, 
 (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
 And watch the clouds, that late were rich with 
 
 light, 
 Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve. 
 Serenely brilliant (sueli should wisdom be). 
 Shine opposite ! How exquisite tlie scents 
 Snatched from yon bean-field ! and the world so 
 
 hushed ! 
 The stilly nuirmur of the distant sea 
 Tells us of silcnee. 
 
 And tluat simplest kite 
 Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, 
 
 hark! 
 How by the desultory breeze caressed. 
 Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover. 
 It ])onrs such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
 Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its 
 
 strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
 Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from fairy-land, 
 Where melodies round iioney-dropjiing flowers, 
 
 _ Q) 
 
cfi- 
 
 FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 671 
 
 -S) 
 
 fr 
 
 Footless aud wild, like birds of Paradise,* 
 Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed vring ! 
 
 the one life within us and abroad, 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
 A light in souud, a sound-like power in light, 
 Rhythm in all thought, audjoyauce every wlierc, — 
 Methiuks, it should have been impossible 
 
 Not to love all tilings in a world so filled ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute stUl air 
 Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 
 
 And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
 Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noou, 
 ^V'hilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold 
 The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, 
 Aud tranquil muse upon tranquiUity; 
 Full many a thought uncalled aud undetaiued, 
 And many idle flitting fantasies, 
 Traverse my indolent and passive brain, 
 As wild and various as the random gales 
 That swell aud flutter on this subject lute ! 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 Be but organic harps diversely framed, 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, 
 Plastic and vast, one iutellectual breeze. 
 At once the soul of each, and God of all ? 
 
 But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
 Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
 Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, 
 Aud biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
 Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
 A\^ell hast thou said aud liolily dispraised 
 These shapings of the unregeuerate mind ; 
 Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
 On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
 For never guiltless may I speak of Him, 
 The Incompreliensible ! save when with awe 
 
 1 praise him, and with faith that inly feels ; 
 ^Vlio with his saving mercies healed me, 
 
 A sinful and most miserable man, 
 Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
 Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-^ionored maid I 
 
 1796-1828. 
 
 KECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 
 
 How warm this woodland wild recess ! 
 
 Love surely hath been breathing here ; 
 
 And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
 Swells up, then sinks with faint caress. 
 
 As if to have you yet more near. 
 
 Eight springs have flown since last I lay 
 On seaward Quantock's heathy hills. 
 Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 
 
 Float here and there, like things astray. 
 And high o'erhead the skylark shrills. 
 
 * Tenuyson probably had this in mind when lie wrote ; — 
 " Like long-tailed birds of Paradise 
 That float tbroiish heaven but never light." 
 
 No voice as yet had made the air 
 Be music with your name; yet why 
 That asking look? that yearning sigh? 
 
 That sense of promise everywhere ? 
 Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 
 
 As when a mother doth explore 
 The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
 I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 
 
 As whom I long had loved before, — 
 So deeply had I been beguiled. 
 
 You stood before me like a thought, 
 A dream remembered in a dream. 
 But when those meek eyes first did seem 
 
 To tell me, love within you wrought, — 
 Greta, dear domestic stream ! 
 
 Has not, since then, love's prompture deep. 
 Has not love's whisper evermore 
 Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 
 
 Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 
 Dear under-song in clamor's hour. 
 
 1306. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Now, my friends emerge 
 Beneath the wide, wide heaven, — aud view again 
 The mauy-ste'epled tract magniOcent 
 Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea. 
 With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two isles 
 Of purple shadow I Yes ! they wander on 
 In gladness all ; but thou, methiuks, most glad. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
 And hungered after nature, many a year, 
 In the great city pent, winning thy way 
 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
 Aud strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious sun ! 
 Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb. 
 Ye purple heath-flowers I richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
 And kindle, thou blue ocean ! So my friend 
 Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood. 
 Silent with swiinmiug sense ; yea, gazing round 
 On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
 Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues 
 As veil the Almighty Sjiirit, when yet he makes 
 Spirits perceive his presence. 
 
 This Lime -Tree Bower my Prison. 
 
 FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud, — and hark again I loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 G72 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -9) 
 
 k 
 
 Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 
 'T is calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 
 And extreme sdentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 
 
 This populous village ! Sea and hill and wood, 
 
 With all the numberless goings on of life 
 
 Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
 
 Lies on my low-burnt lire, and quivers not ; 
 
 Only tliat lUm, wliieh fluttered on the grate, 
 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of ntiture 
 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 
 Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit 
 
 By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 
 And nuikes a toy of thought. 
 
 But 0, how oft. 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
 To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft. 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower. 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the Iiot fair-day. 
 So sweetly, tliat they stirred and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articidate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my 
 
 dreams ! 
 And so I brooded all the following morn. 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 
 Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
 My |ilaymate when we both were clothed alike! 
 Dear l)abe,* that sleepcst cradled by my side. 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 .\nd momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim. 
 And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thon, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the cliimls. 
 AV'hieh image in their bulk bolli lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 
 How sadly this prophecy failed in the balit: who grew »p 
 to be Hartley Coleridge ! 
 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, wiiieh thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in iiimself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore aU seasons shall be sweet to thee. 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare brancli 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigli thateli 
 Smokes in the suuthaw ; whether the eave-drops 
 
 fall 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast. 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
 Quietly shining to the quiet moon. 
 
 HYMN BEPORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF 
 CHAMOUNL- 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay tlie morning-star 
 In his steep course? So long he seems to 
 
 pause 
 On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
 Tiie Arve and Arvciron at thy base 
 Ilave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
 Risest from fortli thy silent sea of pines, 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou pierccst it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when 1 look again. 
 It is thine own calm home, tliy crystal shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee. 
 Till tliou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in 
 
 prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 Tliou, the meanwliile, wast blending with my 
 
 thought. 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
 Till the dilating soul, cnrapt, transfused. 
 Into the miglity vision passing — tln^'e. 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to llcavcn! 
 
 Awake, my soid ! not only jiassive jiraise 
 Thou owest ! not alone tliesc swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and ley cUifs, all join my hynni. 
 
 Tlion first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
 O, struggling with tlie darkness all the niglit, 
 
 * Besides the rivers, .\rvc and .Vrveii-on. wliicli have tlieir 
 sources in the foot of Mont BInne, five conspicuous torrents 
 rush down its aides; and within a few paces of the placicrs 
 the GfiUinna tiiujor firows in iiuinciisc nuuihers, with its 
 " flowers of loveliest blue." 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 DEJECTION: AN ODE. 
 
 G73 
 
 ■fo 
 
 fr 
 
 And visited all uiglit by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 Tiiyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co'-herald : wake, O, wake, and utter praise ! 
 Wiio sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
 'W'ho filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 ^Yho made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 Aud you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 Forever shattered and the same forever? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, aud j'our 
 
 joy. 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 
 And who commanded (and the silence came), 
 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adowii enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motioidess torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of lieaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the 
 
 sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living 
 
 flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing yc meadow-streams with gladsome 
 
 voice ! 
 Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like 
 
 sounds ! 
 And tliey too have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Yc living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element I 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 
 
 peaks. 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 
 
 serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — 
 Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, a while bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from tiiy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears. 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
 To rise bcl'ore me, — Rise, 0, ever rise, 
 Rise like a clo\id of incense, from the earth ! 
 Thou kiugly spirit, throned among the liills, 
 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. 
 Great hierareh ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 SONNET ON HIS FIRST-BORN CHILD, 
 
 Charles ! * my slow heart was only sad, when 
 
 first 
 I scanned that face of feeble infancy : 
 For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 
 All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
 But when I saw it on its mother's arm. 
 And hanging at her bosom (she the whUe 
 Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile), 
 Then I was thrilled and melted, aud most warm 
 Impressed a father's kiss : and all beguiled 
 Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
 I seemed to see an angel-form appear, — 
 'T was even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
 So for the mother's sake tlie child was dear, 
 And dearer was the mother for the child. 
 
 DEJECTION; AN ODE, 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 With the old Moon in her aims; 
 And I fear, I fear, my master dear ! 
 We shall have a deadly storm. 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 
 
 Well ! If the bard was weather-wise, who 
 made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
 This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
 Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade 
 Thau those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. 
 Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes 
 Upon the strings of this Eolian lute. 
 Which better far were mute. 
 For lo the new moon winter-bright ! 
 And overspread with phantom light 
 (With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
 But rimmed and circled by a silver thread), 
 I sec the old moon in Iter lap, foretelling 
 
 The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
 And 0, that even now the gust were swelling. 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and 
 fast ! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst 
 they awed. 
 And sent my soul abroad. 
 Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give. 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move 
 and live ! 
 
 * Charles Lamb, who asked him how he felt when the nnrse 
 first presented his infant to him. 
 
 -s> 
 
cfi- 
 
 674 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
 A stifled, drowsy, uuinipassioued grief, 
 Wliicli finds no natural .outlet, no relief. 
 In word, or sigh, or tear, — 
 
 lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed. 
 
 All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
 Have 1 been gazing on the western sky. 
 And its pecuhar tint of yellow green : 
 And still I gaze, — and with how blank an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, 
 Tliat give away their motion to the stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
 Now sparkUng, now bedimmcd, but always seen : 
 Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
 
 1 see them aU so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 
 
 My genial spirits fail ; 
 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? 
 
 It were a vain endeavor, 
 
 Though I should gaze forever 
 On that green light tlnit lingers in the west : 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the life, whose fountains are 
 within. 
 
 IV. 
 
 lady ! we receive but what we give, 
 And in our life alone does nature live : 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 
 
 And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 
 
 Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth, 
 A hght, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 Envelo|)ing the earth, — 
 And from tlic soul itself must there be sent 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
 
 pure of heart ! thou necd'st not ask of mo 
 What this strong music in the soul may be. 
 What, and wlierein it doth exist. 
 This light, tills glory, this fair luminous mist. 
 This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
 
 Joy, virtuous lady ! joy that ne'er was 
 
 given 
 Save to the pure, and in their pvircst hour, 
 Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and 
 
 shower, — ■ 
 Joy, lady ! is the spirit and the power, 
 Wliieh wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 
 A new earth and now heaven. 
 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud, — 
 Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud, — 
 
 We in ourselves rejoice ! 
 And thence flows aU that charms or ear or sight. 
 
 All melodies the echoes of that voice. 
 All colors a suffusion from that hght. 
 
 h 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was 
 rough. 
 
 This joy within me daUied with distress, 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 
 Whence faucy made me dreams of happiness: 
 For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 
 And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed 
 
 mine. 
 But now afflictions bow me down to earth : 
 Nor care I t.liat they rob me of my mirth. 
 
 But O, each visitation 
 Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth, 
 
 Jly shaping spirit of imagination. 
 For not to think of what I needs nnist feel. 
 
 But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
 And haply by abstruse research to steal 
 
 From my own nature all the natural man, — 
 
 This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
 Till tliat which svuts a part infects the whole. 
 And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my 
 mind. 
 Reality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you, and listen to the wind, 
 
 'Uliieh long has raved unnoticed. 'What a 
 seream 
 Of agony by torture lengthened out 
 That lute sent forth ! Thou wind, thai ravcst 
 without. 
 Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, 
 Or iiiue-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
 Or lonely iiousc, long held the witches' home, 
 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 
 Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
 Of dark brown gardens, and of |)ccping flowers, 
 iMak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry 
 
 song. 
 The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 
 
 Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds 1 
 Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! 
 What tell'st thou now about y 
 'T is of tlie rushing of a host in rout, 
 "With groans of trampled men, witli smarting 
 wounds, — 
 
 • Tnirn is a smnll Iske, gc-ncrally if not nhvays npplicd to 
 the lakes up in llie mountniiis, anil wliicli arc llio fciclfrs of 
 tliosc in the valleys. This address to the »torm-winJ will 
 not appear e\lravns»iit to those who have liearil il nt night, , 
 and in a mountainous country. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. — A DAY-DEEAM. 
 
 075 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder with 
 
 the cold ! 
 But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 
 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing ci'owd, 
 IVith groans and tremulous shudderiiigs — all is 
 over — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and 
 loud! 
 A tale of less affright, 
 And tempered with delight. 
 As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
 'T is of a little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 Not far from home, but she liath lost her way : 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her 
 mother hear. 
 
 vni. 
 'T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of 
 
 sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
 Visit her, gentle sleep ! with wings of healing, 
 And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwell- 
 ing, 
 Silent as though they watched the sleeping 
 earth ! 
 With light lieart may she rise, 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 Joy lift lijer spirit, joy attune her voice ; 
 To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 
 Tiieir life the eddying of her living joul ! 
 
 O simple spirit, guided from above. 
 Dear lady ! friend devoutest of my choice. 
 Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 
 
 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 
 "Wliere may the grave of that good man be ? — 
 By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, 
 Under the twigs of a young birch-tree ! 
 Tlie oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 
 And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. 
 And whistled and roared in the winter alone, 
 Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. 
 The knight's bones are dust, 
 And his good sword rust ; — 
 His soul IS with the saints, I trust. 
 
 1802. 
 
 METKICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY. 
 
 Trochee trips from long to short; 
 
 From long to long in solenni sort 
 
 Slow Spondee stalks ; strong foot ! yet ill able 
 
 Ever to come lip with Dactyl trisyllable. 
 
 Iambics march from short to long; — 
 
 With a leap and a bound, the swift Anapists 
 throng ; 
 
 One syllable long, with one short at each side, 
 
 Amplubrachys hastes with a stately stride ; — 
 
 First iind last being long, midcUS short, Amplu- 
 niacer 
 
 Strikes his thfaidering hoofs like' a proud high- 
 bred racer. 
 
 If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise. 
 
 And delight in the things of earth, water, and 
 skies ; 
 
 Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to 
 show it. 
 
 With sound sense in his brains, may make Der- 
 went a poet, — 
 
 May crown him with fame, and must win him 
 the love 
 
 Of his father on earth and his Father above. 
 My dear, dear child ! 
 
 Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not 
 from its whole ridge 
 
 See a man who so loves you as your fond 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 IS07. 
 
 COMPLAINT. 
 
 How seldom, friend ! a good great man inherits 
 Honor or wealtli, with all his worth and pains ! 
 It sounds like stories from the land of spirits. 
 If any man obtain that which he merits. 
 Or any merit that which he obtains. 
 
 REPROOF. 
 
 For shame, dear friend ! renounce this canting 
 
 strain ! 
 What wouldst thou have a good great man 
 
 obtain ? 
 Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain — 
 Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain? 
 Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends ! 
 Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 
 The good great man ? — three treasures, love, and 
 
 light. 
 And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath; — 
 And three firm friends, more sure than day and 
 
 night, — 
 Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 
 
 1809. 
 
 A DAT-DREAM, 
 
 My eyes make pictures, when they arc shut : — 
 
 I see a fountain, large and fair, 
 A willow and a ruined hut. 
 
 And thee, and me, and Mary there. 
 !Mary ! make tliy gentle lap our pdlow ! 
 Bend o'er u.s, like a bower, my beautiful green 
 willow ! 
 
 4 
 
cfi- 
 
 676 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, 
 
 And that and summer well agree : 
 And lo ! where Mary leans her head, 
 Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
 And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: 
 Our sister and our friend will both be here to- 
 morrow. 
 
 'T was day ! But now few, large, and bright 
 
 The stars are round the crescent moon ! 
 And now it is a dark warm night, 
 The balmiest of tiie month of June ! 
 A glowworm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
 Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our 
 sweet fountain. 
 
 O ever, — ever be thou blest 1 
 
 for dearly, Asra, love I thee ! 
 This brooding warmth across my breast, 
 This depth of tranquil bliss, — ah me ! 
 Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not 
 
 whither. 
 But in one quiet room we three are still together. 
 
 The shadows dance upon the wall, 
 
 By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
 And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
 And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
 But not from me shall this mild darkness steal 
 
 thee : 
 I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I 
 feel thee ! 
 
 Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play, — 
 
 'T is Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
 But let me check this tender lay 
 
 Which none may hear but she and thou ! 
 Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming. 
 Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women I 
 
 18U-IG. 
 
 HUMAN LITE, 
 OF THE DENIAL OF 1MM0RT.\LIIY. 
 
 If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 
 
 Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
 As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. 
 
 Whose sound and motion not alone declare, 
 But are their whole of being ! If tiie breath 
 
 Be life itself, and not its task and tent. 
 If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 
 
 O man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant. 
 Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 
 
 Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 
 Which, as she gazed on some nigh-flnislicd vase. 
 Retreating slow, witli meditative jiause, 
 
 She I'ormed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
 
 Blank accident ! notiiing's anomaly ! 
 
 If rootless thus, tiius substancelcss tiiy state, 
 
 Go, weigh thy dreams, and be tiiy hopes, thy 
 
 fears, 
 The counter-weights ! Thy laughter and thy 
 tears 
 Mean but themselves, each fittest to create. 
 And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 
 Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 
 Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's 
 hood? 
 Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 
 
 Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf. 
 That sucii a thing as thou feel'st warm or 
 
 cold ? 
 Yet what and whence thy gain, if tliou witlihold 
 
 These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? 
 Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
 Thou hast no reason why ! Tliou canst have 
 none ; 
 
 Thy being's bcmg is a contradiction. 
 
 1816. 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 
 
 Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 
 It hath not been my use to pray 
 With moving h|)s or bended knees ; 
 But silently, by slow degrees. 
 My spirit I to love compose. 
 In humble trust mine eyelids close. 
 With reverential resignation. 
 No wish conceived, no thought exprest. 
 Only a sense of supplication ; 
 A sense o'er all my soid imprest 
 That I aA weak, yet not unblest. 
 Since in me, round me, everywhere 
 Eternal strength and wisdom are. 
 
 But ycstcniight I prayed aloud 
 In anguisli and in agony, 
 LTpstarting from the (iendisli crowd 
 Of shapes and thoughts tiiat tortured me : 
 A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
 Sense of intolerable wrong. 
 And whom I scorned, those only strong! 
 Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
 Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 
 Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
 On wild or hateful objects fixed. 
 Eantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 
 And sliame and terror over all ! 
 Deeds to be hid which were not bid. 
 Which all confused I could not know, 
 Wlicther I suft'ered, or I did : 
 For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe. 
 My own or otiu-rs still the same 
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stitling shame. 
 
 So two nights passed : the night's dismay 
 Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
 Sleep, tlie wide blessing, seemed to me 
 Distemper's worst calamity. 
 
 : ^ 
 
 J 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. — WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 -ft 
 
 The third night, wheu my own loud scream 
 
 Had walked me from the fiendish dream, 
 
 O'ercome with sulFeriugs straugc and wild, 
 
 I wept as I had been a child ; 
 
 And liaviug thus by tears subdued 
 
 My anguisli to a milder mood. 
 
 Such punislnneuts, 1 said, were due 
 
 To natures deepliest stained with sin, — 
 
 For aye entempesting anew 
 
 The unfathomable hell within 
 
 The horror of their deeds to view. 
 
 To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! 
 
 Such griefs with such men well agree. 
 
 But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? 
 
 To be beloved is all I need. 
 
 And whom I love, 1 love indeed. 
 
 1803. 
 
 TOniH AMD A&E, 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. 
 Where hope cliuig feeding, like a bee, — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a Maying 
 With nature, hope, and poesy. 
 When I was young ! 
 Wlien I was young ? — Ah, wof ul wheu ! 
 Ah ! for tlie change 'twixt now and then 1 
 This breathing house not buUt with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery clilFs and glittering sands, 
 IIow lightly then it Hashed along : — ■ 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
 That ask no aid of sail or oai', 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Naught cared this body for wind or weather, 
 When youth and I lived in 't together. 
 
 Flowers arc lovely ; Love is fiower-liko ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 O, the joys, that came down shower-like, 
 Of friendship, love, and liberty. 
 
 Ere I was old. 
 Ere I was old? Ah, woful ere, 
 Which tells me, youth's no longer here ! 
 
 youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 'T is known that thou and I were one, 
 
 1 '11 think it but a fond conceit, — 
 It cannot be that tliou art gone ! 
 
 Tliy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled ; — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise liast now put on. 
 To make believe that thou art gone ? 
 I sec these locks in silvery slips. 
 This drooping gait, this altered size : 
 But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
 Life is but thought : so think I will 
 That youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 1827. 
 
 Dewdrops are the gems of morning. 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is, life 's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 
 ^VTieu we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave. 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest. 
 That may not rudely be dismist. 
 Yet hath outstayed his welcome while. 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 THE EXCHANGE. 
 
 We pledged our hearts, my love and I, - 
 I in my arms the maiden clasping ; 
 
 I could not tell the reason why. 
 But, O, 1 trembled Uke an aspen ! 
 
 Her father's love she bade me gain ; 
 
 I went, and shook like any reed ! 
 I strove to act the man, — in vain ! 
 
 We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 
 
 TO A LADT, 
 
 'T IS not the lily brow I prize. 
 Nor roseate cheeks nor sunny eyes. 
 
 Enough of lilies and of roses ! 
 A thousand-fold more dear to me 
 The look that gentle love discloses, — 
 
 That look which love alone can see. 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 I ASKED my fair one happy day 
 "What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ; 
 Lalage, Neasra, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 
 Arethusa or Lucrece. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 
 
 " Beloved, what are names but air ? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me thine." 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 All nature seems at work. Slugs leave tl 
 
 lair, — 
 The bees arc stirring, — birds are on the wing, 
 And Winter, slumbering in the open air. 
 Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring 
 And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sin. 
 
 ii 
 
cfi- 
 
 678 
 
 COLEKIDGE. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Yet well I ken tlic banks where amaranths 
 
 blow, 
 Have traced the fount whence streams of ueetar 
 
 flow. 
 Bloom, ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
 For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
 With lips unbrightened, wrcatliluss brow I stroll -. 
 And would you learn the spells that drowse my 
 
 soul? 
 Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
 And hope without an object cannot live. 
 
 FANCY Df NUBIBTJS ; 
 
 OR, THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 0, IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 
 
 Just after sunset, or by moonhght skies. 
 To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 
 
 Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
 Own each ([uaint likeness issuing from the mould 
 
 Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
 And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 
 
 'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
 From mount to momit through Cloudland, gor- 
 geous land. 
 
 Or listening to the tide, with closed sight. 
 Be that blind bard, who on the Cliian strand 
 
 By those deep sounds possessed with inward 
 light. 
 Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
 Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 
 
 OOLO&NE. 
 
 In Kohin, a town of monks and bones. 
 
 And pavements fanged with murderous stones. 
 
 And rags, and iiags, and hideous wenches, 
 
 I counted two-aud-seventy stenches. 
 
 All well-delined and several stinks ! 
 
 Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks. 
 
 The river Bhine, it is well known. 
 
 Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 
 
 But tell me. Nymphs ! what power divine 
 
 Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? 
 
 LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION, 
 
 O'eu wayward childhood wouldst thou iiuld linn 
 
 rule, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy 
 
 graces. 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
 For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, so 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 
 Of education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
 Metliiuks, I see them grouped, in seemly show, 
 The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
 And robes that, touching as adown they flow. 
 Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 
 O, part them never ! If Hope prostrate he, 
 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own hfe that Hope is yet ahve ; 
 And bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
 Wooes back the fleeting spirit and half-supphes ; — 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to 
 
 Love. 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day, 
 
 Wlien overtasked at length 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
 Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loath. 
 And both supporting docs the work of both. 
 
 MT BAPTISMAL BIKTHDAT. 
 
 God's child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, — 
 What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, 
 
 ratiier 
 Thau forfeit that blest name, by which I call 
 Tiio Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father ? — 
 Fatiier ! in Christ we live, and Christ in thee, — 
 Eternal thou, and everlasting we. 
 The heir of heaven, lieneeforth I fear not death : 
 In Christ I hve ! in Christ I draw the breath 
 Of the true life ! — Let tiien earth, sea, and sky 
 Make war against me ! ' On my front I show 
 Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try 
 To end my life, that can but end its woe. 
 Is that a dcatli-bed where a Christian lies ? — 
 Yes ! but not his, — 't is Death itself there dies. 
 
 EPITAPH ON S. T. 0. 
 
 Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 
 And read with gentle breast. Beneath tiiis sod 
 A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. 
 O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; 
 Tliat he who many a year with toil of breath 
 Found death in Hfe, may here find life in death ! 
 Mercy for praise, — to be forgiven for fame 
 He asked, and lioped, through Ciirist. Do thou 
 the same ! 
 
 183.3. 
 
 ADDEESS TO THE SOUL OF ALVAR. 
 
 With no irreverent voice or uncouth ciiarm 
 I call up the departed ! 
 
 Soul of Alvar ! 
 Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell; 
 So may the gates of Paradise, unbarred, 
 
 -Q) 
 
<e- 
 
 A DUNGEON. 
 
 LOVE AND FABLE. 
 
 G79 
 
 -Q> 
 
 Cease tliy swift toils ! Since haply thou art one 
 Of that iuuunierable company 
 Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, 
 Girdle this round earth ui a dizzy motion, 
 ^Vilh noise too vast and constant to be heard; 
 I'itHcst unheard ! For 0, ye numberless. 
 Ami rapid travellers ! what ear unstuuned, 
 ^\llat sense unmaddened, might bear up against 
 The rushing of your congregated wings ? 
 Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 
 Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, 
 Tiiat roar and whiten, hke a burst of waters, 
 A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 
 To the parched caravan that roams by night ! 
 And ye upbuild on the becalmed waves 
 That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven 
 Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split 
 The ice mount ! and with fragments many and 
 
 huge 
 Temjiest the new-thawed sea, whose sudden gulfs 
 Suclc in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff ! 
 Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye 
 
 dance. 
 Till from the blue swoln corse the soul toils out, 
 And joins your mighty army. 
 {Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three words, 
 *^ Hear, sweet spirit y^ 
 
 Soul of Alvar ! 
 Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ! 
 By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
 Of a half-dead, yet still undying hope. 
 Pass visible before our mortal sense I 
 So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine. 
 Her knells and masses that redeem the dead ! 
 
 Remorse. 
 
 A DUNGEON. 
 
 And this place my forefathers made for man ! 
 
 Tliis is the process of our love and wisdom 
 
 To each poor brother who offends agaiust us, — 
 
 Most innocent perhaps, — and what if guilty ? 
 
 Is this the only cure ! Merciful God ! 
 
 Each poor and natural outlet shrivelled up 
 
 By ignorance and parching poverty, 
 
 His energies roll back upon his heart 
 
 And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison. 
 
 They brake out on liim, like a loathsome ))lague- 
 
 spot ! 
 Then we call in our pampered mountebanks ; 
 And this is their best cure ! uncomfortcd 
 And friendless solitude, groaning and tears 
 And savage faces, at the clanking hour, 
 Seen through the steam and vapors of his dungeon 
 By the lamp's dismal twilight I So he lies 
 Circled witii evil, till his very sold 
 Unmoidds its essence, hopelessly deformed 
 By siglits of evermore deformity ! 
 
 With other ministrations thou, O Nature ! 
 Healest thy wandering and distempered child ; 
 Thou pourest on him thy soft influences. 
 Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets ; 
 Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters ! 
 Till he relent, and can no more endure 
 To be a jarring and a dissonant thing 
 Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; 
 But, bursthig into tears, wins back his way. 
 His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
 By the benignant touch of love and beauty. 
 
 Remorse. 
 
 THE SAGACITT OP INNOCENCE, 
 
 And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced, • 
 Could see him as he was, and often warned me. 
 Whence learned she this? O, she was innocent! 
 And to be innocent is nature's wisdom ! 
 The Hedge-dove knows the prowlers of the air, 
 Feared soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter. 
 And the young steed recoils upon his haunches, 
 The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard. 
 surer than suspicion's hundrjcd eyes. 
 Is that line sense, which to the pure in heart. 
 By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness. 
 Reveals the approach of evil. 
 
 Zapoiija. 
 
 LOVE AND FABLE. 
 
 O, NEVER rudely will I blame his I'aith 
 In the might of stars and angels ! 'T is not merely 
 The human being's ])ride that peoples space 
 With life and m,>'stieal ]n'edoininance ; 
 Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love 
 This visible nature, and this common world, 
 Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import 
 Lurks in the legend told my infant years 
 Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. 
 For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth- 
 place : 
 Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans. 
 And spirits ; and delightedly believes 
 Divinities, being himself divine. 
 Tlie intelligible forms of ancient poets. 
 The fair humanities of old religion. 
 The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 
 That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain. 
 Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly s|iriiig, 
 Or chasms and watery depths; all these have 
 
 vanished ; 
 Tlicy live no longer in the faith of reason ! 
 But still the heart doth need a language, still 
 Doth the old instinct bring back the okl names. 
 And to yon starry world they now are gone. 
 Spirits or gods, that used to share tin's earth 
 With man as with their friend; and to the lover 
 
 ^ 
 
 -^-g> 
 
cQ- 
 
 G80 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 i 
 
 Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 
 Shoot influence down : and even at this day 
 'T is Jupiter brings whate'er is great, 
 And Venus who brings everything that 's fair ! 
 Translation of Wallcnstvin. 
 
 CERISTABEL.* 
 
 PART L 
 
 'T IS the middle of night by the castle clock. 
 And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ; 
 
 Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 
 
 And luirk, again ! the crowing cock. 
 How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir Leoline, the baron rich. 
 Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 She maketh answer to the clock, 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 
 Ever and aye, by sliine and shower, 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark ? 
 The night is cliilly, but not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers but not bides the sky. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chUl, the cloud is gray : 
 'T is a moutli before the month of May, 
 And the spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 M'hom her father loves so well, 
 ^Vliat makes her in the wood so late, 
 A furlong from the castle gate ? 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 Of her own betrothed knight; 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 For the weal of her lover that 's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
 And naught was green upon the oak, 
 liut moss and rarest mistletoe : 
 Slie kneels beneath the huge oak-tree, 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly. 
 The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
 It moaned as near, as near can be, 
 
 * " Tlie metre of tlie Clirislnljel 13 not, pi-operly speakinp. ir- 
 rt'tjular, tliough it niny seem so frotii its Iit'in;; founded on a 
 new principle ; namely, thnt of counting in each line the 
 aeeents, not llie syllables. Though the latter may vary from 
 seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will he found to 
 he only four. Nevertheless, this occasional variation in num- 
 her of syllnhlcs is not introilueed wantonly, or for the mere 
 ends of wjnvenienec, hut in correspondence with some transi- 
 tion in the nature of the inia^'ery oi- passion." — Tmh .^rriion. 
 
 There is no poem in the whole range of English literature 
 which surpasses this in its weird-like elTcctou the imagination. 
 
 But what it is, she cannot tell. 
 
 On the other side it seems to be, 
 
 Of the iiuge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. 
 
 The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
 Is it the wind that moancth bleak ? 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek, — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
 That dances as often as dance it can. 
 Hanging so Kght, and hanging so high, 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
 She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 'What sees she there ? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 Drest in a silken robe of white. 
 That shadowy hi the moonlight shown ; 
 The neck that made that wiiite robe wan. 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
 Her blue-veined feet unsaudallcd were, 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 I guess, 't was frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she, — 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 "Mary mother, save me now! " 
 Said Christabel. " And who art thou ? " 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : 
 " Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness : 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! " 
 Said Christabel, " How eamest thou here?" 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 
 
 " My sire is of a noble line. 
 And my name is Geraldine : 
 Five warriors seized me yestcrmorn, 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 
 They choked my cries witli force and friglit, 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 The ])alfrey was as fleet as wind. 
 And tliey rode furiously behind. 
 They spurred amain, tlieir steeds were wliitc : 
 And (uiee we crossed the shade of night . 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 I have no thought what men they be ; 
 Nor do I know liow long it is 
 (For I have lain entranced, I wis) 
 Since one, the tallest of the five, 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 
 He placed me underneath this oak ; 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHEISTABEL. 
 
 681 
 
 -^ 
 
 <Q- 
 
 He swore they woiJd return with haste ; 
 Whither they went I cannot tell, — 
 I thought I heard, sonic minutes past. 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 Stretch forth thy hand " (thus ended she), 
 " And help a wretched maid to flee." 
 
 Then Christabel stretclied forth her hand 
 And comforted fair Geraldinc : 
 " well, bright dame ! may you command 
 The service of Sir Leoline ; 
 And gladly our stout chivah-y 
 Will he send forth and friends withal 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 Home to your noble father's hall." 
 
 She rose : and forth with steps they passed 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest, 
 And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 " All our liousehold are at rest. 
 The hall as silent as the cell : 
 Sir Leoline is weak in liealth, 
 And may not well awakened be. 
 But we will move as if in stealtii, 
 And I beseech your courtesy. 
 This night, to share your couch with me." 
 
 They crossed tlie moat, and Christabel 
 Took the key that fitted well ; 
 A little door she opened straight. 
 All in the middle of the gate ; 
 Tlie gate that was ironed within and without. 
 Where an army in battle array had marched out. 
 The hidy sank, belike through pain. 
 And Christabel with miglit and main 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 Tiien the lady rose again. 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were. 
 And Christabel devoutly cried 
 To the lady by her side : 
 " Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " 
 " Alas, alas ! " said Geraldine, 
 " I cannot speak for weariness." 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 They crossed the court ; right glad they were. 
 
 Outside her kennel the mastitf old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 The mastitr old did not awake. 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 Never tiU now she uttered yell 
 Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
 Por what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still. 
 Pass as lightly as you will ! 
 
 The brands were flat, the bi'ands were dying. 
 
 Amid their own white ashes lying ; 
 
 But when tlie lady passed, tliere came 
 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 
 And Christabel saw the lady's eye. 
 
 And nothing else saw she thereby. 
 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir LeoUne tall. 
 
 Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 
 
 "O, softly tread," said Christabel, 
 
 "My lather seldom sleepeth well." 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. 
 And, jealous of the listening air, 
 They steal their way from stair to stair, 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. 
 And now they pass the baron's room, 
 As still as death with stifled breath ! 
 And now have reached her chamber door; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber floor. 
 
 The moon shines dim in the open air. 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 But they without its ligiit can see 
 The chamber carved so curiously, 
 Carved with figures strange and sweet. 
 All made out of the carver's brain. 
 For a lady's chamber meet : 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright. 
 And left it swinging to and fro, 
 Wliile Geraldinc, in wretched plight, 
 Sauk down upon the floor below. 
 
 " O weary Lady Geraldine, 
 I pray you, drink tliis cordial wine ! 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
 My motljcr made it of wild-flowers." 
 
 "And will your mother pity me, 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn ? " 
 Ciiristabel answered, " Woe is mo ! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, 
 How on her death-bed she did say 
 Tliat she should hear the castle-bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 
 
 mother dear ! that thou wert here ! " 
 
 " I would," .said Geraldinc, " slie were ! " 
 But soon with altered voice, said she : 
 " Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
 
 1 have power to bid thee flee." 
 Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 "Olf, woman, ott'! this hour is mine, — 
 Tliough thou her guardian spirit be. 
 Off, woman, ott'! 'tis given to mc." 
 
 -95 
 
c:^ 
 
 682 
 
 COLEEIDGE. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue, — 
 "Alas ! " said she, " tliis ghastly ride, — 
 Dear lady ! it hath wildered you !" 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, " 'T is over now ! " 
 
 Again the wild-flower wine she drank; 
 Tier fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
 And from the floor whereon she sank 
 The lofty lady stood upright ; 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far couutree. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady sjjake : 
 " All they who live in the upper sky 
 Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 And for the good which me befell. 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself ; for I 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 
 
 Quoth Christabel, "So let it be ! " 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
 But tjirough her brain of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and fro. 
 That vain it were her lids to close : 
 So half-way from the bed she rose, 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the Lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her breatli aloud, 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneatli her breast : 
 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side, — 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 O, shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
 All ! what a stricken look was liers ! 
 Deep from within she seems lialf-way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay. 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
 Then suddenly as one deticd 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
 And lay down l)y the maiden's side ! — 
 Ami in her arms the maid she took. 
 
 Ah well-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look 
 
 These words did say : 
 " In the touch of this bosom there worketh a 
 
 spell, 
 Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
 Thou knowest to-niglit,and wilt know to-morrow. 
 This mark of my shame, tliis seal of my sorrow; 
 
 But vainly thou warrest, 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy power to declare. 
 
 That in the dim forest 
 Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 
 And didst bring her home with thee in love and 
 
 in charity, 
 To shield her and shelter her from the damp air." 
 
 THE CO^'CLUSIO^' TO P.\RT I. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The Lady Christabel, when she 
 ^Vas praying at the old oak-tree. 
 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 
 Of mossy leafless boughs. 
 
 Kneeling in the moonlight, 
 
 To make her gentle vows ; 
 Her slender palms together prest, 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale, — 
 Her face, O, call it fair, not pale. 
 And both blue eyes more bright than clear. 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 With open eyes (ah woe is me ! ) 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully. 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
 Dreaming that alone, which is — 
 sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree ? 
 And lo ! the worker of these harms. 
 That holds the maiden in her arms, 
 Seems to shunber still and mild. 
 As a mother with hei' child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
 Have been the lovely lady's ]irison. 
 O Geraldine ! one hour was thine, — 
 Tiu)u 'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill. 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 But now they are jubilant anew-. 
 From clilT and tower, tu — whoo! (u — whoo! 
 Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
 And see ! the Lady Christabel 
 Gathers herself from out lier trance; 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids 
 Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds, — 
 Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 As infants at a sudden light ! 
 Yea, shc~doth smile, and siic doth weep. 
 Like a youthful hcrmitess. 
 Beauteous in a wilderness, 
 AVho, praying always, prays in sleep. 
 And, if she move uuquictly, 
 Perchance, 't is but the blood so free, 
 Comes back and tinsilcs in her feet. 
 
 ^0-^ 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 C83 T 
 
 fr 
 
 No doubt she hatk a vision sweet. 
 Wliat if lier guardian spirit 't were ? 
 What if slie knew her motlier near ? 
 But tliis she l:nows, in joys and Woes, 
 That saints will aid if men will call : 
 For the blue sky bends over all ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 "Each matin bell," tlie baron saith, 
 "Knells us baek to a world of death." 
 These words Sir Lcoline first said, 
 Wlien he rose and found his lady dead : 
 These words Sir Leoline will say, 
 Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 
 And hence the custom and law began. 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 Wlio duly pulls the heavy bell, 
 Five-and-forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke, — a warning knell. 
 Which not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
 Saitli Bracy the bard, " So let it knell ! 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can ! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween. 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, 
 Who all give back, one after t' other, 
 The death-note to their living brother ; 
 And oft too, by the knell offended. 
 Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended, 
 The devil mocks the doleful tale 
 With a merry peal from Borodale." 
 
 The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
 That merry jieal comes ringing loud ; 
 And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
 And rises lightly from tiie bed ; 
 Puts on her silken vestments white. 
 And tricks iier hair in lovely plight, 
 And nothing doubting of her spell 
 Awakens the Lady Christabel. 
 " Sleep you, sweet Lady Christabel? 
 I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 The same who lay down by her side, — 
 O, rather say, the same whom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak-tree ! 
 Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
 For she belike hath drunken deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep !' 
 And while she spake, her look, her air, 
 Sueh gentle thankfulness declare. 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 " Sure I have sinned ! " said Christabel, 
 
 " Now heaven be praised if all be well !" 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
 Did she the lofty lady greet 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden Hmbs, and having (irayed 
 That He, who on the cross dul groan. 
 Might wash away her sins unknown. 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Arc pacing both into the hall, 
 And pacing on through page and groom. 
 Enter the baron's presence-room. 
 
 The baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast. 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The Lady Geraldine espies. 
 And gave sueh welcome to the same. 
 As might beseem so briglit a dame ! 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale. 
 And when she told her father's name, 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
 Murmuriug o'er the name again. 
 Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 Witli Roland and Sir Lcoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brotlier : 
 Tiiey parted, — ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow lieart from paining, — 
 Tiiey stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 Tlie marks of tliat which once hath been.* 
 
 Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 O, then tlie baron forgot his age. 
 His noble heart swelled liigh with rage ; 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side. 
 He would proclaim it far and wide 
 With trump and solemn heraldry. 
 That they who thus had wronged the dame 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 
 * This is generally considered one of the noblest passages 
 in the poetry of the nineteenth century. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 684 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 " And if they dare deny the same, 
 
 My herald shall appoint a week, 
 
 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 
 My tourney court, — that there and then 
 
 I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 
 From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
 
 He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 
 
 For tlie lady was ruthlessly seized ; ami he kenned 
 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 
 
 And now the tears were on his face, 
 And fondly in iiis arms he took 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace. 
 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 ^Vhicli wlien slie viewed, a vision fell 
 Upon the soul of Cliristabel, 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — 
 (Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee. 
 Thou gentle maid ! sucli sights to see ?) 
 Again she saw that bosom old. 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 
 Whereat the knight turned wildly round. 
 And nothing saw but his own sweet maid 
 With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest. 
 Which cond'ortcd her after-rest. 
 While in the lady's arms she lay, 
 Had put a rapture in her breast. 
 And on lier lips and o'er lier eyes 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
 With new surprise, 
 " What ails then my beloved cliild 'f " 
 The baron said. . His daughter mild 
 Made answer, " All will yet bo well ! " 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
 
 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 Had deemed lier sure a tiling divine. 
 Such sorrow with sucli grace she blended. 
 As if slie feared she had olfpiided 
 Sweet Cliristabel, that gentle maid! 
 And witli such lowly tones she prayed. 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 " Nay ! 
 Nay, by my sonl ! " said lieoliue. 
 " Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the cliarge be thine ! 
 Go thou, with music sweet and loud. 
 And take two steeds with trappings |)roud. 
 And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song. 
 And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
 And over the mountains haste along, 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
 Detain you on the valley road." 
 And when he has crossed the Irtliiiig flood. 
 
 My merry bard ! he hastes, he liastes 
 
 Up Knorren Moor, through Halcgarth Wood, 
 
 And reaches soon that castle good 
 
 Which stands and tlireatens Scotland's wastes. 
 
 " Bard Bracy ! bard Braey ! your horses are 
 fleet, 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet. 
 More loud than your horses' eclioiug feet I 
 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
 Thy daughter is safe in Laugdale hall I 
 Tiiy beautiful daughter is safe and free, — 
 Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 He bids thee come without delay, 
 With all thy numerous array. 
 And take thy lovely daughter home : 
 And he will meet thee on the way 
 With all his numerous array 
 White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
 And by mine honor ! I will say. 
 That I repent nie of the day 
 When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 To Roland de Vaux of Tryermainc ! — 
 For since that evil hour hath flown, 
 ilany a summer's sun hath shone ; 
 Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
 Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 
 
 The lady fell, and clasped his knees. 
 Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — • 
 "Thy words, thou sire of Cliristabel, 
 Are sweeter than my liarp can tell ; 
 Y^et might I gain a boon of thee, 
 This day my journey should not be. 
 So strange a dream hath come to me; 
 That I had vowed with music loud 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest. 
 Warned by a vision in my rest ! 
 For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
 That gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 
 And eall'st by thy own daughter's name, — 
 Sir Leoline ! I saw the same 
 Flutteriug, and uttering fearful moan, 
 Among the green lierbs in the forest alone. 
 Which when I saw and when I heard, 
 I wondered what miglit ail the liird ; 
 For nothing near it could I see. 
 Save the grass and green herbs underneatli the 
 old tree. 
 
 " And in my dream methouglit I went 
 To search out what might there be found ; 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant. 
 That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 I went and peered, and could descry 
 No cause for her distressful cry ; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stooped, methought, the dove to take. 
 When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
 
 V- 
 
 -9> 
 
cfi- 
 
 CHKISTABEL. 
 
 685 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 Coiled around its wings and neck, 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched, 
 Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
 And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
 I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
 The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
 But though my slumber was gone by. 
 This dream it would not pass away, — 
 It seems to live upon my eye ! 
 And thence I vowed this selfsame day, 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there." 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the baron, the while. 
 Half listening heard him with a smile ; 
 Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 
 His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
 And said in courtly accents fine, 
 " Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous dove 
 With arms more strong than harp or song. 
 Thy sire aud I will crush the snake ! " 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake. 
 And Geraldine, in maiden wise, 
 Casting down her large bright eyes, 
 With lilushing cheek and courtesy fine 
 She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 
 Softly gathering up her train. 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest, 
 And couched her head upon her breast, 
 And looked askance at Christabel, — 
 Jcsu JIaria, shield her well ! 
 
 A snake's small eye bhnks dull and sliy, 
 And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
 Aud with somewhat of malice, and more of dread. 
 At Christabel siie looked askance ! 
 One moment, — and the sight was fled ! 
 But Christabel in dizzy trance 
 Stumbling on the unsteady ground 
 Shuddered aloud, witli a hissing sound ; 
 And Geraldine again turned roimd. 
 And like a thing that sought relief, 
 Pull of wonder and full of grief, 
 She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
 Wiklly on Sir LeoUne. 
 
 The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone. 
 She nothing sees, — no sight but one ! 
 The maid, devoid of guile aud sin, 
 I know not how, in fearful wise 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
 That all her features were resigned 
 To this sole image in her mind ; 
 And passively did imitate 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
 And thus she stood in dizzy trance. 
 
 Still picturing that look askance 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 Full before her father's view, — 
 As far as such a look could be, 
 In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
 And when the trance was o'er the maid 
 Paused awiiile, and inly prayed : 
 Tiien falling at the baron's feet, 
 " By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 Tliat thou this woman send away ! " 
 She said : and more slie could uot say : 
 Tor what she knew she could not tell, 
 O'ermastered by the mighty spell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan aud wild. 
 Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 
 So fail', so innocent, so mild ; 
 The same for whom thy lady died ! 
 0, by the pangs of her dear mother 
 Thiuk thou no evil of thy child ! 
 For her, and thee, and for no other. 
 She jjrayed the moment ere she died : 
 Prayed that the babe for whom she died 
 Miglit prove her dear lord's joy and pride ! 
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 
 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 Aud wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 
 
 Her child and thine ? 
 Within tile baron's heart and brain 
 If thoughts, like these, had any share. 
 They only swelled his rage and pain. 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 
 His checks they quivered, his eyes were wild. 
 Dishonored thus in his old age ; 
 Dislionored by his only child. 
 And all his hospitality 
 To the wronged daughter of his friend 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 Brought thus to a disgraceful end, — 
 He rolled his eye with stern regard 
 Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
 And said in tones abrupt, austere, 
 " Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? 
 I bade thee hence ! " The bard obeyed ; 
 And turning from his own sweet maid. 
 The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 
 Led forth the Lady Geraldine ! 
 
 THE COXCIUSIOU TO PART II. 
 
 A LITTLE child, a limber elf. 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks. 
 That always finds, aud never seeks. 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 Upon Ids heart, that he at last 
 
 -g> 
 
(£t 
 
 C8G 
 
 LEWIS. 
 
 -^-Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 Perlmps 't is pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unlike each otiier ; 
 To mutter aud mock a broken eharni. 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 And what, if in a world of siu 
 (0 sorrow aud shame should this be true !) 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 Comes sekloin save from rage and pain, 
 So talks as it 's most used to do. 
 
 Part I., 1797.— Part II., 1800. 
 
 MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. 
 
 1773-1818. 
 
 ALONZO THE BRAVE AUD THE FAIR IMOOINE, 
 
 A WARRIOR so bold, and a virgin so brigiit. 
 
 Conversed as they sat on the green ; 
 They gazed on each other with tender delight : 
 Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight, — • 
 The maiden's, the Fair Imogine. 
 
 " Aud O," said the youth, "since to-morrow I go 
 
 To light in a far distant land. 
 Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, 
 Some other will coui;t you, and you will bestow 
 
 On a wealthier suitor your baud ! " 
 
 " 0, hush these suspicions," Fair Imogine said, 
 
 " Offensive to love and to me ; 
 For, if you be living, or if you be dead, 
 I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead 
 
 Shall husband of Imogine be. 
 
 " If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside, 
 
 Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
 God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride. 
 Your giiost at the marriage may sit by my side. 
 May tax me witii ])erjury, claim me as bride, 
 
 And bear me away to the grave ! " 
 
 To Palestine hastened tlie hero so bold, 
 
 His love she lamented him sore ; 
 ]5ut scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, 
 
 behold ! 
 A baron, all covered with jewels and gold, 
 
 Arrived at Fair Imogine's door. 
 
 His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain. 
 
 Soon made her untrue to her vows ; 
 He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain ; 
 
 He caught her affections, so light aud so vain, 
 And carried her iiome as his spouse. 
 
 Aud now had the marriage been blest l)y the 
 priest ; 
 The revelry now was begun ; 
 The tables they groaned with the weight of the 
 
 feast, 
 Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased. 
 When tiic bell at the castle toUed — one. 
 
 Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found 
 
 A stranger was placed by her side : 
 His air was terrific ; he uttered no sound, — 
 He spake not, he moved not, he looked not 
 around, — 
 But earnestly gazed on the bride. 
 
 His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height, 
 
 His armor was sable to view ; 
 All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his 
 
 sight; 
 The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright ; 
 
 The lights in the chamber burned blue ! 
 
 His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay; 
 
 The guests sat in silence and fear ; 
 At length spake the bride, — while slie trembled, 
 
 — "I pray. 
 Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, 
 
 Aud deign to partake of our cheer." 
 
 The lady is silent ; the stranger complies — 
 
 His vizor he slowly unclosed ; 
 God ! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes ! 
 What words can express lier dismay and surprise. 
 
 When a skeleton's head was exposed ! 
 
 All present then uttered a terrified shout, 
 All turned with disgust from the scene ; 
 
 The worms they crept in, aud the worms they 
 crept out. 
 
 And sported his eyes and his temples about, 
 ■Whik^ the spectre addressed Imogine: 
 
 " Behold me, thou false one, behold me ! " he 
 cried, 
 " Remember Alonzo the Brave ! 
 God grants tliat, to ]iunish thy falsehood and 
 
 pride. 
 My ghost at thy nuirriage should sit Ijy tliy 
 
 side ; 
 Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, 
 And bear thee away to the grave ! " 
 
 Thus saying his arms round the lady he wo\ind. 
 
 While loudly she shrieked in dismay ; 
 Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawn- 
 ing ground. 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE BRAES 0' BALQUHITHEE. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 G87 
 
 ^ 
 
 Nor ever again was Fair Imoginc found, 
 Or tlie spectre that bore lier away. 
 
 Not long lived the baron ; and none, since that 
 time, 
 
 To inhabit the castle presume ; 
 For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, 
 There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime. 
 
 And mourns her deplorable doom. 
 
 At midnight, four times in each year, does her 
 sprite, 
 
 "Wlien mortals in slumber are bound. 
 Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white. 
 Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, 
 
 Aaul shriek as he whirls her around ! 
 
 While they drink out of skulls newly torn from 
 the grave. 
 
 Dancing round them the spectres are seen ; 
 Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
 They howl : " To tile health of jVlonzo the Brave, 
 
 And his consort, the Fair Imogiue ! " 
 
 THE HELMSMAN. 
 
 Hark, the bell ! it sounds midnight ! all hail, 
 thou new heaven ! 
 How soft sleep the stars on their bosom of 
 night ; 
 While o'er the full moon, as they gently are 
 driven. 
 Slowly floating, the clouds bathe their fleeces 
 in light. 
 
 The warm feeble breeze scarcely ripples the 
 ocean. 
 And all seems so hushed, all so happy to 
 feel; 
 So smooth glides the bark, I perceive not her 
 motion. 
 While low sings the saUor who watches the 
 wheel. 
 
 'T is so sad, 't is so sweet, and some tones come 
 so swelling. 
 So right from the heart, and so pure to the 
 ear, 
 That sure at this moment his thoughts must be 
 dwelhug 
 On one who is absent, most kind and most dear. 
 
 O, may she, who now dictates that ballad so ten- 
 der. 
 Diffuse o'er your days the heart's solace and 
 ease, 
 As yon lovely moon, with a gleam of mild splen- 
 dor. 
 Pure, tranquil, and bright, over-silvers the seas ! 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 1774-1810. 
 
 THE FILIAL VOW, 
 
 Why heaves ray mother oft the deep-drawn sigh ? 
 Why starts the big tear glistening in her eye ? 
 Why oft retire to hide her bursting grief ? 
 Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish relief ? 
 'T is for my father, mouldering with the dead, 
 My brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid, 
 And for the pains which age is doomed to bear, 
 Siie heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and drops tlie 
 
 secret tear. 
 Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ. 
 But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy ; 
 She grieves to think she may be burdensome. 
 Now feeble, old, and tottering to the tomb. 
 
 0, hear me. Heaven ! and record my vow ; 
 Its non-performance let thy wrath pursue ! 
 I sweat, of what thy providence may give, 
 My mother shall iier due maintenance have. 
 'T was hers to guide me through life's early day, 
 To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way : 
 Now, while her powers in frigid languor sleep, 
 'T is mine to hand her down life's rugged steep ; 
 With all her little weaknesses to bear. 
 Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care. 
 'T is nature bids, and truest pleasure flows 
 From lessening an aged parent's woes. 
 
 THE BRAES 0' BALQUHITHEE, 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go. 
 
 To the braes o' Balquhithcr, 
 Wliere the blaeberries grow 
 
 'ilang the bounie Highland heather ; 
 Wliere the deer and the roc. 
 
 Lightly bounding together, 
 Sport the laug summer day 
 
 On the braes o' Balquhithcr. 
 
 I will twine thee a bower 
 
 By the clear siller fountain, 
 And I '11 cover it o'er 
 
 Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; 
 I will range through the wilds. 
 
 And the deep glens sae drearie. 
 And return wi' the spoils 
 
 To the bower o' my dearie. 
 
 Wlien the rude wintry win' 
 Idly raves round our dwelling, 
 
 And the roar of the linn 
 
 On the night breeze is swelling. 
 
 So merrily wc '11 sing. 
 
 As the storm rattles o'er us. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 688 
 
 TIGHE. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 «- 
 
 Till the dear siiieling ring 
 Wi' tlie liglit lilting chorus. 
 
 Now the summer's in prime 
 
 Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 
 And the wild mountain thyme 
 
 A' the moorlands perfuming; 
 To our dear native scenes 
 
 Let us journey together, 
 Where glad innocence reigns 
 
 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 THE BRAES 0' aLENnTER, 
 
 Kken blaws the wiu' o'er the braes o' Glcniffer, 
 The auld castle turrets are covered with suaw ; 
 Howciianged IVaethetime wheiil metwi' my lover 
 Aniang the broom bushes by Stanley green 
 shaw ! 
 The wild-flowers o' summer were spread a' sac 
 bouuie, 
 The mavis sang sweet frae the green birkeu tree; 
 But far to the camp they hae inarched my dear 
 Joliuie, 
 And now it is winter wi' nature and me. 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and 
 clieerie, 
 Then ilk thing around us was bonuieaudbraw; 
 Now nacthing is heard but the wind whistling 
 drearie. 
 And naething is seen but the wide-spreading 
 snaw. 
 The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie ; 
 They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as 
 tiiey flee ; 
 And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my 
 Johnie : 
 'T is winter wi' them, and 't is winter wi' me. 
 
 Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak 
 mountain, 
 
 And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, 
 While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-llooded 
 fountain. 
 
 That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me. 
 It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 
 
 It's no the cauld blast brings the (ear i' my e'e; 
 For O, gin T saw but my' bonnie Soots callan, 
 
 The dark days o' winter were summer to me. 
 
 TEE FLOWER 0' DUMBLANE, 
 
 The sun has gano down o'er the lofty Benlomond, 
 And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 
 
 Wliilc lancly I stray in the calm summer gloamin, 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flowcro' Unni- 
 lilaiie. 
 
 How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blos- 
 som ! 
 
 And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the flower u' Uumblane. 
 
 Slie 's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonnie; 
 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain : 
 And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
 
 Wha'd blight in its bloom (lie sweet flower o' 
 Dumblaue. 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to (he e'eiiing ; 
 
 Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Uum- 
 blane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! 
 
 The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, 
 
 Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur. 
 
 Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain. 
 And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, 
 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 ■. MARY TIGHE. 
 
 1774-1810. 
 
 PSYCHE GAZING ON LOVE. 
 
 Allowed to settle on celestial eyes, 
 Soft sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway. 
 From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies 
 To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray 
 The powers of Heaven submissively obey. 
 Trembling and breathless then she softly rose. 
 And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, 
 With hand too rashly daring to disclose 
 The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her 
 woes. 
 
 Twice, as with agitated step she went. 
 The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam. 
 As though it warned her from her rash intent : 
 And twice she paused, and on its trembling 
 
 beam 
 Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem 
 With murmuring sound aloni; tlie roof to sigh ; 
 As one just waking from a troublous dream. 
 With iialpitating heart and stniining eye. 
 Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the dan- 
 ger nigh. 
 
 O daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay 
 To ]iaint the wonders which that lamp could 
 show ? 
 
 ■# 
 
(^ 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 689 
 
 ■^ 
 
 fr 
 
 And canst thou liope in living words to say 
 The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? 
 Ah ! well I ween, that if with pencil true 
 That splendid vision could be well exjjressed, 
 Tlic fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew 
 Would seize with rapture every wondering 
 
 breast, 
 When Love's all-poteut charms divinely stood 
 
 confessed. 
 
 All imperceptible to human touch, 
 His wings display celestial essence light ; 
 The clear effulgence of the blaze is snch. 
 The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright. 
 That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight; 
 A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years ; 
 Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, 
 Each golden euri rcsplcndently appears. 
 Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic 
 wears : 
 
 Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright 
 Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, 
 That frout than polished ivory more white ! 
 His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
 Thau roses scattered o'er a bed of snow : 
 While on his lips, distilled in balmy dews 
 (Those lips divine, that even in silence know 
 The heart to touch), persuasion to infuse. 
 Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 
 
 The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
 Disclosed not j'ct his eyes' resistless sway. 
 But from their silky veil there seemed to peep 
 Some brilliant glances with a softened ray, 
 Which o'er his features exquisitely play. 
 And all his polished limbs suffuse with light. 
 Thus through some narrow space the azure day. 
 Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, 
 Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of 
 night. 
 
 His fatal arrows and celestial bow 
 Beside the eoucii were negligently thrown. 
 Nor needs the god his dazzlhig arms to show 
 His glorious birth ; sucli beauty round him 
 
 shone 
 As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone; 
 The bloom which glowed o'er all of soft desire 
 Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherished 
 
 son: 
 And Beauty's self will oft those charms admire, 
 And steal his witching smile, his glance's living 
 
 Arc. 
 
 Speechless with awe, in transport strangely 
 
 lost, 
 Long Psyche stood with fixed adoring eye ; 
 Her limbs immovable, her senses tossed 
 Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy, 
 
 She hangs enamored o'er the deity. 
 Till from her trembling hand extinguished falls 
 The fatal lamp, — he starts, — and suddenly 
 Tremendous thunders echo through the halls. 
 While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the af- 
 frighted walls. 
 
 Dread horror seizes on her sinking heart, 
 A mortal chilluess shudders at her breast. 
 Her soul shruiks fainting from death's icy dart. 
 The groan scarce uttered dies but half ex- 
 pressed. 
 And do wn she sinks in deadly swoon oppressed ; 
 But when at length, awaking from her trance. 
 The terrors of her fate stand all confessed. 
 In vain she casts around her timid glance ; 
 The rudely frowning scenes her former joys en- 
 hance. 
 
 No traces of those joys, alas, remain ! 
 
 A desert solitude alone appears ; 
 
 No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, 
 
 The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain 
 
 cheers ; 
 One barren face the dreary prospect wears ; 
 Naught through the vast horizon meets her eye 
 To calm the dismal tumult of her fears ; 
 No trace of human habitation nigh ; 
 A sandy wild beneath, above a thi'catening sky. 
 
 THE LILT. 
 
 How withered, perished, seems the form 
 
 Of yon obscure «usightly root ! 
 Yet from the blight of wintry storm 
 
 It hides secure the precious fruit. 
 
 The careless eye can fiiul no grace. 
 
 No beauty in the scaly fslds. 
 Nor see within the dark embrace 
 
 What latent lovehncss it holds. 
 
 Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, 
 
 The lily wraps her silver vest. 
 Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
 
 Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 
 
 Yes, hide beneath the mouldermg heap 
 The undeligliling slighted thing; 
 
 There in tlie cold earth buried deep. 
 In silence let it wait the spring. 
 
 0, many a stormy night shall close 
 In gloom upon the barren earth, 
 
 Wliile still, in undisturbed repose, . 
 
 Umnjured lies the future birth : 
 
 And Ignorance, ■with sceptic eye, 
 
 Hope's patient smile shall wondering view : 
 
 -9> 
 
cfi- 
 
 090 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Or mock her fond credulity, 
 
 As her soft tears the spot bedew. 
 
 Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! 
 
 The sun, the shower indeed shall come ; 
 The promised verdant shoot appear. 
 
 And nature bid her blossoms bloom. 
 
 And thou, virgin queen of spriu? ! 
 
 Slialt, from- tliy dark and lowly bed. 
 Bursting tliy green slieath's silken string. 
 
 Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed; 
 
 Unfold thy robes of purest white, 
 
 Unsullied from their darksome grave, 
 
 And thy soft petals' silvery liglit 
 In the mild breeze unfettered wave. 
 
 So Faith shall seek the lowly dust 
 AVheve humble Sorrow loves to lie, 
 
 And bid her thus her hopes intrust. 
 And watch with patient, cheerful eye ; 
 
 And bear the long, cold wintry night, 
 And bear her own degraded doom ; 
 
 And wait till Heaven's reviving light, 
 Eternal spring ! shall burst the gloom. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 1774-184.3. 
 
 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 
 
 DESCRIBED IN EHYMES FOR THE NURSERY. 
 
 " How does the water 
 Come down at Lodore ? " 
 My little boy asked me 
 Thus, once on a time ; 
 And moreover he tasked me 
 To tell him in rhyme. 
 Anon at the word. 
 There first came one daughter. 
 And then came another, 
 To second and third 
 The request of their brother. 
 And to hear how the water 
 Comes down at Lodore, 
 With its rush and its roar. 
 As many a time 
 They liad seen it before. 
 So 1 told them in rhyme. 
 For of rhymes I had store ; 
 And 't was in my vocation 
 For their recreation 
 That so I should sing ; 
 Because I was Laureate 
 To them anil tlio kins'. 
 
 From its sources which well 
 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 
 From its fountains 
 
 In the mountains, 
 
 Its riUs and its gills ; 
 
 Through moss and through brake. 
 
 It runs and it creeps 
 
 For a whde, tUl it sleeps 
 
 In its own little lake. 
 
 And tlicuce at departing, 
 
 Awakening and starting. 
 
 It runs through the reeds. 
 
 And away it proceeds. 
 
 Through meadow and glade. 
 
 In sun and in shade. 
 
 And through the wood-shelter. 
 
 Among crags in its flurry. 
 
 Helter-skelter, 
 
 Hurry-scurry. 
 
 Here it comes sparkling. 
 
 And there it lies darkling; 
 
 Now smoking and frothing 
 
 Its tumult and wrath in, 
 
 TiU in tins rapid I'ace 
 
 On which it is bent. 
 
 It reaches the place 
 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 The cataract strong 
 Then plunges along. 
 Striking and raging 
 As if a war waging 
 Its caverns and rocks among ; 
 Rising and leaping. 
 Sinking and creeping, 
 Swelling and sweeping. 
 Showering and sjiringing. 
 Flying and flinging, 
 Writbing and wringing, 
 Eddying and whisking. 
 Spouting and frisking. 
 Turning and twisting, 
 Around and around 
 With endless rebound : 
 Smiting and fighting, 
 A siglit to delight in ; 
 Confounding, astounding. 
 Dizzying and deafening the car with its sound. 
 
 Collecting, projecting, 
 
 Keeeding and speeding. 
 And shocking and rocking. 
 Ami darting and parting. 
 And tlircadiiig and spreading, 
 And whizzing and hissing. 
 And drijiping and skipping, 
 And hitting and splitting, 
 And shining and twining. 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 THE PIG. 
 
 G91 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 And rattling and battling, 
 And shaking and quaking, 
 And pouring and roaring. 
 And waving and raving. 
 And tossing and crossing, 
 And flowing and going. 
 And running and stunning. 
 And foaming and roaming. 
 And dinning and spinning, 
 And dropping and hopping. 
 And working and jerking, 
 And guggling and strugghng. 
 And heaving and cleaving. 
 And moaning and groaning ; 
 
 And glittering and frittering, 
 And gathering and feathering. 
 And whitening and brighteumg. 
 And quivering and shivering. 
 And hurrying and sknrrying. 
 And thundering and floundering ; 
 
 Diriding and gliding and sliding, 
 And falhng and brawling and sprawling. 
 And driving and riving and striving. 
 And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
 And sounding and bounding and roimding, 
 And bublding and troubling and doubling. 
 And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 
 And clattering and battering and shattering ; 
 
 Retreating and beating and meetmg and sheeting. 
 Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
 Ad vancingaud prancing and glancing anddancing. 
 Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boihng, 
 And gleaming and streaming and steaming and 
 
 beaming. 
 And rushing and flushing and brushing and 
 
 gushing. 
 And flapping and rapping and clapping and slap- 
 ping, 
 And curling and whirhng and purling and twirling. 
 And thumping and plumping aud bumping and 
 
 jumping. 
 And dashing and flashing and splashing and clash- 
 ing; 
 And so never ending, but always descending. 
 Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, 
 AH at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, 
 Aud tins way the water comes down at Lodore. 
 
 THE PIG, 
 
 A COLLOQUIAL POEM. 
 
 Jacob ! I do not like to see thy nose 
 Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig. 
 It would be well, my friend, if we, like him, 
 Were perfect in our kind ! And why despise 
 
 The sow-bom grunter ? He is obstmate, 
 Tliou answerest ; ugly, and the filthiest beast 
 That banquets upon olfal. Now, I pray you. 
 Hear the pig's counsel. 
 
 Is lie obstinate ? 
 We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words ; 
 We must not take them as unheeding hands 
 Receive base money at the current worth. 
 But with a just suspicion try their sound. 
 And in tlie even balance weigh them well. 
 See now to what this obstinacy comes ; 
 A poor, mistreated, democratic beast. 
 He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
 Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt 
 That i)igs were made for man, — born to bebrawned 
 And baconized ; that he must please to give 
 Just what his gracious masters please to take ; 
 Perhaps his tusks, the weapons nature gave 
 For self-defence, the general privilege ; 
 Perhaps, — hark, Jacob ! dost thou hear that iiorn ? 
 Woe to the young posterity of ])ork ! 
 Their enemy is at hand. 
 
 Again. Thou say'st 
 The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him ! 
 Those eyes have taught the lover fiattery. 
 His face, — nay, Jacob, Jacob ! were it fair 
 To judge a lady in her dishabille ? 
 Fancy it dressed, and with saltpetre rouged. 
 Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
 Tlie wanton hop marries her stately spouse : 
 So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair 
 Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. 
 And what is beauty, but the aptitude 
 Of parts harmonious ? Give thy fancy scope, 
 And thou wilt find that no imagined change 
 Can beautify this beast. Place at his end 
 The starry glories of the peacock's pride. 
 Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn- 
 hoofs 
 Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves 
 Crowded in- eager rivalry to kiss 
 When Venus from the enamored sea arose ; 
 Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him ! 
 All alteration man could think, would mar 
 His pig-perfection. 
 
 The last charge, — he lives 
 A dirty life. Here I could shelter liim 
 With noble and right-reverend precedents. 
 And show by sanction of authority 
 Tiiat 't is a very honorable tiling 
 To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest 
 On better ground the unanswerable defence : 
 The pig is a philosoplier, who knows 
 No prejudice. Dirt ? Jacob, what is dirt ? 
 If matter, — why the delicate dish that tempts 
 An o'ergorged epicure to tlie last morsel 
 That stuffs him iJo the throat-gates, is no more. 
 If matter be not, but, as sages say, 
 
 -P 
 
(&- 
 
 692 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Spirit is all, and all things visible 
 
 Are one, the infinitely modified. 
 
 Think, Jacob, what that jiig is, and the mire 
 
 Wherein he stands knee-deep ! 
 
 And there ! the breeze 
 Pleads with mc, and has won thee to a smile 
 That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field 
 Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 
 
 1799. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S WALK. 
 
 Prom his brimstone bed at break of day 
 
 A walking the Devil is gone. 
 To look at his little, snng farm of the world, 
 
 Ajid see how his stock went on. 
 
 Over the hill and over the dale, 
 
 And he went over the plain, 
 And backward and forward he swished his tail. 
 
 As a gentleman swishes a cane. 
 
 How then was the Devil dressed ? 
 
 0, he was in his Sunday's best ; 
 His coat was red, and his breeches were bine. 
 And there was a hole where his tail came through. 
 
 A lady drove by in her pride. 
 
 In whose face an expression he spied. 
 
 For whicli he could have kissed her ; 
 Such a flourishmg, fine, clever creature was she, 
 With an eye as wicked as wicked can be : 
 " I should take her for my aunt," thought he ; 
 
 " If my dam had had a sister." . 
 
 He met a lord of high degree, — 
 No matter wliat was his name, — 
 Whose face with his own when ho came to compare 
 Tlie expression, the look, and the air, 
 And tiie character too, as it seemed to a hair, — 
 Such a twin-hkeness there was in the pair. 
 That it made the Devil start and stare ; 
 For he thought there was surely a looking-glass 
 there 
 But he could not see the frame. 
 
 He saw a lawyer killing a viper 
 
 On a dunghill beside his stable ; 
 " Ho ! " quoth he, " thou put'st me in mind 
 
 Of the story of Cain and Abel." 
 
 An apothecary on a white horse 
 
 Rode by on his vocation ; 
 And the Devil thought of his old friend 
 
 Death in the Revelation. 
 
 He passed a cottage with a double coach-house, 
 
 A cottage of gentility ; 
 And he owned with a grin 
 That his favorite sin 
 
 Is ])ride that a|ies humility. 
 
 He saw a pig rapidly 
 
 Do'svn a river float ; 
 The pig swam well, but every stroke 
 
 Was cutting his own throat ; 
 
 And Satan gave thereat his tail 
 
 A twirl of admiration ; 
 For he thought of his daughter War 
 
 And her suckling babe Taxation. 
 
 Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth, 
 And nothing the worse for the jest ; 
 
 But this was only a first thought ; 
 And in this he did not rest : 
 
 Another came presently into his head ; 
 
 And here it proved, as has often been said. 
 That second thoughts are best. 
 
 For as piggy plied, with wind and tide. 
 
 His way with such celerity. 
 And at every stroke the water dyed 
 With his own red blood, the Denl cried 
 " Behold a swinish nation's pride 
 
 In cotton-sp\in prosperity ! " 
 
 He walked into London leisurely ; 
 
 The streets were dirty and dim ; 
 But there he saw Brothers the prophet. 
 
 And Brothers the prophet saw him.' 
 
 He entered a thriving bookseller's shop ; 
 
 Quoth he, " We are both of one college, 
 For I myself sate like a cormorant once 
 
 Upon the tree of knowledge." 
 
 As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields, he looked 
 
 At a solitary cell ; 
 And he was well ]ileased, for it gave him a hint 
 
 For improving the prisons of hell. 
 
 He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands 
 
 With a cordial tug and jerk ; 
 "Nimbly," quoth he, ''a man's fingers move 
 
 When his heart is in his work." 
 
 lie saw- the same turnkey unfettering a man 
 
 With little expedition ; 
 And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade. 
 And the long debates and delays that were made 
 
 Concerning its abolition. 
 
 * * * 
 
 At this good news, so great 
 The Devil's pleasure grew. 
 That with a joyful swish he rent 
 
 The hole where his tail came through. 
 
 His co\intenancc fell for a moment 
 When he felt the stitches go; 
 
 * " After tliia I was in n vision, having the angel of God 
 neai* nie. and saw Satan walking leisurely into London." — 
 Brotiikrs' Prophrcirs, Part I. p. -H. 
 
 ^- 
 
 -9> 
 
C&- 
 
 GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP. 
 
 693 
 
 -^ 
 
 " Ah ! " thought he, "there 's a job now 
 That I 've made for my tailor below." 
 
 " Great news ! bloody news ! " cried a uewsmaii ; 
 
 The Devil said, " Stop, let me see ! 
 Great news? bloody news?" thought the Devd, 
 
 "The bloodier the better for me." 
 
 So he bought the newspaper, and no news 
 
 At all for his money he had. 
 " Lying varlet," thought he, "|thus to take in Old 
 Niek ! 
 
 But it 's some satisfaetion, my lad. 
 To know thou art paid beforcliand for the trick, 
 
 For the sixpence I gave thee is bad." 
 
 And then it came into his head, 
 
 By oracular inspiration. 
 That what he had seen and wliat he had said. 
 
 In the course of tiiis visitation. 
 Would be published in the Morning Post 
 
 For all this reading nation. 
 
 Tlierewith in second-sight he saw 
 The place and tlie manner and time. 
 
 In which this mortal story 
 
 Would be put in immortal rhyme. 
 
 That it would happen when two poets 
 
 Should on a time be met 
 In the town of Nether Stowey, 
 lu the sliire of Somerset. 
 
 There, while the one was shaving, 
 
 Would he the song begin ; 
 And the other, when he heard it at breakfast, 
 In ready accord join in. 
 
 So each would lielp the other. 
 Two heads being better than one ; 
 
 And the phrase and conceit 
 
 Would iu unison meet, 
 And so with glee tiie verse flow free 
 In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, 
 
 TiU the wliole were merrily done. 
 
 And because it was set to the razor, 
 
 Not to the lute or harp, 
 Therefore it was that the fancy 
 Should be bright, and the wit be sharp. 
 
 " But then," said Satan to liimself, 
 
 " As for that said lieginner. 
 Against my infernal Majesty 
 
 There is no greater sinner. 
 
 " He hath put me in ugly ballads 
 
 With libellous pictures for sale ; 
 He hath scoffed at my hoofs and my horns, 
 
 And has made very free with my tail. 
 
 ^ 
 
 " But this Mister Poet shall find 
 I am not a safe subject for whim ; 
 
 For I '11 set up a school of my own. 
 And my poets shall set upon him." 
 
 * * » 
 
 As he went along the Strand 
 
 Between three in the morning and four. 
 He observed a queer-looking person * 
 . Who staggered from Perry's door. 
 
 And he thought that all the world over 
 In vaiu for a man you might seek, 
 
 Who could drink more like a Trojan, 
 Or talk more like a Greek. 
 
 The Devil then he prophesied 
 It would one day be matter 6f talk. 
 That with wine when smitten. 
 And with wit moreover being happily bitten, 
 This erudite bibber was he who had written 
 The story of tiiis walk. 
 
 " A pretty mistake," quoth the Devil ; 
 
 " A pretty mistake, I opine ! 
 I have put many ill thoughts iu his mouth ; 
 He will never put good ones in mine." 
 
 « * * 
 
 Now the morning air was cold for him. 
 
 Who was used to a warm abode ; 
 Ajid yet he did not immediately wish 
 
 To set out on his homeward road. 
 
 For he had some moniing calls to make 
 
 Before he went back to hell ; 
 " So," thought he, " I '11 step into a gaming-house. 
 
 And that will do as well " ; 
 But just before he could get to the door 
 
 A wonderful ciiance befell. 
 
 For all on a sudden, in a dark place. 
 He came upon General 's burning face ; 
 
 And it struck him with such consternation, ' 
 That home in a liurry liis way did he take. 
 Because he thought by a slight mistake 
 
 'T was tlie general conflagration. 
 
 GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP. 
 
 TuE summer and autumn had been so wet, 
 Tliat in winter the corn was growijig yet ; 
 'T was a piteous sight, to see, all around. 
 The grain lie rotting on the ground. 
 
 Every day the starving poor 
 Crowded around Bisliop Hatto's door. 
 For he had a plentiful last-year's store. 
 And all the neighborhood could tell 
 His granaries were furnished well. 
 
 * Porson, the Greek scholar. 
 
 -g> 
 
ca- 
 
 694 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
 
 To quiet the poor witliout delay; 
 
 He bade thcin to his great barn repair, 
 
 And they should have food for the winter there. 
 
 Rejoiced such tidinirs good to hear, 
 The poor folk flocked from far and near ; 
 The great barn was full as it could hold 
 Of women and cluldrcn, and young and old. 
 
 Then when he saw it could hold no more, 
 Bishop Hatto he made fast the door ; 
 And while for mercy on Christ they call. 
 He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. 
 
 " r faith, 't is an excellent bonfire ! " quoth he, 
 ■■' And the couutvy is greatly obliged to me, 
 For ridding it in these times forlorn 
 Of rats that only consume the corn." 
 
 So then to his palace returned he, 
 
 And he sat down to supper merrily. 
 
 And he slept that night like au innocent man ; 
 
 But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 
 
 In the morning, as he entered the hall 
 Where his picture hung against the wall, 
 A sweat Uke death all over him came. 
 For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 
 
 As he looked, there came a man from his farm ; 
 He had a couutenance white with alarm ; 
 " My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn. 
 And the rats had eaten all your corn." 
 
 Another came running presently, 
 And lie was pale as pale could be, — 
 " Fly ! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, 
 " Ten thousand rats are coming this way, — 
 The Lord forgive you for yesterday ! " 
 
 " I '11 go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, 
 " 'T is the safest ])lace in Germany ; 
 The walls arc high, and the shores are steep. 
 And the stream is strong, and the water deep." 
 
 Bishop Hatto foarfidly hastened away, 
 And he crossed the Rhine witliout delay, 
 And reached his tower, and barred with care 
 All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. 
 
 He laid him down and closed his eyes ; 
 
 But soon a scream made him arise ; 
 
 He started, and saw two eyes of flame 
 
 On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. 
 
 He listened and looked ; — it was only the cat ; 
 But the bishop he grew more fearful for tliat ; 
 For she sat screaming, mad with fear 
 At the army of rats that were drawing near. 
 
 For they have swam over the river so deep. 
 And they have climbed the shores so steep. 
 And up the tower their way is bent. 
 To do tlie work for which they were sent. 
 
 They are not to be told by the dozen or score ; 
 By thousands they come, aud by myriads and more. 
 Such numbers had never l)een heard of before ; 
 Such a j udgment had never been witnessed of yore. 
 
 Down on his knees the bishop fell. 
 
 And faster aud faster his beads did he tell. 
 
 As louder and louder drawing near 
 
 The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 
 
 And in at the windows, and in at the door. 
 And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, 
 And down from the ceiling, and up through the 
 
 floor, 
 Fromtlie right and the left, frombehiudandbefore. 
 From within and without, from above and below. 
 And all at ouce to the bishop they go. 
 
 They have whetted their teeth against the stones; 
 And now they pick the bishop's bones ; 
 They gnawed the flesh from every limb. 
 For they were sent to do judgment on liim ! 
 
 1799. 
 
 THE INCHCAPE KOCK.* 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea. 
 The ship was still as she could be ; 
 Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
 Her keel was steady in the ocean. 
 
 Without either sign or sound of their shock. 
 The waves flowed over the Lieheape Rock ; 
 So httle they rose, so httle they fell. 
 They did not move the luchcape Bell. 
 
 Tlie Abbot of Aberbrotholc 
 Had placed tliat bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 
 On a buoy in tlie storm it floated aud swuug. 
 And over the waves its warning rung. 
 
 When the rock was liid by tiie surge's swell 
 Tlie mariners iieard the warning bell ; 
 And then they knew the perilous rock. 
 And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 
 
 • An old wvilev mentions a curious tradition whicli may lie 
 woitli quotini;. " By cust tlu" Islo of May," says lie. •' twelve 
 miles from all land in the Gennan seas, lyes B gicat llidden 
 lock, called Iiiclicnpc, very dangerous for navi^'alors, because 
 it is ovcrllowcd everic tide. It is reported, in old times, upon 
 tlie saide rock there was a bell, lixed upon a tree or timber, 
 which rani; continually, beinp moved by the sea, giving notice 
 ti. Ilic saylcrs of the danger. This licU or clocke was |iut there 
 and maintained by the .\bbot of .\bcrbrolliuk, and being token 
 down by a sea pirale, a yeare thercafler he perished upon the 
 same rocke, with ship and poodes, in the righteous judgnicut of 
 God." — .Stoddard's Remarks on ScothnJ. 
 
 ^9-^ 
 
 4> 
 
cfl- 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 
 
 695 Y 
 
 The sun iu heaven was shiuiug gay; 
 
 All things were joyful on that day ; 
 
 The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round. 
 
 And there was joyanee in their souud. 
 
 The buoy of the Inchcapo Bell was seen 
 A darker speck on the occau greeu ; 
 Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck. 
 And he fixed his eye ou the darker speck. 
 
 He felt the cheering power of spring ; 
 It Hiade him whistle, it made him sing; 
 His heart was mirthful to excess, 
 But tlie Rover's mirth was wickedness. 
 
 His eye was on the Liehoape float ; 
 Quotli he, " My men, put out tlie boat. 
 And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
 And I '11 plague tlie Abbot of Aberbrothok." 
 
 The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
 
 And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 
 
 Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. 
 
 And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 
 
 Down sunk tlie boll with a gurgling souud ; 
 The bubbles rose and burst around ; 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock 
 Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; 
 lie scoured tlie seas for many a day ; 
 And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
 He steers his course for Scotland's sliore. 
 
 So thick a haze o'crspreads the sky, 
 They cannot see the sun on high ; 
 Tlie wiud hath blown a gale all day ; 
 At evening it hath died away. 
 
 On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
 So dark it is they see no land. 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be ligliter soon, 
 Tor there is the dawn of the rising moon." 
 
 "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? 
 Tor luethinks we should be near tlie sliore." 
 " Now wiiere we are I cannot tell, 
 But I wish I could hear the Inelicapc Bell." 
 
 They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
 Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, 
 Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
 " O Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock 1 " 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ; 
 He cursed himself in his despair ; 
 The waves rush in on every side ; 
 Tlie ship is sinking beneath the tide. 
 
 ^ 
 
 But, even in liis dying fear, 
 One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, — 
 A souud as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
 The Devil below was ringing his knell. 
 
 1303. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was a summer evening ; 
 
 Old Kaspar's work was done, . 
 And he before his cottage door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun ; 
 And by him sported on the green 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 Roll something large and round, 
 
 Wliich he beside the rivulet, 
 In playing there, had found ; 
 
 He came to ask what he had found. 
 
 That was so large and smooth and round. 
 
 Old, Kaspar took it from the boy. 
 
 Who stood expectant by ; 
 And then the old man shook his head, 
 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 " 'T is some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
 " Who fell in the great victory. 
 
 " I find them in the garden, 
 For there 's many here about ; 
 
 And often, when I go to plough, 
 The ploughshare turns them out; 
 
 For many thousand men," said he, 
 
 " Were slain in that great victory." 
 
 " Now tell us what 't was all about," 
 Young Peterkin he cries ; 
 . And Uttle Wilhelmine looks up 
 With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
 " Now tell us all about the war, 
 And what they fought each other for." 
 
 " It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
 " Who ])ut the Fi-ench to rout ; 
 
 But what they fought each other for, 
 I could not well make out ; 
 
 But everybody said," quoth he, 
 
 " That 't was a famous victory. 
 
 " My father lived at Blenheim then, 
 
 You little stream hard by ; 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 
 
 And he was forced to fly ; 
 So with his wife and child lie fled. 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 " With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide. 
 And many a childing mother then, 
 
 And new-born baby died ; 
 
 -& 
 
a- 
 
 696 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 But tilings like that, you kuow, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 " They say it was a shocking sight 
 
 After the field was won ; 
 For many tliousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the suu ; 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 Alter a famous victory. 
 
 " Great praise the Duke of Marlboro' won. 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 
 " Why, 't was a very wicked thing ! " 
 Said little Wilhelmine. 
 
 " Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
 
 " It was a famous victory. 
 
 " And everybody praised the Duke, 
 Who this great fight did win." 
 
 " But what good came of it at last ? " 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 
 " Why, that I cannot teU," said he ; 
 
 " But 't was a famous victory." 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 
 
 The Emperor Nap he would set oiT 
 
 On a summer excursion to Moscow ; 
 
 The fields were green, and the sky was blue, 
 
 Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
 
 lYliat a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 
 
 Four hundred thousand men and more 
 
 Must go with him to Moscow : 
 
 There were marshals by the dozen, 
 
 And dukes by the score ; 
 
 Princes a few, and kings one or two ; 
 
 While the fields are so grecu, and the sky so bhic, 
 
 Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
 
 Wiiat a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 
 
 There was Junot and Augcreau, 
 
 Hcigh-ho i'or Moscow ! 
 
 Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, 
 
 Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! 
 
 General Rajip, and the Emperor Nap ; 
 
 Nothing would do, 
 
 Wliile the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, 
 
 Morl)leu ! Parlileu ! 
 
 Notliing would do 
 
 For the whole of this crew, 
 
 But tliey must be marching to Moscow. 
 
 The Emperor Nap he talked so big 
 
 Tiiat he frightened Mr. Koscoe. 
 
 " Jolm Bull," he cries, " if you '11 be wise, 
 
 Ask tiie Emperor Nap if he will please 
 
 To grant yoil peace, iijion your knees, 
 
 Because he is going to Moscow ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 He '11 make all the Poles come out of their holes. 
 
 And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians; 
 
 For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, 
 
 Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
 
 And he 'U certainly march to Moscow ! " 
 
 And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume 
 
 At the thought of the march to Moscow ; 
 
 "The Russians," he said, "they were undone. 
 
 And the great Fee-Faw-Fum 
 
 Woidd presently come. 
 
 With a hop, step, and jump, unto London. 
 
 For, as for his conquering Russia, 
 
 However some persons might scolf it. 
 
 Do it he could, and do it he would. 
 
 And from doing it nothing would come but good, 
 
 And nothing coidd call him otf it." 
 
 Mr. Jeffrey said so, who nuist certainly know. 
 
 For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. 
 
 They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, 
 
 Wliich with Holy Writ ought to be reckoned : 
 
 It was, through thick and thin, to its party true ; 
 
 Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, 
 
 Morl)leu ! Parbleu I 
 It served them for law and for gospel too. 
 
 But the Russians stoutly they turned to 
 
 Upon the road to Moscow. 
 
 Nap had to fight his way all through ; 
 
 They could fight, though they could not parlez- 
 
 vous; 
 
 But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 
 
 Morbleu! Parbleu! 
 
 And so he got to Moscow. 
 
 He found tbe place too warm for him. 
 
 For they set fire to Moscow. 
 
 To get there had cost him much ado ; 
 
 And tlien no better course he knew, 
 
 Wliile the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 
 
 Morbleu! Parbleu! 
 
 But to march back again from Moscow. 
 
 The Russians they stuck close to him 
 
 All on the road from Moscow. 
 
 There was Torniazow and Jemalow, 
 
 And all the others that end in " ow " ; 
 
 Milarodoviteh and Jaladovitch 
 
 And Karatsehkowitch, 
 
 And all tlic others that end in " itch " ; 
 
 Schanischetf, Souehosanelf, 
 
 And Schopaleif, 
 
 And all the others that end in " elf" ; 
 
 Wasiltsehikolf, KostomaroiT, 
 
 And Tehoglokolf, 
 
 And all the others tliat end in "ofi"'; 
 
 Rajell'skv and Novcretfsky 
 
 Ami Riefl"sky, 
 
 And all the others that end in "eifsky" ; 
 
 O-seharoffskv and liostolTskv. 
 
 -9> 
 
cfr 
 
 THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 697 
 
 -fi) 
 
 And all the others that end in " offsky." 
 
 And Platoff he played them off, 
 
 And Shouvaloff he shovelled thein off, 
 
 And Markoff he marked them off, 
 
 And Krosnoff he crossed them off, 
 
 And Tuchkoff he touehed them off, 
 
 And Boroskofl' he bored tliem off. 
 
 And Kutousoff he cut them off, 
 
 And Parenzoff lie pared them off. 
 
 And Worronzotf he worried them off. 
 
 And Doctoroff he doctored them off. 
 
 And Rodionoff he ilogged them off. 
 
 , And, last of all, an admiral came, 
 
 A terrible man with a terrible name, — 
 
 A name which you all know by sight very well ; 
 
 Eut which no one can speak, and no one can spell. 
 
 They stuck close to Nap with all their might ; 
 
 They were on the left and on the right, 
 
 Behind and before, and by day and by night ; 
 
 He would rather parlez-vous tiiau fight : 
 
 But he looked white, and he looked blue, 
 
 Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
 
 When parlez-vous no more would do. 
 
 For they remembered Moscow. 
 
 And then came on the frost and snow. 
 
 All on the road from Moscow. 
 
 The wind and tiie weather ho found, in that hour, 
 
 ■ Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power; 
 
 Por him who, while Europe crouched under his 
 
 rod, 
 
 Put his trust in his fortune, and not in his God. 
 
 Worse and worse every day the elements grew. 
 
 The fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 
 
 Sacrebleu ! Ventrebleu ! 
 
 What a horrible journey from Moscow ! 
 
 What then thought the Emperor Nap 
 Upon the road from Moscow? 
 Why, I ween he thought it small delight 
 To fight all day, and to freeze all night ; 
 And he was besides in a very great fright. 
 For a whole skin he liked to be in ; 
 And so, not knowing what else to do, 
 IVhen the fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 
 Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
 He stole away — I tell you true — 
 Upon the road from Moscow. 
 '"Tis myself," quoth he, "I must mind most; 
 So tlie Devil may take the liindmost." 
 
 Too cold upon the road was he; 
 
 Too hut had he been at Moscow ; 
 
 But colder and .hotter he may be. 
 
 For the grave is colder than Moscovy ; 
 
 And a place there is to be kept in view. 
 
 Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue, 
 
 Morbleu! Parbleu! 
 
 ^ 
 
 Which he must go to, 
 
 If the Pope say true, 
 
 If he does not iu time look about him; 
 
 Where his namesake almost 
 
 He may have for his Host ; 
 
 He has reckoned too long without him. 
 
 IF that Host get him in Purgatory, 
 
 He won't leave him there alone with his glory; 
 
 But there he must stay for a very long day, 
 
 For from thence there is no stealing away. 
 
 As there was on the road from Moscow. 
 
 1813. 
 
 THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL, 
 
 STR.iXGER. Whom are they ushering from 
 the world, with all 
 This pageantry and long parade of death ? 
 
 Townsman. A long parade, indeed, sir, and 
 yet here 
 You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches 
 A furlong further, carriage behind carriage. 
 
 Str. 'T is but a mournful sight ; and yet the 
 pomp 
 Tempts nie to stand a gazer. 
 
 Towns. Yonder school-boy, 
 
 Wlio plays the truant, says the proclamation 
 Of peace was nothing to the show ; and even 
 The chairing of the members at election 
 Would not have been a finer sight than this ; 
 Only that red and green are prettier colors 
 Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold 
 One of the red-gowned worthies of the city. 
 The envy and the boast of our exchange ; 
 Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half-million, 
 Screwed down iu yonder hearse ! 
 
 Str. Then he was born 
 
 Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
 Puts mourning on for Ids inheritance. 
 
 Towns. Wlien first I heard his' death, that 
 very wish 
 Leaped to my lips ; but now the closing scene 
 Of tile comedy hath wakened wiser thoughts ; 
 And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave, 
 There will not be the weight of wealth like his 
 To sink me down. 
 
 Str. The camel and the needle, — 
 
 Is that then in your mind ? 
 
 Towns. Even so. The text 
 
 Is gospel-wisdom. I would ride the camel, — 
 Yea, leap him, flying, through the needle's eye, 
 As easily as such a pampered soul 
 Could pass the narrow gate. 
 
 Str. Your pardon, sir. 
 
 But sure this lack of Christian charity 
 Looks not hke Christian truth. 
 
 Towns. Your pardon, too, sir, 
 
 If, with this text before me, I should feel 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 698 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 lu the preaching mood ! But for these barren 
 
 lig-trces, 
 With all their flourish and their leafmess. 
 We have been told their destiny and use, 
 TVlien the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
 Cumber the earth no longer. 
 
 Str. AVas his wealth 
 
 Stored fraudfully, — the spoil of orphans wronged, 
 And widows who had none to plead their right ? 
 
 Towns. All lioncst, open, honorable gains. 
 Fair, legal interest, bonds and mortgages, 
 Sliips to the East and West. 
 
 Str. Wliy judge you then 
 
 So hardly of the dead ? 
 
 Towns. For what lie left 
 
 Undone ; for sins, not one of which is written 
 In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant 
 
 him, 
 Believed no other gods than those of the Creed ; 
 Bowed to no idols, but his money-bags ; 
 Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house ; 
 Kept the Sabbath idle ; built a monument 
 To honor his dead father ; did no murder ; 
 Never sustained an action forerim.-eon. ; ' 
 Never picked pockets ; never bore false witness ; 
 And never, with that all-commandiug wealth. 
 Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass ! 
 
 Str. You knew him, then, it seems ? 
 
 Towns. As all men know 
 
 The virtues of your liundred-thousanders ; 
 They never Idde their lights beneath a bushel. 
 
 Stk. Nay, nay, uncharitable sir ! for often 
 Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen, 
 Freshening and giving life along its course. 
 
 Towns. We track the streamlet by the brighter 
 green 
 And livelier growth it gives; — but as for this — 
 This was a pool that stagnated and stuidc ; 
 The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it 
 But slime and foul corruption. 
 
 Str. Yet even these 
 
 Are reservoirs whence pidilic charity 
 Still keeps her channels full. , 
 
 Towns. Now, sir, you touch 
 
 Upon the point. This man of half a million 
 Had all these public virtues which you praise : 
 But the ])oor man rung never at his door, 
 And the old beggar, at the public gate, 
 Who, all tlic suniiner long, .stands hat in hand. 
 He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
 To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
 Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers. 
 Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
 His alms were money put to interest 
 III the other world, — donations to keep open 
 A running charity account with Heaven, — 
 Retaining fees against tlie Last Assizes, 
 When, for the tnisti'd talents, .strict account 
 
 Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-Lawyer 
 Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 
 
 Str. I must needs 
 
 Believe you, sir : — these are your witnesses. 
 These mourners here, who from their carriages 
 Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
 Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes 
 Some decent rheum ; the very hireling nmtc 
 Bears not a face more blank of all emotion 
 Than the old servant of the family ! 
 How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
 Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief? 
 Towns. Who should lament for him, sir, in 
 
 whose heart 
 Love had no place, nor natural charity? 
 The parlor spaniel, when she heard his step. 
 Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside 
 With creeping pace ; she never raised her eyes 
 To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 
 Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whuie. 
 How could it be but thus? Arithmetic 
 Was the sole science he was ever taught ; 
 The midtiplication-table was his Creed, 
 His Pater-uoster, and his Decalogue. • 
 When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 
 The open air and sunshine of the lields. 
 To give his blood its natural spring and play. 
 He in a close and dusky counting-house 
 Smoke-dried, and seared, and shrivelled up his 
 
 heart. 
 So from the way in wlueh he was trained \ip 
 His feet departed not ; he toiled and moiled. 
 Poor rauck-worm ! through his threescore years 
 
 and ton; 
 And when the earth shall now be shovelled on him. 
 If that which served him for a soul were still 
 Within its husk, 't would still be dirt to dirt. 
 
 Str. Y'etyournext newspapers will blazon him 
 For industry and honorable wealth 
 A bright example. 
 
 Towns. Even half a million 
 
 Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
 Some twelve months lieuce, and you will lind his 
 
 virtues 
 Trimly set forth in lapidary lines. 
 Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids 
 Dropping upon his urn tlieir marble tears. 
 
 BISHOP BKDNO.' 
 
 Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, 
 And he heard his heart beat loud with alfright : 
 He dreamt he had rung the palace bell. 
 And the sound it gave was his passing knell. 
 
 • " Bruno, the Bishop of Tlerbipolitnnum, sniling in Ihc ri\ <t 
 of l)imul)iu9, with llciiry the Tliird, then Kniin-i-oi', bciiif; nut 
 far fmiii b place wliich tlie Genuani's call Ben Strnilcl, or the 
 (h-voiirint: nulfe, whieli ia nccreuntuGrinon.n castle in Austria, 
 
 ^0- 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE WELL OP ST. KEYNE. 
 
 G99 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain ; 
 He turned to sleep, and he dreamt again; 
 He rang at the palace gate once more, 
 And Death was the porter that opened the door. 
 
 He started up at the fearful dream, 
 
 And he heard at his window the screech-owl 
 
 scream ; 
 Bishop Bruno slept no more that night, — 
 0, glad was he when he saw the dayUght ! 
 
 Now he goes forth in proud array, 
 For lie with the emperor dines to-day; 
 Tliere was not a baron in Germany 
 That went with a noljler train than he. 
 
 Before and behind his soldiers ride ; 
 The people thronged to see their pride, 
 They bowed the head, and the knee they bent, 
 But nobody blessed him as he went. 
 
 So he went on stately and proud, 
 When lie iieard a voice that cried aloud, 
 "Ho! ho! Bishop Bruno! you travel with glee; 
 But I would have you know, you travel to me I " 
 
 Behind, and before, and on either side. 
 He looked, but nobody he espied ; 
 And the bishop at that grew cold with fear, 
 For lie heard the words distinct and clear. 
 
 And when he rang at the palace bell. 
 He almost expected to hear his kneU ; 
 And when the porter turned the key, 
 He almost expected Death to see. 
 
 But soon the bishop recovered his glee. 
 For the emperor welcomed him royally ; 
 And now the tables were spread, and there 
 Were choicest wines and dainty fare. 
 
 And now the bishop had blessed the meat. 
 When a voice was heard as lie sat in his seat, — 
 " AVith the emperor now you are dining with glee. 
 But know. Bishop Bruno, you sup with me ! " 
 
 The bisliop then grew pale with affright. 
 
 And suddenly lost his appetite ; 
 
 AU the wine and dainty cheer 
 
 Coidd not comfort his heart, that was sick with fear. 
 
 But by little and little recovered he. 
 For the wine went flowing merrily, 
 
 a spirit was heard clamoring aloud, * Ho, ho. Bishop Bruuo, 
 whither art thou travelliug ? but dispose of thyselfe how thou 
 pleasesf, thou slialt be ray prey and spoil.' At the hearing of 
 these words they were all stupelied, and the Bishop with the 
 rest crossed and blessed themselves. The issue was, that 
 within a short time after, the Bishop, feasting with the Em- 
 peror in a castle belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a 
 rafter fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, and 
 strookc him dead at the table." — Heywood's Hierarchic of 
 ihf Blessed Angels. 
 
 Till at length he forgot his former diread. 
 And his cheeks tigain grew rosy red. 
 
 When he sat down to the royal fare, 
 Bisliop Bruno was the saddest man there ; 
 But when the maskers entered tlie hall, 
 He was the merriest man of all. 
 
 Tlien from amid the maskers' crowd 
 
 There went a voice hollow and loud, — • 
 
 " You have past the day, Bisho]) Bruno, in glee ; 
 
 But you must pass the night witli me ! " 
 
 His check grows pale, and his eyeballs glare, 
 And stiff round his tonsure bristled his hair ; 
 With that there came one from the maskers' baud, 
 And took the bishop by the baud. 
 
 The bony hand suspended his breath ; 
 
 His marrow grew cold at the touch of Death ; 
 
 On saints in vain he attempted to call ; 
 
 Bishop Bruno fell dead in the i)alaee hall. 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. EEYNE. 
 
 A WELL there is in tlie west country. 
 And a clearer one never was seen ; 
 
 There is not a wife in the west country 
 But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. 
 
 An oak and an elm-ti'ee stand beside. 
 And behind doth an ash-tree grow. 
 
 And a willow from the bank above 
 Droops to the water below. 
 
 A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne ; 
 
 Joyfully he drew nigh. 
 For from cock-crow he had been travelliug, 
 
 And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
 He drank of the water so cool and clear, 
 
 For thirsty and hot was he ; 
 And he sat down upon tlie bank. 
 
 Under the willow-tree. 
 
 There came a man from the house hard by. 
 
 At the well to fill his pail ; 
 On tlie well-side he rested it. 
 
 And he bade the stranger hail. 
 
 " Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ? " quoth he, 
 
 " For an if thou hast a wife. 
 The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
 
 That ever thou didst in thy life. 
 
 " Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. 
 
 Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
 For an if she have, I '11 venture my life 
 
 She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." 
 
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a- 
 
 700 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 " I have left a good woman who never was here," 
 
 Tlie strauger he made reply ; 
 " But tliat my draught should be the better for 
 that, 
 
 I pray you answer me why." 
 
 " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, " many a 
 time 
 
 Drank of this crystal well. 
 And before the angel summoned her. 
 
 She laid on the water a spell. 
 
 " If the husband, of this gifted well 
 
 Shall drink before his wife, 
 A happy man tlieuceforth is he, 
 
 For he shall be master for life. 
 
 " But if the wife should drink of it first, 
 
 God iielp the husband then ! " 
 The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, 
 
 And drank of the water again. 
 
 " You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? " 
 
 He to tlie Cornishman said. 
 But tlie Cornislunau smiled as the stranger spake. 
 
 And sheepishly shook his head. 
 
 " I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done. 
 
 And left my wife in the porcii ; 
 But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, 
 • For she took a bottle to church." 
 
 1793. 
 THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, 
 
 AND HOW HE G.\INED THEM. 
 
 "You are old. Father WiUiam," the young man 
 cried ; 
 
 "The few locks which are left you are gray; 
 You are hale. Father William, a hearty old man ; 
 
 Now tell mc the reason, I pray." 
 
 " In the days of my youth," Father William replied, 
 " I remembered that youth would fly fast, 
 
 And abused not my health and my vigor at first. 
 That I never might need them at last." 
 
 "You are old, Father William," the young man 
 
 cried, 
 • "And pleasures with youth pass away; 
 And yet you lament not the days that arc gone ; 
 Now tell me'the reason, I pray." 
 
 "In the days of my youth," Father W^illiam replied, 
 " I remembered that youth could not last; 
 
 1 tiiought of the future, whatever I did, 
 That I never might grieve for the past." 
 
 t 
 
 " You are old. Father William," the young man 
 cried, 
 And life must be hastening away ; 
 
 You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray." 
 
 " I am cheerful, young man," Father William 
 ro]ilicd ; 
 
 " Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
 In the days of my youtli I remembered my God ! 
 
 And he hath not forgotten my age." 
 
 1709. 
 
 THE HOLLY-TEEE. 
 
 READER ! hast thou ever stood to see 
 
 The holly-tree ? 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves 
 Ordered by an inteUigence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 
 W'rinkled and keen ; 
 No grazing cattle, through their prickly round. 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
 Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 
 
 1 love to view these things with curious eyes. 
 
 And moralize ; 
 And in this wisdom of the hoUy-tree 
 
 Can emblems see 
 WTierewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme. 
 One which may profit in the after-time. 
 
 Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear 
 
 Harsh and austere, — 
 To those who on my leisure would intrude. 
 
 Reserved and rude ; 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be. 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly-ti-ee. 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. 
 
 Some harshness show, 
 AU vain asperities I, day by day, 
 
 W^ould wear away. 
 Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 
 
 And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
 
 So bright and green. 
 The holly-leaves a sober hue display 
 
 Less brigiit than (liey ; 
 But when the l)are and wintry woods we see. 
 What then so cheerful as the holly-tree ? 
 
 So serious should my youth appear among 
 
 The thoughtless throng; 
 So woidd I seem, amid the young and gay. 
 
 More grave than they ; 
 That in my age as cheerful I migiit be 
 As the green winter of the luilly-tree. 
 
 -* 
 
C&- 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 701 
 
 ^ 
 
 fr 
 
 THE COMPLAINTS OF TEE POOE, 
 
 " And wherefore do the poor complain ? '' 
 
 The rich man asked of me. 
 " Come walk abroad with me," I said, 
 
 "And I will answer thee." 
 
 'T was evening, and the frozen streets 
 
 Were cheerless to behold, 
 And we were wrapped and coated well, 
 
 And yet we were a-cold. 
 
 We met an old, bareheaded man ; 
 
 His locks were thin and white ; 
 I asked him what he did abroad 
 
 In that cold winter's night. 
 
 The cold was keen indeed, he said. 
 
 But at home no fire had he. 
 And thei-efore he had come abroad 
 
 To ask for charity. 
 
 We met a young, barefooted cliild. 
 And she begged loud and bold ; 
 
 I asked her what she did abroad " 
 Wlien the wind it blew so cold. 
 
 She said her father was at home. 
 
 And he lay sick abed ; 
 And therefore was it she was sent 
 
 Abroad to beg for bread. 
 
 We saw a woman sitting down 
 
 Upon a stone to rest ; 
 She liad a baby at her back, 
 
 And another at her breast. 
 
 I asked her why she loitered there 
 When the night-wind was so chill ; 
 
 She turned her head and bade the child 
 That screamed behind, be still ; — 
 
 Then told us that her husband served, 
 
 A soldier, far away, 
 And tlierefore to her parish she 
 
 Was begging back her way. 
 
 We met a girl ; her dress was loose. 
 
 And sunken was her eye. 
 Who with a wanton's hollow voice 
 
 Addressed the passers-by. 
 
 I asked her wliat there was in guilt 
 
 That could her heart allure 
 To shame, disease, and late remorse : 
 
 She answered, she was poor. 
 
 I turned me to the rich man then, 
 
 For silently stood he, — 
 " You asked me why the poor complain, 
 
 And these have answered thee ! " 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE SOLDIEE'S WIFE.* 
 
 DACTYLICS. 
 
 Weahy way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, 
 Travelhng painfully over the rugged road, 
 W^Ud-visaged wanderer ! God help thee, wretched 
 one ! 
 
 Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted ; 
 Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back, 
 Meagre, and livid, and screaming for misery. 
 
 Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony. 
 As over thy shoulder thou lookcst to hush the babe, 
 Bleakly the bUndiug snow beats in thy haggard 
 face.t 
 
 Ne'er will thy husband return from the war again. 
 Cold is thy heart, and as frozen as charity ! 
 Cold are thy children. Now God be thy com- 
 forter ! 
 
 1795. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 Cold was the night- wind, drifting fast the snow 
 
 fell. 
 Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked. 
 When a poor wanderer struggled on her jouniey, 
 Weary and way-sore. 
 
 Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections ; 
 Cold was the night-wind, colder was her bosom ; 
 She had no home, the world was all before her. 
 She had no shelter. 
 
 Tast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her, 
 "Pity me ! " feebly cried the lonely wanderer; 
 " Pity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger 
 Here I should perish. 
 
 " Once I had friends, — though now by all for- 
 saken ! 
 Once I had parents, — they are now in heaven ! 
 I had a home once, — I had once a husband, — 
 Pity me, strangers ! 
 
 "I had a home once, — I had once a husband, — 
 I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted ! " 
 Loud blew the wind; unheard was lier com- 
 plaining, 
 On drove the chariot. 
 
 * This and the poem which follows were mercilessly ridi- 
 culed by Canning, Frcre, and the other wits of the Anti-Jaco- 
 bins. What there was so peculiarly funny in the bleak state- 
 ment of the wants of the poor and the wretched, it is difficult 
 to conceive- But the poet was then a "Jacobin," and that 
 was reason enough for ridiculing even his sentiments of com- 
 mon humanity. 
 
 + This stanza was written by S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 70i: 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her ; 
 
 She heard a horseman ; " Pity mc ! " she groaned 
 out; 
 
 Loud was the wind ; unheard was her complain- 
 ing ; 
 On went the horseman. 
 
 AVorn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, 
 
 Down sunk the wanderer ; sleep had seized her 
 
 senses ; 
 
 There did the traveller find her in the morning; 
 
 God had released her. 
 
 1795. 
 
 ST. EOMUALD. 
 
 One day, it matters not to know 
 
 How many hundred years ago, 
 
 A rrenehman stopped at an inn door : 
 
 The landlord came to welcome him, and chat 
 
 Of this and that, 
 
 For he had seen the traveller there before. 
 
 " Doth holy Romuald dwell 
 
 Still in his cell?" 
 
 The traveller asked, "or is the old man dead ? " 
 
 " No ; he has left his loving floek, and we 
 
 So great a Christian nevermore sliall see," 
 
 Tile landlord answered, and he shook his head. 
 
 " Ah, sir, we knew liis worth ! 
 
 If ever tliere did live a saint on earth ! 
 
 Wiiy, sir, he always used to wear a shirt 
 
 For thirty days, all seasons, day and night : 
 
 Good man, he knew it was not riglit 
 
 For dust and ashes to fall out witli dirt; 
 
 And then he only hung it out in the rain, 
 
 And put it on again. 
 
 " There has been perilous work 
 
 With him and tiie Devil there in yonder cell; 
 
 For Satan used to maul him hke a Turk. 
 
 There they would sometimes fight 
 
 All through a winter's niglit, 
 
 From sunset until morn, 
 
 He with a cross, the Devil with his hora ; 
 
 The Devil spitting fire, witli miglit and main. 
 
 Enough to make St, Michael lialf afraid ; 
 
 He splashing holy water till lie made 
 
 His red hide hiss again, 
 
 And the hot vapor lilled the smoking cell. 
 
 This was so common that his face became 
 
 All black and yellow with tiio brimstone flame. 
 
 Ami then he smelt, — O Lord ! how he did smell ! 
 
 " Then, sir ! to see how he would mortify 
 
 Tiie flesh ! If any one had dainty fare. 
 
 Good man, he would come there. 
 
 And look at all the delicate tilings, and ery 
 
 •Obi'llv, brllv, 
 
 You would be gormandizing now, I know ; 
 But it shall not be so ! — 
 Home to vour bread and water, — lionie, I tell 
 ye!'" 
 
 "But," quoth the traveller, "wherefore did he • 
 
 leave 
 A flock that knew his saintly worth so well ? " 
 " Why," said the landlord, " sir, it so befell 
 
 He heard unluckily of our intent 
 To do him a great honor ; and, you know, 
 
 He was not covetous of fame below. 
 And so by stealth one night away he went." 
 
 "What might this honor be?" the traveller 
 
 cried. 
 
 "Why, sir," the host replied, 
 
 " We thought perhaps that he might one day 
 
 leave us ; 
 
 And then should strangers have 
 
 The good man's grave, 
 
 A loss like that would naturally grieve us; 
 
 For he '11 be made a saint of, to be sure. 
 
 Therefore we thought it prudent to secure 
 
 His relics while we might ; 
 
 And so we meant to strangle him one night." 
 
 1798. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 How beautiful is night ! 
 
 A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
 
 No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain. 
 
 Breaks the serene of heaven : 
 
 In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine 
 
 Bolls through the dark-blue depths. 
 
 Beneath her steady ray 
 
 The desert-eirclc spreads, 
 
 Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
 
 How beautiful is night ! 
 
 T/ia!afj(!. 
 
 MX DAYS AMONG THE DEAD ARE PASSED. 
 
 My days among the dead are passed ; 
 
 Around mc I behold. 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
 
 Tlic mighty minds of old : 
 My never-failing friends are they, 
 With whom 1 converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 And while I understand and feci 
 
 How much to them I owe, 
 My checks have often been bedewed 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My tlioughts are witli the dead; with them 
 
 I live in long-past years, 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 WASHINGTON AND GEOEGE THE THIRD. 
 
 -^-Q) 
 
 703 
 
 fr 
 
 Their virtues love, tiieir faults condemn, 
 
 Partake tlicir hopes and fears. 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 Instruction with an luuuhle mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the dead ; anon 
 My place with tliem will be. 
 
 And I with them shall travel on 
 Through all futurity ; 
 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 EEHAMA'S CUKSE. 
 
 I CUABM thy life 
 
 Prom the weapons of stiife, 
 
 From stone and from wood. 
 
 From fire and from flood, 
 
 From tlie serpent's tooth, 
 
 And tiie beasts of blood : 
 
 From sickness I charm thee. 
 
 And time shall not harm thee ; 
 
 But earth, which is mine, 
 
 Its fruits shall deny thee ; 
 
 And water shall liear me. 
 
 And know thee and fly thee : 
 
 And the winds shall not touch thee 
 
 When they pass by thee, 
 
 And the dews shall not wet thee 
 
 When they fall nigh thee; 
 
 And thou slialt seek death 
 
 To release thee, in vain ; 
 
 Thou shalt live in thy pain. 
 
 While Kehama shall reign. 
 
 With a fire in thy heart. 
 
 And a fire in tliy brain; 
 
 And sleep shall obey me, 
 
 And visit thee never. 
 
 And the curse shall be on thee 
 
 For ever and ever. 
 
 The Curse of Kehama. 
 
 LOVE, 
 
 TiiEY sin who tell us love can die. 
 
 With life all other passions fly, 
 
 All otliers are but vanity. 
 
 In heaven ambition cannot dwell. 
 
 Nor avarice in tiie vaults of hell ; 
 
 Earthly these passions of the earth, 
 
 They perish where they have their birth; 
 
 But love is indestructible. 
 
 Its iicly flame forever burnetii ; 
 
 From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
 
 At times deceived, at times oppressed. 
 
 It here is tried and purified, 
 Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : 
 
 It sowetli here with toil and care. 
 
 But the harvest-time of love is there. 
 
 O, when a mother meets on high 
 
 The babe she lost in infancy, 
 
 Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 
 
 The day of woe, the watchful night, 
 
 For all her sorrow, all her tears, 
 
 An over-payment of delight ? 
 
 The Curse of Kehama. 
 
 WASHINSTON AND GEORGE THE THIRD, 
 
 The Angel mho summons the accusers and the 
 absohers of the king. 
 
 "Ho ! " he exclaimed, "King George of England 
 
 standeth in judgment ! 
 Hell hath been dumb in his presence. Ye who 
 
 on earth arraigned him, 
 Come ye before him now, and here accuse or 
 
 absolve him ! 
 For injustice hath here no place." 
 
 From the souls of the blessed 
 Some were there then who advanced ; and more 
 
 from the skirts of the meeting, — 
 Spirits who had not yet accomplished their puri- 
 fication, 
 Y'et, being cleansed from pride, from faction and 
 
 error delivered, 
 Purged of tiig film wherewith the eye of the mind 
 
 is clouded, 
 They, in their better state, saw all things clear ; 
 
 and discerning 
 Now, in tiie light of trutli, what tortuous views 
 
 had deceived them. 
 They acknowledged their fault, and owned the 
 
 wrong they had offered ; 
 Not without ingenuous shame, and a sense of 
 
 compunction. 
 More or less, as each had more or less to atone 
 
 for. 
 One alone remained, when the rest had retired 
 
 to their station : 
 Silently he had stood, and still unmoved and in 
 
 silence. 
 With a steady mien, regarded the face of the 
 
 monarch. 
 Thoughtful awhile he gazed ; severe, but serene, 
 
 was his aspect ; 
 Calm, but stern ; like one whom no compassion 
 
 could weaken, 
 Neither could doubt deter, nor violent impidses 
 
 alter; 
 Lord of his own resolves, — of his own heart 
 
 absolute master. 
 Awful spirit; liis place was with ancient sages 
 
 and heroes ; 
 Fabius, Aristides, and Solon, and Epaminond; 
 
 as. T 
 
a- 
 
 704 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 " Here then at the Gate of Heaven we are met ! " 
 
 said the spirit : 
 " King of England ! albeit in life opposed to cacli 
 
 other, 
 Here we meet at last. Not unprepared for the 
 
 meeting 
 Ween I ; for we had both outlived all enmity, 
 
 rendering 
 Each to each that justice which each from each 
 
 JKul withliolden. 
 In the course of events, to thee I seemed as a 
 
 rebel. 
 Thou a tyrant to me ; — so strongly doth circum- 
 stance rule men 
 During evil days, when right and wrong are 
 
 confounded. 
 Left to our hearts we were just. For me, my 
 
 actions have spoken, 
 That not for lawless desires, nor goaded by 
 
 desperate fortunes. 
 Nor for ambition, I chose my part ; but observant 
 
 of duty, 
 Self-approved. And here, this witness I willingly 
 
 bear thee, — 
 Here, before angels and men, in the awful hour 
 
 of judgment, — 
 Thou too didst act with upright heart, as befitted 
 
 a sovereign 
 True to his sacred trust, to his crown, his king- 
 dom, and ]ieople. , 
 Heaven in these things fulfilled its wise, though 
 
 inscrutable purpose, 
 Wliile we worked its will, doing each in kis place 
 
 as became him." 
 
 " Washington ! " said tbe monarcli, " well hast 
 
 thou spoken and truly. 
 Just to thyself and to me. On them is tiie gnilt 
 
 of the contest, 
 Wlio for wicked ends, with foul arts of faction 
 
 and falsehood. 
 Kindled and fed the flame ; but verily tliey have 
 
 their guerdon. 
 Thou and 1 are free from offence. And would 
 
 tliat the nations, 
 Learning of us, would lay aside all wrongful 
 
 resentment. 
 All injurious thought, and, honoring eacli in the 
 
 other 
 Kindred co\irage and virtue, and cognate knowl- 
 edge and freedom, 
 Live in l)rotherliood wisely conjoined. We set 
 
 the examjile. 
 They who stir up strife, and would break that 
 
 natural concord, 
 Evil tliey sow, and sorrow will they reaj) for their 
 
 harvest." 
 
 ,/ Vision of Judgment. 
 
 JAMES SMITH. 
 
 1775-1839. 
 
 TO MR, STEAHAN,* 
 
 ENFEEBLED BY THE GOUT. 
 
 Your lower limbs seemed far from stout 
 
 When last I saw you walk ; 
 The cause 1 presently found out 
 
 When you began to talk. 
 
 The power that props the body's length, 
 
 Li due proportion spread, 
 Li you mounts upwards, and the strength 
 
 All settles in the head. 
 
 TO MISS EDQEWOETH, 
 
 We every-day bards may " anonymous " sign, — 
 That refuge. Miss Edgcworth, can never be 
 
 thine. 
 Thy writings, where satire and moral unite, 
 Must bring forth the name of their author to hght. 
 Good and bad join in telhng the source of their 
 
 birth ; 
 The bad own their Edge, and the good own their 
 
 \\'orth. 
 
 THE BABY'S DEBUT.t 
 
 My brother Jack was nine in ^lay, 
 And I was eight on New Year's Day ; 
 
 So in Kate Wilson's shop 
 Papa (he 's my papa and Jack's) 
 Bouglit me, last week, a doll of wax, 
 
 And brother Jack a top. 
 
 Jack 's in the pouts, and tliis it is, 
 He thinks mine came to more than his, 
 
 So to my drawer lie goes, 
 Takes out the doll, and, O my stars ! 
 He pokes her head between the bars. 
 
 And melts off half her nose ! 
 
 Quite cross, a bit of string I beg. 
 And tic it to his ])eg-top's peg, 
 
 And bang, with might and main, 
 Its lu-ad against the parlor-door: 
 Oirilies the head, and hits the floor, 
 
 And breaks a window-pane. 
 
 This made him cry with rage aiul spite; 
 Well, let him cry, it serves liim riglit. 
 
 A pretty thing, forsooth ! 
 If he 's to melt, all scalding hot, 
 
 * Tills, finBiiclally spcnking. is probniily tlic most successful 
 jm d'efprit reconkd in htcrnturc. Mr. Straliau was so imirh 
 plcasril witli it that he made a codicil to his will, bequeathing 
 the writer i.S.MHl. 
 
 t A caricature of Wordsworth's style. 
 
 ^ 
 
 --^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE THEATRE. 
 
 705 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 ILilf my doll's nose, and I am not 
 To draw his peg-top's tootli ! 
 
 Aunt Hannah heard tlie window break, 
 And cried, " naughty Nancy Lake, 
 
 Tiius to distress your aunt ; 
 No Drury Lane I'or you to-day ! " 
 And while papa said, " Pooh, she may ! " 
 
 Mamma said, " No, she sha' n't ! " 
 
 Well, after many a sad reproach, 
 They got into a hackney coach, 
 
 And trotted down the street. 
 I saw tliem go : one horse was blind ; 
 The tails of both hung down behind ; 
 
 Their shoes were on their feet. 
 
 The chaise in which poor brother Bill 
 Used to be drawn to Pentonvillc, 
 
 Stood in the lumber-room : 
 I wiped the dust from oil' the top, 
 While Molly mopped it witii a mop. 
 
 And brushed it wilh a l)room. 
 
 My uncle's porter, Samuel Huglies, 
 Came in at six to black tlie shoes 
 
 (I always talk to Sam) : 
 So wliat does he, but takes and drags 
 Me in tlie chaise along tlie flags. 
 
 And leaves me where I am. 
 
 My father's walls are made of brick. 
 But not so tall, and not so thick 
 
 As these ; and, goodness me ! 
 My father's beams are made of wood. 
 But never, never half so good 
 
 As these that now I see. 
 
 What a large floor ! 't is like a town ! 
 The carpet, when they lay it do\vn. 
 
 Won't hide it, I '11 be bound : 
 And there 's a row of lamps ; my eye ! 
 How they do blaze ! 1 wonder why 
 
 They keep them on the ground. 
 
 At first I caught hold of the wing, 
 And kept away; but Mr. Thing- 
 
 Umbob, the prompter man. 
 Gave with his hand my ciiaise a shove, 
 And said, "Go on, my pretty love; 
 
 Speak to 'em, little Nan. 
 
 " You've only got to courtesy, whisp- 
 er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp. 
 
 And then you 're sure to take : 
 1 've known the day when brats not quite 
 Thirteen got fifty pounds a night, 
 
 Then why not Nancy Lake ? " 
 
 But wliile I 'm speaking, where 's papa ? 
 And where 's my aunt? and where 's mamma r 
 
 "Wliere 's Jack 'i O, there they sit ! 
 Tliey smile, they nod ; I 'II go my ways. 
 And order round poor Billy's chaise, 
 
 To join them in the pit. 
 
 And now, good gentlefolks, I go 
 To join mamma, and see the show ; 
 
 So, bidding you adieu, 
 1 courtesy, like a pretty miss, 
 And if you 'II blow to me a kiss, 
 
 1 '11 blow a kiss to you. 
 
 T)n; Jiejected Addresses. 
 
 THE THEATRE.* 
 
 'T IS sweet to view, from half past five to six. 
 Our long wa.x candles, with short cotton wicks, 
 Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art. 
 Start into light, and make the lighter start ; 
 To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane 
 Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane, 
 While gradual parties fill our widened ])it, 
 And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit . . . 
 What various swains our motley walls contain ! 
 Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick 
 
 Lane ; 
 Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort. 
 Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; 
 From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain. 
 Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane ; 
 The lottery cormorant, the auction shark. 
 The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ; 
 Boys who long linger at the gallery door. 
 With pence twice live, they want but twopence 
 
 more. 
 Till some Samaritan the twopence spares. 
 And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs. 
 Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, 
 But talk their minds, we wish they 'd mind their 
 
 talk; 
 Big-worded bulhes, who by quarrels live, 
 Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give ; 
 Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary. 
 That for old clothes they 'd even axe St. Mary ; 
 And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, 
 Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; 
 Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse 
 With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. 
 
 Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow, 
 Wlicre scowling foi'tune seemed to threaten woe. 
 John Richard William Alexander Dwyer 
 Was footman to Justinian Stnbbs, Esquire ; 
 But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, 
 Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes. 
 Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy 
 Up as a corn-cutter, — a safe employ ; 
 In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred 
 
 * A caricature of tlie style of Craliiic. 
 
 -9^ 
 
cfr 
 
 706 
 
 BOSWELL. 
 
 -ft) 
 
 ^ 
 
 (At number twenty-seven, it is said ), 
 Facing the pump, and near tlic Graiiby's head. 
 He would have bound him to some shop in town, 
 But with a premium he could not come down : 
 Pat was tlie urchin's name, a rcd-luiired youth. 
 Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. 
 
 Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe. 
 The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. 
 Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat ; 
 But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat ; 
 Down from the gallery tlie beaver flew, 
 And spurned the one, to settle in the two. 
 How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery door 
 Two shillings for what cost when new but four? 
 Or till lialf price, to save his shilling, wait, 
 And gain his hat again at half past eight? 
 Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, 
 John Mullins whispers, " Take my handkerchief." 
 "Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make 
 
 a line " ; 
 "Take mine," cried Wilson; "and," cried 
 
 Stokes, "take mine." 
 A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties. 
 Where Spitalfields with real India vies. 
 Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue, 
 Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and 
 
 blue, 
 Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. 
 George Green below, with palpitating hand, 
 Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band ; 
 Upsoars the prize ; the youth, witli joy unfeigned. 
 Regained the felt, and felt what lie regained, 
 While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat 
 Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. 
 The Rejected Addresses. 
 
 THE UPAS IN MARTBONE LANE. 
 
 A TREE grew in Java, whose pestilent riud 
 A venom distilled of the deadliest kind ; 
 The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw, 
 And who returned safe, pleaded pardon by law. 
 
 Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale. 
 Advancing from windward to 'scape the death- 
 gale ; 
 How few the reward of their victory earned ! 
 For ninety-nine perished for one who returned. 
 
 Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer, 
 Removed it through Holland, and planted it here ; 
 'T is now a stock-plant of the genus wolf's-bane. 
 And one of them blossoms in Marybone Lane. 
 
 The house that surrounds it stands first in the 
 
 row, 
 Two doors at right angles swing open below ; 
 And the children of misery daily steal in, 
 And the poison they draw they denomiuate Gin. 
 
 There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy. 
 The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy, 
 The serving-maid slim, and the scrving-man 
 
 stout, 
 They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out. 
 
 Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth 
 
 erect, 
 Apparently baffling its deadly effect ; 
 But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives. 
 And ninety-nine perish for one who survives. 
 
 They cautious advance with slouched bonnet and 
 
 hat. 
 They enter at this door, they go out at that ; 
 Some bear off their burden with riotous glee. 
 But most sink iu sleep at the foot of the tree. 
 
 Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart. 
 This compound of crime at a sovereign a quart ; 
 Let gin fetch per bottle the price of champagne. 
 And hew down the Upas iu Marybone Lane. 
 
 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.* 
 
 1775-18!}2. 
 
 JENNY DANG THE WEAVEE, 
 
 At Willie's wedding on the green, 
 
 The lassies, bonny witches ! 
 Were a' dressed out in aprons clean. 
 And braw white Sunday mutches : 
 Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent. 
 
 But Jock would not believe her; 
 But so(ni the fool his folly kent, 
 For Jenny dang the weaver. 
 And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, 
 
 Jenny dang the weaver ; 
 But soon the fool his folly kent. 
 For Jenny dang the weaver. 
 
 At ilka country dance or reel, 
 
 Wi' her he would be bobbing ; 
 When she sat down, he sat down, 
 
 And to her would he gabbing; 
 Where'er she gaed, baith butt and ben. 
 
 The coof would never leave her; 
 Aye kcekling like a clocking hen, 
 
 But Jenny dang the weaver. 
 Jenny dang, etc. 
 
 Quo' he, "My lass, to speak my mind, 
 
 In troth I needna swither; 
 You 've bonny ecu, and if you 're kind, 
 
 I '11 never seek anither." 
 
 Tlic sou of tile biographer of Jt)}iiison. 
 
 4? 
 
C&- 
 
 ODE TO THE EVENING STAK. 
 
 701 
 
 -Q) 
 
 He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, ''Peug 
 
 And I)adc tlie coof no dcave lier ; 
 Syne snapl, her (inijers, lap and leugh, 
 And dang the silly weaver. 
 And Jenny dant;, Jenny dang, 
 
 Jenny dang the weaver; 
 Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, 
 And dang the silly weaver. 
 
 JOHN LEYDEN. 
 
 1775-1811. 
 
 SABBATH MORN. 
 
 With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 
 That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still ; 
 A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 
 A graver murmur echoes from the hill. 
 And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 
 The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
 Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! 
 The sky a placid yellow lustre throws ; 
 The gales that lately sighed along tlie grove 
 Have hushed their drow.sy wings in dead repose; 
 The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move : 
 So soft the day when the first morn arose ! 
 
 ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.* 
 
 Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 
 
 What vanity has brought thee here ? 
 How can I love to see thee shine 
 
 So bright, whom I have bought so dear? 
 
 The tent-ropes flapping lone 1 hear 
 For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
 
 The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
 When mirth and music wont to charm. 
 
 By Cherical's dark wandering streams. 
 Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild. 
 
 Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
 Of Teviot loved while still a child. 
 Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
 
 By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 
 
 Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, 
 
 Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
 Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 
 
 The perished bliss of youth's first prime. 
 That once so bright on fancy played. 
 
 Revives no more in after-time. 
 
 Far from my sacred natal clime, 
 I haste to an untimely grave ; 
 
 The daring thoughts that soared sublime 
 Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 
 
 fr-- 
 
 * Wi-ittcn in M.'ilaliar. 
 
 Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
 
 Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
 
 A gentle vision conies by night 
 
 My lonely widowed heart to cheer : 
 Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
 
 That once were guiding stars to mine ; 
 
 Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 
 
 I cannot bear to see thee shine. 
 
 For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
 
 I left a heart that loved mc true ! 
 I crossed the tedious ocean-wave. 
 
 To roam in climes unkind and new. 
 
 The cold wind of the stranger blew 
 Chill on my withered heart ; the grave 
 
 Dark and initimely met my view, — 
 And all for tliee, vdc yellow slave ! 
 
 Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock 
 
 A wanderer's banished heart forloni. 
 Now that his frame the lightning shock 
 
 Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? 
 
 From love, from friendship, country, torn. 
 To memory's fond regrets the prey ; 
 
 Vile slave, thy yellow dross 1 scorn ! 
 Go mix thee with thy kindred clay I 
 
 ODE TO THE EVENIUa STAR. 
 
 How sweet thy modest light to view. 
 Fair star, to love and lovers dear ! 
 
 While trembling on the falling dew. 
 Like beauty shining through a tear. 
 
 Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
 To mark that image trcndjling there. 
 
 Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam. 
 To see thy lovely face so fair. 
 
 Though, blazing o'er the arch of night. 
 The moon thy timid beams outshine. 
 
 As far as thine each starry light ; — 
 Her rays can never vie with thine. 
 
 Thine are the soft enchanting hours. 
 When twilight lingers on the ))lain, 
 
 And whispers to the closing flowers 
 That soon the sun will rise again. 
 
 Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
 As music, wafts the lover's sigh. 
 
 And bids the yielding heart expand 
 In love's delicious ecstasy. 
 
 Fair star ! thougli I be doomed to prove 
 That rapture's tears are mixed with pain, 
 
 Ah, still 1 feel 't is sweet to love ! 
 But sweeter to be loved again. 
 
 W 
 
a- 
 
 708 
 
 WHITE. — LANDOR. 
 
 -^-Q) 
 
 JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 
 
 1775-1841. 
 
 NIGHT AND DEATH. 
 
 Mysterious night ! when our first parent knew 
 Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
 Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
 This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
 Yet, 'ueath a eurtain of translucent dew, 
 Bathed iu the rays of the great setting flame, 
 Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came. 
 And lo I creation widened in man's view. 
 Who eould have thought sueh darkness lay con- 
 cealed 
 Within thy beams, O sun ! or who could find, 
 Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed. 
 That to sueh countless orbs thou mad'st us 
 
 bhnd? 
 Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? 
 If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 
 
 o»io 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.* 
 
 1775- 1864. 
 
 IPHIGENIA. 
 
 IpuiGESH, when she heard lier doom 
 At Aulis, and when all beside the king 
 Had gone away, took his rigiit hand, and said : 
 " father ! I am young and very happy. 
 I do not think the pious Calehas heard 
 Distinctly what the goddess spake ; — old age 
 Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
 My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, 
 While I was resting on her knee both arms, 
 And hitting it to make her mind my words. 
 And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
 Miglit not he, also, hear one word amiss. 
 Spoken from so far olT, even from Olympus ? " 
 The father placed iiis cheek npon licr iirad, 
 And tears dropt down it ; but the king of men 
 Ileplicd not. Then the maiden spake once more : 
 " father ! sayest thou nothing ? Hearcst thou 
 
 not 
 Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
 Listened to fondly, and awakened nic 
 To iiear my voice amid the voice of birds, 
 When it was inarticulate as theirs. 
 And the down deadened it witliin the nest?" 
 He moved lier gently from him, silent still ; 
 And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, 
 
 " Lnndor wns the ori^'innl of tlie Itoistcroua Mr. lioyllioin 
 in Diclcens's Bleak ffousf. The impression iiuuleon the read- 
 er's mind hy reading I.nndor's works is very djirerent fioni 
 tliat which liickcns eonveys in his luinioroiis cxajifjeration of 
 liis personal traits. 
 
 ^g-^- 
 
 Althouglf she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs : 
 " I thought to have laid down my hair before 
 Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed 
 Her polished altar with my virgin blood ; 
 I thought to have selected the white flowers 
 To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each 
 By name, and with no sorrowfid regret. 
 Whether, since both my parents willed the 
 
 change, 
 I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow ; 
 And (after these who mind us girls the most) 
 Adore our own Athene, that she would 
 Regard me mildly with her azure eyes, — 
 But, father, to see you no more, and see 
 Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone I " 
 Gently he moved her otf, and drew her back. 
 Bending his lofty head far over hers ; 
 And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 
 He turned away, — not far, but silent still. 
 She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh. 
 So long a silence seemed the approach of death. 
 And like it. Once again she raised her voice : 
 " father ! if the ships are now detained. 
 And all your vows move not the gods above, 
 When the knife strikes me there will be one 
 
 prayer 
 The less to them ; and purer can there be 
 Any, or more fervent, than tlie daughter's prayer 
 For her dear father's safety and success ? " 
 A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
 An aged man now entered, and without? 
 One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist 
 Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 
 The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
 Then turned she where her parent stood, and 
 
 cried : 
 " father ! grieve no more : the sliips can sail." 
 
 TO MACAULAT.* 
 
 The dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
 Falls heavy on our cars no more ; 
 And by long strides are left behind 
 The dear delights of womankind. 
 Who wage their battles like their loves. 
 In satin waistcoats and kid gloves. 
 And bave aeliieved the crowning work 
 When they have trussed and skewered a Turk. 
 Another comes witli stouter tread. 
 And stalks among the statelier dead : 
 He ruslics on, and hails by turns 
 High-erested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ; 
 And sliows the British youth, who ne'er 
 Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
 When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
 Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 
 
 • On the pnhhcalion of Maraulnv's iri»j of Annrnt Rami. 
 '. -^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 ON THE PEATH OP SOUTHEY 
 
 THE BRIER. 
 
 709 
 
 ■tp 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY. 
 
 Not the last struggle of the sun, 
 Precipitated from his golden throne. 
 Holds darkling mortals in sublime suspense. 
 But the calm exod of a man 
 Nearer, though high above, who ran 
 The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence. 
 
 Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint ! 
 Thus, O my Southcy ! poet, sage, and saint. 
 Thou, after saddest silence, art removed. 
 
 What voice in anguish can we raise ? 
 
 Thee would we, need we, dare we praise ? 
 God now does that, — the God thy whole heart 
 loved. 
 
 SIXTEEN, 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien 
 Lueilla asks nie what I see, 
 And arc the roses of sixteen 
 
 Enough for me ? 
 
 Lueilla asks, if tliat be all ; 
 
 Have I not culled as sweet before — 
 Ah, yes, Lueilla ! and their fall 
 I still deplore. 
 
 I now behold another scene. 
 
 Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light. 
 More pure, more constant, more serene. 
 And not less bright. 
 
 Paith, on whose breast the loves repose, 
 
 Whose chain of flowers no force can sever; 
 And Modesty, who, when she goes. 
 Is gone forever. 
 
 THE DEASON-FLT.* 
 
 Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream ; 
 I wisli no happier one than to be laid 
 Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade; 
 
 Or wavy willow, by the running stream, 
 BrimfiJ of moral, where the dragon-fly 
 Wanders as careless and content as I. 
 
 Thanks for this fancy, insect king. 
 
 Of purple crest and meshy wing. 
 
 Who, with indifference, givest up 
 
 The water-lily's golden cup, 
 
 To come again and overlook 
 
 What I am writing in my book. 
 
 Believe me, most wlio read the line 
 
 Will read with hornier eyes than tliine ; 
 
 • The great naturalist Agassiz fully sympatliized with tin's 
 tliou^llit. Wherever, in the animal kui^doni, he saw movement, 
 he reco^^nized soul ; and he believed soul immortal. 
 
 ^- 
 
 And yet their souls shall live forever, 
 And tliine drop dead into the river ! 
 God pardon tliem, O insect king. 
 Who fancy so unjust a thing ! 
 
 THE SHELL AND THE OCEAN,* 
 
 But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
 
 Within, and tliey that lustre have imbibed 
 
 In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked 
 
 His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
 
 Shake one and it awakens, then apply 
 
 Its polished li]is to your attentive ear. 
 
 And it remembers its august abodes. 
 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
 
 Geiir. 
 
 THE MAID'S LAMENT, 
 
 I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 
 
 I feel 1 am alone. 
 I checked him while he spoke : yet could he 
 speak, 
 
 Alas ! I would not cbeck. 
 For reasons not to love him once I sought. 
 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To vex myself and him : I now would give 
 
 My love could he but live 
 Who lately lived for me, and when he found 
 
 'T was vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid the shades of deatb ! 
 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns. 
 
 And this lone bosom burns 
 With stifling iieat, heaving it up in sleep. 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had melted his soft lieart : for years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears ! 
 " Merciful God ! " such was his latest prayer, 
 
 " These may she never share ! " 
 Quieter is liis bivath, his breast more cold 
 
 Than daisies in the mould. 
 Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be. 
 
 And O, pray, too, for me ! 
 
 THE BRIEK, 
 
 My brier that smeUedst sweet, 
 Wlien gentle spring's first heat 
 Ran through thy quiet veins; 
 Thou that couldst injure none. 
 But wouldst be left alone, 
 Alone thou leavest me, and naught of thine re- 
 mains. 
 
 * This is the slight foundation on which Wordsworth huilt 
 his memorable image of the boy and the shell. 
 
 Q) 
 
a- 
 
 710 
 
 LANDOR. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 What ! hath no poet's lyre 
 O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier, 
 
 Hung fondly ill or well? 
 And yet, metliinks, with thee 
 A poet's sympathy, 
 Wlicther in weal or woe, in Hfe or death, might 
 dwell. 
 
 Hard usage both must bear. 
 Few hands your youth will rear, 
 
 Pew bosoms clierish you ; 
 Your tender prime must bleed 
 Ere you are sweet ; but, freed 
 From life, you then are prized ; thus prized are 
 poets too. 
 
 CHILIIREN. 
 
 Children are what tiie mothers are. 
 No fondest father's fondest care 
 Can fashion so tlie infant heart 
 As those creative beams that dart, 
 With all their hopes and fears, upon 
 The cradle of a sleeping son. 
 
 His startled eyes with wonder see 
 
 A father near him on his knee, 
 
 Who wishes all the while to trace 
 
 Tlie mother in his future face ; 
 
 But 't is to lier alone uprise 
 
 His wakening arms ; to her tliose eyes 
 
 Open with joy and not surprise. 
 
 TKE ONE GRAY HATE. 
 
 The wisest of the wise 
 Listen to pretty lies. 
 
 And love to hear them told ; 
 Doubt not that Solomon 
 Listened to many a one, — 
 Some in his youth, and more when he grew old, 
 
 I never sat among 
 
 The choir of Wisdom's song, 
 
 But pretty lies loved I 
 As much as any king, — 
 When youth was on the wing, 
 And (must it then be told ?) when youth had 
 
 quite gone by. 
 
 Alas ! and I have not 
 The pleasant hour forgot, 
 
 W hen one ])crt lady said, — 
 " O Laudiir ! I am quite 
 Bewildered with afl'right ; 
 1 see (sit quiet now !) a white hair on your head ! " 
 
 Another, more benign, 
 Drew out that hair of mine, 
 
 And in her own dark hair 
 Pretended she had found 
 That one, and twirled it round, — - 
 Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 
 
 TO AGE. 
 
 Welcome, old friend ! These many years 
 
 Have we lived door by door : 
 The Fates have laid aside their shears 
 
 Perhaps for some few more. 
 
 I was indocile at an age 
 
 When better boys were taught. 
 
 But thou at length hast made me sage. 
 If I am sage in aught. 
 
 Little I know from other men. 
 
 Too little they from me. 
 But thou hast pointed well the pen 
 
 That writes these lines to thee. 
 
 Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 
 
 One vile, the other vain ; 
 One's scourge, the otiier's telescope, 
 
 I shaU not see again : 
 
 Ratlier what lies before my feet 
 
 My notice shall engage. 
 He who hath braved youth's dizzy heat 
 
 Dreads not the frost of age. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Death stands above me, whispering low 
 I know not what into my ear : 
 
 Of his strange language all I know 
 Is, there is not a word of fear. 
 
 ROSE ATLMER. 
 
 An, what avails the soeiitrcd race, 
 
 Ah, what the form divine ! 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 Jlay weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 LINNETS SINGING. 
 
 Very true, the linnets sing 
 Sweetest in the leaves of s]iriiig : 
 You have found in all these leaves 
 That which changes and deceives ; 
 And, to pine by sun or star, 
 Left them, false ones as they arc. 
 But there be who walk beside 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE OLD MASTERS. — A FAEEWELL TO TOBACCO. 711 
 
 ■ft) 
 
 fr 
 
 Autumn's, till they all have died. 
 
 And who lend a patient ear 
 
 To low notes from branches sere. 
 
 THE OLD MASTERS. 
 First bring me Raphael, who alone liath seen 
 lu all her purity Heaven's virgin queen, 
 Alone hath felt true beauty ; bring me then 
 Titian, euuobler of the noblest men ; 
 And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise 
 His little Cupids for those wicked eyes. 
 I want not Rubeus's pink puffy bloom. 
 Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room. 
 Willi those, and Poussiu's nymph-frequented 
 
 woods. 
 His templed heights and long-drawn solitudes 
 I am content, yet fain would look abroad 
 On one warm sunset of Ausonian Claude. 
 
 GIFTS. 
 Fkom leaves unopened yet, those eyes she lifts. 
 
 Which never youthl'ul eyes could safely view. 
 " A book or flower, such are the only gifts 
 
 I like to take, nor like them least from you." 
 A voice so sweet it needs no music's aid 
 
 Spake it, and ceast : we, offering both, reply ; 
 These tell the dull old talc that bloom must fade, 
 
 This the bright truth that genius cannot die. 
 
 TO MART RUSSELL MITFOKD. 
 
 TiiK hay is carried; and the hours 
 Snatch, as they pass, the linden flowers ; 
 And children leap to pluck a spray 
 Bent earthward, and then run away. 
 Park-keeper ! catch me tliose grave thieves 
 About whose frocks the fragrant leaves. 
 Sticking and fluttering here and there. 
 No false nor faltering witness bear. 
 I never view such scenes as tiiese 
 In grassy meadow girt with trees, 
 But comes a thought of her who now 
 Sits with serenely [latient brow 
 Amid deep sutferiugs ; none hath told 
 More pleasant tales to young and old. 
 Fondest was she of Father Thames, 
 But raud)lcd to Hellenic streams ; 
 Nor even there could any tell 
 The country's purer charms so well 
 As IVlary Mitford. 
 
 Verse ! go forth 
 And breathe o'er gentle breasts her worth. 
 Needless the task .... but slioidd she see 
 One hearty wish from you and me, 
 A moment's pain it may assimge, — 
 A rose-leaf on the couch of Age. 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNLNG. 
 
 There is delight in singing, though none hear 
 Beside the singer : and there is delight 
 In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
 And see the praised far off him, far above. 
 Shakespeare is not our poet, but the worid's, 
 Therefore on him no speech I and brief for thee. 
 Browning ! Since Chancer was alive and hale. 
 No man hath walkt along our roads with step 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing; the breeze 
 Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
 The siren waits thee, singing song for song. 
 
 TO THE SISTER OF ELIA, 
 
 Comfort thee, thou mourner, yet awlrile ! 
 
 Again shall Elia's smile 
 Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more. 
 
 What is it we deplore ? 
 
 He leaves behind liim, freed fro?n griefs and years 
 Far worthier things than tears. 
 
 Tlie love of friends without a single foe : 
 Unequalled lot below ! 
 
 Ilis gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ; 
 
 For these dost thou repine ? 
 He may have left the lowly walks of men ; 
 
 Left them lie has ; what then ? 
 
 Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes 
 
 Of all the good and wise ? 
 Though the warm day is over, yet they seek 
 
 Upou the lofty peak 
 
 Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows 
 O'er death's perennial snows. 
 
 Behold him ! from the region of the blest 
 He s|)eaks : he bids tliee rest. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB.* 
 
 1775- 1834. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 
 
 !May the Babylonish curse 
 
 Straip^ht confound my stammering verse. 
 
 If I can a passage see 
 
 In this word-perplexity, 
 
 * The pcnius of this exquisite and ori2:inal liumorist was 
 diiellv i]is|ilaycd in his prose essays and Itllers. Lamb cnjuys 
 Ihe high distinction of making a friend \vhere\ei' he huds a 
 sympathetic render. No other writer of tlic nineteenth cen- 
 tury has so thoroujjhly estaljhslied liiniself as a companion of 
 the cultivated people who appreciate hini. Tlie Lanilt party, 
 in the republic of letters, is the strongest of all, because tlic 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 712 
 
 LAMB. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Or a fit expression liiul, 
 Or a language to my mind 
 (Still the phrase is wide or scant), 
 To take leave of thee, Great Plant ! 
 Or in any terms relate 
 Half my love, or hall' my hate : 
 For 1 hate, yet love thee so, 
 That, wiiichevcr thing I sliow. 
 The plain truth will seem to be 
 A constrained hyperbole, 
 And the passion to proeeed 
 More from a mistress than a weed. 
 
 Sooty retainer to the vine, 
 Bacehus' black servant, negro fine; 
 Sorcerer, that inak'st us dote upon 
 Thy begrimed complexion, 
 And, for tiiy pernicious sake. 
 More and greater oaths to break 
 Tiian reclaimed lovers take 
 'Gainst women : tiiou tiiy siege dost lay 
 JIucli too in tiie female way. 
 While thou suek'st tlie laboring breath 
 Faster than kisses or than deatii. 
 
 Thou in such a cloud dost bind us. 
 That our worst foes cannot find us. 
 And ill fortune, that would thwart us. 
 Shoots at rovers, shootiiig at us ; 
 While each man, througli thy heiglitening steam. 
 Does like a smoking Etna seem, 
 And all about us does express 
 (Fancy and wit in richest dress) 
 A Sieihan fruitfulness. 
 
 Tliou through such a mist dost sliow us, 
 That our best friends do not know us. 
 And, for those allowed features, 
 Due to reasonable creatures, 
 Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, 
 Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; 
 Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 
 Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 
 
 Baccluis we know, and we allow 
 His tijjsy rites. But what art thou, 
 That but by reflex canst show 
 What his deily can do. 
 As the false Egyptian spell 
 Aped the true Hebrew miracle? 
 Some few vapors tliou niayst raise, 
 The weak brain may serve to amaze, 
 
 opposition can only come from lliose wlio hn\c not read liim. 
 Ilia fame is limited, tliougli it is dc5tine<) to iiiciease widi 
 every new " revival of letters," directiiip attention to llie es- 
 sential traits of individual and original j^enius. Lamli is not 
 only original but unique. It is hopeless to dream that we 
 shall ever see his like again. Nature lirrtke the moult! after 
 fashioning /ihn. In every region where the Kiiglisli language 
 is spoken, — in Great Britain, in the I'nited States, in Canada, 
 in Australia, — it will be found that Charles Lamb has at 
 least n few ardent admirers, w ho are infrrted with a tine fa- 
 naticism for their favorite writer, who know his works by 
 heart, and who are /eahius to evteiul the knowledge of them 
 in nil societies with which they mingle. 
 
 But to the reins and nobler hctirt. 
 Canst nor life nor heat impart. 
 
 Brother of Bacchus, later born. 
 The old world was sure forlorn 
 Wanting thee, that aidest more 
 The god's victories than before 
 All his panthers, and tlie brawls 
 Of his piping Bacchanals. 
 These, as stale, we disaHow, 
 Or judge of thee meant : only thou 
 His true Indian conquest art; 
 And, for ivy round his dart, 
 The reformt;d god now weaves 
 A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 
 
 Scent to match thy rich perfume 
 Chcmie art did ne'er presume ; 
 Through her quaint alembic strain, 
 None so sovereign to the brain : 
 Nature, that did in thee excel. 
 Framed agiiin no second smell. 
 Roses, violets, but toys 
 For the smaller sort of boys. 
 Or for greener damsels meant ; 
 Thou art the only manly scent. 
 
 Stinking'st of the stinking kind, 
 Fillh of the mouth and fog of the mind, 
 Africa, that brags her foison. 
 Breeds no such prodigious poison ; 
 Henbane, nightshade, both together, 
 Hemlock, aconite — 
 
 Nay, rather. 
 Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; 
 Blisters on the tongue would liiirt you. 
 'T was but in a sort I blamed lliee ; 
 None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; 
 Irony all, and feigned abuse, 
 Such as jterplexed lovers use 
 At a need, when, in despair 
 To paint forth tlieir fairest fair, 
 Or in part but to express 
 That exceeding comeliness 
 Which tlieir fancies doth so strike. 
 They borrow language of dislike; 
 And, instead of Dearest iliss. 
 Jewel, Honey, Sweethcai-t, liliss. 
 And those forms of old admiring, 
 Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 
 Basilisk, and all that 's evil. 
 Witch, Hyena. Mermaid. Devil, 
 Elhiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 
 Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; 
 Friendly Traitress, loving Foe, — 
 Not that she is truly so. 
 But no other way they know 
 A contentment to express. 
 Borders so upon excess. 
 That they do not rightly wot 
 Whether it be pain or not. 
 
 ■U> 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 713 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Or, as men, constrained to ])ai-t 
 AVitli what 's nearest to their heart, 
 AVhile their sorrow 's at the iicight, 
 Lose discririiination quite, 
 And their liasty wrath let fall. 
 To appease their i'raiitic gall. 
 On the darling thing whatever, 
 Whence they feel it death to sever, 
 Tlioiigh it be, as they, perforce. 
 Guiltless of the sad divorce. 
 For I must (nor let it grieve IJiec, 
 Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave tlice ; 
 For thy sake, Tobacco, I 
 Would do anything but die. 
 And but seek to e.\tcnd my days 
 Lo]ig enough to sing thy praise. 
 But as she, who once hath been 
 A king's consort, is a queen 
 Ever after, nor will bate 
 Any tittle of her state. 
 Though a widow, or divorced. 
 So I, from thy converse forced. 
 The old name and style retain, 
 A right Katlierine of Spain ; 
 And a seat, too, 'inongst the joys 
 Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 
 Where, though I, by sour physician. 
 And debarred the full fruition 
 Of thy favors, I may catch 
 Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
 Sidelong odors, that give life 
 Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; 
 And still live in the by-places 
 And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
 And in thy borders take deliglit. 
 An unconquered Cauaaiiite. 
 
 TO HESTER. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place ye may not well supply. 
 Though ye among a thousand try. 
 With vain endeavor. 
 
 A month or more she hatli been dead. 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed. 
 And lier together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of ])ride aud joy no common rate. 
 That flushed her spirit. 
 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I siiall it call : — if 't was not pride. 
 It was a joy to that allied, 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule. 
 Which doth the human feeling eool ; 
 But she was trained in Nature's school ; 
 Nature had blest her. 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to liind, 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 Yc could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbor ! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore. 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 
 Some summer morning. 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Halh struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A blibs that would not go away, 
 A sweet forewarniug ? 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions. 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
 days. 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I liave l)een laughing, I have been carousing. 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar I'aces. 
 
 I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
 Closed arc her doors on me, I must not see her; 
 All, all arc gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
 Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; 
 Lett him, to nuise on the old fauiiliar faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- 
 hood ; 
 Earth seemed a desert I was bound to ti-averse, 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
 Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? 
 So might we talk of the old fauiiliar faces, — 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have 
 
 left me, 
 And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BOEN. 
 
 I SAW where in the sliro\id did lurk 
 A curious frame of Nature's work ; 
 A floweret crnslied in the bud, 
 A nameless piece of babyhood 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 
 
 4 
 
a- 
 
 7U 
 
 LAMB. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : 
 
 So soon to excliange the imprisoning womb 
 
 For darker closets of the tonih ! 
 
 She did but ope an eve, and put 
 
 A clear beam forth, then straiglit up shut 
 
 For the hjiig dark : ne'er more to see 
 
 Througli glasses of mortality. 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 
 What thy errand here below ? 
 
 Shall wo say, that Nature blind 
 
 Checked her hand, and clianged her mind 
 
 Just when she had exactly wrought 
 
 A finished pattern without fault? 
 
 Could she flag, or could she tire. 
 
 Or lacked she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons' long workings sickened) 
 
 That should thy little limbs have quickened? 
 
 Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure 
 
 Life of health, and days mature : 
 
 Woman's self in miniature ! 
 
 Limbs so fair, they miglit supply 
 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 
 The scvdptor to make Beauty by. 
 
 Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 
 
 That babe or motlier, one must die ; 
 
 So in mercy left the stock 
 
 And cut tlic braneli ; to save the shock 
 
 Of young years widowed, and the ])ain 
 
 When single state comes back again . 
 
 To the lone man who, reft of wife, 
 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life? 
 
 The economy of Heaven is dark. 
 
 And wisest clerks luive missed the mark 
 
 Why human buds, like this, should fall 
 
 More brief than fly ephemeral 
 
 That has his day ; while shrivelled crones 
 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 
 
 And crabbed use tlie conscience sears 
 
 In sinners of an hundred years. 
 
 — Mother's prattle, motiier's kiss, 
 
 Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss : 
 
 Rites, which cust(nn does impose, 
 
 Silver bells, and biiby clotties ; 
 
 Coral redder than those lips 
 
 Which pale death did late eclipse ; 
 
 Music framed for infants' glee, 
 
 Whistle never tuned for thee ; 
 
 Though thou want'st not, thou shall have them. 
 
 Loving hearts were they whicli gave them. 
 
 Let not one be missing ; nurse, 
 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 
 Why should kings and nobles liave 
 
 Pictured trophies to their grave. 
 
 And we, elnirls, to tln-c deny 
 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, — 
 
 A niiirc harmless vanity ? 
 
 THE CHRISTENING, 
 
 Arrayed — a half-angelic siglit — 
 
 In vests of pure baptismal white, 
 
 Tiie mother to the font doth bring 
 
 The little helpless, nameless thing 
 
 With hushes soft and mild caressing, 
 
 At once to get — a name and blessing. 
 
 Close by the babe the priest doth stand, 
 
 The cleansing water at his hand 
 
 Which must assod the soul within 
 
 From every stain of Adam's sin. 
 
 The infant eyes the mystic scenes, 
 
 Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 
 
 And now he smiles, as if to say, 
 
 " I am a Christian made this day " ; 
 
 Now frighted clings to nurse's hold, 
 
 Shrinking from the water cold, 
 
 Wliose virtues, rightly understood, 
 
 Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 
 
 Strange words, — the World, the Flesh, the 
 
 Devil, — 
 Poor babe, what can it know of evil ? 
 But we must silently adore 
 Mysterious truths, and not explore. 
 Enough for him, in after times, 
 When he sliall read these artless rhymes, 
 If, looking back upon this day 
 ^Y[th quiet conscience, he can say, 
 " 1 have in part redeemed the pledge 
 Of my baptismal privilege ; 
 And more and more will strive to flee 
 All which my sponsors kind did then renounce 
 
 for me." 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 In my poor mind it is most sweet to innse 
 
 Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought 
 
 Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 
 
 To sit in fancy on tlu' turf-clad slope, 
 
 Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay 
 
 flowers. 
 Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand 
 (Childhood ofl'cnded soon, soon reconciled), 
 Woidd throw away, and straight tiike up again, 
 Then fling them to tlie winds, and o'er the lawn 
 Bound with so playful and so light a foot. 
 That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head. 
 
 THE GTPSY'S MALISON. 
 
 " Suck, baby, suck ! mother's love grows by giv- 
 ing ; 
 
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wast- 
 ing : 
 
 Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty liring 
 
 Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
cfr 
 
 THE DELIGHTS OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 -ft> 
 
 715 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Kiss, baby, kiss ! mother's lips shine by kisses ; 
 Choke the warm breath that else would fall iu 
 
 blessings : 
 Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty 
 
 Wisses 
 Tend thee the kiss that poisous 'mid caressings. 
 
 " Hang, baby, liaiig ! mother's love loves such 
 
 forces ; 
 Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy chnging : 
 Black manhood comes, when violent lawless 
 
 courses 
 Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 
 
 So sang a withered beldam energetical, 
 And banned the ungiving door with lips pro- 
 phetical. 
 
 THE DELIGHTS OF THE COOTTET. 
 
 To see the sun to bed, and to arise 
 Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes. 
 Bursting the lazy bonds of sleep that bound him, 
 Witli all liis fires and travelling glories round him. 
 Sometimes the moon on soft night-clouds to rest, 
 Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast. 
 And all the wmking stars, her handmaids, keep 
 Admiring silence while these lovers sleep. 
 Sometimes outstretched, in very idleness. 
 Naught doing, saying little, thinking less. 
 To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air. 
 Go eddying round ; and small Ijirds how they fare, 
 When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn. 
 Filched from the careless Amalthea's horn ; 
 And how the woods berries and worms provide. 
 Without their ])ains, when earth has naught beside 
 To answer their small wants. 
 To view the graceful deer come tripping by. 
 Then stop and gaze, then turn, they know not why. 
 Like bashful younkers in society. 
 To mark the structure of a plant or tree. 
 And all fair things of earth, how fair they be. 
 
 Jo/in Tf'uotlviL 
 
 MARY LAMB.* 
 
 -1847. 
 
 THE FIRST TOOTH. 
 
 SISTER. 
 
 TiiROUGn the house what busy joy, 
 Just because the infant boy 
 Has a tiny tooth to show. 
 I have got a double row, 
 
 * Tliere is a pathetic interest connected with the name of 
 this sister of Charles Lnnib. His lifelong devotion to her is 
 one of the most touching events in literary history. His good- 
 ness was as nnniistakalily proved I)y liis conduct as his genius 
 by ids writings. It was only after Mary Lamb's death that 
 the quiet heroism of her hrolher could be fitly recorded. 
 
 All as wliite, and all as small ; 
 Yet no one cares for mine at all. 
 He can say but half a word. 
 Yet that single sound's preferred 
 To all the words that I can say 
 Li the longest summer day. 
 He cannot walk, yet if he put 
 With mimic motion out his foot. 
 As if he thought he were advancing. 
 It 's prized more than my best dancing. 
 
 BROTHER. 
 
 Sister, I know, you jesting are. 
 Yet O, of jealousy beware. 
 If the smallest seed should be 
 In your mind of jealousy. 
 It will spring, and it will shoot, 
 Till it bear the baneful fruit. 
 I remember you, my dear. 
 Young as is this infant liere. 
 There was not a tooth of those 
 Your pretty even ivory rows, 
 But as anxiously was watched. 
 Till it burst its shell new hatched. 
 As if it a Phcenix wore, 
 Or some other wonder rare. 
 So when you began to walk, — • 
 So when you began to talk, — 
 As now, the same encomiums past. 
 'T is not fitting this should last 
 Longer than our infant days ; 
 A child is fed with milk and praise. 
 
 THE TWO BOYS. 
 
 I SAW a boy with eager eye 
 Open a book upon a stall. 
 And read as he 'd devour it all : 
 Which when the stall-man did espy. 
 Soon to the boy I heard him call, 
 " You, sir, you never buy a book. 
 Therefore in one you shall not look." 
 The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh 
 He wished he never had been tauglit to read. 
 Then of the old churl's books he should have had 
 no need. 
 
 Of sufferings the poor have many. 
 Which never can the rich annoy. 
 I soon perceived another boy 
 Who looked as if he 'd not had any 
 Food for that day at least, enjoy 
 The sight of cold meat in a tavern-larder. 
 This boy's ease, thought I, is surely harder, 
 Tlius hungry longing, thus without a penny. 
 Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat : 
 No wonder if he wished he ne'er had learned to 
 eat. 
 
 -Q5 
 
a- 
 
 71G 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 —^ 
 
 fr 
 
 DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM, 
 
 David and his three captains bold 
 
 Kept ambush once within a iiold. 
 
 It was in Adullani's cave, 
 
 Nigh wliieh no watei- tliey coidd liave. 
 
 Nor spring nor running brooiv was near 
 
 To (piench the tliirst tliat parched tliem there. 
 
 Tlien David, king of Israel, 
 
 Straight bethought him of a well 
 
 Which stood beside the city gate 
 
 At Bethlem : wliere, before his state 
 
 Of kingly dignity, he had 
 
 Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad. 
 
 But now his fierce Philistian foe 
 
 Encamped before it he does know. 
 
 Yet ne'er the less with heat opprest, 
 
 Those three bold captains he addrest, 
 
 And wished tliat one to him would bring 
 
 Some water from his native spring. 
 
 His valiant captains instantly 
 
 To execute liis will did fly. 
 
 Those three brave men the ranks broke through 
 
 Of armed foes, and water drew 
 
 Por David, their beloved king. 
 
 At his own sweet native spring. 
 
 Back tlirough their enemies tliey haste, 
 
 With the hard-earned treasure graced. 
 
 Wliat with such danger they had sought, 
 
 With joy unto their king they brought. 
 
 But when the good king David found 
 
 What they had done, lie on the ground 
 
 The water poured, " Because," said he, 
 
 "That it was at the jeopardy 
 
 Of your three lives this thing ye did, 
 
 That I should drink it, God forbid." 
 
 GOIHG INTO BEEECHES. 
 
 Joy to Philip, he this day 
 
 Has his long coats cast away, 
 
 And (the cluldish season gone) 
 
 Puts the manly breeches on. 
 
 Officer on gay parade. 
 
 Red-coat in his first cockade. 
 
 Bridegroom in his wedding trim, 
 
 Birthday b<'au surpassing liim. 
 
 Never did witli conscious gait 
 
 Strut about in half tlie state. 
 
 Or tiic pride (yet free from sin) 
 
 Of my little manikin ; 
 
 Never was tlicre pride, or bliss, 
 
 Half so rational as his. 
 
 Saslics, frocks, to tliose that need 'em, 
 
 Philip's limbs have got tbeir freedom, - 
 
 He can run, or he can ride, 
 
 And do twenty tilings beside, 
 
 Wliieh his iictticoats forbade: 
 
 Is he not a happy lad ? 
 Now he 's under other banners. 
 He must leave his former manners ; 
 Bid adieu to female games, 
 And forget their very names, 
 Puss-in-eorners, hide-and-seek. 
 Sports for girls and punics weak ! 
 Baste-the-bear he now may play at, 
 Leap-frog, foot-ball, sport away at. 
 Show his strength and skill at cricket, 
 Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, 
 Bun about in winter's snow 
 Till his cheeks and fingers glow, 
 Climb a tree, or scale a wall, 
 Without any fear to fall. 
 If he get a hurt or bruise. 
 To complain he must refuse. 
 Though the anguish and the smart 
 Go unto iiis little heart. 
 He must have his courage ready. 
 Keep his voice and visage steady. 
 Brace his eyeballs stitfas drum. 
 That a tear may never come, 
 And ids grief must only speak 
 From the color in his cheek. 
 This and more he must endure, 
 Hero he in miniature ! 
 Tins and more must now be done 
 Now the breeches are put on. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 1777-1844. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "THE PLEASURES OFEOPE."* 
 
 At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
 Spans with bright arch the gUttcriug hills below, 
 Wliy to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
 Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? 
 
 * An English editor of Campbell nearly thirty yenrs «go 
 said : " Thg Pleasures of Hope has now passed through nearly 
 one hundred editions, l)cen translated into all the chief con- 
 tinental languagea, for many years been in use in school and 
 college as a model for imitation, and is now faMiilinr in Ihe 
 months of our millions as 'household words'; so tliat pan- 
 egyric or critirism may be here considered quite out of phiee. 
 
 " No first production by ony poet was evermore eutlinsiasli- 
 cally received, nor did any poem ever bring its author so large 
 a pecuniary recompense; true it is the ropyriglit was origi- 
 nally sold for the small sum of £ 50 to the tirm of Mundell & 
 Co.,'thc publisliera of Kdinlmrgli ; yet these gentlemen, acting 
 in a ni08t praiseworthy spirit, presented its author with £25 
 upon the appearance of every edition of one thousand copies ; 
 and indeed, to tlieir credit he It veciuded. after publication of 
 the sixth edition, they allowed him to print one on his own 
 aeeount, by subscription : this, of itself, pixuluced £ CtK). I'n- 
 happily, some misunderstanding afterwards arose, whirli 
 eausi'd the discontinuance of these douceurs; yet on the 
 wliole first seven editions Campbell received for his llliu 
 lines no less a sum than £900." The poem was written 
 wlien Campbell was Iwcnty-oue years old. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "THE PLEASURES OE HOPE." 
 
 71/ 
 
 ■^ 
 
 <Q- 
 
 Why do tliose cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
 More sweet than all the landscape smiling 
 
 near ? — 
 'T is distance lends enchantment to the view, 
 And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
 Thus, witli delight, we linger to survey 
 The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; 
 Thus, from afar, eacli dim-discovered scene 
 More ])leasing seems than all the past hath 
 
 been. 
 And every form, that Fancy can repair 
 From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 
 
 * * # 
 Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
 
 Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ; 
 Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid 
 
 hour. 
 The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ; 
 Tliere, as tlie wild bee murmurs on tiie wing. 
 What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits 
 
 bring ! 
 "VFIiat viewless forms the ^Eolian organ play. 
 And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought 
 
 away. 
 Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore 
 Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest 
 
 shore ! 
 Lo ! to the wintry winds the ])ilot yields 
 His bark careering o'er unfathomed fields ; 
 Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, 
 Wliere Andes, giant of tlie western star. 
 With meteor-standard to the winds unfurled, 
 Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the 
 
 world ! 
 Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer 
 
 smiles. 
 On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles; 
 Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow. 
 From wastes that slumber in eternal snow ; 
 And waft, across llie waves' tumultuous roar. 
 The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. 
 
 * » * 
 
 Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of 
 
 Time, 
 And rule the spacious world from clime to 
 
 clime ; 
 Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore. 
 Trace every wave, and culture every shore. 
 On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along. 
 And the dread Indian chants a dismal song. 
 Where human fiends on midnight errands walk. 
 And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, 
 Tliere shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray. 
 And shepherds dance at summer's opening 
 
 day ; 
 Each wandering genius of the lonely glen 
 Shall start to view the glittering haunts of 
 
 men, 
 
 And silent watch, on woodland heights around. 
 The village curfew as it tolls jirofound. 
 
 * * * 
 
 O sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
 And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile. 
 When leagued Oppression poured to Northern 
 
 wars 
 Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars. 
 Waved her dread standard to the breeze of 
 
 morn, 
 Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet 
 
 horn ; 
 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van. 
 Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 
 Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- 
 veyed. 
 Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
 "O Heaven ! " he cried, " my bleeding country 
 
 save ! — 
 Is tliere no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
 Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely 
 
 plains. 
 Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
 By that dread name, we wave the sword on 
 
 high ! 
 And swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! " 
 He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
 His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
 Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
 Still as the breeze, but dreadful as tlie storm ; 
 Low murmuring sounds along their banners fiy. 
 Revenge, or death, — the watchword and re- 
 
 ])ly ; 
 Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
 And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! — 
 
 In vain, alas I in vain, ye gallant few ! 
 From rank to rank your volleyed thunder 
 
 flew : — 
 O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
 Sannatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
 Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe. 
 Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
 Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered 
 
 spear. 
 Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high ca- 
 reer ; — 
 Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell. 
 And Freedom shrieked, — as Kosciusko fell ! 
 
 * » » 
 
 Till Hymen brought liis love-delighted hour. 
 There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! 
 In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, 
 At starry midnight charmed the silent air ; 
 In vain the wild-bird carolled on the steep. 
 To hail the sun, slow wheelmg from the deep ; 
 In vain, to soothe the solitary shade. 
 Aerial notes in mingling measure played ; 
 The summer wind that shook the spangled tree. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 718 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; — 
 Still slowly passed the melancholy day, 
 Aud still tlie strauger wist not wliere to stray. 
 The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! 
 Aud man, the hermit, sighed — till woman 
 smiled ! 
 
 * * * 
 Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers bum, 
 
 A\ lieu soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
 Heaven to thy eharge resigns the awful hour ! 
 O, then thy kingdom conies ! Immortal Power ! 
 What though each sjjark of earth-born rapture (ly 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day, — 
 Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, 
 Aud all the phoenix spirit burns within ! 
 
 * * * 
 Daughter of Taith, awake, arise, illume 
 
 The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; 
 Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
 Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! 
 Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, 
 Chased on his nigiit-stced by the star of day ! 
 The strife is o'er, — the pangs of Nature close, 
 And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
 Hark ! as the spirit eyes, witli eagle gaze. 
 The uooii of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
 On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
 Float tlie sweet times of star-born melody ; 
 Wild as that halliiwcd anthem sent to hail 
 Bethlehem's sliei)herds in tlie lonely vale. 
 When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still 
 Watched on the holy towers of Ziou hill ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 0, lives there. Heaven, beneath thy dread 
 expanse. 
 One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, 
 Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, 
 The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 
 Who, mouldering earlhward, 'reft of every trust, 
 In joyless union wedded to the dust, 
 Could all his parting energy dismiss. 
 And call this barren world suflicient bliss ? — 
 There live, alas ! of Heaveii-dircetcd mien. 
 Of cultured soul, and sa|iient eye serene. 
 Who hail thee, ilan ! the pilgrim of a day. 
 Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay, 
 Frail as the leaf in autumn's yellow bower. 
 Dust in the wind, or dew upon the fiower ; 
 A friendless slave, a child without a sire, 
 Whose mortal life and momentary fire. 
 Light to the grave his chanee-creatcd form, 
 .\s oeean-wreeks illuminate the storm ; 
 And, when the gnu's tremendous flash is o'er, 
 To night and silence sink foreverniore ! — 
 
 Are these the pompons tidings ye proclaim, 
 Li'dits of the world, .■ind demigods of Fame? 
 
 Is this your triumph, — this your proud applause. 
 Children of Truth, and chamiiions of her cause; 
 For this hath Science searched, on weary wing. 
 By shore and sea — each mute and living thing ! 
 Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 
 To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep ? 
 Or round the cope her living chariot driven. 
 And wheeled in triumph through the signs of 
 heaven. 
 
 star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there. 
 To waft us home the message of despair ? 
 Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, 
 Of blasted leaf, and death-distilluig fruit ! 
 
 Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears, 
 Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears. 
 Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread. 
 As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. 
 "What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? 
 
 1 smile on death, if heavenward Hope remaiu 1 
 But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife 
 Be all the faithless charter of my life, 
 
 If Chance awaked, inexorable power, 
 This frad and feverish being of an hour ; 
 Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep. 
 Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 
 To know Delight but by her parting smile. 
 And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; 
 Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain 
 This troubled pulse, and visionary brain I 
 Fade, ye wild-Howers, memorials of my doom. 
 And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 
 Truth, ever lovely, — since the world began, 
 The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — 
 How can thy words from balmy slumber start 
 Beposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart! 
 Yet, if tliy voice the note of thunder rolled. 
 And that were true which Nature never told, 
 Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field ; 
 No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed ! 
 O, let her read, nor loudly, nor elate. 
 The doom that bars us from a better fate; 
 But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
 Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! 
 * * • 
 
 What plaintive sobs thy filial s]iirit drew,* 
 What sorrow choked (by long and last adieu ! 
 Daughter of Conrad? when he heard his knell, 
 .And bade his country and his child farewell, 
 Dotnned the long isles of Sydney Cove to see, 
 Tlie martyr of his crimes, but true to tiiec ? 
 
 • This epipode of Coiirnd ami Ellcnore deeply nffcctrd 
 Madame de Stai-1. Slu* wrote to him from Stockholm, in Jan- 
 uary, l.sl:i, the following letter: — 
 
 " Pendant les dix annees que m'ayenl sepftriS de IWnglc- 
 terrc, Monsieur, le poenie anplaisqui m'a eaust' le plus d' (Amo- 
 tion — le [Hteine qui ne me quittalt jamais — et que je relisni 
 sans eesse pour ndoueir mes ehat;rins par I'l^ltSvation de I'ftme, 
 c'esl Les IMaisirs de rEsperanec. 1. 'episode d'Ellenorc stir- 
 tout, allail tellement a nion rirur que jc pourrais la reliiv ^ iiigt 
 
 fois, sans en nifatlilir rimpression 
 
 "HaKON.VK DK STAfil-UoLSTMN " 
 
 -p 
 
a- 
 
 EXTRACTS FEOM "GERTRUDE OF WYOMING." 
 
 719 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlirioe the sad father tore th,ee from his heart, 
 Aud thrice returned, to bless thee, aud to part; 
 Tlirice from his trembling hps he murmured low 
 The iihiiut that owned unutterable woe; 
 Till Faith, prcvaihug o'er his sullen doom. 
 As Imrsts the mom on night's unfathomed gloom. 
 Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes subhnie, 
 Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! 
 
 "And weep not thus," he cried, "young El- 
 leuore. 
 My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! 
 Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn, 
 And soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! 
 But not, my child, with life's precarious fire. 
 The immortal ties of Nature shall expire ; 
 These shall resist the triumph of decay, 
 \\ hen time is o'er and worlds have passed 
 
 away ! 
 Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie. 
 But that wliieh warmed it once shall never die ! 
 That spark unburied in its luortal frame. 
 With living light, eternal, aud the same, 
 Sliall beam on Joy's interniinal)le years. 
 Unveiled by darkness, — unassuaged by tears ! 
 
 " Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep. 
 One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep ; 
 But when I gain the home without a friend. 
 And press the uneasy couch where none attend. 
 This last embrace, still cherished in my heart, 
 Sliall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ! 
 Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh. 
 And hush the groan of life's last agony ! 
 
 ' ' Farewell ! when strangers lift thy father's bier, 
 Aud place my nameless stone without a tear ; 
 ^Mien caeli returning pledge liath told my child 
 That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled ; 
 Aud wlien the dream of troubled Fancy sees 
 Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; 
 Wlio then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er? 
 Who will protect thee, helpless EUenore? 
 Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide. 
 Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied ? 
 Ail ! no ; methinks the generous and the good 
 Will woo thee from the shades of solitude ! 
 O'er friendless grief Compassion shall awake. 
 And smile on iimoceuce, for Mercy's sake ! " 
 * ♦ * 
 
 Eternal Hope ' when yonder spheres sublime 
 Pealed tlieir first notes to sound the march of 
 
 Time, 
 Thy joyous youth began, — but not to fade. 
 When all the sister planets have decayed ; 
 When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
 And Heaven's last thuuder shakes the world 
 
 below ; 
 Thou, undismayed, slialt o'er the ruins smile. 
 And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 
 
 IT'JO. 
 
 ^ 
 
 EXTRACTS FKOM " aERTRUDE OF WYOMING." 
 
 On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! 
 Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall. 
 And roofless liomes, a sad remembrance bring 
 Of what thy gentle people did befall ; 
 Y'et thou wert once the loveliest land of all 
 That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. 
 Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall. 
 And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, 
 l^Tiose beauty was the love of Pennsj'lvania's 
 shore ! 
 
 * » * 
 
 The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's 
 
 cheek, — 
 What though these shades had seen her birth, her 
 
 sire 
 A Briton's independence taught to seek 
 Far western worlds ; and there his household fire 
 The light of social love did long inspire. 
 And many a halcyon day he lived to see 
 Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, 
 Wlien fate had reft his mutual heart, — but she 
 Was gone, — and Gertrude climbed a widowed 
 
 father's knee. 
 
 A loved bequest, — and I may half impart — 
 
 To them that feel the strong paternal tie. 
 
 How like a new existence to his heart 
 
 Tiiat living flower uprose beneath his eye, 
 
 Dear as she was from cherub iiil'aney. 
 
 From hours when she would round his garden 
 
 play; 
 To time when, as the ripening years went by. 
 Her lovely mind could culture well rc])ay, 
 Aud more engaging grew, from pleasing day to 
 
 day. 
 
 I may not paint those thousand infant charms : 
 (Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) 
 The orison repeated in his arms. 
 For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; 
 The book, the bosom on his knee reclined. 
 Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard iier con 
 (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind). 
 All uncompanioned else her years had gone 
 Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue 
 summer shone. 
 
 And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, 
 "When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent. 
 An Indian from his bark approach their bower. 
 Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament ; 
 The red wild featliers on his brow wci-e blent. 
 And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light 
 A bov, who seemed, as he beside him went. 
 Of Christian vesture, aud complexion bright, 
 Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by 
 night. 
 
 -5^ 
 
:&■ 
 
 720 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ^ 
 
 At morn, as if beneath a galaxy 
 Of overarching groves in blossoms white, 
 Where all was odorous scent and harmony, 
 And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight : 
 Tliere, if, O gentle Love ! I read aright 
 The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond, 
 'T was listening to these accents of delight, 
 She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyoud 
 Expression's power to paint, all languishiugly 
 fond — 
 
 " Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! 
 Whom I would rather in this desert meet. 
 Scorning, and scorned by fortune's power, than 
 
 own 
 Her pomp and splendors lavished at my feet ! 
 Turn not from me thy breath more exquisite 
 Than odors cast on Heaven's own shrine, — to 
 
 please, — 
 Give nie thy love, than luxury more sweet, 
 And more than all the wealth that loads the 
 
 breeze, 
 When Coromandel's ships return from Indian 
 
 seas." 
 
 Then would that home admit tlieni, — happier far 
 Thau grandeur's most niagnilicent saloon. 
 While, here and there, a solitary star 
 Flushed in the darkening firmament of June ; 
 And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon. 
 Ineffable, whieli I may not portray ; 
 For never did the hymenean moon 
 A paradise of hearts more sacred sway. 
 In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. 
 
 Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 Where transport and security entwine, 
 Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 
 And hei'e thou art a god indeed divine. 
 Here shall no fonns abridge, no hours confine. 
 The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire ! 
 lioll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! 
 Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial lire, 
 Shall love behold tlie spark of earth-born time 
 expire. 
 
 Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove 
 And pastoral savannas they consume ! 
 While she, beside her buskined youth to rove. 
 Delights, in fancifully wild costume, 
 Her lovely brow to shade with Indian iihuue ; 
 And forth in hunter-seeming vest Ihey fare ; 
 But not to chase the deer in forest gloom, 
 'T is but the breath of heaven — the blessed air — 
 And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to 
 share. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Sad was the year, by protid oppression driven, 
 'ttluui transatlantic Liberty arose. 
 
 Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven. 
 But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, 
 Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes ; 
 Her birth-star was tlic liglit of burning plains ;* 
 Her Ijaptism is the weight of blood that flows 
 From kindred hearts — the blood of British 
 
 veins, — 
 And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential 
 
 pains. 
 
 * • * 
 
 But short that contemplation, — sad and short 
 The pause to bid eaelt much-loved scene adieu ! 
 Beneath the very shadow of the fort. 
 Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners 
 
 Hew ; 
 Ah ! wlio could deem that foot of Indian crew 
 Was near? — yet there, with lust of murderous 
 
 deeds, 
 Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, 
 Tlie ambushed foenum's eye, — his volley speeds, 
 And Albert — Albert falls ! the dear old father 
 
 bleeds ! 
 
 And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; 
 Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, 
 Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's 
 
 wound. 
 These drops? — O God! the life-blood is her 
 
 own ! 
 And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom 
 
 thrown, — 
 " Weep not, O Love ! " — she cries, " to see me 
 
 bleed, — 
 Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
 Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed 
 These wounds ; — yet thee to leave is death, is 
 
 death indeed ! 
 
 " Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
 Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
 And when this heart hath ceased to beat, — 0, 
 
 thiid^, 
 And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 
 That thou hast been to me all tenderness. 
 And friend to more than human friendship just. 
 O, by tliat retrospect of happiness. 
 And by tlie hopes of an innnortal trust, 
 God shall assuage thy pangs, — when 1 am laid 
 
 in dust ! 
 
 "Go, Henry, go not back when I depart, 
 
 Tlic scene thy bursting tears too dee|i will move, 
 
 Wliere my dear father took thee to his heart, 
 
 And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
 
 With thee, as with an angel, thnnigh the grove 
 
 Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
 
 In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. 
 
 • .Mlmliup to the miseries tliat nttendcd the .\nierienn wjir 
 i)f till- lUMolution. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 LOCHIEL'S WAENING. 
 
 721 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And must this parting be oar very last ? 
 No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is 
 past. 
 
 " Half could I bear, metliiuks, to leave this 
 
 earth, — 
 And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun. 
 If I had lived to smile but on the birth 
 Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be 
 
 none, 
 In future times, — no gentle little one 
 To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 
 Yet seems it, even while life's last pidses run, 
 A sweetness in the cup of death to be. 
 Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! " 
 
 Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their 
 
 bland 
 And beautiful expression seemed to melt 
 Witii love that could not die ! and still his hand 
 Slie presses to the heart no more that felt. 
 Ah, heart ! where once eacli fond affection dwelt. 
 And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. 
 Mute, gazing, agonizing, as he knelt, — 
 Of them that stood encircling his despair. 
 He heard some friemlly words ; — but knew not 
 
 what they were. 
 
 LOOHTEL'S WARNING. 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 LociiiEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
 
 Wlien the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle 
 
 array ! 
 For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
 And tlie clans of CuUoden are scattered in figiit. 
 They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 
 
 crown ; 
 Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
 Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain. 
 And tiieir hoof-beaten bosoms arc trod to the plain. 
 But liark ! through the fast-iiashing lightning of 
 
 war, 
 Wliat steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
 'T is thine, Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
 Like a love-lighted watchfire, all nigiit at the gate. 
 A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
 But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
 Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
 O, weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
 For a merciless sword on Culloden sliall wave, 
 CuUoden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
 Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
 Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
 Tliis mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Ha ' laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
 Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be 
 
 torn ! 
 Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, 
 From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the 
 
 north ? 
 Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspecding, he rode 
 Companionlcss, bearing destruction abroad ; 
 But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
 Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 
 Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the 
 
 blast 
 Those embers, like stars from the Armament cast ? 
 'T is tlie fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
 From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 
 
 heaven. 
 O, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. 
 Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. 
 Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
 Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
 For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it 
 
 stood. 
 And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 
 
 brood. 
 
 lOCHlEL. 
 
 False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my^clan, 
 Their swords arc a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
 They are true to tlie last of their blood and their 
 
 breath. 
 And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
 Then welcome be Cumbcrlaud's steed to the shock ! 
 Let him dash his proud foam like a wave ou the 
 
 rock ! 
 But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
 When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
 When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
 Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
 All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 
 For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
 But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
 'T is the sunset of life gives nie mystical lore. 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
 With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive 
 
 king. 
 Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. 
 Behold, where he files on his desolate path ! 
 Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from 
 
 my sight : 
 Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 
 'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the 
 
 moors : 
 Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
 But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 
 For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
 
 -0> 
 
a- 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ■to 
 
 <Q- 
 
 Say, mounts he the occaii-w;ive, banished, 
 
 forlorn, 
 Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and 
 
 torn? 
 Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
 The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 
 His death-bell is tolling: O mercy, dispel 
 You sight, tliat it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
 Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. 
 And his blood-streaming nostril in agony 
 
 swims. 
 Accursed be tlie fagots that blaze at his feet, 
 Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to 
 
 beat. 
 With the s)iioke of its ashes to poison the gale — 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : 
 For never shall Albin a destiny meet. 
 So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
 Though my perishing ranks should be strewed 
 
 in their gore. 
 Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten 
 
 shore, 
 Loehiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 
 While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. 
 Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
 With his back to the field, and his ieet to the 
 
 foe! 
 And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
 Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of 
 
 fame. 
 
 .a, 1803. 
 
 YE MAKINEBS OF ENGLAND.* 
 
 A NAVAL ODE. 
 
 Ye mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard our native seas ; 
 
 Wliose flag has braved, a thousand years. 
 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe ! 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 Willie the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 * This naval ode was written at Altona, in the winter of 
 1800, wlicn the poet was twenty-three years of age; it ap- 
 peared tirst in tlie Morn'inri Chronide, with the following title, 
 " Alteration of the old hallad, ' Ye Gentlemen of England,' 
 composed on the prtjspcct of a Russian war," and signed, 
 " Amator Piitrise." At this time the Southeastern and 
 Southern coasts of England were first fortified with niartcllo 
 towers as a defence against foreign invasion ; to this fact refer- 
 ence is made iu the lines 
 
 " Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 >'o towers along the steep." 
 
 The subject was first suggested hy hearing the air of the old 
 Iialiad before mentioned played at tlie house of a friend in 
 Scotland; and when the rumor of war witli Russia became a 
 general topic of conversation among the British at Altona, it 
 aroused Canipbell's patriotism, and hence the result in verse. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave ! — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 -\nd ocean was their grave : 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow. 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep. 
 
 While the stormy winds do Ijlow, 
 
 Wliile the battle rages loud and long. 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks. 
 
 No towers along the steep; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak. 
 
 She quells the floods below, — 
 
 As they roar on the shore, 
 
 AVlien the stormy winds do blow : 
 
 ^Vhen the battle rages loud and long. 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn ; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart. 
 
 And the star of |)eace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name. 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 
 Wlicii the fiery fight is heard no more. 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 1800. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North, 
 
 Sing the glorious day's renown. 
 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 
 ."Vll the might of Denmark's crown, 
 
 And lier arms along the deep proudly shoue ; 
 
 By each gmi the lighted brand, 
 
 \\\ a hold determined hand. 
 
 And the prince of all the land 
 
 Led tliem on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat. 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
 
 ^Yhile the sigu of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line : 
 
 It was ten of April mom by the chime : 
 
 As they drifted on their path. 
 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath. 
 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 And her van the fleeter rushed 
 O'er the deadly s|)acc between. 
 
 ^ 
 
c&- 
 
 HOHENLINPEN. — EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 r23 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Hearts of oak ! " our captain cried ; wlieu each 
 
 gun 
 From its adamantine lips 
 Spread a deatli-sliade round the ships, 
 Like the hurricane ecUpse 
 Of tlie sun. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 
 Anil tlie havoc did not slack, 
 
 Till a feeble elicer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; — 
 
 Thi'ir shots along the deep slowly boom : — 
 
 Then ceased, — and all is wail. 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail ; 
 
 Or, in conflagration pale, 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then. 
 
 As lie liailcd them o'er the wave ; 
 
 " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer but to save : — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
 
 But yield, proud foe, tliy fleet, 
 
 Witli the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our king." 
 
 Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 From her people wildly rose. 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day. 
 
 AVhile the sun looked smiling bright 
 
 O'er a wide and woful sight. 
 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
 For the tidings of thy might. 
 By the festal cities' blaze. 
 Whilst tlie wine-cup shines in light; 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
 Let us think of them that sleep, 
 Full many a fathom deep. 
 By tliy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore ! 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true. 
 
 On tlic deck of fame that died ; — 
 
 Witli tlie gallant good Kioii ; * 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave ! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls. 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 * Captain Kiou, entitled tite gallant and the good by Lord 
 Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches. 
 
 HOHENLINDEN, 
 
 On Lindeu, wiien the sun was low, 
 All liloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 
 When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
 Commanding fires of death to Ught 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
 Each horseman drew liis battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neighed. 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven. 
 Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven. 
 Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that hght shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Wliere furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
 Shout in tlieir sulphurous canopy. 
 
 Tlie combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
 Tlie snow shall be their winding-sheet. 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's seiuilclire. 
 
 1803. 
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin. 
 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
 For his country he sighed, when at twilight re- 
 pairing 
 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 
 But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion. 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. 
 Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion. 
 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragli. 
 
 " Sad is my fate ! " said the heart-broken 
 stranger ;' 
 
 "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee. 
 But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
 
 A home and a country remain not to me. 
 Never again, in the green sunny bowers. 
 
 -g> 
 
(&r 
 
 r24 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the 
 
 sweet hours, 
 Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers. 
 And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 
 
 " Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken. 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
 
 But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken. 
 And sigh for the friends who can meet me no 
 more ! 
 
 O cnicl fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
 
 lu a mansion of peace, — where no perUs can 
 chase me ? 
 
 Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
 They died to defend me or live to deplore ! 
 
 " Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood ? 
 
 Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
 Where is the mother that looked on my child- 
 hood ; 
 And where is the bosom friend dearer than 
 aU? 
 O, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure. 
 Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
 Tears, like the raiu-drop, may fall without meas- 
 ure, 
 But rapture and beauty tliey cannot recall. 
 
 "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 
 ■ Erin ! an exile bequeatlis thee his blessing ! 
 Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her mo- 
 tion, 
 Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean ! 
 And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de- 
 votion, — 
 
 Erin mavournin, — Erin go bragh ! " * 
 
 1800. 
 
 LOKD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 A cniEFTA.iN, to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
 
 And I '11 give thee a silver pound, 
 To row us o'er the ferry." 
 
 " Xow who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
 Tiiis dark and stormy water? " 
 
 " O, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 And this Lord Ulliu's daughter. 
 
 " And fast before her fatlier's men 
 Three days we've (led together. 
 
 For should lie find us in the glen, 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 
 Sliould tlicy our steps discover, 
 
 • Ireland my darling, Irclaiu! forever. 
 
 fr 
 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 When they have slain her lover? " 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 " I '11 go, my chief, — I 'm ready ; — 
 
 It is not for your silver bright ; 
 But for your winsome lady : 
 
 "And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry ; 
 So, thougii the waves are raging white, 
 
 I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace. 
 The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind. 
 
 And as the niglit grew drearer, 
 Adown the glen rode armed men. 
 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 " O, haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
 " Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 I '11 meet the raging of the skies. 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy laud, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 Wlien, 0, too strong for iiunian hand. 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 And stiU they rowed anudst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing ; 
 Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore. 
 
 His wrath was changed to waihug. 
 
 Eor sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 
 
 His child lie did discover : 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 
 
 " Across this stormy water : 
 And 1 '11 forgive your Highland chief. 
 
 My daughter! — O my daughter! " 
 
 'T was vain ; — the loud waves lashed the shore, 
 
 Return or aid (ireventing ; 
 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 liM. 
 
 ODE TO THE MEMOET OF BUKHS. 
 
 Soul of the Poet ! wheresoe'cr, 
 Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume 
 Her wings of immortality : 
 Suspend thy liar|) in hapiiier sphere. 
 And witli thine iiitlueuee illume 
 The ijiadiiess of our jubilee. 
 
 4> 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DKEAM. 
 
 (25 
 
 -a 
 
 And fly like fiends from secret spell, 
 Discord and strife, at Burns's name, 
 Exorcised bj' his memory ; 
 For he was chief of bards that swell 
 The heart with songs of social flame, 
 And high delicious revelry. 
 
 And love's own strain to him was given. 
 
 To warble all its ecstasies 
 
 With Pythian words unsougiit, unwilled. 
 
 Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, 
 
 The choicest sweet of Paradise, 
 
 In life's else bitter cup distilled. 
 
 Who that has melted o'er Lis lay 
 To Mary's soul, in heaven above, 
 But pictured sees, in fancy strong, 
 Tiie landscape and the livelong day 
 That smiled upon their mutual love? — 
 Who that has felt forgets the song y 
 
 Nor skilled one flame alone to fan : 
 His country's high-souled peasantry 
 What patriot-pride he taught! — liow much 
 To weigh the inborn worth of man ! 
 And rustic life and poverty 
 Grow beautiful beneatli his touch. 
 
 Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse 
 Entranced, and showed him all the forms, 
 Of fairy-light and wizard gloom 
 (Tiiat only gifted poet views), 
 The Genii of the floods and storms. 
 And martial shades from Glory's tomb. 
 
 On Bannock-field what tlioughts arouse 
 
 The swain whom Biirns's song inspires ! 
 
 Beat not his Caledonian veins. 
 
 As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs. 
 
 With all the spirit of his sires, 
 
 And all their scorn of death and chains ? 
 
 And see the Scottish exile, tanued 
 
 By many a far and foreign clime. 
 
 Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep 
 
 In memory of his native land. 
 
 With love that scorns tiie lapse of time. 
 
 And ties tliat stretch beyond the deep. 
 
 Encamped by Indian rivers wild. 
 
 The soldier resting on his armsj 
 
 In Burns's carol sweet recalls 
 
 The scenes that blessed him when a child. 
 
 And glows and gladdens at tlie charms 
 
 Of Scotia's woods aud waterfalls. 
 
 0, deem not, midst this worldly strife, 
 An idle art the poet brings : 
 Let high philosophy control. 
 And sages calm the stream of life, 
 
 'T is he refines its fountain-springs, 
 The nobler passions of the soul. 
 
 It is tiie Muse that consecrates 
 The native banner of the brave, 
 Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath. 
 Rose, thistle, liarp ; 't is she elates 
 To sweep the field or ride the wave, 
 A sunburst in the storm of death. 
 
 And thou, young hero, when thy pall 
 
 Is crossed with mournful sword aud plume. 
 
 When public grief begins to fade. 
 
 And only tears of kindred fall. 
 
 Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb. 
 
 And greet with fame thy gallant shade ? 
 
 Such was the soldier, — Bums, forgive 
 
 Tliat sorrows of mine own intrude 
 
 In strains to thy great memory due. 
 
 In verse hke thine, 0, could he live. 
 
 The friend I mourned — the brave, the 
 
 good, — 
 Edward that died at Waterloo ! * 
 
 Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! 
 Tliat couldst alternately impart 
 Wisdom and rajjture in tliy page, 
 Aud brand each vice with satire strong. 
 Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, 
 Whose truths electrify the sage. 
 
 Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare 
 To wring one baleful poison drop 
 From the crushed laurels of thy bust : 
 But while the lark sings sweet in air. 
 Still may tlie grateful pilgrim stop. 
 To bless the spot that holds thy dust. 
 
 1815. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DEEAM. 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had 
 lowered, 
 And the sentinel stars set their watcli in tiie 
 sky; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 
 powered. 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 Wiien reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 
 By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the 
 slain; 
 
 At the dead of the niglit a sweet vision I saw, 
 Aud thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 
 
 Methought from tiie battle-field's dreadful array. 
 Far, far I liad roamed on a desolate track ; 
 
 * M.ijor Edward Hod^e, of the Seventh Hussars, who fell at , 
 Ihe liead of his squadron in the attack of tlie Polish Lancers. 
 
 — g> 
 
e 
 
 726 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 <&- 
 
 'T was Autumn, — aud sunshine arose on the way 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
 back. 
 
 I Hew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
 In hfe's morning march, when my bosom was 
 young ; 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
 Aud knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
 reapers suug. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
 From my home and my weeping friends never 
 to part ; 
 My Httle ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of 
 heart. 
 
 " Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and 
 worn " ; 
 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — 
 But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 TO THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Triumpii-I-L arch, that fiU'st tlie sky 
 
 When storms prepare to part, 
 I ask not proud Pliilosophy 
 
 To teach me what thou art ; 
 
 Still seem, as to my childliood's sight, 
 
 A midway station given 
 For liappy spirits to alight 
 
 Betwixt the earth and heaven. 
 
 Can all that Optics teach unfold 
 
 Thy form to please me so, 
 As when I dreamt of gems aud gold 
 
 Hid in thy radiant bow ? 
 
 AVlien Science from Creation's face 
 
 Enchantment's veil withdraws, 
 What lovely visions yield their plaee 
 
 To cold material laws ! 
 
 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. 
 
 But words of the Most High, 
 Have told why first ihy robe of beams 
 
 Was woven in the sky. 
 
 Wlien o'er the green umlehigrd earth 
 Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 
 
 IIow came the world's gray fathers forth 
 To watch thy sacred sign ! 
 
 And when its yellow lustre smiled 
 
 O'er mountains yet uiitrod, 
 Each mother liehl aloft her child 
 
 To bless the bow of God. 
 
 Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. 
 The first-made anthem rang 
 
 On earth delivered from the deep, 
 Aud the first poet sang. 
 
 Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
 Unraptured greet thy beam ; 
 
 Theme of primeval prophecy, 
 Be still the prophet's theme ! 
 
 Tlie eartii to thee her incense yields, 
 The lark thy welcome sings, 
 
 Wlieu glittering in the freshened fields 
 The snowy mushroom springs. 
 
 How glorious is thy girdle, cast 
 O'er mountain, tower, and town. 
 
 Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
 A thousand fathoms down ! 
 
 As fresh in yon horizon dark. 
 As young thy beauties seem, 
 
 As when tlu; eagle from the ark 
 First sported in thy beam : 
 
 For, failiiful to its sacred page, 
 Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
 
 Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
 That first spoke peace to man. 
 
 1819. 
 
 THE LAST MAS. 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom. 
 
 The Sun himself must die. 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality ! 
 I saw a vision in my sleep. 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of time ! 
 I saw the last of human mould 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 
 As Ada'm saw her ])rime ! 
 
 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. 
 
 The Earth witli age was wau. 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around tliat lonely man ! 
 Some iiad expired in light, — tlie brands 
 StiU rusted in their bony hands. 
 
 In plague and famine some ! 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet, prophet -like, that lone one stood, 
 Witli dauntless words and high, 
 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood 
 As if a storm passed by, 
 
 -^ 
 
C&- 
 
 VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE. 
 
 727 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Saying, " We are twius in death, proud 
 
 Suu ! 
 Thy face is cold, tliy race is run, 
 
 'T is Mercy bids tiiee go ; 
 For thou teu thiiusajid thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears. 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 "Wiat though beneath thee man put forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
 And arts that made lire, flood, and eartii, 
 
 Tiie vassals of his will ? — 
 Yet mourn I not tliy ])artcd sway, 
 Thou dim discrowned king of day; 
 
 For all those trophied arts 
 And triumphs that beneath thee sprang. 
 Healed not a passion or a pang 
 
 Entailed on human hearts. 
 
 " Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon tlie stage of men. 
 Nor with thy rising beams recall 
 
 Life's tragedy again : 
 Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
 Nor. waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writlie ; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abiiorred. 
 Or mown in battle by the sword. 
 
 Like grass beneath the scythe. 
 
 " Even I am weary in you skies 
 
 To watch thy fading flre ; 
 Test of all sunilcss .agonies. 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 j\Ty lips tliat speak thy dirge of death, — 
 Their rounded gas)) and gurgling breath 
 
 To see thou sh.alt not boast. 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall. 
 The majesty of darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost ! 
 
 " This spirit shaU return to Him 
 
 Who gave its lieavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 Wlien thou thyself art dark ! 
 No ! it siiall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of tliine, 
 
 By him recalled to brcatli, 
 Wlio captive led captivity. 
 Who robbed the grave of Victory, — 
 
 And took the sting from Death ! 
 
 " Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's awfid waste 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste, — 
 Go, tell the niglit that liides thy face, 
 Tliou saw'st the last of Adam's race. 
 
 On earth's sepulchral clod, 
 The darkening universe defy 
 To quench his immortality. 
 Or shake his trust in God ! 
 
 1833. 
 
 VALEBICTORT STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE. 
 
 COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817. 
 
 Pride of the British stage, 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Whose image brought the heroic age 
 
 Revived to Fancy's view. 
 Like fields refreshed with dewy light 
 
 When the sun smiles his last. 
 Thy parting presence makes more bright 
 
 Our memory of the past ; 
 And memory conjures feelings up 
 
 Tliat wine or music need not swell, 
 As high we lift the festal cup 
 
 To Kcmble, — fare thee well ! 
 
 His was tiie spell o'er hearts 
 
 Which only acting lends, — 
 The youngest of the sister arts. 
 
 Where all their beauty blends : 
 For ill can poetry express 
 
 Full many a tone of thought sublime, 
 And painting, mute and motionless, 
 
 Steals but a glance of time. 
 But by tlie iniglity actor brought. 
 
 Illusion's perfect triumphs come, — 
 Verse ceases to be airy thought, 
 
 And sculpture to be dumb. 
 
 Time may again revive. 
 
 But ne'er eclipse the charm, 
 Wlieu Cato spoke in him alive. 
 
 Or Hotspur kindled warm. 
 What soul was not resigned entire 
 
 To tlie deep sorrows of tlie Moor, — 
 Wliat English heart was not on fire 
 
 With him at Agincourt':' 
 And yet a majesty possessed 
 
 His transport's most impetuous tone, 
 And to eacli passion of tlie breast 
 
 The Graces gave their zone. 
 
 High were the task — too high. 
 
 Ye conscious bosoms here ! 
 In words to paint your memory 
 
 Of Kcmble and of Lear ; 
 But who forgets that white discrowned head, 
 
 Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare, 
 Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed. 
 In doubt more touching tlian despair, 
 
 If 't was reality he felt ? 
 Had Shakespeare's self amidst you been, 
 
 Friends, he had seen you melt, 
 And triumphed to have seen ! 
 
 -9> 
 
(Q- 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 And there was many an hour 
 
 Of blended kindred fame, 
 Wlien Siddons's auxihar power 
 
 And sister magic came. 
 Together at the Muse's side 
 
 The tragic paragons had grown, — 
 They were the children of her pride, 
 
 The columns of her throne, 
 And undivided favor ran 
 
 Trom heart to heart in their applause, 
 Save for the gallantry of man 
 
 In loveher woman's cause. 
 
 Fair as some classic dome, 
 
 Robust and richly graced. 
 Your Kemble's spirit was the home 
 
 Of genius and of taste ; 
 Taste, like the silent dial's power, 
 
 That, when supernal hght is given. 
 Can measure inspiration's hour. 
 
 And tell its height in heaven. 
 At once ennobled and correct. 
 
 His mind surveyed the tragic page, 
 And what tiie actor could effect. 
 
 The scholar could presage. 
 
 These were his traits of worth ; 
 
 And must we lose them now ! 
 And shall the scene no more show forth 
 
 His sternly pleasing brow ! 
 Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — 
 
 'T is all a transient hour below ; 
 Aud we that would detain thee here. 
 
 Ourselves as fleetly go ! 
 Yet sliaU our latest age 
 
 This parting scene review : 
 Pride of the British stoge, 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 
 SONS OF TEE GREEKS. 
 
 Again to tiie battle, Achaians ! 
 
 Our iiearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 
 
 Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree, — 
 
 It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the 
 
 free: 
 For the cross of our faith is replanted. 
 The pale dying crescent is daunted. 
 And wc march that tlie foot])rints of .Mahomet's 
 
 slaves 
 May be wtishcd out in blood from n>ir forefathers' 
 
 graves. 
 Their spirits are hovering o'er \is, 
 And the sword shall to glory restore us. 
 
 Ah I what though no succor advances. 
 
 Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 
 
 Are stretched in our aid, — be the combat o\ir 
 
 ^ 
 
 And we '11 perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 
 For we 've sworn by our country's assaulters. 
 By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, 
 By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 
 By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
 That, living, we shall be victorious. 
 Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 
 
 A breath of submission we breathe not; 
 
 The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe 
 
 not! 
 Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid. 
 And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
 Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us, 
 But they shall not to slavery doom us : 
 If they rule, it shall be o'er our aslies and graves ; 
 But we 've smote them already with fire on the 
 
 waves. 
 And new triumphs on land are before us. 
 To the charge ! — Heaven's ba:mer is o'er us. 
 
 This day shall ye blush for its story. 
 
 Or brighten your lives with its glory. 
 
 Our women, O, say, shall they shriek in despair. 
 
 Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in 
 
 their hair ? 
 Accursed may his memory blacken. 
 If a coward there be that would slacken 
 Till we 've trampled the turban, and shown our- 
 selves worth 
 Being sprung from and named for the godhke of 
 
 earth. 
 Strike home, and the world shall revere us 
 As heroes descended from heroes. 
 
 Old Greece lightens up with emotion 
 
 Her inlands, her isles of the ocean ; 
 
 Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee 
 riug, 
 
 And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's 
 spring ; 
 
 Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness. 
 
 That were cold and extinguished in sadness ; 
 
 Whilst our maidens shall daucc with their white- 
 waving arms. 
 
 Singing joy to the brave that delivered their 
 charms. 
 
 When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
 
 Shall have pur])led the beaks of our ravens. 
 
 HALLOWED GROUND. 
 
 What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
 Its Maker meant not should l)c trod 
 By man, the image of his God 
 
 Erect and free, 
 Unscourgcd by Superstition's rod 
 
 To bow the knee ? 
 
 -55 
 
a- 
 
 FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 729 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 That 's hallowed ground — where, mourned and 
 
 missed. 
 The Ups repose our love has kissed : — 
 But where 's their memory's mansion ? Is 't 
 
 Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
 No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 
 
 A part of ours. 
 
 A kiss can consecrate the ground 
 Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
 The spot where love's first links were wound. 
 
 That ne'er are riven, 
 Is hallowed down to earth's profound. 
 
 And up to Heaven ! 
 
 For time makes all but true love old ; 
 The burning thoughts that then were told 
 Run molten still in memory's mould ; 
 
 And will not cool. 
 Until the heart itself be cold 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 What liallows ground wliere heroes sleep ? 
 'T is not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep 
 
 Their turf may bloom ; 
 Or Genii twine beneath the deep 
 
 Their coral tomb : 
 
 But strew his ashes to the wind 
 
 Whose sword or voice has served mankind, — 
 
 Aud is he dead, whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high ? — 
 To live in hearts we leave behind, 
 
 Is not to die. 
 
 Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
 He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
 And jNIurder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws : — 
 Wliat can alone ennoble fight ? 
 
 A noble cause ! 
 
 Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
 
 Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 
 
 The colors planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer. 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase. 
 
 Shall still bo dear. 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
 The cause of Truth and human weal, 
 
 O God above ! 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 
 To Peace aud Love. 
 
 Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
 Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
 
 Where they are not, — 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 
 Religion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust, 
 And pompous rites in domes august ? 
 See mouldering stones and metal's rust 
 
 Belie the vaunt. 
 That men can bless one pile of dust 
 
 With chime or chaunt. 
 
 The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
 Thy temples, — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
 But there 's a dome of nobler span, 
 
 A temple given 
 Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 
 
 Its space is Heaven ! 
 
 Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling. 
 Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
 Aud God himself to man revealing, 
 
 The harmonious spheres 
 Make music, though unheard their pealing 
 
 By mortal ears. 
 
 Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
 Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? 
 Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
 
 Aspect above ? 
 Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 
 
 Of lieavenly love ! 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time : 
 That man's regenerate soul from crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And reason on his mortal clime 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What 's hallowed ground ? 'T is what gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
 Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 
 
 Earth's compass round ; 
 And your high priesthood shall make eartii 
 
 All hallowed ground. 
 
 FIELD FLOWEES. 
 
 Ye field flowers ! thegardens eclipse you, 'tis true. 
 Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you. 
 
 For ye waft me to summers of old, 
 When the earth teemed around me with fairy 
 
 deUght, 
 And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my 
 sight. 
 Like treasures of silver and gold. 
 
 I love you for lulling me back into dreams 
 Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing 
 streams, 
 
 -* 
 
<&■ 
 
 730 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Aud of bircheu glades breathing their bahn, 
 While the deer was seen glauciug in suusliine 
 
 remote, 
 And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's 
 note 
 Made music that sweetened the calm. 
 
 Not a pastoral song lias a plcasantcr tune 
 Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : 
 
 Of old ruinous castles ye tell. 
 Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find. 
 When the magic of nature first breathed on my 
 mind. 
 
 And your blossoms were part of her spell. 
 
 Even now what affections the violet awakes ; 
 What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes. 
 
 Can the wild water-lily restore ; 
 What laudscapes I read in the primrose's looks. 
 And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy 
 brooks. 
 
 In the vetches that tangled their shore. 
 
 Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear. 
 Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear. 
 
 Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
 Oucc I welcome you more, in life's passionless 
 
 stage. 
 With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 
 
 And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 
 
 TO THE MEMOBY OF THE SPANISH PATEIOTS.* 
 
 Br.ive men who at the Trocadero fell, — 
 Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain. 
 There is a victory in dying weU 
 For Freedom, — and ye have not died in vain ; 
 For, come what may, tliere shall be hearts in 
 
 Spain 
 To honor, ay, embrace your martyred lot, 
 Cursing the bigot's and tiie Bourbon's cliain. 
 And looking on your graves, though trophied 
 
 not. 
 As holier hallowed ground than priests could make 
 
 the spot ! 
 
 W hat though your cause be baffled, freemen cast 
 lu dungeons, dragged to death, or forced to 
 
 flee; 
 1 lope is not withered in affliction's blast, — 
 The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree; 
 ,\nd sliort your orgies of revenge sliiill be. 
 Cowled (lemons of the Inquisitorial cell 1 
 Earth shudders at your victory, — for ye 
 Are worse than common fiends from heaven that 
 
 fell. 
 The baser, ranker sprung. Autochthones of hell ! 
 
 ■ Killed in resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angou. 
 ii'mc, 18ii. 
 
 Go to your bloody rites again, — briug back 
 The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen. 
 Recording answers shrieked upon the rack ; 
 Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ; — 
 Preacli, perpetrate damnation in your den ; — 
 Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal 
 With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose 
 
 again. 
 To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel 
 No eye may search, — no tongue may challenge 
 
 or reveal ! 
 
 Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime 
 Too proudly, ye oppressors ! — Spain was free. 
 Her soil has felt the footprints, aud her clime 
 Been winuowed by the wings of Liberty ; 
 And these even parting scatter as they flee 
 Thoughts, — influences, to live in hearts unbora, 
 Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key 
 From Persecution, — show her mask otT-torn, 
 And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of 
 Scorn. 
 
 Glory to them that die in this great cause ; 
 Kings, bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, 
 Or shape of death, to shroud them from ap- 
 plause : — 
 No ! — manglers of the martyr's cartlily frame ! 
 Your liangmen fingers cannot touch his fame ! 
 Still in your prostrate land there sliall be some 
 Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal 
 
 flame. 
 Long trains of ill may pass unlieeded, dumb. 
 But Vengeance is behind, and Justice is to come. 
 
 TO THE EVENIN& STAK. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 
 If any star shed peace, 't is thou. 
 
 That scnd'st it from above. 
 Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to tlie luxuriant skies, 
 Wiiilst the landscape's odors rise, 
 Whilst far-oil' lowing herds are heard, 
 
 Aud songs when toil is done. 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirred 
 
 Curls yellow in tiie sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews. 
 Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
 Their remembrancer in heaven 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art. 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 
 By absence from the lieart. 
 
 ■^ 
 
c0- 
 
 THE POWER OF EUSSIA. 
 
 731 
 
 ■fp 
 
 THE POWER OF EUSSIA, 
 
 So all this gallant blood has gushed iii vain ! 
 And Poland, by the northern condor's beak 
 And talons torn, lies prostrated again. 
 O British patriots, that were wont to speak 
 Once loudly on tliis theme, now hushed or 
 
 meek ! 
 
 heartless men of Europe, — Gotli and Gaul, 
 
 Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ; — 
 
 That saw the world's last land of heroes fall — 
 
 The brand of burning shame is ou vou all — all 
 
 — all! 
 
 But this is not the drama's closing act ! 
 Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. 
 Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! 
 That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew 
 Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you 
 The lengtiicning shadow of its liead elate, — 
 A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue. 
 To all that's hallowed, righteous, pure, and 
 
 great, 
 Woe ! woe ! when they are reached by Russia's 
 
 withering hate. 
 
 Russia, that on his throne of adamant, 
 Consults what nation's breast shall next be 
 
 gored : 
 He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant 
 His standard fresh; and horde succeeding 
 
 horde, 
 On patriot tombstones he will whet the sword, 
 Por more stupendous slaughters of the free. 
 Then Europe's realms, when their best blood 
 
 is poured, 
 Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, 
 All, — all in grief, but none in glory, likening 
 
 thee. 
 
 Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled ? 
 O fair occasion, gone forever by ! 
 To have locked his lances in their northern field. 
 Innocuous as the pliantom chivalry 
 That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! 
 Now wave tliy pennon, Russia, o'er tlie land 
 Once Poland ; build thy bristhng castles higli ; 
 Dig dungeons deep; for Poland's wrested brand 
 Is now a weapon new to widen thy command, — 
 
 An awful width ! Norwegian woods sliall build 
 His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and tlie Dane; 
 The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled 
 To feed his dazzling, desolating train. 
 Camped sumless, 'twixt the Black and Baltic 
 
 main ; 
 Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write. 
 And Rome, half barbarous, bound Achaia's 
 
 chain : 
 
 ^Q— 
 
 So Russia's spirit, midst Sclavonic night. 
 Burns with a fire more dread than all your pol- 
 ished light. 
 
 But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen 
 
 speak) 
 Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 
 O lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak 
 The stripling Titan, strengtiiening year by year. 
 What implement lacks he for war's career. 
 That grows on eartii, or in its floods and mines 
 (Eighth sharer of the inliabitable sphere). 
 Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines. 
 And India's homage waits, when Albion's star 
 
 declines ! 
 
 But time will teach the Russ, even conquering 
 
 War 
 Has handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo 
 All sciences that speed Bellona's car. 
 All murder's tactic arts, and win them too ; 
 But never holier Muses siiall imbue 
 His breast, that 's made of nature's basest clay : 
 The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapor blue 
 His laws and ethics ; far from him away 
 Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but freedom's 
 
 day. 
 
 Say, even liis serfs, half humanized, should 
 
 learn 
 Their human rights, — will Mars put out his 
 
 flame 
 In Russian bosoms ? no, he '11 bid them burn 
 A thousand years for naught but martial fame, 
 Like Romans ; — yet forgive me, Roman name ! 
 Rome could impart what Russia never can ; 
 Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame. 
 Our stril'e is coming ; but in freedom's van 
 The Polisli eagle's fall is big with fate to man. 
 
 Proud bird of old ! Mohammed's moon recoiled 
 Before thy swoo]) : had we been timely bold. 
 That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, 
 
 and foiled 
 Earth's new oppressors, as it foiled her old. 
 Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : 
 And colder still Polonia's children find 
 The sympatlietic hands, tliat we outhold. 
 But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will 
 mind, 
 Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for human- 
 kind. 
 
 So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part, 
 My pride repudiates even the sigh that blends 
 With Poland's name, — name written on my 
 
 heart. 
 My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! 
 Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 73i 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Your conqueror's joy : his clieek may blusli ; 
 
 but shame 
 Can tinge not yours, thougli exile's tear de- 
 
 sccuds ; 
 Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, 
 
 and name, 
 For Ids, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. 
 
 Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring 
 
 power 
 Tlie czar forbids to sound in Polish lauds ; 
 Thee, Czartoryski, iu thy banished bower. 
 The patricide, who in thy palace stands, 
 May envy : proudly may Poloiiia's bands 
 Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in 
 
 scorn 
 Saying, " Russia from the metal of these brands 
 Sliall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; 
 Our setting star is your misfortuues' rising morn." 
 
 1831. 
 
 EABL MAIICH LOOKED ON HIS DYING CHILD, 
 
 Eakl Marcu looked on his dying child. 
 And, smit with grief to view her, 
 
 " Tlie youth," he cried, " whom I exiled, 
 Shall be restored to woo her." 
 
 She 's at the window many an hour 
 
 His coming to discover : 
 And /le looked up to Ellen's bower, 
 
 And s//e looked on her lover, — ■ 
 
 Hut ah ! so pale, he knew her not, 
 
 Though lier smile on liim was dweUing. 
 
 And am I then forgot, — forgot ? — 
 It broke the heart of Ellen. 
 
 In vain lie weeps, in vain ho sighs. 
 
 Her cheek is cold as ashes ; 
 Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 
 
 To lift their silken lashes. 
 
 LINES ON THE VIEW FEOM ST, LEONARD'S.* 
 
 Hail to thy face and odors, glorious Sea ! 
 'T were thanklessucss in me to bless thee not. 
 Great beauteous Being! in whose bre<at!i and smile 
 ily heart beats calmer, and my very mind 
 Ldialcs salubrious thouglits. How welconier 
 Tliy murmurs than the murmurs of tlie world ! 
 Thougli like the world thou fluctuatcst, thy din 
 To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. 
 Even gladly 1 exchange yiui spring-green l.ancs 
 With all the darling (ield-llowers in their prime. 
 And gardens liannted by the nightingale's 
 
 • Ciinipbcll. wlin wns prculinrly impartial in judirin^ of tlie 
 merit of his own proiinetions, more tliaii iinrr exprcssril an 
 opinion tlmt t)ir»e lines were his best, ns hcu\\; tin: most }ntt- 
 
 ^ 
 
 Long trills and gushing ecstasies of song, 
 Eor these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's 
 clang — 
 
 With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, 
 I long uot to o'erlook earth's fairest glades 
 And green savannas, — earth has not a plain 
 So boundless or so beautiful as thine ; 
 The eagle's vision cannot take it in : 
 The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, 
 Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird : 
 It is the mirror of the stars, where all 
 Their hosts within the concave firmament. 
 Gay niarcliing to the music of tlie spheres, 
 Can see themselves at once. 
 
 Nor on the stage 
 Of rural landscape are there liglits and shades 
 Of more harmonious dance and jilay than tliiue. 
 How vividly tliis moment brigliteus forth. 
 Between gray parallel and leaden breadths, 
 A belt of lines fhat stripes thee many a league. 
 Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck. 
 And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing 
 The semblance of a meteor. 
 
 Mighty Sea ! 
 Chameleon-like thou ehaugest, but there 's love 
 In all thy change, and constant sympathy 
 With yonder Sky, — thy mistress ; from her brow 
 Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colors on 
 Thy faithful bosom ; niorning's milky white, 
 Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ; 
 And all thy balmier hours, fair element, 
 Have such divine complexion, — crisped smiles. 
 Luxuriant heavings and sweet whisperings. 
 That little is the wonder Lo\'e's own queen 
 From thee of old was fabled to have sprung, — 
 Creation's common ! which no human power 
 Can parcel or inclose ; the lordliest floods 
 And cataracts that the tiny hands of man 
 Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew 
 To thee that eouldst subdue the earth itself, 
 Aud brook'st commandment from the heavens 
 
 alone 
 For marshalling thy waves — 
 
 Yet, potent Sea! 
 How placidly thy moist lips speak even )uiw 
 Along yon sparkling siiiiigles. Wlio can be 
 So fanciless as to feel no gratitude 
 Th.at power and grandeur can be so serene. 
 Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way. 
 And rockmg even the fisher's little bark 
 As gently as a mother rocks her child ? 
 The inhabitants of other worlds behold 
 Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share 
 On earth's rotundity ; and is he not 
 A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the iniin 
 Who sees not or wlio seeing has no joy 
 In thv magnilieence ? What thougli thou art 
 
 -9> 
 
<&■ 
 
 SWITZERLAND. — MEN OE ENGLAND. 
 
 733 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Unconscious and material, tliou canst reach 
 The inmost immaterial mind's recess, 
 And ^I'ith thy tints and motion stir its chords 
 To music, like the light on Menmon's lyre ! 
 
 The Spirit of the universe in thee 
 
 Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life, — 
 
 Tlie eternal, graceful, and majestic life 
 
 Of nature, and the natural human heart 
 
 Is tlierefore bound to thee witii holy love. 
 
 Earth has her gorgeous towus ; the earth-circling 
 
 sea 
 Has spires and mansions more amusive still, — 
 Men's volant homes tliat measure liquid space 
 On wheel or wing. The cliariot of the land 
 With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust 
 Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair 
 Careerers with tlie foam beneath their bows, 
 Wlwse streaming ensigns charm the waves by day. 
 Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the 
 
 night. 
 Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts 
 In long array, or hither flit and yond 
 Mysteriously witli slow and crossing lights. 
 Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. 
 
 Tlicre is a magnet-like attraction in 
 Tliese waters to the imaginative power 
 That links the viewless with the visible. 
 And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond 
 Yon iiighway of the world my fancy flies. 
 When by her tall and triple mast we know 
 Some noble voyager that lias to woo 
 The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. 
 Tlie coral groves, — the shores of conch and pearl. 
 Where she will east her anchor and reflect 
 Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, 
 And under planets brighter than our own : 
 The nights of palmy isles, that she will see 
 Lit boundless by the firefly, — all tlie smells 
 Of tropic fruits that will regale iier, — all 
 The ])omp of nature, and the inspiriting 
 Varieties of life she has to greet. 
 Come swarming o'er the meditative mind. 
 True, to the dream of fancy. Ocean has 
 His darker tints ; but where 's the element 
 That checkers not its usefulness to man 
 With casual terror ? Scathes not Earth sometimes 
 Her children with Tartarean flres, or sliakcs 
 Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang 
 Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat 
 As riddled ashes, — silent as tlie grave ? 
 Walks not Contagion on the air itself? 
 I should — old Ocean's Saturiialian days 
 And roaring nights of revelry and sport 
 With wreck and human woe — be loath to sing ; 
 Eor they are few, and all their ills weigh liglit 
 Against his sacred usefulness, that bids 
 
 Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. 
 Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive 
 Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool 
 Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes. 
 And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn 
 For showers to glad tlie earth. 
 
 Old Ocean was 
 Infinity of ages ere we breathed 
 Existence, — and he will be beautiful 
 When all the living world that sees him now 
 Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. 
 Quelling from age to age the vital throb 
 In human hearts. Death shall not subjugate 
 The pulse that swells in hi.^ stupendous breast. 
 Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound 
 In thundering concert with the choiring winds; 
 But long as man to parent Nature owns 
 Instinctive homage, and in times beyond 
 The power of thought to reach, bard after bard 
 Shall sing thy glory, beatific Sea. 
 
 1831. 
 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 'T WAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung. 
 And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains 
 
 flung. 
 That gave the glacier tops their richest glow. 
 And tinged the lakes like molten gold below ; 
 Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm. 
 Where, Plioenix-like, you saw the eagle's form 
 That high in heaven's vermilion wheeled and 
 
 soared. 
 Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and 
 
 roared 
 Prom heights browsed by the bounding bouquetiu ; 
 Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales be- 
 tween. 
 And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flour- 
 ished green : 
 'T was transport to inhale the bright sweet air ! 
 The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare. 
 And roving witli his minstrelsy across 
 The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss. 
 Earth's features so harmoniously were linked. 
 She seemed one great glad form, with life in- 
 stinct. 
 That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below 
 Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. 
 
 Theodoric. 
 
 MEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Men of England ! who inherit 
 
 Rights that cost your sires their blood ! 
 
 Men whose undegenerate spirit 
 
 Has been proved on field and flood : — 
 
 ■# 
 
ce— 
 
 734 . DAVY. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 By the foes you 've fought uncounted, 
 By the glorious deeds ye 've done, 
 
 Trophies captured, — breaches mounted. 
 Navies conquered, — kiugdoms won. 
 
 Yet, remember, England gathers 
 Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 
 
 If the freedom of your fathers 
 Glow not in your hearts the same. 
 
 What are monumeuts of bravery, 
 Wlicre no public virtues bloom ? 
 
 What avail, in lauds of slavery, 
 Trophied temples, arch, aud tomb ? 
 
 Pageants ! — Let the world revere us 
 For our people's rights and laws. 
 
 And tlie breasts of civic lieroes 
 Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 
 
 Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
 Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — 
 
 Martyrs in heroic story. 
 
 Worth a hundred Agiucourts ! 
 
 We 're the sons of sires that baffled 
 Crowned and mitred tyranny ; — 
 
 They defied the field and scaffold 
 For their birthrights, — so will we ! 
 
 THE PAEKOT. 
 
 A POMESTIC ANECDOTE. 
 
 The following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of 
 memory end association in the lower animals, is not a fiction, 
 I he.ivd it many years ago in the Island of Mull, from the 
 family to whom the hird belonged. 
 
 The deep affections of the breast, 
 
 Tliat Heaven to living things imparts. 
 
 Arc not exclusively possessed 
 By human hearts. 
 
 A parrot, from the Spanish Main, 
 
 Full young, and early caged, came o'er 
 
 With briglit wings, to the bleak domain 
 Of JluUa's shore. 
 
 To spicy groves where he had won 
 His plumage of resplendent hue, 
 
 His native fruits, and skies, and sun. 
 He bade adieu. 
 
 For tliese he changed the smoke of turf, 
 
 A heathery land and misty sky, 
 Aiul turned on rocks and raging surf 
 
 His golden eye. 
 
 But, petted, in our climate cold 
 
 He lived and chattered manv a day : 
 
 Until with age, from green and gold 
 His wings grew gray. 
 
 At last, when blind and seeming dumb. 
 He scolded, laughed, aud spoke no more, 
 
 A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
 To MuUa's shore ; 
 
 He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, , 
 The bird in Spanish speech repUed, 
 
 Flapped round his cage with joyous screech, 
 Dropt down, and died. • 
 
 SIR HUMPHRY DAVY.* 
 
 1778-1889. 
 
 THOUGHT, 
 
 Be this our trust, that ages (filled with light 
 More glorious far than those faint lieams which 
 
 shine 
 In this our feeble twilight) yet to come 
 Shall see distinctly what we now but hope, — 
 The world immutable in which alone 
 Wisdom is found, the light and life of tilings. 
 The breath divine, creating power divine, 
 The 0/ie of which the human intellect 
 Is but a type, as feeble as that image 
 Of the bright sun seen on the bursting wave, — 
 Bright, but without distinctness ; yet in passing 
 Showing its glorious and eternal source. 
 
 THE EAGLES, 
 
 The mighty birds stdl upward rose. 
 
 In slow but constant and most steady flight. 
 
 The young ones following ; and they would 
 
 pause. 
 As if to teach them how to bear the light. 
 Aid keep the solar glory full in sight. 
 So went they on till, from excess of pain, 
 I could no longer bear tlie scorching rays ; 
 And when I looked again, they were not seen. 
 Lost in the brightness of tlie solar blaze.- 
 Their memory left a type, and a desire : 
 So should I wish towards the light to rise, 
 
 * Coleridge is reported as saying that if Davy " had nut 
 been the first chemist, he prolmldy would have been the first 
 poet of his ago." Ixickhnrt said that, if Davy had atleniptrd 
 a great didactic poem, he would have united " the vigorous 
 ratiurinatiou of Drydcn and the moral majesty of Wordsworth." 
 Yet in none of liis versified thoughts and emotions are there 
 more than sliglit inilications of the poet's feeling, vision, faculty, 
 or Bul)tlc sense of melody in the manngement of verse. The 
 thoughts are generally grand, but they do not voluntarily 
 "move in harmonious numbers." lie had imagination in a 
 high degree; but it found its best expression in the inien- 
 tions of science rather than in the inventions of poetry. 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. 735 
 
 -^ 
 
 Instructing younger spirits to aspire 
 Where I could never reach amidst the skies. 
 And joy below to see them lifted higher, 
 Seeking the light of purest glory's prize. 
 So woidd I look on splendor's brightest day 
 With an undazzled eye, and steadily 
 Soar upwards full ni the immortal ray, 
 Through tlie blue dejiths of the unbounded sky. 
 Portraying wisdom's boundless purity. 
 Before me still a lingering ray appears. 
 But broken and prismatic, seen through tears, 
 The light of joy and immortality. 
 
 WRITTEN ATTEE EECOVERT FROM A DANQEE- 
 ODS ILLNESS. 
 
 Lo ! o'er the earth the kiudhng spirits pour 
 The flames of Ufe that bounteous nature gives ; 
 
 The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower. 
 
 The insensate dust awakes, and moves, and 
 lives. 
 
 All speaks of cliange : the renovated forms 
 Of long-forgotten tilings arise again ; 
 
 The light of suns, the breath of angry storms. 
 The everlasting motions of the main, — 
 
 Tliese are but engines of the Eternal will, 
 The One Intelligence, whose potent sway 
 
 Has ever acted, and is acting still, 
 
 Whilst stars and worlds and systems all obey ; 
 
 Without whose power, the whole of mortal 
 things 
 
 Were dull, inert, an unharnionious band. 
 Silent as arc the liarp's untuned strings 
 
 Without the touches of the poet's hand. 
 
 A sacred spark created by his breath, 
 
 Tiie immortal mind of man his image bears ; 
 
 A spirit living midst the forms of death, 
 
 Op]>ressed but not subdued by mortal cares ; 
 
 A germ, preparing in tlic winter's frost 
 
 To rise, and bud, and blossom in the spring ; 
 
 An unfledged eagle by the tempest tossed. 
 Unconscious of iiis future strength of wing; 
 
 The child of trial, to mortality 
 
 And all its changeful influences given ; 
 
 On tlie green earth decreed to move and die, 
 And yet by such a fate prepared for heaveu. 
 * * * 
 
 To live in forests mingled with the whole 
 Of natural forms, whose generations rise, 
 
 In lovely change, in happy order roll, 
 On land, in ocean, in the glittering skies ; 
 
 Their harmony to trace ; the Eternal cause 
 To know in love, in reverence to adore ; 
 
 ^9— 
 
 To bend beneath the inevitable laws. 
 
 Sinking in death, its human strength no more ! 
 
 Then, as awakening from a dream of pain. 
 With joy its mortal feelings to resign ; 
 
 Yet all its living essence to retain. 
 The undying energy of strength divine ! 
 
 To quit the burdens of its eartldy days, 
 To give to Nature all her borrowed powers, — 
 
 Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays. 
 Ethereal dew to glad the earth with showers. 
 
 oXKo 
 
 HORACE SMITH.* 
 
 1779-1849. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EX- 
 HIBITION. 
 
 And thou hast walked about (how strange a 
 story !) 
 
 In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 
 When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
 
 And time had not begun to overthrow 
 Those tem|i!es, palaces, and piles stupendous. 
 Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 
 
 Speak ! for thou long enough bast acted dummy ; 
 Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune ; 
 Thou 'rt standing on thy legs above ground, 
 mummy ! 
 Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. 
 Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 
 But with thy boues and flesh, and limbs and 
 features. 
 
 Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 
 To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 
 
 Was Cheops or Cephrenes arcliiteet 
 Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 
 
 Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? 
 
 Had Thebes a iiundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a raason, and forbidden 
 By oath to tell tlie secrets of thy trade, — 
 
 Then say, what secret melody was iiidden 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 
 
 Pcrha]is thou wert a priest, — if so, my struggles 
 
 Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 
 
 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 
 Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to 
 glass ; 
 
 Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, 
 Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass. 
 
 * The brother of James Smith, and his assistant in T/ie 
 Jtejccted Addresses. 
 
 ^ 
 
(r~ 
 
 7oG 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Oi- held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
 A torch at tlie great Temple's dedication. 
 
 I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
 Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, 
 
 For thou wcrt dead, and buried, and embalmed, 
 Ere ttomulus and Remus had been suckled : 
 
 Antiquity appears to have begun 
 
 Loug alter thy primeval race was run. 
 
 Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 
 Might tell us what those sightless orbs have 
 seen, 
 How the world looked when it was fresh and 
 young. 
 And the great deluge still had left it green ; 
 Or was it then so old, that history's pages 
 Contained uo record of its early ages ? 
 
 Still silent, incommunicative elf ! 
 
 Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
 But prithee tell us something of tliyself ; 
 
 Reveal the secrets of thy )n'ison-house ; 
 Shice in the world of spirits tliou hast slumbered, 
 "Wliat hast thou seen, — what strange adventures 
 numbered ? 
 
 Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
 We have, above ground, seen some strange 
 mutations ; 
 Tlie Roman empire has begun and ended, 
 Kew worlds have risen, — we have lost old 
 nations. 
 And countless kings have into dust been hum- 
 bled, 
 Wiiilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 
 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er tliy head. 
 When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 
 
 Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering 
 tread, 
 O'erthrevv Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 
 
 And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. 
 
 When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 
 
 If tlie tomb's scci'ets may not be confessed, 
 
 The nature of thy private life unfold : 
 A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern 
 breast. 
 And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled : 
 Have children climbed those knees, and kissed 
 
 that face ? 
 What was thy name and station, age and race ? 
 
 I 
 
 Statue of flesh, — immortal of the dead ! 
 
 Imperishable type of cvancsecnec ! 
 roslhuiiunis man, wlio (juittest thy narrow bod, 
 Aiul standest uudceayed within our ])reseuce, 
 
 Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morn- 
 
 i»S. 
 When the great trump shall thrill thee with its 
 warning. 
 
 Wliy should this worthless tegument endure, 
 If its undying guest be lost forever? 
 
 0, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
 In living virtue, that, when both must sever. 
 
 Although corruption may our frame consume, 
 
 The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 
 
 ETMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to 
 twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars spruikle 
 As a libation ! 
 
 Before the uprisen sun, — God's lidless eye, — - 
 Ye matin worshippers ! wlio bending lowly 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high ! 
 
 Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 
 The floor of Nature's temple tesscllate. 
 What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that 
 swingeth 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
 Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch and 
 column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. 
 But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 
 Which God hath ])launed ; 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
 supply, — 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder. 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 There, — as in solitude and shade I wander 
 Through tlie green aisles, or, stretched upon 
 the sod. 
 Awed by tlie silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God — 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, arc living preach- 
 ers. 
 Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 -9> 
 
f 
 
 A TALE OF DKUKY LANE. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 
 
 "Weep without woe, aud blush without a 
 crime," 
 0, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 Your lore sublime ! 
 
 " Thou wcrt nof, Solomon ! in all thy glory, 
 
 AiTayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours ; 
 How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory 
 Are human flowers !" 
 
 In the sweet-scented ])ictures, Heaveidy Artist ! 
 With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread 
 hall, 
 Wliat a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 or love to all. 
 
 Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for 
 pleasure 
 Blooming o'er held and wave, by day and night. 
 From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instnictors hoary 
 
 For such a world of thought could furnish 
 scope ? 
 Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
 Yet fount of hope. 
 
 Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 
 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth. 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection. 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I, God, in ehurchless lands remaming. 
 
 Far from all voice of teachers or divines. 
 My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining. 
 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
 
 A TALE OF DKURT LANE,* 
 * * * 
 
 As Chaos which, by heavenly doom, 
 Had slept in everlasting gloom. 
 Started with terror and surprise. 
 When light first flashed upon her eyes : 
 So London's sons in nightcap woke, 
 
 In bedgown woke iicr dames, 
 For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke. 
 And twice ten hundred voices spoke, 
 
 " The playhouse is in flames." 
 And lo ! where Catherine Street extends, 
 A fiery tale its lustre lends 
 
 To every window-pane : 
 Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, 
 And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, 
 Aud Covent Garden kennels sport, 
 
 A bright ensanguined drain; 
 Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, 
 
 * A caricature of Scott's style. 
 
 Rowland HiU's chapel, and the height 
 
 Where patent shot they sell : 
 The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, 
 Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, 
 The ticket porters' house of call. 
 Old Bedlam, close by London wall, 
 Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, 
 
 And Richardson's hotel. 
 
 Nor these alone, but far and wide, 
 Across the Thamcs's gleaming tide. 
 To distant fields the blaze was borne ; 
 And daisy white and hoary thorn. 
 In borrowed lustre seemed to sham 
 The rose or red sweet Wil-U-am. 
 
 To those who on the hiUs around 
 
 Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, 
 As from a lofty altar rise, 
 
 It seemed that nations did conspire, 
 
 To oifer to the god of fire 
 Some vast stupendous sacrifice ! 
 
 The summoned firemen woke at caU, 
 And hied them to their stations all. 
 Starting from short and broken snoose. 
 Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes ; 
 But first his worsted hosen phed. 
 Plush breeches next in crimson dyed, 
 
 His nether bulk embraced ; 
 Then jacket thick of red or blue, 
 Wiose massy shoulder gave to view 
 The badge of each respective crew, 
 
 In tin or copper traced. 
 The engines thundered through the street, 
 Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete. 
 And torches glared, and clattering feet 
 
 Along the pavement paced. 
 
 * * * 
 
 E'en Higginbottom now was posed. 
 For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed ; 
 Without, within, in hideous show. 
 Devouring flames resistless glow, 
 Aud blazing rafters downward go. 
 And never halloo, " Heads below ! " 
 
 Nor notice give at all : 
 The firemen, terrified, are slow 
 To bid the pumping torrent flow, 
 
 For fear the roof shoidd fall. 
 Back, Robins, back ! Crump, stand aloof! 
 
 Whitford, keep near the walls ! 
 Huggins, regard your own behoof, 
 For, lo ! the blazing rocking roof 
 
 Down, down in thunder falls ! 
 
 An awful pause succeeds the stroke, 
 And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, 
 Rollmg around its pitchy shroud. 
 Concealed them from the astonished crowd. 
 At length the mist awhile was cleared. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 738 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 When lo ! amid the wreck upreared, 
 Gradual a moving head appeared. 
 
 And Eagle firemen knew 
 'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered, 
 
 Tlie foreman of their crew. 
 Loud shouted all in signs of woe, 
 " A JIuggins to the rescue, ho ! " 
 
 And poured tlie iiissing tide : 
 j\Ieanwhilc the Muggins fought amain, 
 And sti'ove and struggled all in vain, 
 For x'allying but to fall again. 
 
 He tottered, sunk, and died ! 
 Did none attempt, before he fell. 
 To succor one they loved so well ? 
 Yes, Higgiubottom did aspire 
 (His fireman's soul was all on fire) 
 
 His brother chief to save ; 
 B>it ah ! liis reckless generous ire 
 
 Served but to share his grave ! 
 Mid blazing beams and scalding streams. 
 Through fire and smoke lie dauntless broke. 
 
 Where Muggins broke before. 
 But sulphury stench and boiling drench 
 Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed him quite ; 
 
 He sunk to rise no more. 
 Still o'er his head, while fate he braved, 
 His whizzing water-pipe he waved ; 
 " Whitford and Mitford ply your pumps ; 
 You, Clutferbuck, come, stir your stumps ; 
 Why are you in such doleful dumps ? 
 A fireman, and afraid of bumps ! 
 Wiatare they learedon? fools — 'od rot 'em! " 
 Were the last words of Higginbottoni. 
 
 Rejected Addresses. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 1779-1863. 
 
 I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GEACEFULLY 
 CURLED. 
 
 I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled 
 Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, 
 And I said, " If there 's peace to be found in the 
 world, 
 A heart that was humble might liope for it 
 liere ! " 
 
 It was noon, and on flowers tliat languished around 
 In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
 
 Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 
 But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech- 
 tree. 
 
 And, " Here in tliis lone little wood," I ex- 
 claimed, 
 'Willi a maid who was hivclv to soul and to eve, 
 
 Who would blush when I praised her, and weep 
 if I blamed. 
 How blest could I live, and how calm could 
 Idle! 
 
 " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red ben-y 
 dips 
 In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline. 
 And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, 
 Which had never been sighed on by any but 
 mine ! " 
 
 TO , 
 
 When I loved you, I can't but allow 
 I had many an exquisite minute ; 
 
 But the scorn that I feel for you now 
 Hath even more luxury in it. 
 
 Thus, whether we 're on or we 're off, 
 Some witchery seems to await you ; 
 
 To love you was pleasant enougli, 
 And 0, 't is delicious to hate you I 
 
 A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime 
 Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. 
 Soon as the woods on shore look dim. 
 We '11 sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
 Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast. 
 The Rapids are near and the daylight 's past. 
 
 Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
 There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; 
 But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
 O, sweetly we 'II rest our weary oar. 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. 
 The Rapids are near and the daylight 's past. 
 
 IJtawas' tide ! this trembling moon 
 Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
 Saint of this green isle ! hear our jirayers ; 
 0, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. 
 The Rapids are near and the daylight 's past. 
 
 THE INSUEEECTION OF THE PAPEES, 
 
 A nilEAM. 
 
 Last night I tossed and turned in bed, 
 But could not sleep, — at length 1 said, 
 " I "U think of Viscount Castlereagh, 
 And of his speeches, — that 's the way." 
 And so it was, for instantly 
 I slept as sound as sound could be. 
 And then I dreamed, — so dread a dream ! 
 Fuseli has no such tlieme ; 
 
 -Q> 
 
a- 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 739 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Lewis never wrote or borrowed 
 Any horror half so liorrid ! 
 
 Methouglit t.lie Prince, in wliiskered state, 
 Before me at lus breakfast sate; 
 Oil one side lay unread Petitions, 
 On t' other, Hints from five Physicians; 
 Here tradesmen's bills, — official papers. 
 Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors, — 
 There plans of saddles, tea and toast. 
 Death-warrants and the Morning Post. 
 "When lo ! the Papers, one and all. 
 As if at some magician's call. 
 Began to flutter of themselves 
 From desk and table, floor and shelves, 
 And, cutting eaeli some different capers. 
 Advanced, Jacobinic papers ! 
 As though they said, " Our sole design is 
 To suffocate his Royal Highness! " 
 The Leader of this vile sedition 
 Was a huge Catliolic Petition, 
 'VVifh grievances so full and heavy. 
 It threatened worst of all the bevy. 
 Then Common-Hall Addresses came 
 In swaggering sheets, and took their aim 
 Right at the Regent's well-dressed head, 
 As if determined to be read. 
 Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly. 
 And Tradesmen's Bills, we know, mount higli ; 
 Nay, even Death-warrants thought they 'd best 
 Be lively too, and join the rest. 
 
 But, the basest of defections ! 
 His letter about " predilections," — 
 His own dear letter, void of grace. 
 Now flew up in its parent's face ! 
 Shocked with his breach of filial duty, 
 He just could inui-mur " et Tu Brute ! " 
 Then sunk, subdued upon the floor 
 At Fox's bust, to rise no more ! 
 
 I waked, — and prayed, with lifted hand, 
 " O, never may this dream prove true ; 
 
 Though paper overwhelms the land. 
 Let it not crush tlie sovereign too ! " 
 
 LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.* 
 
 There was a little Man, and he had a little Soul, 
 And he said, " Little Soul, let us try, try, try, 
 Whether it 's within our reach 
 To make up a little speech, 
 Just between little you and little I, I, I, 
 Jnst between little yon and little I ! " 
 
 Then said his little Soul, 
 Peeping from her little hole, 
 " I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout, 
 
 ^- 
 
 Tlic Riglit Hon. Charles Ahliot. 
 
 But, if it 's not uncivil, 
 Pray, tell me what the devil 
 Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout. 
 Must our little, little speech be about ? " 
 
 The little Man looked big 
 With the assistance of his wig. 
 And he called his little Soul to order, order, order, 
 Till she feared he 'd make her jog in 
 To jail, like Thomas Croggan, 
 (As she was n't Duke or Earl) to reward her, 
 ward her, ward her, 
 As she was n't Duke or Earl, to reward her. 
 
 The little Man then spoke, 
 
 " Little Soul, it is no joke, 
 For as sure as J-cky F-U-r loves a sup, sup, sup. 
 
 I will tell the Prince and People 
 
 What I think of Church and Steeple, 
 And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, 
 And my little patent plan to prop them up." 
 
 Away then, elieek by jowl. 
 Little Man and little Soul 
 Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, 
 tittle, tittle. 
 And the world all declare 
 Tliat this priggish Uttle pair 
 Never yet in all their lives looked so little, little, 
 little. 
 Never yet in all their lives looked so little ! 
 
 1813. 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 GO WHERK GLORY WAITS THEE. 
 
 Go where glory waits thee. 
 But, while fame elates thee, 
 
 0, still remember me. 
 When tlie praise thou meetest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 
 0, then remember me. 
 Other arms may press thee. 
 Dearer friends caress thee. 
 All the joys that bless thee, 
 
 Sweeter far may be ; 
 But when friends are nearest. 
 And wlien joys are dearest, 
 
 0, then remember me. 
 
 When, at eve, thou rovest 
 By the star thou lovest, 
 
 O, then remember me. 
 Think, when home returning. 
 Bright we 've seen it burning, 
 
 0, thus remember me. 
 Oft as summer closes. 
 When thine eye reposes 
 
 V> 
 
a- 
 
 740 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 On its lingering roses. 
 
 Once so loved by thee. 
 Think of her who wove them, 
 Her who made thee love them, 
 0, then remember me. 
 
 When, around thee dying. 
 Autumn leaves are lying, 
 
 0, then remember me. 
 And at night, when gazing 
 On the gay hearth blazing, 
 
 O, still remember me. 
 Then should nnisic, stealing 
 All the soul of feeling, 
 To thy heart appealing, 
 
 Draw one tear from thee ; 
 Then let memory bring thee 
 Strains I used to sing thee, — 
 
 0, then remember me. 
 
 O, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 
 
 0, BREATHE not his name, let it sleep in the 
 
 shade, 
 Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid : 
 Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we slied, 
 As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his 
 
 head. 
 
 But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 
 
 weeps. 
 Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he 
 
 sleeps ; 
 And the tear that we shed, though in secret it 
 
 rolls, 
 Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 
 
 O, BLAME NOT THE BAKD 
 
 O, BL.\ME not the bard, if he fly to the bowers. 
 
 Where Pleasure lies carelessly s'miling at Fame ; 
 He was born for much more, and in happier 
 hours. 
 His soul might have burned with a holier flame. 
 Thf string, that now languishes loose o'er the 
 lyre. 
 Might have bent a ]n-oud bow to the warrior's 
 dart ; 
 And the lip, which now breathes but the song of 
 desire. 
 Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's 
 heart. 
 
 But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by. 
 And that spirit is broken, which never would 
 bend ; 
 O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 
 For 't is treason to love her, and death to de- 
 fend. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Unprized are her sons, till they 've learned to 
 betray ; 
 Undistinguished they live, if they shame not 
 their sires ; 
 And the torch, that woidd light them through 
 dignity's way. 
 Must be caught from the pile where their 
 country expires. 
 
 Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft 
 dream. 
 He should try to forget what he never can heal; 
 0, give but a hope, — let a vista but gleam 
 Through the gloom of his country, and mark 
 how he '11 feel ! 
 That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay 
 down 
 Every ])assion it nursed, every bliss it adored ; 
 Wliile the myrtle, now idly entwined with his 
 crown. 
 Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover 
 his sword. 
 
 But though glory be gone, and though hope fade 
 away. 
 Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs ; 
 Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay 
 Will he lose the remembrance of thee and ihy 
 wrongs. 
 The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 
 The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, 
 TUl thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy 
 chains. 
 Shall pause at the song of their captive, and 
 weep. 
 
 I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. 
 
 I SAW thy form in youthful prime, 
 
 Nor thought that pale decay 
 AVould steal before the steps of Time, 
 
 And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
 Yet still thy features wore that light, 
 
 \\'hich fleets not with the breath ; 
 And life ne'er looked more truly bright 
 
 Tiian in thy smile of death, Mary ! 
 
 As streams that run o'er golden mines. 
 
 Yet humbly, calmly glide. 
 Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 
 
 Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 
 So veiled beneatii the simplest guise, 
 
 Thy radiant genius shone, 
 And that, wiiich charmed all other eyes, 
 
 Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary ! 
 
 K souls could always dwell above, 
 Thou ne'er liadst left that sphere ; 
 
 Or could we keep the souls we love, 
 Wc ne'er had lost thee here. Jfary ! 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 
 
 741 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Though many a gifted mind we meet, 
 Thougli fairest forms wc see, 
 
 To live with them is far less sweet. 
 Than to remember thee, Mary ! 
 
 THE HAEP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S 
 HALLS. 
 
 The harp that once tlirough Tara's halls 
 
 The soul of music shed. 
 Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 
 
 As if that soul were fled. 
 So sleeps the pride of former days. 
 
 So glory's thrill is o'er, 
 And liearts, that once beat liigh for praise. 
 
 Now feel that pulse no more. 
 
 No more to chiefs and ladies bright 
 
 The harp of Tara swells ; 
 The chord alone, that breaks at night, 
 
 Its tale of ruin tells. 
 Tims Freedom now so seldom wakes, 
 
 The only tlirob slie gives. 
 Is when some heart indignant breaks. 
 
 To show tliat still she lives. 
 
 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero 
 sleeps. 
 
 And lovers are round her, sigliing : 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 
 
 For her lieart in liis grave is lying. 
 
 She sings tiie wild songs of her dear native plains, 
 Every note which lie loved awaking ; — 
 
 Ah, little they think who delight in lier strains. 
 How the heart of tlie minstrel is breaking. 
 
 He had lived for liis love, for liis country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwined him ; 
 
 Nor soon shall tlie tears of liis country be dried. 
 Nor long will liis love stay beliiud him. 
 
 0, make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
 When tliey promise a gloi'ious morrow ; 
 
 They '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the 
 West, 
 From her own loved island of sorrow. 
 
 ^- 
 
 •1 IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 'T IS the last rose of summer, 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone ; 
 No flower of her kindred. 
 
 No rosebud is nigh. 
 To reflect back her blushes. 
 
 Or give sigh for sigh ! 
 
 I '11 not leave thee, thou lone one ! 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping,. 
 
 Go, sleep thou with tliera. 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Tliy leaves o'er the bed, 
 Wliere thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may / follow, 
 
 Wlien friendships decay, 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 
 Tlie gems drop away. 
 Wiien true hearts lie witliered. 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 O, who would inhabit 
 
 Tliis bleak world alone ? 
 
 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, 
 Tiiough tlie herd have fled from thee, thy home 
 
 is still liere ; 
 Here still is tlie smile, tliat no cloud can o'ercast. 
 And a heart and a liand all thy own to the last ! 
 
 O, what was love made for, if 't is not the same 
 Tlirough joy and tlirough torment, through glory 
 
 and shame ? 
 I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, 
 I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art ! 
 
 Tlioii hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss, 
 And thy angel I '11 be, mid the horrors of this, — 
 Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to 
 
 pursue. 
 And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there 
 
 too! 
 
 DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 
 
 De.^r Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found 
 thee, 
 The cold chain of silence had hung o'ertheelong. 
 When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound 
 thee. 
 And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and 
 song ! 
 The warm lay of love and the light note of glad- 
 ness 
 Have wakened tliy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; 
 But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sad- 
 ness. 
 That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee 
 still. 
 
 Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy num- 
 bers, 
 This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall 
 twine; 
 
 -5^ 
 
a- 
 
 742 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Go, sleep, with the sunshiue of fame on thy slum- 
 be i-s, 
 TiU touched by some hand less unworthy than 
 mine. 
 If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover 
 Have throbbed at our lay, 't is thy glory 
 alone ; 
 I was but tlie wind, passing heedlessly over, 
 And all the wdd sweetness I waked was thy own. 
 
 O, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 
 
 O, THE sight entrancing, 
 
 When raorniug's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files arrayed 
 
 With helm and blade, 
 And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! 
 When hearts are all liigli beating. 
 And tlie trumpet's voice repeating 
 
 That song, whose breath 
 
 May lead to death, 
 But never to x-etreating. 
 O, the sight entrancing. 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er fdes arrayed 
 
 With helm and blade. 
 And plumes, in the gay wind dancing. 
 
 Yet 't is not helm or feather, — 
 For ask yon dcs])ot, whether 
 
 His plumed bands 
 
 Could bring such hands 
 Ajid hearts as ours together. 
 Leave pomps to those who need 'em, — , 
 Give man but heart and freedom, 
 
 And ))roud he braves 
 
 The gaudiest slaves 
 That crawl wliere monarchs lead 'em. 
 Tlie sword may pierce the beaver, 
 Stone walls in time may sever ; 
 
 'T is mind alone. 
 
 Worth steel and stone, 
 That keeps men free forever. 
 O, that sight entrancing, 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files arrayed 
 
 With helm and blade, 
 And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 
 
 SACEED SONQS. 
 THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES. 
 
 TuE bird, let loose in eastern skies, 
 
 When liastcning fondly home. 
 Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 
 
 Where idle warblers roam. 
 But liigh she shoots tlirough air and light, 
 
 Above all low delay. 
 
 Where nothing earthly bounds her flight. 
 Nor shadow dims her way. 
 
 So grant me, God ! from every care 
 
 And stain of passion free. 
 Aloft, through virtue's purer air, 
 
 To hold my course to thee ! 
 No sin to cloud, — no lure to stay 
 
 My soul, as home she springs ; — 
 Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 
 
 Thy freedom in her wuigs ! 
 
 THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 Tuis world is all a fleeting show. 
 
 For man's illusion given ; 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
 Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, — 
 
 There 's nothing true but heaven ! 
 
 And false the light on glory's plume. 
 
 As fading hues of even ; 
 And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom 
 Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — 
 
 There 's nothing bright but heaven ! 
 
 Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 
 
 From wave to wave we 're driven. 
 And fancy's flash, and reason's ray. 
 Serve but to light the troubled way, — 
 There 's nothing calm but heaven ! 
 
 THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
 My temple, Lord ! that arch of thine ; 
 My censer's breath the mountain airs. 
 And sUent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
 My choir shall be the moonlight waves, 
 When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
 Or when the stillness of the sea. 
 Even more than music, breathes of thee ! 
 
 I '11 seek, by day, some glade unknown. 
 All light and silence, like thy throne ; 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night, 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
 Thy heaven, on wliich 't is bliss to look. 
 Shall be my pure and shining book. 
 Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
 The glories of thy wondrous name. 
 
 I '11 read thy anger in tlie rack 
 
 That clouds awhile the daybeani's track ; 
 
 Thy mercy in tlic azure hue 
 
 Of sunny brightness, breaking through ! 
 
 There 's notliing bright, above, below. 
 From flowers that bloom to stars that arlow, 
 
 -^ 
 
#■ 
 
 FAEEWELL, FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER. 743 
 
 -fi) 
 
 But iu its liglit my soul cau see 
 Some feature of thy Deity ! 
 
 There 's nothing dark, below, above, 
 But iu its gloom I trace thy love. 
 And meekly wait that moment, when 
 Tliy touch shall turn all bright again ! 
 
 AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS. 
 
 As down in tlie sunless retreats of the ocean 
 
 Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, 
 
 So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, 
 
 Unlieard by the world, rises silent to thee. 
 
 My God ! silent, to thee, — 
 
 Pure, warm, silent, to thee : 
 
 As still to the star of its worship, though clouded. 
 
 The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea. 
 So, dark as I roam, in tliis wintry world shrouded. 
 The liope of my spirit turns trembling to thee. 
 My God ! trembhng, to thee, — 
 True, fond, trembling, to thee. 
 
 THEY MET BUT ONCE. 
 TiiEY met but once, in youth's sweet hour. 
 
 And never since that day 
 Hatii absence, time, or grief liad power 
 
 To chase that dream away. 
 They 've seen tlie suns of other skies. 
 
 On other shores have sought delight ; 
 But nevermore, to bless their eyes. 
 
 Can come a dream so bright ! 
 They met but once, — a day was all 
 
 Of love's young hopes they knew ; 
 And still their hearts that day recall. 
 
 As fresh as then it flew. 
 
 Sweet dream of youth ! 0, ne'er again 
 
 Let either meet the brow 
 They left so smooth and smiling tlien. 
 
 Or see what it is now. 
 For, youth, the spell was only thine; 
 
 From thee alone the enchantment flows. 
 That makes the world around thee shine 
 
 With light thyself bestows. 
 They met but once, — 0, ne'er again 
 
 Let either meet the brow 
 They left so smooth and smiling then. 
 
 Or see what it is now. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DATS. 
 Oft in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Fond memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears 
 Of bovliood's vears, 
 
 ^ 
 
 The words of love then spoken ; 
 The eyes that shone. 
 Now dimmed and gone. 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so linked together 
 I 've seen around me fall 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel hke one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled 
 Wiiose garlands dead, 
 And all but he departed ! 
 Thus iu the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 FAREWELL, FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! " 
 Tims warljled a Peri beneath the dark sea ; 
 
 " No pcai'l ever lay, under Oman's green water. 
 More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 
 
 " 0, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing. 
 
 How light was thy heart tiU love's witchery 
 
 came, 
 
 Like the wind of the south o'er a summer luto 
 
 blowing, 
 
 And hushed all its music and withered its frame ! 
 
 " But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands. 
 Shall maids and tlieir lovers remember tlie doom 
 
 Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
 With naught but the sea-star to Ugiit up her 
 tomb. 
 
 "And still, when the merry date-season is burning. 
 And calls to the palm-groves the young and the 
 old. 
 
 The happiest there, from their pastime returning 
 At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 
 
 "The young village maid, when with flowers she 
 dresses 
 
 Her dark flowing hair for some festival day. 
 Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses. 
 
 She mournfully turns from the mirror away. 
 
 "Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget thee, 
 
 Tiiougli tyrants watch over her tears as they 
 
 start, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 74-t 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 Close, close by the side of that hero slic '11 set. 
 thee, 
 Embalmed in the iimermost shrine of her heart. 
 
 " Farewell, — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
 IV'ith everything beauteous that grows iu the 
 deep; 
 
 Each llower of the rock aud each gem of the billow 
 Shall sweeten thy bed aud iUuiuiue thy sleep. 
 
 " Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
 That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 
 
 With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed 
 chamber 
 We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. 
 
 " Wc '11 dive where the gardens of coral he darkling. 
 And plant all the rosiest stems at tliy liead ; 
 
 We '11 seek wliere the sands of the Caspian are 
 sparkling, 
 Aud gatlier their gold to strew over thy bed. 
 
 "Farewell — farewell — until pity's sweet fountain 
 
 Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, 
 
 They '11 weep for the chieftain who died on that 
 
 mountain, 
 
 They 'U weep for the maiden who sleeps in this 
 
 wave." La//a Rooi/i. 
 
 IF THEKE BE AN ELYSIUM ON EARTH. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, — by night and by day, 
 We linger in pleasures that never are gone ; 
 
 Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, 
 Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 
 
 And the love that is o'er, in e.\piring, gives birth 
 To a new one as warm, as unequalled in bliss ; 
 
 And O, if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh 
 As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee ; 
 And precious their tears as tliat rain from the sky, 
 Wliich turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 
 O, think what the kiss and the smile must be 
 worth, 
 Wien the sigh and the tear are so perfect in 
 bliss. 
 And own if there be an Elysium on earth. 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallowed by love. 
 
 Could draw down those angels of old from tiicir 
 
 sphere, 
 
 Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, 
 
 Aud forgot lieaveu's stars for the eyes we have 
 
 here. 
 
 And, blessed with the odor our goblet gives forth, 
 
 What spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? 
 
 For 0, if there be an Elysium on earth. 
 It is this, it is this. 
 * * * 
 
 There 's a bhss beyond all that the minstrel has 
 told, 
 When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie. 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold, 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till they 
 die! 
 One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
 
 ^\liole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; 
 And 0, if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Laf/a Rookh. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF ME. PERCEVAL.* 
 
 Ix the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was 
 heard, 
 Unembittered and free did the tear-dro]) de- 
 scend ; 
 We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had 
 erred. 
 And wept for the husband, the father, and 
 friend. 
 
 O, proud was the meed his integrity won, 
 And generous indeed were the tears that wc 
 shed. 
 When, in grief, we forgot all the ill he had done. 
 And though wronged by him living, bewailed 
 him when dead. 
 
 Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude, 
 'T is to wish he had chosen sonic lowlier state. 
 
 Had known what he was, — and, content to be 
 good. 
 Had ne'er, for our ruin, asjiired to be ffrcat. 
 
 So, left through their own little orbit to move. 
 
 His years might have rolled inoffensive away ; 
 His ehildrcn might stUl have been blessed with 
 his love, 
 And England would ne'er have been cursed 
 with his sway. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 Yes, grief will have way, — but the fast-falling 
 
 tear 
 
 Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those 
 
 Who could bask in that spirit's meridian career, 
 
 And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its 
 
 close : — 
 
 Whose vanity flew round him, only wliilc fed 
 By the odor liis fame iu its summer-timr 
 gave ; — 
 
 * The Prime Minister of a Tory Cabinet, assassinated liy a 
 madman in 1812. 
 
 4> 
 
cfi- 
 
 A SPECULATION. — SATIRE ON CASTLEREAGH. 
 
 745 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 ^Vliose vanity now, ■nitli quick scent for the (lead, 
 Like tlie Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at 
 his grave. 
 
 0, it sickens ti\e heart to see bosoms so lioUow, 
 And spirits so mean in the great and higli-bom; 
 
 To tliink what a long line of titles may follow 
 The relics of him who died, — friendless and 
 lorn ! 
 
 How proud tliey can press to the funeral array 
 Of one wlium they shunned in his sickness and 
 sorrow ; — 
 How baihffs may seize his last blanket, to-day, 
 Wliose pall shall be held up by nobles to-mor- 
 row ! 
 
 And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream. 
 Incoherent and gross, even grosser had passed. 
 
 Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam. 
 Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothing- 
 ness cast : — 
 
 No, not for the wealth of the land that supplies 
 thee 
 With miUious to heap upon Foppery's shrine ; — 
 No, not for the riches of all who despise thee, 
 Tliough this would make Europe's whole opu- 
 lence mine ; — 
 
 Would I suffer wliat — even in the heart that 
 thou hast. 
 All mean as it is — must have consciously 
 burned. 
 When the pittance, which shame had \^Tung from 
 thee at last. 
 And which found all his wants at au end, was 
 returned ; * 
 
 " W^as this then the fate," future ages will say. 
 When some names shall live but in history's 
 curse ; 
 Wlien truth will be heard, and these lords of a 
 day 
 Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as 
 worse ; — 
 
 " Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, 
 The pride of the palace, tlie bower, and tlie hall. 
 
 The orator, dramatist, minstrel, — who ran 
 Through each mode of the lyre, and was master 
 of all; — 
 
 " Wliose mind was an essence, compounded with 
 art 
 Erom the finest and best of all other men's 
 powers ; — 
 
 * The sum was two hundred pounds, — offifred when Sher- 
 idan couhl no longer take any susteuaucc, and declined for 
 Iiim hy his friends. 
 
 Who nded, like a wizard, the world of the heart, 
 And could call up its sunshine, or bring down 
 its showers ; — 
 
 " Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light, 
 Played round every subject, and shone as it 
 played ; — 
 
 Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, 
 Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ; — 
 
 " Wliose eloquence — brightening whatever it 
 tried. 
 Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the 
 grave — 
 Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide. 
 As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave ! " 
 
 Yes, such was the man, and so wretched his 
 fate ; — 
 And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, 
 Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the 
 great. 
 And expect 't will return to refresh them at 
 eve. 
 
 In the woods of the North there are insects that 
 prey 
 On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh; 
 Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they. 
 First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to 
 die! 
 
 A SPECULATION. 
 
 Of all speculations the market holds forth. 
 The best that I know for a lover of pelf. 
 
 Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth. 
 And then sell him at that which he sets on 
 himself. 
 
 SATIRE ON CASTLEREAGH. 
 
 At length, my Lord, I have the bliss 
 To date to you a line from this 
 "Demoralized" metropohs ; 
 Where, by plebeians low and scurvy. 
 The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy. 
 And Kingship, tumbled from its scat, 
 " Stood prostrate " at the people's feet ; 
 Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes) 
 The lerel of obedience s/opes 
 Upward and downward, as the stream 
 Of hi/dra faction kicks the beam ! 
 Where the poor palace changes masters 
 
 Quicker than a snake its skin. 
 And Louis is rolled out on castors. 
 
 While Boney's borne on shoulders in : — 
 But where, in every change, no doubt, 
 
 One special good your Lordship traces, — 
 
 # 
 
f 
 
 ■46 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 That 't is the Kings aloue turn out, 
 
 The Ministers still keep their places. 
 ♦ * * 
 
 But hold, my pen ! — a truce to praising, — 
 
 Though even your Lordship will allow 
 The tlieme's temptations are amazing : 
 
 But time and ink run short, and now, 
 (As tlioit wouldst say, my guide and teacher 
 
 In these gay metaphoric fringes, 
 I must emhtirk into \\\tfintlurc 
 
 On which this letter chiefly hinges ; ) — 
 My book, the book that is to prove — ■ 
 And will (so help ye Sprites above. 
 That sit on clouds, as grave as judges. 
 Watching the labors of the Fudges !) 
 Will prove that all the world, at present, 
 Is in a state extremely pleasant, — 
 That Europe, — thanks to royal swords 
 
 And bayonets, and the Duke commanding, — 
 Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's, 
 
 I'asseth all iiuman understanding ; 
 That France prefers her go-cart King 
 
 To such a coward scamp as Boney ; 
 Though round, with each a leading-string. 
 
 There standeth many a Royal crony, 
 For fear the chubby, tottering thing 
 Should fall, if left there loney-jionet/ ; — 
 That England, too, the more her debts. 
 The more she spends, the richer gets; 
 And that the Irish, grateful nation ! 
 
 Remember when by thee reigned over, 
 And bless thee for their flagellation 
 
 As Ileloisa did her lover I 
 That Poland, left for Russia's lunch 
 
 U])ou the sideboard, snug reposes: 
 While Saxony's as pleased as Punch, 
 
 And Norway " on a bed of roses " ! 
 That, as for some few million souls. 
 
 Transferred by contract, bless the clods ! 
 If lialf were strangled, — Spaniards, Poles, 
 
 And Frenchmen, — 't would n't make much 
 odds. 
 So Europe's goodly Royal ones. 
 Sit easy on their sacred tiirones ; 
 So Ferdinand embroiders gayly, 
 Aud Louis eats his salmi, daily ; 
 So time is left to Emperor Sandy 
 To be /((///■ C«;sar and /;(///" dandy ; 
 And George the Regent (wlio 'd forget 
 That douglitiest eliieftaiu of the set ?) 
 Until wlierewithal for trinkets new, 
 
 l''or dragons, after Chinese models. 
 And cliambers where Dukes Ho aud Soo, 
 
 jMiglit come and nine times knock their nod- 
 dles ! — 
 All this my quarto '11 prove, — much more 
 Thau quarto ever proved before : 
 In reasoniuK with the Post I '11 vie. 
 
 My facts the Courier shall supply, 
 My jokes Vansittart, Pecle my sense. 
 And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence ! 
 
 Fud(je 'Family in Paris, 1818. 
 
 LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTEUNS 
 INTO NAPLES, 1821. 
 
 Ay, — down to the dust with them, slaves as they 
 are, 
 From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly 
 veins. 
 That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war 
 Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains. 
 
 On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales. 
 Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er, — 
 
 Fill, fdl up their wide sunny waters, ye sails 
 From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow 
 their shore ! 
 
 Let their fate be a mock-word, — let men of all 
 lands 
 Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the 
 poles, 
 "\nien each sword, that the cowards let faUfrom 
 their liands. 
 Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls. 
 
 And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven. 
 Base slaves ! let the whet of their agony be. 
 To think, — as the doomed often think of that 
 iieaven 
 They had once within reach, —that they might 
 have been free. 
 
 O shame ! when there was not a bosom whose 
 heat 
 Ever rose 'bove the zero of Castlcrcagh's heart, 
 That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, 
 Aud send all its prayers with your Liberty's 
 start ; 
 
 When tlic world stood in hope, — when a spirit, 
 that breathed 
 
 The fresh air of the olden time, whispered about ; 
 And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed, 
 
 But waited one conquering cry to Hash out ! 
 
 "Wlieu aroiind you the shades of your mighty in 
 fame, 
 Fihcajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to 
 view. 
 And their words, and tlicir warnings, Uke tongues 
 of bright ilame 
 Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you ! 
 
 shame ! that, in such a proud moment of life, 
 Worth the history of ages, wlien, had you but 
 
 hurled 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN' 
 
 747 
 
 -Q) 
 
 One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife 
 Between freemen and tyrants had spread 
 through the world, — 
 
 That then, — 0, disgrace upon manhood, — even 
 then, 
 You should falter, should chng to your pitiful 
 breath ; 
 Cower down into beasts, when you might have 
 stood men, 
 And prefer the slave's life of prostration to 
 death. 
 
 It is strange, it is dreadful : — shout, Tyranny, 
 shout 
 Througli your dungeons and palaces, " Pree- 
 dom is o'er " ; — 
 If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out. 
 And return to your empire of darkness once 
 more. 
 
 For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free. 
 Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss ; 
 
 Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee. 
 Than to sully eveu chains by a struggle like 
 this ! 
 
 LAMPOON ON LEISH HUNT'S REMINISCENCES 
 OF BYEON. 
 
 Next week will be published (as " Lives " are 
 tlie rage) 
 The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and 
 strange, 
 Of a small pupjiy-dog, that lived once in the cage 
 Of the late uoblo Uon at Exeter 'Change. 
 
 Tliough the dog is a dog of the kind they call 
 " sad," 
 'T is a puppy that much to good breeding 
 pretends ; 
 And few dogs have such opportunities had 
 Of k uowing how lions behave — among friends ; 
 
 How that animal eats, how he snores, how he 
 drinks. 
 Is all noted down by this Boswell so small ; 
 And 't is plain, from each sentence, the puppy- 
 dog thinks 
 That the lion was no such great things after all. 
 
 Though he roared pretty well, — this the puppy 
 allows, — 
 It was all, he says, borrowed, — all second- 
 hand roar; 
 And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows 
 To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour. 
 
 'T is, indeed, as good fun as a Cynic could ask. 
 To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits 
 
 <^ 
 
 Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task. 
 And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits. 
 
 * * * 
 
 However, the book 's a good book, being rich in 
 
 Examples and warnings to lions high-bred. 
 How they suffer small moiigrelly curs in their 
 kitchen 
 Who 'U feed on them Uving, and foul them 
 when dead. 
 
 1828. 
 
 A CURSE ON THE TRAITOR. 
 
 roB a tongue to curse the slave. 
 
 Whoso treason, like a deadly blight, 
 Comes o'er the councils of the brave. 
 
 And blasts them in their liour of miglit ! 
 May life's unblessed cup for him 
 Be drugged with treacheries to the brim, — 
 With hopes, that but allure to fly. 
 
 With joys, that vanish while he sips, 
 Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye. 
 
 But turn to ashes on the Hps. 
 His country's curse, his children's shame. 
 Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame. 
 May he, at last, with lips of flame 
 On tlie parelied desert thirsting die, — 
 While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh. 
 Are fading off', untouched, untasted. 
 Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
 And, when from earth his spirit flies. 
 
 Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell 
 Full iu the sight of Paradise, 
 
 Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! 
 
 Lalla Rooth. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW.* 
 
 1780-1845. 
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 
 
 'T WAS when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was 
 fa'in. 
 
 And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, 
 Tliat Ijucv rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't, 
 
 And left her auld maister and neibors sae dear: 
 For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer ; 
 
 She cam there afore the bloom cam on (lie pea ; 
 An orphan was she, and they had been giule tiU 
 her, 
 
 Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. 
 
 She gaed by the stable wliere Jamie was stanniu' ; 
 Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see ; 
 
 * The steward and friend of Sir Walter Scott. Wlien Scott, 
 on returning to Abbotsford, in his last illness, could hardly 
 recognize anybody, it is reported that his eyes brightened 
 wlien he saw Laidlaw by his bedside, and he said: "Is 
 that you, Willie ? 1 ken I 'm hame noo." 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 ■Q) 
 
 748 
 
 CROLY. 
 
 " Fare ye weel, Lucy ! " quo' Jamie, and ran in ; 
 
 The gatheriii' tears trickled fast frae her e'e. 
 Asdown the burusidcsliegacd slow \vi' her flittin', 
 
 " Fare yc weel, Lucy ! " was ilka bird's sang ; 
 She heard'thecraw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', 
 
 Androbinwaschirpin'ttlicbrownleavesamang. 
 
 "0, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? 
 
 Andwhat gars the tears come sac last to my e'c? 
 If I wasna ettled to be ouy better. 
 
 Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
 1 'm just like a lanimic that loses its niithcr; 
 
 Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; 
 I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'the gither, 
 
 Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e. 
 
 " Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon, 
 
 Tlie bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me ; 
 Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbiu', 
 
 1 '11 never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. 
 Though now he said naething but ' Fare ye weel, 
 Lucy ! ' 
 
 It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor sec : 
 He couldua say mair but just, ' Fare ye weel, 
 Lucy ! ' 
 
 Yet that I will niiud till the day that I dee. 
 
 "The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its 
 droukit; 
 The hare likes the brake and the braird on the 
 lea; 
 But Lucy likes Jamie " ; — she turned and she 
 lookit, 
 She tliocht the dear place she wad never mair see. 
 Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and 
 cheerless ! 
 And weel may he greet on the bank o' the biirn ! 
 For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, 
 Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return ! 
 
 GEORGE CROLY.* 
 
 1780-1860. 
 
 THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. 
 
 ]t was the wild midnight, — 
 A storm was on the sky; 
 
 The Ughtuing gave its light, 
 Ami tlic thunder echoed by. 
 
 The torrent swept the glen, 
 The ocean lashed the shore ; 
 
 • Byion iiTCvcrcntly says of Dr. Croly : — 
 
 " Ami Pcpisus linlh n psnlmodic nmlile 
 
 Ik'ntnlli the virv Hcvcrcnd Rowley Pnwley, 
 Who uluies llic (:liiiioii3 niiimnl with stilts. 
 A modern Ancient Pistol, — liy the hilts! 
 The defect of Croly is, thnt hr ronimnnly strives tn nwke re- 
 sounding words do more than then- just share of the work of 
 vital lliouglit and sentiment. 
 
 Then rose the Spartan men, 
 To make their bed in gore ! 
 
 Swift from the deluged ground 
 Three hundred took the shield ; 
 
 Tlicn, in silence, gathered round 
 The leader of the field. 
 
 He spoke no ■warrior-word. 
 He bade no trumpet blow ; 
 
 But the signal-thunder rotired, 
 And they rushed upon the foe. 
 
 The fiery element 
 
 Showed, witli one mighty gleam, 
 Rampart, and flag, and tent. 
 
 Like the spectres of a dream. 
 
 All up the mountain's side, 
 
 All down the woody vale. 
 All by the rolling tide 
 
 Waved the Persian banners pale. 
 
 And foremost from the pass. 
 Among the slumbering band, 
 
 Sprang King Leonidas, 
 
 Like the lightning's living brand. 
 
 Then double darkness fell, 
 
 And the forest ceased its moan : 
 
 But tliere came a clash of steel, 
 And a distant, dying groan. 
 
 Anon, a trumpet blew, 
 
 And a fiery sheet burst high. 
 
 That o'er the midnight threw 
 A blood-red canopy. 
 
 A host glared on the hill ; 
 
 A host glared by the bay ; 
 But the Greeks nislicd onwards still, 
 
 Like leopards in their play. 
 
 The air was all a yell. 
 
 And the earth was all a flame, 
 Wlierc the Spartan's bloody steel 
 
 On the silken turbans came. 
 
 And still the Greek rushed on 
 Where the fiery torrent rolled, 
 
 Till, like a rising sun, 
 
 Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. 
 
 They found a royal feast. 
 
 His midnight banquet, there; 
 
 And the treasures of the East 
 Lay beneath tlie Doric spear. 
 
 Then sat to the repast 
 The bravest of the brave ! 
 
 That feast must be their last. 
 That siwt must be their grave. 
 
 fr 
 
 J 
 
e 
 
 SATAN. 
 
 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 749 
 
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 Tlioy pledged old Sparta's uanic 
 
 In cups of Syrian wine, 
 And the warrior's deathless fame 
 
 Was sung in strains divine. 
 
 They took the rose-wreathed lyres 
 From eunuch and from slave, 
 
 And taught the languid wires 
 The sounds that Freedom gave. 
 
 But now the moniiug star 
 
 Crowned CEta's twilight brow ; 
 
 And the Persian horn of war 
 From the hUls began to blow. 
 
 Up rose the glorious rank. 
 
 To Greece one cup poured high, - 
 Then, hand in hand, they drank 
 
 " To Immortahty ! " 
 
 Fear on King Xerxes fell, 
 
 When, like spirits from tlie tomb. 
 With shout and trumpet-kneU, 
 
 He saw the warriors come. 
 
 But down swept all his power, 
 With chariot and with charge ; 
 
 Down poured the arrowy shower, 
 TiU sank the Dorians' targe. 
 
 They gathered round tlie tent. 
 With all their strength unstrung; 
 
 To Greece one look they sent. 
 Then on high their torches flung. 
 
 Their king sat on the throne. 
 
 His captains by his side, 
 Wliile the flame rushed roaring on, 
 
 And their Paean loud replied ! 
 
 Thus fougiit the Greek of old ! 
 
 Thus will he fight again ! 
 Shall not the selfsame mould 
 
 Bring I'orth the selfsame men ? 
 
 SATAN, 
 
 FROM A PICTUKE BY SIR T. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Prince of the fallen ! around thee sweep 
 The billows of tlie burning deep, 
 Above thee bends the vaulted fire. 
 Beneath thee bursts the flaming spire ; 
 And on thy sleepless vision rise 
 Hell's living clouds of agonies. 
 
 But thou dost like a mountain stand, 
 Tlic spear uplifted in thy hand ; 
 Thy gorgeous eye, — a comet shorn. 
 Calm into utter darkness borne ; 
 
 A naked giant, stern, sublime. 
 Aimed in despair, and scorning Time. 
 
 On thy curled lip is throned disdain. 
 That may revenge, but not complain : 
 Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale, 
 There smote the blast of fiery hail. 
 Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there. 
 The wreck of an archangel's sphere. 
 
 No giant pinions round thee cling ; 
 Clouds and the thunder are thy wing ; 
 Thy forehead wears no diadem. 
 The king is in thine eyeballs' beam; 
 Thy form is grandeur unsubdued. 
 Sole chief of hell's dark multitude. 
 
 Yet brighter than thy brightest hour 
 
 Shall rise in glory and in power 
 
 The lowliest of the lowly dead. 
 
 His ransomed, who shall bruise thy head. 
 
 The myriads for His blood forgiven ; 
 
 Kings of the stars, the loved of Heaven ! 
 
 PERICLES AUD ASPASIA. 
 
 This was the ruler of the land. 
 When Athens was the land of fame ; 
 
 This was the light that led the band. 
 When each was like a living flame ; 
 
 The centre of earth's noblest ring. 
 
 Of more than men, the more than king. 
 
 Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
 His sovereignty was held or won : 
 
 Feared, — but alone as freemen fear ; 
 Loved, — but as freemen love alone ; 
 
 He waved the sceptre o'er his kind 
 
 By nature's first great title, — mind ! 
 
 Resistless words were on his tongue. 
 Then eloquence first flashed below; 
 
 Full armed to hfe the portent sprung, 
 Minerva from the Thunderer's brow ! 
 
 And his the sole, the sacred hand. 
 
 That shook her jEgis o'er the land. 
 
 And throned immortal by his side, 
 A woman sits with eye sublime, 
 
 Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 
 
 But, if their solemn love were crime. 
 
 Pity the beauty and the sage. 
 
 Their crime was in their darkened age. 
 
 He perished, but his wreath was won; 
 
 He perished in his height of fame : 
 Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun. 
 
 Yet still she conquered in his name.' 
 Filled with his soul, she could not die ; 
 Her conquest was posterity ! 
 
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 750 
 
 CROLY. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 THE MH^STEEL'S HOUR. 
 
 fr 
 
 When day is done, aud clouds are low, 
 
 And flowers are honey-dew, 
 And Hesper's lamp begins to glow 
 
 Along the western blue ; 
 And homeward wing the turtle-doves. 
 Then comes the hour the poet loves. 
 
 For in the dimness curtained round, 
 
 He hears the echoes all 
 Of cosey vale, or grassy moirnd, 
 
 Or distant waterfall ; 
 And shapes are on his dreaming sight. 
 That keep their beauty for the night. 
 
 Aud still, as shakes the sudden breeze 
 The forest's deepening shade. 
 
 He hears on Tuscan evening seas 
 The silver serenade : 
 
 Or, to the field of battle borne, 
 
 Swells at the sound of trump and horn. 
 
 The star that peeps the leaves between, 
 
 To him is but the light 
 That, from some lady's bower of green. 
 
 Shines to her pilgrim kuight : 
 Who feels her spell around him twine. 
 And hastens home from Palestine. 
 
 Or, if some wandering peasant's song 
 Come sweetened on tlie gale. 
 
 He sees the cloister's saintly throng, — 
 The erozier, cross, and veil; 
 
 Or hears the vespers of the nun. 
 
 World-weary, lovely, aud undone. 
 
 And thus he thinks the hours away 
 
 Li sweet unworldly folly, 
 And loves to see the sluides of gray, 
 
 That feed his melancholy: 
 rinding sweet speech and thought in all. 
 Star, leaf, wind, song, and waterfall ! 
 
 HTMN TROM " CATILINE," 
 
 Tiiou, whose throne is on the cloud. 
 Mighty mother of the sky ! 
 
 Clothe thee in thy darkest shroud. 
 Come, with terror in thine eye ! 
 
 Stoop, a nation's cry to hear, 
 
 Goddess of the mountaineer ! 
 
 On the liills our life is poured. 
 We have perished in the vale ; 
 
 With our blood the stream is gored. 
 With our groans is swelled the gale. 
 
 Tyranny has bound the chain 
 
 On our bosom and our brain. 
 
 What has crushed our ancient glory? 
 
 Rome, by thee the deed was done ! 
 What has bid our chieftains hoary 
 
 To a nameless grave begone ? 
 What has from its kingly stand 
 Smote the spirit of the land ? 
 
 Where was once a prouder spear ? 
 
 Where was once a bolder brow? 
 When Helvetia's mountaineer 
 
 Thundered on the realms below ! 
 Never keener shaft from string 
 Tore the Roman eagle's wing. 
 
 Goddess ! give, — we ask no more, 
 'T is the boon thou giv'st the brave, — 
 
 Freedom ! in the Roman's gore. 
 Or in old Helvetia's grave ! 
 
 Destiny and chance are thine ; 
 
 Answer, goddess, thrice divine ! 
 
 Catiline, Act II. Scene 2. 
 
 CATILINE'S DEFUNCE TO THE ROMAN SENATE, 
 
 Conscript Fathers ! 
 I do not rise to waste the night in words : 
 Let that plebeian * talk ; 't is not mi/ trade ; 
 But /lere I stand for right. Lethim i\\QV! proofs, — 
 For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare 
 
 stand 
 To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there. 
 Cling to your master ; judges, Romans, — slaves ! 
 His charge is false ; — I dare him to his proofs, 
 You have my answer now ! I must be gone. 
 
 ♦ * * 
 But this I will avow, that I have scorned. 
 And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong : 
 WTio brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword. 
 Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back. 
 
 Can wrong me half so much as he who shuts 
 The gates of honor on me, — turning out 
 The Roman from his birthright ; and for what ? — 
 To fling your offices to every slave ; — 
 Vipers, that crec]) where man disdains to climb; 
 And having wound their loathsome track to the top 
 Of this huge mouldering monument of Rome, 
 Hang hissing at the nobler man below. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Banished from Rome ! What 's banished, but 
 
 set free 
 From daily contact of the things I loathe? 
 " Tried and convicted traitor ! " Who says this ? 
 
 ( Willi growing violence.) 
 Who 'U prove it, at his peril, on my head ? 
 Banisiied ? — I thank you for 't. It breaks my 
 
 chain ! 
 I held some slack allegiance till tliis hour, — 
 
 Cicero. 
 
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 WRITTEN ON THE LAST DAY OE SUMMER. 
 
 751 
 
 ■^ 
 
 But now my sword 's my own. Smile on, my lords; 
 
 I scorn to connt what feelings, withered hopes, 
 
 Strong provocations, Ijitter, burning wrongs, 
 
 I have within my heart's liot cells shut up, 
 
 To leave you in your lazy dignities. 
 
 But here I stand and scoff you : — here I fling 
 
 Hatred and full defiance in your face. 
 
 Your Consul 's merciful. For this all thanks. 
 
 He dares not touch a hair of Catiline. 
 
 * * * 
 
 "Traitor!" I go — \m.i\ reluni. This — trial! 
 Hero I devote your senate ! I 've had wrongs. 
 To stir a fever ia the blood of age, 
 Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel. 
 This day 's the birth of sorrows ! This hour's 
 
 work 
 "Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, 
 
 my lords ! 
 For there hencefortli shall sit, for household gods, 
 Shapes hot from Tartarus ! — all shames and 
 
 crimes ; — 
 Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
 Suspicion, poisoning the brother's cup ; 
 Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe. 
 Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
 Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night, 
 And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 I go, — but not to leap the gulf alone : 
 
 I go ; but when I come, — 't will be the burst 
 
 Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back 
 
 In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well ! 
 
 You build my funeral pile, but your best blood 
 
 SluiU quench its flame. 
 
 Catiline, Act III. Scene 2. 
 
 CATILINE'S CALL TO ARMS. 
 
 Sound all to arms ! {Ajlourish of trumpets.) 
 Call in the captains, — {To an officer.) 
 
 I would speak with them ! 
 (The officer goes.) 
 Now, Hope ! away, — and welcome gallant 
 
 Death! 
 Welcome the clanging shield, the trumpet's yell, — 
 Welcome the fever of the m6unting blood. 
 That makes wounds light, and battle's crimson toil 
 Seem but a sport, — and welcome the cold bed, 
 Where soldiers with their upturned faces lie, — 
 And welcome wolf's and \'ulture's hungry throats. 
 That make their sepulchres ! We flglit to-night. 
 
 (The soldiery enter.) 
 Centurions ! all is ruined ! I disdain 
 To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown ! 
 And now, let each that wishes for long life 
 Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome. 
 Ye all arc free to go. What ! no man stirs ! 
 Not one ! a soldier's spirit in you all ? 
 
 ^g^- 
 
 Give me your hands ! (This moisture in my eyes 
 Is womanish, — 't will pass.) My noble hearts ! 
 Well have you chosen to die ! For, in my mind. 
 The grave is better than o'erburdened life ; 
 Better the quick release of glorious wounds. 
 Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues ; 
 Better the spear-hcad quivering in the heart, 
 Than daily struggle against fortune's curse ; 
 Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood. 
 To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge 
 In poverty, dull pain, and base decay. 
 Once more, I say, — are ye resolved ? 
 
 (The 'soldiers shout, — " All I All ! ") 
 Then, each man to his tent, and take the arms 
 That he would love to die in, — for, this hour. 
 We storm the Consul's camp. A last farewell ! 
 
 {He takes their hands.) 
 When ucxt we meet, — we 'U have no time to look. 
 How parting clouds a soldier's countenance. 
 Few as we arc, we 'U rouse them with a peal 
 That shall shake Rome ! 
 
 Now to your cohorts' heads ; — the word 's — 
 Revenge I Catiline, Act V. Scene 2. 
 
 EDWARD HOVEL THURLOW, 
 lOED THUELOW.' 
 
 1781-1889. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 ON BEHOLDING BODIAM CASTLE, 
 
 ON THE BANK OF THE ROTHEK, IN SUSSEX. 
 
 O Tnou brave nun of the passed time, 
 When glorious spirits shone in burning arms. 
 And the brave trumpet, vrith its sweet alarms. 
 Called ho)ior ! at the matin hour sublime. 
 And the gray evening ; thou hast had thy prime. 
 And thy full vigor ; and the eating harms 
 Of age have robbed thee of thy warlike charms. 
 And placed thee here, an image, in my rhyme ; 
 The owl now haunts thee, and oblivion's plant. 
 The creeping ivy, has o'erveiled thy towers ; 
 And Rother, looking up with eye askant. 
 Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours, 
 Laments the time, when, fair and elegant, 
 Beauty first laughed from out thy joyous bowers ! 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 Now Summer has one foot from out the world. 
 
 Her golden mantle floating in the air ; 
 
 And her love-darting eyes are backward hurled, 
 
 * This poet is, of course, not the famous Lord Chancellor of 
 the same name. Ilis poems were mercilessly ridiculed, espe- 
 cially hy Byron ; but there are excellent things to be found 
 among liis insipidities and inanities. 
 
 lunu ^ > 
 
a- 
 
 7oa 
 
 ELLIOTT. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 To bid adieu to tliis creation fair : 
 
 A llisht of swallows circles her before, 
 
 And Zepliyrus, her jolly harliingcr, 
 
 Already is a-wing to heaven's door. 
 
 Whereat the Muses are expeetiug her ; 
 
 And the three Graces, in their heavenly ring. 
 
 Are dancing with delicious harmony ; 
 
 And Hebe doth her flowery elialice bring. 
 
 To sprinkle nectar on their melody : 
 
 Jove laughs, to see ids augcl. Summer, come, 
 
 Warbling his praise, to her immortal home. 
 
 TO A BIRD, THAT HAtTNTED THE WATERS OF 
 LACKEN, IN THE WINTER. 
 
 O MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day. 
 Thou standest by the margin of the pool ; 
 And, tauglit by God, dost tiiy whole being school 
 To patience, which all evil can allay : 
 God has apijointed thee tlie fish thy prey ; 
 And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
 Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 
 And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 
 Tliere need not schools, nor the professor's chair, 
 Though these be good, true wisdom to impart ; 
 He, who has not enough for these to spare, 
 Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart. 
 And teach his sold, by brooks and rivers fair : 
 Nature is always wise in every part. 
 
 IN AUTUMN. 
 
 The mournful earth is fellow to my woe, 
 The hills and valleys to my anthems sing. 
 That now no more the golden sunbeams flow. 
 But waning Autumn of tlic world is king. 
 The woods and gardens to my songs reply, 
 They feel the loss, wliich tlicy in change sus- 
 
 taui; 
 The fountains on me look witli careful eye. 
 And fondly of the creeping cold complain ; 
 Tiie winged horses now have lost their powers, 
 Tiie musing herds within the meadows stand, 
 The birds are hushed amid their naked bowers. 
 And insects in the cells themselves have planned ; 
 All sight and sound is of a mournful east, 
 And tell to man tlie golden prime is past. 
 
 TO MAT, 
 
 May, queen of blossoms, 
 And fulfilling flowers. 
 
 With what pretty music 
 Shall we charm tlie hours? 
 
 Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 
 
 Blown in the open mead ? 
 
 Or to tlie lute give heed 
 In the green bowers ? 
 
 L 
 
 Thou hast no need of us, 
 
 Or pipe or wire, 
 That hast the golden bee 
 
 Ripened witli fire ; 
 And many thousand more 
 Songsters, that thee adore, 
 rilling earth's grassy floor 
 
 With new desire. 
 
 Thou hast thy mighty herds, 
 
 Tame, and free livers ; 
 Doubt not, thy music too 
 
 In the deep rivers ; 
 And the whole plumy flight. 
 Warbling the day and night : 
 Up at the gates of light. 
 See, the lark quivers ! 
 
 When with the jacinth 
 Coy fountains are tressed ; 
 
 And for the mournful bird 
 Gret:n woods are dressed. 
 
 That did for Tereus pine ; 
 
 Then shall our songs be thine. 
 
 To whom our hearts inchne : 
 May, be thou blessed ! 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 1781-1849. 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 A VOICE of grief and anger. 
 
 Of pity mixed with scorn, 
 Moans o'er tlie waters of the west, 
 
 Through fire and darkness borne; 
 And fiercer voices join it, 
 
 A wild triumphant yell ! 
 For England's foes, on ocean slain, 
 
 Have heard it where they fell. 
 
 What is that voice which cometh 
 
 Athwart the speetred sea ? 
 The voice of men who left tlieir homes 
 
 To make their children free ; 
 Of men whose hearts were torches 
 
 Tor freedom's quenchless fire ; 
 Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth 
 
 The sire of Tranklin's sire. 
 
 They speak ! — the Pilgrim Fathers 
 
 Speak to ye from tlieir graves ! 
 For earth hath muttered to their bones 
 
 That we are soulless slaves ! 
 The Bradfords, Carvers, Winslows, 
 
 Have heard tlie worm complain, 
 Tlial less than men oppress the men 
 
 AA'liose sires were I'vm and A'aue ! 
 
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THE DYING HOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 
 
 753 
 
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 What saith the voice which boometli 
 
 Athwai-t the upbraiding waves ? 
 " Thougli slaves are ye, our sons are free, 
 
 Then why will you be slaves ? 
 The children of your fathers 
 
 Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane ! " 
 Laud of the sires of Washington, 
 
 Bring forth such men again ! 
 
 CORN-LAW HYMN. 
 
 Lord ! call thy pallid angel, 
 
 The tamer of the strong ! 
 And bid him whip witli want and woe 
 
 Tlie champions of tlie wrong ! 
 O, say not tliou to ruin's flood, 
 
 " Up, sluggard ! why so slow ? " 
 But alone, let them groan, 
 
 The lowest of the low ; 
 And basely beg the bread they curse, 
 
 A\'here millions curse tiiem now ! 
 
 No ; wake not thou the giant 
 
 Who drinks hot blood for wine ; 
 And shouts unto the east and west, 
 
 Li tliunder-tones like thine ; 
 Till the slow to move rush all at once. 
 
 An avalanche of men. 
 
 While he raves over waves 
 
 That need no wiiirlwind then ; 
 Though slow to move, moved all at once, 
 
 A sea, a sea of men ! 
 
 THE PRESS. 
 
 God said, " Let there be light ! " 
 Grim darkness felt his might, 
 And fled away ; 
 Then startled seas and mountains cold 
 Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold. 
 
 And cried, " 'T is day ! 't is day ! '' 
 "Hail, holy light!" exclaimed 
 The thunderous cloud, that flamed 
 O'er daisies white ; 
 And lo I the rose, in crimson dressed. 
 Leaned sweetly on the lily's breast ; 
 
 And, blushing, murmured, " Light ! " 
 Then was the skylark born ; 
 Then rose tlie embattled com; 
 Then floods of praise 
 Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon ; 
 And then, in stillest night, the moon 
 
 Ppured forth her pensive lays. 
 Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad ! 
 Lo, trees and flowers all clad 
 Li glory, bloom ! 
 And shall the mortal sons of God 
 
 Be senseless as the trodden clod, 
 
 And darker than the tomb ? 
 No, by the txind of man ! 
 By the swart artisan ! 
 By God, our sire ! 
 Our souls have holy light within. 
 And every form of grief and sin 
 
 Shall see and feel its fire. 
 By earth and hell and heaven. 
 The shroud of souls is riven ! 
 Mind, mind alone 
 Is liglit and liojie and life and power ! 
 Earth's deepest night, from this blessed hour 
 The night of minds is gone ! 
 " The Press ! " all lands shall sing; 
 The Press, the Press we bring. 
 All lands to bless : 
 pallid Want ! O Labor stark ! 
 Behold, we bring the second ark ! 
 
 The Press ! the Press ! the Press ! 
 
 THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 
 
 Before thy leaves thou comest once more, 
 
 White blossom of the sloe ! 
 Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
 But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, 
 
 Will tiien lie low. 
 
 A mouth, at least, before thy time 
 Thou com'st, pale flower, to me ; 
 For well thou know'st the frosty rime 
 Will blast mc ere my vernal prime. 
 No more to be. 
 
 "Why here in winter ? No storm lowers 
 
 O'er Nature's silent shroud ! 
 But blithe larks meet the sunny showers. 
 High o'er the doomed untimely flowers 
 
 In beauty bowed. 
 
 Sweet violets, in the budding grove, 
 Peep where the glad waves run ; 
 The wren below, the thrush above. 
 Of bright to-morrow's joy and love 
 Sing to the sun. 
 
 And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
 Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
 The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold. 
 Smiles on tlie well in summer cold. 
 And daisied sod. 
 
 But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
 
 And flowers in winter blow. 
 To tell me that the worm makes room 
 For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
 
 And thinks me slow. 
 
 ■# 
 
€t 
 
 754 
 
 FERRIER. 
 
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 ^ 
 
 Tor as the rainbow of the dawn 
 
 roretells an eve of tears, 
 A sunbeam on the saddened lawn 
 I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
 
 In early years. 
 
 Thy leaves will come ! but songful spring 
 
 Will see no leaf of mine ; 
 Her bells will ring, her bridesmaids sing. 
 When my young leaves are withering 
 
 Where no suns shine. 
 
 0, might I breathe morn's dewy breath. 
 When June's sweet Sabbaths chime ! 
 
 But, thine before my time, O death ! 
 
 I go where no flower blossometh, 
 Before my time. 
 
 Even as the blushes of the morn 
 
 Vanish, and long ere noon 
 The dew-drop dieth on the thorn. 
 So fair I bloomed ; and was I born 
 
 To die as soon ? 
 
 To love my mother and to die, — 
 
 To perish in my bloom ! 
 Is tliis my sad brief history ? — 
 A tear dropped from a mother's eye 
 
 Into the tomb. 
 
 He lived and loved, — will sorrow say, — 
 
 By early sorrow tried ; 
 He smiled, he sighed, he past away ; 
 His life was but an April day, — 
 
 He loved and died ! 
 
 My mother smiles, then turns away, 
 
 But turns away to weep : 
 They whisper round me, — what they say 
 I need not hear, for in the clay 
 
 I soon must sleep. 
 
 0, love is sorrow ! sad it is 
 
 To be both tried and true ; 
 I ever trembled in my bliss ; 
 Now there are farewells in a kiss, — 
 
 They sigh adieu. 
 
 But woodbines flaunt when bluebells fade. 
 
 Where D(ni reflects the skies ; 
 And many a youth in Siiirc-elifl's' .shade 
 \\\\\ ramble where my boyhood played. 
 Though Alfred dies. 
 
 Then panting woods the breeze will feel. 
 
 And bowers, as heretofore, 
 Benc.-itli tlieir loail of roses reel ; 
 But I through woodbincd lanes shall steal 
 
 No more, no more. 
 
 Well, lay me by my brother's side, 
 AV'here late we stood and wc]rt ; 
 For I was stricken when he died, — 
 I felt the arrow as he sighed 
 His last and slept. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Stop, mortal ! Here thy brother lies, — 
 
 The poet of the poor. 
 His books were rivers, woods, and skies. 
 
 The meadow and the moor ; 
 His teachers were the torn heart's wail. 
 
 The tyrant and the slave. 
 The street, the factory, the jail, 
 
 Tiie palace, — and the grave ! 
 Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 
 
 And is thy brotlier blamed? 
 Erom passion, danger, doubt, and care 
 
 He no exemption claimed. 
 The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm. 
 
 He feared to scorn or hate ; 
 But, honoring in a peasant's form 
 
 The equal of the great, 
 He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes 
 
 The poor man's little more ; 
 Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 
 
 From jilundcred labor's store. 
 A hand to do, a head to plan, 
 
 A heart to feel and dare, — 
 Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 
 
 Who drew them as they are. 
 
 MARY FERRIER. 
 
 1782-1854. 
 
 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN." 
 
 Thk Laird o' Coekpen, he 's ju-oud an' he 's great. 
 His mind is ta'cn up wi' the things o' the state ; 
 He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; 
 But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. 
 
 Doun by tlu', dyke-side a lady did dwell. 
 At his table-head he thought she 'd look well ; 
 M'Clish's ae daugliter o' Claverse-ha' Lee. 
 A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 
 
 His wig was weel pouthered, as guid as when new, 
 His waistcoat wiis white, his coat it was blue ; 
 
 * This poimlnr hiinioi-ous ditty is nttril)ut#(l to tlic autlmiTss 
 of Mfin-icific, The Inhfritancfy and Destinjf. Tlie two concliul- 
 iiig vcrsfs arc Iiy anotlirr hand. The song is sung to the old 
 air of " W'lien sliv cam' bon she bot)l)cd," 
 
 One IS reminded here of the lail-d who was the unsuccess- 
 ful lover of Jcannic Deans. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE BOATIE ROWS. 
 
 755 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 He put ou a ring, a sword, and cocked liat, — 
 And wlia could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? 
 
 He took tlie gray mare, and rade canuilie, — 
 And rapped at tlie yett o' Clavcrse-ha' Lee ; 
 " Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : 
 She 's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen." 
 
 Mistress Jean she was niakiu' the elder-flower 
 
 wine ; 
 " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time? " 
 She put aff her apron, and ou her silk gown. 
 Her inutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. 
 
 And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low. 
 And what was his errand he soon let her know. 
 Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, 
 And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. 
 
 Dumfoundored he was, but nae sigh did he gi'c ; 
 He mounted his mare, and rade ccuuiilie, 
 Andal'tenhe thought, as he gacd through the glen, 
 " She 's daft to refuse the Laiid o' Coekpeu." 
 
 And now that tlie Laird his exit had made, 
 Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ; 
 "0,forane I '11 get better, it 's waur I'll get ten; 
 I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 
 
 Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, 
 They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the 
 
 green ; 
 Now she sits in the lia' like a weel-tappit hen. 
 But as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at 
 
 Cockpen. 
 
 WILLIAM GLEN. 
 
 Died about 1824. 
 
 WAE 'S ME FOR PKINCE CHARLIE.* 
 
 A WEE bird cam' to our ha' door, 
 
 He warbled sweet and clearly. 
 An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang 
 
 M'as " Wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
 0, when I heard the bonuie soun' 
 
 The tears cam' happin' rarely, 
 I took my bannet atf my head, 
 
 For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 
 
 Quoth I, " My bird, my bonnie bonnie bird. 
 
 Is that a sang ye borrow. 
 Are these some words ye 've learnt by heart. 
 
 Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow ? " 
 
 * This Jacobite song is, ov was, a favorite song of Queen 
 Victoria. Ou lier first visit to Hie Nortli of Scotland, the Mar- 
 quis of Brcathilbaue arranged, at Tayniouth Castle, a concert 
 of Scottisli songs in lioiior of his distinguished guest; this 
 piece was, of course, omitted froiu the prograniuie ; lint it was 
 al'ter\\ards included in it hy the Queen's " particular request." 
 
 " O, no, no, no," the wee bird sang, 
 " I 've flown sin' mornin' early, 
 
 But sic a day o' wind and rain, — 
 O, wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! 
 
 " On hills that are, by right, his ain. 
 
 He roves a lanely stranger, 
 On every side he 's pressed by want. 
 
 On every side is danger ; 
 Yestreen I met him in a glen. 
 
 My heart maist burstit fairly, 
 For sadly changed indeed was lie, — 
 
 O, wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! 
 
 " Dark night cam' on, the tempest roared 
 
 Loud o'er the hills an' valleys. 
 An' wliare was 't that your prince lay down 
 
 Wliase hame should been a palace ? 
 He rowed him in a highland plaid. 
 
 Which covered him but sparely. 
 An' slept beneath a bush o' broom, — 
 
 O, wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
 
 But now the bird saw some red coats, 
 
 An' he sheuk his wings wi' anger, 
 " O, tiiis is no a land for me, 
 
 I '11 tarry here nae langer." 
 He hovered on tlie wing awhile 
 
 Ere he departed fairly. 
 But weel I iiiiud the fareweel strain 
 
 Was, " Wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
 
 JOHN EWEN. 
 
 - 1821. 
 
 THE BOATIE ROWS. 
 
 0, WEEL may the boatie row, 
 
 And better may she speed ! 
 And weel may the boatie row. 
 
 That wins the bairns's bread ! 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wishes her to speed. 
 
 I cuist my line in Largo Bay, 
 
 And fishes I caught nine ; 
 There 's three to boil, and three to fry. 
 
 And three to bait the line. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wishes her to speed I 
 
 0, weel may the boatie row. 
 That fills a heavy creel. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 756 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 ^ 
 
 And cleads us a' frae liead to feet, 
 And buys our paiTitcli meal. 
 
 The boatie rows, the boatic rows, 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 
 And happy be the kjt of a' 
 That wish the boatic speed. 
 
 Wlieii Jamie vowed he would be mine. 
 
 And wan frae nie my heart, 
 O, muckle Hghter grew my creel ! 
 
 He swore we 'd never part. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 And niuekle lighter is the lade. 
 
 When love bears up the creel. 
 
 My kurtch I put u])on my head, 
 
 And dressed mysel' fu' braw : 
 I trow my lieart was dowf aud wae, 
 
 Wlieu Jamie gacd awa : 
 But weel may the boatie row. 
 
 And lucky be her part ; * 
 
 And lightsome be the lassie's care 
 
 That yields an honest heart ! 
 
 When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie 
 
 Are up, and gotten lear, 
 They '11 help to gar the boatie row, 
 
 And ligiiten a' our care. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 And lightsome be licr heart that bears 
 
 Tiie murlain and the creel ! 
 
 And when wi' age we are worn down, 
 
 And hirpling round the door, 
 They '11 row to keep us hale and warm 
 
 As we did them before : 
 Then, weel may the boatie row, 
 
 Tliat wins the bairns's bread ; 
 And happy be tiie lot of a' 
 
 That wish the boat to speed ! 
 
 JANE TAYLOR. 
 
 1783-1884. 
 
 THE SQUIEE'S PEW. 
 
 A SLANTING ray of evening light 
 Shoots through the yellow pane ; 
 
 It makes tlie faded crimson bright. 
 And gilds tlie fringe again : 
 
 The window's Gotliic framework falls 
 
 In oblique shadows on tiie walls. 
 
 And since those trappings first were new, 
 How many a cloudless day, 
 
 To rob the velvet of its hue. 
 
 Has come and passed away ! 
 How many a setting sun hath made 
 That curious lattice-work of shade ! 
 
 Crumbled beneath the hillock green. 
 
 The cunning liand must be, 
 Tliat carved this fretted door, I ween, 
 
 Acorn, and fleur-de-lis ; 
 And now the worm hatli done her part 
 In mimicking the chisel's art. 
 
 In days of yore (as now we call), 
 WJien the first James was king. 
 
 The courtly knight from yonder liajl 
 His train did hither bring; 
 
 All seated round in order due, 
 
 With 'broidered suit and buckled shoe. 
 
 On damask cushions decked with fringe, 
 
 All reverently they knelt ; 
 Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hiuge, 
 
 In ancient English spelt, 
 Each iiolding in a lily iiand. 
 Responsive to the priest's command. 
 
 Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle. 
 
 The sunbeam, long and lone. 
 Illumes tiie characters awhile 
 
 Of their inscription-stone ; 
 And there, in marble hard and cold, 
 The kuigiit with all his train behold : 
 
 Outstreteiied together are expressed 
 
 He and my lady fair ; 
 With hands uplifted on the breast. 
 
 In attitude of prayer ; 
 Long-visaged, clad in armor, he, — 
 With milled arm and bodice, she. 
 
 Set forth in order, as tliey died. 
 Their numerous offspring bend. 
 
 Devoutly kneeling side by side. 
 As if they did intend 
 
 For past omissions to atone. 
 
 By saying endless prayers in stone. 
 
 Those niellow days are past and dim ; 
 
 But generations new. 
 In regular descent from him, 
 
 Have fdled the stately pew ; 
 And in the same succession go 
 To occupy the vault below. 
 
 Aud now the polished, modern squire, 
 
 And liis gay (rain appear; 
 Who duly to the hall retire, 
 
 A season every year : 
 And fill the seats with belle and beau. 
 As 't was so many years ago. 
 
 ^ 
 
BY COOL SILOAM'S SHADY EILL. 
 
 Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread 
 
 The liullow-soundiug fioor 
 Of that dark house of kindred dead, 
 
 Which shall, as heretofore, 
 III turn receive to silent rest, 
 Another, and another guest; 
 
 The feathered hearse and sable train, 
 
 In all their wonted state. 
 Shall wind along the village lane. 
 
 And stand before the gate ; 
 Brought many a distant country througli, 
 To join the final rendezvous. 
 
 And when the race is swept away, 
 
 All to their dusty beds. 
 Still shall the mellow evening ray 
 
 Shine gayly o'er their heads : 
 While other faces, fresh and new. 
 Shall fill the squire's respected pew. 
 
 REGINALD HEBER. 
 
 1783-1836. 
 
 ADVENT SUNDAY. 
 
 HosANNA to the living Lord ! 
 Hosanna to the incarnate Word ! 
 To Christ, Creator, Saviour, King, 
 Let earth, let heaven, Hosanna sing ! 
 Hosanna ! Lord ! Hosanna in the highest ! 
 
 Hosanna, Lord ! thine angels cry ; 
 Hosanna, Lord ! thy saints reply ; 
 Above, beneath us, and around. 
 The dead and living swell the sound ; 
 
 Hosanna ! Lord ! Hosanna in the highest ! 
 
 Saviour 1 with protecting care, 
 Return to this thy house of prayer ! 
 Assembled in thy sacred name, 
 Where we thy parting promise claim, 
 
 Hfisanna ! Lord ! Hosanna in the highest ! 
 
 But cliiofcst, ii! our cleansed breast, 
 Eternal ! bid thy spirit rest. 
 And make our secret soul to be 
 A temple pure, and worthy thee ! 
 
 Hosanna ! Lord ! Hosanna in the highest ! 
 
 So, in the last and dreadful day. 
 When earth and heaven shall melt away. 
 Thy iluck, redeemed fi'om sinful stain, 
 Shall swell the sound of praise again, 
 Hosanna ! Lord ! Hosanna in the highest 1 
 
 SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
 
 The Lord will come ! the earth shall quake. 
 The hills their fixed scat foi-sake ; 
 And, withering, from the vault of night 
 The stars withdraw their feeble light. 
 
 The Lord will come ! but not the same 
 
 As once in lowly form he came, 
 
 A silent lamb to slaughter led. 
 
 The bruised, the suffering, and the dead. 
 
 The Lord will come ! a dreadful form, 
 With wreath of flame, and robe of storm, 
 Ou cherub wings, and wings of wind. 
 Anointed Judge of human-kind ! 
 
 Can this be Thee who wont to stray 
 
 A pilgrim on the world's highway ; 
 
 By power oppressed and mocked by pi-ide ? 
 
 God ! is this the crucified ? 
 
 Go, tyrants I to the rocks complain ! 
 Go, seek the mountain's cleft in vain ! 
 But faith, victorious o'er the tomb. 
 Shall sing for joy — the Lord is come ! 
 
 BY COOL SILOAM'S SHADY EILL. 
 
 • By cool Siloam's shady rill 
 
 How sweet the lily grows ! 
 How sweet the breath beneath the hill 
 Of Sharon's dewy rose ! 
 
 Lo ! such the child whose early feet 
 
 The paths of peace have trod ; 
 Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, 
 
 Is upward drawn to God ! 
 
 By cool Siloam's shady rill 
 
 The lily must decay ; 
 The rose that blooms beneath the liiU 
 
 Must shortly fade away. 
 
 And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 
 
 Of man's maturcr age 
 Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, 
 
 And stormy passion's rage ! 
 
 O Thou, wliose infant feet were found 
 
 Within thy Father's shrine ! 
 Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned. 
 
 Were all .alike divine. 
 
 Dependent on thy bounteous breath. 
 
 We seek thy grace alone. 
 In childhood, manhood, age, and death. 
 
 To keep us still thine own I 
 
 ^ 
 
e 
 
 r58 
 
 IIEBER. 
 
 ■ft> 
 
 ^ 
 
 EPIPHANT. 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the monung! 
 
 Dawn on our darkness and lend us thmc aid ! 
 Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
 
 Guide where our inl'ant Redeemer is laid ! 
 
 Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shinins^, 
 Low Ues his head witli the beasts of the stall, 
 
 Angels adore him in slundjer reclining, 
 Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all ! 
 
 Say, shall we yield hiin, in costly devotion. 
 Odors of Edom and olfcrings di\inc ? 
 
 Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean. 
 Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine ? 
 
 Vainly we offer each am]ile oblation ; 
 
 Vainly with gifts would his favor secure : 
 Riclier by far is the heart's adoration ; 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 
 
 Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! 
 Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
 
 Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 
 
 THOU AET GONE TO THE GRAVE. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not de- 
 plore thee, 
 
 Though sorrow and darkness encompass the 
 tomb ; 
 
 Thy Saviour has passed through its jiortal before 
 thee, 
 
 And the lamp of liis love is thy guide throiigh the 
 gloom ! 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold 
 
 thee. 
 Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side ; 
 But the wide arms of Mercy arc spread to enfold 
 
 thee. 
 And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died ! 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! and, its mansion 
 forsaking. 
 
 Perchance tliy weak spirit in fear lingered long ; 
 
 But the mild rays of paradise beamed on tliy 
 waking. 
 
 And the sound which thou heard'st was the sera- 
 phim's song ! 
 
 Thou art gone to tlie grave ! but wc will not de- 
 plore tliec, 
 
 Wliose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and 
 guide; 
 
 He gave thee, lie took thee, and he will restore 
 thee. 
 
 And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died! 
 
 FEOM GEEENLAUD'S lOT MOUNTAINS. 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains, 
 
 Erom India's coral strand. 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 
 Roll down their golden sand ; 
 Erom many an ancient river, 
 
 From many a palmy plain, 
 They call us to deliver 
 
 Their land from error's chain ! 
 
 What though the spicy breezes 
 
 Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle. 
 Though every prospect pleases, 
 
 And only man is vile : 
 In vain with lavish kindness 
 
 The gifts of God are strown, 
 The heathen, in his blindness. 
 
 Bows down to wood and stone ! 
 
 Can we, whose souls are lighted 
 
 With wisdom from on high. 
 Can we to men benighted 
 
 The lamp of life deny ? 
 Salvation ! O salvation ! 
 
 The joyful sound proclaim, 
 Till each remotest nation 
 
 Has learned Messiah's name ! 
 
 Waft, waft, ye winds, his story. 
 
 And you, ye waters, roll ! 
 Till, like a sea of glory, 
 
 It spreads from jjole to pole ; 
 Till o'er our ransomed nature. 
 
 The Lamb for sinners slain. 
 Redeemer, King, Creator, 
 
 In bliss returns to reign ! 
 
 BEFORE THE SACEAMENT. 
 
 Bread of the world, in mercy broken ! 
 
 Wine of the soul in mercy shed ! 
 By wliom tlie words of life were spoken, 
 
 And in whoso death our sins are dead ! 
 
 Look on the lieart by sorrow broken. 
 Look on the tears by sinners shed, 
 
 And be tiiy feast to us the token 
 That by tliy grace our souls are fed ! 
 
 LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE, 
 
 WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA. 
 
 If thou wert by my side, my love ! 
 
 How fast would evening fail 
 In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
 
 Listening the nightingale ! 
 
 If thou, my love ! wert by my side. 
 My babies at my knee, 
 
 J> 
 
cS- 
 
 THE PEAST OP THE POETS. 
 
 --^ 
 
 759 
 
 ^ 
 
 How gayly would our pinnace glide 
 O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 
 
 I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
 
 When, on our declc reclined, 
 In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
 
 And woo the cooler wind. 
 
 I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 
 
 My twilight steps I guide, 
 But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, 
 
 I miss thee from my side. 
 
 I spread my books, my pencil try. 
 
 The lingering noon to cheer, 
 Bnt miss thy kind approving eye, 
 
 Thy meek attentive ear. 
 
 But' when of moru and eve the star 
 
 Beholds me ou my knee, 
 I feel, though tliou art distant far, 
 
 Thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then ou ! Tiien on ! where duty leads. 
 
 My course be onward still, 
 Ou broad Hiudostau's sultry meads, 
 
 O'er black Almorah's hill. 
 
 That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 
 
 Nor mild Malwah detain, 
 Per sweet the bliss us both awaits, 
 
 By yonder western main. 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
 
 Across the dark blue sea. 
 But never were hearts so light aud gay, 
 
 As theu shall meet iu thee ! 
 
 THE MOONLiaHT MARCH, 
 
 I SEE them on their winding way, 
 
 About their ranks tlie mooubeams play ; 
 
 Tlieir lofty deeds and daring high 
 
 Blend with tiie notes of victory. 
 
 And waving arms, and banners bright, 
 
 Are glancing in the mellow ligiit : 
 
 They 're lost, — and gone, tlie moon is past. 
 
 The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast ; 
 
 And fainter, fainter, fainter still 
 
 The maroli is rising o'er the hill. 
 
 Again, again, the pealing drum. 
 The clashing horn, — they come, they come ; 
 Tlirougli rocky pass, o'er wooded steep, 
 In long and glittering fdes they sweep. 
 And nearer, nearer, yet more near, 
 Their softened chorus meets the ear ; 
 Porth, fortli, and meet them on their way ; 
 The trampling lioofs brook no delay ; 
 With thrilling fd'e and pealing drum. 
 And clasliing horn, tliey come, they come. 
 
 FEOM "TEE GULISTAN." 
 
 Brother ! know the world deoeivetii ! 
 Trust on Him who safely giveth ! 
 Pix not on tlie world thy trust. 
 She feeds us, — but she turns to dust, 
 And the bare earth or kingly throne 
 Alike may serve to die upon ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 The man who leaveth life behind, 
 May well and boldly speak his mind ; 
 Where flight is noue from battle-field, 
 We bhtliely snatch the sword aud shield ; 
 Where hope is past, and hate is strong. 
 The wretch's tongue is sharp and long ; 
 Myself have seen, in wild despair. 
 The feeble cat the mastiff tear. 
 » * ♦ 
 
 Who tiie silent man can prize, 
 If a fool he be or wise ? 
 Yet, though lonely seem the wood. 
 Therein may lurk the beast of blood. 
 Often bashful looks conceal 
 Tongue of fire and lieart of steel, 
 Aud deem not thou in forest gray. 
 Every dappled skin tliy prey ; 
 Lest thou rouse, witli luckless spear, 
 Tile tiger for the fallow-deer ! 
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 1784-1859. 
 
 THE FEAST OF THE POETS.* 
 
 T' OTHER day, as Apollo sat pitching liis darts 
 Through the clouds of November, by fits and Ijy 
 
 starts, 
 He began to consider how long it had been, 
 Since the bards of Old England had all been 
 
 rung in. 
 " I think," said the god, recollecting (and then 
 He fell twiddling a sunbeam as I may my pen), 
 " I think — let me see — yes, it is, I declare. 
 As long ago now as that Buckingham tliere ; 
 Aud yet I can't see why I 've been so remiss. 
 Unless it may be — and it certainly is. 
 That since Drydeu's fine verses and Milton's 
 
 sublime, 
 I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and 
 
 rhyme. 
 There was Conins,'t is ti-ue, had a good deal to say ; 
 But the rogue had no industry, — neither had 
 
 Gray : 
 And Thomson, though best in his indolent fits, 
 Either slept himself weary, or bloated his wits. 
 
 * We have printed this light satire as it was originally pub- 
 lislied. In recasting the poem the author did not improve it. 
 
 -P 
 
e 
 
 760 
 
 HUNT. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 But ever since Pope spoiled the cars of the town 
 Witli his cuckoo-song verses, half up and half 
 
 down. 
 There has been such a doling and sameness, — 
 
 by Jove, 
 I 'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love. 
 However, of late as they 've roused them anew, 
 I '11 even go and give them a lesson or two. 
 And as nothing 's done there nowadays with- 
 out eating, 
 See what kind of set I can muster worth treating. 
 So saying, the god bade his horses walk for'ard, 
 And leaving them, took a long dive to the nor'ard : 
 For Gordon's he made ; and as gods who drop 
 
 in do, 
 Came smack on his legs throiigh the drawing- 
 room window. 
 And here I could tell, if it was n't for stopping, 
 How all the town siiook as the godhead went pop in, 
 How brigiit looked the poets, and brisk blew the 
 
 airs. 
 And the laurels took flower in the gardens and 
 
 squares ; — 
 But fancies like these, though I 've stores to 
 
 supply me, 
 I 'd better keep back for a poem I 've by me. 
 And merely observe that the girls looked divine. 
 And the old folks in-doors exclaimed, " Bless us, 
 
 how fine ! " 
 Apollo, arrived, had no sooner embodied 
 His essence ethereal, than, quenching his godhead. 
 He changed his appearance — to — what shall I 
 
 say ? 
 To a gallant young soldier returning in May ? 
 No — that 's a resemblance too vapid and lo w : — 
 Let 's see — to a finished young traveller ? — No : 
 To a graceful young lord just stept out of his 
 
 carriage ? 
 Or handsome young poet, the day of his marriage ? 
 No, — nobody's likeness will help me, I see. 
 To alford you a notion of what he could be. 
 Not though 1 collected one pattern victorious 
 Of all that was good, and accomplished, and 
 
 glorious, 
 Trom deeds in the daylight, or books on the shelf. 
 And called uji the shape of young Alfred himself. 
 
 Imagine, however, if shape there must be, 
 A figure sublimed above mortal degree. 
 His limbs the perfection of elegant strength, — 
 A fine flowing roundness inclining to length, — 
 A back dropping in, — an expansion of chest 
 (For the god, you '11 observe, like bis statues was 
 
 drest), 
 His throat like a pillar for smoothness and grace. 
 His curls in a cluster, — and tlien such a face. 
 As mark('d him at once tlie true otl's])ring of Jove, 
 The brow all of wisdom, mid lips all of love; 
 For tliough he was blooming and oval of cheek. 
 
 And youth down his shoulders went smoothing 
 
 and sleek. 
 Yet his look with the reach of past ages was wise. 
 And the soul of eternity tliought through hiseyes. 
 I w(udd not say more, lest my climax should 
 
 lose ; — 
 Yet now I have mentioned those lamps of the 
 
 Muse, 
 I can't but observe what a splendor they shed. 
 When a thought more than common came into 
 
 his head : 
 Then they leaped in their frankness, deliciously 
 
 bright. 
 And shot round about them an arrowy light ; 
 And if, as he shook back bis hair in its cluster, 
 Acurl fell athwartthemand darkened their lustre, 
 A sprinkle of gold through the duskiness came. 
 Like the sun through a tree, when he 's setting 
 
 in flame. 
 The god then no sooner had taken a chair. 
 And rung for the landlord to order the fare, 
 Thau he heard a strange noise and a knock from 
 
 without, — 
 And scraping and bowing, came in suc/i a rout ! 
 There was Arnold, and Reynolds, and I)il)diu, 
 
 and Cherry, 
 All grinning as who should say, " Sha' n't wc be 
 
 merry ? " 
 And mighty dull Cobb, lumbering just like a 
 
 bear up. 
 And sweet Billy Dimoud, a-patting his hair up. 
 The god, for an instant, sat fixed as a stone, 
 Till recovering, he said in a good-natured tone, 
 " O, the waiters, I see ; — ah, it 's all very well, — 
 Only one of you '11 do just to answer the bell." 
 But Lord I to see all the great dranuitists' faces ! 
 They looked at each other, and made such gri- 
 maces ! 
 Then turning about, left the room in vexation. 
 And Hook, they say, couldn't help muttering 
 
 " Damnation! " 
 'T was lucky for Colman he was n't there too. 
 For his pranks would have certainly met with 
 
 their due. 
 And Sheridan's also, that fini.shcd old tricker; — ■ 
 But one was in prison, and both were in liquor. 
 
 The god fell a-laughing to see his mistake. 
 But stopped with a sigh for poor Comedy's sake ; 
 Then gave mine host orders, who bowed to the 
 
 floor. 
 And presented three cards that were brought to 
 
 the door : 
 Apollo just gave them a glance with his eye, 
 "Spencer — Rogers — Montgomery," and, put- 
 ting them by. 
 Begged the landlord to give his respects to all 
 
 three, 
 And say he 'd be happy to see them to tea. 
 
 P 
 
<fr 
 
 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 
 
 rtjl 
 
 -Q> 
 
 U 
 
 "Tour Majesty then," said the Gaius, "don't 
 
 know 
 That a person named Crabbe has been waiting 
 
 below ? 
 He has taken liis ciiair in tlie kitchen, they say." 
 " Indeed ! " said Apollo, " O, pray let him stay : 
 He '11 be much better pleased to be with 'em 
 
 down stairs, 
 And will find ye all out with your cookings and 
 
 cares : — 
 But mind that you treat him as well as you're able, 
 And let him have part of what goes from the 
 
 table." 
 A soft, smiling voice tlien arose on the car, 
 As if some one from court was about to appear : 
 " O, this is the room, my good tVieud? Ah, I 
 
 see it is ; — 
 Room, sure enough, for the best-bred of deities ! " 
 Then came a whisper, — and then was a hush, — 
 And then, with a sort of a look of a blush. 
 Came in Mr. Hayley, all polished confusion, 
 And said, " IFi/l Apollo c-x.euse this intrusion ? 
 I might have kept back, — but I thought 't would 
 
 look odd, — 
 And friendship, you know, — pray how is my 
 
 dear god ! " 
 A smile, followed u]) by a shake of the head, 
 Crossed the flue lip of Phcebus, who viewed him, 
 
 and said, 
 " I '11 give you a lesson, sir, cpute your own 
 
 seeking, 
 Aud one that you very much want, — on plain 
 
 speaking. 
 Pray have you to learn, — aud at this time of day, 
 That your views on regard have been all the 
 
 wrong way ? 
 One ten thousandth part of the words and the time 
 That you've wasted on praises instead of your 
 
 rhyme, 
 Might have gained you a title to this kind of 
 
 freedom ; 
 But volumes of endings, lugged in as you need 'em. 
 Of hearts aud imparls, where 's the soul that can 
 
 read 'em ? " 
 So saying, his eye so alarmingly shone, 
 That ere it could wink, the poor devil was gone. 
 A hem was then heard, consequential aud 
 
 snapping, 
 And a sour little gentleman walked with a rap in. 
 He bowed, looked about him, seemed cold, and 
 
 sat down. 
 And said, " I 'm surprised that you '11 visit this 
 
 town : — 
 To be sure, there are one or two of us who know 
 
 you. 
 But as for the rest, they are all much below you. 
 So stupid, in general, the natives arc gro\vn, 
 Tliey really prefer Scotch reviews to their own ; 
 
 So that what with their taste, their reformers, 
 
 and stuff, 
 They have sickened myself aud my friends long 
 
 enough." 
 " Yourself and your friends ! " cried the god in 
 
 high glee ; 
 " And pray, my frank visitor, who may you be ? " 
 "Who be?" cried the other; "why really — 
 
 this tone — 
 WilUam GifFord 's a name, I think, pretty well 
 
 known ! " 
 "0 — now I remember," said Phoebus; "ah, 
 
 true — 
 My thanks to that name are undoubtedly due : 
 The rod that got rid of the Cruscas and Lauras — 
 That plague of the butterflies — saved me the 
 
 horrors ; 
 The Juvenal too stops a gap in one's shelf, 
 At least in what Dryden has not done himself; 
 And there 's somctlung, which even distaste 
 
 must respect. 
 In tlie self-taught example, that conquered neglect. 
 But not to insist on the recommendations 
 Of modesty, wit, and a small stock of patience. 
 My visit just now is to poets alone. 
 And not to small critics, liowever well known." 
 So saying he rang, to leave nothing in doubt, 
 And tlie sour little gentleman blessed himself out. 
 Next cameWalter Scott witha fine weighty face, 
 For as soon as his visage was seen in tlie place. 
 The diners and barmaids all crowded to know him. 
 And thank him with smiles for that sweet pretty 
 
 poem ! 
 However, he scarcely had got through the door. 
 When he looked adoration, aud bowed to the floor. 
 For his host was a god, — what a very great thing! 
 And what was still greater in his eyes, — a king ! 
 Apollo smiled shrewdly, and bade him sit down, 
 Witli " Well, Mr. Scott, you have managed the 
 
 town ; 
 Now pray, copy less, — have a little temerity, — 
 Try if you can't also manage posterity. 
 All you add now only lessens your credit ; 
 And how could you think too of taking to edit? 
 A great deal 's endured, where there 's measure 
 
 and rhyme ; 
 But prose such as yours is a pure waste of time, — 
 A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough, 
 Wio fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off. 
 Be original, man ; study more, scribble less ; 
 Nor mistake present favor for lasting success ; 
 And remember, if laurels are what you would find. 
 The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind." 
 
 " And here," cried Apollo, " is one at the door, 
 Who shall prove what I say, or my art is no more. 
 Ah, Campbell, you 're welcome : — well, how 
 
 have you been. 
 Since the last time I saw you on Sydenham Green '^ 
 
 # 
 
f 
 
 7G2 
 
 HUNT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I need not ask after tlic plans you 'vc in view ; 
 'T would be odd, I Ijclieve, if I had u't tiiem too : 
 But tliere 's one tiling I 've always forgotten to 
 
 mention, — 
 Your versification, — pray give it invention. 
 A fancy like yours, that can i)lay its own part, 
 And clip with flue fingers the chords of the heart, 
 Sliould draw from itself the whole charm of its 
 
 song, 
 Nor put up with notes that to others belong." 
 
 The poet to this was about to reply. 
 When Moore, coming in, caught the deity's eye, 
 Who gave him his hand, and said, " Show me a 
 
 sight 
 Tliat can give a divinity souiulcr delight, 
 Or that earth should more prize from its core to 
 
 the poles, 
 Tlian the self-improved morals of elegant souls. 
 Re entant I spealc it, — though wiicn I was wild. 
 My frieiuls slionkl remember the world nas a 
 
 child, — 
 Tliat customs were diiTerent, and young people's 
 
 eyes 
 Had no better examples than those in the skies. 
 But soon as I learnt how to value these doings, 
 I never much vahied your billings and eooiugs ; 
 Tliey only make idle the best of my race ; 
 And since my poor Daphne turned tree in my face, 
 There are very few poets, whose caps or whose 
 
 eurls 
 Have obtained such a laurel by hunting tlie girls. 
 So it gives me, dear Tom, a delight bcyoiul measure, 
 To find how you 've mended your notions of pleas- 
 ure; 
 For never was poet, whose fanciful hours 
 Could bask in a richer abstraction of bowers, 
 With sounds and with spirits, of charm to detain 
 The wonder-eyed soul in their magic domain ; 
 And never should poet, so gifted and rare. 
 Pollute the bright Eden Jove gives to his care, 
 But love the fair Virtue, for whom it is given. 
 And keep the spot pure for the visits of heaven." 
 He spoke with a warmtli, but his accent was 
 
 bland, 
 And the poet bowed downw-ith a blusli to his hand, 
 When all on a sudden, there rose on the stairs 
 A noise as of persons with singular airs ; 
 You 'd have thought 't was the hisliojis or judges 
 
 a-coming. 
 Or whole court of aldermen hawing and humming. 
 Or abbot, at least, with his ushers before. 
 Hut 'twas only Bob Soutliey and two or three more. 
 ,'\s soon as he saw him, Apollo seemed pleased; 
 But as lie had settled it not to be teascil 
 By all the vain dreamers from bedroom and brook, 
 He turned from the rest without even a look ; 
 ForColeridgehadvexedhim longsince, I suppose, 
 By his idling, and gabbling, and muddling in ]n'ose ; 
 
 And Wordsworth, one day, made his very hairs 
 
 bristle. 
 By going and changing his harp for a whistle. 
 These heroes, however, long used to attack. 
 Were not by contempt to be so driven back. 
 But followed the god up. and, shifting their place. 
 Stood full in his presence, and looked in his face ; 
 When one began spouting the cream of orations 
 In praise of bombarding one's friends and re- 
 lations ; 
 And t' other some lines he had made on a straw. 
 Showing how he had found it, and what it was for. 
 And how, when 't was balanced, it stood like a 
 
 spell ! 
 And how, when 't was balanced no longer, it fell ! 
 A wild thing of scorn he described it to be, 
 But he said it was patient to Heaven's decree : 
 Then he gazed upon nothing, and looking fcu'lorn, 
 Dropt a naiural tear for that irilil (hiin/ ofsrorn .' 
 Apollo half laughed betwixt auger and mirth, 
 And cried, ' ' Mas there ever such trilling on earth ? 
 It is not enough that this nonsense, I fear. 
 Has hurt the fine head of my friend Robert 
 
 here, 
 But the very best promise bred up in the school, 
 Must show himself proudest in playing the fool. 
 What ! think ye a bard 's a mere gossip, who tells 
 Of the every-day feelings of every one else. 
 And that poetry lies, not in something select, 
 But in gathering the refuse that others reject? 
 Must a ballad doled out by a spectacled nurse 
 About Two-Shoes or Thumb, be your model of 
 
 verse ; 
 And your writings, instead of sound fancy and 
 
 style. 
 Look more like the morbid abstractions of bile ? 
 There is one of you here, — 't was of him that I 
 
 spoke, — 
 Who, instead of becoming a byword and joke. 
 Should have brought back our fine old pre-emi- 
 nent way, 
 And been the first man at my table to-day : 
 But resolved as I am to maintain the partitions 
 'Tvvixtwit and mere wildncss, he knows the con- 
 ditions; 
 And if he retains but a spark of my fire. 
 Will show it this instant, — and blush, — and 
 
 retire." 
 He spoke: and poor Wordsworth, his checks in 
 
 a glow 
 (For he felt the god in him), made symjitomsto go. 
 When Apollo, in pity, to screen him from sight. 
 Threw round him a cloud that was purple and 
 
 white. 
 The same that of old used to wrap liis o«n 
 
 shoulders. 
 When, coming from heaven, he 'd spare the \>r- 
 holders. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE FEAST OF THE I'OETS. 
 
 7G3 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 The bard, like a second jEueas, went liome in 't. 
 And lives uiiderneatli it, it seems, attliis moment. 
 Apollo then turning and smoothing his frown. 
 Bade Soulhey take warning, and let liim sit down; 
 But the rest of Bob's friends, too ambitious to 
 
 flincli, 
 Stood fixing tlieir faces, and stiiTed not an inch; 
 While Sam, looking soft and politely dejected, 
 Confessed with a sigh, that 't was what he expected. 
 Since Pliffbus had fatally learnt to confide iu 
 Such prosers as Johnson, and rhymers as Dryden. 
 But wrath seized Apollo ; — and turning again, 
 "Whatever," lie cried, " wei'C the faults of such 
 
 men. 
 Ye shall try, wretclied mortals, how well ye can bear 
 ^^'hat Dryden has witnessed, uusmote with de- 
 spair." 
 He said ; and the place all seemed swelling with 
 
 light, 
 While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright ; 
 And clouds, burning inward, rolled round on each 
 
 side. 
 To encircle his state, as he stood iu liis pride ; 
 Till at last the full deity put on his rays. 
 And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze ! 
 Then a glory beamed round, as of fiery rods, 
 AVitli the sound of deep organs and chorister gods ; 
 And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their 
 
 skies. 
 Came tlu'onging about with intentness of eyes, — 
 And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony 
 
 swelled, — 
 And the spheres, pealing in, the long rapture 
 
 ni)iield, — 
 And all tilings, above, and beneath, and around. 
 Seemed a woi'ld of bright vision, set floating in 
 
 sound. 
 
 That sight and tluit music might not be sustained 
 
 But by those who a glory like Dryden's had gained ; 
 
 And even the four who had graciousness found. 
 
 After gazing awliile, bowed them down to the 
 
 ground. 
 What then could remain for that feeble-eyed crew ? 
 Through the door in an instant they rushed and 
 
 they flew. 
 They rushed, and they daShed, and they scram- 
 bled, and stumbled, 
 And down tlie hidl staircase distractedly tumbled. 
 And never once thought wliieh was head or was feet. 
 And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the 
 
 street. 
 So great was the panic they struck W'ith their fright. 
 That of all who had come to be feasted that night. 
 Not one venturedup, or would stay near the place; 
 Even Croker declined, notwithstanding ins face ; 
 And old Peter Pindar turned pale, and suppressed. 
 With a death-bed sensation, a blasphemous jest. 
 But Phrebus no sooner had gained iiisgood ends, 
 
 Than he put off his terrors, and raised up his friends. 
 Who stood for a moment, entranced to behold 
 Tlie glories subside' and tlie dim-rolling gold. 
 And listened to sounds, that with ecstasy burning 
 Seemed dying far upward, like heaven returning. 
 Then ■' Come," cried the god iu his elegant mirth, 
 " Let us make ns a heaven of our own upon eartii. 
 And wake witli the lips, that we dip in our bowls. 
 That divinest of music, — congenial souls." 
 So saying, he led through the dining-room door. 
 And seating the poets, cried " Laurels for four ! " 
 No sooner demanded, than lo ! they were there. 
 And each of the bards had a wreatli in his liair. 
 Tom Campbell's with willow and poplar was 
 
 twined. 
 And Southcy's with mountain-ash plucked in the 
 
 wind. 
 And Scott's with a heath from his old garden stoves, 
 And with vine-leaves and jump-up-and-kiss-mc, 
 
 Tom Moore's. 
 Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams. 
 And ricli rose the feast as an epicure's dreams, — 
 Not epicure civic, or grossly inclined. 
 But such as a poet might dream ere he dined ; 
 For the god had no sooner determined tlie fare. 
 Than it turned to wiiatever was racy and rare : 
 Tiie fish and tlie flesh, for example, were done. 
 On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun ; 
 The wiucs were all nectar of different smack. 
 To which Muscat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac, 
 No, nor Lachryma Christi, though clearly divine, 
 Nor Montepulciano, though king of all wine. 
 Then as for tlie fruits, you might garden for ages, 
 Before you could raise me such apples and gages ; 
 And all on the table no sooner was spread, 
 Tlian their cheeks next the god blushed a beau- 
 tiful red. 
 'T was magic, in short, and deliciousness all ; — 
 The very men-servants grew handsome and tall. 
 To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turned. 
 The service with opal aud adamant burned. 
 Each candlestick changed to a pillar of gold. 
 While a bundle of beams took the place of the 
 
 mould. 
 The decanters and glasses pure diamond became. 
 And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame. 
 Li a word, so completely forestalled were the 
 
 wishes, 
 Even harmony struck from the noise of the dishes. 
 It can't be supposed I should think of repeating 
 The fancies that flowed at this laureat meeting ; 
 I have n't the brains, and besides, was not there ; 
 But the wit may be easily guessed, by the chair : 
 Suffice it to say, it was keen as could be. 
 Though it softened to prettiness rather at tea. 
 
 I must mention, however, that during the wine, 
 The memory of Shakespeare was toasted with 
 
 nine ; 
 
 ■* 
 
cfi- 
 
 l()i 
 
 HUNT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 When lo, as each poet was liftiug his cup, 
 A strain of iiivisihle music struck up : — 
 'T was a mixture of all the most exquisite sounds 
 To he heard upon earthly or I'auciful grounds, 
 When pomps or when passions their coming de- 
 clare. 
 Or there 's sometluug at work in the moonshiny 
 
 air ; 
 For the trumpet sprang out, with a fierce-flow- 
 ing blast. 
 And the hautboys lamentiugly, mingled and 
 
 passed. 
 Till a smile-drawing sweetness stole in at the close 
 With the breathing of flutes and the smoothing 
 
 of bows, 
 And Ariel was heard, singing thinly and soft. 
 Then with tricksy tenuity vanished aloft. 
 The next name was Milton, and six was the shout. 
 When bursting at once in its mightiness out, 
 Tlie organ came gathering and rolling its thunder; 
 Yet wanted not intervals, calmer of wonder. 
 Nor stops of low sweetness, like winds when 
 
 they fall. 
 Nor voices Elysian, that came with a call. 
 Tlien followed my Spenser, with five to his share, 
 And the light-neighing trumpet leaped freshly on 
 
 air, 
 With [u-eludes of llutes as to open a scene. 
 And pi|)es with coy snatches that started between. 
 Till sudden it stopped, — and you heard a dim 
 
 strain, 
 Like the shell of old Triton far over tlie main. 
 'T would be tedious to count all the names as 
 they rose, 
 But none were omitted, yon '11 easily suppose, 
 W horn Fancy has crowned with one twigof the bay, 
 From old Father Chaucer to Collins and Gray. 
 I must n't forget though, that Bob, like a gander. 
 Would give "a great genius," — one Mr. Landor; 
 And Walter looked up too, and begged to jiropose 
 A particular friend of his, — one Mr. Rose: 
 But the goil looked at Southey, and shrugging 
 
 his shoulder, 
 Cried, " When, my good friend, will you try to 
 
 grow older? " 
 Then nodding to Scott, hesaid, " Pray be as portly 
 And rich as you please, but a little less courtly." 
 So, changing the subjeet. he called upon Moore, 
 Who sung such a song, that they shouted " En- 
 core I " 
 And the god was so pleased with liis taste and 
 
 his tone. 
 He obeyed the next call, and gave one of his own, — 
 At which you'd have thought ('twas so witch- 
 ing a warble) 
 The guests had all turned into listening marble; 
 The wreaths on their temples grew brighter of 
 bloom. 
 
 As the breath of the deity circled the room ; 
 And the wine in the glasses went rippling in ruunds. 
 As if followed and fanned by the soft-wiiigud 
 
 sounds. 
 Thus chatting and singing they sat till eleven, 
 When Fhopbus shook hands, and departed ibr 
 
 heaven ; 
 " For poets," he said, " who would cherish (heir 
 
 powers. 
 And hoped to be deathless, must keep to good 
 
 hours." 
 So off he betook him the way that he came. 
 And shot up the north, like an arrow of flame ; 
 For the Bear was his inn ; and the comet, they say. 
 Was ids tandem in waiting to fetch him away. 
 The otliers then parted, all highly deliijhted ; 
 And so shall I be, when vou lind me invited. 
 
 SONUS OF THE FLOWERS, 
 
 We are the sweet Flowers, 
 
 Born of sunny showers. 
 Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ; 
 
 Utterance mute and bright 
 
 Of some unknown delight, 
 We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : 
 
 All who see us, love us ; . 
 
 We befit all places ; 
 Unto sorrow we give smiles ; and unto graces, 
 graces. 
 
 Mark our ways, how noiseless 
 All, and sweetly voiceless. 
 Though the March winds pipe to make our jias- 
 sage clear ; 
 Not a whisper tells 
 Where our small seed dwells. 
 Nor is known the moment green, when our tips 
 appear. 
 We thread the earth in silence, 
 In silence build our bowers. 
 And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh 
 atop, sweet Flowers ! 
 
 The dear lumpish baby. 
 Humming with, the May-bee, 
 Hails us with his bright stare, stumbhug through 
 the grass ; 
 The honey-dropping moon. 
 On a night in June, 
 Kisses our pale jiathway leaves, that felt the 
 bridegroom pass. 
 Age, the withered dinger, 
 On us mutely gazes. 
 And wraps the thought of his last bed in ids 
 ohihlhood's daisies. 
 
 See. and scorn all duller 
 Taste, how heaven loves color. 
 
 ■^ 
 
e 
 
 SONGS OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 7(i5 
 
 -n> 
 
 fr 
 
 Uuw great Nature, clearly, joys in red and greeu ; 
 Wliat sweet tliouglits she thinks 
 0( violets and pinks. 
 And a thousand flashing hues, made solely to bo 
 seen ; 
 Sec lier wiiitest lilies 
 Cliill tlie silver showers, 
 And vviiat a red mouth has her rose, the woman 
 of the flowers ! 
 
 Uselessness divinest 
 
 Of a use the finest 
 Paiuteth us, the teachers of tlie end of use ; 
 
 Travellers weary-eyed 
 
 Bless us far and wide ; 
 Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden 
 truce ; 
 
 Not a poor town window 
 
 Loves its sickliest planting. 
 But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's 
 wiiole vaunting. 
 
 Sage are yet tlie uses 
 
 Mi.\ed with our sweet juices 
 Wliether man or May-fly profit of the balm : 
 
 As fair fingers healed 
 
 Kniglits from the olden field. 
 We liold cups of mightiest force to give tlie wildest 
 calm. 
 
 E'en tlie terror poison 
 
 Hath its plea for blooming ; 
 Life it gives to reverent Ups, though death to the 
 presuming. 
 
 And O, our sweet soul-taker, 
 
 That thief the honey-maker. 
 What a house hath he, by the thymy glen I 
 
 In his talking rooms 
 
 How the feasting fumes. 
 Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ! 
 
 The butterflies come aping 
 
 Those flne thieves of ours. 
 And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled 
 flowers with flowers. 
 
 See those tops, how beauteous ! 
 
 What fair service duteous 
 ]{ound some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine? 
 
 Elfin court 't would seem ; 
 
 And taught perchance that dream, 
 Which the old Greek mouutaiu dreamt upon 
 nights divine. 
 
 To expound such •wonder 
 
 Human speech avails not ; 
 Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory 
 exhales not. v 
 
 Think of all these ti'easures. 
 Matchless works and pleasures. 
 Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ; 
 
 Then think in what briglit showers 
 ^Ve thicken fields and bowers. 
 And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 
 w-aiitou May ; 
 Think of the mossy forests 
 By the bee-birds haunted. 
 And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 
 enchanted. 
 
 Trees themselves are ours ; 
 Fruits are born of flowers ; 
 Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the 
 spring ; 
 The lusty bee knows well 
 The news, and comes pell-mell. 
 And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome 
 anthemiug. 
 Beneath the very burden 
 Of planet-pressing ocean 
 We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought 
 for meek devotion. 
 
 Tears of Phoebus, — missings 
 
 Of Cytherea's kissings. 
 Have in us been found, and wise men find tlieni 
 still; 
 
 Drooping grace unfurls 
 
 Still Hyacinthiis' curls. 
 And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; 
 
 Thy red lip, Adonis, 
 
 Still is wet with mourning ; 
 And the step that bled for thee, the rosy brier 
 adorning. 
 
 O, true things are fables. 
 Fit for sagest tables. 
 And the flowers are true things, yet no fables 
 they ; 
 Fables were not more 
 Bright, nor loved of yore 
 Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old 
 pathway. 
 Grossest hand can test us ; 
 Fools may prize us never; 
 Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels sweet for- 
 ever. 
 
 Who shall say that flowers 
 Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 
 VTho its love, without them, can fancy, — or 
 sweet floor " 
 Who shall even dare 
 To say we sprang not there. 
 And came not down that Love might bring one 
 piece of heaven the more ? 
 O, pray believe that angels 
 From tliose blue dominions 
 Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their 
 golden pinions. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 ■fo 
 
 766 
 
 HUNT. 
 
 TO THE GRASSHOPPER AlfD THE CRICKET. 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
 Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
 When even the bees lag at tiie summoning brass, 
 And you, -n-arni little housekeeper, who class 
 With tliose who think the candles come too 
 
 soon, 
 Loving tlie fire, aiul with your tricksome tune 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; 
 
 O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 
 Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, are 
 
 strong 
 At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to 
 
 earth 
 To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song, — 
 In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. 
 
 rieccnilici- 30, 1810. 
 
 TO T. L. HUNT, 
 
 six YEARS OLD, DUKING A SICK.NESS. 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee. 
 
 My lit.tle, patient boy ; 
 And balmy rest about tiiee 
 Smooths off the day's annoy. 
 
 I sit me down, and think 
 Of all thy winning ways ; 
 Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink. 
 That I had less to praise. 
 
 Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, 
 
 Thy thanks to all that aid. 
 Thy heart, in pain and weakness. 
 Of fancied faults afraid ; 
 
 The little trembling hand 
 That wipes thy quiet tears. 
 These, these are things that may demand 
 Dread memories for years. 
 
 Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, 
 
 I will not think of now ; 
 And calmly midst my dear ones 
 Have wasted with dry brow ; 
 But when thy fingers press 
 And pat my stooping head, 
 I cannot bear the gentleness, — 
 The tears are in their bed. 
 
 Ah, first-born of thy mother. 
 
 When life and hope were new, 
 Kind playmate of thy brother, 
 Thy sister, fatiier too ; 
 
 My light, where'er I go, 
 My bird, wlieii ])risim-bound. 
 My haiid-in-haiul eomiianion, — no, 
 My prayers sluill hold thee round. 
 
 ^ 
 
 To say " He has departed " — 
 
 " His voice " — " his face " — is gone ; 
 To feel impatient-hearted. 
 Yet feel we must bear on ; 
 Ah, I could not endure 
 To whisper of such woe. 
 Unless 1 felt this sleep insure 
 That it will not be so. 
 
 Y'es, still he 's fixed, and sleeping ! 
 
 This sUence too the while, — 
 Its very hush and creeping 
 Seem whispering us a smile : 
 Something divine and dim 
 Seems going by one's ear. 
 Like parting wings of Seraphim, 
 
 Who say, " We 've finished here." 
 
 THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 
 
 King Francis was a liearty king, and loved a 
 royal sport. 
 
 And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on 
 the court ; 
 
 The nobles tilled the benches, with the ladies in 
 their pride, 
 
 And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with 
 one for whom he sighed : 
 
 And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crown- 
 ing show, 
 
 Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal 
 beasts below. 
 
 Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laugh- 
 ing jaws ; 
 
 They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a 
 wind went with their paws ; 
 
 With wallowing might and stifled roar they 
 rolled on one another. 
 
 Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a 
 thunderous smother ; 
 
 The bloody foam above the bars came whisking 
 through the air; 
 
 Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're 
 better here than thei-e." 
 
 De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous 
 
 lively dame 
 With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which 
 
 alway seemed the same ; 
 She thought, " T!ie count my lover is brave as 
 
 brave can be ; 
 He surely would do wondrous things to show his 
 
 love of me ; 
 King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is 
 
 divine ; 
 I 'II drop my glove, to prove his love ; great 
 
 irlorv will be mine." 
 
 — 9> 
 
a- 
 
 LOVE-LETTERS MADE IN FLOWERS. 
 
 7G7 
 
 -^ 
 
 She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then 
 
 looked at him and smiled ; 
 He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the 
 
 lions wild ; 
 The leap was quick, return was quick, he has 
 
 regained his place, 
 Then threw the glove, but not with love, rigiit 
 
 in the lady's t'aee. 
 "By Heaven!" said Francis, " rightly done ! " 
 
 and he rose from where he sat : 
 " No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a 
 
 task like tiiat." 
 
 THE NILE, 
 
 It flows through old iiushed Egypt and its sands, 
 Like some grave mighty tiiought threading a 
 
 dream. 
 And times and things, as in that vision, seem 
 Keeping along it their eternal stands, — 
 Caves, pillars, pyramids, the slieplierd bands 
 That roamed through tlie young world, the glory 
 
 extreme 
 Of high Sesostris, and that soutliern beam. 
 The laughing queen that caught the world's great 
 
 hands. 
 Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, 
 As of a world left empty of its throng. 
 And the void weighs on us ; and then we wake, 
 And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along 
 'Twixt villages, and think how we siiall take 
 Our own calm journey on for human sake. 
 
 ARIADNE WAKING. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 TllK moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking. 
 
 When Ariadne in her bower was waking; 
 
 Her eyelids still were closing, and she lieard 
 
 But indistinctly yet a little bird, 
 
 Tliat in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun. 
 
 Seemed answering another distant one. 
 
 She waked, but stirred not, only just to please 
 
 Her pillow-nestling cheek ; while the full seas. 
 
 The birds, the leaves, the luUing love o'ernight, 
 
 The happy thouglit of the returning light, 
 
 Tlie sweet, self-willed content, conspired to keep 
 
 Her senses lingering in the feel of sleep ; 
 
 And with a little smile she seemed to say, 
 
 " I know my love is near me, and 't is day." 
 
 SONG TO CEKES. 
 
 Tnou that art our queen again. 
 
 And may in the sun be seen again. 
 
 Come, Ceres, come, 
 
 For the war 's gone home. 
 
 And the fields are quiet and green again. 
 
 t-^ 
 
 The air, dear goddess, sighs for thee. 
 
 The light-heart brooks arise for thee. 
 
 And the poppies red 
 
 On their wistful bed 
 
 Turn up their dark blue eyes for thee. 
 
 Laugh out in the loose green jerkin 
 That 's fit for a goddess to work in, 
 ^\'ith shoulders brown. 
 And the wlieaten crown 
 About thy temples perking. 
 
 And with thee came Stout Heart in. 
 
 And Toil that sleeps his cart in. 
 
 Brown Exercise, 
 
 Tlie ruddy and wise, 
 
 His bathed forelocks parting. 
 
 And Dancing too, that 's lither 
 
 Than willow or birch, drop hither. 
 
 To thread the place 
 
 With a finishing grace. 
 
 And carry our smooth eyes with her. 
 
 ABO0 BEN ADEEM, 
 
 Abou Bkn Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 
 And saw, within the moonlight in his room. 
 Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. 
 An angel writing in a book of gold : 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adiiem bold. 
 And to the presence in the room he said, 
 "What writest thou?" The vision raised its 
 
 liead. 
 And, witii a look made of all sweet accord. 
 Answered, "The names of those who love the 
 
 Lord." 
 " And is mine one ? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
 Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
 But clieerly stiU ; and said, " I pray thee, then. 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 
 The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
 It came again with a great wakening liglit. 
 And showed the names whom love of God had 
 
 blessed. 
 And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 
 
 LOVE-LETTERS MADE IN FLOWERS, 
 
 ON A PRINT OF ONE OP THEM IN A BOOK. 
 
 An exquisite invention this. 
 
 Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss, — 
 
 This art of writing billet-doux 
 
 In buds, and odors, and bright lines ! 
 
 Ill saying all one feels and thinks 
 
 In clever daffodils and pinks ; 
 
 In puns of tulips ; and in phrases. 
 
 -* 
 
a— 
 
 ■^ 
 
 768 
 
 BARTON. 
 
 Cliarniiiig for their truth, of daisies ; 
 Uttering, as well as silence may, 
 Tlie sweetest words the sweetest way. 
 How (it too for tlie lady's bosom ! 
 The [dace where bilh't-doux repose 'em. 
 
 What delight in some sweet spot 
 Coiiibiniiig love with garden plot, 
 At once to cidtivate one's llowers 
 And one's epistolary powers ! 
 Growing one's own choice words and fancies 
 In orange tubs, and l)eds of pansies ; 
 One's sighs and passionate declarations, 
 In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; 
 Seeing how far one's stocks wdl reach; 
 Taking due care one's flowers of speech 
 To guard from blight as well as bathos. 
 And watering, every day, one's pathos ! 
 
 A letter comes, just gathered. We 
 Dote on its tender brilliancy. 
 Inhale its delicate expressions 
 Of halm and pea, and its confessions 
 Made with as sweet a Maiden's Blush 
 As ever morn bedewed on bush : 
 ('T is in reply to one of ours. 
 Made of the most convincing flowers.) 
 
 Then, after we have kissed its wit 
 
 And iieart, in water putting it 
 
 (To keep its remarks fresh), go round 
 
 Our little eloquent plot of ground. 
 
 And with enchanted iumds compose 
 
 Our answer, — all of lily and rose. 
 
 Of tulierosc and of violet. 
 
 And Little Darling (mignonette) ; 
 
 Of Look-at-me and Call-me-to-you 
 
 (Words, that wliile lliey greet, go llirough you) ; 
 
 Of Tliouglits, of Flames, Forget-me-not, 
 
 Bridcwort, — in short, the wliolc blest lot 
 
 Of voucliers for a lifelong kiss, — 
 
 And literally, breathing bliss ! 
 
 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE, 
 
 IIow sweet it were, if witiiout feeble fright, 
 Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
 An angel came to us, and we eo\dd bear 
 To see liim issue from the silent air 
 At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
 His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
 News of dear friends, and children who have never 
 Been dead indeed, — as we sliall know forever. 
 Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
 About our hearths, — angels, that are to be. 
 Or may be if they will, and we ])reparc 
 Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — 
 A eliild, a friend, a wife whose soft lu-art sings 
 In uni.son witli ours, breeding its future wings. 
 
 THE RIVAL OF THE ROSE, 
 
 Know you not our only 
 Kival flower — the human ? 
 
 Loveliest weight on lightest foot, 
 Joy -abundant woman? 
 
 JENNY KISSED ME, 
 
 Jenny kissed me when we met. 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
 
 Time, you thief! who love to get 
 Sweets into your list, put that in. 
 
 Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; 
 
 Say that health and wealtli have missed me ; 
 
 Say I 'm growing old, but add — 
 
 Jenny kissed me ! 
 
 BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 1784-1849. 
 
 BISHOP HUBERT. 
 
 'T IS the hour of even now, 
 
 When, with pensive, thougiitful brow. 
 
 Seeking truths as yet unknown. 
 
 Bishop Hubert walks alone. 
 
 Fain would he, by earnest thought. 
 
 Nature's secret laws be taught ; 
 
 Learn the destinies of man. 
 
 And Creation's wonders scan. 
 
 From these data he would trace 
 
 Hidden mysteries of grace, 
 
 Dive into a deeper theme, 
 
 Solve Iledemjit ion's glorious scheme. 
 
 So lie flings aside to-day 
 
 Mitre's pomp and crozicr's sway. 
 
 Seeks the desert's silent scene 
 
 And the marge of ocean green. 
 
 Far he has not roamed before, 
 
 On that solitary shore. 
 
 He has found a little child. 
 
 By its seeming jilay beguiled. 
 
 On tlie drifted, barren sand 
 
 It has scooped, with lialiy liand. 
 
 Small recess, in which might float 
 
 Sportive fairy's tiny boat. 
 
 From a hollow shell, the while. 
 
 See ! 't is filling, with a smile, 
 
 Pool, as shallow as may be, 
 
 Witli the -waters of tlie sea. 
 
 Hear the smiling bishop ask. 
 
 What can mean such iid'ant task ? 
 
 Mark that infant's answer plain : 
 
 " 'T is to hold yon mighty main I " 
 
 " Foolish triflcr," Hubert cries, 
 
 ^ 
 
 --g^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS OF PEESTON MILL. 
 
 7G9 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Open, if tliou canst, thine eyes. 
 Can a shallow scooped by thee 
 Hope to hold yon boundless sea ? 
 Know'st thou not its space transcends 
 All thy fancy comprehends ? 
 Ope thy childish eyes, and know 
 Fathomless its depths below." 
 Soon that child, on ocean's brim, 
 Opes its eyes, and turns to him ! 
 Well does Hubert read its look, — 
 Glance of innocent rebuke; 
 While a voice is heard to say : 
 " If the pool, thus scooped in play. 
 Cannot hold yon mighty sea, 
 Vain must thy researches be. 
 Canst thou hope to make thine own 
 Secrets known to God alone ? 
 Can thy faculties confined 
 Fathom the Eternal Mind? " 
 Bishop Hubert turns away ; 
 He has learut enough to-day, — 
 Learnt how little man can know 
 While a pilgrim here below. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 1784-1843. 
 
 IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S EAME, 
 
 It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
 An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on 
 
 the tree. 
 The lark shall sing me hame in my ain coun tree ; 
 It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 
 The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa'. 
 The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; 
 But I '11 water 't wi' the blude of usurping 
 
 tyrannic. 
 An' green it will grow in my ain countree. 
 It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
 An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 
 There 's naught now frae ruin my country can 
 
 save. 
 But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave. 
 That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie, 
 May rise again and light for their ain cointrcc. 
 It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 
 The great nojv are gane, a' who ventured to save. 
 The new grass is springing on the tap o' their 
 grave ; 
 
 But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in 
 
 my ee, 
 " I '11 shine on ye yet in your ain countree." 
 It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
 An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 
 MY NANIE-O. 
 
 Red rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae. 
 
 Mirk is the night and rainie-o. 
 Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, 
 
 I 'U gang and see my Nanie-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 My kind and winsome Nanie-o, 
 She holds my heart in love's dear bands. 
 
 And nane can do 't but Nanie-o. 
 
 In preaching time sae meek she stands, 
 
 Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o, 
 I cannot get ae glimpse of grace. 
 
 For thieving looks at Nanie-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 The world 's in love with Nanie-o ; 
 That heart is hardly worth the wear 
 
 That wadua love my Nanie-o. 
 
 My breast can scarce contain my heart. 
 
 When dancing she moves fincly-o ; 
 I guess what heaven is by her eyes, 
 
 They sparkle sae divinely -o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie-o ; 
 Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, 
 
 And says, I dwell with Nanie-o. 
 
 Tell not, thou star at gray daylight. 
 
 O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o. 
 My footsteps 'mang the morning dew 
 
 When coming frae my Nanie-o ; 
 My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 
 
 Nane ken o' me and Nanie-o ; 
 The stars and moon may tell 't aboon. 
 
 They winna wrang my Nanie-o ! 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS OF PEESTON MILL, 
 
 TuE lark had left the evening cloud. 
 
 The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne, 
 Its gentle breath amang the flowers 
 
 Scarce stirred the thistle's tap o' down ; 
 The dappled swallow left the pool. 
 
 The stars were blinking owre the hdl. 
 As I met, amang the hawthorns green. 
 
 The lovely lass of Preston Mill. 
 
 Her naked feet, amang the grass, 
 
 Shone like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair ; 
 
 Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks. 
 Dark ending owre her shoulders bare ; 
 
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 770 
 
 CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 <Q- 
 
 Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth ; 
 
 Her lips had words and wit at will, 
 Aiid heaven seemed looking through her een. 
 
 The lovely lass of Preston Jlill. 
 
 Quo' I, " Sweet lass, will ye gaug wi' me, 
 
 Wliere blackcocks craw, and plovers cry ? 
 Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep. 
 
 Six vales arc lowing wi' iny kye : 
 I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass. 
 
 By Nithsdale's holmes an' monie a hiU " ; — 
 She hung her hc:id like a dew-bent rose, 
 
 The lovely hxss of Preston Mdl. 
 
 Quo' I, " Sweet maiden, look uae down, 
 
 But gie 's a kiss, and gaug wi' me" : 
 A lovelier face, 0, never looked up, 
 
 And the tears were drapping frae her c'e : 
 " I hae a lad, wha 's far awa', 
 
 That weel could win a woman's will ; 
 My heart 's already fu' o' love," 
 
 Quo' the lovely lass of Preston MiU. 
 
 " Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass, 
 
 To seek for love in a far oountree ? " 
 Her tears dra])ped down Uke simmer dew : 
 
 I fain wad kissed them frae her e'e. 
 I took but ane o' her comely cheek ; 
 
 "Tor pity's sake, kind sir, be stiU ! 
 My heart is fu' o' other love," 
 
 Quo' the lovely lass of Preston MiU. 
 
 She stretched to heaven her twa white hands. 
 
 And lifted up her watery e'e ; — 
 " Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God, 
 
 Or light is gladsome to my c'e ; 
 While woods grow green, and burns lin clear. 
 
 Till my last drap o' blood be still. 
 My heart shall hand nae other love," 
 
 Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill. 
 
 There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks. 
 
 And Nith's romantic vale is fu' ; 
 By lanely Cluden's hermit stream 
 
 Dwells inouie a gentle dame, I trow ! 
 0, they are lights of a gladsome kind, 
 
 As ever shone on vale or hill ; 
 But there 's a light puts them a' out, — 
 
 Tlic lovely lass of Preston Mill ! 
 
 OANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD. 
 
 Gane were Init the winter cauld. 
 And gane were but tlie snaw, 
 
 I could sleep in the wild woods, 
 Where primroses blaw. 
 
 Cauld 's the snaw at my head, 
 And cauld at my feet. 
 
 And the finger o' death 's at my een, 
 Closing them to sleep. 
 
 Let nane tell ray father. 
 
 Or my mither sae dear : 
 I '11 meet them baith in heaven 
 
 At the spring o' tlie year. 
 
 THE POET'S BRrOAL-DAY SONQ, 
 
 O, MY love 's Uke the steadfast sun. 
 Or streams that deepen as they run ; 
 Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 
 Nor moments between sighs and tears. 
 Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. 
 Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain ; 
 Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
 To sober joys and soften woes, 
 Can make my heart or fancy flee 
 One moment, my sweet wU'e, from thee. 
 
 Even whUe I muse I see thee sit 
 
 In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 
 
 Fair, gentle as when first I sued. 
 
 Ye seem, but of sedatcr mood ; 
 
 Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
 
 As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 
 
 We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 
 
 Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 
 
 Or lingered mid the faUing dew, 
 
 When looks were fond and words were few. 
 
 Though I see smiUng at thy feet 
 rive sons and ae fair daughter sweet, 
 Aud time and care and birthtime woes 
 Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, 
 To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
 Wliate'er charms me in tale or song. 
 "VVhcn words descend like dews unsought. 
 With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 
 Aud Fancy in her heaven flies free. 
 They come, my love, they come from thee. 
 
 0, when more thought we gave, of old, 
 To silver than some give to gold, 
 'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
 How we should deck our humble bower : 
 'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee 
 The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; 
 Aud sweeter still to choose and twine 
 A garland for that brow of thine, — 
 A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
 While rivers flow and woods grow grccu. 
 
 At times there come, as come there ought. 
 
 Grave moments of sedater thought, 
 
 When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
 
 One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
 
 And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower. 
 
 Shines like a rainbow through the shower ; 
 
 ■^ 
 
&~ 
 
 THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE. 
 
 771 
 
 -ft 
 
 0, then I see, wliile seated nigh, 
 A motlior's heart shine in tliine eye, 
 And proud resolve and purpose meek 
 Speak of thee more tlian words can speak. 
 I think this wedded wife of mine 
 Tlie best of all things not divine. 
 
 SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN, 
 
 She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie. 
 She 's gane to dwall in heaven : 
 
 " Ye 're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God, 
 " For dwaUing out o' heaven ! " 
 
 0, what '11 she do in heaven, my lassie ? 
 
 0, v.-hat '11 she do in heaven ? 
 She '11 mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, 
 
 An' make them mair meet for lieaveu. 
 
 Slie was beloved by a', my lassie. 
 
 She was beloved by a' ; 
 But au angel fell in love wi' her, 
 
 Au' took her frae us a'. 
 
 Lowly there thou lies, my lassie, 
 
 Lowly there thou lies ; 
 A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, 
 
 Nor frae it will arise ! 
 
 Fu' soon I '11 follow thee, my lassie, 
 
 Fu' soon I '11 follow tiiee ; 
 Thou left me nanglit to eovet ahin', 
 
 But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 
 
 I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
 I looked on thy death-eold face ; 
 
 Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, 
 An' fading in its place. 
 
 I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
 
 I looked on thy death-shut eye ; 
 An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven 
 
 Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. 
 
 Tiiy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, 
 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
 But gane was the holy breath o' heaven 
 
 That sang the evening psalm. 
 
 There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie. 
 There 's naught but dust now mine ; 
 
 My soul 's wi' thee i' the eauld grave. 
 An' why should I stay behin' ! 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A PLOWDfa SEA. 
 
 A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 A wind that follows fast, 
 
 And fills the white aud rustling sail. 
 And bends the gallant mast ; 
 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 Wliile, like the eagle free. 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 " for a soft and gentle wind ! " 
 
 I heard a fair one cry ; 
 But give to me the snoring breeze. 
 
 And wliite waves heaving high ; 
 And white waves heaving high, my boys, 
 
 The good ship tight and free, — 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There 's tempest in yon homed moon, 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud ; 
 And hark the music, mariners, 
 
 The wind is piping loud ; 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys. 
 
 The lightning flashing free, — 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 THOU EAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE, 
 
 "Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 
 
 By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
 And by a' the lowing stars in heaven. 
 
 That thou wad aye be mine ! 
 And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, 
 
 And by that kind heart o' thine. 
 By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, 
 
 That thou shalt aye be mine ! " 
 
 Then foid fa' the hands that wad loose sie bands. 
 
 An' the heart that wad part sie love ; 
 But there 's nae hand can loose the band, 
 
 Save the finger o' God above. 
 Though tlie wee, wee cot maun be my bield. 
 
 An' my claithing e'er sae mean, 
 I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' love, 
 
 Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean ! 
 
 Her white arm wad be a pillow to me, 
 
 Fu' safter than the down. 
 An' Love wad winnow owre us his kind, kind 
 wings. 
 
 An' sweetly I 'd sleep an' soun'. 
 "Come here to me, thou lass o' my love. 
 
 Come here and kneel wi' me ; 
 The morning is fu' o' the presence o' God, 
 
 An' I canna pray but thee. 
 
 "The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new 
 flowers. 
 
 The wee birds sing kindly an' hie. 
 Our gude-man leans owre his kail-yard dyke. 
 
 An' a blythe auld body is he. 
 
 -P 
 
(Q- 
 
 PALMEESTON. — RODGER. — DARLEY. 
 
 ■ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlie Book maun be taen whan the carle comes 
 liame, 
 
 Wi' the holie psalmodie, 
 And thou maun speak o' nic to thy God, 
 
 And 1 will speak o' thee ! " 
 
 HENRY JOHN TEMPLE, 
 
 VISCOUNT PALMERSTON* 
 
 1784 - 1865. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT THE HOT WELLS, BRISTOL. 
 
 Whoe'kr, like me, with trembling anguish brings 
 His dearest earthly treasure to these springs ; 
 Whoe'er, like me, to soothe distress and pain, 
 Shall court these salutary springs in vain ; 
 Condemned, like me, to hear the faint reply, 
 To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye. 
 From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death, 
 And watch iu dumb despair the shortening breath ; 
 If chance should bring him to this humble line. 
 Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine. 
 Ordained to love the partner of my breast. 
 Whose virtue warmed me, and whose beauty 
 
 blessed ; 
 Framed every tie that binds the heart to prove. 
 Her duty friendship, and her friendship love ; 
 But yet remembering that the parting sigh 
 Appoints the just to slumber, not to die. 
 The starting tear I cheeked, — I kissed tlie rod. 
 And not to earth resigned her, — but to God. 
 
 o»Ko 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER. 
 
 1784-1846. 
 
 BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK. 
 
 Beii.vve yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 And dinna be sae rude to me, 
 
 As kiss me sae l)efore folk. 
 It wouldna give me mcikle paiu. 
 Gin we were seen and heard by nane. 
 To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane ; 
 
 But gudesake ! no before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, — 
 Whate'er you do when out o' view, 
 
 Be cautious aye before folk ! 
 
 Consider, lad, how folks will crack, 
 And what a great all'air they '11 iiiak' 
 
 • Lord Palmcrston was n fluent versifier as well as an 
 accomplislied statesman. Kew renders of Knplisli poetry are 
 aware tliat at any period of Iiis life he toyed witli the Muses. 
 
 O' naething but a simple smack, 
 
 That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, — 
 
 Nor gi'e the tongue o' old and young 
 Occasion to come o'er folk. 
 
 I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as free 
 As ony modest lass should be ; 
 But yet it doesna do to see 
 
 Sic freedom used before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, — 
 I '11 ne'er submit again to it ; 
 
 So mind you that — before folk ! 
 
 Ye tell me that my face is fair : 
 It may be sae — I dinna care — 
 But ue'er again gar't blush so sair 
 
 As ye hae done before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' bei'ore folk, — 
 Nor heat my checks wi' your mad freaks. 
 
 But aye be douce before folk ! 
 
 Ye tell me that my lips are sweet : 
 
 Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit ; — 
 
 At ony rate, it 's hardly meet 
 
 To prie their sweets before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, — 
 
 Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place, 
 But surely no before folk ! 
 
 But gui yc really do insist 
 
 That I should suffer to be kissed, 
 
 Gae get a license frae the priest. 
 
 And mak' me yours before folk ! 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, — 
 And when we 're ane, baith llesh and bane. 
 
 Ye may tak' ten — before folk ! 
 
 GEORGE DARLEY. 
 
 1785-1849. 
 
 SONG, FROM "ETHELSTAN." 
 
 O'kr the wUd ganuct's bath 
 Come the Norse coursers ! 
 O'er the whale's heritance 
 Gloriously steering ! 
 With beaked heads peering, 
 Dceii-pluuging, high-rearing, 
 Tossing their foam abroad, 
 Shaking white manes aloft, 
 Creamy-necked, )iitehy-ribbed. 
 Steeds of the Ocean ! 
 
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f 
 
 THE STAR OP BETHLEHEM. 
 
 773 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 O'er tlie sun's mirror greea 
 Come the Norse coursers ! 
 Trampling its glassy breadth 
 Into bright fragments ! 
 Hollow-backed, huge-bosomed, 
 Fraught with mailed riders, 
 Clanging with liauberks, 
 Shield, spear, and battle-axe. 
 Canvas-winged, cable-reiued. 
 Steeds of the Ocean ! 
 
 O'er the wind's ploughing-field 
 Come the Norse coursers ! 
 By a hundred each ridden. 
 To the bloody feast bidden, 
 They rush in their fierceness 
 And ravine all round them ! 
 Their shoulders enriching 
 With fleecy-light plunder, 
 Fire-spreading, foe-spuming. 
 Steeds of the Ocean ! 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE MAT. 
 
 Hebe 's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo- 
 buds strewn, 
 To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of 
 the May ! 
 Here 's a cushion of moss for your dehcate shoou, 
 And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay ! 
 
 Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you. 
 Such a beautiful wreath is for beauty alone ! 
 
 Here 's a golden king-cup, brimming over with 
 dew. 
 To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own ! 
 
 Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the 
 dale. 
 That the nymph of the wave on your wrists 
 doth bestow ; 
 Here 's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes 
 to veU, 
 Or to lie on that bosom like snow upon snow. 
 
 Here 's a myrtle enwreathed with a jessamine 
 band, 
 To express the fond twining of beauty and 
 youth ; 
 Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand. 
 And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of 
 Truth ! 
 
 Then around you we '11 dance, and around you 
 we '11 sing ! 
 To soft pipe and sweet tabor wc '11 foot it away ! 
 And the hills, and the vales, and the forests shall 
 ring 
 Wliile we hail you our lovely young Queen of 
 the May. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 1785-1806. 
 
 TO m EABLT PEIME08E. 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sii'e ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 
 
 Was nursed in whirling storms. 
 
 And cradled iu the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young Spring first questioned Win- 
 ter's sway. 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the year. 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 
 
 Unnoticed and alone. 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
 Of chill adversity ; iu some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head. 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 Wliile every bleachiug breeze that on her blows. 
 Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
 TEE STAB OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 When marshalled on the nightly plain, 
 The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
 
 One star alone, of all the train, 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 From every host, from every gem ; 
 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks. 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode. 
 
 The storm was loud, the night was dark ; 
 The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed 
 
 The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze. 
 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 
 
 When suddenly a star arose, 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all, 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 
 And through the storm and danger's thrall. 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 Now safely moored, — my perils o'er, 
 I '11 sing, first in night's diadem, 
 
 Forever and forevermore. 
 
 The Star, —the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 -P 
 
ce- 
 
 774 
 
 TENNANT. — WILSON. 
 
 ■fO 
 
 ^ 
 
 WILLIAM TENNANT.* 
 
 17SS - 1848. 
 
 ANSTEK FAIK. 
 
 I WISH I had a cottage snug and neat 
 Upon the top of niauy-fouutaincd Ide, 
 
 That I might thence, in holy fervor, greet 
 The bright-gowned Morning tripping up her 
 side: 
 
 jVnd when liie low Sun's gtorv-buskined feet 
 Walk on the blue wave of the Jigean tide, 
 
 O, I would kneel me down, and worship there 
 
 The God who garnished out a world so bright and 
 fair! 
 
 The saffron-elbowed Morning np the slope 
 Of heaven canaries in lier jewelled shoes, 
 
 And tiirows o'er Kelly-law's siieep-nibbled top 
 Her golden apron dripping kindly dews ; 
 
 And never, since she first began to hop 
 
 Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams pro- 
 fuse, 
 
 Shoue there a dawn so glorious and so gay. 
 
 As shines the merry dawn of Anster market-day. 
 
 Round through the vast circumference of sky 
 One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, 
 
 Save in the east some fleeces bright of dye. 
 That strike the hem of heaven with woolly gold, 
 
 Whereon are hapjiy angels wont to lie 
 Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled, 
 
 That they may spy the precious light of God, 
 
 Flung from the blessed east o'er the fair earth 
 abroad. 
 
 Tlie fair earth laughs through all her boundless 
 range, 
 
 Heaving her green hills high to greet the beam ; 
 City and village, steejile, cot, and grange. 
 
 Gilt as with nature's pnrest leaf-gold seem ; 
 The heaths and upland nmirs, and fallows, change 
 
 Their barren brown into a ruddy gleam, 
 
 * Tennaut was a Scotcliman. Like our countryman, Tlal- 
 Icck, ho wa3 a nuTt'lmnt's cleik ; but llis leisure liours were 
 devoted to the study of literature, and his acquircuicnls ex- 
 tended to a knowledge of Hebrew. In 181S. after the pnhlica- 
 tioD of Austfr fiiir, he became a jiarish schuotiuaster, on a sti- 
 pend of £40 a year; Imt was afterwards aplMinted a pi-ofcssor 
 in St. Mary's College. St. Andrews. Jtister Fair appeared in 
 1813. The author thus anticipated both Frere anil Byron in 
 the use of the oUnra rimn stanra for scrio-eomical poetry. 
 Mr. D. M. Moir (the " Helta" of IthcheooJ's Miijjazine) con- 
 siders two lines in the following stanza "as bordering on the 
 sublime " ; — 
 
 " Comes next from Ross.shire and from Sutherland 
 The horny.knucklcd kilted Uighiandinau: 
 ll-oni where upon the rociy Caithuesa strttnd 
 
 lircuks tkf Itiihj trnre thiil tit the Pole bet/an^ 
 Alul where liOclitine fi-om her prolilic sand 
 
 Her herrnips gives to feed each Iwiilering cian, 
 Arrive the hntgiu'-sbod men of generous eve. 
 
 I'laided and lirceebless all. with Kuan's hairy thigh.'* 
 
 And, on ten thousand dew-bent leaves and sprays. 
 Twinkle ten thousand suns, and fling their petty 
 rays. 
 
 Up from their nests and fields of tender corn 
 Full merrily the little skylarks spring. 
 
 And on their dew-bedabbled pinions borne. 
 Mount to the heaven's blue keystone flickering; 
 
 They turn their plume-soft bosoms to the morn, 
 .\nd litiil tlie genial light, and eheerly sing ; 
 
 Echo tlie gladsome hills and valleys round, 
 
 As lialf the bells of Fil'e ring loud and swtU the 
 sound. 
 
 For when the first u])slo])ing ray was flung 
 On Anster-steeple's swallow-harboring top, 
 
 Its bell and all the bells around were rung 
 Sonorous, jangling, loud, without a stop ; 
 
 For, toiliiigly, each bitter beadle swung. 
 
 Even till he smoked witii sweat, liis greasy rope, 
 
 .■\.nd almost broke his bell-wheel, ushering in 
 
 The morn of Anster Fair with tiukle-tankUng din. 
 
 And, from our steeple's pinnacle outspread. 
 The town's long colors flare and flap on high. 
 
 Whose anchor, blazoned fair in green and red, 
 Curls, pliant to eacii breeze that wiiistlcs by ; 
 
 Whilst on tiie boltsprit, stern, and topmast Lead 
 Of brig and slooji that in tlie harbor lie. 
 
 Streams the red gaudery of flags in air. 
 
 All to s;dute and grace the morn of Anster Fair. 
 
 Anster Fair. 
 
 JOHN WILSON.* 
 
 1785- 1854. 
 
 THE SHIP. 
 
 And lo ! upon the murmuring waves 
 
 A glorious shape appearing ! 
 
 A broad-winged vessel, through the shower 
 
 Of glimmering lustre steering ! 
 
 As if the beauteous ship enjoyed 
 
 The beauty of the sea. 
 
 She lifteth up her stately head 
 
 And saileth joyfully. 
 
 A lovely path before her lies, 
 
 A lovely path l)ehind; 
 
 She sails amiilst the loveliness 
 
 Like a thing witli heart and mind. 
 
 Fit ])ilgrim through a scene so fair. 
 
 Slowly she beareth on ; 
 
 A glorious phantom of the deep, 
 
 lliseu up to meet the moon. 
 
 The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall 
 
 • It is hardly necessary to say that these extracts from 
 Professor Wilson's poems do scant justice even lo his poetic 
 faculty. He belongs specially to tlial class of writers who 
 
 are jioets in their prose writings. 
 
 * 
 
a- 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. 
 
 775 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, 
 
 And the qniet voice of the rocking sea 
 
 To cheer the gliding vision sings. 
 
 O, ne'er did sky and water blend 
 
 In such a holy sleep. 
 
 Or bathe in brighter quietude 
 
 A roamer of the deep. 
 
 So far the peaceful soul of heaven 
 
 Hath settled on tlie sea, 
 
 It seeuis as if this weight of calm 
 
 Were from eternity. 
 
 Isle of Palms. 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE SHIP. 
 
 But list ! a low and moaning sound 
 
 At distance heard, like a spirit's song, 
 
 And now it reigns above, around, 
 
 As if it called the ship along. 
 
 The moon is sunk ; and a clouded gray 
 
 Declares that her course is run, 
 
 And like a god who brings the day, 
 
 Up mounts the glorious sun. 
 
 Soon as his liglit has warmed the seas, 
 
 From the parting cloud fresh blows tiie breeze; 
 
 And that is the spirit whose well-known song 
 
 Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 
 
 No fears iiath she ; her giant form 
 
 O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm. 
 
 Majestically calm would go 
 
 Mid the deep darkness white as snow ! 
 
 But gently now the small waves glide 
 
 Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. 
 
 So stately her bearing, so proud her array. 
 
 The main she will traverse forever aiul aye. 
 
 M:uiy ports will exult at tlie gleam of her mast; — 
 
 Hush ! iiush ! thou vain dreamer ! tliis hour is licr 
 
 last. 
 Five huiulred souls in one instant of dread 
 Are hurried o'er the dock ; 
 And fast the miserable ship 
 Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
 Her keel bath struck on a hidden rock, 
 Her planks are torn asunder. 
 And down come her masts with a reeling slioek. 
 And a hideous crash hke thunder. 
 Her sails are draggled iu the brine, 
 Tiiat gladdened late the skies. 
 And her pendant, that ki^ed the fair moonshine, 
 Down many a fathom lies. 
 Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 
 Gleamed softly from below, 
 And ilung a warm and sunny flush 
 O'er the wreaths of murm\iring snow. 
 To the coral rocks are hurrying down, 
 To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 
 O, many a dream was in the ship 
 An hour before her death ; 
 
 And sights of home with sighs disturbed 
 
 The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
 
 Instead of the murmur of the sea, 
 
 The sailor heard the humming tree 
 
 Alive through all its leaves, 
 
 The hum of the spreading sycamore 
 
 That grows before liis cottage-door. 
 
 And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
 
 His arms enclosed a blooming boy. 
 
 Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy 
 
 To the dangers his father had passed ; 
 
 And ills wife, — by turns she wept and smiled, 
 
 As she looked on the father of her child. 
 
 Returned to her heart at last. 
 
 He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, 
 
 And the rush of waters is in his soul. 
 
 Astounded, the reeUug deck he paces. 
 
 Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; 
 
 The wliole ship's crew are there ! 
 
 Wailings arouud and overhead, 
 
 Brave spirits stupefied or dead. 
 
 And madness and despair. 
 
 Isle of Palms. 
 
 LINES WKITTEN IN A HIGHLAlfD GLEN. 
 
 To whom belongs this valley fair, 
 That sleeps beneath the filmy air. 
 
 Even hke a living thing ? 
 Silent as infant at the breast, 
 Save a still sound that speaks of rest, 
 
 That streamlet's murmuring ! 
 
 The heavens appear to love this vale ; 
 Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, 
 
 Or mid the silence he ! 
 By the blue areli, this beauteous earth. 
 Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth, 
 
 Seems bound unto the sky. 
 
 that this lovely vale were mine ! 
 Then, from glad youth to calm deehne. 
 
 My years would gently glide ; 
 Hope would rejoice in endless dreams. 
 And memory's oft-returning gleams 
 
 By peace be sanctified. 
 
 Tliere would unto my soul be given, 
 From presence of that gracious heaven, 
 
 A piety sublime ! 
 And thoughts would come of mystic mood. 
 To make in this deep sohtude 
 
 Eternity of Time ! 
 
 And did I ask to whom belonged 
 This vale ? I feel that I have wronged 
 
 Nature's most gracious soul ! 
 She spreads her glories o'er the earth. 
 And all her children, from their birth. 
 
 Are joint heirs of the whole ! 
 
 ^ 
 
cpr 
 
 77G 
 
 MITFORD. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Yea, long as nature's humblest child 
 Hath kept her temple undeliled 
 
 By sinful sacrilice, 
 Earth's fairest scenes are all his own ; 
 He is a monarch, and His throne 
 
 Is built amid the skies ! 
 
 MART. 
 
 TuREE days before my Mary's death 
 
 We walked by Grasmere shore ; 
 " Sweet lake ! " she said, with faltering breSth, 
 
 " I ue'er shall see thee more ! " 
 
 Then turning round her languid head, 
 
 She looked me in tlie face. 
 And whispered, " When thy friend is dead, 
 
 Remember this lone place." 
 
 Vainly I struggled at a smile, 
 
 That did my fears betray ; 
 It seemed that on our darling isle 
 
 Foreboding darkness lay. 
 
 My Mary's words were words of truth ; 
 
 None now behold the maid ; 
 Amid the tears of age and youth. 
 
 She in her grave was laid. 
 
 Long days, long nights, I ween, were past 
 
 Ere ceased lier funeral knell; 
 But to the spot I went at last 
 
 Where she had breathed " farewell ! " 
 
 Methought, I saw the phantom stand 
 
 Beside the peaceful wave ; 
 I felt the pressure of her hand, — 
 
 Then looked towards her grave. 
 
 Fair, fair beneath the evening sky 
 
 The quiet churchyard lay : 
 The tall pine-grove most solemnly 
 
 Hung mute above her clay. 
 
 Dearly she loved their arching spi-ead, 
 
 Their music wild and sweet, 
 And, as she wished on her death-bed. 
 
 Was buried at their feet. 
 
 Around her grave a beauteous fence 
 Of wild-flowers shed their breath. 
 
 Smiling like infant innocence 
 Within tile gloom of death. 
 
 Such flowers from bank of mountain brook 
 
 At eve we used to bring, 
 AVhen every little mossy nook 
 
 Betrayed returning spring. 
 
 Oft had I fixed the s-imple wrcatli 
 
 Upon her virgin breast ; 
 But now such (lowers as formed it, breathe 
 
 Around licr bed of rest. 
 
 Yet all within my silent soul. 
 As the hushed air, was calm ; 
 
 The natural tears that slowly stole, 
 Assuaged my grief like balm. 
 
 The air that seemed so tliick and dull 
 
 For months unto my eye ; 
 Ah me ! how bright and beautiful 
 
 It floated on the sky ! 
 
 A trance of high and solemn bliss 
 
 From purest ether eanic ; 
 Mid such a heavenly scene as this, 
 
 Deatli is an empty name ! 
 
 The memory of the past returned 
 
 Like music to my heart, — 
 It seemed that causelessly I mourned. 
 
 When we were told to part. 
 
 " God's mercy," to myself I said, 
 " To both our souls is given, — 
 
 To me, sojourning on earth's shade ; 
 To her, — a saint in heaven ! " 
 
 THE EVENING CLOUD. 
 
 A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : 
 Long had I watched the glory moving ou 
 O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
 Tranquil its spirit seemed,- and floated slow ! 
 Even in its very motion there was rest; 
 While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, 
 AV'afted the traveller to the beauteous west. 
 Emljlem, methought, of the departed soul. 
 To whose white robe the gleam of blissis given ; 
 And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
 Right omvard to the golden gates of heaven, 
 AMiere to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, 
 And tells to man his glorious destinies. 
 
 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.* 
 
 178C-18S6. 
 
 REASONS FOR MIRTH. 
 
 The sun is careering in glory and might, 
 
 ]Mid the deep blue sky and the clouds so liriglit ; 
 
 The billow is tossing its foam ou high. 
 
 And the summer breezes go lightly by ; 
 
 The air and the water dance, glitter, and play, — 
 
 And why should not I be as merry as they ? 
 
 • This delightful writer is more distinguished for her prose 
 than for hrr poetical works. Our Vilhuif otitvnlucs her poems 
 and tiHfiedics ; and her nature outvahu'd everytliingshe wrote. 
 So great was the charm of her elmrneter and nmnncrs that 
 she was loved and respected Iiy scores of authors, including 
 those who may have been inclined to dislike and despise each 
 otlier. 
 
 ■^ 
 
CO- 
 
 ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 777 I 
 
 The linnet is singing the wildwood through, 
 The fawn's bounding footsteps skim over tlie dew; 
 The butterfly flits round the blossoming tree, 
 And the cowslip and bluebell are bent by the bee : 
 .Ml the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay, 
 ,\ud why should I not be as merry as they ? 
 
 KIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMAITS. 
 
 Friends, 
 I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
 The story of our tlu"aldom. We are slaves ! 
 The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
 A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam 
 Falls on a slave : not such as, swept along 
 liy the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
 To crimson glory and undying fame ; 
 But base ignoble slaves, slaves to a horde 
 Uf petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords 
 Rich in some dozen paltry villages, 
 Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great 
 In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark 
 
 fraud. 
 Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
 Cry out against them. But this very day, 
 j\.n honest man, my neighbor {poiniiiir/ lo Pa- 
 olo) — there he stands ! — 
 \\'as struck, struck like a dog, by one who wore 
 The badge of Ursini, because, forsooth, 
 lie tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
 Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts. 
 At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men. 
 And surt'er such dishonor? Men, and wash not 
 The stain away in blood ? Such sliames are 
 
 common ; 
 I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye, 
 I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 
 FuU of all gentleness, of calmest hope. 
 Of sweet and quiet joy. There was the look 
 Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 
 To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
 That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years. 
 Brother at once and son ! He left my side ; 
 A summer bloom on his fair checks, a smile 
 Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 
 The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw 
 Tiie corse, the mangled corse, and when I cried 
 For vengeance — Rouse, ye Romans ! Rouse, 
 
 ye slaves ! 
 Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce 
 
 brawl 
 To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? Look 
 To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. 
 Dishonored ; and, if ye dare call for justice. 
 Be answered by the lash. Yet, this is Rome, 
 Tliat sate on her seven hills, and from licr throne 
 Of beauty ruled the world ! Yet, we are Romans ! 
 
 Why ; in that elder day, to be a Roman 
 Was greater than a king ! And once again, — 
 Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
 Of either Brutus ! — once again, I swear. 
 The eternal city shall be free ; her sons 
 Shall walk with princes. 
 
 Ilienzi. 
 
 HENRY BENNETT. 
 
 Bom about 1785. 
 
 ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 O, St. Patrick was a gentleman, 
 
 Who came of decent people ; 
 He built a church in Dublin town, 
 
 And on it put a steeple. 
 His father was a Gallagher ; 
 His mother was a Brady ; 
 His aunt was an O'Sliaughnessy, 
 
 His uncle an O'Grady. ' 
 
 So, success attend St. Patrick's fist. 
 
 For he 's a Saint so clever ; 
 O, he gave the snakes and toads a twist. 
 And bothered them forever ! 
 
 The Wicklow hills arc very higli, 
 
 And so 's the Hill of Howth, sir ; 
 But tliere 's a liill, unich bigger still, 
 
 Much higher nor fhcm both, sir. 
 'T was on the top of this high hill 
 
 St. Patrick preached his sarmint 
 That drove the frogs into the bogs, 
 
 And banished all the varmint. 
 
 So, success .attend St. Patrick's fist, etc. 
 
 There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 
 
 Where dirty varmin musters. 
 But there he put liis dear fore-foot. 
 
 And murdered them in clusters. 
 The toads went pop, tlie frogs went hop. 
 
 Slap-dash into the water ; 
 And the snakes committed suicide 
 
 To save themselves from slaughter. 
 
 So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, etc. 
 
 Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 
 
 He charmed with sweet discourses. 
 And dined on them at Killaloe 
 
 In soups and second courses. 
 Where blind worms crawling in the grass 
 
 Disgusted all the nation. 
 He gave them a rise, wliich opened tlieir eyes 
 
 To a sense of their situation. 
 So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, etc. 
 
 No wonder that those Irish lads 
 Should be so gay and frisky. 
 
 C&^- 
 
 ^ 
 
(Q— 
 
 778 
 
 BOWLES. 
 
 PliOCTER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 4 
 
 For sure St. Pat he taught theiii that, 
 
 As well as making wliiskcy ; 
 No wonder that the saint himself 
 
 Sliould understand distiUing, 
 Since his mother kept a shebeen shop 
 
 In the town of Euniskilleu. 
 So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, etc. 
 
 0, was I but so fortunate 
 
 As to be back in Munster, 
 'T is I 'd be bound that from that ground 
 
 I nevermore would once stir. 
 Por there St. Patrick planted turf. 
 
 And plenty of the praties. 
 With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store. 
 And cabbages — and ladies ! 
 
 Tlien my blessing on St. Patrick's fist, 
 
 For lie 's the darling Saint ! 
 0, he gave the snakes and toads a twist; 
 He 's a beauty without paint, O ! 
 
 CAROLINE (BOWLES) SOUTHEY.* 
 
 1787-1854. 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 Tread softly, — bow the head, — 
 In reverent silence bow, — 
 
 No passing bell doth toll, — 
 
 \'et an immortal soul 
 Is passing now. 
 
 Stranger ! however great, 
 A\'ith lowly reverence bow ; 
 
 There 's one in that poor shed, — 
 
 One by that paltry bed, — 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 
 Lo ! Death does keep his state : 
 
 Enter, — no crowds attend ; 
 
 Filler, — no guards defend 
 T/iis palace gate. 
 
 That pavement, damp and cold. 
 No smiling courtiers tread ; 
 
 One silent woman stands. 
 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 A dying Lead. 
 
 No mingling voices sound, — 
 
 An infant wail alone ; 
 A sob suppressed, — agen 
 Tliat short, deep gasp, and then 
 
 The parting groan. 
 
 The wife of SoaHicy'a oIJ age, watihing over liim like a 
 I)ciietici'nt spirit, while he was lapsin;; iiilo mental imbe- 
 cility. 
 
 change ! O wondrous change ! 
 
 Burst are the prison bai's, — 
 This moment l/iere so low, 
 So agonized, and now 
 
 Beyond the stars ! 
 
 change ! stupendous change t 
 There Ues the soulless clod ; 
 
 The sun eternal breaks. 
 
 The new immortal wakes, — 
 Wakes with his God. 
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER,* 
 BAEEY COENWALL. 
 
 1787-1874. 
 
 THE SEA, 
 
 The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
 
 Without a mark, without a bound. 
 
 It runnetli the earth's wide regions round ; 
 
 It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 
 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I 'm on the sea ! I 'ni on the sea ! 
 
 I am where I would ever be ; 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue below, 
 
 And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 
 
 If a storm should come and awake the deep. 
 
 What matter ? / shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I love, O, how I love to ride 
 On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
 Wlien every mad wave drowns the moon, 
 Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 
 And tolls how goeth the world below. 
 And why the sou'west blasts do blow. 
 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
 But I loved the great sea more and more. 
 And backwards flew to her billowy breast. 
 Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; 
 And a mother she was, and in, to me ; 
 For I was born on the open sea ! 
 
 * Procter was horn a year hefore Hyron, hut intellectually 
 he cornea after hini, as far as he was influenced by the pas- 
 sionatcncss of IJyi-on's genius. In the eleventh eanlo of Von 
 Juan llyron says : — 
 
 " Tlien there 's my gentle Enphucs : who, tliey say, 
 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
 He Ml find it rather dillicult some day 
 
 To turn out both, or either, it may he." 
 This is a rather ungracious reference to his school-fellow, for 
 whom he always proiessed a regard. Byron only partially 
 influenced Procter, whose real inspiration came fntm his own 
 genius and character, and who, if lie aimed to emulate other 
 poets, took the Elizabethan dranmtists for his models. The 
 seleetions from his works, made in this volume, are intended 
 merely to remind readers of to-day of a poet of impassioned 
 genius, whose works they may hav e overh^iked in the constant 
 jiresstire of new celebrities on their attention. 
 
 9> 
 
a- 
 
 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. — A EEPOSE. 
 
 779 
 
 -Q> 
 
 The waves were white, and red the morn, 
 In tlie noisy hour when I was born ; 
 And the whale it wliistled, the porpoise rolled. 
 And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
 And never was heard such an outcry wild 
 As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! 
 
 I 've lived since then, in calm and strife, 
 Tvdl fifty summers, a sailor's life, 
 With wealth to spend and a power to range, 
 But never have sought nor sighed for change; 
 And Death, whenever he comes to me. 
 Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 
 
 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 How many summers, love. 
 
 Have I been thine ? 
 How many days, thou dove. 
 
 Hast thou been mine ? 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 
 When 't bends the flowers, 
 Hath left no mark behind. 
 
 To count the hours ! 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loath, 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Perhaps he weaves ; 
 Some fears, — a soft regret 
 
 For joys scarce known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget ; 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
 All ! with what thankless heart 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 Look, where our children start, 
 
 Like sudden spring ! 
 With tongues all sweet and low. 
 
 Like a pleasant rhyme. 
 They tell how much I owe 
 
 To thee and Time ! 
 
 BELSHAZZAB, 
 
 Belshazzar is king ! Belshazzar is lord ! 
 
 And a thousand dark nobles all bend at liis board : 
 
 Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and 
 
 a flood 
 Of the wine that manloveth runs redder than blood : 
 Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, 
 And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth ; 
 
 And the crowds all shout. 
 
 Till the vast roofs ring, — 
 "All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!" 
 
 ^ 
 
 ' Bring forth," cries the monarch, 
 of gold, 
 
 ' the vessels 
 
 Which my father tore down from the temples of 
 
 old; 
 Bring forth, and we '11 drink, while the trumpets 
 
 are blown. 
 To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone : 
 Bring forth ! " — and before him the vessels all 
 
 shine. 
 And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark 
 wuie; 
 Wliilst the trumpets bray. 
 And the cymbals ring, — 
 "Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the 
 • king ! " 
 
 NoiB what cometh, — look, look ! without menace, 
 
 or call ? 
 Who writes, with the Lightning's bright hand, on 
 
 the wall ? 
 Wliat pieroeth the king, like the point of a dart ? 
 What drives the bold blood from his cheek to 
 
 his heart ? 
 " Chaldeans ! Magicians ! the letters expound ! " 
 They are read, — and Belshazzar is dead on the 
 
 ground ! 
 Hark ! — the Persian is come 
 On a conqueror's wing ; 
 And a Mede 's on the throne of Belshazzar the 
 
 king ! 
 
 THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 TuE evening star, the lover's star. 
 The beautiful star, comes liither ! 
 
 He steereth his bark 
 
 Through the azure dark, 
 And brings us the bright blue weather, — Love ! 
 
 The beautiful bright blue weather. 
 
 The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come, 
 And silence broods o'er the covers : 
 
 But a voice now wakes 
 
 In the thorny brakes. 
 And singeth a song for lovers, — Love ! 
 
 A sad, sweet song for lovers ! 
 
 It singeth a song, of grief and wrong, 
 A passionate song for others ; 
 
 Yet its own sweet pain 
 
 Can never be vain. 
 If it wakeneth love in others, — Love ! 
 
 It wakeneth love in others. 
 
 A EEPOSE. 
 
 Sue sleeps amongst her pillows soft 
 (A dove, now wearied with her flight). 
 
 And all around, and all aloft. 
 
 Hang flutes and folds of virgin white : 
 
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 llei' hair outdarkens the dark night. 
 Her glaiiee outsliines the starry sky ; 
 
 But now her locks are liiddeu quite. 
 And closed is her fringed eye ! 
 
 She slecpeth : wherefore doth she start ? 
 
 She siglictli : doth she feel no pain ? 
 None, none ! the dream is near her heart ; 
 
 The spirit of Sleep is in her brain. 
 He cometh down like golden rain, 
 
 Without a wish, without a sound; 
 He cheers the sleeper (ne'er in vain) 
 
 Like May, when earth is winter-bound. 
 
 All day within some cave he lies, 
 
 Detlironed from his nightly sway, — ■ 
 Far fading when the dawning skies 
 
 Our souls with wakening thoughts array. 
 Two spirits of might doth man obey; 
 
 By each he 's wrought, from each lie learns ; 
 The one is lord of hfe by day ; 
 
 The other wlien starry night returns. 
 
 SONO OF THE OUTCAST. 
 
 I WAS born on a winter's inorn, 
 Welcomed to life witli hate and scorn. 
 Torn from a famished mother's side, . 
 
 Who left me here, with a laugh, and — died ; 
 Left me here, with the curse of life, 
 To be tossed about in the burning strife. 
 Linked to nothing, but shame and pain. 
 Echoing nothing, but man's disdain; 
 0, tliat I nn'glit tif/ai/i- lie born. 
 With treble my strength of hate and scorn ! 
 
 I was born by a sudden shock, — 
 Born by the blow of a rufBan sire. 
 Given to air, as the blasted rock 
 Gives out the reddening, roaring fire. 
 My sire was stone ; but my dark blood 
 Ran its round like a fiery flood. 
 Rushing through every tingling vein, 
 And flaming ever at man's disdain; 
 Ready to give back, night or morn, 
 Hate for hate, and scorn for seoru ! 
 
 They east mc out, in my hungry need 
 (A dog, whom none would own nor feed), 
 Without a home, without a meal, 
 And bade me go forth — to slay and steal ! 
 What wouder, God ! had my hands been red 
 With the blood of a host in secret shed ! 
 But no ! 1 I'ought on the free sea-wave. 
 And |)erillcd my life for my plunder brave, 
 .Vnd never yet shrank, in nerve or breath, 
 But struck, as the ])irate strikes, — to death ! 
 
 THE LAKE HAS BURST. 
 
 The lake has burst ! The lake has burst ! 
 Down through the chasms the wild waves flee : 
 
 They gallop along 
 
 With a roaring song, 
 Away to the eager awaiting sea ! 
 
 Down through the valleys, and over the rocks, 
 And over the forests the flood runs free ; 
 
 And wherever it dashes. 
 
 The oaks and the ashes 
 Shrink, drop, and are borne to the liungry sea ! 
 
 The cottage of reeds and the tower of stone, 
 Both shaken to ruin, at last agree ; 
 
 And the slave and his master 
 
 Li one wide disaster 
 Are hurried like weeds to the scornful sea ! 
 
 The sea-beast he tosseth his foaming mane ; 
 He bellows aloud to the misty sky. 
 
 And the sleep-buried Tliunder 
 
 Awakens in wonder. 
 And the Lightning opens her piercing eye ! 
 
 There is death above, tliere is death around, 
 There is death wheresoever the waters be, 
 
 There is nothing now doing 
 
 But terror and ruin. 
 On earth, and in air, and the stormy sea ! 
 
 A CHAMBER SCENE, 
 
 Tread softly through these amorous rooms ; 
 For every bougli is hung witli life. 
 And kisses, in harmonious strife. 
 Unloose their sharp and winged perfumes ! 
 From Afrie, and the Persian looms, 
 The carpet's silken leaves have sprung. 
 And heaven, in its blue bounty, flung 
 These starry flowers and azure blooms. 
 
 Tread softly ! By a creature fair 
 The deity of Love reposes, 
 His red lips open, like the roses 
 Which round his hyacinthine liair 
 Hang in crimson coronals ; 
 And passion tills the arched halls ; 
 And beauty floats upon the air. 
 
 Tread softly, — softly, like the foot 
 Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow. 
 Who cometh white and cold and mute. 
 Lest lie should wake the Spring below. 
 0, look ! for here lie Love and Youth, 
 Fair spirits of the heart and mind ; 
 Alas ! that one should stray from truth ; 
 And one — be ever, ever blind ! 
 
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 781 
 
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 TO THE SINGER PASTA, 
 
 Never till now, — never till now, O queen 
 And wonder of the enchanted world of sound ! 
 
 Never till now was such bright creature seen, 
 Startling to transport all the regions round ! 
 
 Whence coniest thou, — with those eyes and that 
 fine mien. 
 Thou sweet, sweet singer? — Like an angel 
 found 
 
 Mourning alone, thou seemest (thy mates all fled) 
 
 A star 'niongst clouds, — a spii'it midst the dead. 
 
 Melodious thoughts hang round thee ! Sorrow 
 sings 
 Perpetual sweetness near, — divine despair ! 
 Thou s])eak'st, — and Music, witii her thousand 
 strings. 
 Gives golden answers from the haunted air ! 
 Thou mov.'st, — and round thee Grace her beauty 
 flings ! 
 Thou look'st, — and Love is born ! 0, song- 
 stress rare ! 
 Lives there on earth a power like that which lies 
 Li those resistless tones, — in those dark eyes ? 
 
 O, I have lived — how long ! — with one deep 
 treasure. 
 
 One fountain of delight unlocked, unknown ; 
 But thou, the proplietess of my new pleasure. 
 
 Hast come at last, and struck my heart of 
 stone ; 
 And now outgushes, without stint or measure. 
 
 The endless rapture, — and in places lone 
 I shout it to the stars and winds that flee. 
 And then I think on all I owe to thee ! 
 
 I see thee at all hours, — beneath all skies, — 
 Li every shape thou tak'st, or passionate path : 
 
 Now art thou like some winged thing that cries 
 Over a city flaming fast to death ; 
 
 Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies : 
 
 Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath : — 
 
 All things thou art by turns, — from wrath to 
 love; 
 
 From the queen eagle to the vestal dove ! 
 
 Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmasked 
 Li slow, pale silence, or mid brief eclipse) ; 
 
 But what are they to thj sweet strength, when 
 tasked 
 To its height, — with all the God upon thy lips? 
 
 Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked 
 By one who in the book of darkness dips, 
 
 Vies with that radiant wealtli which they inherit 
 
 Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit. 
 
 Would I could crown thee as a king can crown ! 
 Yet, what arc kingly gifts to thy fair fame, 
 
 Whose echoes shall all vulgarer triumphs drown, 
 Whose light shall darken every meaner name ? 
 
 The gallant courts thee for his own renown ; 
 Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game; 
 
 The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse ; 
 
 And I — alas ! — I can but bring my verse ! 
 
 SOFTLY WOO AWAY EEE BREATH. 
 
 Softly woo away her breath, 
 
 Gentle Death ! 
 Let her leave thee with no strife. 
 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring Life ! 
 She hath seen her happy day ; 
 
 She hath had her bud and blossom : 
 Now she pales and shrinks away, 
 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 
 
 She hath done her bidding here. 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 Bear her perfect soul above. 
 
 Seraph of the skies, — sweet Love ! 
 Good she was, and fair in youth. 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar. 
 And her heart was wed to truth : 
 
 Take her, then, forevermore, — 
 Forever^ evermore ! 
 
 A STORM. 
 
 The Spirits of the mighty Sea 
 
 To-night are wakened from their dreams. 
 And upwards to the tempest flee. 
 
 Baring their foreheads where the gleams 
 Of lightning run, and thunders cry. 
 Rushing and raining through the sky ! 
 
 The Spirits of the Sea are waging 
 Loud war upon the peaceful Night, 
 
 And bands of the black winds are raging 
 Thorough the tempest blue and briglit ; 
 
 Blowing her cloudy hair to dust 
 
 With kisses, like a madman's lust ! 
 
 What ghost now, like an Ate, walketli 
 Earth, ocean, air, and aye with Time, 
 
 Mingled, as with a lover talketh ? 
 Methinks their colloquy sublime 
 
 Draws anger from the sky, which raves 
 
 Over the self-abandoned waves ! 
 
 Behold ! like millions massed in battle. 
 The trembling billows headlong go, 
 
 Lashing the barren deeps, which rattle 
 In mighty transport till they grow 
 
 All fruitful in their rocky home. 
 
 And burst from frenzy into foam. 
 
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 And look ! where on the faithless billows 
 Lie women, and men, and cliiklren fair ; 
 
 Some hanging, like sleep, to their swollen pillows, 
 With helpless sinews and streaming hair. 
 
 And some who plunge in the yawning graves ! 
 
 Ah ! lives there no strength beyond the waves ? 
 
 'T is said, the Moon can rock the Sea 
 From frenzy strange to silence mild, — 
 
 To sleep, — to death ; — but where is S/te, 
 While now her storm-born giant child 
 
 Upheaves his shoulder to the skies ? 
 
 Arise, sweet planet pale, — arise 1 
 
 She Cometh, — lovelier than the dawn 
 In summer, when the leaves are green, 
 
 More graceful than the alarmed fawn. 
 Over his grassy supper seen : 
 
 Bright quiet from her beauty falls, 
 
 Until — again the tempest calls ! 
 
 The supernatural Storm, — he waketh 
 Again, and lo ! from sheets all wliite. 
 
 Stands up unto the stars, and shaketh 
 Scorn on the jewelled looks of Night. 
 
 He carries a ship on his foaming crown. 
 
 And a cry, like Hell, as he rushes down ! 
 
 And so, still soars from calm to storm 
 
 The stature of the unresting Sea ; 
 So doth desire or wrath deform 
 Our else calm humanity, — 
 Until at last we sleep. 
 And never 'wake nor weep 
 (Hushed to death, by some faint tune). 
 In our grave beneath the Moon ! 
 
 GOLDEN-TKESSED ADELAIDE,* 
 A SONG FOR A CHILD. 
 
 Sing, I pray, a little song, 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 Neither sad nor very long : 
 It is for a little maid. 
 Golden-tressed Adelaide ! 
 Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 
 Let it be a merry strain, 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 Sluuining e'en the thought of pain: 
 For our gentle child will weep. 
 If the theme be dark and deep ; 
 And jre will not draw a single, single tear, 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 
 Childhood should be all divine, 
 Motiier dear ! 
 
 • Thia poem refers to the future poetess, Adelaide Anne 
 Procter 
 
 And like an endless summer shine ; 
 Gay as Edward's shouts and cries. 
 Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : 
 Therefore, bid thy song be merry : — dost thou 
 hear. 
 Mother dear ? 
 
 I DIE FOE THY SWEET LOVE, 
 
 I DIE for thy sweet love ! The ground 
 Not panteth so for summer rain. 
 
 As I for one soft look of thine ; 
 And yet — I sigh in vain ! 
 
 A hundred men are near tliec now, — 
 Each one, perhaps, surpassing me : 
 
 But who doth feel a thousandth part 
 Of what I feel for tliee ? 
 
 They look on thee, as men will look. 
 
 Who round the wild world laugh and rove; 
 
 / only think how sweet 't would be 
 To die for thy sweet love ! 
 
 A PKATEB m SICKNESS. 
 
 Send down thy winged angel, God ! 
 
 Amidst this nigiit so wild ; 
 And bid him come where now we watch. 
 
 And breathe upon our child ! 
 
 She lies upon her pillow, pale. 
 
 And moans witiiin her sleep. 
 Or wakeneth with a patient smile, 
 
 And striveth not to weep ! 
 
 How gentle and how good a child 
 
 She is, we know too well. 
 And dearer to her pai-ents' hearts 
 
 Than our weak words can tell. 
 
 We love, — we watch throughout the night. 
 
 To aid, when need may be ; 
 We hope, — and have despaired, at times ; 
 
 But now we turn to Thee ! 
 
 Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God ! 
 
 Amidst the darkness wild, 
 And bid him soothe our souls to-night, 
 
 And heal our gentle child ! 
 
 A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 Torcii us gently, Time ! 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently, — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a quiet dream ! 
 Humble voyagers are we, 
 Husband, wife, and children three — 
 
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 AFAR IN THE DESERT. 
 
 783 
 
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 (One is lost, — an angel, fled 
 To the azure overhead !) 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 
 
 We 've not proud nor soaring wings : 
 Our ambition, our content. 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Humble voyagers are we, 
 O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea. 
 Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
 Touch us gentli/, gentle Time ! 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 He died, and left the world behind ! 
 
 His once wild heart is cold ! 
 His once keen eye is quelled and bluid ! 
 
 Wiiat more ? — His tale is told. 
 
 He came, and, baring his lieaven-bright thought. 
 
 He earned the base world's ban : 
 And, — having vainly lived and taught, 
 
 Gave place to a meaner man ! 
 
 THE HISTOKY OF A LITE. 
 
 Day dawned ; — within a curtained room, 
 Filled to faintness with perfume, 
 A lady lay at point of doom. 
 
 Day closed ; — a Child had seen the Hght ; 
 But for the lady, fair and bright. 
 She rested in undreaming night. 
 
 Spring rose ; — the lady's grave was seen ; 
 And near it oftentimes was seen 
 A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien. 
 
 Years fled ; — he wore a manly face, 
 Arid struggled in the world's rough race. 
 And won, at last, a lofty place. 
 
 And then — he died ! Behold, before ye. 
 
 Humanity's poor sum and story ; 
 
 Life, — Death, — and all that is of Glory. 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 1788-1834. 
 
 AJAR V& THE DESERT. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast. 
 And, sick of the present, I cling to the past : 
 When the eye is suffused with regretful tears. 
 From the fond recollections of former years ; 
 And shadows of things that have long since fled 
 Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of tlie dead : 
 
 Bright visions of glory, that vanished too soon; 
 
 Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon ; 
 
 Attachments, by fate or by falsehood reft ; 
 
 Companions of early days, lost or left ; 
 
 And my native land, whose magical name 
 
 Tlirills to the heart like electric flame ; 
 
 The home of my childhood; the haunts of my 
 
 prime ; 
 All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 
 When the feelings were young and the world was 
 
 new. 
 Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; 
 All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! 
 And I, a lone exile remembered of none. 
 My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone. 
 Aweary of all that is under the sun. 
 With that sadness of heart which no stranger 
 
 may scan, 
 I fly to the desert afar from man ! 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 Wlien the wild turmoil of tliis wearisome life. 
 With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and 
 
 strife : 
 Tlie proud man's frown, and the base man's fear. 
 The scorner's laugh, and the suflerer's tear. 
 And maUce, and meanness, and falsehood, and 
 
 foUy, 
 Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; 
 When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are 
 
 high. 
 And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — 
 0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride. 
 Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
 There is rapture to vault on the champing steed. 
 And to bound away with the eagle's speed. 
 With the death-fraught flreloek in my hand, — 
 The only law of the desert laud ! 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With the silent Busli-boy alone by my side : 
 Away, away from the dwelhngs of men. 
 By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 
 By valleys remote where the oribi plays. 
 Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest 
 
 graze. 
 And the kiidti and eland nnhunted recline 
 By the skirts of gray forests o'erhuug with wild- 
 vine ; 
 Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood. 
 And the river-liorse gambols unscared in the flood, 
 And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
 Li the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
 O'er the bro-mi Karroo, where the bleating cry 
 Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
 And the timorous quagga's shrill whisthng neigh 
 Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
 
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 \yiiere the zebra wantonly tosses his maue, 
 With wild lioof scouring tlie desolate plain; 
 And the llcet-l'ooted ostrich over the waste 
 Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
 Hieing away to tlie home of her rest, 
 ^Vliere she and her mate have scooped their nest, 
 I'ar hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
 In the jiathless depths of the parched Karroo. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 Away, away, in the wilderness vast, 
 Wliere tlie white man's foot hath never passed. 
 And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 
 Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan : 
 A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
 Which man liath abandoned from famine and fear ; 
 Which the snake and the li/.ard inhabit alone, 
 With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
 Where grass, nor hex'b, nor shrub takes root. 
 Save poisonous tliorns tiiat pierce the foot; 
 And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, 
 Is the jjiilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink : 
 A region of drought, where no river glides, 
 Nor rippling brook witli osierod sides ; 
 Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
 Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
 Appears, to refresh the aching eye : 
 But the barren earth, and the burning sky. 
 And the blank horizon, round and round. 
 Spread, — void of living sight or sound. 
 
 And lierc, while the night-winds round me sigh. 
 And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
 As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
 Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, 
 "A still small voice" comes through the wild 
 (Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
 Wliicli banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, — 
 Saying, " Man is distant, but God is near ! " 
 
 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 1788-1834. 
 
 •WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half brokcn-liearted 
 
 To sever for years, 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 Sunk chill on my brow, — 
 
 It felt like the warning 
 Of what 1 feel now. 
 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 And light is tliy fame ; 
 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me, — 
 
 Why wert tliou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew tiiee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well : — 
 Long, long shall I rue thee, 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met, — 
 
 In silence I grieve. 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Tiiy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ? — - 
 
 With silence and teare. 
 
 1808. 
 
 ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FAROE.* 
 
 Good plays are scarce. 
 
 So !Moore writes farce : 
 Tlie poet's fame grows brittle, — 
 
 We knew before 
 
 That Litlle 's IMoore, 
 But now 't is Moore that 's lillle. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEW- 
 FOUNDLAND DOG. 
 
 When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 
 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
 And storied urns record who rests below ; 
 Wlien all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 Not what lie was, but what he should have been : 
 But flic poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 
 Whoso honest heart is still his ma.ster's own, 
 Wlio labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
 Unhonorcd falls, unnoticed all his worth. 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
 () mail ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
 Delia.sed by slavery, or corrupt liy power. 
 Who knows tlice well must quit thee witli disgust, 
 Degraded mass of animated dust! 
 Tliy love is lust, thy friendsliip all a cheat, 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
 
 " TIic fnrcc waa cnlli'il " M. P.; or, Tlie Blue Stocking:.' 
 
 ^ 
 
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 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 r85 
 
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 Each kiudred brute might bid thee blush for 
 
 shame. 
 Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 
 Pass on, — it honors none you wish to mourn : 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
 I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 
 
 180S. 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, EEE WE PART. 
 7iW7] fxod, ffdy dvaTTuj. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, O, give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ; 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 Z<arj fiov^ aas ayano)- 
 
 By those tresses unconfined. 
 Wooed by each Jilgean wind ; 
 By those Uds whose jetty fringe. 
 Kiss tliy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild ryes like the roe, 
 Zar] fjiov, (xas ayana. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-tlowers * that tell 
 AMuit words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 Zoii) liov, eras dyani). 
 
 Mnid of Athens ! I am gone : 
 
 Tliiuk of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 
 Tliough I fly to Istambol, t 
 
 Alliens holds my heart and soul : 
 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 
 Z&)7/ fioif. aas dyanoj. 
 
 Athens, 1810. 
 
 THERE 'S NOT A JOT THE WORLD CAN GIVE. 
 
 "O Lai-hryniarum fons, tenero sacros 
 I>ucentium ortus ex animo- quater 
 Feli\ ! in inio qui scatcntem 
 Pectore te, pia Nynii)hB, sennit." 
 
 Gray's Pormatu. 
 
 TuEHE 's not a joy the world can give like that 
 it takes away. 
 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feel- 
 ing's dull decay; 
 
 'T is nut on youtii's smooth cheek the blush alone, 
 which fades so fast. 
 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth 
 itself be past. 
 
 * In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, 
 lest they sliould scrilible assignations) flowers, cinders, peh- 
 Ides, etc., convey tlie sentiments of the parties l)y that univer- 
 sal deputy of Mercury, — an old woman. .A cinder says, " I 
 burn for thee " ; a hunch of flowers tied with hair. " Take me 
 and fly " ; hut a pehlile declares — what nothing else can. 
 
 t Constantinople. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck 
 
 of happiness 
 Arc driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of 
 
 excess : 
 The magnet of their course is goue, or only jioints 
 
 in vain 
 The shore to which their sliivered sail shall never 
 
 stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 
 
 itself comes down ; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream 
 
 its own ; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of 
 
 our tears. 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where 
 
 the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth 
 
 distract the breast, 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their 
 
 former hope of rest ; 
 'T is but as ivy -leaves around the ruined turret 
 
 wreathe. 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 
 
 gray beneath. 
 
 0, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have 
 
 been. 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 
 
 vanished scene; 
 As spriugs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be. 
 So, midst the withered waste of hfe, those tears 
 
 would flow to me. 
 
 March, ISU. 
 
 REMEMBER THEE I REMEMBER THEE!* 
 
 Remember tliee ! remember thee ! 
 
 Till Lethe quench life's burning stream ! 
 Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, 
 
 And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 
 
 Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 
 
 Thy liusband too shall think of thee : 
 By neither shalt tliou be forgot. 
 
 Thou false to him, thou Jiend to me ! 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 I. 
 Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
 
 The suff"erings of mortality. 
 
 Seen in their sad reality, 
 Were not as things that gods despise ; 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 
 * Pi-ohahly Lady Caroline Lamb, whose hiisband, as Lord 
 Melbourne, afterwards became the head of a Wliig Ministry. 
 
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 m'RON. 
 
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 A silent sufi'eriiig, and intense ; 
 The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 All that the proud can feel of pain, 
 The agony they do not sliow. 
 The suflbcating sense of woe. 
 
 Which speaks but in ils loneliness. 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until his voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
 Between the suffering and the will. 
 Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
 And the inexorable Heaven, 
 And the deaf tyranny of fate, 
 Tlic ruling principle of hate, 
 ^Vliich for its pleasure doth create 
 The things it may annihilate. 
 Refused thee even the boon to die : 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 Was thine, — and thou hast borne it well. 
 AH that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
 Was but the menace which flung back 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 But would not to appease him tell ; 
 And in thy silence was his sentence, 
 And in his soul a vain repentance. 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled 
 That m liis hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
 in. 
 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind. 
 
 To render with tliy precepts less 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness. 
 And strengthen man witli his own mind; 
 But baffled as thou wcrt from high, 
 Still in thy patient energy. 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 
 Of thine impenetrable spirit. 
 Which eai'th and heaven could not convulse, 
 
 A mighty lesson we inherit : 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To mortals of their fate and force ; 
 Like thee, man is in part divine, 
 
 A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
 And man in portions can foresee 
 His own funereal destiny; 
 His wreteheducss, and his resistance, 
 And liis sad unallicd existence : 
 To which his spirit may oppose 
 Itself, — and equal to all woes. 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Us own concentred recompense, 
 Triumphant where it dares defy. 
 And making death a victory. 
 
 Dimlali, July. ISlC 
 
 V— 
 
 TO THOMAS MOOEE. 
 
 Mv boat is on the .shore. 
 
 And my bark is on the sea; 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here 's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here 's a sigh to those who love me. 
 And a smile to those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me, 
 Here 's a lieart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me, 
 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were 't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasped upon tiie brink. 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'T is to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine. 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be, — peace to thine and mine. 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
 July, I817. 
 
 THE IRISH AVATAB-* 
 
 "And Ireland, like a bastjnailoed elephant, kneeling 10 re- 
 ceive the paltry rider." — Clrka-N. 
 
 Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her 
 grave, 
 And her ashes still float to their home o'er the 
 tide, 
 Lo ! George the triiimphant speeds over the wave, 
 To the long-cherished isle which he loved like 
 his — bride. 
 
 True, the great of her bright and brief era are 
 gone, 
 The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could 
 pause 
 For the few little years, out of centuries won,. 
 Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept 
 not her cause. 
 
 True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his 
 rags. 
 The castle still stands, and tlie senate 's no 
 more. 
 And the famine which dwelt on her freedonilcss 
 crags 
 Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 
 
 To her desolate shore, — where the emigrant 
 stands 
 For a moment to gaze ere he flics from his 
 hearth ; 
 
 * On tlie occasion of George tlie Fourtli's visit to Ireland, in 
 
 IMl. ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
<&- 
 
 THE IRISH AVATAR. 
 
 787 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Tears fall on his cliaiii, though it. drops from his 
 hands, 
 For the dungeon he quits is the place of his 
 birth. 
 
 l)ut he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 
 
 Like a goodly Leviathan rolled from the waves ! 
 Then receive liiin as best such an advent becomes, 
 
 ^Vith a legion of cooks, and au army of slaves ! 
 
 He coines in the promise and bloom of threescore. 
 To perform in the pageant the sovereign's 
 part,- 
 But lung live the shamrock which shadows him 
 o'er ! 
 Could the green in his /la/ be transferred to his 
 /lear/ ! 
 
 Cuuld that long-withered spot but be verdant 
 again, 
 And a new spring of noble alTeetions arise, — 
 Then might freedom forgive tliee this dance in thy 
 chain, 
 And tills shout of thy slavery which saddens 
 the skies. 
 
 Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee 
 now ? 
 Were he God, — as he is but the commonest 
 clay, 
 Witli scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his 
 Im'ow, — 
 Such servile devotion might shame him away. 
 
 Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
 Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride, — 
 
 Not thus did thy G rattan indignantly flash 
 His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 
 
 Ever-glorious Grattau ! the best of the good ! 
 So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
 With all which Deiriostheucs wanted endued, 
 ■ And his rival or victor in all he possessed. 
 
 Ere Tully arose in tlic zenith of Rome, 
 
 Though unequalled, preceded, the task was 
 begun, — 
 
 But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 
 Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the o/ie ! 
 
 With I he skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute : 
 With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; 
 
 Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 
 And Corruption shrunk scorched from the 
 glance of his mind. 
 
 But back to our theme I Back to despots and 
 slaves I 
 Feasts furnished by Famine ! rejoicings bv 
 Pain! 
 
 True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still 
 
 races, 
 . When a week's saturnalia hath loosened her 
 
 chain. 
 
 Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can 
 alTord 
 (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would 
 hide) 
 Gild over the jjalace, lo I Erin, thy lord ! 
 
 Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings 
 denied I 
 
 Or //'freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
 If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 
 
 Must what terror or policy wring forth be classed 
 With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves 
 yield their prey ? 
 
 Each brute hath its nature, a king is to reiijn, — 
 To reifjii ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
 
 The cause of the curses all annals contain. 
 From CsEsar the dreaded to George the de- 
 spised I 
 
 Wear, Fingal, thy trapping I O'Connell, proclaim 
 His accomplishments ! His! ! ! and thy country 
 convince 
 
 Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 
 Aud that " Hal is the rasealiest, sweetest yoa;/^ 
 
 prnice 
 
 Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fiugal, recall 
 The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 
 
 Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
 The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with 
 hymns ? 
 
 Ay I " Build him a dwelling ! " let each give his 
 
 mite ! 
 
 Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen I 
 
 Let thy beggars and helots their jiittanee unite, — 
 
 And a palace bestow for a poorhouse aud 
 
 prison ! 
 
 Spread, — spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, 
 .Till the gluttonous despot be stulfed to the 
 gorge ! 
 And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at 
 last 
 The Fourth of the fools and oppressors called 
 " George I " 
 
 Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan 1 
 
 Till tlicy //roan like thy people, through ages 
 
 of woe I 
 
 Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's 
 
 throne. 
 
 Like their blood which has flowed, and which 
 
 yet has to flow. 
 
 ^ 
 
I 788 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 fr 
 
 But let not Ais name be tliine idol alone, — 
 On his right liaiiil behold a Scjanus appears ! 
 
 Thine ownCastlercagh ! let him still be thine own ! 
 A wretch never named but with curses and 
 jeers ! 
 
 Till now, when the isle which should blush for 
 his birth. 
 Deep, deep as the gore which lie shed on her 
 soil. 
 Seems jn-oud of the reptile wliich crawled from 
 her earth. 
 And for murder repajs him with shouts and a 
 smile ! 
 
 Without one single ray of her genius, without 
 The fancy, the manhood, the lire of her race, — 
 
 The misci'cant who well might [ilunge Erin in 
 doubt 
 If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 
 
 If she did, — let her long-boasted proverb be 
 liushed. 
 Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
 spring, — 
 See the cold-blooded sei-pent, with venom full 
 flushed. 
 Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 
 
 Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Erin, how 
 low 
 
 Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 
 Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
 
 The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 
 
 My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy 
 right, 
 My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 
 This liand, though but feeble, would arm in thy 
 fight, 
 And this heart, though outworn, had a throb 
 still for i/iee ! 
 
 Yes, I loved thee and thine, though tliou art not 
 my land, 
 I liave known noble hearts and great souls in 
 thy sons, 
 And 1 wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
 Wlio are gone, but I weep them no longer as 
 onee. 
 
 For happy are they now reposing afar, — • 
 
 Thy (irattan, thy Currau, thy Sheridan, all 
 Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent 
 war, 
 And redeemed, if tlicy have not retarded, thy 
 fall. 
 
 Yes. lKip])y are they in tlieir cold English graves ! 
 Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to- 
 day, - 
 
 Northe steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 
 Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 
 
 Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 
 Though their virtues were liunted, their liberties 
 tied; 
 There was something so warm and suljlime in tlie 
 core 
 Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 
 
 Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 
 
 My contempt for a nation so servile, though 
 
 sore. 
 
 Which though trod like the worm will not turn 
 
 upon power, 
 
 'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore I 
 
 TO GENEVEA. 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe. 
 And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush. 
 My heart wovdd wish away that ruder glow : 
 And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes, — but, O, 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush. 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 
 Soft as the last drops round lieavcn's airy bow. 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
 The soul of melancholy gentleness 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; 
 At onee such majesty with sweetness blending, 
 I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 
 IVceniber 17, 181.1 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFEEING 
 CLAY. 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 
 
 Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay. 
 
 But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
 Then unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, nndecayed, 
 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 All, all in earth, or skies displayed, 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that menuiiry holds 
 
 So darkly of de)iarted years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds. 
 
 And all, that was, at onee a])pears. 
 
 Before Creation peopled earth. 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
 
 And wlicre the furthest heaven had birth. 
 The spirit trace its rising track. 
 
 ^ 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 789 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And where the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 "While sun is quenched or system breaks, 
 
 Fixed in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or love, hope, hate, or fear. 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing. 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; 
 A nameless and eternal thing. 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 SHE WALKS IH BEADTT, 
 
 Sue walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
 
 And all that 's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 
 Thus mellowed to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 Had half impaired the nameless grace, 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress. 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR, 
 
 The king was on his throne, 
 
 The satraps thronged the hall ; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold, 
 
 In Judah deemed divine, -^ 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless heathen's wine. 
 
 In that same hour and hall. 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall. 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man; — 
 
 A solitary baud 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 ^- 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 
 AH bloodless waxed his look, 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 
 " Let the men of lore appear, 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 
 And expound the words of fear. 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good. 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage. 
 
 They saw, — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the laud, 
 
 A stranger and a youth. 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 He saw that writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it tme. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made. 
 
 His kingd(mi passed away, 
 He, in the balance weighed. 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 The shroud his robe of state. 
 
 His canopy the stone; 
 The Mede is at his gate I 
 
 The Persian on his throne ! " 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purpleand gold; 
 And the sheen of tlieir spears was like stars on 
 
 the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath 
 
 blown. 
 That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wmgs on the 
 
 blast. 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepei-s waxed deadly and 
 
 chili. 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and forever 
 
 grew still I 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
 
 But through it there rolled not tlie breath of liis 
 
 pride : 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 790 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 —ep 
 
 And the foam of liis gaspiug lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And tlierc lay tlie rider distorted and pale, 
 With tlicdcwonhis brow,aud the rust on his mail; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lanees unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud iu their wail. 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 
 
 sword, , 
 
 Hath melted hke suow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 0, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. 
 
 O, SNATCHED awav in beauty's bloom. 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead. 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
 
 Tiiat death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 
 And thou, — who tell'st me to forget. 
 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 FAEE THEE WELL. 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if forever. 
 
 Still forever, fare thee well ; 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rcl)cl. 
 
 Would that breast were bareil before tlice 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 
 Wliile that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again ; 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over. 
 Every inmost thought could show ! 
 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 'T was not well to spurn it so. 
 
 Though the world f(;r this eoiumend thee, 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 
 Even its praises must olTend thee, 
 Founded on another's woe ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me. 
 Could no other arm be found. 
 
 Than the one which once embraced me. 
 To inflict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not ; 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay. 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 
 Still thine o\t'u its life retaineth, — 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
 
 And the undying thought which ))auieth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the dead ; 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 
 Wake us from u widowed bed. 
 
 And when thou would solace gather. 
 When our child's first accents flow. 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say, " Father ! " 
 Though his care she must foi-ego ? 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee. 
 When her lip to thine is pressed. 
 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 Think of him thy love had blessed ! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 Those thou nevermore mayst see. 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble ■ 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
 All my madness none can know; 
 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
 Wither, yet with lAee they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow, 
 Bows to thee, — by thee forsaken. 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now : 
 
 But 't is done, — all words are idle, — 
 Words from me are vainer still; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
 Fare thee well ! — thus disunited. 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie, 
 Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted. 
 
 More than this 1 scarce can ilic. 
 
 Mnich 17. isic. 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 Li summer's twilight weejis itself away, 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 Sink on the heart, as dew along the (lower 'r" 
 \\ ilh a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
 
 -9> 
 
cfi- 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 791 
 
 -9) 
 
 t 
 
 AVliile Nature makes that nielaiicliolj' pause, 
 Her breatliiiig moment on the bridge where Time 
 or liglit and dar'kness forms an arch subUme, 
 Who hatli not shared that eahn so still aud 
 
 deep, 
 The voiceless thought which would not speak but 
 
 weep, 
 A holy concord, and a bright regret, 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
 'T is not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe, 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 
 Felt witliont bitterness, but full and clear, 
 A sweet dejection, a transparent tear, 
 Unmixed with worldly grief or selllsh stain. 
 Shed without shame, aud secret without pain. 
 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
 Wlien summer's day declines along the hills. 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 
 When all of genius which can perisii dies. 
 A. migiity spirit is ecli[)sed, a power 
 Hath passed from day to darkness, to whose 
 
 hour 
 Of light no likeness is bequeathed, no name, 
 Focus at once of all tlie rays of fame ! 
 The Hash of wit, the bright intelligence, 
 The beam of song, the blaze of eloquence. 
 Set with their sun, but still have left behind 
 The enduring produce of inuuortal miud ; 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon, 
 lluf small that portion of the wondrous whole. 
 These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 
 Which all embraced, and lightened over all. 
 To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appall. 
 From the charmed council to the festive board, 
 Of human feelings the unbounded loi-d ; 
 In wliose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. 
 The praised, the proud, wlio made his praise their 
 
 ])ride. 
 "Wlieu the loud cry of trampled Hindostau 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man". 
 His was the thunder, his the avenging rod, 
 Tiie wrath, the delegated voice of God ! 
 W"hich shook the nations through his lips, and 
 
 blazed 
 Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 Aud here, O, here, where yet all young and •n-arni 
 The gay creations of his spirit charm. 
 The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit, 
 AVhich knew not what it was to intermit ; 
 The glowing ])ortraits, fresh from life, that bring 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which they 
 
 spring; 
 These wondrous beings of liis fancy, wrought 
 To fnliicss by the fiat of his thought. 
 Here in their first abode you still may meet. 
 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat ; 
 A halo of the light of other days. 
 Which still the splendor of its orb. betrays. 
 But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
 Of failing wisdom yields a base deliglit, 
 Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
 Jar in the music which was born tlieir own. 
 Still let them pause, — ah ! little do tliey know 
 That what to them seemed vice might be but 
 
 woe. 
 Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
 Is fixed forever to detract or praise ; 
 Repose denies her requiem to his name. 
 And Folly loves tlie martyrdom of fame. 
 The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
 Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy. 
 The foe, the fool, tlie jealous, and the vaiu, 
 The envious who but breathe in others' pain. 
 Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
 Who track tiie steps of glory to the grave. 
 Watch every fault that daring genius owes 
 Half to the ardor which its birth bestows. 
 Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
 And pile the pyramid of caluumy ! 
 
 These are his portion, but if joined to these 
 
 Gaunt poverty should league with deep disease, 
 
 If the high spirit must forget to soar. 
 
 And stoop to strive w'itli misery at the door. 
 
 To soothe indignity, and face to face 
 
 Meet sordid rage, and wrestle with disgrace, 
 
 To find in liope but the renewed caress, 
 
 Tlic serpent-fold of further faithlessness, — 
 
 If such may be the ills which men assail. 
 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling 
 
 given 
 Bear hearts electric, charged with fire from 
 
 Heaven, 
 Black with the rude oolUsion, inly toni, 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. 
 Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere tliat iiurst 
 Thoughts wliicli have turned to thunder, scorch, 
 
 and burst. 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 Such things sliould be, — if such iiave ever been ; 
 Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. 
 To give the tribute glory need not ask. 
 To mourn tiie vanished beam, and add our mite 
 Of praise in payment of a long deliglit. 
 Ye orators ! wlioin yet our councils yield. 
 Mourn for the veteran hero of your field ! 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous T/iree / * 
 Whose words were s|)arks of immortality ! 
 Ye bards I to whom the drama's Muse is dear. 
 He was your master, — emulate him Aere ! 
 
 ♦ Fox, Pitt, Buike. 
 
 ^ 
 
e 
 
 792 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 — 9) 
 
 fr 
 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! * 
 He was your brotlicr, — bear his aslies hence ! 
 Wiiilc powers of mind almost of Ijoundless range,t 
 Complete in kind, as various in their change, — 
 While eloquence, wit, poesy, and mirtli, 
 Tliat humbler harmonist of care on earth, 
 Survive within our souls, — while lives our sense 
 Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence, 
 Long shall we seek his likeness, — long in vain. 
 And turn to all of iiim which may remain. 
 Sighing that Nature formed but one such man. 
 And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 
 
 THE DREAM, t 
 
 I. 
 Our life is twofold ; sleep hath its own world, 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence : sleep hath its own world. 
 And a wide realm of wild reality, 
 And dreams in their development liave breath, 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
 They leave a weiglit upon our waking thoughts. 
 They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
 And look like heralds of eternity ; 
 They pass like spirits of the past, they speak 
 Like sibyls of the future ; they have power, — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 They make us what we were not, — what tliey 
 
 will, 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
 The dread of vanished shadows, — Are they so ? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? Wliat are they ? 
 Creations of the mind ? The mind can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 
 Witli beings brighter than have been, and give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
 I woidd recall a vision which I dreamed 
 
 * " In society I liave met Sheridan frequently. He was 
 superb ! I have seen Iiini rut up Wliithvcuil, quiz Madame de 
 Stat^l, annihilate Culman, and do little less liy some others of 
 good fame and ftbility. I have met liiin at all places and par- 
 tics, and always found him enuvivial and delightful." — By- 
 ROiN's Diari/^ 1821. 
 
 + " The other night wc were all delivering our respective 
 and various opinions upon Sheridan, and mine was this : 
 ' Whatever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has Iteen jinr 
 excellence always the best of its kind. He has written the 
 hest contedy {School for Sciindnl), the best drama (in my mind, 
 far beyond that St. Giles's lampoon, The Be/jf/ars' Opern\ the 
 best farce {The Critic — it is only too good for a farce), and 
 the hest address {Monotofjue on Oitrrirk), and, to crown all, 
 delivered the very best oration itlic famous Begum speech) 
 ever conceived or heard in this country.' " — Byron's Vinry, 
 December 17, 181S. 
 
 % The Dream, called in the lirst draught The Vestintj, was 
 written at Diodati, in July, iHlf), and reflects the train of 
 tlunight engendered by the recent quarrel with l.ndy Byron. 
 The misery of his marriage led him to re\ ert to his early pas- 
 sion for Miss Chaworth, whose union liad proved no happier 
 than his own 
 
 Pereliance in sleep, — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 ir. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle iiill. 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 But a most living landscape, and tiie wave 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
 Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from siicli rustic roofs ; the hUl 
 Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fixed. 
 Not by tiie sport of nature, liut of man : 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing, — the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself, — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
 And both were young, — yet not alike iu youth. 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy iiad fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 Tliere was but one beloved face on earth. 
 And that was shining on him ; he had looked 
 Upon it till it could not pass away; 
 He had no breatii, no being, but iu hers ; 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her. 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight. 
 For his eye followed hers, and saw witli hers. 
 Which colored all his objects ; - - lie had ceased 
 To live within himself ; she was his life, 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. 
 And his cheek change tempestuously, — his heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 Even aS a brother — but no more ; 't was mueli. 
 For brotherlcss she was, save in the name 
 Her infant friendship had bestowed on him ; 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 Of a time-honored race. It was a name 
 Whieli ])lcased him, and yet pleased him not, — 
 
 ■and why ? 
 Time taught him a deep answer, — when slie 
 
 loved 
 Anotiier ; even now she loved another. 
 And on the summit of that iiill she stood 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 Kept pace witli her expcetaney, and flew. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 TlIK DREAM. 
 
 r'j3 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparisoned : 
 
 Within an antique oratory stood 
 
 The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone. 
 
 And pall', and pacing to and fro : anon 
 
 lie sate liini down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 
 Words wliicli I could not guess of; then he 
 
 leaned 
 Ilis bowed head on his hands, and shook as 
 
 't were 
 With a convulsion, — then arose again, 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 ^Vhat he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 And he did eahn himself, and fix his brow 
 Into a kind of quiet ; as he paused. 
 The lady of his love re-entered there ; 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew. 
 For quickly comes sucli knowledge, that his heart 
 Was darkened with her shadow, ami she saw 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 AVas traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 He dropped the hand he held, and with slow 
 
 steps 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu. 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he passed 
 From out the massy gate of that old hall. 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
 And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A change came o'er the sjiirit of my dream. 
 The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds 
 Of liery climes he made himself a home. 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness. 
 Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
 Of those wlio reared them ; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 IVere fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 
 While many of his tribe slumbered around ; 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautifid. 
 That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 
 
 <b 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 Tlie lady of his love was wed with one 
 
 Who did not love licr better : — in her home, 
 
 A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. 
 Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 Tlic settled shadow of an inward strife. 
 And an unquiet drooiiiug of the eye 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 Wliat could her grief be ? — she had all she 
 
 loved, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved him 
 
 not. 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
 Nor could lie be a part of that which preyed 
 Upon her mind, — a spectre of the past. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The wanderer was returned. I saw him stand 
 
 Before an altar, — with a gentle bride ; 
 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 
 Tlie starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 
 The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
 
 That in the antiqvie oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 
 
 And all things reeled around him ; he could see 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have 
 
 been, — 
 But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall. 
 And the remembered chambers, and tiie place. 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and tlie shade, 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
 What business had they there at such a time ? * 
 
 VII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The lady of his love ; — O, she was changed 
 As by the sickness of the soul ; her niiud 
 Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 
 
 * This touchiag pictiu'e afjrees closely, in many of its circum- 
 stances, with Lord Byron's own ju-ose acconnt of the wedding 
 ill liis memoranda; in wliicii lie describes himself as waiving, 
 on the morning of liis marriage, witli the most nielanclioly re- 
 flections, on seeing his M"edding-snit spread ont before him. in 
 the same mood he wandered about tlie grounds alone, till he 
 was summoned for the ceremony, and joined, for the Hrst time, 
 on that day, his bride and her family. He knelt down, — he 
 repeated the words after the clergynuin ; but a mist Mas be- 
 fore his eyes, — his thoughts were elsewhere ; and he was but 
 awakened by the congratulations of the bystanders to lind 
 that he was — married. — Moork. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 794 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Tliey Imd not, their own lustre, but tlie look 
 Wliicli is not of tlic eartli ; slic was Ijecome 
 Tlie queen of a fantastic realm ; licr tliouglits 
 Were coinbinations of disjointed tilings ; 
 And forms impalpable and unpereeivcd 
 Of others' siglit familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world ealls frenzy ; but the wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearl'ul gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
 Which strips the distance of its fantasies. 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 Making the cold reality too real ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The wanderer was alone as heretofore. 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone. 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation, compassed round 
 W'itli hatred and contention ; pain was mixed 
 In all which was served up to him, until, 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* 
 He fed on poisons, and they liad no power. 
 But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 Througli that which liad been death to many men, 
 And made iiim friends of mountains : with the 
 
 stars 
 And tlie quick Spirit of the Universe 
 He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
 To hiin the magic of their mysteries ; 
 To him the book of night was opened wide. 
 And voices from the deep abyss revealed 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 My^lream was past ; it iiad no further eliangc. 
 
 It was of a strange order, that tlic doom 
 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 
 Almost like a reality, — the one 
 
 To end in madness, — both in misery. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 WniLOMr. in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth. 
 Who ne in virtue's ways did take ilelight; 
 But spent Ids days in riot most nne<nitli. 
 And vexed witii mirtli the drowsy ear of Night. 
 Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wigiit. 
 Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; 
 Few eartlily things found favor in his sight. 
 Save concubines and carnal eompanie. 
 And flaunting wassailers of iiigli and low degree. 
 
 Cliilde Harold was lie higlit: — but whence 
 
 his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
 
 * Mitliridatcs of Pontus. 
 
 Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
 And had been glorious in another day ; 
 But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
 However mighty in the olden time ; 
 Nor all that heralds rake from eolBned clay. 
 Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lies of rhyme, 
 Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 Clnlde Harold basked him in the noontide sun, 
 Disporting there like any other fly, 
 Nor deemed before his little day was done 
 One blast might chill him into misery. 
 But long ere scarce a third of his ]iassed by. 
 Worse than adversity the Cliilde befell ; 
 He felt the fulness of satiety : 
 Then loathed he in his native laud to dwell. 
 Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's 
 sad cell. 
 
 For he through sin's long labyrinth had run, 
 Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
 Had sighed to many though he loved but one, 
 And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
 Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him wdiose kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss. 
 And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste. 
 Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. 
 
 And now Cliilde Harold w'as sore sick at heart. 
 And from his fellow baechanals would liee ; 
 'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start. 
 But pride congealed the drop within his ee : 
 Apart he stalked in joyless reverie. 
 And from his native land resolved to go, 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
 With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for 
 
 woe. 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the 
 
 shades below. 
 
 Ckilde UiirohVs Pifgriinai/e, Canto I. 
 
 THE BATTLE OP TALAVERA, 
 
 H.vRK ! heard you not tiiosc hoofs of dreadful 
 
 note ? 
 Sounds not tlic clang of conflict on the heath V 
 Saw ye not whom the recking sabre smote ; 
 Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
 Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of 
 
 death, 
 The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to 
 
 rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to 
 
 breathe ; 
 Death rides upon the sulplniry Siroc, 
 Red Battle stani))s his foot, and nations feel the 
 
 shock. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 INVOCATION TO PARNASSUS. 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 795 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Lo ! where the giant ou the mouutaiu stands, 
 His hlood-red tresses deepening in tlie sun, 
 With dcatli-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
 And eye that scorclieth all it glares upon ; 
 Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon 
 Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
 Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are 
 
 done ; 
 Tor on this morn three potent nations meet, 
 To shed before his shrine the blood he deems 
 most sweet. 
 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
 Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery. 
 Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
 What gallant war-hounds rouse them from 
 
 their lair, 
 Anil guash theirfangs, loud yellingfor the prey ! 
 All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
 The grave shall bear the ehiefest prize away. 
 And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 Three hosts combine to oflfer sacrifice ; 
 Tliree tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
 Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
 The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
 The foe, the victim, and tlie fond ally 
 That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
 Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
 To feed the crow on Talavera's plain. 
 And fertiUze the field that each pretends to gain. 
 Chthh Haroffi's Pilf/naiat/e, Canto I. 
 
 INVOCATION TO PAENASSUS. 
 
 O, THOU Parnassus ! whom I now survey. 
 
 Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye. 
 
 Not in the fabled landsca])c of a lay. 
 
 But soaring snow-elad through thy native 
 
 sky. 
 In tlie wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
 ^Vhat marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
 The Inimblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
 Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string. 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
 wave her wing. 
 
 Oft have I dreamed of thee ! whose glorious 
 
 name 
 Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
 And now I view thee, 't is, alas ! with shame 
 That I in feeblest accents nnist adore. 
 Wlien I recount thy worshippers of yore 
 I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
 Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, . 
 But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
 In silent joy to think at last I look on thee ! 
 
 Happier in this than miglitiest bards have been. 
 Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot. 
 Shall I unmoved heliold the hallowed scene. 
 Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
 Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
 Siglis in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
 And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious 
 wave. 
 
 Chifde UarolfTs Pifgrimage, Canto I. 
 
 TO DfEZ. 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
 
 Alas ! I cannot smile again ; 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Sliouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 
 A pang, even thou must fail to soothe ? 
 
 ' It is not love, it is not hate, 
 
 Nor low ambition's honors lost, 
 That bids me loathe my present state, 
 And fiy from all I prized the most : 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
 
 To me no pleasvire beauty brings ; 
 
 Thme eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
 
 That will not look beyond the tomb, 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 What exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remote, 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 
 
 The blight of life, — the demon Thought. 
 
 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem. 
 
 And taste of all that I forsake ; 
 0, may they still of transport dream. 
 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
 
 Through many a clime 't is mine to go. 
 With many a retrospection curst ; 
 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Wliate'er betides, I 've known the worst. 
 
 Wliat is that worst ? Nay, do not ask, — 
 lu pity from the search forbear ; 
 
 Smile on, — nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the hell that 's there. 
 Chifde Harold'' s Pilgrimage, Canto I. 
 
 -g^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 roG 
 
 15 Y RON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 FAIR GREECE ! SAD RELIC OF DEPARTED WORTE 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, 
 
 great ! 
 Wlio nowshall lead thy scattered children foilh. 
 And long accustomed bondage unereate ? 
 Not sucli thy sons who whilonie did await. 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
 In bleak Thermopylse's sepidcliral strait, — 
 O, who that gallant spirit siiall resume. 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from 
 the tomb ? 
 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
 Tliou sat'st with Tlirasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which 
 
 now 
 Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the ciiain, 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
 Trembling Ijeneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
 From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, 
 
 unmanned. 
 
 In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
 That marks the lire still sparkling in each eye, 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burned 
 
 anew 
 AVitli thy unqueneiied beam, lost Liberty ! 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 Tbat gives them liack their fathers' heritage : 
 For foreign arras and aid they fondly sigh. 
 Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 
 Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mourn- 
 ful page. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the 
 
 blow ? 
 By their right arms the conquest must be 
 
 wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilers low. 
 But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the 
 
 same ; 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of 
 
 shame. 
 
 ChUde lJarof(Vs Pilf/rimaf/e^ Canto II. 
 
 THE REJUVENATION OF GREECE. 
 
 When riseth Lacedemon's liardilu)od. 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again. 
 When Atliens' children are witli hearts endued. 
 When Grecian motiiers shall give birth to men, 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlicn mayst thou be restored; but not till then 
 A thousand years scarce serve to form a slate ; 
 An iiour may lay it in the dust : and wiien 
 Ca!i man its sliattered splendor renovate. 
 Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and 
 Fate ? 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art tiiou ! 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
 So perish aU in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
 Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
 While strangers only not regardless pass, 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 
 "'Alas ! " • 
 
 Yet are thy skies as bine, thy crags as wild ; 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields. 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
 And still his honeyed wealth Hyniettus yields ; 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress 
 
 builds. 
 The frecboru wanderer of thy mountain air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
 Still in his beam ilendeli's marbles glare ; 
 Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. 
 
 Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground 
 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould. 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around. 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly told. 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 Tlic scenes onrearliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and 
 
 wold 
 Defies the power which crushed thy temples 
 
 gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray 
 
 Marathon. 
 
 Cliilde Harold's Pilgrimage, Cauto II. 
 
 FABEWBtL TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
 Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they 
 smiled. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE POET'S raiVILEGES AND SORROWS. — WATERLOO. 797 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And tlieu we parted, — uot as now we part, 
 But with a hope. 
 
 Awaking with a start, 
 The waters licave around me ; and on higli 
 The winds lift up their voiees : I depart, 
 Wliit.hcr I i^now not ; but the hour 's gone by, 
 Wlien Albion's lessening shores could grieve or 
 glad mine eye. 
 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. "Weleome, to their roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
 Though the strained mast should quiver as a 
 
 reed, 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on; for I am as a weed, 
 Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's 
 breath prevad. 
 
 CInlde Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto III. 
 
 THE POET'S PEIVILEGES AND SOKKOWS. 
 
 'T IS to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 What am I ? Nothing ; but not so art thou. 
 Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse 
 
 earth, 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 Mixed with tliy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
 And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' 
 
 dearth. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
 Too h)ng and darkly, till my brain became, 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
 A whirling gulf of fantasy and flame ; 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame. 
 My springs of life were poisoned. 'T is too 
 
 late ! 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough the 
 
 same 
 In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
 And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 
 Ckilde Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto III. 
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night. 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brare 
 
 men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 
 ^0— 
 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a 
 rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? No ; 't was but tlie wind 
 Or the ear rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be uneonlined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure 
 
 meet 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
 But, iuirk ! — that heavy sound breaks in once 
 
 more 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening 
 
 roar ! 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival. 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
 And when they smiled because he deemed it 
 
 near. 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretched his father oa a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could 
 
 quell : 
 He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, 
 
 fell. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, wiiicli but an hour ago 
 Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 
 And there wert sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and clioking 
 
 sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated; who could 
 
 guess 
 If evermore should meet those mutual eyes. 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
 
 rise ! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the 
 
 steed. 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While tlironged the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips, — " The foe ! 
 
 They come I they come ! " 
 
 And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" 
 
 rose ! 
 The war-note of Loehiel, which Albyn's hills 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 ros 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -ft) 
 
 V- 
 
 Have heard, aiid heard, too, liave her Saxon 
 
 foes ; — 
 IIow in the noon of niijht tli;it pibroch thrills, 
 Savase and shrill ! But with the breath which 
 
 fills 
 Tlicir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 ^Vifli the fierce native daring which instils 
 Tlic stirring memory of a thousand years. 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans- 
 man's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above tiiem her green 
 
 leaves. 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
 Over tlie unretnrniug brave, — alas! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above sball grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valor, rolling on t!ic foe 
 And burning witb liigli huiie, shall moulder cold 
 and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
 
 Last eve in beauty's circle pnuully gay. 
 
 The miduiglitljrouglit tliesigmd-sound of strife. 
 
 The morn the nuirslialling in arms, — the day 
 
 Battle's magnificently sterji array ! 
 
 Tlic tluinder-clouds close o'er it, whicli when 
 
 rent 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and 
 
 pent, 
 Kidcr and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
 
 blent ! 
 
 Their praise is liyunied by loftier harps than 
 
 mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
 Partly because they blend me with his line. 
 And partly that I did Ins sire some wrong. 
 And partly that bright names will iiallow song; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when showered 
 The death-bolts deadliest thetbiinied files along. 
 Even where tlu^ thickest of war's tempest low- 
 ered, 
 They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, 
 gallant Howard ! 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for 
 
 thee. 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresii green 
 
 tree, 
 Whidi living waves where tliou didst cease to 
 
 live. 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits ami fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turned from all she brought to those she could 
 not bring. 
 
 I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 Li his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; 
 Thearehangers trump, not glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though tlie sound 
 
 of fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honored but assumes a st ronger, bitterer claim. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, 
 
 mourn : 
 The tree w-iU wither long before it fall ; 
 The hull d rives on, thongli mast and sail be torn ; 
 The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 In massy hoariness ; tiie ruined wall 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements are 
 
 gone ; 
 The bars survive the ea])tive they entlirall; 
 Tbe day drags through though storms keep 
 
 out the sun ; 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly 
 
 live on. 
 
 Chitdi' HarohVs Pifgritnage, Canto III. 
 
 THE POET'S SYMPATHY WITH NATURE. 
 
 I LIVE not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me; and to me 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fh^shly chain. 
 Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee. 
 And with the sky, the peak, the lieaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 And thus I am absorbed, and this is life ; 
 I look upon the peoi)led desert past, 
 As on a place of agony and strife, 
 Wliere, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, 
 To act and suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which 1 feel to spring. 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as t he bla.st 
 Which it would cojie with, on delighted wing, 
 Spurning tlie clay-cold bonds which round our 
 being cling. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form. 
 Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
 Wlien elements to elements conform. 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 
 -^ 
 
f 
 
 ROUSSEAU. — CALM AND STORM. 
 
 799 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
 
 The bodiless tiiouglit ? tlie spirit of each spot ? 
 
 Of wliicli, even now, I share at times the ininior- 
 
 tal lot ? 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 ^Vith a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these r" and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Sucli fechugs for the iiard and worldly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turned below, 
 Gaziug upon the ground, with thoughts whicli 
 dare not glow ? 
 
 Ch'ildi; Harold's Pi/^rinwffe, Canto III. 
 
 EOTJSSEAU. 
 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
 The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
 Euclumtment over passion, and from woe 
 Wrung ovcrwheluiiug eloquence, first drew 
 The breath which made him wretched ; yet he 
 
 knew 
 How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
 O'er erring deeds and thoughts a lieavenly line 
 Of words, like sunljeams, dazzling as they past 
 The eyes, which o'er them slied tears feelingly 
 and fast. 
 
 His love was passion's essence, — as a tree 
 On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
 Kindled lie was, and blasted ; for to be 
 Thus, and enamored, wore in him the same. 
 But his was not the love of living dame. 
 Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams. 
 But of ideal beauty, which became 
 In him existence, and u'ertlowiug teems 
 Along his burning page, distempered though it 
 seems. 
 
 Tliia brcatlied itself to life in Julie, tliis 
 Invested licr witii all that 's wild and sweet ; 
 This halhiwed, too, the memorable kiss 
 Which every morn his fevered lip would greet. 
 From hers, who but with friendship his would 
 
 meet ; 
 But to tliat gentle touch, through brain and 
 
 breast 
 Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest 
 Thau vulgar minds may be with all they seek 
 
 possest. 
 
 His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
 Or friends by him self-bauislied ; for his mind 
 Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose, 
 For its own cruel sacrifice, tlie kind 
 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and 
 blind. 
 
 But he was frenzied, — wherefore, who may 
 know ? 
 
 Since cause might be which skill could never 
 find; 
 
 But he was frenzied by disease or woe. 
 To that worst pitch of all, wliicii wears a reason- 
 ing show. 
 
 For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
 As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
 Tliose oracles which set the world in flame, 
 Norceasedto burn till kingdoms were no more : 
 Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
 Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? 
 Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
 Till by the voice of iiim and his compeers 
 Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'er- 
 grown fears ? 
 
 Tiiey made themselves a fearful monument ! 
 The wreck of oldopiiiions, — things which gi'cw, 
 Breathed from the Ijirth of time : the veil they 
 
 rent. 
 And what behind it lay all eartli shall view. 
 But good with ill they also overtlirew. 
 Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
 Upon tiie same foundation, and renew 
 Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour 
 
 refilled. 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed. 
 C/nlde Harold's Pilyrimarjc, Canto HI. 
 
 CALM AND STORM. 
 
 Clear, placid Leuuni ! thy contrasted lake. 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 AMiich warns me, witli its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distiactioii ; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been 
 so moved. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Tliy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear. 
 Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
 Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the susjiended oar. 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol 
 more ; 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 
 — ^ 
 
f 
 
 800 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 At intervals, sojiie bird from out tiic brakes 
 Starts into voiee a moment, Ibeu is still. 
 TluTc seems a lloatiiig whisper on tlie hill, 
 But that is I'aiicy, fur the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 AVecping themselves away, till they infuse 
 De(^]) into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 Yc stars ! wiiieh are the poetry of heaven. 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires, ^ 't is to be forgiven, 
 That, in our aspirations to be great. 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar, 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named thefti- 
 selves a star. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still, — though not in 
 
 slec]). 
 But breathless, as wc grow when feeling most ; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep; — 
 All heaven and earth are still ; from the high 
 
 host 
 Of stars, to tlie lulled lake and mountaiu-coast. 
 All is concentred in a life intense, 
 AVIiere not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 
 In solitude, wiicre we are letat alone; 
 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt 
 
 And purifies from self : it is a tone, 
 
 The soul and source of music, which makes 
 
 known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
 Binding all things witli beauty ; — 't would dis- 
 arm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to 
 harm. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high places and the pe.ak 
 Of eartli-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
 A fit and nuwalled temple, there to seek 
 The S|)irit in whose honor shrines arc weak, 
 Uprcared of human hands. Come, and compare 
 Columns ami idul-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
 With Nature's realms of worshi]), earth an'd air, 
 Nor lix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! 
 
 The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! 
 
 night, 
 Aiul storm, and darkness, ye arc wondrous 
 
 strong. 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone 
 
 cloud. 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 And this is in the night; — most glorious night ! 
 Thou wert not sent for shnnber ! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth I 
 And now again 't is black, — and now, the 
 
 glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes w'ith its monntain- 
 
 nurth. 
 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
 
 birth. 
 
 * ♦ ♦ 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings I 
 
 ye! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the far 
 
 roll 
 Of your departing voices is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
 But where of yc, tempests ! is the goal? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
 
 nest? 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 
 
 weak. 
 All that I would have sought, and all I seek. 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one 
 
 word. 
 And that one word were Lightning, I would 
 
 speak ; 
 But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 
 
 sword. 
 
 The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
 
 Witii breath all incense, and with cheek all 
 
 bloom. 
 Laughing the clouds away with ]dayful scorn, 
 And living as if earth contained no tomb, — 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 The march of our existence : and thus I, 
 Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. 
 Cliitde Harold's Pilgrimafir, Canto III. 
 
 ^&-^ 
 
 -^ 
 
f 
 
 CLARENS. 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 801 
 
 -Q) 
 
 CLAEENS, 
 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep 
 
 Love, 
 Thine air is the young breath of passionate 
 
 thouglit, 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
 The very glaciers have liis colors caught. 
 And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
 By rays wiiich sleep there lovingly : the rocks. 
 The pernianent crags, tell here of Love, who 
 
 sought 
 Li them a refuge from the worldly shocks. 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that wooes, 
 
 then mocks. 
 
 Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
 Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
 To which the steps are mountains ; where the 
 
 Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
 Not on tliose summits solely, nor alone 
 In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower 
 His eye is s|jarkling, and his breath hath blown 
 His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
 Passes tlie strength of storms in their most desolate 
 hour. 
 
 All thingsare here oi/iim ; from the black pines, 
 Whioii arc his shade on liigh, and the loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listencth, to tlie vines 
 Whicli slope his green path downward to the 
 
 shore, 
 Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore. 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood. 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
 But light leaves, youug as joy, stands where it 
 
 stood. 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 
 
 A populous sohtude of bees and birds, 
 And fairy-fornied and many-colored things. 
 Who worsliip iiim with notes more sweet than 
 
 words, 
 .\nd innocently open their glad wings. 
 Fearless and full of life : tlie gush of springs. 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and tlie bend 
 Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
 The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
 Mingluig, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would leani that 
 
 lore, 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
 That tender mysteiy, will love the more, 
 Tor this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes. 
 And the world's waste, have driven him far from 
 
 those, 
 Tor 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
 
 ^9-^ 
 
 He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
 
 CMlde Harold's FUyrimaije, Canto III. 
 
 VOLTAIEE AND GIBBON, 
 
 Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 
 Of names which unto you bequeathed a name ; * 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous 
 
 roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame : 
 They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
 Thoughts which should call down thunder, and 
 
 the flame 
 Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while 
 On man and man's research could deign do more 
 
 than smile. 
 
 The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
 Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
 A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
 He multiplied iiimself among mankind. 
 The Proteus of their talents : but his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
 Blew where it listed, laying all tilings prone, — 
 Now to o'erthrow a fool, andnow to shake a tiironc. 
 
 The other, deep and slow, exhausting thouglit, 
 And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
 In meditation dwelt, with learning wrouglit, 
 And shaped his weapon with an edge severe. 
 Sapping a soleuni creed with solemn sneer; 
 The lord of irony, — that master-spell. 
 Which stung his foes to wrath, wliich grew from 
 
 fear. 
 And doomed him to the zealot's ready hell. 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto III. 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 I .STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hun- 
 dred isles ! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 
 Voltaire and Gibbon. 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 802 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 At airy distauco, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and tlicir powers : 
 And sueli she was ; — her daughters had their 
 
 dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling siiowers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity in- 
 
 ereased. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear : 
 Those days are gone, — but beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade, — but nature doth not die. 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity. 
 The revel of the earth, the mask of Italy ! 
 
 But unto us she luth a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the dogeless city's vanished sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away, — 
 The keystones of tlie arch! though all were 
 o'er, 
 Por us repcopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 And more beloved existence : that which Pate 
 Prohibits to dull hfe, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
 Pirst exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early flowers have 
 ^ died, 
 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 
 CIdlde Uarntd's Pilgrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 PERSONAL GRIEFS AND THEIR COMPENSA- 
 TIONS. 
 
 I CAN repeople with the past, — and of 
 The present there is still for eye and thought. 
 And meditation cliastened down, enough ; 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
 And of the happiest moments which were 
 
 wrought , 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, fair Venice ! have tlicir colors 
 
 caught : 
 There are some feelings time cannot bcnuivib, 
 Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold 
 
 and dumb. 
 
 But fi'om their nature will the tauuen grow* 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, 
 Rooted in barrenness, where naught below 
 Of soil supports tliem 'g;unst the Alpine shocks 
 Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and 
 
 mocks 
 The howling tempest, till its licight and frame 
 Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
 Of bleak, gray granite, into Hfe it came. 
 And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the 
 
 same. 
 
 Existence may be borne, and the deej) root 
 Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
 In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
 The camel labors with the heaviest load. 
 And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestowed 
 In vain should such exam])le be; if they. 
 Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
 Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
 May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 
 
 All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, 
 Even by the sufferer; and, in each event. 
 Ends ; — some, with hope replenished and re- 
 buoyed. 
 Return to whence they came, with like intent. 
 And weave their web again ; some, bowed and 
 
 bent. 
 
 Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time. 
 
 And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. 
 
 According as their souls were formed to sink or 
 
 climb : 
 
 But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
 Aud slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would 
 
 fling 
 Aside forever : it may be a sound, 
 A tone of music, sunnner's eve, or spring, 
 A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall 
 
 wound. 
 Striking the electric chain wherewith we are 
 
 darkly bound ; 
 
 And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
 ]-!ut feel the shock renewed, nor can efface 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves be- 
 hind. 
 Which out of things familiar, undesigned, 
 ■When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
 The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
 
 * Tannen is tlic plural of tanne, n species of fir peculiftr to 
 tlie .\lps. wliirh only thrives in very roekv ports, where searcely 
 soil suOlcient for its nourishment cnn he found. On Iliese spots 
 it -'VOWS to n "renter height than any r>tlier luountnin tree. 
 
 — 0^ 
 
C&- 
 
 THE VENUS DE MEDICI. 
 
 803 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, 
 anew, 
 The mourned, the loved, the lost — too many ! — 
 yet how few ! 
 
 C/iitde Harold's Pilr/iimar/e, Canto IV. 
 
 IMAGINATIVE SYMPATHY WITH NATURE.* 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night, — 
 Sunset divides tlie sky with her, — a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
 Melted to one vast iris of the west, 
 Where the day joins the past eternity ; 
 Wliile, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air, — an island of the 
 blest ! 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Rolled o'er the peak of the fair Rluetian hill. 
 As day and night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaimed her order ; — gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instU 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glassed 
 witliin it glows. 
 
 Filled with the face of heaven, which from afar 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
 Their magical variety diffuse : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, wliom each pang imbues 
 With a new color as it gasps away, 
 The last still loveliest till, — 't is gone — and all 
 is gray. 
 
 Ch'iMe Harold's P'dt^rima'(/e, Canto IV. 
 
 DUKE ALFONSO AND TASSO, 
 
 Teou ! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trougli and wider sty : 
 He! with a glory round his furrowed brow, 
 Wliieh emanated then, and dazzles now, 
 
 * " Tlic whole of this canto is rich in description of nalnre. 
 The love of nature now appears as a distinct passion in Byron's 
 mind- It is a love that does not rest in beliolding, nor is satis- 
 lied witli describing, wliat is before him. It has n power and 
 being, blending itself with the poet's very life. Thongh Byron 
 had, with his real eyes, perhaps, seen more of nature tlian ever 
 was before pennitted to any great poet, yet he never before 
 seemed to open his whole heart to her genial impulses. But in 
 this he is changed; and in the fourth Canto of Chihie Wirold 
 be will stand a comparison with the best descriptive poets, 
 in this age of descriptive poetry." — Peofessor Wilson. 
 
 In face of aU his foes, the Cruscan choir. 
 And Boilcau, whose rash envy ooidd allow 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking 
 lyre. 
 That whetstone of the teeth, — monotony in wire ! 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 't was his 
 In hfe and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 Aimed with her poisoned arrows ; but to miss. 
 O, victor unsurpassed in modern song ! 
 Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
 The tide of generations shall roll on. 
 And aot the whole combined and countless 
 
 throng 
 Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 
 Condensed their scattered rays, they would not 
 
 form a sun. 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 ARIOSTO, 
 
 Geeat as thou art, yet paralleled by those. 
 Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
 The bards of hell and chivalry : first rose 
 The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
 Then, not miequal to the Florentine, 
 The southern Scott, the minstrel who called 
 
 forth 
 A new creation ■with his magic line, 
 And, like the Arlosto of the North, 
 Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly 
 
 worth. 
 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 'i'lie irtni ero^vu of laurel's mimicked leaves ; 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
 For the true laurel- wreath which Glory weaves 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
 And the false semblance butdisgraced his brow. 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
 Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred 
 now. 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 THE VENUS DE MEDICI, 
 
 TnEKE, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills 
 The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
 Part of its immortaUty ; the veil 
 Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale 
 We stand, and in that form and face behold 
 What mind can make, when nature's self would 
 
 fad; 
 And to the fond idolaters of old 
 Envy the innate flash wliich such a soul could 
 
 mould : 
 
 _9) 
 
a- 
 
 804 
 
 BYKON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart * 
 Reels with its fiiliicss ; tliere, — lurever there, — 
 Chained to tiie cliariot of triumphal art, 
 We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
 Away! — there need no words, nor terms pre- 
 cise. 
 The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
 Where pedantry gulls folly, — we have eyes : 
 Blood, pulse, and breast conlirm the Dardan 
 Shepherd's prize. 
 
 Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
 Or to more deeply blest Ancliiscs ? or, 
 In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
 Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War? 
 And gazing in thy face as toward a star. 
 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
 Peeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips are 
 With lava kisses melting wliile they burn, 
 Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as 
 from an urn ! 
 
 Glowing, and cireumfused in speechless love, 
 Tiieir full divinity inadequate 
 Tliat feeling to express, or to improve. 
 The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
 Has moments like their briglitest ; but the 
 
 weight 
 Of earth recoils upon us : let it go ! 
 We can recall such visions, and create, 
 Prom what has been, or might be, tilings which 
 
 grow 
 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 
 
 I leave to learned fingers and wise hands. 
 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 How well his connoisseurship understands 
 The gracefvd bend and the voluptuous swell : 
 Let these describe the undeseribaljle : 
 I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
 
 stream 
 Wherein that image shall forever dwell ; 
 The unrutllcd mirror of the loveliest dream 
 That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 
 Childe Ilaro/d's Pilgrimnf/e, Canto TV. 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF TEE CLITUMNUS. 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 
 * In 1817 Byron visited Florence, on his wny to Rome "I 
 remained," lie sbj's, " hut tt dtiy : however, I went to the two 
 jrallcries, from whirli one returns ilnntl- v'tth benutif. The 
 Venna 18 more for adniirjition thnn \ovc\ but tlierc are sculp- 
 ture and pnintinfi. wliieh. lor the first time, at nil [rave nie an 
 idea of what people menu liy their cant nljout those two most 
 artificial of arts," 
 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost 
 
 rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
 Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaugli- 
 
 ters, — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest diiiigh- 
 
 ters ! 
 
 And on thy happy shore a temple still. 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps. 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill. 
 Its memory of thee ; beneatli it sweeps 
 Thy cuiTent's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales. 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
 While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its 
 bubbling tales. 
 
 Pass not unblest the genius of the place 1 
 If tlirough the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 With nature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.* 
 
 Childe Harold's Filyrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 THE FALL OF TEKNL 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave- worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The Hashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
 Tiic liell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror 
 set, 
 
 * " Pevlmps there arc no verses in our language of happier 
 descriptive power than tlie two stnnxas which chai-acleri/.e the 
 Clitumnus. In general poets find it so ditllcult to leave an 
 interesting suhject, that they injure the distinctness of the de- 
 scription liy loading it so as to embarrass, rather than excite, 
 the fancy of the reader; or else, to avoid that fault, they con- 
 line themselves to cold and abstract generalities. Byron has, 
 in these stanzas, admirably steered his course bctwi.vt these 
 extremes : while they prcsirnt the outlines of a picture as pure 
 and as lirilliaut as those of Claude liorraine, the task of filling 
 up the more minute particulars is judiciously left to the imagi- 
 nation of the reader ; and it must be dull indeed if it docs not 
 supply wbnt the p'tet lias left unsaid, or but generally and 
 briefly intimated. While the eye glances over the lines, we 
 seem to feel the refresliing coolness of the scene, — we hear the 
 bubbling tale of the more rapid streams, and see the slender 
 proportions of the rural temple reflected in the crystal depth 
 of the calm pool." — Sir Waitkh Scott. 
 
 ^. 
 
a- 
 
 KOME. 
 
 EGERIA. 
 
 8U5 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And mouuts iu si)ray tlie skies, and tlience again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, wliicli round. 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is an eternal A])ril to the ground, 
 ]\[aking it all one emerald : — how profound 
 The gnlf ! and how the giant clement 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound. 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and 
 
 rent 
 TTith his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
 
 vent 
 
 To the broad column wliieh rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the thi'oes 
 Of a new world, than oidy thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
 With many windings, through the vale : — look 
 
 back ! 
 Lo ! Avhere it comes like an eternity. 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track. 
 Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless 
 
 cataract. 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
 From side to side, beneatli the glittering morn. 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their iieams unshorn: 
 Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 Cliilde Harold's Pihjrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 ROME. 
 Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance? Come 
 
 and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day, — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,* 
 Childless and crownless, iu her voiceless woe; 
 
 * " I have been some days in Rome tlie Wonderful. I am 
 delighted with Rome. As a whole, — ancient and modern, — 
 it beats Greece, Constantinople, everything, — at least, that I 
 have ever seen. But I can't describe, l)eeau3e my ftrst im- 
 pressions are always strong and couJused, and my memory 
 selects and reduces them to order, like distance in tiie land- 
 scape, and blends them better, although tliey may be less dis- 
 tinct. I have been on horseliack most of the day, all days 
 since my arrival. I have been to Albano, its lakes, and to the 
 top of the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, .\ricia, etc. As for 
 tlie Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Peter's, the Vatican, Palatine, etc., 
 etc., — tliey are quite inconceivable, and must be seen." — 
 Bybon's Letters, May, 1S17. 
 
 ^6^- 
 
 An empty urn within her withered hands, 
 Whose lioly dust was scattered long ago ; 
 The Seipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her dis- 
 tress. 
 
 Ckilde Harold's F'thjrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 TYRANTS AND FBEEDOM. 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, 
 And Freedom lind no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and uudeflled ? 
 Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, ■where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
 Such seeds witliin her breast, or Europe ao such 
 shore ? 
 
 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. 
 And fatal have her SaturuaUa been 
 To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
 Because the deadly days which we have seen. 
 And vile xVmbition, that built up between 
 Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
 And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
 Are growni the pretext for the eternal thrall 
 Wiiich nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst, — 
 his second fall. 
 
 Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
 Streams Uke the thunder-storm against the 
 
 wind; 
 Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and 
 
 dying. 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopped by the axe, looks rough and Utile 
 
 worth, 
 But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find 
 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring 
 
 forth. 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage^ Canto IV. 
 
 EOEKIA, 
 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Wliioh found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
 The iiynipholepsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
 Who found a more than common votary there 
 
 -05 
 
(Or 
 
 806 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Too mucli adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth. 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
 fortli. 
 
 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
 Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- 
 
 wrinkled. 
 Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
 Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
 Art's'works ; nor must tlie delicate waters sleep. 
 Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base 
 Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
 The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and 
 
 ivy creep. 
 
 Fantastically tangled ; the green lulls 
 
 Are clothed with eai'ly blossoms, through the 
 
 grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and majiy in their class. 
 Implore the pausing step, and \rith their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes. 
 Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored by 
 
 its skies. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
 The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting 
 l^'ith^ler most stan-y canopy, and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamored goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love, — the earliest oracle ! 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his reply- 
 ing, 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
 And Love, which dies as it was bom, in sighing, 
 Share with immortal transports ? could thine 
 
 art 
 Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
 Expel the venom and not blunt the dart, — 
 The dull satiety which all destroys, — ■ 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which 
 cloys ? 
 
 • « * 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
 And fevers into false creation : — where, 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 
 
 seized? 
 In him alone. Can Nature sliow so fair? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we 
 
 dare 
 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men. 
 
 The unreached Paradise of our despair, 
 A\'liieh o'er-informs tlie pencil and the pen. 
 And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
 again? 
 
 Childe Harold' 3 Pilgrimage, Caoto IV. 
 
 BTEON'S SEHSE OF HIS WKONGS. 
 
 AxD if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
 I shrink from what is sufi'ered : let him speak 
 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow. 
 Or seen my mind's convidsion leave it weak ; 
 But in tins page a record wiU I seek. 
 Not in the air shall these my words disperse. 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my 
 eui'se ! 
 
 That curse shall be forgiveness. Have I not, — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it , 
 
 Heaven ! — 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot 1 
 Have I not suffered things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapped, name blighted, life's life lied 
 
 away? 
 And only not to desperation driven, 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 Have I not seen what human things coidd do ? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few. 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
 The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seem true. 
 And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.* 
 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
 But there is that within me which shall tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
 Like the remembered tone of a nuitc lyre, 
 Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 Childe Harold' a Pilgrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 ♦ Between this stanza nnd the preceding there was in the 
 
 original MS. the following , — 
 
 " If to foi-irive I>e lieapin? coals of fire. — 
 .\s God linlh spoken. — on the tieads of foes, 
 Mint- sliimlU lie a xoleano. and rise liigher 
 Tlinn. o'er the Titans crushed, Olvnipus rose. 
 Or .\thos soars, or lda7.in^ Etna glows ; — 
 True thev wlio st\ins were rreepins ttiinss: but what 
 Than serpents* teeth inflicts with deadlier tliroes? 
 The lion mav lie iwadcd liv the pnat. — 
 
 Who sucks the sluinhcrcr's blood?— The eagle? — >o: the 
 
 -5^ 
 
f 
 
 THE CHURCH OF ST. PETER'S. 
 
 807 
 
 -Q) 
 
 THE DYING GLADIATOR,* 
 
 I SEE before inc the gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon liis hand, — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his drooped head sinks gradually low, — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him, — he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhumaa sliout which hailed the 
 wretch who won. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away : 
 He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 T/iere were his young barbarians all at play, 
 Mf're was their Daeian mother, — he, theirsirc, 
 Butchered to make a Roman Jioliday, — 
 All this rushed with his blood — Shall he ex- 
 pire 
 And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut 
 
 your ire 
 
 fr 
 
 Cliilde Harold's Filr/rimage, Canto IV. 
 
 THE ROMAN DAUGHTER. 
 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothuig : look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so ; I see them full and plain, — 
 An old man, and a female young and fair. 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar: — but what doth she there. 
 With her numautled neck, and bosom white and 
 bare 'i 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
 Where on the heart &nA./rom the heart we took 
 
 * Janies Montgomery, a tviic poet, says of this celebrated 
 passage ■. — 
 
 " MvriRcls of eyes had gazed upon that statue; through 
 myriads of minds all the images and ideas couiiccleil wiili the 
 combat and tlie fall, the spectators and the scene, had i)assed 
 in the presence of that unconscious marlile which has gi\en 
 immortality to the pangs of deatli ; hut not a soul among all the 
 Ijcholders through eighteen centuries, — not one had ever before 
 thought of 'the rude hut,' the ' Uacian mother,' the 'young 
 harharians.' At length came the poet of passion ; and looking 
 down upon the Dying Gladiator (less as ivhat it was than 
 what it represented), turned the niarlile into man, and en- 
 dowed it with atfections ; then, away, over the Apennines and 
 over the Alps, away, on the wings of irrepressible symi)atliy. 
 Hew his spirit to the banks of the Danube, wliere, 'with his 
 heart," were the 'eyes' of the victim under the nightfall of 
 deatli; for 'there were his young barbarians all at play,' and 
 there 'their Dncian motlier.' This is nature; this is'trutli. 
 While the conllict continued, the conihalant thought of himself 
 only ; he aimed at nothing hut victory ; when life and this 
 were lost, liis last tliouglits, his sole thoughts, would turn to 
 his wife and little children." 
 
 Tliis criticism is a poet's interpretation of one of the great 
 oftices of poetry. It flashes on the most commonplace mind 
 the wonderful ])Ower of imagination, when it obeys the primal 
 instincts of the heart. 
 
 Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
 Blest into mother, in the iimocent look. 
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradlednook 
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves, — 
 What may the fruit be yet 't — I know not, — 
 Cain was Eve's. 
 
 But here youth offers to old age the food. 
 The milk of his own gift ; — it is her sire 
 To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
 Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feeling can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 
 
 higher 
 Than Egypt's river ; — from that gentle side 
 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
 
 holds no such tide. 
 
 The starry fable of the milky way 
 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
 
 And sacred Nature trium])hs more in tliis 
 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
 
 Wliere sparkle distant worlds ; — 0, holiest 
 
 nurse ! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
 Childe Harold's I'ihjrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 THE CHURCH OF ST, PETER'S,. 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
 Standest alone, — with nothing like to thee, — 
 Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
 Since Zion's desolation, when that he 
 Forsook his former city, what could be. 
 Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 
 Of a sublimer aspect ? Jlajesty, 
 Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are 
 aisled 
 In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 
 
 Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
 And why ? it is not lessened ; but thy mind. 
 Expanded by the gcnins of the spot, 
 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Tliy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
 See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
 His holy of holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 
 
 Thou movest, — but increasing with the ad- 
 vance. 
 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth 
 rise. 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 808 
 
 BYllON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
 
 Vastuess wliicli grows, but grows to harmou- 
 
 ize. 
 All musical iu its immensities ; 
 Rich marbles, riclier painting, slirines where 
 
 flame 
 The lamps of gold, and haughty dome whicli 
 
 vies 
 Inairwitheartli'schief structures, though their 
 
 frame 
 Sits on the firm-set ground, — and this the clouds 
 
 must claim. 
 
 Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must 
 
 break. 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make. 
 That ask the eye, — so here condense thy soul 
 To more immediate objects, and control 
 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
 In mighty graduations, part by part, 
 The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. 
 Childe Harold's Pilyrimaye, Canto IV. 
 
 THE STATUES OF LAOCOON AND APOLLO. 
 
 Ok, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 
 Laoeoon's torture dignifying pain, — 
 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 
 TMth an immortal's patience blending ; — vain 
 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
 
 And gripe, and deepcningof the dragon's grasp. 
 
 The old man's clench; the long envenomed 
 
 cliain 
 llivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on i)ang, and stifles gasp on 
 
 gasp. 
 
 Or view the lord of the unerring bow. 
 The god of life, and ])oesy, and light, — 
 The sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow 
 All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
 The shaft liath just beenshot, — the arrow bright 
 With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
 And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
 And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
 Developing in that one glance the Deity. 
 
 But in his dcHcate form — a dream of love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Longed for a deathless lover from above. 
 And maddened in that vision — arc cx])rest 
 All that ideal beauty ever l)lesscd 
 The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
 ^\'lu'n each conception was a heavenly guest, 
 A ray of immortality, and stood. 
 Starlike, around, until thev gathered to a god ! 
 
 And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
 The fire whieli we endure, it was repaid 
 By him to whom the energy was given 
 "Wiiieh this poetic marble luith arrayed 
 With au eternal glory, — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human tliought; 
 And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid 
 One ringlet in the dust, — nor hath it caught 
 . tmge of years, but breathes the flame with 
 which 'twas wrought. 
 
 Childe Harold's Filgrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 SOLITUDE, 
 
 THAT the desert were my dwelliug-place. 
 With one fair spirit for my minister. 
 That I might all forget the human race. 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 
 Ye elements !^ — in whose ennobling stir 
 
 1 feel myself exalted, — can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I eiT 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our 
 lot. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
 There is society, where none intrudes. 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not man the less, but nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been befoi-e. 
 To mingle with the universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimai/e, Canto IV. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, — 
 
 roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin, — his con- 
 trol 
 Stops with the siiore; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 Wien for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinks into thy deptiis with bubbhng groan. 
 Without a grave, unkuclled, uucofllncd, and un- 
 known. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy 
 
 fields 
 Arc not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 
 
 he wields 
 For earth's destruction tliou dost all despise. 
 Spurning him from tliy bosom to the skies. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 FAKEWELL. — GREECE. 
 
 809 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And send'st him, shivering iu thy plaj'ful 
 
 spray 
 And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashes liim again to earth ; — there let him 
 
 lay. 
 
 The armaments which thnnderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-biult cities, bidding nations quake 
 And nionarchs tremble in their capitals ; 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Tlieir clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 
 These arc thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, wliich mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 
 
 thee, — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 
 
 they y 
 Thy waters washed them power while they 
 
 were free,* 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 Tlie stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts; — not so 
 
 thou. 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play ; 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 
 
 form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed, — iu breeze, or gale, or 
 
 storm. 
 Icing the pole, or iu the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sub- 
 lime. 
 The image of eternity, the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
 alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onwafd: from a 
 
 boy 
 I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror, 't was a pleasing fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far nud near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV. 
 
 * This line reads thus in Byron's MS. In all editions be- 
 fore that of London, 1855, it was printed, — 
 
 ' Tliy waters wasted them while they were free." 
 
 FAEEWELL! 
 
 My task is done, — my song hath ceased, — 
 
 my theme 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
 The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
 The torch shall be extinguished wliich hath lit 
 My midnight lamp, — and what is writ, is 
 
 writ, — 
 Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
 That which I have been, and my visions flit 
 Less palpably before me, and tlie glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and 
 
 low. 
 
 Farewell ! a word that nuist be, and hath 
 
 been, — 
 A sound which makes us linger; — yet — fare- 
 well ! 
 Ye, who have traced the pilgrim to the scene 
 T\'hich is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought whicli once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vam 
 He wore his sandal-shoou and scallop-shell ; 
 Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
 If such there were, — wdtlfyo?/, tlie moral of his 
 strain ! 
 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV . 
 
 GREECE, 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 Ere the first day of death is fled. 
 The first dark day of nothiugness. 
 The last of danger and distress 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the hues where beauty lingers), 
 And marked the mild angelic air. 
 The rapture of repose that 's there, 
 The fixed yet tender traits that streak 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 And, but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy 
 Appalls the gazing mourner's heart, 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Yes, but for these and these alone. 
 Some moments, ay, one treaciierous hour. 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly sealed. 
 The first, last look by death revealed ! 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
 We start, for soul is wantuig there. 
 Hers is the loveUness in death. 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 
a- 
 
 810 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 h 
 
 15iit beauty with that fearful bloom, 
 That hue which luiuuts it to the tomb, 
 Ex]U'essioii's last receding ray, 
 A gikled lialii liovering round decay, 
 Tlic farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
 Sjiark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
 VVhich gleams, but warms no more its cherished 
 earth ! 
 
 Climo of the unforgotteu brave ! 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave I 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be. 
 That this is all remains of thee ? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
 These waters blue that round you lave, 
 
 servile offspring of the free, — 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
 The gidf, the rock of Salamis ! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown. 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 The embers of their former fires ; 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear 
 That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
 And leave his sous a hope, a fame. 
 They too will rather die than shame : 
 For Freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft is ever won. 
 Hear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
 Attest it many a deathless age ! 
 '\Miilc kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
 Have lel't a luanielcss pyramid, 
 Thy heroes, thougli the general doom 
 llalh swept the column from their tomb, 
 A mightier monument command, 
 The umuntains of their native land ! 
 There [joints thy Muse tostranger's-eye 
 The graves of those that cannot die I 
 'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 
 Each step from s])lendor to disgrace ; 
 Enough, — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy sonl, till from itself it fell ; 
 Yes, self-abasement paved the way 
 To villain-bonds and despot sway. 
 
 T/w Giaour. 
 
 THE GIAOUR'S CONFESSION, 
 
 The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 
 But mine was like the lava ilood 
 That boils in yEtna's breast of flame. 
 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 
 Of ladvc-love, and beautv's cluiin : 
 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
 Li|5s taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and maddening brain. 
 And daring deed, and vengefid steel, 
 And all that I have felt and feel, 
 Betoken love, — that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 
 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Allah given. 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above. 
 But heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeUng from the Godhead cauglit. 
 To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
 A ray of him wlio formed the whole ; 
 A glory circling round the soul ! 
 I grant *vy love imperfect, all 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 But say, O, say, Aers was not guilt I 
 She was my life's unerring light : 
 That quenched, what beam shall break my night ? 
 O, would it shone to lead me still, 
 Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
 
 T/ie Giaour. 
 
 KNOW YE THE LAND? 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done iu their 
 
 clime. 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 "Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 
 
 shine ; 
 Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with 
 
 perfume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive arc fairest of fruit. 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of tlie sky, 
 In color though varied, iu beauty may vie, 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; • 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 Aiul all, save the s])irit of man, is divine ? 
 'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the 
 
 sun, — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 
 
 done ? * 
 O, wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 
 
 which they tell. 
 
 T/ie Bride of Alydos. 
 
 • " Souls made of fire, find rliildren of llic Sun. 
 WiUi whom revenge is virtue." 
 
 Yocng's Rttcnge. 
 
 4> 
 
a- 
 
 MANFRED'S EEMORSE AND SELE-LOATHING. 
 
 -ft 
 
 811 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire, aud behold our home ! 
 These are our realms, no limits to their sway, ■ — 
 Our flag the seeptre aU who meet obey. 
 Ours the wild life iu tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, aud joy in every change. 
 0, who ean tell ? uot thou, luxurious slave ! 
 Wliose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot 
 
 please, — 
 O, wlio can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
 The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
 
 The Corsair. 
 
 LAEA. 
 
 The chief of Lara is returned again : 
 And why had Lara crossed the bounding main ? 
 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
 Lord of himself; that heritage of woe. 
 That fearful empii'e which the human breast 
 But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
 With none to check, and few to point in time 
 The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
 Then, when he most required commandment, then 
 Had Lara's daring boyhood governed men. 
 It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
 His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
 Sliort was the course Ids restlessness had run. 
 But long enough to leave him half undone. 
 
 Lara. 
 
 THE INSPISATIOS OF GREECE. 
 
 They fell devoted, but undying; 
 The very gale their names seemed sighing : 
 The waters murmui'ed of their name ; 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 The silent pillar, lone aud gray, 
 Claimed kindred with their sacred clay ; 
 Their spirits wrapped the dusky mountain. 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 Boiled mingling with their fame forever. 
 Despite of every yoke she bears. 
 That land is glory's still and theirs !* 
 'T is still a watchword to the earth : 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 
 
 I 
 
 Here follows, iu MS., — 
 
 " Innnortal, boundless, undecayed, 
 Their souls tlie very soil pervade." 
 
 So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head : 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 W^here life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 Siei/e of Corinth. 
 
 SONNET ON OHILLON. 
 
 Eteknal spirit of the chainless mind ! * 
 Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art. 
 For there thy habitation is the heart, — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 Aud when thy sons to fetters ai'e consigned, — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayL'ss gloom. 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 Aud Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
 And thy sad floor an altar, — for 'twas trod. 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks eflace ! 
 For they appeal from tyraimy to God. 
 
 Prisoner of Chillon, 181C. 
 
 MONT BLANC. 
 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 
 
 They crowned him long ago 
 On a tlirone of rocks, iu a robe of clouds, 
 
 Witii a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are forests braced. 
 
 The avalanche in his hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 The glacier's cold aud restless mass 
 
 Moves ouward day by day ; 
 But I am he who l)ids it pass. 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place, 
 
 Coidd make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his caverned base, — 
 
 And what with me wonldst Thou ? 
 
 Manfred. 
 
 MANEEED'S REMOESE AND SELF-LOATHIUa. 
 
 The Mountain of the Jumjfrau. — Time, Morning. — ■ 
 Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 
 
 JLanfred. The spirits I have raised abandon 
 me, — 
 The spells which I have studied bafile me — 
 The remedy I recked of tortured me ; 
 
 * In the first draught, the sonnet opens thus, — 
 " Beloved goddess of the chainless mind ! 
 Brightest iu dungeons. Liberty ! thou art, 
 Thy palace is within tlie freeman's heart. 
 Whose soul the love of thee alone ean hind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consigned, — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
 Thy joy is with them still, and unconfined, 
 Tlieii- country conquers with their martyrdom.' 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 812 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 I Icau no more ou superlmman aid, 
 It liath no powei- upon the past, and for 
 Tlie future, till the past be gidl'od in darkness, 
 It is not of my search. My mother Earth ! 
 And thou fresh-breaking day, and you, ye moun- 
 tains, 
 Why are ye beautiful ? I camiot love ye. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
 That openest over all, and unto all 
 Art a delight, — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall ])ines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its roeky bosom's bed 
 To rest forever, — wherefore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
 There is a power upon me which witiibolds. 
 And makes it my fatality to live ; 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 This l)arrcnness of spirit, and to be 
 My o\vii soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself, — 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 
 (./« eagle passes.) 
 
 Wliose happy flight is iiighest into heaven. 
 
 Well mayst thou swoop so near me, — I should be 
 
 Tliy prey, and gorge tliine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 
 Wliere the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
 
 With a pervading vision. Beautiful ! 
 
 How beautiful is all tliis visiljle world ! 
 
 How glorious in its action and itself ! 
 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we. 
 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 
 To sink or soar, with our mixed essence make 
 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 
 The breath of degradation and of pride. 
 
 Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
 
 Till our mortality predinninates. 
 
 And men are — what they name not to themselves. 
 
 And trust not to eaeii other. Hark ! the note, 
 
 {The shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard.) 
 The natural music of tlie mountain reed — 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable, — pipes in tlie liberal air, 
 Mixed withthesweet bellsof the sauntering herd; 
 My soul would drink t hose echoes. O, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 A living voice, a breathing liarmnny, 
 A bodiless enjoyment, — born and dying 
 With tiie blest tone which made me! 
 
 ^s-^ 
 
 To be thus, — 
 G ray-haired with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
 AV reeks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
 A liliglited trunk upon a cursed root, 
 AVliich but supplies a feeling to decay, — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
 Having been otherwise ! Now furrowed o'er 
 A\'il h wrinkles, ploughed by moments, not by years 
 And hours, — all tortured into ages, ■ — hours 
 Which I outlive ! Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelmiug, come and crush 
 
 me ! 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 Crash with a frecpient conflict ; but ye pass, 
 And only fall on things that still would live; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 * * * 
 
 The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury. 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell. 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living shore. 
 Heaped with the damned like pebbles. I am 
 
 giddy. Manfred. 
 
 MANFRED AHD THE WITCH OF THE ALPS. 
 
 J /oii:er Vulleii id the Alps. — A Cataract. 
 Kilter Manfred. 
 Manfred. It is not noon, — the sunbow's 
 rays still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
 And fling its lines of foamuig light along, 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
 The giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
 And witli the Sjiirit of the place divide 
 The liomage of these waters. I will call her. 
 Manfued tal^es some of the water into the polm of 
 his hand) and flijigs it into the air, nitttteritig the 
 adjuration. After a pause the Witch ok the 
 \hPS rises beneath the arch of the siinbow of the 
 torrent. 
 Beautiful Spirit I w-itli thy hair of light. 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose lorm 
 The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow- 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 Of purer elements; while the hues of youth — 
 Carnationed like a sleeping infant's check. 
 Rocked by the beating of her mother's heart. 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
 U])on the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
 The blush of earth embmeiiig with her heaven — 
 
 -s> 
 
<f^ 
 
 MANFRED'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 813 
 
 -& 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, ami niakc tame 
 
 The beauties of tlie suubow which bends o'er thee. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! iu thy calm, cleai' brow, 
 
 Wlierciu is glassed serenity of soul, 
 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 
 I read that tliou wilt pardon to a son 
 
 Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 
 At times to commune with them, — if that he 
 
 Avail him of his spells, — to call thee thus. 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Sou of Earth ! 
 
 I know tliee, and the powers wliich give thee 
 
 power; 
 I know tiicc for a man of many thouglits. 
 And deeds of good and ill, extreme iu both, 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
 I iiave expected this, — what wouldst thou 
 with me ? 
 
 M.\N. To look upon thy beauty, — nothing 
 further.* 
 The face of the earth hath maddened me, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her, — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no furtiier. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 
 Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 M.\N. A boon ; 
 
 But why should I repeat it ? 't were in vain. 
 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 
 
 Man. Well, though it torture rae, 't is but 
 the same ; 
 My pang sludl find a voice. From ray youth 
 
 upwards 
 My spirit walked not witli the souls of men. 
 Nor looked upon tlic e.'irth with human eyes ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
 The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
 Jly joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers 
 Made mo a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
 I had no sympathy witli breathing (lesli, 
 Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 
 Was tliere but one who — but of her anon. 
 I said with men, and with the tlioughts of men, 
 I held but slight communion; but instead, 
 My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
 Tlie ditficult air of the iced mountain's top. 
 Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
 Flit o'er the herl)less granite ; or to plunge 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
 
 * " There is something exquisitely beautiful in aU this p;is- 
 sage ; auil hoth tlie apparition and the dialogue arc so managed, 
 that the sense of their iinprohaliility is swallowed up in that of 
 their hcanty; and without actually helieving tliat sucli spirits 
 exist or conmuinicate themselves, we feel for the moment as 
 if we stood in their presence." — Jkikrev. 
 
 <Q-^- 
 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 In these my early strength exulted ; or 
 To follow thi'ougii the night the moving moon, 
 The stars and their development ; or catch 
 The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
 Or to look, listening, on the scattered leaves, 
 Wiiile autumn winds were at their evening song. 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
 Hating to be so, — crossed me in my path, 
 I felt myself degraded back to them, 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
 From withered bones, and skulls, and heaped-up 
 
 dust, 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I passed 
 The nights of years in sciences untaught. 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 As in itself hath power upon the air. 
 And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
 Space, and the peopled uiflnite, I made 
 Mine eyes familiar witli eternity, 
 Sucli as, before mc, did the Magi, and 
 He wiio from out tlieir fountain dwellings raised 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara, 
 As I do tlice ; — and with my knowledge grew 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 Of this most bright intelligence. 
 
 Man/red. 
 
 MANFRED'S ADDRESS TO THE STJK. . 
 
 Glorious orb ! the idol 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, tiie giant sons 
 Of tlie embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautifid than they, which did draw dovni 
 The erring spirits, who can ne'er return. 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was revealed ! 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 Which gladdened, on their mountain-tops, the 
 
 hearts 
 Of the Chaldean siicplierds, till they poured 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
 And representative of the Unknown, — 
 Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief 
 
 star ! 
 Centre of many stars ! wliieh makest our earth 
 Endurable, and tcmperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk witliiu thy rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of tlie climes. 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near or far. 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise. 
 And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
 
 ■W 
 
a- 
 
 814 
 
 BYIION. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 I ne'er shall see tliee more. As my first glance 
 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 
 My latest look ; thou wilt not beam on one 
 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
 
 Of .i more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 
 I follow. Manfred. 
 
 THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT, 
 
 The stai's are forth, the moon above tlie tops 
 Of the suow-shining mountains. Beautiful ! 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 I learned the language of another world. 
 I do remember me that in my youth, 
 When I w-as wandering, — upon sueh a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall. 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 IVaved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and 
 More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt. 
 And dwell the tuneless bii'ds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levelled battle- 
 ments, 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. 
 Ivy nsurjjs the laurel's place of growth ; — 
 But the gladiators' bloody circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 While Caisar's chambers and the Augustan lialls 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender hght. 
 Which softened down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and filled up. 
 As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still 
 
 rule 
 Our spirits from their urns. 
 
 'T was such a night ! 
 'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment When they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Mnified. 
 
 DEATa 
 
 Lucifeh. Barest thou to look on Death? 
 
 Cain. He has not yet 
 
 Been seen. 
 
 Luc. But must be undergone. 
 
 Cain. My father 
 
 Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
 Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts his 
 
 eyes 
 To heaven, and ZiUah casts hers to the earth. 
 And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
 And speaks not. 
 
 Luc. And thou? 
 
 Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 
 
 Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
 Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems. 
 Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
 I wrestled with the lion, when a boy. 
 In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
 
 Luc. It has no shape ; but will absorb all 
 things 
 That bear the form of earth-born being. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 I thought it was a being: who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being ? 
 
 Luc. Ask the Destroyer. 
 
 Cain. Who ? 
 
 Luc. The Maker, — call him 
 
 AVhich name thou wilt: he makes but to de- 
 stroy.* 
 
 Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since 
 I heard 
 Of death ; although I know not what it is. 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have looked out 
 In tlie vast desolate night in search of him; 
 And wlien I saw gigantic sliadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, checkered 
 By the far-ilashing of the cherubs' swords, 
 I watched for what I thought his coming; for 
 With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
 What 't was which shook us aU, — but nothing 
 
 came. 
 And then I turned my weary eyes from off 
 Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
 Up to the lights aliove us, in tiie azure. 
 Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? 
 
 Luc. Perhaps, — but long outlive both thine 
 and thee. 
 
 Cain. I 'm glad of that : I would not have 
 them die, — 
 They arc so lovely. What is death ? 1 fear, 
 I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but wlial, 
 I cannot compass : 't is denounced against us. 
 Both them who sinned and sinned not, as an ill. 
 
 Cain. 
 
 * This npprnrs to bo nn nnticipntion of the (loctrine of the ^ 
 " 9uvvi\nl of tlic fittest " 
 
 -P 
 
C&- 
 
 THE MOTHER OF DON JUAN. 
 
 815 
 
 fr 
 
 THE DISTANT AND THE NEAR, 
 
 Cain. Wit.liiu those glorious orbs which M-e 
 behold, 
 Distant and dazzling, and inuuraerable, 
 Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
 111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 
 
 Luc. Thou hast seen them from afar — 
 
 C.\iN. And what of that ? 
 
 Distance can bvit diminish glory, — they. 
 When nearer, must be more ineffable. 
 
 Luc. Approach the things of earth most beau- 
 tiful, 
 And judge their beauty neai-. 
 
 C.MX. I have done this, — 
 
 The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 
 
 Luc. Then there must he delusion. What is 
 that. 
 Which being nearest to tliine eyes is still 
 More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 
 
 Cain. JlysistcrAdah. All the stars of heaven. 
 The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
 Wliicli looks a spirit, or a spirit's world, — 
 Tiie hues of twiUght, — the sun's gorgeous 
 
 coming, — 
 His setting indescribable, which fdls 
 My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
 Along that western paradise of clouds, — 
 The forest shade, — the green bough, — the bird's 
 
 voice, — 
 The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love. 
 And mingles w'ith tlie song of cherubim. 
 As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
 All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
 Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
 To gaze on it. Cain. 
 
 BOURBON PREPARING TO ATTACK ROME. 
 
 PiiiLiisERT. Tlicy are but men who war with 
 mortals. 
 
 BoUBBON. True ; but those walls have girded in 
 great ages, 
 And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
 And present phantom of imperious Rome 
 Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
 Tliey flit along the eternal city's rampart. 
 And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands. 
 And beckon me away ! 
 
 PutL. So let them ! Wilt thou 
 
 Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 
 
 BouKB. They do not menace me. I could have 
 faced, 
 Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp, 
 And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands. 
 And with their thin ashen faces and fixed eyes 
 Easciufito mine. Look there ! 
 
 Phil. I look upon 
 
 A lofty battlement. 
 
 BouKB. And there ! 
 
 Phil. Not even 
 
 A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below. 
 Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
 Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
 Practise in the cool twilight. 
 
 BouRB. You are blind. 
 
 Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
 Be so. 
 
 BouRB. A thousand years have manned the 
 walls 
 With all their hei'ocs, — the last Cato stands 
 And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
 The liberty of that I would enslave. 
 And the first Ca;sar with his triumphs flits 
 Erom battlement to battlement. 
 
 Phil. Then conquer 
 
 The walls for which he conquered, and be greater ! 
 
 BouRB. True: so I will, or perish. 
 
 Phil. You can >to(. 
 
 In such an enterprise to die is rather 
 The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 
 
 T//e Bfformt^d Transformed. 
 
 THE MOTHER OF DON JUAN.' 
 
 Her favorite science was the mathematical. 
 
 Her noblest virtue was her magnauiniity. 
 Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic 
 all. 
 
 Her serious sayings darkened to sidjlimity ; 
 In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
 
 A prodigy, — her morning dress was dimity. 
 Her eveirhig silk, or, in the summer, muslin. 
 And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 
 
 * * * 
 
 In short, she was a walking calculation, 
 
 Miss Edgcworth's novels stepping from their 
 covers. 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education. 
 
 Or " Coelebs' Wife " set out in quest of lovers. 
 Morality's prim personification, 
 
 In wliieh not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
 To others' share let "female errors fall," 
 Eor slie had not even one, — the worst of all. 
 
 O, she was perfect past all parallel, — 
 
 Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 
 
 So far above the cunning powers of hell. 
 
 Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 
 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 
 As those of the best timepiece made by Har- 
 rison : 
 
 * A cavicntiive of Lady Byron. It 13 difficult to conceive tlmt 
 any man with a sense of honor in him sliould li.ive stooped to 
 such a low re\ en'rc. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 81G 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 «0- 
 
 III virtues notliing eavtlilj could surpass her, 
 Save thiuc " incomparable oil," Macassar ! 
 
 * « « 
 
 Don Jose and tlic Doiiua Inez led 
 
 For sonic time an unhappy sort of life, 
 'Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
 
 They hvcd rcsi)ectably as man and wile. 
 Their conduct was exceedingly \vell-l)rod. 
 
 And gave no outward signs of inward stinfe. 
 Until at length the smothered tire brol<e out, 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 Por Inez called some druggists, and physicians, 
 And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, 
 
 But as he had some lucid intermissions. 
 She next decided he was only bad ; 
 
 Yet when they asked her for her depositions. 
 No sort of explanation could be had. 
 
 Save that her duty both to man and God 
 
 Required this conduct, — which seemed very 
 odd. 
 
 She kept a journal, where liis faults were noted. 
 And opened certain trunks of books and let- 
 ters, 
 
 Ml wliich might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors. 
 
 Besides her good old grandmother (who doted); 
 The hearers of her ease became repeaters. 
 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 
 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 And then this best and meekest woman bore 
 With such serenity her husband's woes. 
 
 Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 
 
 Who saw their spouses killed, and nobly chose 
 
 Never to say a word about them more, — 
 Calmly she heard each calumny that rose. 
 
 And saw Inn agonies with such sublimity. 
 
 That all the world exclaimed, " What magna- 
 nimity ! " 
 
 Don Juan, Canto I. 
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW. 
 
 The public approbaticni I expect. 
 
 And l)eg they '11 take niy word alxnit the moral. 
 Which I with their amusement will connect 
 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral) ; 
 Meantime, they '11 doubtless please to recollect 
 
 My epical i)retensions to the laui-el : 
 For fear some prudish reader should grow skitt ish, 
 I've bribed my grandmother's review — the Brit- 
 ish. 
 
 I sent it in a letter to the editor. 
 
 Who thanked me duly by return of post, — 
 I 'm for a handsome article liis creditor; 
 
 Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 
 
 And break a promise after having made it her, 
 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost. 
 And smear his page with gall instead of honey. 
 All I can say is, — that he had the money.* 
 
 Don Juan, Canto I. 
 
 REGRET OVER YOUTH'S ILLUSIONS. 
 
 No more — no more — 0, nevermore on me 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 
 Think' st thou the honey with those objects grew ? 
 
 Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 No more — no more — 0, nevermore, my lieart. 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
 
 Once all in all, but now a tiling apart. 
 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
 
 The illusion 's gone forever, and tliou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none tlie worse. 
 
 And in thy stead I 've got. a deal of judgment. 
 
 Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodg- 
 ment. 
 
 Don Juan, Canto I. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK, 
 
 Some lashed tliem in their hammocks ; some put on 
 Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
 
 Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
 And gnashed their teeth, and, howling, tore 
 their hair ; 
 
 And others went on as they liad begun, 
 Getting the boats out, being well aware 
 
 That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 
 
 Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 
 
 The worst of all was, that in their condition. 
 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 'T was difficult to get out sucli provision 
 
 As now might render their long suflering less : 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 
 Their stock was damaged by tlie weather's stress. 
 Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 
 ■Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 
 
 » • • 
 
 Tlien rose from sea to sky tlie wild farewell, — 
 
 Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the 
 brave, — 
 Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell. 
 
 As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
 
 • Jlr. Rol)ert3, ttic editor of llic Biitisli Review, wns 90 
 foolish fts to deny that he had received any money from Lord 
 Byron. Tlic iniseliievous malicious joke he tooli in nil serions- 
 ness, and seemed to fenr that his periodical, llie organ of Rnlish 
 deeonim, would he mined by such a charge if it were not em- 
 phaticullv contradicted! 
 
 — : 9) 
 
a- 
 
 THE SHIPWKECK. 
 
 817 
 
 -9? 
 
 ^ 
 
 And the sea yawned around her like a hell, 
 And down she sucked with her the wliirling 
 wave, 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there ruslied, 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 
 Of echoing tlumder; and then all was hushed, 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gushed. 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 The boats, as stated, had got off hefoi-e, 
 And in tiiem crowded several of the crew ; 
 
 And yet their present hope was hardly more 
 Tiian what it had been, for so strong it blew 
 
 There was slight chance of reacliing any shore ; 
 And tlieu tiiey were too many, thougli so few, — 
 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 
 
 Were counted in them when they got afloat. 
 
 All the rest perished; near two hundred souls 
 Had left their bodies ; and what 's woi'se, alas ! 
 
 When over Catholics tiie ocean rolls. 
 
 They must wait several weeks before a mass 
 
 Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 
 
 Because, till people know what 's come to pass. 
 
 They won't lay out their money on the dead, — 
 
 It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 
 
 * » * 
 
 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. 
 That the sail was becalmed between the seas. 
 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to set. 
 They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 
 
 Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them wet. 
 And made them bale without a moment's ease. 
 
 So that tli.cmselves as well as hopes were damped. 
 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamped. 
 
 Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
 Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 
 
 Two blankets stitched together, answering ill 
 Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast : 
 
 Tliougli every wave rolled menacing to fill. 
 And present peril all before surpassed. 
 
 They grieved for those who perished with the 
 cutter 
 
 And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 * * * 
 Tiiere were two fathei-s in this ghastly crew. 
 
 And with them their two sous, of whom tlie one 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
 
 But ho died early ; and when he was gone. 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 
 One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will 
 be dune ! 
 
 I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 
 Into tlie deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 The otiier father had a weaklier child. 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
 
 But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
 And patient spirit lield aloof liis fate ; 
 
 Little he said, and now and then lie smiled. 
 As if to win a part from off the weight 
 
 He saw increasing on his father's lieart, 
 
 Witli the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped llie foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed. 
 And when the wishcd-for shower at length 
 was come. 
 
 And the l)oy's eyes, which the diJl film half glazed, 
 Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam. 
 
 He squeezed from out a i"ag some drops of rain 
 
 Into his dying child's mouth, — but in vain.* 
 
 The boy expired, — the father held the clay, 
 And looked upon it long, and when at last 
 
 Deatli left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and iiope were past. 
 
 He watched it wistfully, until away 
 
 'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was 
 cast ; + 
 
 Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, 
 
 .'Vud gave no sign of life, save liis limbs quivering. 
 
 Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the 
 dark sea, 
 
 Resting its bright base on the quivering blue ; 
 And all witliin its arch appeared to be 
 
 Clearer than tliat without, and its wide hue 
 Waxed broad and waving, like a banner free, 
 
 Tiicn changed like to a bow that 's bent, and 
 tlien 
 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwrecked men. 
 
 It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon. 
 The airy child of vapor and the sun. 
 
 Brought fortii in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
 Baptized in molten gold, and swatlicd in dun. 
 
 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion. 
 And blending every color into one, 
 
 * " Wheuever the bot/ was seized with a fit of retching, the 
 father lifted him up and triped awaij the foam from his lips ; 
 and if a shoirer came, lie made him open liis mouth to yeccire 
 thf ilrojis^ or gently squeezed them into it from a rag." — Juito. 
 
 T " In this alTecting situation both remained four or five 
 days, till the boy expired. The unfortunate jtarent, as if un- 
 willing to believe the fact, raised the body, looked tristfnllii at 
 it, and when he could no longer entertain any doubt, watched it 
 in silence mitil it was carried off hij the sea ; then wrapping 
 himself in a piece of canvas, siinh down, and rose no more ; 
 though he must have lived two days longer, as we judged 
 from the qniveriitg of his limbs, when a wave bi-oke over him-" — 
 Juno. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 818 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
 
 (For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 
 
 Our shipwrecked seamen thought it a good 
 omen, — 
 It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
 'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
 
 And may become of great advantage when 
 Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 
 
 Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
 Than these, and so this rainbow looked like 
 
 hope, — 
 Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 
 
 Don Juan, Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLES OF QEEEOE, 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 
 Where Dclos rose, and Pho'bus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian * and the Teian muse,t 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." t 
 
 The mountains look on JMarathon, 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 
 
 For stiuiding on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave._ 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 And men in nations ; all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day, — 
 
 And when the sun set where were they? 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou. 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now, — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'T is something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Thougii linked among a fettered race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, sulTusc my face; 
 
 * liomcr. 
 t Anacreon. 
 
 X Tlic i^CTot fioxapuv of ttic Greek poets were supposed to 
 liuve been tlic Cnpe dc VcrJ Islands or the Canones. 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush, — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopyla: ! 
 
 W^hat, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, " Let one living head. 
 But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
 'T is but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain, — in vain : strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkisli hordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 
 Y'ou have the letters Cadnuis gave, — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these I 
 It made Auaereon's song divine : 
 
 He served, — but served Polycrates, — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of tlie Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
 T/i(/( tyrant was Miltiades I 
 
 O, that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of tlie kind ! 
 Such eliaius as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock and Parga's shore 
 Exists the rennumt of a line 
 
 Stieli as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sowni, 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks, 
 TIk'V have a king who buys and sells: 
 
 In native swords and native ranks 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 Our virgins dance beneath the sliadc. 
 
a- 
 
 THE DEATH OP HAIDEE. — GULBEYAZ. 
 
 819 
 
 -n 
 
 I see tlieir glorious black eyes shine ; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
 AVliere nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine, — 
 
 Dash down you cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 Don Juan, Canto III. 
 
 THE DEATH OF HAIDEE. 
 
 Twelve days and nights she withered thus ; at last, 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 
 A parting pang, tlie spirit from her past : 
 
 And they who watched her nearest could not 
 know 
 
 Tlic very instant, till tlie change that cast 
 Her sweet face into shadow, duU and slow. 
 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
 
 U, to possess such lustre, and then lack ! 
 
 She died, but not alone ; she held within 
 A second principle- of life, which might 
 
 Have dawned a fair and sinless cliild of sin. 
 But closed its little being without light, 
 
 And went down to the grave unboi'u, wdierein 
 Blossom and bougli lie withered with one blight ; 
 
 111 vain the dews of heaven descend above 
 
 The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 
 
 Tims lived, thus died slie ; nevcrmoi'e on her 
 Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 
 
 Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
 Wiiich colder hearts endure till they are laid 
 
 By age in earth : iier days and pleasures were 
 Brief, but delightful, such as had not stayed 
 
 Long widi her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
 
 By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 
 
 Don Juan, Canto IV. 
 
 AVE MARIA. 
 
 Ave M.\ria ! blessed be the hour I 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,* 
 
 Or the faint dying day-hymu stole aloft, 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
 And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with 
 prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the liour of prayer ! 
 Ave Maria I 't is the hour of love ! 
 
 g-*- 
 
 * MS. — " While swung the signal from the sacred tower.' 
 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 Ave Maria ! that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty 
 dove, — 
 What though 't is but a pictured image? — strike ; 
 That painting is no idol, 't is too hke. 
 « * * 
 
 Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things, — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer ; 
 
 Wliate'er of peace about our heartlistonc clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 
 
 Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 Siift hour! which wakes the wish and melts the 
 iicart 
 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
 
 Or Alls with love the pilgrim on his way 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 
 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but sometliing mourns ! 
 Dan Jiiun, Canto 111. 
 
 GULBEYAZ. 
 
 Site stood a moment as a Pythoness 
 Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
 
 Of inspiration gathered from distress. 
 
 When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
 
 The heart asunder ; then, as more or less 
 
 Tlieir speed abated or their strength grew dull. 
 
 She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 
 
 And bowed her throbbing head o'er trembling 
 knees. 
 
 Her face declined and was unseen ; lier hair 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 
 
 Sweeping the marble underneath lirr chair. 
 Or rather sofa ffor it was all pillow, 
 
 A low soft ottoman), and black despair 
 
 Stirred up and down her bosom like a billow. 
 
 Which rushes to some shore whose shingles cheek 
 
 Its further course, but must receive its \\-reck. 
 
 Herhead hungdnwn, and her long hair in stooping 
 Concealed her features better than a veil; 
 
 And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 
 White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
 
 Would that I were a painter I to be grouping 
 All that a poet drags into detail ! 
 
 that my words were colors ! but, their tints 
 
 May serve perliaps as outlines or slight hints. 
 
 Don Jitan, Canto VI. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 820 
 
 BARHAM. 
 
 -ft) 
 
 ^ 
 
 ON TEES DAT I COMPLETE MT THIBTT-SIXTH 
 YEAR. 
 MlssoLONGHi, January 22, 1824.* 
 
 'T IS time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it hath ceased to move : 
 Vet, though I cannot be beloved. 
 Still let me love ! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
 Tlie worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 Tiic fire that on my bosom preys 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze, — • 
 A funeral pile ! 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share. 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 't is iu)t iliua, and 't is not here. 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor/;o(^, 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece, she is awake !) 
 
 Awake, my spirit ! Think througii tvhom 
 Thy lil'c-blood tracks its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread tiiose reviving passions down. 
 
 Unworthy manhood ! unto tliee 
 Indifferent sliould the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret'st thy youth, tohi/ lice!' 
 
 The land of lionorable death 
 
 Is here : u]) to tlie field, and give 
 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take liiy rcst.t 
 
 • " This morning I/iril Ryrnn rnnu' fi-om his bedroom into 
 tliL- iipartmcnt wlit'rc Cijluiicl Srnnholie and sonic frii'mls were 
 n^iscnibled, and said uith a smile, 'You were complaining, 
 tlie ittlicr day, that 1 never write any poetry now. This is my 
 hirthday, and I have just tiliislicd sniiictliillg which, I think, 
 is better than what I usually write.* He then produced these 
 nubli- and nffeeting verses," — Cch.'NT Oamu.\. 
 
 1- "Taking into consideration eierytliing connected with 
 llivsf verses, — the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit 
 
 RICPIARD HARRIS BARHAM. 
 
 ME. 
 
 1788-1845. 
 
 BARNEY MAGUIEE'S ACCOUNT OF THE 
 COEOHAIION, 
 
 Ocii ! tlie Coronation ! what celebration 
 
 For emulation can with it compare? 
 Wlieii to Westminster the Royal Sjiinster, 
 
 And the Uitke of Leinster, all in order did 
 repair ! 
 'T was tliere you 'd see the new Polishemen 
 
 Making a skrimmage at half after four. 
 And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys 
 
 All standing round before the Abbey door. 
 
 Their pillows scorning, that selfsame morning 
 
 Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light. 
 With roses and hlies, and daffy-down-dillies, 
 
 And gould, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright. 
 And tlien appniaches five hundred coaches. 
 
 With General DuUbeak. Och ! 't was mighty 
 fine 
 To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, 
 
 With his sword drawn, prancing, made them 
 kape the line. 
 
 Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums, 
 
 All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes. 
 Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassy- 
 dors, 
 
 The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews ; 
 'T would have made you crazy to see Esterhazy 
 
 All jool's from his jasey to his di'mond boots, 
 With Alderman Harmer. and that swate charmer. 
 
 The famale heiress, iliss Anja-ly Coutts. 
 
 And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, 
 talking 
 
 To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame : 
 And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey 
 
 (They called him Sowlt afore he changed his 
 name). 
 Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading 
 
 The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair. 
 And that fine oitkl fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello, 
 
 The Queen of Portingal's Chargy -de-fair. 
 
 Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, 
 In fine laced jackets with their goulden cull's, 
 
 which tliey breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause wliu-Ii 
 they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near •,r^a^c 
 glimmering sadly through the whole, — there is perhaps no 
 production within tlie range of mere liuninn coniposition, round 
 which the circumstances and feelings under which it miis 
 written cast so touching an interest." — MoonK. 
 
 * It is hardly necessary to ivmiud the render that the itlias 
 of this fantastically hunioi-ous poet was " Thomas Ingohlsliy," 
 It is curious that, like Rabelais. Scarntn, Swift, Sirriic, and 
 Sydney Smith, he was a priest. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 SONG. 
 
 821 
 
 -9) 
 
 <0- 
 
 And tlic Bavai-iaus, and the pvoud Hiiiigariaus, 
 
 And Evei-vtliiugariaiis all in I'urs and muffs. 
 Then Misthnr Sjiakei-, with Misthur Pays the 
 Quakei', 
 All in the Gallery you might persave ; 
 But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone 
 a-fishing, 
 Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him 
 lave. 
 
 There was Baron Alteu himself exalting. 
 
 And Prince Von Schwartzenberg, and many 
 more, 
 Och ! I 'd be bothered and entirely smothered 
 
 To tell the iialf of 'em was to the fore ; 
 With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and 
 dresses. 
 And Ahtermancsses, and the Boord of Works ; 
 But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly, 
 
 " I 'd be proud to see the likes among the 
 Turks ! " 
 
 Tlicu the Queen, Heaven bless her ! och ! they 
 did dress her 
 In hur purple garaments and her goulden 
 crown ; 
 Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, 
 
 With eiglit young ladies liouldiiig up iier gown. 
 Sure 't was grand to see her, also for to he-ar 
 
 Tlie big drums bating, and the trumpets blow, 
 And Sir George Smart ! Oh ! he played a Con- 
 sarto. 
 With bis four-and -twenty fiddlers all on a row ! 
 
 Then the Lord Arelibishop held a goulden disli 
 up. 
 For to resave her bounty and great wealth, 
 Saying, " Plase your Glory, great Queen Vie-tory ! 
 Ye '11 give the Clargy lave to diirink your 
 health ! " 
 Then his Riverenee retrating, discoorsed the 
 mating ; 
 " Boys ! Here 's your Queen ! deny it if you 
 can ! 
 And if any buuld traitour, or iiifarior craythur. 
 Sneezes at that, I 'd like to see the man ! " 
 
 Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rsappealing, 
 
 " Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign ! " 
 And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her. 
 
 All in his scarlet gowni and goulden chain. 
 The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too, 
 
 But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry. 
 For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry. 
 
 Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. 
 
 Then there was preaching, and good store of 
 speeching, 
 With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee : 
 
 And they did splash her with raal Maeassbur, 
 And the Queen said, " Ah ! then tliank ye all 
 for me !"' — 
 Then the trumpets braying, and the organ play- 
 
 And sweet trombones, with their silver tones ; 
 But Lord lloUe was rolling ; — 't was niighty 
 consoling 
 To think his Lordship did not break his bones ! 
 
 Then the crames and custard, and the beef and 
 mustard. 
 All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop ; 
 With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate- 
 mcats, 
 And wine and nagus, and Lnperial Pop ! 
 There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, 
 
 With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears, — 
 Oeh ! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got 
 prog enough. 
 The sly ould Divil, undeniathe the stairs. 
 
 Then the cannons thundered, and the people 
 wondered, 
 Crying, " God save Victoria, our Koyal 
 Queen ! " — 
 — Och ! if myself should live to be a hundred, 
 Sure it 's the proudest day that I '11 have 
 seen ! 
 And now, I 've ended, what 1 pretended, 
 
 This narration splendid in swate poe-thry. 
 Ye dear bewitchcr, just hand tlie pitcher, 
 
 Faith, it's myself that's getting niighty 
 dhry. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 'T IS sweet to think the pure ethereal being. 
 Whose mortal form reposes with tlie dead. 
 
 Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing. 
 Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed ! 
 
 She comes in dreams, a thing of light and light- 
 ness ; 
 I hear her voice, in still, small accents tell 
 Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness. 
 Where those who loved on earth together 
 dwell. 
 
 Ah, yet awhile, blest shade, thy flight delaying. 
 The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer ; 
 
 To her rapt gaze, in visions bland, displaying 
 The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere ! 
 
 Yet, yet remain ! till freed like thee, delighted. 
 She spurns the thraldom of encumbering 
 clay ; 
 
 Then, as on earth, in tend'rest love united, 
 Together seek the realms of endless day ! 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 822 
 
 PANSHAWE. — KNOX. 
 
 -^ 
 
 CATHARINE FANSHAWE. 
 
 A EIDDLE,* 
 
 'T WAS ill heaven prauounced, and 't was mut- 
 tered ill hell, 
 And echo eaught faintly the sound as it I'cll ; 
 On the conrnies of earth 't was peniiitted to rest. 
 And the depths of the ocean its presence con- 
 fessed ; 
 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven 
 
 asunder, 
 Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thun- 
 der. 
 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath. 
 Attends him at birth, and awaits him in dcalh. 
 Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health. 
 Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. 
 In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, 
 But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 
 It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, 
 Witli the husbandman toils, and with monarchs 
 
 is crowned. 
 Without it the soldier, tlie seaman may roam. 
 But ■woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! 
 In the whispers of conscience its voice will be 
 
 found, 
 Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 
 'T will not soften the heart ; but though deaf be 
 
 the ear, 
 It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 
 Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower. 
 Ah, breathe on it softly, — it dies in an hour. 
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 1789 I?)- 1885. 
 
 0, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE 
 PROUD, t 
 
 O, WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 A flasli of the lightning, a break of the w'ave, 
 lie passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 Be scattered around, and together be laid ; 
 As the young and the old, the low and the high, 
 Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended .'ind loved, 
 
 The mother that infant's afl'ection wlio proved, 
 
 " Tlie secret nf tiiis iiigiiuious riddle is tlie letter II. The 
 verses linve Iiecn \vr{)n;rly nscrilieil to Hyroii. 
 
 + This poem seems to Imve ninde astronir inipressinn on tlie 
 mind of Alirtilmnl I.ineolii. He tiiuch admired mid often re- 
 ferred to it. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlie father that mother and infant who blest, — 
 Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in 
 
 whose eye, 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are 
 
 by ; 
 And alike from the minds of the living erased 
 Are the memories of mortals who loved her and 
 
 praised. 
 
 The head of the king, that the sceptre hath 
 
 borne ; 
 The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath 
 
 worn ; 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, — 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 
 
 The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
 The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the 
 
 steep ; 
 The beggar, who wandered in search of his 
 
 bread, — 
 Have faded away like tlie grass that we tread. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed, 
 That withers away to let others succeed ; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
 We drink the same stream, we see the same 
 
 sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers Itiive run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did 
 
 think ; 
 Front the dcalh we arc shrinking our fathers did 
 
 shrink ; 
 To the life we are clinging our talhers did cling, 
 But it speeds from us all like the birtl on the wing. 
 
 They loved, — but the story we cannot unfold ; 
 They scorned, — but the heart of the liatighty is 
 
 cold ; 
 They gi'ieved. — but no wail from their slumbers 
 
 will come ; 
 They joyed, — but the tongue of their gladness 
 
 is dumb. 
 
 They died, — all ! they died ; — we, things that 
 
 are now. 
 That walk on the turf tluit lies over their brow. 
 And make in their dwelling a transient abode, 
 Meet the things that they met on their jiilgrim- 
 
 age road. 
 
 Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
 Are mingled togetiier in sunshine and rain : 
 
 ^ 
 
a— 
 
 GOOD FKIDAY. 
 
 823 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And the smile and llie tear, and the song and the 
 
 dirge. 
 Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 
 
 'T is the wink of an eye ; 't is the draught of a 
 
 breath 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness of 
 
 death, 
 From the gilded saloon to the bierand the shroud; 
 O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
 1791-18S3. 
 
 THE BUKIAL OF SIB JOHN MOORE. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a fuueral note. 
 As liis corse to the rampart we hurried : 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried liim darkly at dead of night. 
 The sods witii our bayonets turning ; 
 
 By the strua 
 
 moonbeam's misty light, 
 
 ^ 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless eoffiu enclosed his breast, 
 
 Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said. 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow. 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was 
 dead, 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. 
 And smoothed down his lonely ])illow. 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
 his head. 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they '11 talk of the sjjirit that 's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 
 But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done. 
 
 When the clock struck the iiour for retiring; 
 
 And we heard the distaut and random gun 
 That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory ! 
 
 IF I HAL THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. 
 
 If 1 had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side. 
 
 That thou eouldst mortal be ! 
 It never through my mind had passed, 
 
 The time would e'er be o'er, — 
 And I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more ! 
 
 And still upon that face I look. 
 
 And think 't will smile again ; 
 Aud still the thought I wiU not brook, 
 
 That I must look in vain ! 
 But when I sjjcak, thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 
 And now I feel, as well I may. 
 
 Sweet Mary '. thou art dead ! 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art. 
 
 All cold and all serene, — 
 I still might ]n-ess thy silent heart. 
 
 And where thy smiles have been ! 
 While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have. 
 
 Thou seemcst still mine own ; * 
 But there I lay thee in thy grave, ■^— 
 
 And I am now alone I 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art. 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 Aud I, perhaps, may soothe this heart. 
 
 In tliinking too of thee : 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before, — 
 As fancy never could have drawn. 
 
 And never can restore I 
 
 HENRY HART MILMAN.* 
 
 1791 - 1868. 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY. . 
 
 Bound upon the accursed tree. 
 Faint and bleeding, who is He ? 
 By the eyes so pale and dim. 
 Streaming blood and writhing limb. 
 By the flesh with scourges torn, 
 By the crown of twisted thorn, 
 By the side so deeply pierced. 
 By the baffled burning thirst. 
 By the drooping death-dewed brow, 
 Son of Man ! 't is thou ! 't is thou ! 
 
 Bound upon the accursed tree, 
 Dread and awful, who is He ? 
 
 * Dr. Milnian, among other dramatic compositions, was 
 author of tlie tragedy of Fmh. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 824 
 
 MILMAN. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^- 
 
 By the sun at noonday pule, 
 Shivering rocks, and rending veil. 
 By earth tiiat trembles at his doom, 
 By yonder saints who burst their tomb. 
 By Eden, promised ere he died 
 To the felon at his side, 
 Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow. 
 Son of God ! 't is thou ! 't is thou ! 
 
 Bound upon the accursed tree, 
 Sad and dying, who is He ? 
 By the last and bitter cry 
 The ghost given up in agony ; 
 By the lifeless body laid 
 In the chamber of the dead ; 
 By the mourners come to weep 
 Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; 
 Crucified ! we know thee now ; 
 Sou of Man ! 't is thou ! 't is thou ! 
 
 Bound upon the accursed tree. 
 
 Dread and awful, who is He ? 
 
 By the prayer for them that slew, 
 
 " Lm-d ! they know not what tliey do ! " 
 
 By the spoiled and empty grave, 
 
 By the souls he died to save. 
 
 By the conquest he hath won, 
 
 By tlic saints before his throne. 
 
 By the rainbow round his brow, 
 
 Son of God ! 't is thou ! "t is thou ! 
 
 BASTES, HYMN. 
 
 Christ is risen ! the Lord is. come. 
 Bursting from the sealed tomb ! 
 Death and hell, iu mute dismay. 
 Render up their mightier prey. 
 
 Christ is risen ! but not alone ! 
 Death, thy kingdom is o'erthrown ! 
 We shall rise as he hatli risen, 
 From the deep sepulchral prison. 
 
 Heirs of death, and sons of clay. 
 Long in death's dark thrall we lay. 
 And went down in trcnihliug gloom 
 To the unawakening tomb. 
 
 Heirs of life, and sons of God, 
 On the path our Captain trod. 
 Now we hoi)e to soar on high 
 To llie everlasting sky. 
 
 Mortal once, immortal now, 
 Our vile bodies off wc throw, 
 Glorious Ijodies to put on, 
 lidunil our uroat Redeemer's tlirnnc. 
 
 Lofty hopes I and theirs indeed 
 Who the Christian's life shall lead ; 
 Clirist's below in faitli and love, 
 Christ's in endless bliss above. 
 
 MAKKIAGE HYMS. 
 
 To the sound of timbrels sweet, 
 Moving slow our solenni feet. 
 We have borne thee on the road. 
 To the virgin's blest abode ; 
 With thy yellow torclies gleaming. 
 And thy scarlet manlle streaming. 
 And the canopy above 
 Swaying as we slowly move. 
 
 Thou hast left the joyous feast. 
 And the mirth and wine have ceast ; 
 And now we set thee down before 
 The jealously unclosing door ; 
 That the favored youth admits 
 Where the veiled virgin sits 
 In the bliss of maiden fear. 
 Waiting our soft tread to hear. 
 And the music's brisker din, 
 At the bridegroom's entering iu. 
 Entering in a welcome guest 
 To the chamber of his rest. 
 
 The Fall of Jerusalem. 
 
 FUNERAL ANTHEM. 
 
 Bhotiier, thou art gone before us, and thy 
 saintly soul is flown 
 
 Where tears are wiped from every eye, and sor- 
 row is unknown ; 
 
 From the burden of the flesh, and from care and 
 fear released, 
 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
 weary are at rest. 
 
 The toilsome way thou 'st travelled o'er, and 
 
 borne tlie heavy load, 
 But Christ hath taught thy languid feet to reach 
 
 his blest abode. 
 Thou 'rt sleejiing now, like Lazarus upon his 
 
 father's breast, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubhng, and the 
 
 weary are at rest. 
 
 Sin can never taint thee now, nor doubt thy faith 
 
 assail. 
 Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ and the Holy 
 
 Spirit fail. 
 And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, whom 
 
 on earth thou lovcdst best, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
 
 wcarv arc at rest. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE DEFIANCE OF PKOMETHEUS TO JUPITEE. 
 
 825 
 
 ■^ 
 
 " Earth to earth," and " dust to dust," the 
 
 solemn priest hath said. 
 So we lay the turf above thee now, and we seal 
 
 thy uarrow bed ; 
 But thy spirit, brother, soars away among the 
 
 faithful blest. 
 Where the wiclced cease from troubling, and the 
 
 weary are at rest. 
 
 And when the Lord shall summon us, whom 
 thou hast left behind, 
 
 May we, untainted by the world, as sure a wel- 
 come find ; 
 
 May each, like thee, depai't in peace, to be a 
 glorious guest. 
 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
 weary are at rest. 
 
 The Matii/r of Antioch. 
 
 THE MEKKY HEART. 
 
 I WOULD not from the wise require 
 
 The lumber of their learned lore; 
 Nor would I from the rich desire 
 
 A single counter of their store. 
 For I have ease, and I have wealth. 
 
 And I have spirits light as air ; 
 And more than wisdom, more than wealth, 
 
 A merry heart that laughs at care. 
 
 At once, 't is true, two witching eyes 
 
 Surprised me ni a luckless season. 
 Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs. 
 
 And quite subdued my better reason. 
 Yet 't was but love could make me grieve. 
 
 And love you know 's a reason fair. 
 And much improved, as I believe, 
 
 Tlic merry heart, that laughed at care. 
 
 So now, from idle wishes clear, 
 
 I make the good I may not find ; 
 Adown the stream I gently steer. 
 
 And shift my sail with every wind. 
 And half by nature, half by reason. 
 
 Can still with pliant heai-t prepare. 
 The mind, attuned to every season. 
 
 The merry heart, that laughs at care. 
 
 Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream. 
 
 Ye social feelings of the mind, 
 Give, sometimes give your sunny gleam, 
 
 And let the rest good-humor find. 
 Yes, let me hail and welcome give 
 
 To every joy my lot may share. 
 And pleased and pleasing let me live 
 
 With merry Iieart, that laughs at care. 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 1793-1832. 
 
 DEATH AND SLEEP. 
 
 ^s— 
 
 How wonderful is Death, — 
 
 Death and his brother Sleep ! 
 One, pale as yonder waning moon, 
 
 With lips of lurid blue ; 
 The other, rosy as the morn 
 
 AVhen throned on ocean's wave. 
 
 It blushes o'er the world : 
 Yet both so passing wonderful ! 
 
 Queen Mab. 
 
 MTITABILITT, 
 
 We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon ; 
 
 How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and 
 quiver, 
 Streaking the darkness radiantly ! — yet soon 
 
 Night closes round, and they are lost forever : 
 
 Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings 
 Give various response to each varying blast, 
 
 To wiiose frail frame uo second motion brings 
 One mood or modulation like the last. 
 
 We rest — A dream has power to poison sleep ; 
 
 We rise — One wandering thought )3ollutes the 
 day ; 
 We feel, conceive, or reason, laugh or weep ; 
 
 Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away : 
 
 It is the same ! For, be it joy or sorrow. 
 The path of its departure still is free ; 
 
 Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow ; 
 Naught may endure but Mutabihty. 
 
 THE DEHANCE OF PKOMETHEUS TO JUPITEE, 
 
 Fiend, I defy thee ! with a calm, fixed mind. 
 All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do ; 
 
 Foul tyrant' both of gods and humankind. 
 One only being shalt thou not subdue. 
 
 Rain then thy plagues upon me here, 
 
 Ghastly disease and frenzying fear ; 
 
 And let alternate frost and fire 
 
 Eat into me, and be thine ire 
 Lightning, and cutting hail, and legio^pd forms 
 Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms. 
 
 Ay, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent. 
 O'er all things but thyself I gave thee 
 power, 
 
 *- It is, of course, impossible to convey an adequate idea of 
 SheUcy by extracts. Tbe reader is refened to his works, if 
 his curiosity is stimulated by our citations from volumes, each 
 of which is all alive with thought, imagination, and passion. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 82G 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Ami my own will. Be thy swift mischicl's scut 
 To blast maiikiud, from yon etliereal tower. 
 Let tliy malignant spirit move 
 111 darkness over those I love : 
 ()u mo and mine I imprecate 
 The ulmost torture of thy hate ; 
 And thus devote to sleepless agony 
 This undeclining head while thou must reign on 
 high. 
 
 But tiiou, who art the God and Lord, — O thou 
 
 Who llllest with thy soul this world of woe, 
 
 To whom all things of earth and heaven do bow 
 
 In fear and worship ! all-prevailing foe ! 
 I curse thee ! let a sufferer's curse 
 Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse ! 
 Till thine infinity shall be 
 A robe of envenomed agony ; 
 And thine omnipotence a crown of pain, 
 To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving 
 brain. 
 
 Heap ou thy soul, by virtue of this curse, 
 111 deeds, then be thou damned, beholding 
 good ; 
 Both. infinite as is the universe. 
 
 And thou and thy self-torturing solitude. 
 An awful image of calm power 
 Though now thou sitt€st, let the hour 
 Come, when thou nmst appear to be 
 That which thou art internally. 
 And after many a false and fruitless crime. 
 Scorn track thy lagging fall tlirough boundless 
 space and time ! 
 
 Promeihijus Unbound. 
 
 FROM "PROMETHEUS UNBOUND," 
 
 CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 
 
 Trom unremembercd ages we 
 Gentle guides and guardians be 
 Of heaven-oppressed mortality ; 
 And we breathe, and sicken not. 
 The atmosphere of human thought : 
 Be it dim and dank and gray. 
 Like a storm-extinguished day, 
 Travelled o'er by dying gleams ; 
 
 Be it briglit as all between 
 Cloudless skies and w-indlcss streams, 
 
 Silent, liciuid, and serene ; 
 As the birds witliin the wind, 
 
 As the fish within the wave, 
 As the thoughts of man's own mind 
 
 Float tlirough all above the grave ; 
 We make there our liquid lair, 
 Voyaging cloudlike and unpent 
 Through the boundless elchioiit: 
 Thence we bear the prophecy 
 Which begins and ends in thee ! 
 
 ^0-^ 
 
 More yet come, one by one ; the air around them 
 Looks radiant ;is the air around a star. 
 
 FIRST SPIRIT. 
 
 On a battle-trumpet's blast 
 1 fled hither, fast, fast, fast. 
 Mid the darkness upward cast. 
 From the dust of creeds outworn. 
 From the tyrant's banner torn. 
 Gathering round mc onward borne. 
 There was mingled many a cry, — 
 Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! 
 Till they faded through the sky; 
 And one sound above, around. 
 One sound beneath, around, above. 
 Was moving ; 't was the soul of love ; 
 'T was tlie hope, the prophecy, 
 Wliich begins and ends in thee. 
 
 SECOND SPIRIT. 
 
 A rainbow's arch stood on the sea, 
 Which rocked beneath, immovably ; 
 And the triumphant storm did flee. 
 Like a conqueror, swift and proud. 
 Between with many a captive cloud 
 A shapeless, dark, and rapid crowd, 
 Each by lightning riven in half: 
 I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh : 
 Mighty fleets were strewn like chafl" 
 And spread beneath a hell of death 
 O'er the white waters. I alit 
 On a great ship lightning-sjilit, 
 And speeded hither on the sigh 
 Of one who gave an enemy 
 His plank, then phniged aside to die. 
 
 THIRD SPIRIT. 
 
 I sate beside a sage's bed. 
 And the lamp was burning red 
 Near the book where he had fed, 
 When a Dream with plumes of flame 
 To his pillow iiovering came. 
 And I knew it was the same 
 Which had kindled long ago 
 Pity, eloquence, and woe ; 
 And the world awhile below 
 Wore the shade its lustre made. 
 It has borne mc here as fleet 
 As Desire's lightning feet: 
 I must ride it back ere morrow, 
 Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 
 
 FOURTH SPIRIT. 
 
 On a poet's lips I slept. 
 
 Dreaming like a love adept 
 
 In the sound his breathing kept; 
 
 Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 
 
 But feeds on the aerial kisses 
 
 Of shapes that haunt Tticnighl's wildernesses. 
 
 -s^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHORUS OF THE SPIRITS OP THE HUMAN MIND. 
 
 827 
 
 -Q) 
 
 He will watch from dawn to gloom 
 The lake-reflected suu illume 
 The yellow bees iu the ivy-bloom, 
 Nor lieed nor see what things they be ; 
 But from these create he cau 
 Forms more real than Uving man, 
 Nurslings of immortality ! 
 One of these awakened me, 
 And 1 sped to succor thee. 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 The rocks are cloven, and through the purple 
 
 night 
 T see cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds 
 AVhich trample the dim winds: in each there 
 
 stands 
 A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. 
 Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, 
 .And yet I see no shapes b>it the keen stars : 
 Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink 
 AVith eager lips the wind of their own speed. 
 As if the tiling they loved fled on before. 
 And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright 
 
 locks 
 Sti'cam like a comet's flashing hair: they all 
 Sweep onward. Pvomelheus Unbound. 
 
 THE SUGGESTIONS OF MUSIC, 
 
 My soul is an cnclumted boat. 
 
 Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 
 Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; 
 
 And thine doth like an angel sit 
 
 Beside the helm conducting it, 
 A)'hile all the winds with melody are ringing. 
 
 It seems to float ever, forever. 
 
 Upon that many-winding river. 
 
 Between mountains, woods, abysses, 
 
 A pariidise of wildernesses ! 
 Till, like one in slumber bound, 
 Borne to the ocean, I float down, around. 
 Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound. 
 
 Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
 In Music's most serene dominions ; 
 Catching the winds that fan that iiappy heaven. 
 And we sail on, away, afar. 
 Without a course, without a star. 
 But by the instinct of sweet music driven ; 
 Till through Elysian garden islets 
 By thee, most beautiful of pilots. 
 Where never mortal pinnace glided. 
 The boat of my desire is guided : 
 Realms where the air we breathe is love. 
 Which in the winds on the waves doth move. 
 Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. 
 
 fr 
 
 We have passed Age's icy caves. 
 
 And Manhood's dark and tossing waves. 
 
 And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray : 
 Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 
 Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 
 
 Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day : 
 A paradise of vaulted bowers 
 Lit by downward-gazing flowers. 
 And watery paths that wind between 
 Wildernesses calm and green. 
 
 Peopled by shapes too bright to see, 
 
 And rest, having beheld ; somewhat like thee ; 
 
 Which walk upon the sea, and cliant melodiously, 
 Piitiiif^lhi'its Unbound. 
 
 CHORUS OF THE SPIRITS OF THE HUMAN MIND. 
 
 We come from the mmd , 
 
 Of humankind. 
 Which was late so dusk and obscene and blind ; 
 
 Now 't is an ocean 
 
 Of clear emotion, 
 A heaven of serene and mighty motion. 
 
 From that deep abyss 
 
 Of wonder and bliss. 
 Whose caverns are crystal palaces ; 
 
 From those skyey towers 
 
 Where Thought's crowned powers 
 Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours ! 
 
 From the dim recesses 
 
 Of woven caresses. 
 Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses ; 
 
 From the azure isles, 
 
 Where sweet Wisdom smiles, 
 Dekaying your ships with her syren wiles. 
 
 From the temples high 
 
 Of man's ear and eye, 
 Roofed over Scul])ture and Poesy ; 
 
 From the murmurings 
 
 Of the unsealed springs 
 Where Science bedews his Dadal wings. 
 
 Years after years. 
 
 Through blood and tears 
 And a thick hell of hatreds and hopes and fears, 
 
 We faded and flew. 
 
 And the islets were few 
 Where the bud-bliglited flowers of happiness grew. 
 
 Our feet now, every palm, 
 
 Are sandalled with calm. 
 And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm ; 
 
 And beyond our eyes 
 
 The human love lies 
 Wliich makes all it gazes on paradise. 
 
 Prometheus Unbound. 
 
 ^ 
 
(Qr 
 
 828 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 —9) 
 
 fr 
 
 THE FALL OF JDPITEK, 
 
 When the strife was cuded which made dim 
 The orb I rule, and shook the sohd stars, 
 The terrors of his eye illumined heaveu 
 With sanguine liglit, through the thick ragged 
 
 skirts 
 Of the victorious darkness, as he fell : 
 Like the last glare of day's red agony, 
 Which, from a rent among the liery clouds, 
 Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled deep. 
 
 Fiomcllicus Unbound. 
 
 HYMN TO raTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 The awful shadow of some unseen power 
 Floats, though unseen, among us ; visiting 
 This various world with as inconstant wing 
 As summer winds t hat creep from flower to flower ; 
 Like moonbeams that belaud some piny mountain 
 shower, 
 It visits with iucoustant glance 
 Each human heart and countenance ; 
 Like lines and harmonics of evening. 
 
 Like clouds in starlight widely spread. 
 Like memory of nnisic fled, 
 Like aught that for its grace may be 
 Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 
 
 Spirit of Beauty ! that dost consecrate 
 
 With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
 Of human thought or form, where art thou 
 gone ? 
 
 Why dust tiiou pass away and leave our state. 
 
 This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and deso- 
 late? 
 Ask why the sunlight not forever 
 Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river ; 
 
 Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
 shown; 
 Why fear and dream and deatli and birth 
 Cast on the daylight of tliis earth 
 Such gloom, why man has such a scope 
 
 For love and hate, despondency and lio]ie 't 
 
 No voice from some sublinier world hath ever 
 To sage or poet these responses given : 
 Therefore the names of Demon, Gliost, and 
 Heaven, 
 Remain tlie records of their vain eiulcavor ; 
 Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail 
 to sever. 
 From all we hear and all we sec. 
 Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
 Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountahis driven. 
 Or music by the night wind sent 
 Tlirough strings of some still instrument. 
 Or moonliglit on a midnight stream. 
 Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 
 
 Love, liope, and self-esteem, like clouds, depart 
 And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
 Man were immortal and omnii)otent. 
 Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 
 Keep with fliy glorious train firm slate within his 
 heart. 
 Thou messenger of sympathies 
 That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ; 
 Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, 
 Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
 Depart not as thy shadow came : 
 Depart not, lest the grave should be. 
 Like life and fear, a dark resflity. 
 
 While yet a boy 1 sought for ghosts, and sped 
 Through many a listening chamber, cave, and 
 
 ruiii. 
 And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursu- 
 ing 
 Hopes of high talk witii the departed dead. 
 I called on poisonous names with which our youth 
 is fed : 
 I was not heard ; I saw them not ; 
 When musing deeply on the lot . 
 Of life, at tluit sweet time when winds are wooing 
 All vital things that wake to bring 
 News of birds and blossoming, 
 Sudden, tiiy shadow fell on me ; 
 I shrieked, and clasped my hands hi ecstasy ! 
 
 I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 
 To thee and tliine : have I not kept the vow ? 
 With beating heart and streaming eyes, even 
 now 
 I call the phantoms of a tliousand hours 
 Each from his voiceless grave : they have in vis- 
 ioned bowers 
 Of studious zeal or love's delight 
 Outwatelied with me the envious night : 
 Tiiey know that never joy illumed my brow, 
 Unlinked with hope that tliou wonldst free 
 This wcu'ld from its dark slavery, 
 That thou, O awful Loveliness, 
 Wouldst live whate'er tiiese words cannot express. 
 
 The day becomes more solemn and serene 
 When noon is past : there is a harmony 
 Li autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 
 Which tlirough the summer is not heard nor 
 
 seen, 
 As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
 Thus let thy power, which like the truth 
 Of nature on my passive youth 
 Descended, to my onward life sup))ly 
 Its ealm, to one who worships thee. 
 And every form eonlnining thee. 
 Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
 To fear himself, and love all liumaiikind. 
 
 ■# 
 
eft- 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 829 
 
 ^ 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR 
 NAPLES. 
 
 The Sim is warm, the sky is clcai', 
 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 
 The purple noon's transparent light, 
 The breath of the moist air is light 
 
 Around its unexpandcd buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one delight, 
 
 The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 
 The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. 
 
 I see the deep's untramplcd floor 
 
 With green and purple seaweeds strown ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore, 
 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown ; 
 I sit upon the sands alone. 
 
 The lightning of the noontide ocean 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 
 Arises from its measured motion, 
 How sweet ! did any heart now share in my 
 emotion. 
 
 Alas ! 1 have nor hope nor health, 
 
 Nor peace within nor calm around. 
 Nor that content surpassing wealth 
 
 The sage in meditation found, 
 And walked with inward glory crowned, — 
 
 Nor fame nor power, nor love nor leisure. 
 Others 1 see whom these surround, — 
 
 Smiling they live, and call life ])leasure : 
 To me t hat cup has been dealt iu another measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild. 
 
 Even as the winds and waters are ; 
 I could lie down like a tired child. 
 
 And weep away the life of care 
 Which I have borne and yet must bear. 
 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me. 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 
 Some might lament that I were cold. 
 
 As 1, when this sweet day is gone, 
 Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 
 
 Lisults with this untimely moan; 
 They might lament, — for I am one 
 
 AVhom men love not, — and yet regret. 
 Unlike tins day, which, when the sun 
 
 Shall on its stainless glory set. 
 Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory 
 
 yet. December, 1818. 
 
 ENGLAND IN 1819. 
 
 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, — 
 Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow 
 Through public scorn, — mud from a muddy 
 spring, — 
 
 Rulers, who neither see nor feel nor know, 
 But leech-like to tlieir fainting country cling. 
 Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow. 
 A people starved and stabbed in the untilled 
 
 field, — 
 An army, which libcrticide and prey 
 Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield; 
 Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay ; 
 Religion Christless, Godless, — a book sealed ; 
 A senate, — Time's worst statute unrepealed, — 
 Are graves, from which a glorious phantom may 
 Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day ! 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND.* 
 
 I. 
 O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 
 
 being. 
 Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pesfilcnce-stricken multitudes ; thou 
 Who ehariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With living hues and odors plain and hill : 
 
 Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere : 
 Destroyer and preserver, — hear, 0, hear ! 
 
 11. 
 Thou on whose stream, raid tlie steep sky's com- 
 motion, 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and 
 ocean. 
 
 Angels of rain and liglituing : there are spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
 
 Of some fierce Msenad, even from the dim verge 
 
 Of the liorizon to the zenith's height. 
 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
 
 * "This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a wood 
 that skirts tlie Arno, near Florence, and on a day wlicn tlint 
 tempestuous wind, wliose temperature is at once ludd and 
 aninmting, was collcctinjr tlie vapors whitli pour down tiie 
 autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, at sunset, witli a 
 violent tempest of tinil aiul rain, attended liy that niagniticent 
 thunder and liglitning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. ^ 
 
 " The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the third 
 stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation at the 
 bottom of the sea. of rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with 
 that of the land in the change of seasons, and is consequently , , 
 influenced by the winds which announce it." 
 
 -8^ 
 
a- 
 
 830 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 or the dyiiiiT ye:ir, to -wliicli this closing nigiit 
 Will bo tlie (luiiic of a vast sepulchre, 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated niiglit 
 
 Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 
 
 Black rain, and fire, and had, will burst : O, hear! 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, wlierc he lay. 
 Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's iutenser day, 
 
 All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 
 Cleave themselves into eliasms, while far below 
 The sea-blooms and tlie oozy woods which wear 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
 And tremble and despoil themselves : 0, hear ! 
 
 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 
 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 
 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and coidd be 
 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
 As then, wdien to outstrip thy skyey speed 
 Scarce seined a vision, I would ne'er have striven 
 
 As finis with tliee in prayer in my sore need. 
 0, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
 One too like thee ; tameless and swift and proud. 
 
 V. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone. 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
 My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 
 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
 Like withered leaves to r|uickcn a new birth ; 
 And, by the incantation of this verse, 
 
 Scatter, as from an unextincruislied hearth 
 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
 Be throug'i my lips to unawakened earth 
 
 The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 
 
 If AV'inter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 
 
 TO . 
 
 I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden. 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burden tliine. 
 
 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion. 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 
 Innocent is the heart's devotion 
 With wliich 1 worship thine. 
 
 LO'ra'S PHILOSOPHY, 
 
 TuE fountains mingle with the river. 
 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 The winds of heaven mix forever 
 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Nothing in the world is single ; 
 
 All things by a law divine 
 In one another's being mingle : 
 
 Why not I with thine ? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven. 
 
 And the waves clasp one another; 
 No sister flower would be forgiven 
 
 If it disdained its brother : 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea: 
 What are all these kissings worth. 
 
 If thou kiss not me ? 
 
 January, 1320, 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 I BEING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews tiiat waken 
 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 ^Vhcn rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below. 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 
 And all the night 't is my jiillow white, 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of liie blast. 
 
 -P 
 
c0- 
 
 TO A SKYLAEK. 
 
 831 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Sublime on tlie towers of my skyey bowers 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits ; 
 lu a cavern under is fettered the thuudcr. 
 
 It struggles and liowls by fits; 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
 
 Tliis pilot is gvudiiig me, 
 Lured by the love of tlie genii that move 
 
 In tlie deptlis of the purple sea; 
 Over tlie rills and the crags and the hills, 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains, 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or strcaui. 
 
 The spirit he loves remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
 smile. 
 
 While he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps ou the back of my sailiilg rack. 
 
 When the morning-star shines dead. 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 
 
 Whieli an earthquake rocks and swings, 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from tlie lit sea 
 beneath, 
 
 Its ardors of rest and of love. 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From tlie depth of heaven above, 
 Willi wings folded 1 rest, on my airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden, witli wliite fire laden, 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleccc-like floor. 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever t!ie beat of her unseen feet, 
 
 \Miich only the angels hear. 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
 roof. 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 ^^Hicn I widen the rent in my wind - built 
 tent. 
 
 Till the ealm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen througli me on 
 high 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne witli the burning zone. 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
 The volcanoes arc dim, and the stars reel and 
 swim. 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to eape, with a bridge-like shape. 
 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 
 ^- 
 
 The triumphal arch through which I march 
 With hurrieaue, fire, and suow, 
 
 Wlien the powers of the air are chained to my 
 chair. 
 Is the million-colored bow ; 
 
 The sphere-tire above its soft colors wove, 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water, 
 
 And the nursling of the sky : 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain, 
 
 The ])avilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 
 gleams. 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a cliild from the womb, like a ghost from 
 the tomb, 
 
 I arise and unbuild it again. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit 1 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 Tliat from lieaven, or near it, 
 Pourest tliy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a cloud of fire; 
 
 The blue deep tliou wingest. 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
 singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun. 
 O'er wliicli clouds are brightening, 
 
 Thou dost float and run ; 
 Like an unbodied joy v/liose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven, 
 
 lu the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I heartily shriU delight. 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear. 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 With thy voice is loud. 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 832 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 As, wlieu night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is 
 overllowcd. 
 
 Wliat tliou art we know not ; 
 
 Wliat is most like tlice ? 
 From rainbow-clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see. 
 As (Vom tliY presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 Li tlie light of thought, 
 Singing liynms unbidden. 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and tears it heeded not ; 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, wliich overflows her 
 bower : 
 
 Like a glowworm golden 
 
 Li a dell of dew. 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it 
 from the view : 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflowered. 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
 wingrd tliieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Riiin-awakeued flowers, 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth sur- 
 pass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird. 
 
 What sweet tliougiits arc thine ; 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 Tiiat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal. 
 
 Or trium])hal chant. 
 Matched witli thiue would be all 
 But an empty vaunt, - 
 Athing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 
 
 ^ 
 
 What objects arc the fountains 
 Of tiiy ha[)py strain ? 
 
 What fields or waves or mountains ? 
 \V\uit sliapes of sky or ))lain ? 
 What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance 
 of pain ? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Tilings more true and deep 
 Than we mortals dream. 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
 stream ? 
 
 We look before and after. 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are tliose that tell of saddest 
 thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate and pride and fear; 
 If we were tilings born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not bow thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound. 
 Better than ail treasures 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scoruer of the ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Sueli harmonious madness 
 From my lips would How, 
 The world should listen then, as 1 am listening 
 now. 
 
 FROM "EPIPSTCHIDION." * 
 
 Seuaph of heaven ! too gentle to be human, 
 A'eiling beneath that radiant form of woman 
 Ail that is insnpportaiile in thee 
 Of light and love and immortality ! 
 Sweet benediction in the eternal curse ! 
 Veiled glory of this lanipless universe ! 
 Thou moon beyond tlie clouds ! thou living form 
 Among the dead ! thou star above tlic storm ! 
 Thi)\i wonder and thou beauty and thou terror ! 
 Thou harmony of Nature's art ! thou mirror 
 
 • This poem is too long to he printed here in fnU. Wc refer 
 the rentier to the original, if he desires to ohtnin an adequate 
 idea of a [loet's iiiia^'inntum wlien thorongtily inspired, uiipas- 
 siolu'd and spiritualized, with the niood of eestnsy prompting 
 every Imi'ning line. 
 
 EP 
 
(Q- 
 
 THE FUGITIVES. 
 
 833 
 
 ■^ 
 
 In whom, as in the splendor of the sun, 
 
 All shii])es look glorious which tiioii gazest on ! 
 
 Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee 
 
 now 
 Flash, lightuing-likc, witli unaccustomed glow; 
 I pray liiee tiiat thou hlot from this sad song 
 All ot its much mortality and wrong, 
 With those clear drops, which start like sacred 
 
 dew 
 From tiie twin ligiits thy sweet soul darkens 
 
 througli. 
 Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy : 
 Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 
 
 I never thought before my death to see 
 Youth's vision thus made perfect : Emily, 
 I love thco; though the world by no thin name 
 Will iiidc that love from its unvalued shame. 
 Would we two had been twins of the same mother! 
 Or that the name my heart lent to another 
 Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, 
 Blending two beams of one eternity I 
 Yet were one lawful and the other true, 
 These names, though dear, could paint not, as is 
 
 due. 
 How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me ! 
 I am not thine : I am a part of i/tee. 
 
 Sweet Lamp I my moth-like Muse has burnt 
 
 its wings, 
 Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, 
 Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray 
 
 style, 
 All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, 
 A lovely soul formed to bo blest and bless ':' 
 A well of sealed and secret happiness, 
 Whose waters like blithe light and music are. 
 Vanquishing dissonance and gloom ? A star 
 Which moves not in the moving heavens, alone ? 
 A smile amid dark frowns ? a gentle tone 
 
 Amid rude • 
 
 ) ? a beloved liijht ? 
 
 fr 
 
 A solitude, a refuge, a delight ? 
 
 A lute, which those whom love has taught to 
 
 play 
 Make music on, to soothe the roughest day 
 And lull fond grief asleep ? a buried treasure ? 
 A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure? 
 A violct-slirouded grave of woe, — I measure 
 The world of fancies, seeking one like thee. 
 And find, — alas ! mine own infirmity. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, 
 Vibrates in the memory, — 
 Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
 Live within the sense they quicken. 
 
 Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead. 
 Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 
 And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 TO NIGHT. 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave. 
 
 Spirit of Night f 
 Out of the misty eastern cave, 
 Where all the long and lone daylight. 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 
 Swift be thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 
 
 Star-inwrought ! 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of Bay, 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
 Then wander o'er city and sea and laud. 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand, — 
 
 Come, long sought ! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sighed for thee ; 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weary Day turned to his rest. 
 Lingering like an unloved guest, 
 
 I sighed for thee. 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
 
 " Wouldst thou me?" 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the flimy-eycd. 
 Murmured like a noontide bee, 
 " Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
 Wouldst thou me ? " And I replied, 
 
 " No, not thee ! " 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead. 
 
 Soon, too soon, — 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight. 
 
 Come soon, soon ! 
 
 THE FUGITIVES. 
 
 I. 
 The waters are flashing. 
 The white hail is dashing. 
 The lightnings are glancing. 
 The hoar spray is dancing, - 
 Away ! 
 
 The whirlwind is rolling, 
 The thunder is tolling. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 834 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Tlie forest is swinging, 
 The minster-bells ringing, — 
 Come away ! 
 
 The earth is lilce ocean, 
 Wreck-strewn and in motion : 
 Bird, beast, man, and worm. 
 Have crept out of tlie storm, - 
 Come away ! 
 
 "Our boat has one sail, 
 And the helmsman is pale : 
 A bold pilot, I trow. 
 Who should follow us now ! " 
 Shouted he. 
 
 And she cried, " Ply the oar : 
 Put off gayly from shore ! " 
 As she spoke, bolts of death 
 Mixed with hail specked their path 
 O'er the sea. 
 
 And from isle, tower, and rock, 
 Tiie blue beacon-cloud broke, 
 Tiiough dumb in the blast. 
 The red cannon flashed fast 
 From the lee. 
 
 " And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ? 
 And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? 
 And drive we not free 
 O'er the terrible sea, 
 I and thou ? " 
 
 One boat-cloak did cover 
 The loved and the lover ; — • 
 Their blood beats one measure, 
 They murmur proud pleasure 
 Soft and low, — 
 
 While around, the lashed ocean. 
 Like mountains in motion. 
 Is wit.lulrawn and uplifted. 
 Sunk, shattered, and shifted, 
 To aud fro. 
 
 In the court of the fortress 
 Beside tlic pale portress, 
 Like a bloodliouud well beaten. 
 The bridegroom stands, eaten 
 By shame ; 
 
 On the topmost watch-turret. 
 As a death-hodiug spirit, 
 Sl.'iuds the gray tyraut-fatber : 
 To his voice tlie mad weather 
 Seems tame ; 
 
 And with curses as wild 
 As ere clung to child. 
 He devotes to the blast 
 The best, loveliest, and last 
 Of his name ! 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 I PANT for the music which is divine. 
 My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; 
 
 Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine, 
 Loosen the notes in a silver shower ; 
 
 Like a Jierbless plain for the gentle rain, 
 
 I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. 
 
 Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound. 
 More, O, more ! I am thirsting yet. 
 
 It loosens the serpent which care has bound 
 Upon my heart, to stifle it ; 
 
 The dissolving strain, through every vein. 
 
 Passes into my licart and brain. 
 
 As the scent of a violet withered up, 
 
 Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, 
 
 Wlien the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, 
 And mist there was none its thirst to slake, — 
 
 And the violet lay dead while the odor flew 
 
 On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue, — 
 
 As one who drinks from a charmed cup 
 
 Of foaming and sparkling and murmuringwine, 
 
 Wliom, a mighty enchantress filling up. 
 Invites to love with her kiss divine. 
 
 LINES TO AN INDIAN AIE. 
 
 I AHISE from dreams of thee 
 In the first sweet sleep of night. 
 When the winds are breathing low. 
 And the stars are shining bright. 
 I arise from dreams of thee, 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 Has led mj — who knows how ? 
 To thy chamber-window, sweet I 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 
 On the dark, the silent .stream ; 
 
 The champak odors fail 
 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 
 The nightingale's comi)laint, 
 
 It dies upon her heart, 
 
 As I must die on thine, 
 
 beloved as thou art ! 
 
 0, lift me from the grass ! 
 
 1 die, I faint, I fail I 
 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 
 --# 
 
a- 
 
 WATCHMAN, TELL US OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 835 
 
 tb 
 
 ^ 
 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
 My heart beats loud and fast : 
 O, press it close to thine again, 
 Where it will break at last ! 
 
 THE KAVmE. 
 
 But I remember 
 Two miles on this side of the fort, the road 
 Crosses a deep ravine -. 't is rough and narrow, 
 And winds with short turns down the precipice ; 
 And in its deptli there is a mighty rock. 
 Which has, from unimaginable years. 
 Sustained itself witli terror and with toil 
 Over a gulf, and witli the agony 
 With which it clings, seems slowly coming down ; 
 Even as a wretched soul hour after hour 
 Clings to the mass of life, — yet clinging, leans ; 
 And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss 
 In which it fears to fall: beneath this crag. 
 Huge as despair, as if in weariness. 
 The melancholy mountain yawns ; below. 
 You hear but see not an impetuous torrent 
 Kaging among the caverns, and a bridge 
 Crosses the chasm ; and high above there grow. 
 With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag. 
 Cedars and yews and pines, whose tangled hair 
 Is matted into one solid roof of shade 
 Hy the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 
 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. 
 
 T/ie Cpnci. 
 
 SIR JOHN BOWRING.* 
 
 1793-1873. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 If all our hopes and all our fears 
 Were prisoned in life's narrow bound ; 
 If, travellers through this vale of tears. 
 We saw no better world beyond ; 
 0, what could clicek the rising sigh, 
 What earthly thing could pleasure give? 
 O, who would venture then to die, — 
 O, who could then endure to live ? 
 
 Were life a dark and desert moor. 
 Where mists and clouds eternal, spread 
 Their gloomy veil behind, before, 
 And tempests thunder overlicad : 
 Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom. 
 And not a floweret smiles beneath ; 
 Who could exist in such a tomb ? 
 Who dwell in darkness and in death ? 
 
 * This scholar, pIiilQlogi9t,plii]antlii"o])ist, and nian of afTaivs 
 will proltahly lie rcnieiiiliriTd by posterity only as the author 
 of ^fl't^l^s tni'I I'lS/iris. Ttare sccnis to l)e aQ indestructible 
 vitality in tliat lillie liook. 
 
 And such were life, without the ray 
 From our divine religion given ; 
 'Tis f/iis that makes our darkness day; 
 'Tis t/iis that makes our earth a heaven. 
 Bright is the golden sun above. 
 And beautiful the llowers that bloom ; 
 And all is joy, and all is love, 
 Reflected from a world to come. 
 
 JESUS TEACHING THE PEOPLE. 
 
 How sweetly flowed tlie gospel's sound 
 Froin lips of gentleness and grace, 
 
 When listening thousands gathered round. 
 And joy and reverence flllcd the place ! 
 
 From heaven he came, of heaven he spoke. 
 To heaven he led his followers' way ; 
 
 Dark clouds of gloomy night he broke, 
 UnveiUng an immortal day. 
 
 " Come, wanderers, to my Father's home. 
 Come, all ye weary ones, and rest I " 
 
 Yes ! sacred teacher, we will come, 
 Obey thee, love thee and be blest! 
 
 Decay, then, tenements of dust ! 
 
 Pillars of earthly pride, decay ! 
 A nobler mansion waits the just, 
 
 And Jesus has prepared the way. 
 
 WATCHMAN, TELL US OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Watchman, tell us of the night, — 
 
 What its signs of promise are ! 
 Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height 
 
 See that glory-beaming star ! 
 Watchman, does its beauteous ray 
 
 Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 
 Traveller, yes ; it brings the day, — 
 
 Promised day of Israel. 
 
 W^atchman, tell us of the niglit, — 
 
 Higher yet that star ascends ! 
 Traveller, blessedness and light. 
 
 Peace and truth, its course portends. 
 Watchman, will its beams alone 
 
 Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 
 Traveller, ages arc its own, — 
 
 See, it bursts o'er all the earth. 
 
 Watchinan, tell us of the night, 
 
 For the morning seems to dawn. 
 Traveller, darkness takes its flight; 
 
 Doiibt and terrin- arc withdrawn. 
 Watcliman, let thy wandering cease ; 
 
 Hie (lice to thy rjuiet home. 
 Traveller, lo I the Prince of Peace, 
 
 Lo ! the Son of God is come. 
 
 J 
 
C&- 
 
 836 
 
 KE15LE 
 
 ■ft 
 
 ^ 
 
 JOHN KEBLE.* 
 
 1798-1866. 
 
 PALM SUNDAY. 
 
 " Ami He answered and said unto tliem, I tell yon that if 
 these should hold their peace, the stoues would imiuediately 
 cry out." — Luke xix. 40. 
 
 Ye whose hearts are beating higli 
 With tlie pulse of Poesy, 
 Heirs of more than royal race, 
 Framed by Heaven's peeuliar grace, 
 God's own work to do on earth 
 
 (If the word be not too bold), 
 Giving virtue a new birth, 
 
 And a life that ne'er grows old, — 
 
 Sovereign masters of our hearts ! 
 Know ye who hath set your parts ? 
 He who gave you breath to slug. 
 By whose strength ye sweep the string, 
 He hath chosen you, to lead 
 
 His hosanuas here below ; 
 Mount, and claim your glorious meed ; 
 
 Linger not with sin and woe. 
 
 But if ye should hold your peace. 
 Deem not that tlie song would cease, — 
 Angels round his glory-tlirone. 
 Stars, his guiding hand that own, 
 Flowers, that grow benealh our feet, 
 
 Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest. 
 High and low in choir shall meet, 
 
 Ere his name sh.all be unljlcst. 
 
 Lord, by every minstrel tongue 
 Be thy praise so duly sung, 
 Tiiat thine angels' harjis may ne'er 
 Fail to find fit echoing here ; 
 We the •niillc, of meaner birth, 
 
 Wlio in that diviuest spell 
 Dare not hope to join on cartli, 
 
 Give us grace to listen well. 
 
 But should tliankless sUence seal 
 Lips tliat might half heaven reveal. 
 Should bards in idol-liymns profane 
 Tlie sacred soul-enthralling strain 
 (As in this bad world below 
 
 Noblest tilings find vilest using). 
 Then, thy power and mercy show. 
 
 In vile things noble breath infusing ; 
 
 Then waken into sound divine 
 
 The very pavement of thy shrine, 
 
 Till we, like lieaven's star-sprinkled floor, 
 
 Faintly give back what we adore ; 
 
 " The Christian Year and Lijra Tnnocetitium of this saintly 
 siirccssor of Vaughan and Ilcrlicrt arc so widely known, that 
 it is needless to multiply extracts from their holy pages. 
 
 Childlike though the voices be. 
 And uiituuable the parts. 
 
 Thou wilt own the minstrelsy 
 If it flow from childlike hearts. 
 
 HOLY BAPTISM. 
 
 Where is it mothers learn their love ? — 
 In every church a fountain springs 
 O'er which the eternal Dove 
 Hovers on softest wiugs. 
 
 Wliat sparkles in that lucid flood 
 Is water, by gross mortals eyed : 
 But seen by faith, 't is blood 
 Out of a dear Friend's side. 
 
 A few ealin words of faith and prayer, 
 A few briglit drops of holy dew, 
 Shall work a wonder there 
 Earth's charmers never knew. 
 
 happy arms where cradled lies. 
 And ready for the Lord's embrace, 
 That precious sacrifice, 
 The darling of his grace ! 
 
 Blest eyes, that see the smiUng gleam 
 Upon the slumbering features glow. 
 When the life-giving stream 
 Touches the tender brow ! 
 
 Or when the holy cross is signed. 
 And the young soldier duly sworn 
 With true and fearless mind 
 To serve the Virgin-born. 
 
 But happiest ye, who sealed and blest 
 Back to your arms your treasure take, 
 With Jesus' mark impressed 
 To nurse for Jesus' sake : 
 
 To whom, — as if in h.illowed .air 
 Ye knelt before souie awfid shrine, — 
 His innocent gestures wear 
 A meaning half divine : 
 
 By whom Love's daily touch is seen 
 
 In strengthening form and freshening hue. 
 In the fixed brow serene, 
 The deep yet eager view. — 
 
 Wlio taught thy pure and even breath 
 To come and go witii sueli sweet grace ? 
 Whence tliy reposing faitli, 
 Thougli in our frail embrace ? 
 
 tender gem, and full of Heaven ! 
 Not in tlie twilight stars on iiigh, 
 Not in moist flowers at even 
 See we our God so nigh. 
 
 ~4> 
 
a- 
 
 15ABY SLEEPS.— THE THRUSH'S NEST. 
 
 837 
 
 to 
 
 Sweet one, make haste and know him too. 
 Thine own adopting Father love, 
 That like thine earliest dew 
 Thy dying sweets may prove. 
 
 SAMUEL HINDS.* 
 
 1793- 1873. 
 
 BABY SLEEPS. 
 " She is not dead, but sleepeth." — Luke viii. 53. 
 
 The baby wept ; 
 The mother took it from the nurse's arms, 
 And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms. 
 
 And baby slept. 
 
 Again it weeps, 
 And God doth take it from the mother's arms, 
 From present griefs, and future unknown harms. 
 
 And baby sleeps. 
 
 LOVE KEEPEUa WATCH, 
 
 F.\R on yon heath, so lone and wild, 
 A mother sits to watch her child. 
 Delighted with its heedless play, 
 Yet fearing it may go astray. 
 
 God watches both ; O mother, pray 
 That wlien those little feet shall stray 
 O'er paths of life more lone and wild, 
 God still may watch thy heedless child. 
 
 Pray, little one, tliat God may bless 
 Tliy mother for her tenderness, 
 And watch her from his throne above 
 With all her own unwearied love. 
 
 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY (MRS. 
 FLETCHER). 
 
 1800 - 1833. 
 
 TEE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 
 
 I s.\w him on the battle-eve. 
 
 When Uke a king he bore him, — 
 Proud liosts were there in helm and greave. 
 
 And prouder chiefs before him : 
 The warrior and the warrior's deeds, — 
 The morrow and the morrow's meeds, — 
 
 No daunting thought came o'er him ; 
 He looked around him, and his eye 
 Defiance flashed to earth and sky ! 
 
 V^ 
 
 " Bishop of Nonvicli. 
 
 He looked ou ocean, — its broad breast 
 
 Was covered with his fleet ; 
 Ou eartli, — and saw, from east to west. 
 
 His bannered millions meet ; 
 While rock and glen and cave and coast 
 Shook with the war-cry of that host, 
 
 The thunder of their feet ! 
 He heard tlie imperial echoes ring, — 
 He heard, — and felt liimself a king ! 
 
 I saw him next alone, — nor camp 
 
 Nor chief his steps attended ; 
 Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp 
 
 With war-cries proudly blended. 
 He stood alone, whom fortune high 
 So lately seemed to deify ; 
 
 He, wlio with Heaven contended. 
 Fled, like a fugitive and slave ! 
 ]5eliiud — the foe ; before — the wave ! 
 
 He stood ; — fleet, army, treasure — g'lne. 
 
 Alone, and in despair ! 
 While wave and wind swept ruthless ou. 
 
 For tliey were monarchs there ; 
 And Xerxes in a single bark. 
 Where late his tliousand ships were dark, 
 
 Must all their fury dare, — 
 Wliat a revenge, — a trophy, this — 
 For thee, immortal Salamis ! 
 
 JOHN CLARE. 
 
 1793-1864. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE 
 
 Welcome, pale primrose ! starting up between 
 Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew 
 The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through. 
 Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; 
 How much tliy presence beautifies the ground ! 
 How sweet thy modest unafiected pride 
 Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side ! 
 And where thy fairy flowers in groups arefouud. 
 The school-boy roams enchantedly along. 
 Plucking the fairest with a rude deliglit : 
 While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, 
 To gaze a moment on the pleasiug sight ; 
 O'erjoycd to see the flowers that truly bring 
 The welcome news of sweet returning spring. 
 
 THE THRUSH'S NEST. 
 
 Within a tliiek and spreading hawthorn-bush 
 That overhung a molehill large and round, 
 I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 
 Sing hymns of rapture, wlulc I drank tlie sound 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 -Q) 
 
 838 
 
 HEMAXS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 With joy, — and oft, an uuiiitrudiug guest, 
 I watched her secret toils from day to day ; 
 How true she warped the moss to form her uest. 
 And modelled it witliin with wood and clay. 
 And by and by, like heatii-bells gilt with dew, 
 There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers. 
 Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue : 
 And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, 
 A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly. 
 Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 
 
 o>*io 
 
 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 
 
 1794-1835. 
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set, — but all. 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 
 Day is for mortal care ; 
 Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth ; 
 Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
 prayer ; 
 But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 
 
 The banquet hath its hour — 
 Its feverish hour — of mirth and song- and wine ; 
 There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming 
 power, 
 A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look like things too glorious for decay. 
 
 And smile at thee, — but thou art not of those 
 That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at tlie ncu'th-wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set, — but all. 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 
 We know when moons shall wane, 
 Wlieii summer liirds from far shall cross the sea, 
 Wiien autumn's hue shall tinge tlic golden 
 grain, — 
 But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 
 
 Is it when spring's first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 
 
 Is it when roses in our jiaths grow pale ? 
 They have one season, — all are ours to die ! 
 
 Thou art wlien-. billows foam ; 
 Thou art where music melts upon tlio air; 
 
 Thou art around us in our peaceful liomc ; 
 And the world calls us forth, — and thou art there. 
 
 Thou art where friend meets friend. 
 Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; 
 
 Tliou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
 The skies, andswords beat down the princely crest. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And (lowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 
 
 And stars to set, — but all, 
 Tiiou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN 
 NEW ENGLAND, 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast. 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 
 Their giant branches tossed. 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 
 
 The hills and waters o'er. 
 When a baud of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came; 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame. 
 
 Not as the flying come. 
 
 In silence and in fear ; — 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 Witii their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang. 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea : 
 And tlic sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 
 To the anthem of the free ! 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam : 
 And the rocking pines of tlie forest roared, — 
 
 This was their welcome iiome ! 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst tliat pilgrim band: — 
 Why luid t/i'-y come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's laud ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high. 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar? 
 
 Bright jewels of llie mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 
 
 Tlicy sought a faith's pure siirine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 Tlic soil where first they trod : 
 They have left unstained wliat there tlicy found, — 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 CASABIANCA. —BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 
 
 839 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 CASABIANCA. 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 
 Wlience all but lie had lied ; 
 The tlanic that lit the battle's wreck 
 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 
 Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 
 
 As born to rule the storm, — 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A proud, though childlike form. 
 
 The flames rolled on, — he would not go 
 
 Without his father's word ; 
 That father, faint in death below. 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 
 He called aloud : " Say, father ! say 
 
 If yet my task is done ! " 
 He knew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his sou. 
 
 " S|)eak, father ! " once again he cried, 
 
 " If I may yet be gone ! " 
 And but the booming shots replied, 
 
 And fast the flames rolled on. 
 
 Upon his brow' he felt their breath, 
 
 And in his waving hair. 
 And looked from that lone post of death 
 
 In still yet brave despair ; 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " IVIy father ! must I stay ':' " 
 While o'er him fast, through sad and shroud. 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapped the ship in s|)lcndor wild. 
 
 They caught the flag ou high, 
 And streamed above the gallant child 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a burst of thunder sound ; 
 
 The boy, — O, where was he? 
 Ask of the winds tiiat far around 
 
 With fragments strewed the sea, — 
 
 With mast and helm and pennon fair. 
 
 That well had borne thi'ir part ; 
 But the noblest thing which perished there 
 
 W^as that young faithful heart ! 
 
 BERNARDO DEL CARPIO, 
 
 TnE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed 
 his heart of lire, 
 
 And sued the haughty king to free his long-im- 
 prisoned sire : 
 
 " I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my 
 captive train, 
 
 I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — O, 
 break my father's chain ! " 
 
 Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran- 
 somed man this day : 
 '' Mount thy good horse, aud thou and I will meet 
 him on his way." 
 Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 
 
 ins steed, 
 And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 
 foamy speed. 
 
 And, lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there 
 
 came a glittering band, 
 With one that midst them stately rode, as a 
 
 leader in the land ; 
 " Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 
 
 truth, is he, 
 The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned 
 
 so long to see." 
 
 His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, 
 
 his cheek's blood came aud went; 
 He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and 
 
 there, dismounting, bent; 
 A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 
 
 he took, — 
 Wliat was there in its touch that all his fiery 
 
 spirit shook ? 
 
 That hand was cold, — a frozen thing, — it 
 
 dropped from his like lead : 
 He looked up to the face above, — the face was 
 
 of tlie dead ! 
 A plume waved o'er the noble brow, — the brow 
 
 was fixed and white ; 
 He met at last his father's eyes, — but in them 
 
 was no sight I 
 
 Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but 
 
 who cotdd paint that gaze '? 
 They hushed their very hearts, that saw its 
 
 horror and amaze ; 
 They might have chained him, as before that 
 
 stony form he stood, 
 Por the power was stricken from his arm, and 
 
 from his lip the blood. 
 
 "Father!" at length he murmured low, and 
 
 wept like childhood then, — 
 Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 
 
 warlike men ! — 
 He thougiit ou all his glorious hopes, and all his 
 
 young renown, — 
 He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 
 
 dust sat down. 
 
 Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 
 
 darkly mournful brow, — 
 "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift 
 
 the sword for now. 
 
 -95 
 
cfr 
 
 840 
 
 LOCKHAIIT. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father, — 
 
 O, the worth. 
 The glory, and the loveliness are passed away 
 
 from earth ! 
 
 " I thought to stand where baimers waved, my 
 
 sire ! beside thee yet, — 
 I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 
 
 free soil had n\et ! 
 Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, — for 
 
 tliee my fields were won, — 
 Aud thou hast perished in thy chains, as tliough 
 
 thou hadst no son ! " 
 
 Then, starting from the ground once more, lie 
 seized the monarch's rein, 
 
 Amidst tlie pale aud wildered looks of all tiie 
 courtier train ; 
 
 And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear- 
 ing war-horse led, 
 
 Aud sterrdy set them face to face, — the king 
 before the dead ! 
 
 " Came I not fortii, upon thy pledge, my father's 
 
 hand to kiss 'i — 
 Be still, aud gaze thou on, false king ! and tell 
 
 me what is this ! 
 The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, — give 
 
 answer, where are they ? 
 If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, scud life 
 
 through this cold clay I 
 
 " luto these glassy eyes put light, — be still ! 
 
 keep down thine ire, — 
 Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this 
 
 earth is not my sire ! 
 Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 
 
 my blood was shed, — 
 Thou canst not, — and a king! His dust be 
 
 mountains on thy head ! " 
 
 He loosed the steed ; his slack baud fell, — upon 
 
 the silent face 
 He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — -then 
 
 turned from that sad place : 
 His ho|)C was crushed, his after fate untold in 
 
 martial strain, — 
 His banner led the spears no more amidst the 
 
 hills of Spain. 
 
 A DIRGE, 
 
 Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
 
 Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
 E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod 
 
 His seal was on tliv brow. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 
 
 Soul, to its place on high ! 
 They that have seen thy look in death 
 
 No more may fear to die ! 
 
 o>«Ko 
 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKIIART. 
 
 1794-1854. 
 
 ZARA'S EAR-EINGS. 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they 've dropt 
 
 into the well. 
 And what to say to Mufa, 1 cannot, cannot tell." 
 'T was thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albu- 
 
 liarez' daughter, — 
 " The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath 
 
 the cold blue water, — 
 To me did Mufa give them, when he spake liis 
 
 sad farewell. 
 And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I 
 
 cannot tell. 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls 
 
 in silver set. 
 That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er 
 
 should him forget. 
 That 1 ne'er to other tongue should list, nor 
 
 smile on other's tale. 
 But remeniljcr he my lips had kissed, pure as 
 
 those ear-rings pale, — 
 When be comes back and bears that I have 
 
 dropt tlicm in the well, 
 O, what wdl Muf a think of me, I cannot, cannot 
 
 tell. , 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings! he'll say they 
 should have been. 
 
 Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glit- 
 tering sheen. 
 
 Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining 
 clear. 
 
 Changing to the changing light, witli radiance 
 insincere, — 
 
 That changeful mind unchanging gems are not 
 hefiKing well, — 
 
 Thus will lie think, — and what to say, alas ! I 
 cannot tell. 
 
 " He '11 think when I to market went, I loitered 
 
 by the way ; 
 He '11 think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 
 
 might say ; 
 He '11 think some otlier lover's hand among my 
 
 tresses noosed. 
 From the cars where he had placed tlicm, my 
 
 rings of pearl unloosed ; 
 
 ^ 
 
(a— 
 
 ION RECEIVING THE SACRIFICIAL KNIFE. 
 
 841 
 
 -^ 
 
 He '11 think wlien I was sporting so beside this 
 
 mai'blc well, 
 My pearls fell in, — and what to say, alas ! I 
 
 cannot tell. 
 
 " He '11 say I am a woman, and we are all the 
 same ; 
 
 lie '11 say I loved when he was here to whisper 
 of his flame, — 
 
 But wlieu he went to Tunis my virgin troth had 
 broken. 
 
 And thought no more of Mu9a, and cared not 
 for his token. 
 
 My ear-rings !' my ear-rings ! 0, luckless, luck- 
 less well ! 
 
 For what to say to Mufa, alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 " I '11 tell the truth to Mufa, and I hope he will 
 
 believe 
 That I thought of him at mprnlng, and thought 
 
 of him at eve : 
 That musing on my lover, when down the sun 
 
 was gone. 
 His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain 
 
 all alone : 
 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from 
 
 my iiand they fell. 
 And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they 
 
 lie in the well." 
 
 oXKo 
 
 THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. 
 
 1795-18S4. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF ION. 
 
 Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized 
 As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismissed 
 Froyn some bright sphere which sorrow may not 
 
 cloud 
 To make the happy happier ! Is Ae sent 
 To grapple with the miseries of this time. 
 Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears 
 As it would perish at the touch of wrong ? 
 By no internal contest is he trained 
 For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
 Hath his clear spirit vanquished ; Love, the germ 
 Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth. 
 Expanding with its progress, as the store 
 Of rainbow color whicli the seed conceals 
 Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 
 To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 
 Hath filled his eye save that of thoughtful joy, 
 When, in the evening stillness, lovely things 
 Pressed on his soul too busily ; liis voice, 
 If, in the earnestness of childish S])orts, 
 Raised to the tone of auger, checked its force, 
 As if it feared to break its being's law, 
 
 ^ 
 
 And faltered into music ; when the forms 
 Of guilty passion have been made to live 
 In pictured speech, and others have waxed loud 
 In righteous indignation, he hatli heard 
 With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 
 Of goodness, which surrouudiug gloom concealed. 
 Struck sunlight o'er it ; so his life hath flowed 
 From its mysterious urn a sacred stream. 
 In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
 Alone are mirrored ; which, though shapes of ill 
 May hover round its surface, glides in light. 
 And takes no shadow from them. 
 
 Ion. 
 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 The blessings which the weak and poor can 
 
 scatter 
 Have their own season. 'T is a little tjiing 
 To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
 Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips. 
 May give a shook of pleasure to the frame 
 More exquisite than when nectarean juice 
 Renews the hfe of joy in happiest hours. 
 It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
 Of common comfort which by daily use 
 Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 
 Of him who thought to die uumourned 't will fall 
 Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye 
 With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 
 To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 
 And shed on the departing soul a sense 
 More precious than the beuison of friends 
 About the honored death-bed of the rich. 
 To him who else were lonely, that another 
 Of the great family is near and feels. 
 
 Ion. 
 
 ION EECEIVING THE SACEITICIAL KNIFE. 
 
 Ye eldest gods, 
 Who in no statues of exactest form 
 Are palpable ; who shun the azure heights 
 Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound 
 Of ever-young Apollo's niiustrelsy ; 
 Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held 
 Over dim chaos, keep revengeful wrath 
 On falling nations, and on kingly lines 
 About to sink forever : ye, who shed 
 Into the passions of earth's giant brood 
 And their fierce usages the sense of justice ; 
 Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 
 Witli blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
 Through the proud halls of time-emboldeued guilt 
 Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence, 
 For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate 
 This arm to the destruction of the king 
 And of his race ; O, keep me pitiless : 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 842 
 
 KKATS. 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 Expel all human weakness from my franic, 
 Tliat tliis keen \vca|)on shake nut when his 
 
 heui't 
 SlioulJ Iccl its point ; and if he has a ciiild 
 Whose bloud is iiecdfid tu the sacriliee 
 My country asks, liarden my soul to shed it ! 
 Was not that thunder ? 
 
 Ion. 
 
 IMMOETALITT ASStlRED BY HUMAN LOVE 
 
 Clemanthe. "" O unkiiul ! 
 
 Aiid shall we never see each other ? 
 
 Ion {afler a pause). Yes! 
 
 I have asked that dreadful question of the hills 
 That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
 That lucid flow forever; of tlie stars, 
 Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit 
 Hath trod in glory ; all were dumb ; but now, 
 While I thus gaze upon thy living I'aec, 
 I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
 Can never wholly perish ; we shall meet 
 Again, Clemanthe ! 
 
 THE SACRiriOE OF ION, 
 
 Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal 
 powers ! 
 Now give me leave a moment to approacli 
 That altar unattended. (He goes to the altar?) 
 
 Gracious gods ! 
 In whose mild service my glad youth was 
 
 spent, 
 Look on me now ; and if there is a power. 
 As at this solemn time I feel there is. 
 Beyond ye, that hath breatlicd through all your 
 
 shapes 
 The spirit of the beautiful that lives 
 lu earth and heaven; to ye I olfcr up 
 This conscious being, full of life and love, 
 For my dear eomitry's well'are. Let this blow 
 End all her sorrows I {Stubs himself?) 
 * * ♦ 
 
 Enter Irus. 
 Iri's. 1 bring you glorious tidings — Ila! no 
 
 joy 
 
 Can enter here. 
 
 Ion. Yes, — is it as I hope ? 
 
 luus. The pestilence abates. 
 
 Ion (spriiiffs to his feet). Do yc not hear? 
 Why shoul ye not? ye are strong, — think not 
 
 of me ; 
 Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had spread 
 O'er Argos is dispelled ! My own Cleman- 
 the ! 
 Let this console thee, — Argos lives again, — 
 Tlie offering is accepted, — all is well ! (/J/V.v.) 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 1795-1821. 
 
 A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER. 
 
 A THING of beauty is a joy forever : 
 
 Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 
 
 breathing. 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
 A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
 Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
 Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 
 Made for our seareliing : yes, in spite of all. 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
 From our dark spirits. Such tlio sun, the moon. 
 Trees old and young, sjirouting a shady boon 
 For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 
 With the green world they live iu ; and clear rills 
 That for themselves a cooling covert make 
 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake. 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
 Wc have inuigined for the mighty dead ; 
 All lovely tales that we ha\e heard or read : 
 An endless fountain of immortal drink. 
 Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
 
 E'nltfmioil^ Book I. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. ♦ 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-eold ; 
 The hare lini|)ed tremblijig thnnigh the frozen 
 
 grass. 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were tlie beadsman's fingers while he 
 
 told 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
 Like pious incense from a censer old. 
 Seemed taking flight for heaven without a 
 
 death. 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer 
 
 he saith. 
 
 • " St. Agnes was a Roman virtriH, who siilTt-rcd innrtyrdom 
 ill Ilie reign of Dioriesiaii. Iter iiarents, a few ilavs after tier 
 deeense, are said to liave iiad a \ision of lier, surrounded Iiy 
 angels and attended by a while lamb, wlncli alter«ards be- 
 rame sacred lo her. In the Catholic Cliurch, formerly, the 
 nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar tliiring mass. 
 'I'lic su|ierstition is ffor 1 believe it is still lo be louiid), that, 
 by taking certain measures of divination, damsels luny get a 
 siglit of their future husbands iu a dream. The ordinary jiro- 
 eess seems to have been by fasting. Aubrey las (iliotcd In 
 Ufiind's Pti/iiihir .-liilif/nitir.K) nicnlious another, vvhiell is, lo 
 take a row of pins, and pull them out cue by one, saying a 
 I'uternoster ; after which, upon going to bed, the dream is 
 sure lo ensue." — I.kigii Hl> i 
 
 -5> 
 
a- 
 
 THE EVE OP ST. AGNES. 
 
 843 
 
 ■a 
 
 His prayer he saitli, this patieut, holy man ; 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from iiis knees, 
 And back rcturncth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
 Alon!^ the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 
 The sculptured dead, ou each side seem to 
 
 freeze, 
 Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; 
 Kuiglits,*ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit I'ails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and 
 
 mails. 
 
 Northward he turueth through a little door. 
 And scarce three steps, ere music's golden 
 
 tongue 
 riattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
 But no, — already had his death-bell rung; 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
 Another way he went, and soon among 
 Kougli ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
 And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to 
 
 grieve. 
 
 That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was 
 
 wide, 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gau to chide : 
 Tlie level chambers, ready witli their pride. 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
 Stared, where u))on their heads the cornice rests. 
 With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise 
 
 on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
 Numerous as siiadows haunting fairiiy 
 The brain, new-stuffed, iu youth, witli tri- 
 
 uinplis gay 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 
 
 day, 
 On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. 
 As she had heard old dames full many times de- 
 clare. 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honeyed middle of the night. 
 If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
 As, snpperless to bed they must retire. 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily wliite ; 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they de- 
 sire. 
 
 ^g-^ 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful MadeUuc ; 
 The music, yearning like a god iu pahi. 
 She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. 
 Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by, — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
 And back retired ; not cooled by higlr disdain. 
 But she saw not ; her heart was otherwiiere ; 
 She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of 
 the year. 
 
 She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 
 
 short ; 
 The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. 
 Hoodwinked with faery fancy ; all amort. 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
 And all tlie bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, 
 Had come young Porphyro, witli lieart on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
 Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im- 
 plores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moiuent in the tedious hours, 
 Tliat he might gaze and worslup all unseen ; 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in sooth 
 such things have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : 
 All eyes be nuiffled, or a hundred swords 
 Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; 
 For liim, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 
 
 Ah. happy chance ! the aged creature came. 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
 Behind a broad iiall-pillar, far beyond 
 Tlie sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
 He startled her; but soon she knew his face. 
 And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
 Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from 
 
 this place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 
 
 race ! 
 
 " Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish 
 
 Hildebrand ; 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 
 ^ 
 
(Qr 
 
 844 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 -to 
 
 ^ 
 
 He cui'scd thee and thine, both house and land : 
 Tlicn tiierc 's thiit old Lord .Maurice, not a whit 
 j\lorc tame tor iiis gray hairs — Alas nic ! flit ! 
 Flit like a ghost away." " Ah, gossip dear, 
 We 're safe enough ; iierc in tiiis arm-chair sit, 
 And tell me how — " " Good saints! not here, 
 
 not iiere ; 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 
 
 bier." 
 
 He followed through a lowly arched way, 
 Brusiiing the cobwebs witli his lofty plume; 
 And as slie muttered " Well-a — well-a-day ! " 
 He found him in a little moonlit room, 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
 " O, tcU me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterliood may sec. 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 
 
 " St. Agnes ! Ah, it is St. Agnes' Eve, — 
 Yet men will niuriler upon lioly days : 
 Thou must iiold water in a witch's sieve. 
 And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, 
 To venture so. It fills me witii amaze 
 To see thee, Porpliyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
 This very niglit ; good angels her deceive I 
 But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to 
 grieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
 While Porpliyro upon her face doth look, 
 Like puzzled urehiu on an aged crone 
 Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book. 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when siie told 
 His lady's purpose; and lie scarce coidd brook 
 Tears, at the thought of tliosc enchantments 
 cold. 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
 Made purple riot; (hen doth he pro]K)sc 
 A stratagem, tiiat makes the beldame start : 
 " A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
 Alone with Iicr good angels, far apart 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
 'I'hou canst not surely be the same that t hou didst 
 seem." 
 
 " 1 will not harm her, liy all saints I swear," 
 (Juoth Porpliyro ; " C), may I ne'er find grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
 
 prayer, 
 If (me of her soft ringlets I dis|)lace, 
 (Jr look with riilliaii passion in her face: 
 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or 1 will, even in a moment's space. 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my loemen's ears, 
 And beard them, though they be morefangcd than 
 wolves and bears." 
 
 "Ah ! why wilt tliou affrigbt a feeble soul? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-striekcii, fhurcliyard 
 
 thing. 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
 Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she 
 
 bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porpliyro ; 
 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide lier weal or woe. 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 Hiin in a closet, of such ])rivacy 
 That he might see her beauty unespied. 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
 While legioncd fairies paced the coverlet, 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met, 
 Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous 
 debt. 
 
 " It shall be as tliou wishcst," said the dame ; 
 " All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
 Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour 
 
 frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to sjiarc, 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in 
 
 juviyer 
 The while : ah, thou must needs the lady wed, 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 
 
 So saying, she liobljled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly passed ; 
 The dame returned, and whispered in his ear 
 To follow lier; with aged eyes agliast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
 Throngli many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed and 
 
 chaste ; 
 Where Porpliyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
 
 brain. 
 
 Her (altering hand upon the balustrade, 
 t)ld Angel;i was feeling for the stair, 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
 Hose, like a missioned spirit, unaware : 
 With silver taper's light, and pious eare, 
 She tunii'd, and down the aged gossip led 
 
 ^ 
 
c0- 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 845 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 To .1 sale level matting. Now pi-cpare, 
 Ycimig Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
 She coincs, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed 
 and fled. 
 
 Out went the taper as slie Imriied in ; 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
 She elosed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
 No littered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should 
 
 swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her 
 
 dell. 
 
 A casement high and trijile-arched there was. 
 
 All garlanded with earveii imageries 
 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of kiiot- 
 
 grass. 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 Ashiclded scuteheon blushed with blood of queens 
 
 and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 
 
 breast. 
 As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and 
 
 boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And oil her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for heaven ; Porphyro grew faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
 
 taint. 
 
 Anon his lieart revives : her vespers done. 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
 Half hidden, like a nicrinaid in sea-weed, 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 
 ilcd. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. 
 Until the po])])ied warmth of sleep oppressed 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; 
 Blissfully ha\'ened both from joy and pain ; 
 
 Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims 
 
 pray; 
 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
 again. 
 
 Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
 And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness: 
 Which when he heard, that minutedid he bless. 
 And breathed himfelf ; then from the closet 
 
 crept, 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
 And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, 
 And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — 
 how fast she slept. 
 
 Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet ; — 
 O for some drowsy Morphean annilet ! 
 Tlie boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
 Afl'ray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
 gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
 In Vilanehed linen, smooth, and lavendcred. 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
 From silken Samareaud to cedarcd Lebanon. 
 
 These delicates he heaped witli glowing hand 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathed silver ; sumptuous they staud 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. 
 " And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
 Open tliine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
 ache." 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains : — 't was a midnight charm 
 Impossibh\ to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
 It seemed he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed fantasies. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfl- 
 
 84G 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Awakening up, he took lier hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous, — and, in ehovdsthattcndcrest be, 
 lie played an ancient ditty, loiia; since mute, 
 In Provence called " La belle dame sans 
 
 mcici " ; 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 
 He ceased, she panted quick, and suddenly 
 Her blue aifrayed eyes wide open shone : 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculp- 
 tured stone. 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
 There was a painful change, that nigh expelled 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
 And moan forth witless words with many a 
 
 sigh; 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
 Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dream- 
 
 iiigly- 
 
 " Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
 Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
 How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, aiul 
 
 drear ! 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 Tliose looks immortal, those complain iugs dear ! 
 O, leave me not in this eternal woe. 
 For if thou diest, my love, I know not where 
 
 to go." 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
 Ethereal, flushed, and like a tlirobbiug star 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 Blcndeth its odor with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind 
 
 blows 
 Like love's alarum patteiing the sharp sleet 
 Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 
 
 hath set. 
 
 'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : 
 "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
 'T is dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
 "No dream, alas! alas ! and woe is mine I 
 Porphyro will leave me iicre to fade and pine. 
 Cruel ! wh:it traitor could thee hither bring ? 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
 Though thou fors;ikcst a deceived thing, — 
 A dove forlorn aiul lost with sick unprum'd wing." 
 
 "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy v:issal lil.-^l 'i 
 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil- 
 dyed 'I 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle, 
 Though I have found. I will not rob thy nest 
 Saying of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well. 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude inlidel. 
 
 " Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery land. 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 Arise, arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed : 
 Let us away, my love, with ha])py si)eed ; 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
 Dro\nied all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
 Awake, arise, my love, and fearless be, 
 For o'er tlie southern moors I have a home for 
 thee." 
 
 She humed at his words, beset with fears, 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears ; 
 Down the wide stairs a darkHug way they 
 
 found, 
 Li all the house was heard no hum;iu sound. 
 A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each 
 
 door ; 
 The arras, inch with horseman, hawk, and 
 
 hound. 
 Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 ^Vherc hiy the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his 
 
 hide, 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
 The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones ; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its iiinges 
 
 groans. 
 
 .\nd they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the baron dreamt of nuuiy a woe. 
 And alibis warrior-guests, with shade and form 
 Of witeh, and demon, and large eofliu-worm. 
 Were long bc-nightmared. Angela the old 
 Died palsy-twitched, witli me;igre lace deform ; 
 The beadsman, after tlunisaiul :ives told. 
 For ayeunsought-for, slept among hisashcs cold.* 
 
 * PL-rliaps some rcatlrrs of (liis exquisite poem liceil to he 
 reniiiuled tli.it, wlicn Slielley's (lend Iioily was washed ashore, 
 one liaiul was observed "within the hosoni of his dee-ss, stilt 
 lioldin-.: a loluineof Keata's poems, open at T/ir F.rt ,)/ ^l. 
 
 .1 in.-i " 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 SATURN AND THEA. — ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 847 
 
 -Q> 
 
 SATURN AND THEA. 
 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
 Far sunken from the liealthy breath of morn, 
 Far fr(nn the liery noon, and eve's one star, 
 Sat gray -haired Satnrn, quiet as a stone. 
 Still as the silence round about his lair ; 
 Forest on forest hung about his head 
 Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there. 
 Not so nnich life as on a summer's day 
 Robs not one liglit seed from the feathered grass, 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 
 A stream went voiceless by, still deadened moi'e 
 By reason of his fallen divinity 
 Spreading a shade : the Naiad mid her reeds 
 Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. 
 
 Along tlie margin-sand largo foot-marks went. 
 No further than to where his feet had strayed. 
 And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
 His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
 Unsce])tred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
 Wliile liis bowed head seemed listening to the 
 
 Earth, 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
 
 It seemed no force could wake liim from liis 
 place ; 
 But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
 Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low 
 With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
 She was a goddess of the infant world ; 
 By her in stature the tall Amazon 
 Had stood a pygmy's height : she would have ta'en 
 Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 
 Or with a finger stayed I.xion's wheel. 
 Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, 
 Pedestalled haply in a palacc-eourt. 
 When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. 
 But O, how unlike marble was that face : 
 How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 
 Sorrow more beautiful than beauty's self. 
 There was a listening fear in her regard, 
 As if calamity had but begun ; 
 As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
 Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 
 One hand she pressed upon that aching spot 
 Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 
 Thougli an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
 The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
 She laid, and to the level of his ear 
 Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
 In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : 
 Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 
 Would come in these like accents : O, liow frail 
 To that large utterance of the early gods ! 
 " Saturn, look np ! though wherefore, poor old 
 
 king? 
 I have no comfort for thee, no, not one : 
 
 ^ 
 
 I cannot say, ' O, wherefore sleepest thou?' 
 For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
 Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a god ; 
 And ocean too, with all its solenni noise, 
 Has from thy sceptre passed ; and all the air 
 Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
 Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 
 Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
 And thy sharp lightning in unpi-actiscd hands 
 Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
 O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
 All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth. 
 And press it so upon our weary griefs 
 That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
 Saturn, sleep on : O thoughtless, why did I 
 Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
 Why should I ope thy melanclioly eyes ? 
 Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep." 
 
 As when, upon a tranced summer-niglit. 
 Those green-robed senators of mighty woods. 
 Tall oaks, brancii-charmed by the earnest stars. 
 Dream, and so dream all night without a stir. 
 Save from one gradual solitary gust 
 Wliieli comes upon the silence, and dies ofT, 
 As if the ebbing air liad but one wave : 
 So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
 She touched her fair large forehead to the ground, 
 Jiist where her falling hair might be outspread 
 A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
 One mooi», witii alteration slow, had shed 
 Her silver seasons four upon the niglit. 
 And still tliese two were postured motionless. 
 Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
 The frozen god still couchant on the earth. 
 And the sad goddess weeping at his feet. 
 
 ]Ii/pi'rioii. 
 
 ODE TO A NISHTINGALE. 
 
 I. 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot. 
 But being too happy in thy happiness. 
 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 II. 
 
 for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
 
 Tasting of Flora and the country -green. 
 
 Dance, and Provenyal song, and sunburnt 
 mirth ! 
 
 O for a beaker fuU of the warm South, 
 Fidl of the true, the blusliful Hippocrene, 
 
 -P 
 
f 
 
 848 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And iiin-])le-staiiied iiioulh ; 
 Tliat I might drink, ami leave the world luiseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest ilim: 
 
 III. 
 Fiulc far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear eaeli other groan ; 
 A\'here jjalsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-tliiii, 
 and dies ; 
 Where but to tiiink is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 Wliere beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will lly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and iiis pards, 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 Already with tliee ! tender is the night. 
 
 And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, 
 • Clustered around by all her starry fays ; 
 But here there is no light, 
 Save wliat from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding 
 mossy ways. 
 
 V. 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 
 
 Nor what soft incense liangs upon the boughs. 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Whercwiyi the seasonable nu)nth endows 
 The grass, tlie thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
 Whit(^ hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast-fadiiig violets covered up in leaves; 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming luusk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 The murmurous haunt of tlies on summer 
 eves. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 
 
 1 have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Called Ilim soft names in many a mused rhyme. 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have cars in 
 vain, — 
 To tliy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 U- 
 
 Thou wast not bom for death, immortal bird 
 No hungry generation.s tread thee down ; 
 
 The voice I hear this passuig night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path 
 Through the sad heart of lluth, when, sick 
 for home, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien com ; 
 The same that ofttimes hath 
 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, iu faery lauds forlorn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from tliee to my sole self! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
 Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-gladcs : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 Fled is that music : do I wake or sleep ? 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN UEN. 
 
 1. 
 TnDU still unravished bride of quietness ! 
 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 -A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
 In Tempe or tlie dales of Arcady ? 
 What men or gods are these? wdiat maidens 
 loath ? 
 Wliat mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 What pipes and timbrels ? what wild ecstasy ? 
 
 II. 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
 Not to the sensual ear. but, more endeared, 
 
 Pipe to tlie s)iirit ditties of no tone: 
 Fair youth, bencatii the trees, thou canst not leave 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
 Bold lover, never, never, canst thou kiss. 
 Though winning near the goal, — yet, do not 
 grieve ; 
 She camiot fade, though thou hast not thy 
 bliss. 
 Forever will thou love, and she be fair ! 
 
 III. 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; 
 And, ha])py melodist, unwearied. 
 
 Forever jiipiug songs forever new; 
 More happy love ! more happy, happy love 1 
 Forever warm, and still to be enjoyed. 
 Forever panting and forever young ; 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi-^ 
 
 ON CHAPMAN'S HOMER. —SONG. 
 
 849 
 
 ■fb 
 
 fr 
 
 All breiitliiug liumau passion far above, 
 
 Tliat leaves a heart high sorrowful andcloyed, 
 A buniiug forehead, aud a parching tongue. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wlio are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
 What little town by river or sea-shore, 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
 And, little town, thy streets forevermore 
 
 Will silent be ; aud not a soul to tell 
 W'hy thou art desolate, can e'er return. 
 
 V. 
 
 O Attic shape ! fair attitude ! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
 Witli forest branches and tiie trodden weed ; 
 
 Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth eternity : cold pastoral ! 
 
 Wlion old age shall tiiis generation waste, 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe ' 
 Thau ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
 
 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO. CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 
 
 Mucn have 1 travelled in the realms of gold, 
 Aud many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
 Round many western islands'have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne ; 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 Or Uke stout Cortez* when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific, — and all his men 
 Looked at each other with a wild surmise, — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE.* 
 
 1796-1849. 
 
 SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VTEW. 
 
 Sue is not fair to outward view, 
 
 As many maidens be ; 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me : 
 0, then I saw her eye was bright, — • 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 * A son of S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 But now her looks are coy aud cold, 
 To mine they ne'er reply ; 
 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 The lovelight in her eye : 
 
 Her very frowns are better far 
 
 Than suules of other maidens are ! 
 
 THE FIRST MAN. 
 
 What was 't awakened first the untried ear 
 Of that sole man who was all humankind ? 
 Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind. 
 Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ? 
 The four mellifluous streams which flowed so 
 
 near. 
 Their lulling murmurs all in one combined ? 
 The note of bird unnamed ? The startled hind 
 Bursting the brake, in wonder, not in fear, 
 Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground 
 Send forth mysterious melody to greet 
 The gracious presence of immaculate feet ? 
 Did viewless seraphs rustle all around. 
 Making sweet uuisic out of air as sweet ? 
 Or his own voice awake him with its sound ? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 The sold of man is larger than the sky. 
 
 Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark 
 
 Of the unfathomed centre. Like that ark, 
 
 Which in its sacred hold uplifted high. 
 
 O'er tlie drowned hills, the human family, 
 
 Aud stock reserved of every living kind. 
 
 So, iu the compass of the single mind. 
 
 The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie. 
 
 That make all worlds. Great poet, 't was thy 
 
 art 
 To know thyself, aud iu thyself to be 
 Wliate'cr love, hate, ambition, destiny. 
 Or the firm fatal purpose of the heart 
 Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the 
 
 same. 
 Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 'T IS sweet to hear the merry lark, 
 
 That bids a blithe good-morrow; 
 But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark. 
 
 To the soothing song of sorrow. 
 O nightingale ! What doth she ail ? 
 
 And is she sad or jolly ? 
 For ne'er on eartli was sound of mirth 
 
 So like to melancholy. 
 
 The merry lark, he soars on liigh. 
 No worldly thought o'ertakes him ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 850 
 
 CARLYLE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 He slugs aloud to the clear blue sky, 
 And the daylight that awakes him. 
 
 As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay. 
 The nightingale is trilling ; 
 
 With feeling bliss, no less than his, 
 Her little heart is thrilling. 
 
 Yet ever and anon a sigh 
 
 Peers through her lavish mirth; 
 For the lark's bold song is of the sky, 
 
 And hers is of the earth. 
 By night and day she tunes her lay, 
 
 To drive away all sorrow; 
 For bliss, alas ! to-night nnist pass, 
 
 And woe may come to-morrow. 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 1796- 
 
 TO-DAY, 
 
 So here liath been dawning 
 
 Another blue day ; 
 Think wilt thou let it 
 
 Slip useless away. 
 
 Out of Eternity 
 
 This nSw Day is bom ; 
 Into Eternity 
 
 At night will return. 
 
 Behold it aforetime 
 
 No eye ever did ; 
 So soon it forever 
 
 From all eyes is hid. 
 
 Here hath been dawning 
 
 Another blue day : 
 Think wilt thou let it 
 
 Slip useless away. 
 
 THE SOWER'S SONQ. 
 
 Now hands to seed-sheet, boys. 
 
 We step and we east ; old Time 's on wing ; 
 And would ye partake of Harvest's joys. 
 The eoru must be sown in spring. 
 Fall gently and still, good corn. 
 Lie warm in thy earthy bed ; 
 And stand so yellow some mom. 
 For bciist and man must be fed. 
 
 Old earth is a pleasure to see 
 
 In sunshiny cloak of red and green ; 
 
 The furrow lies fresli ; tliis year will be 
 As years tliiit arc past iiave been. 
 
 Fall gently and still, good corn, 
 t Lie warm in thy earthy bed ; 
 And stand so yellow some morn, 
 For beast and man must be fed. 
 
 Old earth, receive this corn, 
 
 The son of six thousand golden sires ; 
 All these on thy kindly breast were born; 
 One more thy poor child recpiires. 
 Fall gently aud still, good corn. 
 Lie warm in thy earthy bed ; 
 And stand so yellow some morn, 
 For beast and man must be fed. 
 
 Now steady and sure again. 
 
 And measure of stroke and step we keep ; 
 Thus up and down we east our grain : 
 Sow well and you gladly reap. 
 
 Fall gently and still, good corn. 
 Lie warm in thy earthy bed ; 
 And stand so yellow some n\ora, 
 For beast and man must be fed. 
 
 ADrEU. 
 
 Let time and chance combine, combine. 
 Let time and chance combine ; 
 
 The fairest love from heaven above, 
 Tliat love of yqurs was mine. 
 
 My dear, 
 Tliat love of yours was mine. 
 
 The past is fled and gone, and gone. 
 
 The past is fled and gone ; 
 If nauglit l)ut pain to me remain, 
 
 I 'U fare in memory on. 
 My dear, 
 
 I '11 fare in memory on. 
 
 The saddest tears must fall, must fall, 
 
 The saddest tears must fall ; 
 In weal or woe, in this world below, 
 
 I love you ever and all. 
 My dear, 
 
 I love you ever and all. 
 
 A long road full of pain, of pain, 
 
 A long road full of pain'; 
 One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, — 
 
 We ne'er can meet agaiu, 
 ;My dear. 
 
 We ne'er can meet again. 
 
 Hard fate will not allow, allow, 
 
 Hard fate will not allow ; 
 We blessed were as the angels are, — 
 
 Adieu forever now. 
 My dear, 
 
 Adieu forever now. 
 
 ■^ 
 
JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 851 
 
 -Q) 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 1797-1835. 
 
 MT HEID IS LIKE TO EEND, WILLIE. 
 
 My lieid is like to rend, Willie, 
 
 My heart is like to break, — 
 I 'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, 
 
 I 'in dyin' for your sake ! 
 O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 
 
 Your hand on my bricst-bane, — 
 0, say ye 'U think on me, Willie, 
 
 When I am deid and gane ! 
 
 It 's vain to comfort me, Willie, 
 
 Sair grief maun ha'e its will, — 
 But let me rest upon your briest, 
 
 To sab and greet my fill. 
 Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 
 
 Let me shed, by your hair, 
 And look into the face, WiUie, 
 
 I never saU see mair ! 
 
 I 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 
 
 For the last time in my life, — - 
 A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 
 
 A mither, yet nae wife. 
 Ay, press your hand upon my heart. 
 
 And press it mair and mair, — 
 Or it will burst the silken twine, 
 
 Sae Strang is its despair ! 
 
 O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, 
 
 When we thegither met, — 
 0, wae 's me for the time, Willie, 
 
 That our first tryst was set ! 
 O, wae 's me for the loauin' green 
 
 Where we were wont to gae, — 
 And wae 's me for the destinie. 
 
 That gart me luve thee sae ! 
 
 0, diima mind my words, Willie, 
 
 I downa seek to blatne, — 
 But O, it 's hard to live, Willie, 
 
 And dree a warld's shame ! 
 Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, 
 
 And hailin' ower your chin ; 
 Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 
 
 For sorrow and for sin ? 
 
 I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 
 
 And sick wi' a' I see, — 
 I canna live as I ha'e lived. 
 
 Or be as I should be. 
 But faiUd unto your heart, Willie, 
 
 The heart that still is thine, — 
 And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, 
 
 Ye said was red langsyne. 
 
 A stoun' gaes through my held, Willie, 
 
 A sair stoun' through my heart, — 
 0, baud me up and let me kiss 
 
 Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
 Anithcr, and anither yet ! — 
 
 How fast my life-strings break ! — 
 Farevveel ! fareweel ! through yon kirkyard 
 
 Step lichtly for my sake ! 
 
 The laverock in the lift, Willie, 
 
 That lilts far ower our held. 
 Will sing the morn as mcrrilie 
 
 Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
 And this green turf wc 're sittin' on, 
 
 Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen. 
 Will hap the heart that luvit thee 
 
 As warld has seldom seen. 
 
 But O, remember me, Willie, 
 
 On land where'er ye be, — 
 And 0, think on the leal, leal heart. 
 
 That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
 And 0, think on the cauld, cauld mools. 
 
 That file my yellow hair, — 
 That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, 
 
 Ye never sail kiss mair ! 
 
 JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 I 'vE wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 Tliroiigh raony a weary way ; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve o' life's young day ! 
 The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en. 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 
 Still fling their shadows ower my path. 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears : 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 
 
 And sair and sick I pine. 
 As memory idly summons up 
 
 The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'T was then we twa did part ; 
 Sweet time, — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
 'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear ; 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 
 
 Remembered everraair. 
 
 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 
 When sitting on that bink. 
 
 ■4> 
 
cQ- 
 
 852 
 
 BAYLY. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loot' locked in loof. 
 What our wee heads could think. 
 
 TV'lien baith bent douu ower ae braid page, 
 Wi' ao buik on our knee. 
 
 Thy hps were on thy lesson, but 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 0, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
 Whene'er the scule-weaus laughin' said. 
 
 We cleek'd thegithcr hanie ? 
 And mind ye o' tlie Saturdays 
 
 (The seule then skaU't at noon). 
 When we ran afT to speel the braes, — 
 
 The brooniy braes o' June ? 
 
 My head rins round and round about. 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As ane by ane the tlioehts rush back 
 
 0' scule-time and o' thee. 
 
 momin' life ! moruin' luve ! 
 O lichtsome days and lang. 
 
 When hinnicd liupes around our hearts 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 
 
 0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' diusome toun. 
 To wander by the green buniside, 
 
 And hear its waters croon ? 
 The simmer leaves liivig ower our heads. 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet. 
 And in the gloaniin o' the wood 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet ; 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wood. 
 
 The burn sang to the trees, 
 And we with Nature's heart in tune 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe abune tiie burn 
 
 For hours thegitlier sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek. 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 That was a time, a blessed time, 
 
 When hearts were fresli and young, 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled, unsung ! 
 
 1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 Gin I hac been to thee 
 
 As closely twined wi' cai'liest thochts 
 
 As ye hac been to me ? 
 O, tell me gin their music fdls 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ; 
 O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 
 
 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 I 've borne a weary lot ; 
 But in my wanderings, far or near. 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart 
 
 Still travels on its way. 
 And channels deeper as it rins 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Since we were sindcred young, 
 
 1 've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness. 
 
 And happy could I dee. 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 0' bygane days and me ! 
 
 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.* 
 
 1797 - 1839. 
 SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES. 
 
 Sue wore a wreath of roses 
 
 The night that tirst we met, 
 Her lovely face was smiling 
 
 Beneath her curls of jet ; 
 Her footstep had the liglitness, 
 
 Her voice the joyous tone. 
 The tokens of a youthful heart 
 
 Where sorrow is unknown ; 
 I saw her but a moment, — - 
 
 Yet, methinks, I see her now. 
 With the wreath of summer flowers 
 
 Upon her snowy brow. 
 
 A wreath of orange blossoms, 
 
 Wlien next we met, she wore ; 
 The expression of her features 
 
 Was more thoughtful than before ; 
 And standing by her side was one 
 
 Wlio strove, and not iii vain, 
 To soothe her, leaving that dear home 
 
 She ne'er might view again. 
 I saw her l)nt a moment, — 
 
 Yet, methinks, I see her now, 
 With the wreath of orange blossoms 
 
 Upon her snowy brow. 
 
 • It is curious tliat this |ioctastcr, with his jingling rliymes, 
 fontcstfil, (ind successfully coiilcslcil, with n rcnl pod like 
 Mooro for the palm of popularity in songs intcuileil for the 
 lioucloir and the drawing-room. Wc have had couraf c enough, 
 in the face of this popularity, to reject such " lyrics" (ironically 
 so styled) as The Soltliey's Trar, J Kever }cn$ n Fumritf, I'm 
 SatUfSt whtn I Siiifl, and even the culmination of all, /'(/ lie 
 a Utiltrrfy. A hutterlly he was, and it is cruel to deprive him 
 of the distinction he courted. 
 
 -s> 
 
THE ANGELS' WHISPER. 
 
 853 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And once again I see that brow, 
 
 No bridal wreatli is there, 
 The widow's sombre cap conceals 
 
 Her once luxuriant liair; 
 She weeps iu silent solitude, 
 
 And there is no one near 
 To press her hand within liis own. 
 
 And wipe away the tear. 
 I see her broken-hearted ! 
 
 Yet, methinks, I see her now 
 In the pride of youth and beauty. 
 
 With a srarland on her brow. 
 
 THE KOSE THAT ALL ARE PEAISDfG. 
 
 The rose that all are praising 
 
 Is not the rose for mc ; 
 Too many eyes are gazing 
 Upon the costly tree ; 
 But tliere 's a rose in yonder glen 
 That shuns the gaze of other men, 
 For me its blossom raising, — 
 0, that 's the rose for me. 
 
 The gem a king miglit covet 
 
 Is not the gem for me ; 
 From darkness wiio would move it, 
 Save that the world may see ? 
 But I 've a gem that shuns display. 
 And next my heart worn every day, 
 So dearly do I love it, — 
 0, that 's the gem for me. 
 
 Gay birds iu cages pining 
 
 Are not the birds for me ; 
 Those plumes, so brightly shining. 
 Would fain fly ofl" from thee : 
 But I 've a bird tliat gayly sings ; 
 Though free to rove, she folds her wings. 
 For me her flight resigning, — 
 O, that 's the bix-d for me. 
 
 0, NO! WE NEVER MENTION HER. 
 
 O, NO ! we never mention her ; 
 
 Her name is never heard ; 
 My lips are now forbid to speak 
 
 Tliat once familiar word. 
 From sport to sport they hurry nie, 
 
 To banish my regret ; 
 And when they win a smile from me. 
 
 They think that I forget. 
 
 They bid me seek in change of scene 
 The charms that others see ; 
 
 But were I in a foreign land. 
 They 'd find no change in me. 
 
 'T is true that 1 behold no more 
 
 Tlie valley where we met ; 
 I do not see the hawthorn-tree, — • 
 
 But how can I forget ! 
 
 They tell me she is happy now, — 
 
 The gayest of the gay ; 
 They hint that she forgets me now, 
 
 But heed not what they say ; 
 Like me perhaps she struggles with 
 
 Each feehng of regret ; 
 Bnt if she loves as I have loved. 
 
 She never can forget. 
 
 ANNA JAMESON. 
 
 1797 - 1860. 
 
 TAKE ME, MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 Take me. Mother Earth, to thy cold breast. 
 And fold me there in everlasting rest ! 
 
 The long day is o'er, 
 
 1 'm weary, I would sleep ; 
 
 But deep, deep. 
 
 Never to waken more ! 
 
 I have had joy and sorrow, I Lave proved 
 What life could give, have loved, and been 
 beloved ; 
 
 I am sick, and heart-sore. 
 
 And weary ; let me sleep ; 
 
 But deep, deep. 
 
 Never to waken more ! 
 
 To thy dark chamber. Mother Earth, I come, 
 Prepare thy dreamless bed in my last home ; 
 
 Shut down the marble door. 
 
 And leave me ! Let me sleep ; 
 
 But deep, deep. 
 
 Never to waken more.! 
 
 oXKo 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 1797 - 1868. 
 
 THE ANGELS' WHISPEB, 
 
 A BABY was sleeping, 
 
 Its mother was weeping. 
 For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; 
 
 And the tempest was swelling 
 
 Round the fisherman's dwelling. 
 And she cried, " Dermot, darling ! 0, come back 
 to me ! " 
 
 Her beads while she numbered 
 Tlic baby still slumbered. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 854 
 
 KNOWLES. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 And smiled iii her face as she bended her knee. 
 
 " 0, blessed be that warning. 
 
 My ehild, thj' sleep adorning, — 
 Por I know tiiat the angels are whispering with 
 thee. 
 
 " And while thej are keeping 
 
 Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
 pray to them softly, my baby, with me, — 
 
 And say thou wouldst rather 
 
 They 'd watch o'er thy father. 
 For I know that the angels are whispering with 
 thee." 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 
 Saw Dermot returning. 
 And the wife wept with joy her babe's fatherto see ; 
 
 And closely caressing 
 
 Her child with a blessing, 
 Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering 
 with thee." 
 
 KORY O'MOEEi 
 OR, ALL FOB GOOD LUCK. 
 
 Young Rory O'More courted KatUeen bawn, — 
 He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn ; 
 He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 
 And he thought the best way to do that was to 
 
 tease. 
 " Now, Rory, be aisy ! " sweet Kathleen would 
 
 cry, 
 Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye, — 
 " With yonr tricks, I don't know, in troth, what 
 
 I 'm about ; 
 Faith ! you 'vc tazed tiU I 've put on my cloak 
 
 inside out." 
 " Och ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 
 Ye 've thrated my heart for tliis many a day ; 
 And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be 
 
 sure? 
 For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
 
 " Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of 
 
 the like. 
 For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : 
 The ground that I walk on he loves, I '11 be 
 
 bound — " 
 " Faith ! " says Rory, " I 'd rather love you than 
 
 the ground." 
 " Now, Rory, I '11 cry if you don't let me go ; 
 Sure 1 dream every niglit that I 'm liating you so ! " 
 " Och ! " says Rory, " that same I 'm delighted 
 
 to hear, 
 For dhramcs always go by conthrarics, my dear. 
 So, jewel, kapc dliraming that same till ye die, 
 And brigiit morning will give dirty night the 
 
 black lie ! 
 
 And 't is plazed that I am, ana why not, to be 
 
 sure? 
 Since 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory 
 
 O'More. 
 
 "Arrali, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me 
 
 enough ; 
 Sure I 've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes 
 
 and Jim Duff; 
 And 1 've made myself, drinking your health, 
 
 quite a baste, — 
 So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." 
 Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her 
 
 neck. 
 So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
 And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming 
 
 with light. 
 And he kissed her sweet lips, — don't you tliiuk 
 
 he was right ? 
 " Now, Rory, leave off, sir, — you '11 hug me no 
 
 more, — 
 That 's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me 
 
 before." 
 " Then here goes another," says he, " to make 
 
 sure ! 
 For there 's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 
 
 O'More. 
 
 HERBERT KNOWLES. 
 
 1798-1817. 
 
 LINES WEITTEN IN THE CHUKCHYAED OF 
 BICEMOND, 
 
 " It is good for us to be here : if lliou wilt, let us make lierc 
 three tabernacles ; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one 
 for Elias." — Matlhew xvii. 4. 
 
 Metiiinks it is good to be here, 
 If thou wilt, let us build, — but for whom ? 
 
 Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; 
 But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 
 The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 
 
 Sliall we build to Ambition ? Ah no ! 
 Affrighted, he shrinkcth away ; 
 
 For see, they would pin him below 
 In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 
 
 To Beauty P Ah no ! she forgets 
 Tlie charms which she wielded before ; 
 
 Nor knows the foul worm tliat he frets 
 The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
 For the smoothness it held or the tint which it 
 
 Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
 The trappings whicli dizen the proud ? 
 Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
 
 -^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 CASA WAPPY. 
 
 855 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 And here 's neitlier dress nor adornments allowed, 
 But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the 
 shroud. 
 
 To Riehes ? Alas ! 't is in vain ; 
 Who hid iu their turns have been hid ; • 
 
 The treasures are squandcreil again ; 
 And here in the grave are all metals forbid 
 But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. 
 
 To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
 The revel, the laugli, and the jeer ? 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
 But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
 And none but the worm is a reveller here. 
 
 Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
 All no ! they have withered and died. 
 
 Or fled with the spirit above. 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by 
 
 side, 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 
 
 Unto Sorrow ? — the dead cannot grieve ; , 
 Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 
 
 Wliich Compassion itself could relieve. 
 Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear ; 
 Peace ! peace is the watchword, the only one here. 
 
 Unto Death, to whom monarehs must bow ? 
 Ah, no ! for his empire is known, 
 
 And here there are trophies enow ! 
 Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark 
 
 stone, 
 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 
 
 The first tabernacle to Hope we will build. 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! 
 
 The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled ; 
 And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice. 
 Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to 
 the skies. 
 
 DAVID MACBETH MOIR.* 
 
 1798-1861. 
 
 CASA WAPPY.t 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly liome. 
 
 Our fond, dear boy — 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come. 
 
 Where life is joy ? 
 Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
 Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 * This writer's poems were published over the signature of 
 •Delta." 
 t The pet name of the poet's son. 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell. 
 
 As closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell 
 
 When thou didst die ; 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee, 
 Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
 Of our uufathomed agony, 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight 
 
 To bless us given ; 
 Beauty embodied to our sight, 
 
 A type of iieaven : 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self than a part 
 Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 
 
 'T was cloudless joy ; 
 Sunrise and night alone were thine. 
 
 Beloved boy ! 
 This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
 That found thee prostrate in decay. 
 And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Gem of our hearth, our household pride. 
 
 Earth's undefiled ; 
 Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. 
 
 Our dear, sweet child ! 
 Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
 Yet iiad wo hoped that Time should see 
 Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Do what I may, go where I will. 
 
 Thou meet'st my sight ; 
 There dost thou glide before me still, — • 
 
 A form of light ! 
 I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
 I see thee smile, 1 hear tliee speak — 
 TUl O, my heart is like to break, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 
 
 With glance of stealth ; 
 The hair thrown back from thy full brow 
 
 Li buoyant healtli : 
 I see thine eyes' deep violet light, 
 Tiiy dimpled cheek earuationed bright. 
 Thy clasping arms so round and white, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The nursery sliows thy pictured wall, 
 
 Thy bat, thy bow, 
 Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 
 
 But where art thou ? 
 A corner holds thine empty chair. 
 
 -95 
 
f 
 
 856 IIOOI). 
 
 -^ 
 
 t 
 
 Thy playthings idly scattered there, ' 
 But speak to us of our despair, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Eveu to the last thy every word — 
 
 To glad, to grieve — ■ 
 Was sweet as sweetest soug of bird 
 
 Oil summer's eve ; 
 In outward beauty uudecayed. 
 Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade. 
 And hke the rainbow thou didst fade, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 We mourn for tiiee when blind blank night 
 
 The chamber fills ; 
 We pine for thee when morn's first light 
 
 Reddens the hills : 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
 All, to the Wall-flower aud wild pea, 
 Are changed, — we saw the world through thee, 
 Casa ^Vappy ! 
 
 Aud though, perchance, a smile may gleam 
 
 Of casual mirth, 
 It doth not own, whate'er may seem. 
 
 An inward birth : 
 We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
 We iniss thee at thine evening prayer ! 
 All day we miss thee, everywhere, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Snows mufiled earth when thou didst go. 
 
 In hfe's spring bloom, 
 Down to the appointed house below, 
 
 The silent tomb. 
 But now the green leaves of the tree, 
 The cuckoo and " tlic busy bee," 
 Return, but with them bring not thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 'T is so ; but can it be (while flowers 
 
 Revive again) 
 Man's doom, in death that we and ours 
 
 For aye remain ? 
 O, can it be that o'er the grave 
 The grass, renewed, should yearly wave. 
 Yet God forget our child to save ? — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 It cannot be : for were it so 
 
 Thus man could die, 
 Life were a mockery, Thought were woe. 
 
 And Truth a lie; 
 Heaven were a coinage of the brain. 
 Religion frenzy, Virtue vain, 
 Aud all our hopes to meet again, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Then be to us, dear, lost child ! 
 Witli beam of love. 
 
 A star. Death's uncongenial w-ild 
 
 Smiling above ; 
 Soon, soon thy Uttle feet have trod 
 The skyward path, the semph's road, 
 That led thee back from man to God, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair. 
 
 Fond fairest boy. 
 That lieaveu is God's, and thou art there, 
 
 With him in joy : 
 There past are death and all its woes. 
 There beauty's stream forever flows, 
 Aud pleasure's day no sunset knows, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Farewell, then, — for a while, farewell, — 
 
 Pride of my heart ! 
 It cannot be that long we dwell. 
 
 Thus torn apart : 
 Time's shadows like the shuttle flee : 
 And, dark iiowe'er life's night may be, 
 Beyond the grave I '11 meet with thee, 
 Casa Wa])py ! 
 
 THOMAS HOOD.* 
 
 1798-1845. 
 
 FAITHLESS NELLY GKAT. 
 A PATHETIC BALLAD. 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold. 
 
 And used to war's alarms ; 
 But a cannon-ball took off liis legs. 
 
 So he laid down his arms ! 
 
 Now as they bore him ofl' the field, 
 
 Said he, " Let others shoot. 
 For here I leave my second leg. 
 
 And the Forty-second Foot ! " 
 
 The army-surgeons made him limbs : 
 Said he, "They 're only pegs: 
 
 But there 's as wooden members quite 
 As represent my legs ! " 
 
 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 
 
 Her name was Nelly (Jray ; 
 So he went to pay her his devours, 
 
 Wlien he devoured his pay ! 
 
 But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
 She made him quite a scoff; 
 
 * It is hopeless, 1)y such extracts as wc have spaec to print. 
 to pive more than a faint idea of the works of this poet, wit, 
 and humorist. Hood's works should he ennsidcred an indis- 
 pensal)le ptu'tion of the furniture of any fninily lunnsion. His 
 serious ]K)enis are even better than his eoniie. 
 
 -9> 
 
(&- 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. 
 
 857 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And when she saw his wooden legs, 
 Began to take them off ! 
 
 " O Nelly Gray ! O NeUy Gray ! 
 
 Is this your love so warm ? 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat 
 
 Should be more uniform ! " 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once. 
 
 For he was blithe and brave ; 
 But I will never have a man 
 
 With both legs in the grave ! 
 
 " Before you had those timber toes, 
 
 Your love I did allow, 
 But then, you know, you stand upon 
 
 Another footing now ! " 
 
 " O Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 
 
 For all your jeering speeches. 
 At duty's call I left my legs 
 
 In Badajos's breaches ! " 
 
 " Why then," said she, " you 've lost the feet 
 
 Of legs in war's alarms. 
 And now you cannot wear your shoes 
 
 Upon your feats of arms ! " 
 
 " O false and fickle Nelly Gray ! 
 
 I know why you refuse : — 
 Though I 've no feet, — some other man 
 
 Is standing in my shoes ! 
 
 " I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 
 
 But, now, a long farewell ! 
 For you will be my death ; — alas ! 
 
 You will not be my Kell ! " 
 
 Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 
 
 His heart so heavy got 
 And life was such a burden grown, 
 
 It made him take a knot ! 
 
 So round his melancholy neck 
 
 A rope he did entwine. 
 And, for his second time in life. 
 
 Enlisted in the Line ! 
 
 One end he tied around a beam. 
 
 And then removed his pegs, 
 And, as his legs were off, — of course, 
 
 He soon was off his legs ! 
 
 And there he hung, till he was dead 
 
 As any nail in town, — 
 For, though distress had cut him up. 
 
 It could not cut him down ! 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse. 
 
 To find out wliy he died, — 
 And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
 
 With a s/iike in his inside ! 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S DKEAM. 
 
 My pipe is Ut, my grog is mixed, 
 My curtains drawn and all is snug ; 
 Old Puss is in her elbow-chair. 
 And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
 Last night I had a curious dream. 
 Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat ? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog ? 
 
 She looked so fair, she sang so well, 
 I could but woo and slie was won. 
 Myself in blue, the bride in wliite. 
 The ring was placed, the deed was done ! 
 Away we went in chaise-aud-four, 
 As fast as grinning boys could flog, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat ? 
 What d' ye thiuk of that, my dog ? 
 
 What loving tete-a-tetes to come ! 
 But tete-a-tetes must still defer ! 
 When Susau came to live with me. 
 Her motlier came to live with her ! 
 With sister Belle she could n't part. 
 But all mi/ ties had leave to jog, — ■ 
 What d' ye think of tluit, my cat ? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog ? 
 
 The mother brought a pretty PoU, 
 
 A monkey too, wluit work he made ! 
 
 Tlie sister introduced a beau 
 
 My Susan brought a favorite maid. 
 
 She had a tabby of her own, — 
 
 A snappish mongrel christened Gog, — 
 
 Wiat d' ye think of that, my cat ? 
 
 Wliat d' ye thiuk of that, my dog ? 
 
 The monkey bit, the parrot screamed. 
 All day the sister strummed and sung ; 
 Tiie petted maid was such a scold ! 
 My Susan learned to use her tongue ; 
 Her mother had such wretched liealth, 
 She sate and croaked like any frog, — 
 What d' yo think of that, my cat H 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog ? 
 
 No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, 
 I soon came down to simple " !M ! " 
 The very servants crossed my wish. 
 My Susan let me down to them. 
 The poker hardly seemed my own, 
 I might as well have been a log, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat ? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog? 
 
 My clothes they were the queerest shape ! 
 Such coats and hats she never met ! 
 My ways they were the oddest ways ! 
 Mv friends were such a vulgar set ! 
 
 -^-9^ 
 
a- 
 
 858 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Poor Tomkinson was snubbed and huffed, 
 She could not bear that Mister Blogg, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat ? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog? 
 
 At times we had a spar, and then 
 Mamma must mingle in the song; 
 The sister took a sister's part ; 
 The maid declared her master wrong ; 
 The parrot learned to call me " Fool I " 
 My life was like a London fog, — • 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog ? 
 
 My Susan's taste was superfine, 
 As jiroved by bills that had no end ; 
 / never had a decent coat, 
 / never had a coin to spend 1 
 She forced me to resign my club, 
 Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog? 
 
 Each Sunday night we gave a rout 
 To fops and (lirts, a pretty list ; 
 And when I tried to steal away, 
 I found my study full of whist ! 
 Then, first to come and last to go, 
 There always was a Captain Hogg, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my eat? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog? 
 
 Now was not that an awful dream 
 Tor one who single is and snug. 
 With Pussy in the elbow-chair 
 And Tray reposing on the rug ? — 
 If [ must totter down the hill, 
 'T is safest dime without a clog, — 
 What d' ye think of that, my cat ? 
 What d' ye think of that, my dog ? 
 
 LOVE LANE. 
 
 If I sliould love a maiden more, 
 And woo her every hope to crown, 
 1 'd love her all the country o'er. 
 But not declare it out of town. 
 
 One even, by a mossy bank. 
 
 That held a hornet's nest within, 
 
 To Ellen on my knees I sank, — 
 
 How snakes will twine around the shin ! 
 
 A l)asliful fear my soul unnerved, 
 And gave my licart a backward tug; 
 Nor was I cheered when she observed, 
 Wliilsl I was silent, " What a slug ! " 
 
 At length my offer I preferred. 
 And Hope a kind reply forebode, — 
 Alas ! the only sound I heard 
 Was, " What a horrid ugly toad ! " 
 
 I vowed to give her all my heart. 
 To love her till my life took leave. 
 And painted all a lover's smart — 
 Except a wasp gone up his sleeve ! 
 
 But when I ventured to abide 
 Her father's and her mother's grants — 
 Sudden, she started up, and cried, 
 " O dear I I am all over ants ! " 
 
 Nay, when beginning to beseech 
 The cause tliat led to my rebuff, 
 The answer was as strange a speech, 
 A " Daddy-Longlegs, sure enough ! " 
 
 I spoke of fortune, house, and lands, 
 And still renewed the warm attack, — 
 'T is vain to offer ladies hands 
 That have a spider on the back ! 
 
 'T is vain to talk of hopes and fears. 
 And hope the least reply to win. 
 From any maid that stops her ears 
 In dread of earwigs creeping in ! 
 
 'T is vain to call the dearest names 
 Whilst stoats and weasels startle by, — 
 As vain to talk of mutual flames, 
 To one with glowworms in her eye ! 
 
 What cheeked mc in my fond address. 
 And knocked each pretty image down ? 
 What stopped my Ellen's faltering Yes ? 
 A caterpillar on her gown ! 
 
 To list to Philomel is sweet, — 
 To see the moon rise silver-pale, — 
 But not to kneel at lady's feet 
 And crush a rival in a snail ! 
 
 Sweet is the eventide, and kind 
 Its zephyr, balmy as the south ; 
 But sweeter still to speak your mind 
 Without a chafer iu your mouth ! 
 
 At last, emboldened by my bliss. 
 
 Still fickle Fortune played me foul, 
 
 For when I strove to snatch a kiss. 
 
 She screamed — by proxy, through an owl I 
 
 Then, lovers, doomed to life or death, 
 Shun moonlight, twilight, lanes, and bats, 
 Lest you should have in selfsame breath 
 To bless vour fate — and eurse the gnats! 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 FAIE INES. 
 
 859 
 
 -ft 
 
 fr 
 
 A PAKENTAL ODE TO MT SON, AGED TEREE 
 YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. 
 
 Tiiou happy, liappy elf! 
 (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear !) 
 
 Thou tiny image of myself ! 
 (My love, he 's poking peas into his ear ! ) 
 
 Tiiou merry, laughing sprite, 
 
 Willi spirits, featlier-light. 
 Untouched by sorrow, and unsoUed by sin, 
 (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin ! ) 
 
 Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
 Light as the singing bird tiiat wings the air, — 
 (The door ! the door ! he '11 tumble down the stair ! ) 
 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 (AVhy, Jane, he '11 set his pinafore afire ! ) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
 Thou idol of thy parents, — (Drat the boy ! 
 
 There goes my ink ! ) 
 
 Thou cherub, but of earth ; 
 Fit playfellow for fays, by moonliglit pale. 
 
 In harndess sport and mirth, 
 (That dog will bite him if lie pulls its tail ! ) 
 
 Thou luiman humming-bee, extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows. 
 
 Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
 (Another tumble ! — that 's his precious nose ! ) 
 
 Thy father's pride and hope ! 
 (He '11 break the mirror with that skipping-rope ! ) 
 With pure heart uewly stamped from Nature's 
 
 mint, — 
 (Where cHd he learn that squint ? ) 
 
 Tiiou young domestic dove ! 
 (He '11 have that jug otT, with another shove ! ) 
 
 Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
 
 (Are those torn clothes his best ? ) 
 
 Little epitome of man ! 
 (He '11 climb upon the table, that 's his plan ! ) 
 Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life — 
 
 (He 's got a knife ! ) 
 
 Thou enviable being ! 
 No storms, no clouds, in tliy blue sky foreseeing. 
 
 Play on, jilay on, 
 
 My elfin John ! 
 Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, 
 (I knew so many cakes woidd make him sick ! ) 
 With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down. 
 Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. 
 
 With many a lamb-like frisk, 
 (He 's got the scissors, snipping at your gown ! ) 
 
 Thou pretty opening rose ! 
 (Go to your mother, cliild, and wipe your nose !) 
 Balmy and breathing music like the South, 
 
 (He really brings my heart into my mouth ! ) 
 Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, — 
 (I wish that window had an iron bar ! ) 
 Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, — 
 
 (I '11 tell you what, my love, 
 I cannot write unless he 's sent above ! ) 
 
 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 We watched her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low. 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak. 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her Uving out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears. 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied, — 
 We thouglit her dying when she slept, 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the mom came dim and sad, 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 FAIB IMES. 
 
 0, SAW ye not fair Ines ? 
 
 She 's gone into the west. 
 
 To dazzle when the sun is down. 
 
 And rob the world of rest : 
 
 She took our daylight with her. 
 
 The smiles that we love best. 
 
 With morning blushes on her cheek. 
 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 0, turn again, fair Ines, 
 
 Before the fall of night. 
 
 For fear the moon sliould shine alone, 
 
 And stars unrivalled bright ; 
 
 And blessed will the lover be 
 
 That walks beneath their light. 
 
 And breathes the love against thy cheek 
 
 I dare not even write I 
 
 Would I had been, fair Ines, 
 
 That gallant cavalier. 
 
 Who rode so gayly by thy side. 
 
 And whispered thee so near ! — 
 
 Were there no bonny dames at home. 
 
 Or no true lovers here. 
 
 That he should cross the seas to win 
 
 The dearest of the dear ? 
 
 I saw thee, lovely Ines, 
 Descend along the shore. 
 
 -s> 
 
cfi- 
 
 860 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 4?- 
 
 With bands of noble gentlemen. 
 
 And banners waved before ; 
 
 And gentle youths and maidens gay, 
 
 And snowy plumes they wore ; — 
 
 It would have been a beauteous dream. 
 
 If it had been no more ! 
 
 Alas, alas, fair Ines, 
 
 She went away with song, 
 
 With music waiting on her steps, 
 
 And shoutings of the throng; 
 
 But some were sad and felt no mirth, 
 
 But only musie's wrong, 
 
 In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell. 
 
 To her you've loved so long. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, 
 
 That vessel never bore 
 
 So fair a lady on its dcek. 
 
 Nor danced so light before, — - 
 
 Alas for pleasure on the sea. 
 
 And sorrow on the shore ! 
 
 The smile- that blest one fover's heart 
 
 Has broken many more ! 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 She stood breast-high amid the corn. 
 Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn iliish, 
 Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was bom, 
 Like red poppies grown with com. 
 
 Round her eyes her tresses fell. 
 Which were blackest nemo could tell. 
 But long lashes veiled a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat, with shady brim. 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; 
 Thus she stood amid the stooks. 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 " Sure," I said, " Heaven did not mean 
 Where I reaj) thou shouldst but glean ; 
 Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
 Share my harvest and my home." 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I REMEMHER, I rcmcmber 
 The house wlicre I was born. 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day, 
 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The roses, red and white. 
 The violets, and the lily-cups, 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 The lilacs where the robin built. 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birthday, — 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now. 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 ^Vere close against the sky : 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 't is little joy 
 
 To know I 'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Thau when I was a boy. 
 
 THE BRIDQE OF SIGHS. 
 ' Drowned ! drowned ! '' — Hami.et. 
 
 One more unfortunate. 
 Weary of breath, 
 Kashly importunate. 
 Gone to her death ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift lier with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly. 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements; 
 'Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 Take her up instantly. 
 Loving, not loathing. 
 
 Touch her not scornfully ; 
 Think of her mournfidly. 
 Gently and humanly ; 
 Not of the stains of her. 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ-^ 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 861 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Hash and undutiful: 
 Past all dis honor, 
 Death has left mi her 
 Oidy the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, 
 One of Eve's family — ' 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb. 
 Her fair auburn tresses ; 
 Whdst wonderment guesses 
 Wliere was her home ? 
 
 Who was her father ? 
 Who was her mother ? 
 Had she a sister ? 
 Had she a brother ? • 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, than all other ? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 O, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full. 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feelings had changed : 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 Thrown from its eminence ; 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 So far in the river, 
 With many a light 
 From window and casement. 
 From garret to basement. 
 She stood, with amazement. 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver ; 
 But not the dark arch. 
 Or the black flowing river: 
 Mad from Ufe's history. 
 Glad to death's mystery. 
 Swift to be hurled, — 
 Anywhere, anywliere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly, 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran, — 
 
 Over the brnik of it, 
 Pictui-e it, — think of it, 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it. 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly. 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 Decently, — kiudly, — 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Through nuiddy impurity. 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily. 
 Spurred by contumely. 
 Cold inhunianity. 
 Burning insanity, 
 Lito her rest. 
 Cross her hands humbly 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 Her evil behavior. 
 And leaving, with meekness. 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 THE SONfl OF THE SHIKT. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt I " 
 
 " Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof ! 
 
 And work — work — work 
 Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
 It 's, 0, to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 K this is Christian work ! 
 
 " Work — work — work 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 -^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 ^ 
 
 862 HOOD. 
 
 Till the eyes are licavy and dim ! 
 Seam and gusset and band, 
 
 Band and gusset and seam, — 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
 " men with sisters dear ! 
 
 O men with mothers and wives ! 
 It is not linen you 're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' lives I 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch, 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, — ■ 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a sliirt I 
 
 " But why do I talk of death, — 
 
 That phantom of grisly bone? 
 I hardly fear his tcrrilile shape, 
 
 It seems so like my own. 
 
 It seems so like my own. 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep ; 
 O God ! that bread should be so dear, 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap I 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread — and rags. 
 That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 From weary chime to chime. 
 
 Work — work — work — ■ 
 As prisoners work for crime I 
 
 Band and gusset and seam. 
 
 Seam and gusset and band. 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. 
 
 As well as the weary baud. 
 
 " Work — work — work. 
 In the dull December liglit. 
 
 And work — work — work, 
 When the weather is warm and bright ! 
 While underneath the eaves 
 The brooding swallows cling 
 As if to show me their sunny backs 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 " but to breathe the breath 
 Of the cowsUp and priuu'ose sweet — 
 With the sky above my head. 
 And the grass beneath my feet I 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 Before I knew the woes of want 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 ■^ 
 
 " but for one short hour, — 
 
 A respite however brief ! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope. 
 
 But oidy time for grief ! 
 A little weeping would ease my lieart ; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread ! " 
 
 With fingers weary and worn. 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich ! - 
 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 EEMOKSE FOE THOUGHTLESSNESS, 
 
 Alas ! I have walked through life 
 
 Too heedless where I trod ; 
 Nay, helping to trample my feUow-worm, 
 
 And fill the burial sod, — 
 Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
 
 Not unmarked of God I 
 
 I drank the richest draughts ; 
 
 And ate whatever is good, — 
 Fish and flesh, and fowl and fruit, 
 
 Supplied my hungry mood; 
 But 1 never remembered the wretched ones 
 
 That starve for want of food ! 
 
 I dressed as the noble dress. 
 
 In cloth of silver and gold. 
 With silk, and satin, and costly furs, 
 
 In many an ample fold ; 
 But I never remembered the naked limbs 
 
 That froze with winter's cold. 
 
 The wounds I might have healed ! 
 
 The human sorrow and smart I 
 And yet it never was in my soid 
 
 To play so ill a part : 
 But evil is wrought by want of thought. 
 
 As well as want of heart ! 
 
 T/ie Lady's Dream. 
 
 THE LOST HEIE, 
 
 " where, nnil wlicrc, 
 Is my tionny Indilie gone? " — Old Sonff. 
 
 One day, as I was going by 
 
 That ])art of Ilolborn christened High, 
 
 I lieard a loud and sudden cry 
 
 That chilled my very blood ; 
 
 And lo ! from out a dirlv allev, 
 
 -G> 
 
a- 
 
 THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 863 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Where pigs and Irisli woiit to rally, 
 
 I saw a crazy woman sally, 
 
 Bedaubed with grease and mud. 
 
 She turned her east, she turned her west, 
 
 Staring like Pythoness possest, 
 
 With streaming hair and heaving breast, 
 
 As one stark mad with grief. 
 
 This way and tlnit she wildly ran. 
 
 Jostling witli woman and with man, — 
 
 Her right hand held a frying-pau, 
 
 The left a lump of beef. 
 
 At last her frenzy seemed to reach 
 
 A point just capable of speech. 
 
 And with a tone almost a screech, 
 
 As wild as ocean birds, 
 
 Or female ranter moved to preach. 
 
 She gave her " sorrow words." 
 
 '' O Lord ! dear, my heart will break, I shall 
 
 go stick stark staring wild ! 
 Has ever a one .seen anything about the streets 
 
 like a crying lost-looking child ? 
 Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or 
 
 to run, if I only knew which way — 
 A child as is lost about London streets, and 
 
 especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a 
 
 bottle of hay. 
 I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, 
 
 you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab ! 
 You promised to have half an eye to him, yon 
 
 know you did, you dirty deceitful young 
 
 drab. 
 The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was 
 
 with my own blessed motherly eyes. 
 Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing 
 
 at making little dirt pies. 
 I wonder he left the court where he was better 
 
 off than all the other young boys. 
 With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, 
 
 and a dead kitten by way of toys. 
 When his father comes homo, and lie always 
 
 comes home as sure as ever the clock 
 
 strikes one, 
 lie '11 be rampant, he wiU, at his child being lost ; 
 
 and the beef and the inguns not done ! 
 La bless you, good folks, mind your own con- 
 
 sarns, and don't be making a mob in the 
 
 street ; 
 O Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have notcome iWross 
 
 my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? 
 Do, good people, move on I don't stand staring 
 
 at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; 
 Saints forbid ! but he 's p'r'aps been inviggled 
 
 away up a court for Uie sake of his clothes 
 
 by the prigs ; 
 He 'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought 
 
 it myself for a shilling one day in Ilag 
 
 Tail-': 
 
 And his trousers cousidering not very much 
 
 patched, and red plush, they was once 
 
 his father's best pair. 
 His shirt, it 's very lucky I 'd got washing in the 
 
 tub, or that might have gone with the rest; 
 But he 'd got on a very good pinafore with only 
 
 two slits and a burn on the breast. 
 He 'd a goodish sort of hat, if the croxni was 
 
 sewed in, and not quite so much jagged 
 
 at the brim. 
 With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, 
 
 and not a fit, and you '11 know by that if 
 
 it 's him. 
 Except bemg so well dressed, my mind would 
 
 misgive, some old beggar woman in want 
 
 of an orphan. 
 Had borrowed the child to go a begging with, Init 
 
 I 'd rather see him laid out in his coflin ! 
 Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of l)oys ! 
 
 I '11 break every bone of 'em I come near. 
 Go home — you 're spilling the porter — go home 
 
 — Tommy Jones, go along home witli 
 
 your beer. 
 This day is the sorrowfullest day of my Ufe, ever 
 
 since my name was Betty Morgan, 
 Them vile Savoyards ! they lost him once before all 
 
 along of following a monkey and an organ : 
 my Billy — my head will turn right round — 
 
 if he's got kiddynapped with them Italians, 
 
 They '11 make him a plaster parish image boy, 
 
 *thcy will, the outlandish tatterdemalions. 
 
 Billy — where are you, Billy ? — I 'm as hoarse 
 
 as a crow, with screaming for ye, you 
 
 young sorrow ! 
 And sha' n't have half a voice, no more I slia' n't, 
 
 for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. 
 
 Billy, you 're bursting my heart in two, and 
 
 my life won't be of no more vally, 
 If I 'm to see other folks' darlins, and none of 
 
 mine, playing like angels in our alley. 
 Arid what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when 
 
 I looks at the old three-legged chair 
 As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and 
 
 there a'n't no BiUy there ! 
 
 1 would run all the wide world over to find him, 
 
 if I only knowed where to run. 
 Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost 
 
 for a month through stealing a penny 
 
 bun, — • 
 Tlie Loi-d forbid of any child of mine ! I think 
 
 it would kill me rally. 
 To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent 
 
 hand at the Old Bailey. 
 Eor though I say it as ought n't, yet I will say, 
 
 you may search for miles and mileses 
 And not find one better brought up, and more 
 
 pretty behaved, from one end to t' other 
 
 of St. Giles's. 
 
 -S^ 
 
a- 
 
 8G4 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but 
 
 only as a mother ought to speak ; 
 You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, 
 
 only it has n't been washed for a week ; 
 As for hair, though it 's red, it 's the most nicest 
 
 hair when I 've time to just show it tlie 
 
 coml) ; 
 I '11 owe 'em five pounds, and a -blessing besides, 
 
 as will only bring him safe and sound home. 
 He 's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, 
 
 though a little cast he 's certainly got ; 
 And his nose is stdl a good un, though the bridge 
 
 is broke, by his faUiug on a pewter pint 
 
 pot; 
 He 's got the most elegant wide mouth in the 
 
 world, and very large teeth for his age ; 
 And quite as fit as Mrs. ^lurdockson's child to 
 
 play Cupid on the Drury Lane stage. 
 And then he has got such dear winning ways — 
 
 but 1 never, never shall sec him no more ! 
 
 dear ! to think of losing him just after nussing 
 
 him back from death's door ! 
 Only the very last month when the windfalls, 
 
 hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ! 
 And the threepence he 'd got by grottoing was 
 
 spent in plums, and sixty for a child is 
 
 too many. 
 And the cholera man came and whitewashed us 
 
 all, and, drat him, made a seize of our hog. 
 It 's no use to send the crier to cry him about, 
 
 he 's such a blundcrin' drunken old dog; 
 The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, 
 
 he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, 
 And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a 
 
 distracted mother and father about town. 
 Billy — where are you, Billy, I say ? come, Billy, 
 
 come home, to your best of mothers ! 
 
 1 'm scared when I think of them cabroleys, they 
 
 drive so, they 'd I'un over theirown sisters 
 
 and brothers. 
 Or may be he 's stole by some chimbly sweeping 
 
 wretch, to stick fast in nai-row Hues and 
 
 what not. 
 And he poked up behind with a picked pointed 
 
 pole, when the soot has ketched, and the 
 
 ehinibly 's red hot. 
 O, I 'd give the whole wide world, if the world 
 
 was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on 
 
 his face. 
 For he 's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't 
 
 soon come back, you '11 see me drop stone 
 
 dead on the place. 
 I only wish I 'd got him safe in these two motherly 
 
 arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss 
 
 iiim! 
 Lauk ! I never knew what a precious he was — 
 
 but a eliild don't not feel like a child till 
 
 you miss him. 
 
 Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy liuuting, the 
 
 young wretch, it 's that Billy as sartin as 
 
 sin ! 
 But let me get him home, with a good grip of 
 
 his hair, and I 'm blest if he shall have a 
 
 whole bone in his skin ! 
 
 HOOD'S LAST VERSES. 
 
 Farewell life ! my senses swim, 
 And the world is growing dim ; 
 Thronging shadows cloud the light. 
 Like the advent of the night, — 
 Colder, colder, colder still, — 
 Upward steals a vapor chill — 
 Strong the eai-tliy odor grows — 
 I smell the mould above the rose ! 
 
 Welcome life ! the Spirit strives ! 
 Strength returns, and hope revives ; 
 Cloudy fears and sha])es forlorn 
 Ply like shadows at the morn, — 
 O'er the earth there comes a bloom - 
 Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
 Warm perfume for vapors cold — 
 I smell the rose above the mould ! 
 
 ROBERT rOLLOK.* 
 
 1799-1827. 
 
 BYRON, 
 
 He touched his harp, and nations heard, en- 
 tranced, 
 As some vast river of unfailing source. 
 Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 
 And oped new fountains in the human heart. 
 Where Paney halted, weary in her flight. 
 In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose. 
 And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at 
 
 home 
 Where angels bashful looked. Others, though 
 
 great. 
 Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles ; 
 lie from above descending stooped to touch 
 The loftiest thought ; and proudly stooped, as 
 
 though 
 It scdftje deserved his verse. With Nature's self 
 lie seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 
 
 * The extraordinary popularity of The Course o/Ttmc sur- 
 prises renders of tlie present generation, ns veiy few of tlicni 
 liavc eondcscended to Inol; at it Still, durin;: ninny years 
 after its first publieation, in 1827. it enjoyed n vnst repntution 
 nrnont; the elnsses of readers wlio sympntliized witli its tlie- 
 oIo;.;y. At lenst fovtv editions were eireulnled in the I'niled 
 States. Now undeserved negleet is the cruel punishment fol- 
 lowing undeserved notoriety. Poeticnlly sjieakinp, the work 
 neither deserved the adnnrntion with whieh it was first n-- 
 erived. nor the oblivion to whieh it lias since lieen consigned 
 
 — s> 
 
a- 
 
 THE DEVIL AT HOME. 
 
 865 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 At will with all her glorious majesty. 
 He laid his hand upon " the ocean's maiie," 
 And played familiar with his hoary locks ; 
 Stood oil the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 
 And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend ; 
 And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, 
 In sportive twist, the lightning's liery wing, 
 Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
 Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed ; 
 Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
 His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 
 Suns, moons, and stars aud clouds, his sisters 
 
 were ; 
 Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas and winds and 
 
 stornis 
 His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 
 As equals deemed. All passions of all men, ■ 
 The wild and tame, the gentle and severe ; 
 All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; 
 All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity ; 
 All that was hated, and all that was dear; 
 All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man; 
 He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves. 
 Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 
 Willi terror now he froze the cowering blood. 
 And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; 
 Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; 
 But back into his soul retired, alone. 
 Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 
 On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 
 So ocean from the plains his waves had late 
 To desolation swept, retired in pride. 
 Exulting in the glory of his might, 
 .\nd seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. 
 * » * 
 
 Great man ! the nations gazed, and wondered 
 much. 
 And praised ; and many called his evil good. 
 Wits wrote .in favor of his wickedness. 
 And kings to do him honor took delight. 
 Thus, full of titles, flattery, honor, fame, 
 Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full. 
 He died. He died of what ? Of wretchedness ; 
 Drank every cup of joy, heard every trum]) 
 Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts 
 That common millions might have quenched ; 
 
 (hen died 
 Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. 
 His goddess. Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, 
 Tell from his arms, abhorred ; his passions died. 
 Died all but dreary, solitary pride ; 
 And all his sympathies in being died. 
 As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall. 
 Which angry tides cast out on desert shore. 
 And then, retiring, left it there to rot 
 And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven ; 
 So he, cut from the sympathies of life. 
 And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge. 
 
 A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing, 
 A scorched, and desolate, and blasted soul, 
 A gloomy wilderness of dying thought, — 
 Repined, and groaned, and withered from the 
 
 earth. 
 His groanings filled the land his numbers filled ; 
 And yet he seemed ashamed to groan : poor 
 
 man ! — 
 Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. 
 
 Conrsi' of Thiw. 
 
 THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY. 
 
 1799-1859. 
 
 THE DEVIL AT HOME.* 
 
 The Devil sits in his easy-chair, 
 
 Si]i|iing his sulphur tea. 
 
 And gazing out, with a pensive air, 
 
 O'er the broad bitumen sea; 
 
 Lulled into sentimental mood 
 
 By the spirits' far-off wail. 
 
 That sweetly, o'er the burning flood, 
 
 rioats on the brimstone gale ! — 
 
 Tiie Devil, who can be sad at times, 
 
 In spite of all his mummery. 
 
 And grave, — though not so prosy quite 
 
 As drawn by liis friend IMontgomery, — 
 
 The Devil to-day has a dreaming air. 
 
 And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare. 
 
 His musings are of many things, 
 
 That — good or ill — befell, 
 
 Since Adam's sons macadamized 
 
 The highways into hell : — 
 
 And the Devil — whose mirth is iterer loud — 
 
 Laughs with a quiet mirth, 
 
 As he thinks how well his serpent-tricks 
 
 Have been miniicked upon earth ; 
 
 Of Eden and of England, soiled 
 
 And darkened by the foot 
 
 Of those who preach with adder-tongues, 
 
 And those wlio eat the fruit ; 
 
 Of creeping things, that drag their slime 
 
 Into God's chosen places. 
 
 And knowledge leading into crime. 
 
 Before the angels' faces ; 
 
 Of lands — from Nineveh to Spain — 
 
 That have bowed beneath his sway. 
 
 And men who did his work, — from Cain, 
 
 To Viscount Castlereagh ! 
 
 T/ii' Devil's Progress. 
 * This quaint production, founded on The DeviVs IFalh, by 
 Soutlicy, Puison, and Coleridge, is probably the best of Hcr- 
 vey's poems. It was written nearly fifty years ajro, before tlie 
 passaf^e of tlie Reform Bill; and i'.s satire on English law is 
 apprt)priatfly enforced by its dedicalionr "To His Majesty's 
 Atforncy-Geueral this Poem is inscribed, to testify the Author's 
 approbation of bis judicious and persevering efforts in tlie 
 cause of its liero." 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 866 
 
 MOULTRIE. 
 
 BARRETT. — MAC.\ULAY. 
 
 -0) 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE DEVIL IN CHANCERY,' 
 
 The Devil walked up Cliaiicery Lane, 
 
 And into the Cliancery Court, 
 
 Intending, like matiy who enter there. 
 
 To make his visit short ! — 
 
 But the Pfin/er's devil — a little black imp ! — 
 
 Is waiting for his tail, 
 
 And swears — like a ehip of tlie parent block — 
 
 That his time and patience fail ; 
 
 So, all we can add to the present strain 
 
 Is, THE DkVIL has NOT YET GOT OUT AGAIN ! 
 T/ie Devil's Progress. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Farewell ! since nevermore for tliee 
 Tlie suu comes up our eartiily skies, 
 
 Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be 
 To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 
 
 There are who, for tliy last long sleep, 
 Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, 
 
 Must weep because thou canst not weep, 
 And grieve that all thy griefs arc o'er. 
 
 Sad thi-ift of love ! — the loving breast, 
 Whereon thine aching liead was thrown, 
 
 Gave up the weary head, to rest. 
 But kept the aching for its own. 
 
 Till pain shall find the same low bed 
 Tluit pillows now thy painless head. 
 And following darkly through the niglit, 
 Love reach thee by the founts of light. 
 
 JOHN MOULTRIE. 
 
 1799 -1874. 
 
 FORGET THEE 7 
 
 " Forget tlice ? " — If to dream by night, and 
 muse ou thcc by day, 
 
 If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart 
 can ])ay. 
 
 If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heav- 
 en's protecting power. 
 
 If winged thouglits that (lit to thee — a thousand 
 ill an iiour. 
 
 If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future 
 lot, — 
 
 If this thou call'st "forgetting," tlioii indeed 
 slialt be forgot ! 
 
 " Forget thee ? "^ Bid the forest-birds forget 
 tlioir sweetest tune ; 
 
 • Is not tills compact sntirc nn the Clinnrcry Court as 
 ludicronslv siuilinj; aa arijtliilig in Dicki-ns's Bleak House .* 
 
 "Forget thee?" — Bid the sea forget to swell 
 
 beneath the moon ; 
 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's 
 
 refreshing dew ; 
 Thyself forget thme " own dear land," and its 
 
 " mountains wild and blue " ; 
 Forget each old familiar face, each loug-rcmem- 
 
 bcred spot ; — 
 When these things are forgot by thee, then thou 
 
 shalt be forgot ! 
 
 Keep, if tliou wilt, tiiy maideu peace, still calm 
 and fancy -free. 
 
 For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow 
 less glad for me ; 
 
 Yet, wiiile that heart is still mrnon, 0, bid not 
 mine to rove. 
 
 But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplain- 
 ing love ; 
 
 If these, preserved for patient vfars, at last avail 
 me not. 
 
 Forget me then; — but ne'er believe that tiiou 
 canst be forgot ! 
 
 EATON STANNARD BARRETT. 
 
 1785-1874. 
 
 WOMAN, 
 
 Not she witii traitorous kiss her Saviour stung. 
 Not she denied him with unholy tongue ; 
 The while apostles shrank, could danger brave. 
 Last at his cross and earliest at his grave.* 
 
 LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 1800-1859. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. 
 
 O, WEEP for Moiicoiitour ! O, weep for tlic hour 
 When thccliildrenof darkiiossand evil had jiowcr, 
 ^Vhcn the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod 
 On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their 
 God. 
 
 O, weep for Jloneontour ! O, weep for tlie slain. 
 Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered 
 
 in vain ; 
 O, weep for the living, who linger to bear 
 Tlic renegade's sliamc, or the exile's despair. 
 
 * This line may be said to he known by everylmily, yet the 
 poem from which it is taken, IFomfiii, her Chartietef anil Iiijlu- 
 eiire, is known to ^'ery few. The edition from whieli we quote 
 was )MitiIisheil in London in IHll, and on the title-pa};e it is 
 called "a new edition." The jtoeiii itself Imiilly rises a!io\e 
 mcdiorrit\ 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 VOLTAIRE. — THE BATTLE OP IVRY. 
 
 8G7 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Oue look, one last look, to our cots and our towers, 
 To tlie rows of our vines, and the beds of our 
 
 flowers. 
 To the cliurch where the bones of our fathers 
 
 decayed, 
 ^Hiere we I'oudly had deemed that our own would 
 
 be laid. 
 
 Alas ! we must leave thee, dear desolate home. 
 To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of 
 
 Rome, 
 To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of 
 
 Spain, 
 To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine. 
 
 Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades. 
 To the song of thy youths, aud the dance of thy 
 
 maids, 
 To the breath of thy gardens, tlie liuin of thy bees, 
 And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees. 
 
 Farewell, and forever. The priest aud tlic slave 
 May rule in the halls of the free and the brave. 
 Our hearths we abandon ; o>ir lands we resign ; 
 But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thiue. 
 
 VOLTAIEE, 
 If thou wouldst view oue more than man and less, 
 
 Made up of mean and great, of foul and fair. 
 Stop here ; and weep and laugh, and curse and 
 bless, 
 And spurn and worship; for thou seest Voltaire. 
 
 That flashing eye blasted the conqueror's spear, 
 The monarch's sceptre, aud the Jesuit's beads ; 
 
 And every wrinkle in that haggard sneer 
 Hath been the grave of dynasties and creeds. 
 
 Li very wantonness of childish mirth 
 
 He jjulfed bastiles, and thrones, and shrines 
 
 away. 
 
 Insulted Heaven, and liberated earth; 
 
 Was it for good or evil ? who shall say ? 
 
 182G. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVET/ 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 
 
 glories are ! 
 Aud glory to our sovereign liege. King Henry 
 
 of Navarre ! 
 
 * " Ilcnry the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, 
 was opposed by a large part of his subjects under the Duke 
 of Maycune, with the assistance of Spaiu and Savoy. In March, 
 l.')90, he gained a decisive \ ictory o\ er that party at I\ ry. Be- 
 fcue tlie battle he addressed his troops, ' My children, if yon 
 Ittsft sight of your coloi's, rally to my white plume. — you will 
 always find it in the path to honor and glory.' His conduct 
 was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his im- 
 petuous valor, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody 
 defeat. In the midst of the rout Henry followed, crying, 
 ' Save the French 1 * aiul his clemency added a number of the 
 enemies Ui bis own .Trriiy " — .Viktn's Bingraphicat Dirtiounrij. 
 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and 
 
 the dance. 
 Through tliy cornfields green aud sunny vines, 
 
 pleasant laud of France. 
 Aud thou, Iloclielle, our own Rochelle, proud 
 
 city of tlie waters. 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 
 ing daughters. 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous iu 
 
 our joy, 
 For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought 
 
 thy walls annoy. 
 Hurrah ! liurrah ! a single field hath turned the 
 
 chance of war; 
 Hurrah ! hurrali ! for Ivry and King Henry of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 0, how our hearts were beating, when, at the 
 
 dawn of day. 
 We saw the army of the League drawn out in 
 
 long array ; 
 With all its priest-led citizeus, aud all its rebel 
 
 peers, 
 And Ajipeuzel's stout infantry, and Egmout's 
 
 Flemish spears. 
 There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 
 
 of our laud. 
 And dark Mayenne was in tiic midst, a truncheon 
 
 iu his hand ; 
 And as wc looked on them, we thought of Seine's 
 
 empurpled flood. 
 And good Coligni's hoary liair all dabbled with 
 
 his blood ; 
 And we cried unto the living God, who rules the 
 
 fate of war, 
 To fight for his own holy name and Henry of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 The King is come to ni.arshal us, iu aU his armor 
 
 drest, 
 Aud he lias bound a snow-white plume upon his 
 
 gallant crest ; 
 He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his 
 
 eye ; 
 He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was 
 
 stern and high. 
 Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from 
 
 wing to wing, 
 Dowu all our line, in deafening shout, " God 
 
 save our Lord, t!ie King ! " 
 " And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well 
 
 he may, — 
 For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 
 
 fray, — 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst 
 
 the ranks of war, 
 And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of 
 
 Navarre." 
 
 ^-g> 
 
(&■ 
 
 868 
 
 MAC AULA Y. 
 
 -n> 
 
 Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to tlie 
 
 mingled din 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and 
 
 roaring culverin ! 
 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's 
 
 plain. 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldcrs and 
 
 Alniayiie. 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen 
 
 of France, 
 Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with 
 
 the lance ! 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 
 
 spears in rest, 
 A thousand knights arc pressijig close behind 
 
 the snow-white crest ; 
 And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, 
 
 like a guiding star, 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet 
 
 of Navarre. 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! May- 
 
 enne hath turned his rein, 
 D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish 
 
 Count is slain, 
 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before 
 
 a Biscay gale ; 
 The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and 
 
 flags and cloven mail ; 
 And then we thought on vengeance, and all along 
 
 our van, 
 " Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from 
 
 man to man ; 
 But o>it spake gentle Henry then, " No French- 
 man is my foe ; 
 Down, down with every foreigner, but let your 
 
 brethren go." 
 O, was there ever such a knight in friendship or 
 
 in war. 
 As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier 
 
 of Navarre. 
 
 Ho ! maidens of Vienna, — ho ! matrons of Lu- 
 zerne, 
 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 
 never sliall return. 
 
 Ho! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pis- 
 toles. 
 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy 
 I)Oor spearmen's souls. 
 
 Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look t hat your 
 arms be bright ; 
 
 Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and 
 ward to-night; 
 
 For our God liath crushed the tyrant, our God 
 hath raised the slave, 
 
 And mocked the coun.sel of the wise and the 
 valor of the l)r:[vc. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Then glory to his holy name from whom all 
 
 glories are ; 
 And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry 
 of Navarre. 
 
 THE AEMADA. 
 
 Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng- 
 land's praise ; 
 
 I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in 
 ancient days. 
 
 When that great tleet invincible against her bore 
 in vain 
 
 The richest s])oils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts 
 of Spain. 
 
 It was about the lovely close of a warm summer 
 
 day. 
 There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to 
 
 I'ly mouth Bay ; 
 Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond 
 
 Aurigny's isle, 
 At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving 
 
 many a mile. 
 At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's es- 
 pecial grace ; 
 And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her 
 
 close in chase. 
 Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along 
 
 the wall; 
 The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's 
 
 lofty hall ; 
 Many a liglit fishing bark put out to pry along 
 
 tlic coast. 
 And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland 
 
 many a post. 
 With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old 
 
 sheriff comes ; 
 Before him march the halberdiers; before him 
 
 sound the drums ; 
 His yeomen round the market cross make clear 
 
 an ample space ; 
 For there behooves him to set up the standard 
 
 of ]ler (iraee. 
 And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gayly 
 
 dance flic bells. 
 And slow upon the laboring wind the royal 
 
 blazon swells. 
 Look how the liou of the sea hfts up his ancient 
 
 crown, 
 And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay 
 
 lilies down. 
 So stalked he when he tunied to flight, on that 
 
 fanu'd Pieard field, 
 Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Ciesar's 
 
 eagle shield. 
 So glared he wiicn at Agincourt in wrath he 
 
 turned to bay. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 8C9 
 
 And crushed and torn beueatli his claws the 
 
 princely hunters lay. 
 Ho ! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight ; ho ! 
 
 scatter flowers, i'air maids : 
 Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, 
 
 draw your blades : 
 Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, 
 
 waft her wide ; 
 Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our 
 
 pride. 
 
 The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that ban- 
 ner's massy fold ; 
 The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 
 
 scroll of gold ; 
 Night sank upon the dusky beaeh, and on the 
 
 purple sea. 
 Such niglit in England ne'er hath been nor e'er 
 
 again shall be. 
 From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn 
 
 to Mili'ord Bay, 
 That time of slumber was as bright and busy as 
 
 the day ; 
 For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly 
 
 war-ilame spread. 
 High on St. Michael's Mount it shone, it shone 
 
 on Beachy Head. 
 Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each 
 
 southern shire. 
 Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those Iwiu- 
 
 khng points of fire. 
 The fisher left his skitf to rock on Tamar's ght- 
 
 tering waves ; 
 The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's 
 
 suidess caves : 
 O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Craubourne's oaks, 
 
 the fiery herald flew : 
 He roused tlie shepherds of Stonehenge, the 
 
 rangers of Beaulieu. 
 
 Bight sharp and quick the bells all night rang 
 out from Bristol town. 
 
 And ere tlie day three hundred horse had met 
 on Clifton down ; 
 
 Tlie sentinel oil Whitehall gate looked fortli into 
 the night, 
 
 And saw o'erliaiiging Richmond Hill the streak 
 of blood-red light. 
 
 Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death- 
 like silence broke, 
 
 And with one jtart, and with one cry, the royal 
 city woke. 
 
 At once on all her stately gates arose the answer- 
 ing fires ; 
 
 At once the wild alarum clashed from all her 
 reeling spires ; 
 
 From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud 
 the voice of fear; 
 
 And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back 
 
 a louder cheer ; 
 And from tlie furthest wards was heard the rush 
 
 of iiurryiiig feet, 
 And tlic broad streams of pikes and flags rushed 
 
 down each roaring street ; 
 And broader still became the blaze, and louder 
 
 still the din, 
 As fast from every village round the horse came 
 
 spurring in : 
 And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the 
 
 warlike errand went, 
 And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant 
 
 squires of Kent. 
 Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those 
 
 bright couriers forth ; 
 High on bleak Hainpstead's swarthy moor (hey 
 
 started for the north ; 
 And on, and on, without a pause nutircd they 
 
 bounded still; 
 All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they 
 
 sprang from hill to hill : 
 Till the proud beak unfurled the flag o'er Dar- 
 win's rocky dales, 
 Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy 
 
 hills of Wales, 
 Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Mal- 
 vern's lonely height. 
 Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 
 
 crest of light. 
 Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's 
 
 stately fane. 
 And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the 
 
 boundless plain ; 
 Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln 
 
 sent. 
 And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide 
 
 vale of Trent ; 
 Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gauut's 
 
 embattled pile, 
 And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers 
 
 of Carlisle. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, 
 
 BY OliADUn BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND- 
 TnEIlt-XOHLES-WlTH-LINKS-OF-lRON, SERGEANT 
 
 IN ireton's regiment. 
 
 0, wiiEREFORfi come ye forth, in trininpli from 
 the North, 
 With your hands and your feet and your 
 raiment all red ? 
 And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joy- 
 ous shout ? 
 And whence be the grapes of the wine-press 
 which ye tread ? 
 
 cg-^ 
 
 -p 
 
cfr 
 
 870 
 
 MACAU LAY. 
 
 -^-Q) 
 
 0, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
 Aiid crimson was the juice of the viutage tliat 
 we trod; 
 For we trampled ou the throug of the haughty 
 and the strong, 
 Who sate in the high places, and slew the 
 saints of God. 
 
 It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 
 That we saw their banners dance, and their 
 cuirasses shiu^. 
 And the Man of Blood was thsre, with his long 
 essenced hair, 
 And Astley, and Sir Mannaduke, and Rui)crt 
 of the llhine. 
 
 Like a servant of the Lord, with liis Bible and 
 his sword, 
 The General rode along us to form us to the 
 fight, 
 Wien a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled 
 into a siiout. 
 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
 right. 
 
 Andliark ! like the roar of the billows on tlie shore, 
 
 The cry of battle rises along their charging line 1 
 
 For God ! for the Cause ! for the Cliurch ! for 
 
 the Laws ! 
 
 For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of 
 
 the Rhine ! 
 
 The furious German comes, with his clarions and 
 
 his drums. 
 
 His bravocs of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; 
 
 They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your 
 
 pikes, close your ranks ; 
 
 For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 
 
 Tiiey ai-e here ! They rush on ! We are broken ! 
 We are gone ! 
 Our left is borne befoi"e them Uke stubble on 
 the blast. 
 O Lord, put forth thy miglit ! Lord, defend 
 the right ! 
 Stand back to back, in God's name, and figlit 
 it to tiie last. 
 
 Stout Skippon iiath a wound ; the centre hatli 
 given ground : 
 Hark ! hark ! What means the trampling of 
 horsemen on our rear? 
 Whose banner do I see, boys? 'T is In;, thank 
 God, 't is lie, boys. 
 Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here. 
 
 Their heads all stooping low, their points all in 
 a row, 
 Like a whirlwind on tlie trees, like a deluge 
 on the dikes, 
 
 (^ 
 
 Our cuirassiers have burst ou the ranks of the 
 Accurst, 
 And at a shock have scattered the forest of 
 his pikes. 
 
 Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook 
 to hide 
 Their coward heads, predestined to rot ou 
 Temple Bar; 
 And he, — he turns, he flies : — shame on those 
 cruel eyes 
 That bore to look ou torture, and dare not 
 look ou war. 
 
 IIo ! comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye strip 
 the slain. 
 First give another stab to make your search 
 secure, 
 Then shake from sleeves and pookets their broad- 
 pieces and lockets, 
 The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 
 poor. 
 
 Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your 
 hearts were gay and bold. 
 When you kissed your lily hands to your lemaus 
 to-day ; 
 And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers 
 in the rocks. 
 Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
 prey. 
 
 Where be your tongues that late mocked at 
 heaven and hell and fate, 
 And tlie fingers that once were so busy with 
 your blades, 
 Your perl'unicd satin clothes, your catches and 
 your oaths. 
 Your stage-|)lays and your sonnets, your dia- 
 monds and your spades ? 
 
 Down, down, forever down with the mitre and 
 the crown. 
 With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon 
 of the Pope : 
 There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in 
 Durham's stalls: 
 The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the bishop rends 
 his cope. 
 
 And slie of the seven hills shall mourn her ehil- 
 diTu's ills. 
 And tremble when .she thinks on the edge ol 
 England's sword ; 
 And the kings of earth iu fear shall shudder when 
 they hear 
 WTiat the hand of God hath wrought for the 
 Houses and the Word. 
 ^^ 
 
ctr^ 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF JULY 30, 1847. 
 
 871 
 
 -Q) 
 
 LIKES WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE 30TH 
 OF JULY, 1847.* 
 
 The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er; 
 
 Worn out with toil and noise and scorn and 
 spleen, 
 I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more 
 
 A room in an old mansion, long unseen. 
 
 That room, mcthouglit, was curtained from the 
 light; 
 Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold 
 ray 
 Full on a cradle, wliere, in linen white. 
 
 Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay. 
 
 Pale dickered on the hearth the dying flame. 
 And all was silent in that ancient hall, 
 
 Save when by fits on the low niglit-wiud came 
 The murmur of the distant wateri'all. 
 
 And lo ! the fairy queens who rule our birth 
 Drew nigh to speak the new-born baby's doom : 
 
 With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth, 
 From gloom they came, and vanished into 
 gloom. 
 
 Not deigning on the boy a glance to cast. 
 
 Swept careless by the gorgeous Queen of Gain ; 
 
 More scornful still, the Queen of Fashion passed. 
 With mincing gait and sneer of cold disdain. 
 
 The Queen of Power tossed high her j e welled head. 
 And o'er her shoulder threw a wrathful frown ; 
 
 The Queen of Pleasui-e on the pillow shed 
 Scarce one stray rose-leaf from her Iragraut 
 crown. 
 
 Still fay in long procession followed fay ; 
 
 And still the little couch remained unblest : 
 But when those wayward sprites had passed away. 
 
 Came one, the last, tlie mightiest, aud the best. 
 
 glorious lady, with the eyes of light 
 
 And laurels clustering round thy lofty brow, 
 
 Who by the cradle's side didst watch that night. 
 Warbling a sweet strange music, who wast 
 thou ? 
 
 "Yes, darling, let them go," so ran the strain; 
 
 "Yes, let tliem go, — gain, fashion, pleasure, 
 power. 
 And iiU the busy elves to whose domain 
 
 Belongs the nether sphere, the fleeting hour. 
 
 * Tliis ^vas written after Maeaulay had not only been de- 
 feated for re-eleetion as nienilier of Pailiament from Kdiii- 
 burjih. but liad been hissed, liooted, and pelted at the polls. 
 His deleat, ennsideriiij; tbeeleriirnts of opposition cnneentiated 
 ai^ninst him, was deemed by his friends an honor. Edinbnrsb, 
 as is well known, repented of its injustice, and in 185:3 prac- 
 tically iui-eed hull to be its representative. 
 
 ^ 
 
 " AV'ithout one envious sigh, one anxious scheme, 
 The nether sphere, the fleeting hour resign. 
 
 Mine is the world of thought, the world of dream. 
 Mine all the past, and all the future mine. 
 
 "Fortune, that lays in sport the mighty low. 
 Age, tliat to penance turns the joys of youth. 
 
 Shall leave untouched the gifts which 1 bestow. 
 The sense of beauty and the thirst of truth. 
 
 " Of the fair brotherhood who share my grace, 
 I, from thy lUital day, pronounce thee free; 
 
 And if for some I keep a nobler place, 
 1 keep for none a happier than for thee. 
 
 " There are who, while to vulgar eyes they seem 
 Of all my bounties largely to partake, 
 
 Of me as of some rival's handmaid deem. 
 
 And court me but for gain's, power's, fashion's 
 sake. 
 
 " To such, though deep their lore, tliougli wide 
 their fame, 
 
 Shall my great mysteries be all unknown : 
 But thou, through good and evil, praise and blame. 
 
 Wilt not tliou love mc for myself alone '■! 
 
 " Y'cs ; thou wilt love me with exceeding love ; 
 
 And I will tenfold all that love repay, 
 Slill smiling, though the tender may reprove. 
 
 Still faitliful, though the trusted may betray. 
 
 " For aye mine emblem was, and aye shall be. 
 The ever-during plant whose bough I wear. 
 
 Brightest and greenest then, when every tree 
 That blossoms in the light of Time is bare. 
 
 " In the ditrk hour of shame I deigned to stand 
 Before the frowning peers at Bacon's side : 
 
 On a far shore I smoothed with tender hand. 
 Through months of pain, the sleepless bed of 
 Hyde : 
 
 " I brought the wise and brave of ancient days 
 To cheer the cell where Kaleigh pined alone : 
 
 I lighted Milton's darkness with tlic blaze 
 Of the bright ranks that guard the eternal throue. 
 
 " And even so, my child, it is my pleasure 
 That thou not then alone shouldst feel me nigh. 
 
 When, in domestic bliss and studious leisure, 
 Thy weeks uncounted come, uncounted fly ; 
 
 " Not then alone, when myriads, closely pressed 
 Around thy car, the shout of triumph raise; 
 
 Nor when, in gilded drawing-rooms, thy breast 
 Swells at the sweeter sound of woman's praise. 
 
 " No : when on restless night dawns cheerless 
 morrow. 
 When weary soul and wasting body pine, 
 
 ■^ 
 
c0- 
 
 ^7-2 
 
 BANIM. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I 
 
 Tliiue am 1 still, in danger, sickness, sorrow, 
 In conflict, oblo(|iiy, want, exile, tliiuc ; 
 
 " Thine, wlicrc ou mountain waves the snowbirds 
 scream, 
 Wliere more than Tliule's winter barbs the 
 breeze. 
 Where scarce, through lowering clouds, one sickly 
 gleam 
 Lights the drear May-day of Antarctic seas ; 
 
 " Thine, when around thy litter's track all day 
 White sandhills shall reflect the blinding 
 glare ; 
 Thine, when, through forests breathing death, thy 
 way 
 All night shall wind by many a tiger's 
 lair; 
 
 '■ Thine most, when friends turn pale, when trai- 
 tors Hy, 
 
 Wlieji, hard beset, thy spirit, justly proud, 
 For truth, peace, freedom, mercy, dares defy 
 
 A sullen priesthood and a raving crowd. 
 
 " Amidst the din of all things fell and vile. 
 Hate's yell, and envy's hiss, and folly's 
 bray, 
 
 llemember me ; and with an unforced smile 
 See riches, bawbles, flatterers, pass away. 
 
 " Yes, they will pass away ; nor deem it strange : 
 They come and go, as comes and goes the 
 sea; 
 And let them come and go : thou, tlirongli all 
 change. 
 Fix thy firm gaze on virtue and on me." 
 
 JOHN BANIM. 
 
 1800-1848. 
 
 SOGGARTH AROON.* 
 
 A5I I the slave they say, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ? 
 Since you did show the way, 
 
 Soggarlh .-iroon, 
 T/ifir slave no more to be, 
 While they would work with me 
 Ould Ireland's slavery. 
 
 Wliy not her poorest man, 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 
 Try and do all lie can, 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 
 ' Prif9t dear. 
 
 Her commands to fulfd 
 Of his own heart and will. 
 Side by side with you still. 
 
 Loyal and brave to you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon. 
 Yet be no slave to you, 
 
 Soggartli aroon, — 
 Nor, out of fear to you, 
 Stand up so near to you, — 
 Och ! out of fear to yoa .' 
 
 Soggarth aroon ! 
 
 Who, in the winter's night, 
 
 Soggarth aroou, 
 When the could blast did bite, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Came to my cabin-door. 
 And, on my earthen flure. 
 Knelt by me, sick and poor, 
 
 Soggarth aroou ? 
 
 Who, on the marriage-day, 
 
 Soggartli aroon. 
 Made the poor cabin gay, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, — 
 And did both laugh and sing, 
 Makilig our hearts to ring, 
 At the poor christening, 
 
 Soggarth aroou ? 
 
 Who, as friend only met, 
 
 Soggarth aroon, 
 Never did flout me yet, 
 
 Soggarth aroon? 
 And when my hearth was dim, 
 Gave, while his eye did brim, 
 What I should give to him, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ? 
 
 Och ! you, and only you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ; 
 And for this I was true to you, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ! 
 Tn love they '11 never shake. 
 When for ould Ireland's sake. 
 We a true part did take, 
 
 Soggarth aroon ! * 
 
 • In a speech delivered in the House of Commons in April, 
 1815, Maeanlay touches on the sentiment emhoilied in this 
 poem. After referring to some seandahnis almses in the ap- 
 pointments to lienelices in the Protestant Irish Church duruig 
 the last century, he added : " And nil this time the true pas- 
 tors of the people, meanly fed and nicnnly clothed, frowned 
 upon by the law, exposed to the insults of e\ery petty squire 
 who ploried in tlie name of Protestant, were to he found in 
 miserable cahins. amidst lillh and fnmine and eontngiou, in- 
 Btrueting the youus:. consoling the misenihle, holding up the 
 crucifix before the eyes of the dying." 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE TRAGIC LAY OF THE ONE-HOESE CHAY. 
 
 873 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 JOHN HUGHES.' 
 
 GILES SCROGGDTS AND MOLLY BROWN.t 
 
 piLKS ScRoCiGiNS coui'led MuUy Brown, 
 
 Ri fol de riddle lol de ree, 
 The fairest wench in all our tomi, 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle lul de rido. 
 lie bonj^lit a ring with posy true, 
 " If you loves I, as I loves you, 
 No knife can cut our love in two, 
 
 Fol de rol dc riddle lol de rido." 
 
 But scissors cuts as well as knives, 
 
 Ri fol de riddle lol de ree. 
 And quite unsartain 's all our lives, 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle loi de rido. 
 The day before tliey was to wed. 
 Fate's scissors cut poor Giles's thread. 
 So they could not be niar-ri-ed, 
 
 Fol dc rol de riddle lol de rido. 
 
 Poor Molly laid her down to weep, 
 
 Ri fol de riddle lol de ree. 
 And cried herself soon fast to sleep, 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
 When standing close by the bedpost, 
 A figure fall her sight engrossed, 
 Says he, " I he 's Giles Scroggius' ghost," 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
 
 The ghost then said all solemnly, 
 
 Ri fol dc riddle lol de ree, 
 " O, Molly, you must go with I, 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
 All in the grave your love to cool," 
 Says she, "Why, I'm not dead yet, you fool," 
 Says the ghost, says he, " Vy that 's no rule, 
 
 Fol de rol de i-iddle lol de rido." 
 
 The ghost then seized her all so grim, 
 
 Ri Ibl de riddle lol de ree. 
 All for to go along with him, 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
 " Come along," said he, " ere morning beam." 
 "I vont!" said slie, and she screamed a 
 
 scream. 
 Then woke, and found it all a dream, 
 
 Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido I 
 
 " TIic fnthcr of Thomas Hughes, the " Torn Bi-nM'n " whom 
 all rcidei's know. Tlic liutimrous pieces selected arc frotii Lftiin 
 of Past Days, published ni 1850. 
 
 t The fun of this dof:;;eieI depends, in a great degree, on its 
 lieing put forward as an accurate translation of Th/^ Eletpj of 
 the Poet Catimchus on .^t/itlUis, the Greek text heing given, — 
 a pnre invention, of course. 
 
 THE TRAGIC LAY OF THE ONE-HORSE OHAY. 
 
 Mr. Bull was a Whig orator, also a soap-lab- 
 orator. 
 For everything 's new christened in the present 
 day : 
 He was followed and adored by the Common- 
 Council board. 
 And he lived quite genteel with a one-horse 
 chay. 
 
 Mrs, Bull was gay and free, fair, fat, and forty- 
 three, 
 
 And blooming as a peony in buxom May, 
 ThetoastshelonghadbeenofFarringdon-Witliiu, 
 
 And Idled the better half of the one-horse chay. 
 
 'T was the memorable year, when that venerable 
 peer. 
 Lord Waithman, held in London the civie sway. 
 Whose shop she 'd oft be at, to cheapen and to 
 chat. 
 And Bull would pick her up in his one-horse 
 chay. 
 
 Mrs. Bull said to her lord, " You can w-ell, Bull, 
 afford 
 Whate'er a common-councilman in prudence 
 may ; 
 We 've no brats to plague our lives, and the soap 
 concern it thrives. 
 So let 's have a trip to Brighton in the one- 
 horse chay. 
 
 " We '11 view the pier and shipping, and enjoy 
 many a dipping. 
 And walk for a stomach in our best array, 
 I longs more nor words can utter for shrimps and 
 bread-and-butter. 
 And an airing on the Steyne in my one-horse 
 chay. 
 
 " We 've a right to spare for naught that for money 
 can be bought. 
 So to get matters ready. Bull, do you trudge 
 away : 
 To my dear Lord Mayor's I '11 walk, just to get 
 a dish of talk. 
 And an imitation shawl for the one-horse chay." 
 
 Mr. Bull said to his wife, " Now I think upon 't, 
 my life, 
 'T is a fortnight at least to next boiling day : 
 The dog-days are set in, and London 's growing 
 thin. 
 So I '11 order out old Nobbs and the one-horse 
 chay." 
 
 Now Nobbs, it must be told, was rather fat and 
 old. 
 His color it was white, and it had been gray. 
 
 -P 
 
CO- 
 
 ST 1 
 
 HUGHES. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 h 
 
 He was roiiud as a pot, and wlion well whipped 
 would trot 
 Full five miles au hour iu the oue-horse chay. 
 
 Whcu at Bi'ightou tliey were housed, and had 
 stuflVd and caroused, 
 O'er a bowl of rack-punch Mr. Bull did say, 
 " I 've ascertained, my dear, the terms of bathiiig 
 here, 
 From the hostler who is cleamug my one-horse 
 chay. 
 
 " You arc shut up in a box, ill-convenieut as the 
 stocks, 
 And eighteen pence a dip are obliged to pay ; 
 Court-cori-uptiou here, say I, makes everything 
 so liigh. 
 And I wish I had come without my one-horse 
 chay." 
 
 "As I hope," said she, "to thrive, 'tis flaying 
 folks alive ; 
 The king and them extortioners is leagued, I 
 say, 
 'T is encouraging of such for to go to give so much, 
 So we '11 set them at defiance in our one-horse 
 chay. 
 
 " Our Nobbs, I am sartain, may be trusted gig or 
 cart in, 
 lie takes every matter iu au easy way : 
 He '11 stand like a post, while we dabbles on the 
 coast. 
 And returns for to dress in our one-horse chay." 
 
 So out they drove all drest so gayly in their best.. 
 And finding in their rambles a snug little bay. 
 They uncased at their leisure, paddled out to take 
 their pleasure, 
 And left everything behind them in the one- 
 horse ehay. 
 
 But while so snugly sure that all things were 
 secure. 
 They flounced about like porpoises or whales 
 at play, 
 Some young uidueky imps, who were on the 
 prowl for shrimps, 
 Stole up to reconnoitre the oue-horse chay. 
 
 Old Nobbs, in sober mood, was .sleeping as lu^ 
 
 stood, 
 lie might possibly he dreaming of his corn or 
 
 hay : 
 Not a stej) did he wag ; so they whipt out every 
 
 And gutted the contents of the one-liorse eh;iy. 
 
 When our ]iair had soused enough, and ri'tiirned 
 in thrir Imll', 
 O, there was the vengeance and Old Nick to pay; 
 
 Madam shrieked in consternation, Mr. Bull he 
 swore " d — nation," 
 To see the empty state of his oue-horse chay. 
 
 " If I live," said she, " I swear I '11 consult my 
 dear Lord Mayor, 
 And a fine on this here vagabond town he shall 
 lay ; 
 But the gallows thieves, so tricky, have n't left 
 me even a dicky, 
 And I shall catch my death iu my one-horse 
 chay." 
 
 " Come, bundle in with me ; we must squeeze for 
 once," said he, 
 " And manage this business the best we may ; 
 We 've no other step to choose, nor a moment 
 more to lose, 
 'Or the tide may float us off in our one-horse 
 chay." 
 
 So noses, sides, and knees altogether did they 
 squeeze. 
 And packed in narrow compass they jogged it 
 away. 
 As dismal as two dummies, head and hands stuck 
 out like mummies 
 From beneath the Uttle apron of the oue-horse 
 chay. 
 
 The Steyne was in a throng as they bumped it 
 along, 
 Madam had n't been so put to it for many a day ; 
 Her- pleasure it was damped, and her person 
 rather cramped, 
 Doubled up beneath the apron of her one-horse 
 chay% 
 
 " O, would that I were laid,'' Mr. Bull in sorrow 
 said, 
 " In a broad-wheeled wagon, wrapt in decent 
 hay! 
 I 'm sick of sporting smart, and would take a 
 tilted cart 
 In exchange fortius bawble of a one-horse chay. 
 
 " I 'd give half my riches for my worst pair of 
 breeches, 
 Or tiie apron which I wore last boiling day ; 
 They 'd wrap my arms and shoulders from these 
 impudent beholders. 
 And allow me to whip on in my one-horse chay." 
 
 Mr. Bull gee-hupped in vain, and strove to jerk 
 the rein ; 
 Nobbs found he had his option to work or to 
 jilay ; 
 So he would not mend his pace, though they 'd 
 fain have run a race 
 To escape the merry gazers at the one-lmrse 
 cliay. 
 
 -9> 
 
cfi- 
 
 FROM "THE DEVIL'S DEEAM. 
 
 875 
 
 ■to 
 
 Now, good people, laugli your fill, and fancy, if 
 you will 
 (For I 'm fairly out of breath, and have said 
 my say), 
 The troulile and the rout to wrap and get them 
 out, 
 When they reached their own lodgings in the 
 one-horse ehay. 
 
 Tlie day was sweltering warm, so they took no 
 sort of harm. 
 And o'er a smoking lunch soon forgot their 
 dismay ; 
 But fearing Brighton mobs, stai'tcd off at night 
 with Nobbs 
 Fur a snugger watering-place in the one-horse 
 chay. 
 
 1821. 
 
 THOMAS AIRD. 
 
 1803 - 1876. 
 
 FROM "THE DEVIL'S DREAM,"* 
 
 Beyosd the north where Ural hills from polar 
 tempests run, 
 
 A glow went forth at midnight hour as of un- 
 wonted suu ; 
 
 Upon tlie north at midnight hour a mighty noise 
 was heard. 
 
 As if with ;ill his trampling waves the Ocean were 
 unbarred ; 
 
 Aiul high a grizzly Terror hung, upstarting from 
 below, 
 
 Like fiery arrow shot aloft from some unmeas- 
 ured bow. 
 
 'T was not tlie obedient Serapli's form that burns 
 before tlie throne. 
 
 Whose feathers are the pointed flames that trem- 
 ble to be gone : 
 
 AVith twists of faded glory mixed, grim shadows 
 wove his wing ; 
 
 An aspect like the hurrying storm proclaimed the 
 Infernal King. 
 
 And up lie went, from native might, or holy 
 sulferauce given, 
 
 As if to strike the starry boss of tlie high and 
 vaulted heaven. 
 
 * This poem, in tlie opinion of George Giifillan, is "one of 
 tlie moat original in this or any languajje"; and a eooler critic, 
 11 M. Moir, declares that, "for grandeur of conception, and 
 Ilie niagnilicent imagery of particular passages, it is scarcely 
 surpassed liy anytliing in modern poeti-y." We quote some of 
 llie lines on which these eulogiunis are based- Aii-d's complete 
 poetical Morks, published in Edinhurgh in lH.i(5, are worthy 
 of more attention than they have received, at least on this side 
 of the Atlantic. 
 
 Q-^ 
 
 He saw a form of Africa low sitting in the dust ; 
 
 The feet were chained, and sorrow thrilled through- 
 out tlie sable bust. 
 
 The idol and the idol's priest he hailed upon the 
 earth. 
 
 And every slavery that brings wild passions to 
 the birth. 
 
 All forms of human wickedness were pillars of 
 his fame, 
 
 AU sounds of human misery his kingdom's loud 
 acclaim. 
 
 * * « 
 
 111 vision lie was borne away, where Lethe's 
 
 slippery wave 
 Creeps like a black and shining snake into a silent 
 
 cave, — 
 A place of still and pictured hfe : its roof was 
 
 ebon air, 
 And blasted as with dim eclipse the sun and 
 
 moon were there : 
 It seemed the grave of man's lost world, — of 
 
 beauty caught by blight. 
 The Dreamer knew the work he marred, and felt 
 
 a Fiend's delight. 
 
 * * * 
 
 So knew the Fiend, and fain would lie down to 
 oblivion go ; 
 
 But back from fear his spirit proud, recodiug like 
 a bow. 
 
 Sprung. O'er his bead he saw the heavens up- 
 stayed bright and iiigh ; 
 
 The planets, undisturbed by him, were shining 
 in the sky ; 
 
 The silent magnanimity of Nature and her God 
 
 With anguish smote his haughty soul, and sent 
 his bell abroad. 
 
 His pride would have the works of God to show 
 
 the signs of fear. 
 And flying angels to and fro to watch his dread 
 
 career ; 
 But all was calm : he felt night's dews upon his 
 
 sultry wing, 
 And gnashed at the impartial laws of Nature's 
 
 mighty King ; 
 Above control, or show of hate, they no exception 
 
 made. 
 But gave him dews, like aged thorn, or little 
 
 grassy blade. 
 
 Terrible, like the mustering manes of the cold 
 
 and curly sea, 
 So grew his eye's enridged gleams ; and doubt 
 
 and danger flee : 
 Like veteran band's grim valor slow, that moves 
 
 to avenge its chief. 
 Up slowly drew the Fiend his form, that shook 
 
 with proud relief : 
 
 — e^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 876 
 
 PRAED. 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 And he will upwai-d go, and pluck the windows 
 of iiigli heaven, 
 
 And stir their calm insulting peace, though ten- 
 fold hell be given. 
 
 WINTHROP MACRWORTH PRAED. 
 
 1803 - 1839. 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL, 
 
 Years, years, ago-, ere yet mj' dreams 
 
 Had been of being wise and witty ; 
 Ere I had done with writing themes, 
 
 Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ; 
 Years, years ago, while all my joys 
 
 Were in my fowling-piece and filly ; 
 In shoi-t, while I was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 
 
 I saw her at a country ball : 
 
 There when the sound of flute and fiddle 
 Gave signal sweet in that old hall. 
 
 Of hands across and down the middle. 
 Hers was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that sets young hearts romancing : 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 
 And when she danced, — O Heaven, her 
 dancing ! 
 
 Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender, 
 Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender ; 
 Her every look, her every smile. 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
 I thought 't was Venus from her isle, 
 
 I wondered where she 'd left her sparrows. 
 
 She talked of politics or prayers ; 
 
 Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets ; 
 Of daggers or of dancing bears. 
 
 Of battles, or the last new bonnets ; 
 By candlelight, at twelve o'clock. 
 
 To me it mattered not a tittle, 
 K those bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 
 I might have thought they murmured Little. 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry June, 
 
 1 loved her witli a love eternal ; 
 I spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 I wrote them for the " Sunday Journal." 
 My mother laughed ; I soon found out 
 
 Tiiat ancient ladies have no feeling; 
 My father frowned ; but how should gout 
 
 Find any happiness in kneeling? 
 
 She was the daughter of a dean. 
 Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
 
 She had one brother just thirteen. 
 Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
 
 Her grandmother, for many a year. 
 Had fed the jiarish with her bounty ; 
 
 Her second cousin was a peer. 
 And lord-lieutenant of the county. 
 
 But titles and the three per cents. 
 
 And mortgages, and great relations. 
 And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 
 
 O, what are they to love's sensations ? 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, 
 
 Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses ; 
 He cares as Uttle for the stocks 
 
 As Baron Rothschild for the Muses 
 
 She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach. 
 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading ; 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading ; 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 
 
 She made the Catalani jealous ; 
 She touched the organ ; I could stand 
 
 For hours and hours aud blow the bellows. 
 
 She kept an album, too, at home, 
 
 Well filled with all an album's glories ; 
 Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 
 
 Patterns for trimming, Persian stories ; 
 Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, 
 
 Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter ; 
 And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
 
 And recipes of elder- water. 
 
 And she was flattered, worshipped, bored. 
 
 Her steps were watched, her dress was noted, 
 Her poodle-dog was quite adored. 
 
 Her sayings were cxtcemely quoted. 
 She laughed, and every heart was glad, 
 
 As if the taxes were abolished ; 
 She frowned, and evei7 look was sad, 
 
 As if the opera were demolished. 
 
 She smiled on many just for fun, — 
 
 I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
 I was the first, the only one 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute ; 
 I knew it, for she told me so. 
 
 In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
 She wrote a charming hand, and 0, 
 
 How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 
 
 Our love was like most other loves, — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver ; 
 A rosebud and a pair of gloves, 
 
 And " Fly Not Yet," upon the river ; 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
 A miniature, a lock of hair, 
 
 The usual vows, — and then we parted. 
 
 -^ 
 
cfr 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 CAN YOU FORGET ME? 
 
 877 
 
 -Q5 
 
 We parted, — months and years rolled by ; 
 
 Wo met again I'ouv summers aftor ; 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh, — 
 
 Our meeting was all mirth and biuglitcr ; 
 For in my iieart's most secret cell 
 
 There had been many other lodgers ; 
 And she was not the ball-room belle, 
 
 But only Mrs. — Something — Rogers. 
 
 CHAKADE. 
 
 CoMK from my First, ay, eome ! 
 
 The battle dawn is nigh ; 
 And the screaming trump and the thundering 
 drum 
 
 Are calling thee to die ! 
 Fight as thy I'atlier fought, 
 
 F'all as thy father fell. 
 Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; 
 
 So — forward ! and farewell ! 
 
 Toll ye my Second ! toll ! 
 
 Fling high the flambeau's lis^t ;- 
 And sing tlie liymn for a parted soul 
 
 Beneath the silent night ! 
 The wreath upon his head, 
 
 The cross upon Ids breast, 
 Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed : 
 
 So — take him to his rest ! 
 
 Call ye my Whole, ay, call ! 
 
 The lord of lute and lay ; 
 And let him greet the sable pall 
 
 With a noble song to-day ; 
 Go, call him by his name ; 
 
 No fitter hand may crave 
 To light the flame of a soldier's fame 
 
 Oil tlie turf of a soldier's grave.* 
 
 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON 
 (MRS. MACLEAN).t 
 
 1803-1838. 
 
 CAN YOU FORGET ME? 
 
 Can you forget nic ? I who have so cherished 
 The veriest trifle that was memory's link ; 
 
 The roses that you gave me, altliougk pcrislicd, 
 Were precious iu my sight; they made ine think 
 
 * The answer to tins is, of course, Camptiell. 
 + There is hardly auy other way than tins of connecting 
 the early name of " L. Iv L." with its fatal addition of " Mac- 
 lean." The stovy of the later years of her life is involved in 
 obscurity; indeed her marriage, in 1838, witli Captain George 
 Maclean, tlie Governor of Cape Coast Castle, and licr death 
 soon affcf, Itelonj; to the unsolved mysteries of literary hiogra- 
 phy. Her popularity as a poet lius entirely t^une. In literary 
 circles uf the present day it M-ould lie difficult to name any one 
 
 *- 
 
 You took them iu their scentless beauty stooping 
 From the warm slielter of the garden wall ; 
 
 Autumn, while into languid winter drooping, 
 Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fall. 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? I am not relying 
 
 Oil |)liglitcd vows, — alas ! I know their worth ; 
 Man's faitii to woman is a trifle, dying 
 
 Upon the very breath that gave it birth ; 
 But I remember hours of quiet gladness, 
 
 When, if the heart had truth, it s|)oke it then. 
 When thought would sometimes take a tone of 
 sadness, 
 
 And then unconsciously grow glad again. 
 Can you forget tlieni ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? My whole soul was blended : 
 
 At least it sought to blend itself with thine; 
 My life's whole purpose, wiiuiiug thee, seemed 
 ended ; 
 Tliou wcrt my heart's sweet home,— my spir- 
 it's shrine. 
 Can you forget me ? when the firelight burning. 
 Flung s\idden gleams around the quiet room, 
 How would thy words, to long past monieuts 
 turning. 
 Trust me with thoughts soft as the shadowy 
 gloom ! 
 Can you forget them? 
 
 There is no truth in love, whate'er its seeming. 
 And heaven itself could scarcely seem more 
 true. 
 Sadly have I awakened from the dreaming, 
 AVliose charmed slumber, false one ! was of 
 you. 
 I gave mine inmost being to thy keeping, — 
 I had no thought I did not seek to share ; 
 Feelings that hushed within my soul were sleeping 
 Waked into voice to trust them to thy care. 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? This is vainly tasking 
 
 The faithless heart where I, alas ! am not. 
 Too well I know the idleness of asldug, — 
 
 The misery — of why am I forgot ? 
 The liappy hours that I have passed while kneeling 
 
 Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face. 
 — But what to thee tlus passionate a])pealiiig — 
 
 Let my heart break, — it is a common ease. 
 You have forgotten me. 
 
 of lier numerous poems or novels wliicli is tlioutjlit to ilcscrve 
 a passing remark. This fact is almost as tragic as nn.v afilic- 
 tiou wliicli ilistnriicd her life. The fatal ilefect of her volumes 
 of l)assioiiate and laneiful verse is the laek of substance. She 
 ])ourcd forth thousands on thousands of lines, hut the nialtcr 
 was jjenerally thiu ; and iu jioetr.v that survives, it will lie 
 found that the matter is as good as the fancy or imagination 
 which fashions it into shape. 
 
 -€t> 
 
cfi- 
 
 -^ 
 
 878 
 
 LYTTON. — SWAIN. 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTOX, 
 LORD LYTTON.* 
 
 1805- 1873. 
 
 STANLEY AND LORD JOHN EU3SELL. 
 One after one the lords of time advance, — 
 Here Stanley meets, — how Stanley scorns, the 
 
 glance ! 
 The brilliant chief, irregnlarly great, 
 Fraiiic, hanglity, rash, — the Kujiert of Debate ! 
 Nor gout, nor toil, his freshness can destroy, 
 And time still leaves all Eton in tlie boy ; 
 First in the class, and keenest in the ring. 
 He saps like Gladstone, and he figlits like 
 
 Spring ! 
 Even at the feast his plnok pervades the board, 
 And dauntless game-cocks symbolize their lord. t 
 Lo, where atilt at friend, — if barred from foe, — 
 He scovirs the ground, and volunteers the l)low, 
 And, tired with conquest over Dan and Snob, 
 Plants a sly bruiser on the nose of Bob ; 
 Decorous Bob, too friendly to reprove. 
 Suggests fresii fighting in tlie next remove. 
 And prompts his chum, in hopes the vein to cool, 
 To the prim benches of the upper school : 
 Yet who not listens, with delighted smile. 
 To the pure Saxon of that silver style ; 
 In the clear style a heart as clear is seen, 
 Prompt to the rash, — revolting from the mean. 
 
 Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach. 
 Comes tlie calm " Johnny who upset the coach." j: 
 How formed to lead, if not too proud to please, — 
 His fame would fire you, but his maimers freeze. 
 Like or dislike, he does not care a jot ; 
 He wants your vote, but your aliection not ; 
 Yet human hearts need sun, as well as oats, — 
 So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes. 
 And while its doctrines ripen day l)y day, 
 His frost-nipped party pines itself away ; — 
 From the starved wretch its own loved child we 
 steal, — 
 
 • The full name is Edward Biilwcr I.ytton, Lord Lytlon. 
 ITc achieved distinction under three names, Edward Lytton 
 Bulwer, Sir Edward Bnlwer Lytton, and Lord Lytton. ITo 
 was at least three gentlemen in snceession, if not, like !VIrs. 
 Malaprop's Cerberus, " three gentlemen at once." Lord Lyt- 
 ton, with all his command of verse, was not essentially a poet. 
 His talents and accomplishments, various as they were, did not 
 include the " vision *' or " the faculty " divine. Yet he pnnnlly 
 rested his claims to be a poet of a very superior kind on his 
 Khiij Arthur, and to the day of his death could not under- 
 stand why people did not rcarl it. 
 
 t " Every one knows that his lordsliip inherits the amiable 
 passion of his grandfather, and occasionally relieves the dul- 
 ncss of the dessert hy the introduction of those warlike birds, 
 lor the pure breed of which the house of Stanley is so justly 
 renowned. " — Author's notr. 
 
 I " Lord Stanley's memorable exclamation on a certain occa- 
 sion which now belongs to history. — 'Johnny 's upset the 
 coach 1 ' Never was coach upset with such perfect siinii fnid 
 on the part of the driver." — Author's iiolr. 
 
 And " Free Trade " chirrups on the lap of 
 
 Peel ! — 
 But see our statesman when the steam is on. 
 Am! l;iuguid Johnny glows to ghn-ious John ! 
 When Hampden's thought, by Falkland's muses 
 
 drest. 
 Lights the pale cheek, and swells the generous 
 
 breast ; 
 WhEU the pent heat expands the quickening 
 
 soul, — 
 And foremost in the race the wheels of genius 
 
 roll ! T/ie New Timon. 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF THE EYES. 
 
 Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they 
 are. 
 When the calm Iwdiglit leaves the heaven most 
 holy. 
 Tell me, sweet eyes, from wliat divinest star 
 Did ye drink in your liquid niclaneholy ? 
 Tell me, beloved eyes ! 
 
 Was it from yon lone orb, that ever by 
 
 The quiet moon, like hope on patience, hovers. 
 
 The star to which iiatli sped so many a sigh, 
 Since lutes in Lesbos hallowed it to lovers ? 
 Was that your fount, sweet eyes ? 
 
 Ye sibyl books, in which the truths foretold. 
 Inspire the heart, your dreaming priest, with 
 gladness. 
 Bright alchemists that turn to thoughts of gold 
 The leaden cares ye steal away from sadness, 
 Teach only me, sweet eyes ! 
 
 Hush ! when I ask yc how at length to gain 
 The cell where Love the sleeper yet lies hidden. 
 
 Loose not those arch lips from their rosy chain ; 
 Be every answer, save your own, forbidden, — 
 Feelings are words for eyes ! 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 1803 - 1874. 
 
 DETBDRGH ABBEY; A VISION.* 
 
 'T WAS morn, — but not the ray which falls the 
 
 summer boughs among, 
 WHien beauty walks in gladness forth with all iter 
 
 light and song ; 
 
 • Written soon after the death of Sir Walter Scott The 
 conception of this poem is noble. It represents the chief char- 
 acters of Scolt's works as mnu"rncrs at his funeral. It is a 
 pity that the poet did not make the separate characters more 
 rhnraclerislic by selecting liller epithets to iudividualire llirm 
 I to the mind. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 DRYBURGH ABBEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 879 
 
 ^ 
 
 'T was mom, — but mist and cloud liung deep 
 
 upon tlie lonely vale. 
 And shadows, like the wings of death, were out 
 
 upon the gale. 
 
 For He wliose spirit woke the dust of nations into 
 
 life, — 
 That o'er tlie waste and barren earth spread 
 
 flowers and fruitage rife, — 
 Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the mighty 
 
 realms of mind, — 
 Had lied forever from the fame, love, friendship 
 
 of mankind ! 
 
 To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit 
 
 swept afar, 
 Beyond the soaring wing of tliought, the light of 
 
 moon or star ; 
 To drink iminortal waters free from every taint 
 
 of earth, — 
 To breathe before the shrine of life, the source 
 
 whence worlds had birth ! 
 
 There was wailing on the early breeze, and dark- 
 ness in the sky, 
 
 When, with sable plnnie, and cloak, and pall, a 
 funeral train swept by ; 
 
 Methonght — St. Mary shield us well! — that 
 other forms moved there, 
 
 Than those of mortal brotherhood, — the nol)le, 
 young, and fair ! 
 
 Was it a dream? — how oft in sleep we ask, 
 
 " Can this be true ? " 
 Whilst warm imagination paints her marvels to 
 
 our view ; — 
 Earth's glory seems a tarnished crown to that 
 
 which we behold. 
 When dreams enchant our sight with things whose 
 
 meanest garb is gold ! 
 
 Was it a dream? — methought the dauntless 
 
 Harold passed me by, — 
 The proud Fitz-James with martial step, and dark, 
 
 intrepid eye ; 
 That Marmioii's liaughty crest was there, a 
 
 mourner for his sake ; 
 And she, the bold, the beautiful, sweet Lady of 
 
 tlie Lake. 
 
 The j\linstri:I, whose "last lay " was o'er, whose 
 
 broken harp lay low. 
 And with him glorious Waverley, with glance 
 
 and step of woe ; 
 And Stuart's voice rose there, as when, midst 
 
 fate's disastrous war. 
 He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave Ich 
 
 Ian Vohr. 
 
 Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the Dominie 
 
 stalked past. 
 With Bertram, Julia by his side, whose tears 
 
 were flowing fast ; 
 Guy Manncring too moved there, o'erpowered by 
 
 tliat afflicting sight ; 
 And ilcrrilies, as when she wept on Ellangow- 
 
 an's height. 
 
 Solenni and grave, Monkbarns approached, amidst 
 
 that burial line ; 
 And Ocliiltree leant o'er bis staff", and mourned 
 
 for " Auld lang syne ! " 
 Slow marched the gallant Mclntyre, whilst Lovcll 
 
 mused alone ; 
 For once Miss Wardour's image left that bosom's 
 
 faithful throne I 
 
 With coronacli, and arms reversed, forth came 
 
 MacGregor's clan, — 
 Red Dougal's cry pealed shrill and wild, — Rob 
 
 Roy's bold brow looked wan ; 
 The fair Diana kissed her cross, and blessed its 
 
 sainted ray ; 
 And " Wae is me," the Baillie sighed, " that I 
 
 should see this day ! " 
 
 Next rode, in melancholy guise, with sombre vest 
 
 and scarf. 
 Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far-renowned 
 
 Black Dwarf ; 
 Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks 
 
 flowing free, — 
 The pious sculptor of tlie grave, — stood Old 
 
 Mortality ! 
 
 Balfour of Burley, Claverhouse, the Lord of 
 
 Evandale, 
 And stately Lady Margaret, whose woe might 
 
 naught avail ! 
 Fierce Botliwell on his charger black, as from the 
 
 conflict won ; 
 And pale Habakkuk Mucklewrath, who cried, 
 
 " God's will be done ! " 
 
 And like a rose, a young white rose, that blooms 
 mid wildest scenes. 
 
 Passed she, — the modest, eloquent, and virtu- 
 ous Jeanie Deans; 
 
 And Dumbiedikes, that silent laird, with love too 
 deep to smile. 
 
 And Etfie, with her noble friend, the good Duke 
 of Argyle. 
 
 With lofty brow, and bearing high, dark Ravens- 
 wood advanced, 
 
 Who on the false Lord Keeper's mien with eye 
 indignant glanced ; — 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 8S0 
 
 SWAIN. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 t 
 
 Wliilst graceful as a lovely fawn, 'iieath covert 
 
 close ami sure, 
 Approacliccl the beauty of all liearts, — the Bride 
 
 of Lainiucrniooi" ! 
 
 Tluni Annot Lylc, the faii'y queen of light and 
 
 song, stepped near, 
 The Knight of Anlcuvolir, and lie, the gifted 
 
 liieland Seer ; 
 Dalgetty, Duncan, Lord JNIonteith, and Ranald 
 
 met my view, — ■ 
 The hapless Childrenof the Mist, and bold Mhieli- 
 
 C'onnel-Dlm ! 
 
 On swept Bois-Guilbert, — Front-de-Bceuf, — 
 
 l)e Braey's plume of woe ; 
 And Coeur-de-Lion's crest shone near the valiant 
 
 Ivanhoe ; 
 While soft as glides a summer cloud Rowena 
 
 closer drew. 
 With beautiful Rebecca, — peerless daughter of 
 
 the Jew ! 
 
 I saw the courtly Enphuist, with Ilalbert of the 
 
 Dell, 
 And, like a ray of moonlight, passed the White 
 
 Maid of Avenel ; 
 Lord Morton, Douglas, Bolton, and the Royal 
 
 Earl marched there. 
 To the slow and solemn funeral chant of the 
 
 Monks of Kennaquhair. 
 
 And she, on whose imperial brow a god had set 
 
 his seal, 
 The glory of whoso loveliness grief niiglit not all 
 
 conceal ; 
 The loved in high and princely halls, in lone and 
 
 lowly cots. 
 Stood Mary the illustrious, yet hapless Queen of 
 
 Scots ! 
 
 The firm, devoted Catherine, the sentimental 
 
 Grsnie, 
 Lochleven, whose worn brow revealed an early 
 
 blighted name ; 
 The enthusiastic Magdalen, tlie pilgrim of that 
 
 shrine, 
 Whose spirit trinm[)hs o'er the tomb, and makes 
 
 its dust divijie. 
 
 With Leicester, Lord of Kcnilworth, in mourn- 
 ful robes was seen 
 
 The gifted, great Elizabeth, high England's match- 
 less queen. 
 
 Tressilian's wild and manly glance, and Varney's 
 darker gaze, 
 
 Sought Amy Robsart's brilliant form, too fair for 
 earthly praise. 
 
 Next Noma of the fitful-head, the wild Reim- 
 
 kcnuar, came. 
 But shivered lay lier magic wand, and dim lier 
 
 eye of flame ; 
 Young Minna Tniil the lofty-souled, whom 
 
 Cleavehuul's love betrayed ; 
 The generous old Udallcr, and Mordaunt's sweet 
 
 island nuiid. 
 
 Slow followed Lord Glenvarloeh, first of Scotia's 
 gallant names ; 
 
 With tlie fair, romantic Margaret, and the eru- 
 dite King James, 
 
 The wooed and wronged Hermione, whose lord 
 all hearts despise ; 
 
 Sarcastic Malagrowther and the faithful Moni- 
 plies. 
 
 Then stout Sir Geoffrey of the Peak, and Pev- 
 
 eril swejit near ; 
 Stern Bridgcnorth, and the fiery Duke, with, 
 
 knight and cavalier; 
 The fairest of fantastic elves, Peuella, glided 
 
 on ; 
 And Alice, from whose beauteous lip the liglitof 
 
 joy was gone. 
 
 And Quentin's haughty helm flashed there ; Le 
 Balafre's stout lance ; 
 
 Orleans ; Creveeffiur ; the brave Dunois, the no- 
 blest kniglit of France ; 
 
 The wild Hayraddin, followed by the silent Jean 
 de Troyes, 
 
 The mournful Lady Hamelinc, and Isabelle de 
 Croyes. 
 
 Pale sorrow marked young Tyrrell's mien ; grief 
 
 dimmed sweet Clara's eye; 
 And Ronan's Laird breathed many a prayer 
 
 for days and friends gone by ! 
 "O, mourn not ! " pious Cargill cried ; "should 
 
 his death woe impart. 
 Whose cenotaph 's the universe, whose elegy 's 
 
 the heart ? " 
 
 Forth bore the noble Fairford his fascinating 
 bride, 
 
 The lovely Lilias, with the brave Rcdgauntlct by 
 lu'r side ; 
 
 Black Campbell, and the bold redoubted Max- 
 well met my view ; 
 
 And Wandering Willie's solemn wrcalli of dark 
 funereal yew ! 
 
 As foes who meet upon some wild, some far and 
 
 foreign shore. 
 Wrecked by the same tempestuous surge, recall 
 
 past feuds no more ; 
 
 ^ 
 
c0r 
 
 THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 
 
 881 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Thus prince and peasant, peer and slave, — tlius 
 friend and foe combine 
 
 To pour the homage of their heart upon one com- 
 mon siu'iue ! 
 
 Tliere Lacv, famed Cadwallon, and the fierce 
 
 Gweiiwyn marclied on ; 
 Whilst horn and halbert, pike and bow, dart, 
 
 glaive, and javelin shone ; 
 Sir Damian, and the elegant yonug EveUue passed 
 
 there, 
 Stout Wilkin, and the hopeless Rose, with wild, 
 
 dishevelled hair. 
 
 Around, in solemn grandeur, swept the l)anuers 
 
 ■ of tiie brave, 
 And deep and far the clarions waked the wild 
 
 dirge of the grave; 
 On came the Champion of the Cross, and near 
 
 iiim, like a star. 
 The regal Bcrengaria, beauteous daughter of 
 
 Navarre : 
 
 The high, heroic Saladin, with proud and princely 
 
 mien. 
 The rich and gorgeous Saracen, and the fiery 
 
 Nazarene ; 
 There Edith and her Nubian Slave breathed 
 
 many a thought divine. 
 Whilst rank on rank — a glorious train — rode 
 
 the Knights of Palestine ! 
 
 Straight followed Zerubbabel and JohfTe of the 
 
 tower. 
 Young Wildrake, Markham, Hazeldine, and the 
 
 forest nymph Mayflower ; 
 The democratieCromwell, stern, i-esolnte, and free ; 
 The Knight of AVoodstock, and the light and 
 
 lovely Alice Lee. 
 
 And there the crafty Proudfute for once true sor- 
 row felt ; 
 
 Craigdallie, Ciiai'tres, and the recreant Conachar 
 the Celt ; 
 
 And he, whose chivalry had graced a more ex- 
 alted birth. 
 
 The noble-minded Henry, and the famed fair 
 Maid of Perth. 
 
 The intrepid Anne of Geierstein, the false Lor- 
 raine stepped near ; 
 
 Proud Margaret of Anjou, and the faithful, brave 
 De Vere ; 
 
 There Arnold, and the King Rene, and Charles 
 the Bold, had met 
 
 The dauntless Donner Lugel aud the graceful 
 young Lizette. 
 
 Forth rode the glorious Godfrey, by the gallant 
 Hugh the Great, 
 
 While we))t the brave and beautiful their noble 
 
 minstrel's fate : 
 Then Hereward the Varangian, with Bertha at 
 
 his side, 
 Tlie valorous Count of Paris, and his Amazonian 
 
 bride. 
 
 And last, amidst that princely train, waved higii 
 
 De Walton's plume. 
 Near fair Augusta's laurel wreath, which time 
 
 shall ne'er consume ; 
 And Anthony, with quiver void, his last fleet 
 
 arrow sped. 
 Leant, mourning o'er his broken bow, and mused 
 
 upon the dead ! 
 
 Still onward, like the gathering night, went forth 
 
 that funeral train, — 
 Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the 
 
 shadowy main ; — 
 Where'er the eager gaze might reach, in noble 
 
 ranks were seen 
 Dark plume-, and glittering mail and crest, and 
 
 woman's beauteous mien ! 
 
 A sound thrilled through that lengthened host ! 
 
 niethought the vault was closed. 
 Where in his glory and renown fair Scotia's bard 
 
 reposed ! — 
 A sound thrilled through that lengthened host ! 
 
 — and fortli my vision fled ! — 
 But ah ! — that inournful dream proved true, — 
 
 the immortal Scott was dead ! 
 
 The vision and the yoiee are o'er ! their influence 
 waned away 
 
 Like music o'er a summer lake at the golden close 
 of day ; 
 
 The vision and the voice are o'er, — but when 
 will be forgot 
 
 The buried Genius of Romance, — the imperish- 
 able Scott ! 
 
 oXKo 
 
 HENRY rOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 
 
 1808 - 1873. 
 
 THE BEAVE OLD OAE. 
 
 A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak. 
 
 Who hath ruled in the greenwood long ; 
 Here 's health and renown to his broad green 
 crown. 
 And his fifty arms so strong. 
 There's fear in his frown when the sun goes 
 down, 
 And the fire in the west fades out ; 
 Aud he showeth his might on a wild midnight, 
 
 -^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 882 
 
 GRIFFIN. 
 
 -^ 
 
 "VVIicii tlie storms tlirough his branches shout. 
 Then licre 's to the oak, the brave old oak, 
 
 Wlio stands in his pride alone ; 
 And still flourish he, a hale greeu tree, 
 
 When a hundred years are gone ! 
 
 In the days of old, when the spring with gold 
 
 Had brightened his branches gray. 
 Through tlie grass at his feetcrcpt maidens sweet, 
 
 To gather tlie dew of May. 
 And on that day to the rebeck gay 
 
 They frolicked with lovesonie swains ; 
 They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard 
 laid, 
 
 But the tree it still remains. 
 Tlieu here 's, etc. 
 
 lie saw the rare times when the Christmas 
 chimes 
 "Were a merry sound to hear. 
 When the squire's wide hall and the cottage 
 small 
 Were fdlcd with good English cheer. 
 Now gold hath tlic sway we all obey, 
 
 And a ruthless king is he ; 
 But he never shall send our ancient friend 
 To be tossed on the stormy sea. 
 
 Then here 's to the oak, the brave old oak. 
 
 Who stands in his pride alone ; 
 And still flourish he, a hale greeu tree, 
 When a hundred years are gone ! 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 1803-1840. 
 
 THE SISTER OF CHAEITT,' 
 
 She once was a lady of honor and wealth, 
 Bright glowed on her features the roses of health ; 
 Her vesture was Ijlcnded of silk and of gold, 
 And her motion shook perfume from every fold ; 
 Joy revelled around her, — love shone at her 
 
 side. 
 And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ; 
 And light was her step, in the mirth-sounding 
 
 liall. 
 When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de 
 
 Paul. 
 
 She felt, in her sjiirit, the summons of grace. 
 That called her to live for the suffering race ; 
 And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, 
 l{i(sc quickly like jVIary, and answered, " I come." 
 She put from her person the trappings of pride, 
 And passed from her home, with the joy of a 
 bride, 
 
 • Gridlu's sister entered tlils pious onlor, wliicli circuni- 
 Btniii'c prolmljly suggested tlic poem. 
 
 Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she 
 
 moved, — 
 For her heart was on fire in tlie cause it approved. 
 
 Lost ever to fashion, — to vanity lost, 
 That beauty that once was the songand the toast, — 
 No more in the ball-room that figure wc meet, 
 But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. 
 Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, 
 For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; 
 Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, 
 For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. 
 
 Those feet, that to music could gracefully move. 
 Now bear her alone on tlie mission of love ; 
 Those hands that once dangled the perfume and 
 
 gem 
 Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; 
 That voice that once eclioed the song of the 
 
 vain. 
 Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; 
 And the hair that was shining with diamond and 
 
 pearl 
 Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 
 
 Iler down-bed a pallet, her trinkets a bead, 
 Her lustre one taper that serves her to read, 
 Her sculpture the crucifix nailed by iter bed. 
 Her paintings one print of the thorn-crownetl 
 
 head, 
 Her cushion the pavement that wearies her 
 
 knees. 
 Her music the psalm or the sigh of disease ; 
 The delicate lady lives mortified there. 
 And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. 
 
 Yet not to the service of heart and of mind 
 
 Arc the cares of that lieaven-minded virgin con- 
 fined ; 
 
 Like Him whom she loves, to the mansiims of 
 grief 
 ' She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. 
 
 She strengthens the weary, she comforts the 
 weak, 
 
 And soft is her voice iu the ear of the sick ; 
 
 Where want and affliction on mortals attend, 
 
 The Sister of Charity f/iere is a friend. 
 
 Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, 
 Like an angel she moves, mid the vapor of 
 
 death ; 
 Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the 
 
 sword, 
 Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lin'd. 
 How sweetly she bends o'er each ])lague-tainted 
 
 face 
 With looks that arc lighted with holiest grace ; 
 How kindly she dresses each suiTering limb, 
 For site sees in the wounded the image of Iliin. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -P 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE ELY. 
 
 883 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Behold lier, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! 
 Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; 
 Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your 
 
 days, 
 Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. 
 Ye lazy philosophers, — self-seeking men, — 
 Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, 
 How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed 
 Witli the life and tlie deeds of tliat high-born 
 
 maid ? 
 
 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES."' 
 
 1803-1849. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 If thou wilt ease thine lieart 
 Of love, and all its smart, — 
 Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
 AjuI not a sorrow 
 
 Hang any tear on your eyelashes ; 
 
 Lie still and deep, 
 Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
 The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 
 In eastern sky. 
 
 But wilt thou cure thine heart 
 Of love, and all its smart — 
 
 Then die, dear, die ! 
 'T is deeper, sweeter. 
 Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 
 
 With folded eye ; 
 And then alone, amid tlie beaming 
 Of Love's stars, tliou 'It meet her 
 In eastern sky. 
 
 HOW MANY TIMES. 
 
 How many times do I love thee, dear ? 
 Tell me how many thoughts there be 
 In the atmosphere 
 Of a new-fallen year, 
 Wliose white and sable hours appear 
 
 The latest flake of Eternity : 
 So many times do I love thee, dear. 
 
 How many times do I love, again ? 
 Tell me how many beads there are 
 In a silver chain 
 Of the evening rain. 
 Unravelled from the tumbling main. 
 
 And threading the eye of a yeUow star : 
 So many times do I love, again. 
 
 * The dramatic poems of Betldoes ha%"e the suildea flashes 
 of insi)iiation, and tlie strange incompleteness of plan, of some 
 of the minor Elizabethan dramatists. He was essentially an 
 ' irregular " genius. 
 
 WILLIAM HOWITT.* 
 
 1795- 
 
 THE DEPAETURE OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 And is the swallow gone ? 
 
 Who beheld it? 
 
 Which way sailed it ? 
 Farewell bade it none ? 
 
 No mortal saw it go ; — 
 
 But who doth liear 
 
 Its summer cheer 
 As it flitteth to and fro ? 
 
 So tlie freed spirit flies ! 
 
 Erom its surrounding clay 
 
 It steals away 
 Like the swallow from the skies. 
 
 Wliither ? wherefore doth it go ? 
 
 'T is all unknown ; 
 
 We feel alone 
 That a void is left below. 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 1804- 
 
 THE SPIDEB AND THE FLT. 
 
 " Will you walk into my parlor ? " said the 
 
 spider to the fly, 
 " 'T is the prettiest little parlor that ever you did 
 
 spy; 
 
 The way into my parlor is up a winding stair. 
 And I 've got many curious things to show when 
 
 you are there." 
 " no, no," said the little fly, " to ask me is in vain. 
 For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er 
 
 come down again." 
 
 " I 'ill sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring 
 
 up so high ; 
 Will you rest upon my little bed ? " said the spider 
 
 to the fly : 
 "There are pretty curtains drawn around; the 
 
 sheets are fine and thin. 
 And if you like to rest awhile, I '11 snugly tuck 
 
 you in 
 
 "0 no, no," said the Uttle fly, "for I've often 
 
 heard it said. 
 They never, never wake again, who sleep upon 
 
 your bed ! " 
 
 Said the cunning spider to the fly, " Dear friend, 
 what can I do 
 
 * We place William Howitt out of chronological order in 
 order that he may not be separated from his gifted wife. 
 
 ^ 
 
(Q- 
 
 884 
 
 FERGUSON. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 h 
 
 To prove the warm affection I 've always felt lor 
 
 you? 
 I have within Tny pautry good store of all that 's 
 
 nice; 
 I 'm sure you 're very welcome, — will you please 
 
 to take a slice? " 
 " no, no," said the little fly, " kind sir, that 
 
 cannot be, 
 I 've heard what 's in your pantry, and I do not 
 
 wish to see." 
 
 " Sweet creature," said the spider, "you're witty 
 
 and you 're wise ; 
 How handsome are your gauzy wings, how biill- 
 
 iant are your eyes ! 
 I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor 
 
 shelf. 
 If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall 
 
 behold yourself." 
 " I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what 
 
 you please to say, 
 And bidding you good mornuig now, I '11 call 
 
 another day." 
 
 The spider turned him round about, and went 
 
 into his den, 
 Por well he knew the silly fly would soon come 
 
 back again ; 
 So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly. 
 And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. 
 Then he came out to his door again, and merrily 
 
 did sing : 
 " Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl 
 
 and silver wing ; 
 Your robes are green and purple, — there 's a 
 
 crest upon your head ; 
 Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine 
 
 are dull as lead ! " 
 
 Alas ! alas ! how very soon this silly little fly. 
 Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly 
 
 flitting by ; 
 With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near 
 
 and nearer drew, 
 Thinking only of liur brilliant eyes, and her green 
 
 and purple hue, — 
 Thinking only of iicr crested head, — poor foolish 
 
 thing ! At last, 
 Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held 
 
 her fast. 
 He dragged her up his winding stair, into his 
 
 dismal den. 
 Within his little parlor, — but she ne'er came out 
 
 again ! 
 
 And now, dear little children, who may this story 
 
 read, 
 To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you, ne'er 
 
 give heed ; 
 
 Unto an evil counsellor close heart and ear and 
 
 eye. 
 And take a lesson from this tale of the s])ider 
 
 and the fly. 
 
 TEE VOICE OF SPEING, 
 
 I AM coining, I am coming ! — 
 Hark ! the little bee is humming ; 
 See, the lark is soaring high 
 In the blue and sunny sky ; 
 And tlie gnats are on the wing 
 Wheeling round in airy ring. 
 
 See the yellow catkins cover 
 All the slender willows over ; 
 And on banks of mossy green 
 Starlike ])rimroses are seen ; 
 And, their clustering leaves below, 
 White and purple violets blow. 
 
 Hark ! the new-born lambs are bleating, 
 And the cawing rooks are meeting 
 In the elms, — a noisy crowd ! 
 All the birds are singing loud; 
 And the first white butterfly 
 In the sunshine dances by. 
 
 Look around thee, — look around 1 
 Flowers in all the fields abound ; 
 Every running stream is bright ; 
 All the orchard trees arc white. 
 And each small and waving shoot 
 Promises sweet flowers and fruit. 
 
 Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven ! 
 God for thee the Spring has given. 
 Taught the birds their melodies. 
 Clothed the earth, and cleared tlie skies 
 For thy pleasure or thy food : — 
 Pour thy soul in gratitude ! 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 Bom about 1800. 
 
 THE FORaiNG OF THE ANCHOE. 
 
 Come, see the Doljihin's anchor forged, — 't is at 
 
 a white heat now : 
 The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, — 
 
 though on the forge's brow 
 The little tlames still fitfully play through the 
 
 salilc mound. 
 And fitfully you still may sec the grim smiths 
 
 ranking round. 
 All clad ill leathern panoply, their broad hands 
 
 only bare, — 
 Some rest upon their sledges here, some work 
 
 the windlass there. 
 
 -s> 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 
 
 885 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Tlie windlass strains the tackle chains, the black 
 
 mound heaves below, 
 And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at 
 
 every throe : 
 It rises, roars, rends all outright, — O Vulcan, 
 
 what a glow ! 
 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, — the 
 
 high sun shines not so ! 
 The liigli sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery 
 
 fearful show ; 
 The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the 
 
 ruddy lurid row 
 Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men 
 
 before the foe. 
 As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the 
 
 sailing monster, slow 
 Sinks on the anvil, — all about the faces fiery grow. 
 " Hurrah ! " they shout, " leap out, — leap out" ; 
 
 bang, bang the sledges go : 
 Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high 
 
 and low, — 
 A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- 
 ing blow. 
 The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling 
 
 cinders strow 
 The ground around : at every bound the swelter- 
 ing fountains flow. 
 And thick and loud the swinkiug crowd at every 
 
 stroke pant " ho ! " 
 
 Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and 
 
 lay on .load ! 
 Let 's forge a goodly anchor, — a bower thick 
 
 and broad ; 
 For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I 
 
 bode, 
 And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 
 
 road, — 
 The low reef roaring on her lee, — the roll of 
 
 ocean poured 
 From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast 
 
 by the board ; 
 The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats 
 
 stove at the chains ! 
 But courage still, brave mariners, — the bower 
 
 yet remains. 
 And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when 
 
 ye pitch sky high ; 
 Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear 
 
 nothing, — here am I." 
 
 Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand 
 keep time ; 
 
 Your blows make music sweeter far than any 
 steeple's chime. 
 
 But, while you sling your sledges, sing, — and 
 let the burden be, 
 
 " The anchor is the anvil king, and royal crafts- 
 men we ! " 
 
 <^ 
 
 Strike in, strike in, — the sparks begin to dull 
 
 their rustling red ; 
 Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work 
 
 will soon be sped. 
 Our anchor soon must change his bod of fiery 
 
 rich array. 
 For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy 
 
 couch of clay ; 
 Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry 
 
 craftsmen here, ^ 
 
 For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the 
 
 sighing seaman's cheer ; 
 When, weigliing slow, at eve they go, — far, far 
 
 from love and home ; 
 And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 
 
 ocean foam. 
 
 In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at 
 
 last; 
 A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat 
 
 was cast. 
 O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst 
 
 life like me, 
 What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath 
 
 the deep green sea ! 
 O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such 
 
 sights as thou ? 
 The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 
 
 't were now 
 To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly 
 
 of tlie whales. 
 And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath 
 
 their scourging tails ! 
 
 Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea 
 
 unieom. 
 And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all 
 
 his ivory horn ; 
 To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade 
 
 forlorn ; 
 And for the ghastly -grinning shark to laugh his 
 
 jaws to scorn; 
 To leap down on the kraken's back, where mid 
 
 Norwegian isles 
 He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed 
 
 miles ; 
 Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, otT lie 
 
 rolls ; 
 Meanwhile to swing, a-buSeting the far astonished 
 
 shoals 
 Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in 
 
 a cove, 
 Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Un- 
 dine's love. 
 To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by 
 
 icy lands, 
 ,To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean 
 
 sands. * 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 886 
 
 DOWNING. — MAHONEY. 
 
 -^ 
 
 broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports 
 
 can equal tliine ? 
 The Dolpluu weighs a thousand tons, that tugs 
 
 thy cable line; 
 Aud night by night, 't is thy delight, thy glory 
 
 day by day. 
 Through sable sea and breaker white, the giaut 
 
 game to play, — 
 But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name 
 
 I gave, — 
 A fisher's joy is to destroy, — thine oflicc is to 
 
 save. 
 
 lodger in the sea-kings' halls, coiddst thou but 
 
 understand 
 Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who 
 
 that dripping band. 
 Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round 
 
 about thee bend, 
 With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing 
 
 their aneient friend, — 
 O, couldst thou know what heroes glide witii 
 
 larger steps round thee, 
 Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou 'dst 
 
 leap within the sea. 
 
 Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant 
 
 strand, 
 To shed tlieir blood so freely for the love of 
 
 Fatherland, — 
 Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 
 
 churchyard grave. 
 So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing 
 
 wave, — 
 0, tiiough our anclior may not be all I have 
 
 fondly sung, 
 Honor him for their memory, whose bones he 
 
 goes among ! 
 
 1832. 
 
 MARY DOWNING. 
 
 WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE. 
 
 Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide 
 him, 
 'T is little of sorrow sliould fall on my dear ; 
 I 'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him. 
 So faint and so tender his lieart would but hear; 
 I 'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and high- 
 land. 
 And tliere at liis feet I would lay them all down ; 
 I 'd sing him tlic^songsofonr poor stricken island, 
 Till his heart was on fire witli a love like my 
 own. 
 
 There 's a rose by his dwelling, — I 'd tend tlie 
 lone treasure, • 
 
 ^ 
 
 That he might have flowers when the summer 
 would come ; 
 There 's a harp in his hall, — I would wake its 
 
 sweet measure. 
 For he must have music to brighten his home. 
 ^Vere I but his own wile, to guide and to guard 
 him, 
 'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear; 
 For every kind glance my whole life w'ould award 
 him, — 
 In sickness I 'd soothe and in sadness I 'd cheer. 
 
 My heart is a fount welling upward forever ! 
 Wlien I think of my true-love, by night or by 
 day, 
 That heart keeps its faith Uke a fast-flowing river, 
 
 Which gushes forever aud sings on its way. 
 I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to re- 
 pose in, 
 Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo ; 
 
 sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing, 
 To rise like the morning star, darUng, for you! 
 
 FRANCIS MAHONEY (FATHER 
 PROUT).* 
 
 1805 - 1866. 
 
 THE BELLS OP SHANDON. 
 
 With deep aflection and recollection 
 I often think of the Siiaudon bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, 
 
 Fling round my cradle tlieir magic spells. 
 On this I ponder, where'er I wander, 
 
 And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 Tliat sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 1 have heard bells chiming full many a clime in. 
 Tolling sul)limely in cathedral shrine ; 
 
 While at a glibe rate brass tongues would vibrate. 
 
 But all their music spoke nauglit to thine; 
 For memory dwelling on each proud swelling 
 Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free. 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 I have heard bells tolling "old .\drian's mole" in, 
 Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 
 
 With cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; 
 
 But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of 
 Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. 
 
 Author of The Proiil Papers. 
 
 -^ 
 
cp-- 
 
 TWO CHAKACTERS. — A WIFE. 
 
 887 
 
 -Q) 
 
 O, tlie bells of Sliandou 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 There 's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and 
 kiosko 
 In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air, calls men to prayer, 
 
 From the tapering summit of (all minarets. 
 Such empty pliantom, I freely grant them. 
 But there 's an anthem more dear to me, 
 It 's the bells of Shandon, 
 Tliat sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 HENRY TAYLOR.* 
 
 1805- 
 
 TWO CHAEACTEES. 
 
 Tii.VN Lord de Vaux there 's no man sooner sees 
 Whatever at a glance is visible ; 
 What is not, he can never see at all. 
 Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points. 
 He '11 see them all successively, distinctly. 
 But never solving questions ; vain he is — 
 It is his pride to see things on all sides, 
 Which best to do he sets them on their corners. 
 Present before lum arguments by scores 
 Bearing diversely on the affair in hand. 
 Yet never two of them can see together ; 
 Or gather, blend, and balance what he sees 
 To make up one account ; a mind it is 
 Accessible to reason's subtlest rays. 
 And many enter there, but none converge ; 
 It is an army with no genei'al, 
 An arch without a key-stone. Then the other. 
 Good Martin Blondel-Vatre, — he is rich 
 In nothing else but difficulties and doubts. 
 You shall be told the evil of your scheme. 
 But not the scheme that 's better. He forgets 
 That policy, expecting not clear gain. 
 Deals ever in alternatives. He 's wise 
 In negatives, is skilful at erasures. 
 Expert in stepping backwards, an 'adept 
 At auguring eeli])ses. But admit 
 His apprehensions, and demand, wliat then ? 
 And you shall find you 've turned the blank leaf 
 over. 
 
 Philip Van Artevelde. 
 
 * It is difficult, by extracts, to convey an impression of tlic 
 solid mental power of the author of pfiitip Van Jrlevfltle and 
 Eittcin the Fair. James Stephen, a friend of the author of 
 tliese poems, and an accomplished critic, wrote, in 184.3, an 
 article in the Edinhurtjh RevWw, in wliich, after indicating the 
 characteristics of Henry Taylor's genius, he ga\'e tlie reasons 
 < > wily his readers must ever he limited in number. It is to be 
 hoped that this prophecy will fail of fulfilment. 
 
 REPENTANCE AND IMPROVEMENT, 
 
 He that lacks time to inouru, lacks time to mend. 
 
 Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure 
 
 For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. 
 
 Where sorrow 's held intrusive and turned out. 
 
 There wisdom will not enter, nor ti-ue power. 
 
 Nor aught that dignifies humanity. 
 
 Yet such the barrenness of busy life ! 
 
 From shelf to shelf ambition clambers up. 
 
 To reach the naked'st pinnacle of all. 
 
 Whilst magnanimity, absolved from toil. 
 
 Reposes self-iuchided at the base. 
 
 Phi/ip Van Artevehle. 
 
 GREATNESS AND SUCCESS. 
 
 He was one 
 Of many thousand such that die betimes. 
 Whose story is a fragment known to few. 
 Then comes the man who has the luck to live, 
 And he 's a prodigy. Compute the chaiices. 
 And deem there 's never one in dangerous times 
 Who wins the race of glory, but than him 
 A thousand men more gloriously endowed 
 Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand others 
 Have had tlicir fortunes foundered by a chance. 
 Whilst lighter barks pushed past them ; to 
 
 whom add 
 A smaller tally, of the singular few. 
 Who, gifted with predoiuinating powers. 
 Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace. 
 The world knows nothing of its greatest men. 
 
 Phi/iji Van Arlevehle. 
 
 REPOSE OF THE HEART. 
 
 The heart of man, walk it which way it will, 
 Seqtiestered or frequented, smooth or rough, 
 Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks. 
 Or mid the clang of trumpets and the march 
 Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt. 
 Its hour of truce, its instant of repose, 
 Its inn of rest ; and craving still must seek 
 The food of its alTeetions, — still must slake 
 Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure, 
 And pleasant to behold. p,.,.^ y^^ Artevelde. 
 
 A WIPE. 
 
 She was a creature framed by love divine 
 
 For mortal love to muse a life away 
 
 In ])ondcriug her perfections ; so unmoved 
 
 Amidst the world's contentions, if tliey touched 
 
 No vital chord nor troubled what she loved, 
 
 Philosophy might look lier in the face. 
 
 And like a hermit stooping to the well 
 
 That yields him sweet Tefreshment, might therein 
 
 ^ 
 
 # 
 
cfr 
 
 888 
 
 STERLING. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Sec but his own serenity reflected 
 With a more heavenly tenderness of hue ! 
 Yet whilst the world's ambitious cuipty cares, 
 Its small disquietudes and insect stiugs, 
 Disturbed her never, slie was one made up 
 or feminine affections, and her Ul'e 
 Was one fidl stream of love from fount to sea. 
 P/iilip Van Artevelde. 
 
 A SCHOLAE. 
 
 This life, and all that it contains, to him 
 
 Is but a tissue of illuminous dreams 
 
 Filled with book-wisdom, pictured thought and 
 
 love 
 That on its own creations spends itself. 
 All things he understands, and nothing does. 
 Profusely eloquent in copious praise 
 Of action, he will talk to you as cue 
 Whose wisdom lay in dealings and transactions ; 
 Yet so much action as might tie his shoe 
 Cannot his will command; himself alone 
 l?y his own wisdom not a jot the gainer. 
 Of silence, and the hundred thousand things 
 'T is better not to mention, he will speak. 
 And still most wisely. 
 
 Edwin ihe Fair. 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 1806-1844. 
 
 THE SONG OF EVE TO CAIN.' 
 
 O, BEST, my baby, rest ! 
 
 The day 
 Is glowing down the west ; 
 
 Now tired of sunny play, 
 Upon thy mother's breast 
 0, rest, my darling, rest ! 
 
 Thou first-born child of man. 
 In thee 
 
 * We have selected this piece from the Ijfuly of Sterling's 
 poema, ratUer tliaii/^/n/«^(jf, ortlic liallati nf .■llfml the llm-pei; 
 Ijecause the coneeplion is purely original. Tiie mother of the 
 first murderer feels, like all mothers, that the hahe at her 
 hreast must grow up to he pure and good. Her habe was 
 Cain. For centuries the same hope and trust have been 
 lodged in the hearts of millions on millions of mothers. It is 
 terrible to think what possibilities for e\il are latent in e\ery 
 child of .\dam, as they M-rrc in the first child of Adam. How 
 many Eves have sung a similar lullaby to soothe to rest as many 
 Cains ! How ninny mothers, since tlie mother of all mankind, 
 have lived to sec their sons brought home dead and dis- 
 honored, and have vainly trit'd to recall " the smile nf cradled 
 innocence on the lips of the coHlned reprobate " ! Of all the 
 ills of life, there air none which can he compared to a mother's 
 agony, when the babe she has nursed at her breast, and on 
 whom she has lavished the whiile wealth of her lo\ e. ends in 
 being a disgrace to himself ami lo her. Life is fntl nf what is 
 callecl tragedy; but of all tingedics, this is the most hfrriblt- 
 that human hearts are ealleil upon to endure. 
 
 New joy for us began. 
 
 Which seemed all dead to be, 
 When that so needful ban 
 From Eden exiled mau. 
 
 But more than Paradise 
 
 Was ours, 
 When thou with angel eyes, 
 
 Amid our blighttd flowers 
 Wast born, a heaveijy prize 
 Unknown in Paradise. 
 
 My happy garden, thou, 
 
 Where I 
 JVIake many a hopefid vow, 
 
 And every hour espy 
 New bloom on each young bough ; 
 My sinless tree art thou. 
 
 I fearless reap thy fruit 
 
 Of bliss ; 
 And I who am thy root, 
 
 Am to the air to kiss 
 The gleams tliat o'er thee shoot ; 
 And fed, I feed thy fruit. 
 
 Thy father's form and pride 
 
 And thought, 
 In thee yet undcscried. 
 
 Shall soon be fully wrought, 
 Grow tall and bright and wide, 
 In thee our hope and pride. 
 
 Nay, do not stir, my child, 
 
 Be still ; 
 In thee is reconciled 
 
 To man Heaven's righteous will. 
 To thee the curse is mild. 
 And smites not thee, my cliild. 
 
 To us our sin has borne 
 
 Its doom. 
 From light dethroned and torn, 
 
 'Twas ours to dwell in gloom; 
 But thou, a better morn. 
 By that dark night art borne. 
 
 Thou shalt, my child, be free 
 
 From sin, 
 Nor taste the fatal tree. 
 
 For thou from us shalt win 
 A wisdom cheap to thee ; 
 So thou from ill be free! 
 
 My bird, my flower, my star. 
 
 My boy ! 
 My all things fair tliat arc. 
 
 My spring of endless joy, 
 From thee is heaven not far, 
 From thee, its carthlv stjir. 
 
 -s> 
 
cfl- 
 
 OHRISTIAN RESIGNATION. — BE PATIENT. 
 
 889 
 
 -n> 
 
 ^ 
 
 So, dai-liiig, shalt thou grow 
 
 A man, 
 While we sliall downward go, 
 
 Descend each day a span. 
 And sink beueatli the woe 
 Of deaths from sin that grow. 
 
 And thou, perhaps, shalt see 
 
 A race 
 Brought forth by us, Uke thee ; 
 
 Though strength like thine, and grace, 
 In none shall ever be 
 Of all whom earth can see. 
 
 And thou amid mankind 
 
 Shalt move 
 Witli glorious form and mind, 
 
 In holiness and love ; 
 And all in thee shall find 
 The bliss of all mankind. 
 
 Then rest, my child, O, rest ! 
 
 The day 
 Has darkened down the west. 
 
 Thou dream the night away 
 Upon thy motlicr's breast; 
 0, rest, my darling, rest ! 
 
 ROBERT MONTGOMERY.* 
 
 1807 - 1855. 
 
 CHKISTIAN RESIGNATION, 
 
 Go, child of darkness ! see a Christian die ! 
 No horror pales his lip or dims his eye ; 
 No fiend-shaped phantoms of destruction start 
 Tiie hope religion pillows on his heart. 
 When with a faltering hand he waves adieu 
 
 * This was the well-meaning, rhetorical versifier whom 
 Macaulay so pitilessly ridiculed. When the ohnoxious article 
 was reprinted iu the collection of Macanlay's e^ays, Mont- 
 gomery threatened a prosecution. On heing informed of this, 
 Maeaniay wrote to his friend Ellis: — 
 
 " Glorious news ! Rohert Montgomery writes to Longman 
 that there is a point at wliieli human patience must give way. 
 Since the resignation and Christian fortitude of a quarter of a 
 century have made no impression on the hard heart and 
 darkened conscience of Mr. Macaulay, au injured poet must 
 appeal to the laws of his country, wliich will doubtless give 
 hmi a redress the more signal, Iiecause he has been so slow to 
 ask for it. I retain you. Consider yourself as feed. You shall 
 choose your own junior. I slmll put nobody o\ er your head in 
 this cause. Will he apply for a criminal information? luiag- 
 iue Jack! [John Lord Campbell, Chief Justice.] ' I have llir/^ 
 graitest respect for the vci'y eminent poet who makes this ap- 
 plication, and for tlie very eminent critic against whom it is 
 niaile. It must he very satisfactory to .Mr. Montgomery to 
 have had an opportunity of dcnyin* on oath the charge that he 
 writes nonsense. But it is not the practice of this court to 
 grant criminal informations against libels which have been a 
 quarter of a century before the would.' " 
 
 Still there was something petty as well as cruel in Macau- 
 lay's persistence in keeping Montgomery in tlie pillory, where 
 he had exhibited him in IS'iO, and refusing, twenty years 
 later, to release him finni his ignominious publicity. 
 
 To all who love so well, and weep so true ; 
 Meek, as au infant to tlie mother's breast 
 Turns fondly, longing for its wonted rest, 
 He pants for where congenial spirits stray, 
 Turns to his God, and sighs his soul away. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S MITE, 
 
 Amui the pom])ous crowd 
 Of rich adorers, came a humble form ; 
 A widow, meek as poverty doth make 
 Her children ! with a look of sad content. 
 Her mite within the treasure -heap she cast : 
 Then, timidly as bashful twilight, stole ' 
 From out the temple. But her lowly gift 
 Was witnessed by an eye whose mercy views. 
 In motive, all that consecrates a deed 
 To goodness ; — so He blessed the widow's mite 
 Beyond the gifts abounding wcaltli bestowed. 
 Thus is it. Lord ! witli thee : the heart is thine. 
 And aU the world of hidden action there 
 Works in thy sight, like waves beneath the sun, 
 Conspicuous ! and a thousand nameless acts 
 That lurk in lovely secrecy, and die 
 Unnoticed, like the trodden flowers which fall 
 Beneath a proud man's I'oot, — to thee are known, 
 And written witii a sunbeam in the Book 
 Of Life, where mercy fills the brightest page ! 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.* 
 
 1807- 
 
 BE PATIENT! 
 
 Be patient ! O, be patient ! Put your ear against 
 
 the earth ; 
 Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed 
 
 has birth, — 
 How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little 
 
 way, 
 Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the 
 
 blade stands up in the day. 
 
 Be patient ! O, be patient ! The germs of mighty 
 thought 
 
 Must have their sUent undergrowth, must under- 
 ground be wrought ; 
 
 But as sure as there 's a power that makes the 
 grass appear, 
 
 Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade- 
 time shall be here. 
 
 Be patient ! 0, be patient ! — go and watch the 
 
 wheat-ears grow, — 
 So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change 
 
 nor throe, — 
 
 * Kow Archbishop of Dublin 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 ^!)l> 
 
 150NAR. — NORTON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully 
 
 grown, — 
 And then again day after day, till the ripened 
 
 lield is brojTn. 
 
 Be patient! 0, be patient! — though yet our 
 
 hopes are green, 
 The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned 
 
 with sunny sheen. 
 Be ripening ! be ripening ! — mature your silent 
 
 way, 
 Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on 
 
 freedom's harvest day. 
 
 o>*io 
 
 HORATIUS BONAR. 
 
 THE MASTER'S TOUCH, 
 
 In the still air the music lies unheard ; 
 
 In the rough marble beauty hides unseen : 
 To make the music and the beauty, needs 
 
 The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. 
 
 Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand ; 
 
 Let not the music that is in us die ! 
 Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor let. 
 
 Hidden and lost, thy form within us He ! 
 
 Sparc not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt ! 
 
 Let there be naught unfinished, broken.marrcd ; 
 Complete thy purpose, that we may become 
 
 Thy perfect imago, thou our God and Lord ! 
 
 oX«o 
 
 CAROLINE ELIZABETH 
 
 NORTON. 
 
 SARAH 
 
 1808-1877. 
 
 TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.t 
 Onck more, my liarp ! once more, although I 
 thouglit 
 Never to wake thy silent strings again, 
 A soothing dream thy gentle chords have wrought, 
 And my sad lieart, whicli long hath dwelt in 
 pain, 
 Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bougli, 
 Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below ! 
 
 And unto thee, — the beautiful and pure, — 
 Wliose lot is cast amid that busy world 
 
 * The Rev. Dr II. Bonnr, mitliov of mnny works in verse 
 anil |)ro»i-. It is s.iiil llml liis v.iliinii-, Tlir Nii/ht of Ifrr/iing, 
 n soinrwluit uniittractivc litle, nttaincil a eirculation of sixty 
 tlionsand eopies. 
 
 + Tliu Inily stood \)y Mrs. Norton tlnring the period when 
 the Intter was falsely nmligncd of iiitidclity to lier nwrriBRe 
 
 vows. 
 
 Where only sluggish didness dwells secure, 
 
 And fancy's generous wing is faintly furled ; 
 To thee, — whose friendship ke])t its equal truth 
 Through the most dreary hour of my imbittered 
 youth, — 
 
 I dedicate the lay. Ah, never bard. 
 
 In days when poverty was twin witli song ; 
 
 Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred. 
 Cheered by some castle's chief, and harbored 
 long; 
 
 Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, 
 
 Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of 
 
 praise 
 
 O- 
 
 For easy are the alms the rich man spares 
 To sons of genius, by misfortune bent. 
 
 But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, 
 Belief, — in spite of many a cold dissent, — 
 
 When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart. 
 
 From those whose bounded power hath wrung, 
 not crushed, my heart. 
 
 Then, then, when cowards lied away my name. 
 And scoffed to see me feebly stem the tide ; 
 
 W' lien some were kind on whom I had no claim, 
 And some forsook on whom my love relied, 
 
 And some, who }in///il liave battled for my sake, 
 
 Stood off in doubt to see what turn " the world " 
 would take, — 
 
 Tliou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, 
 Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears ; 
 The loved, the near of kin could do no more, 
 Who changed not with the gloom of varying 
 years. 
 But clung the closer when I stood forlorn. 
 And blunted slander's dart with their indignant 
 scorn. 
 
 For they who credit crime are they who feel 
 Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin ; 
 Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts 
 \^hich steal 
 O'er minds Uke these, an easy faith to win ; 
 And talcs of broken truth are still believed 
 Most readily by those who have tlieiiischcs de- 
 ceived. 
 
 But, like a white swan down a troubled strcaui, 
 Whose ruflliug pinion hath tlie power to fling 
 
 Aside the turbid dro]is whieli darkly gleam 
 And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, 
 
 So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride. 
 
 Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide ; 
 
 Tliy Jiale and pearly check was never made 
 To crimson witli a faint, false-hearted shame ; 
 
 Thou didst not slirink, of bitter tongues afraid, 
 Who hunt in packs the object of llieir blame ; 
 
 ^ -g) 
 
cfr 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 891 
 
 -9) 
 
 To tliee the sad denial still held true, 
 For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its 
 mercy drew. 
 
 And, though my faint and tributary rhymes 
 Add nothing to tlie glory of thy day. 
 
 Yet every poet hopes tiiat after-times 
 Shall set some value on his votive lay. 
 
 And I would fain one gentle deed record 
 
 Among the many such with which thy Ufe is 
 stored. 
 
 So, when these lines, made in a mournful hour. 
 Are idly opened to the stranger's eye, 
 
 A dream of thee, aroused by fancy's power. 
 Shall be the first to wander floating by; 
 
 And tliey who never saw thy lovely face, 
 
 Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace! 
 Bedicalion of (he Bream. 
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHEK. 
 
 We have been friends together. 
 
 In sunshine and in shade ; 
 Since first beneatii the chestnut-trees 
 
 In infancy we played. 
 But coldness dwells within thy heart, 
 
 A cloud is on thy brow ; 
 We have been friends togetiier, — 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been gay together ; 
 
 We have laughed at little jests ; 
 For the fount of hope was gushing. 
 
 Warm and joyous, in our breasts. 
 But laughter now liath fled thy lip. 
 
 And sullen. glooms thy brow; 
 We have been g;iy together, — 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We' have been sad together, — 
 
 We have wept, with bitter 'tears. 
 O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumbered 
 
 The hopes of early years. 
 The voices which are silent there 
 
 Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
 We have been sad together, — 
 
 0, what shall part us now ? 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Like an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs. 
 With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye 
 And a strong efi'ort in his rpiivering wings. 
 Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, — 
 So my enamored heart, so long thine own. 
 At length from love's imprisonment set free. 
 Goes I'orth into tlie open world alone, 
 Glad and exulting in its liberty ; 
 
 ^6-- 
 
 But like that helpless bird (confined so long. 
 His weary wings have lost all power to soar. 
 Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song, 
 And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more). 
 So, from its former bonds released in vain. 
 My heart still feels the weight of that remembered 
 chain. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN.* 
 
 - 1867. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 
 
 Where we sat side by side 
 On a bright May mornin' long ago. 
 
 When first you were my bride ; 
 The corn was springin' fresh and green, 
 
 And the lark sang loud and liigh ; 
 And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary ; 
 
 The day is bright as then; 
 The lark's loud song is in my car. 
 
 And tiie corn is green again ; 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 
 
 And your Ijreath, warm on my cheek ; 
 And I still keep list'nin' for the words 
 
 You nevermore will speak. 
 
 'T is but a step down yonder lane. 
 
 And the little church stands near, — 
 The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
 
 I see tlie spire from here. 
 But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
 
 And my step might break your rest, — 
 For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep. 
 
 With your baby ou your breast. 
 
 I 'm very lonely now, Mary, — 
 For the poor make no new friends ; 
 
 But, O, they love the better still 
 The few our Fatiier sends ! 
 
 * There is a great deal of confusion in the minds of many 
 readers regardin-; the authorship of this Litmtnl. It is 
 cotnnionly refei'red to tlie present Lady DufTenn, whereas it 
 was written by her liushand's mother. Helen Seliiia Sheri- 
 dan, the daughter of Tlionins Sheridan, sister of Mrs. A'orton, 
 and granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, married the 
 lion. Price Blackwood, the only son of the fourth Lord Duf- 
 ferin. The Lament was originally puhlished some forty 
 years ago. It bore the name of the " Hon. Mrs. Price Black- 
 wood." She became Lady Pufferin on the death of her hus- 
 band's father, — Blackwood being, we supjiose, the family 
 name of the Dufferins, as Russell is of the Dukes of Bedford 
 and Ca\endish is of the Pukes of De\onshire. Her son, the 
 present Earl of Tlufferin, is widely known as an accomplished 
 statesman and author. His mother, after the death of her 
 first husband, married, in 18G2, llie Earl of Gilford, and died , , 
 m 1867. 
 
 -5> 
 
a— 
 
 892 
 
 MILLER. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And you were all I had, Mary, — 
 
 My blessiu' and my pride : 
 There 's nothing left to care for now, 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
 
 That still kept hoping on, 
 When the trust in God liad left my soul. 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone ; 
 There was comfort ever on your Up, 
 
 And the kind look on your brow, — 
 I bless you, Mary, fur that same. 
 
 Though you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 Wlien your licart was lit to break, — 
 TVIien the luinger-pain was gnawin' there, 
 
 And you hid it for my sake ; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word, 
 
 When your heart was sad and sore, — 
 0, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you more ! 
 
 I 'm biddin' you a long farewell. 
 
 My Mary, — kind and true ! 
 But I'll not forget you, darling. 
 
 In the land I 'm goin' to ; 
 They say there 's bread and work for all, 
 
 And the sun shines always there, — 
 But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 
 
 Were it fifty times as fair ! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I '11 sit, and shut my eyes. 
 And my heart will travel back again 
 
 To the place where Mary lies ; 
 And I '11 think I see the little stile 
 
 AVhere we sat side by side. 
 And the springiu' corn, and tiie briglit May morn. 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
 THOMAS MILLER. 
 
 1809- 1874. 
 
 THE HAPPY VALLEY, 
 
 It was a valley filled with sweetest sounds, 
 A languid music haunted everywhere. 
 
 Like those with which a summer eve abounds. 
 From rustling com and song-birds calling dear, 
 
 Down sloping-uplands, wliich some wood sur- 
 nnnids, 
 Witli tinkling rills just 1\eard. but not too near; 
 
 Or lowhig cattle on the distant jjhiin. 
 
 And swing of far-off l)ells, now caught, then lost 
 again. 
 
 It seemed like Eden's angcl-peopled vale. 
 
 So bri2;ht the .sky, so soft the streams did flow ; 
 
 Such tones came riding on the musk- winged gale, 
 The very air seemed sleepily to blow. 
 
 And choicest flowers enamelled every dale, 
 Flushed with the richest sunliglit's rosy glow ; 
 
 It was a valley drowsy with delight, 
 
 Such fragrance floated round, such beauty dimmed 
 tlie sight. 
 
 The golden-belted bees hummed in the air, 
 T\u: tall silk grasses bent and waved along ; 
 
 The trees slept in the steeping sunbeam's glare, 
 The dreamy river chimed its under-song. 
 
 And took its own free course witliout a care : 
 Amid the boughs did lute-tongued songsters 
 throng. 
 
 Until the valley throbbed beneath their lays. 
 
 And echoecho chased through many a leafy maze. 
 
 And shapes were there, like spirits of the flowers. 
 Sent down to see the summer-beauties dress. 
 And feed their fragrant mouths witii silver 
 showers ; 
 Their eyes pecjied out from many a green recess. 
 And their fair forms made light the thiek-sct 
 bowers ; 
 The very flowers seemed eager to caress 
 Sucii living sisters, and the boughs, long-leaved. 
 Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed 
 bosoms heaved. 
 
 One through her long loose hair was backward 
 peeping, 
 Or throwing, with raised arm, the locks aside ; 
 Another high a pile of flowers was iieaping. 
 
 Or looking love askance, and when descried. 
 Her coy glance on the bedded-greensward keep- 
 ing; 
 She pulled the flowers to pieces as she sighed, 
 Tiien blushed like timid daybreak w lien the dawn 
 Looks crimson on the night, and then again 's 
 withdrawn. 
 
 One, with her warm and milk-white arms out- 
 spread. 
 
 On ti|)toe tripped along a sunlit glade ; 
 Half turned the matchless sculpture of her head. 
 
 And half shook down her silken eireling bniid ; 
 Her back-blown scarf an arched rainbow made ; 
 
 She seemed to float on air, so light she sjied ; 
 Skimming tlie wavy flowers, as she passed by. 
 With fair and printless feet, like clouds along the 
 sky. 
 
 One sat alone within a shady nook. 
 
 With wildwood songs the lazy lioure beguil- 
 ing ; 
 Or looking at her shadow in the brook, 
 
 Trying to frown, then at the effort smiling. 
 Her laughing eyes mocked every serious look ; 
 
 'T was as if Love stood at himself reviling : 
 
 --^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE BROOKSIDE. — LABOR. 
 
 893 
 
 -Q) 
 
 She tlirew in llowers, and watched them tioat 
 
 away, 
 Tbcu at her beauty looked, then sang a sweeter lay. 
 
 Others on beds of roses lay reclined. 
 
 The regal flowers athwart their I'liU lips thrown. 
 
 And in one fragrance both their sweets combined, 
 As if they on the selfsame stem had grown. 
 
 So close were rose and lip together twined, — 
 A double flower that from one bud had blown. 
 
 Till none could tell, so closely were they blended, 
 
 Where swelled the curving lip, or where the rose- 
 bloom ended. 
 
 One, half asleep, crushing the twined flowers, 
 Upon a velvet slope like Dian lay ; 
 
 Still as a lark that mid the daisies cowers : 
 Her looped-up tunic tossed in disarray, 
 
 Sliowed rounded limbs, too fair for earthly bowers ; 
 They looked like roses on a cloudy day ; 
 
 The warm wliite dulled amid the colder green ; 
 
 The llowers too rough a conch that lo\'cly shape 
 to screen. 
 
 Some lay hke Thetis' nymphs along the shore. 
 With ocean-pearl combing their golden locks. 
 
 And singing to the waves forevermore ; 
 
 Sinking like flowers at eve beside the rocks. 
 
 If but a sound above the muffled roar 
 Of the low waves was heard. In little flocks 
 
 Others went trooping through the wooded alleys. 
 
 Their kirtles glancing white, like streams in sunny 
 valleys. 
 
 They were such forms as, imaged in the night, 
 Sail in our dreams across the heaven's steep 
 blue ; 
 Wlien tlie closed lid sees visions streaming bright. 
 
 Too beautiful to meet the naked view ; 
 Like faces formed in clouds of silver light. 
 
 Women they were ! such as the angels knew ! 
 Such as the mammoth looked on, ere he fled. 
 Seared by the lovers' wings, that streamed in 
 sunset red. 
 
 »o;«Ko« 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON.* 
 
 1809- 
 
 THE BROOKSIDE. 
 
 I w.iNDERED by the brookside, 
 
 I wandered by the mill ; 
 
 I could not liear the brook flow, — ■ 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 No chirp of any bird, 
 
 * Before his elevation to the peerage, RicharJ Moucliton 
 Milncs. 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
 
 I watched the long, long shade. 
 
 And, as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 For I listened for a footfall, 
 
 I listened for a word, — 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, — no, he came not, — 
 The night came on alone, — 
 The little stars sat one by one, 
 Each on his golden tlirone ; 
 The evening wind passed by my cheek, 
 The leaves above were stirred, — 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 East silent tears were flowing. 
 When something stood bcliind ; 
 A hand was on my shoulder, — 
 I knew its toucli was kind : 
 It drew me nearer, — nearer, — ■ 
 We did not speak one word. 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 THE PALM AND THE PINE. 
 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
 
 Of other blood reposes ; 
 Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl. 
 
 Amid that wild of roses. 
 
 Beside a northern pine a boy 
 
 Is leaning fancy-bound, 
 Nor listens where with noisy joy 
 
 Awaits the impatient hound. 
 
 Cool grows the sick and feverish calm. 
 Relaxed the frosty twine, — 
 
 The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, 
 Tlie palm-tree of the pine. 
 
 As soon shall nature interlace 
 Tliose dimly visioncd boughs, 
 
 As these young lovers face to face 
 Renew their early vows ! 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 HE.A.KT of the people ! Workingmen ! 
 
 MaiTow and nerve of human powers ; 
 Who on your sturdy backs sustain 
 
 Through streaming time tliis world of ours ; 
 
 ^- 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 894 
 
 LEVER. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Hold by that title, — wliicli proclaims 
 That ye are undismayed and strong, 
 
 Accomiilishing whatever aims 
 May to the sous of earth belong. 
 
 Yet not on ye alone depend 
 
 These oiEecs, or burdens fall; 
 Labor, for some or other end. 
 
 Is lord and master of us all. 
 The higli-born youth from downy bed 
 
 Must meet the uiorn with horse and hound, 
 Whih' industry for daily bread 
 
 Pursues afresii iiis wonted round. 
 
 Witli all his pomp of pleasure, he 
 
 Is but your working comrade now. 
 And shouts and winds his horn, as ye 
 
 Might wiiistle by tlie loom or plough ; 
 In vain for liim has wealth the use 
 
 Of warm repose and careless joy, — 
 When, as ye labor to produce. 
 
 He strives, as active, to destroy. 
 
 But who is this with wasted frame, 
 
 Sad sign of vigor overwrouglit ? 
 What toil can this new victim claim ? 
 
 Pleasure, for pleasure's sake besought. 
 How men would mock her flaunting shows, 
 
 Her golden promise, if they knew 
 What weary work she is to tiiose 
 
 Who have no better work to do ! 
 
 And he who still and silent sits 
 
 In closed room or sliady nook, 
 And seems to nurse his idle wits 
 
 Witli i'oldcd arms or open book : 
 To things now working in that mind 
 
 Your children's children well may owe 
 Blessings that hope has ne'er defined. 
 
 Till from his bu.sy thouglits tiiey flow. 
 
 Thus all must work : with head or hand, 
 
 For self or others, good or ill ; 
 Life is ordained to bear, like land, 
 
 Some fruit, be fallow as it will : 
 Evil lias force itself to sow 
 
 Wlicre wc deny tlie healthy seed, — 
 And all our choice is tliis, — to grow 
 
 Pasture and grain, or noisome weed. 
 
 Then in content possess your hearts, 
 
 Unenvious of each otlier's lot, — 
 For tiiose which seem the easiest parts 
 
 Have travail which ye reckon not: 
 And lie is bravest, li;ippicst, best, 
 
 Who, from the task within his span, 
 Earns for himself his evening rest, 
 
 And an increase of good for man. 
 
 CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 
 
 1809-1873. 
 
 WIDOW MALONE. 
 
 Did you hear of the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ohoiie ! 
 Who lived in the town of Athloue, 
 Alone ! 
 0, she melted the hearts 
 Of tlie swains in them parts : 
 So lovely the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ohoiie ! 
 So lovely the Widow Malone. 
 
 Of lovers she had a full score, 
 
 Or more, 
 And fortunes they all had galore. 
 In store ; 
 From the minister down 
 To the clerk of tlie erown. 
 All were courting the Widow Malone, 
 
 Olione ! 
 All were courting tlie Widow Malone. 
 
 But so modest was Mistress Malone, 
 'T was known 
 That no one could see her alone, 
 Ohone I 
 Let them ogle and sigh. 
 They could ne'er catch her eye, 
 So bashful the Widow JIalone, 
 Ohone ! 
 So bashful the Widow Malone. 
 
 Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare 
 (How quare I 
 It 's little for blushing they care 
 
 Down there.) 
 Put his arm round her waist — 
 Gave ten kisses at laste — 
 " 0," says he, " you 're my Molly Malone, 
 
 My own ! 
 0," says lie, " you 're my Molly Maloue ! " 
 
 And the widow they all thought so shy. 
 
 My eye ! 
 Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh — 
 For wliy ? 
 But, " Lucius," says siie, 
 " Since you 've now made so free. 
 You may marry your Mary Jlaloue, 
 
 Ohone ! 
 You may marry your Mary Malone." 
 
 There 's a moral contained in my song, 
 Kot wrong ; 
 
 And one comfort, it 's not very long, 
 But strong, — 
 
 ■^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 
 
 895 
 
 -95 
 
 V- 
 
 If for widows you die, 
 
 Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; 
 Tor tliey 're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 
 
 Olione ! 
 0, tlicy 're all like sweet Mistress Maloue ! 
 
 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 
 
 1803 (!) - 
 
 THE GEEAT MAN AND THE GREAT POET. 
 
 The wisdom of inaukiud creeps slowly on, 
 Subject to every doubt that can retard, 
 Or fling it back upon an earlier time ; 
 So timid are man's footsteps in the dark, 
 But blindest those who have no inward light. 
 One mind, perchance, in every age contains 
 The sum of all before, and much to come ; 
 Much that 's far distant still ; but that full 
 
 miud. 
 Companioned oft by others of like scope, 
 Belief, and tendency, and anxious will, 
 A circle small transpierces and illumes : 
 Expanding, soon its subtle radiance 
 Falls blunted from tiie mass of flesh and bone. 
 The man who for his race might supersede 
 The work of ages, dies worn out, — not used. 
 And in his track disciples onward strive, 
 Some hair's-breadths only from his starting point : 
 Yet hves he not in vain ; for if his soul 
 Ilath entered others, though imperfectly. 
 The circle widens as the world spins round, — 
 His soul w(n-ks on while he sleeps 'neath the grass. 
 So, let the firm philosopher renew 
 His wasted lamp, — the lamp wastes not in vain. 
 Though he no mirrors for its rays may see. 
 Nor tl'aee them through the (iarkness ; — let the 
 
 hand 
 Which feels primeval impulses, direct 
 A forthright plough, and make his furrow broad. 
 With heart untiring while one field remains ; 
 So, let the herald poet shed his thoughts. 
 Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind. 
 Work in the night, thou sage, while Mammon's 
 
 brain 
 Teems with low visions on his couch of down; — 
 Break, thou, the clods while high-throned Vanity, 
 Jlidst glaring lights and trumpets, holds its 
 
 court ; — 
 Sing, thou, thy song amidst the stoning crowd, 
 Then stand apart, obscure to man, with God. 
 The poet of the future knows his place, 
 Though in the present shady be his seat. 
 And all liis laurels deepening but the shade. 
 
 Orion. 
 
 T. NOEL. 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DRIVE 
 
 There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round 
 
 trot, — 
 To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
 The road it is rough, and the hearse lias no 
 
 springs ; 
 And hark to the dirge which the sad driver 
 sings ; 
 Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 
 
 O, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are 
 
 none, — • 
 He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's 
 
 gone, — 
 Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
 To tlie grave with his carcass as fast as you can ; 
 Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns I 
 
 What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and 
 
 din ! 
 The whip how it cracks I and the wheels how 
 
 they spin ! 
 How the dirt, right and left, o'er the liedges is 
 
 hurled ! — 
 The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 
 Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 
 
 Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some ap- 
 proach 
 To gentility, now that he's stretched in a 
 
 coach ! 
 He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
 But it' will not be long, if lie goes on so fast : 
 Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns I 
 
 You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother con- 
 veyed, — 
 Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 
 And be joyfid to think, when by death you 're 
 
 laid low, 
 Y'ou ' ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go I 
 Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He 's only a pauper, whom nobody ownis ! 
 
 But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. 
 To think that a heart in humanity clad 
 Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end. 
 And depart from the light without leaving afriend ! 
 
 Bear soft his bones over the stones ! 
 
 Though a pauper, he 's one whom liis Maker 
 yet owns ! 
 
 -g> 
 
cQ- 
 
 89G 
 
 ALFORD. — TENNYSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 HENRY ALFORD. 
 
 1810- 1871. 
 
 LADT MABT. 
 
 fr 
 
 Thou wert fair. Lady Mary, 
 
 As the lily in tlie sun : 
 And fairer yet tliou inigiitcst be, 
 
 Thy yoiitii was but begun : 
 Thine eye was soft and glancing, 
 
 Of the deep bright Ijlue ; 
 And on the licart thy gentle words 
 
 Fell lighter than the dew. 
 
 They found thee. Lady Mary, 
 
 With thy palms upon thy breast. 
 Even as tliou iiadst been praying, 
 
 At thine hour of rest : 
 The cold pale moon was sluuing 
 
 On thy cold jiale cheek ; 
 And the morn of the Nativity 
 
 Had just begun to break. 
 
 They carved thee, Lady Mary, 
 
 All of pure white stone, 
 With tliy palms upon thy breast, 
 
 Li the chancel all alone : 
 And I saw thee wlien tlie winter moon 
 
 Shone on tliy marble check, 
 When the morn of the Nativity 
 
 Had just begun to break. 
 
 But t hou kneelest, Lady "Mary, 
 
 With thy palms upon thy breast. 
 Among tiic perfect sjiirits, 
 
 In the land of rest : 
 Tliou art even as they took thee 
 
 At thine hour of prayer. 
 Save tlie glory tiiat is on thee 
 
 From tlie sun that shineth there. 
 
 We shall see thee, Lady Mary, 
 
 On that shore unknown, 
 A pure and liappy angel 
 
 III the presence of the tlironc ; 
 We .shall see thee when tlie light divine 
 
 Plays fresldy on thy cheek, 
 And the resurrection morning 
 
 Hath just begun to break. 
 
 THE FUNERAL, 
 
 Slowly and softly let tlie music go. 
 
 As yc wind upwards to the gray ciiureh-tower ; 
 
 Check the shrill haul boy, let the pi])e breathe 
 
 low, — 
 Tread liglitly on the palhside daisy-flower. 
 For she ye carry was a gculle bud, 
 
 Loved by the unsunned drops of silver dew ; 
 Her voice was like the whisper of the wood 
 In prime of even, when the stars are few. 
 Lay her all gently in the sacred mould, 
 Weep with her one brief iiour; then turn away, — 
 Go to liope's prison, — and from out the cold 
 And solitary gratings many a day 
 Look forth : 't is said tlie world is growing old, 
 And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 Tlie funeral sermon was on the text, " The Master is come, 
 and calletli for thee " (SI. John xi. 28). 
 
 Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast; — 
 She heard the call, and rose witli willing feet; 
 But thinking it not otherwise than meet 
 For such a bidding to put on her best. 
 She is gone from us for a few short hours 
 Into her bridal closet, there to wait 
 For tiie unfolding of the palace-gate. 
 That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. 
 We have not seen her yet, though we iiave been 
 Full often to her cliamber-door, and oft 
 Have listened underneath the postern green. 
 And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and 
 
 soft; 
 But she hath made no answer, and the day 
 From the clear west is fading fast away. 
 
 o»;o 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 MARIANA, 
 
 ** Mariana in the moated grange." 
 
 Maisnrcfor Measure. 
 
 With blackest moss the flower-plots 
 Were thickly crusted, one and till ; 
 The rusted nails fell from the knots 
 That held the ])eaeh to the garden-wall. 
 The broken sheds looked sad and strange : 
 Unlifted was the clinking lateli ; 
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
 Upon the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said, " My life is dreary, 
 He eometii not," she said ; 
 
 • The works of Ihis eminent poet arc pnlilished in so ninny 
 expensive and so many cheap editions, that it may he taken for 
 granted lliey are known to all lovers of poetry. In select- 
 ing from his poems, we have heeii overcome hy a dllllciilly ex- 
 perienced in no otlier Knglish writer of the past fifty years, 
 namely, the very emlmrrassmcnt of riches. To meet the de- 
 mands of his ndniirers, we should he tempted to (luote a full 
 rjuyrter of his poetical works. As this is Impossihle, we may 
 he allowed to name sonic poems, universally known, which we 
 have tieea reluctantly coTiipclU'd to omit. The list includes, 
 not merely striking passages in The Princess, In Memonum. 
 Kuitc/i Artien, Mdud, and the hlyls of the Kinr/, hut such cmiii 
 
 -Q> 
 
J i/n/T^i4^^ if /t' 
 
a-- 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE.— THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 
 897 
 
 -n> 
 
 <Q- 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would tliat I were dead ! " 
 
 Ilcr tears fell with the dews at even ; 
 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
 She could not look ou the sweet heaven. 
 
 Either at morn or eventide. 
 After the flitting of the bats, 
 
 When thiekest dark did trance the sky. 
 She drew her easement-curtain by. 
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
 She only said, " The night is dreary. 
 
 He oometli not," she said ; 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 Upon the middle of the night. 
 
 Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 
 The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
 
 From the dark fen the oxen's low 
 Came to her : without hope of change, 
 III sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. 
 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mom 
 About the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said, " The day is dreary. 
 
 He cometh not," she said ; 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 About a stone-cast from the wall 
 
 A sluice with blackened waters slept, 
 And o'er it many, round and small, 
 
 The clustered marish-mosses crept. 
 Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
 All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
 For leagues no other tree did mark 
 The level waste, the rounding gray. 
 She only said, " My life is dreary. 
 
 He Cometh not," she said ; 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 And ever when the moon was low. 
 
 And the shrill winds were up and away, 
 lu the white curtain, to and fro, 
 
 She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
 But when the moon was very low. 
 
 And wild winds bound within their cell. 
 
 The shadow of the poplar fell 
 Upon her bed, across her brow. 
 
 paratively short poems as Ode to Memory, JtecoUections of the 
 Ai-nhifni Nights, Tlte Miller's Tlauijhter, A Dream of Fair ti'o- 
 mrn. Lorn, Tlte TaUinij Oak, The Gardener's Daughter, The 
 Lulo!- Eaters, Godira, The Ballad ofOriana, The Palace of Art, 
 Marie d'Arlhur, The Two Voices, the Ode on the Death of the 
 Dnke of IFelHtt/jton, Tithonus, and Lucretius. Still, if a poet 
 persists steadily in writing poem after poem, each of which is 
 a masterpiece of its kind, it cannot he expected that he slionld 
 lie adequately represented in a volume of selections in which 
 an attempt is made to inchide every vnriety nf the poetic 
 inius of Britain. 
 
 She only said, " The night is dreary. 
 He cometh not," she said ; 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 I woidd that I were dead ! " 
 
 All day within the dreamy house. 
 
 The doors upon their hinges creaked ; 
 The blue fly sung in the jiane ; the mouse 
 
 Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, 
 Or from the crevice peered about. 
 
 Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 
 Old voices called her from without. 
 She only said, " My life is dreary. 
 
 He cometh not," she said ; 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 
 
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
 Which to the wooing wind aloof 
 
 The poplar made, did all confound 
 Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
 When the thick-moated sunbeam lay 
 Athwart the chambers, and the day 
 Was sloping toward his western bower. 
 Then, said she, "I am very dreary. 
 
 He will not come," she said ; 
 
 She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 O God, that I were dead ! " 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE, 
 
 Two children in two neighbor villages 
 Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas ; 
 Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
 Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 
 Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
 Two graves grass-green beside a gray church- 
 tower. 
 Washed with still rains and daisy-blossomed ; 
 Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
 So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 P.\RT I. 
 
 On either side the river lie 
 Long fields of barley and of rye. 
 That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
 And through the field the road runs by 
 
 To many-towered Camelot; 
 And up and down the people go, 
 Gazing where the lilies blow 
 Round an island there below, 
 
 The island of Shalott. 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 898 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
 Little breezes dusk and shiver 
 Through the wave that runs forever, 
 By the island in the river 
 
 Flowing down to Camelot. 
 Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
 Overlook a space of flowers, 
 And the silent isle imbowers 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 By the margin, willow-veiled, 
 SUde the heavy barges trailed 
 By slow horses ; and uniiailed 
 The shallop flitteth silkon-sailed 
 
 Skimming down to Camelot : 
 But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
 Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
 Or is she kno-mi in all the land. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott? 
 
 Only reapers, reaping early 
 In among the bearded barley. 
 Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
 From the river winding clearly, 
 
 Down to towered Camelot "• 
 And by the moon the reaper weary, 
 Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
 Listening, whispers, " 'T is the fairy 
 
 Lady of Shalott." 
 
 There she weaves by night and day 
 A magic web with colors gay. 
 She has heard a whisper say, 
 A curse is on her if she stay 
 
 To look down to Camelot. 
 She knows not wliat the curse may be. 
 And so she weaveth steadily. 
 And little other care hath she. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And moving through a mirror clear 
 That hangs before her all the year. 
 Shadows of the world appear. 
 There she sees the highway near 
 
 Winding down to Camelot ; 
 There the river eddy whirls. 
 And there the surly village-churls. 
 And the red cloaks of market girls, 
 
 Pass onward from Shalott. 
 
 Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
 An abbot on an anibliug pad, 
 Sometimes a curly slu'])lierd-lad. 
 Or long-liaired page in crimson clad, 
 
 Goes by to towered Camelot ; 
 And sometimes through the mirror blue 
 
 The knights come riding two and two : 
 She hath no loyal knight and true, 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 But in her web she still delights 
 To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
 For often through tlie silent nights 
 A funeral, with plumes and lights, 
 
 And music, went to Camelot ; 
 Or when the moon was overhead. 
 Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
 " I am half-sick of shadows," said 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 P.\RT III. 
 
 A BOW-SHOT from her bower-caves. 
 He rode between the barley sheaves. 
 The sun came dazzling through the leaves. 
 And llamed upon the brazen greaves 
 
 Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
 A redcross knight forever kneeled 
 To a' lady in his shield, 
 That sparkled on the yellow field. 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 The gemmy bridle glittered free, 
 Like to some branch of stars we see 
 Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
 The bridle bells rang merrily 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot : 
 And from his blazoned baldric slung 
 A mighty silver bugle hung. 
 And as he rode his armor rung. 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 All in the blue unclouded weather 
 Thiek-jcwelled shone the saddle-leather, 
 Tlie liclmct and tlic helniet-fcathcr 
 Burned like one burning llamc together. 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot. 
 As often through the pur|ile night. 
 Below the starry clustei-s bright, 
 Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
 
 Moves over still Shalott. 
 
 His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; 
 Ou burnished hooves his war-liorse trodc; 
 From underneath his helmet flowed 
 His coal-black curls as ou he rode. 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot. 
 From the bank and from the river 
 He Hashed into the crystal mirror, 
 "Tirra lirra," by the river 
 
 Sang Sir Lancelot. 
 
 She left the web. she left the looui. 
 
 She made three i)aces through the room, 
 
 ^ 
 
THE SISTERS. — LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 
 
 899 
 
 -Q) 
 
 She saw the water-lily bloom, 
 She saw the helmet and the plume, 
 
 She looked down to Camelot. 
 Out flew tlie web and floated wide; 
 The mirror eraeked from side to side ; 
 " The curse is come upon me," cried 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 In the stormy east-wind straining, 
 The pale yellow woods were waning. 
 The broad stream in his banks coniplaiuing. 
 Heavily the low sky raining 
 
 Over towered Camelot ; 
 Down she came and found a boat 
 Beneath a willow left afloat, 
 And round about the prow she wrote 
 
 The Lady of Shalotl. 
 
 And down the river's dim expanse — 
 Like some bold seer in a trance. 
 Seeing all his own miseliance — • 
 With a glassy countenance 
 
 Did she look to Camelot. 
 And at the closing of tlie day 
 She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
 The broad stream bore her far away, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Lying, robed in snowy white 
 That loosely flew to left and riglit — 
 The leaves upon her falling light — 
 Through the noises of the night 
 
 She floated down to Camelot. : 
 And as the boat-head wound along 
 The willowy hills and fields among. 
 They heard her singing her last song. 
 
 The Lady" of "shalott. 
 
 Heard a earol, mournful, holy. 
 Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
 Till her blood was frozen slow !y, 
 And her eyes were darkened wimlly. 
 
 Turned to towered Camelot; 
 For ere slie readied upon tlie tide 
 Tlie first house by the water-side. 
 Singing in her song she died, 
 
 Tlie Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Under tower and balcony. 
 By garden-wall and gallery, 
 A gleaming shape she floated by, 
 A corse between the houses high, 
 
 Silent into Camelot. 
 Out upon the wharfs they came, 
 Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
 And round the prow they read her name. 
 
 The Ladi/ of S'luihlt. 
 
 Who is this ? and what is here ? 
 And in tlie lighted palace near 
 Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
 And tliey crossed themselves for fear. 
 
 All the knights at Camelot : 
 But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
 He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
 God in his mercy lend her grace. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott." 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 We were two daughters of one race : 
 She was the fairest in the face : 
 
 The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
 They were together, and she fell ; 
 Therefore revenge became me well. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 Slie died : she went to burning flame : 
 She mixed her ancient blood with shame. 
 
 The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
 Whole weeks and mouths, and early and late, 
 To win his love I lay in wait: 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I made a feast; I bade him come; 
 I won his love, I brouglit him home. 
 
 The wind is. roaring in turret and tree. 
 And after supper, on a bed. 
 Upon my lap he laid his liead : 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I kissed his eyelids into rest : 
 His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 
 
 The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
 I hated him with the hate of hell. 
 But I loved his beauty passing well. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I rose up in the silent night: 
 I made my dagger sharp and bright. 
 ■ The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
 As half asleep his breath he drew, 
 Three times I stabbed him through and through. 
 the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I curled and combed his comely head, 
 He looked so grand when he was dead. 
 
 The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
 I wrapt Ills body in the sheet. 
 And laid him at his mother's feet. 
 
 the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Of me you shall not win renown : 
 You thought to break a country heart 
 
 For pastime, ere you went to town. 
 
 ^ 
 
900 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 At ine you smiled, but. uube;;uiled 
 I saw the snare, aud I retired: 
 
 The daugliter of a hundred Earls, 
 You are not one to be desired. 
 
 Lady Clara Verc de Vei-e, 
 
 I know you proud to bear your name. 
 Your pride is yet no mate lor mine, 
 
 Too proud to care from \»lience I came. 
 Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
 
 A iieart that doats on truer charms. 
 A simple maiden in her flower 
 
 Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Some meeker pupil you must find. 
 For were you queen of all that is, 
 
 I could not stoop to such a mind. 
 You sought to prove how I could love. 
 
 And my disdain is my reply. 
 The lion on your old stone gates 
 
 Is not more cold to you than I. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 You put strange memories in my head. 
 Not thrice your brandling limes luive blown 
 
 Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
 
 your sweet eyes, your low re[illes : 
 A great enchantress you may be ; 
 
 But there was that across ills throat 
 Which you had liardly cared to see. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 When thus he met his motlier's view, 
 She had the passions of her kind. 
 
 She spake some certain truths of you. 
 Indeed I heard one bitter word 
 
 That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
 Her manners had not that repose 
 
 Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 There stands a spectre in your hall : 
 The guilt of blood is at your door : 
 
 You changed a wiiolesonio heart to gall. 
 You held your course without remorse, 
 
 To make him trust iiis modest worth. 
 And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, 
 
 And slew him with your noble birth. 
 
 Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us bent 
 Tlie grand old gardener and his wife 
 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'T is only noble to be good. 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 1 know you, Clara Vere dc Vere : 
 
 You pine among your halls and towers : 
 
 The languid liglit of j'our proud eyes 
 
 Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
 In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 
 
 But sickening of a vague disease, 
 You know so ill to deal with time. 
 
 You needs must play such pranks as these. 
 
 Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 If Time be heavy on your hands, 
 Are there no beggars at your gate. 
 
 Nor any poor about your lands ? 
 Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read. 
 
 Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
 Pray Heaven for a human heart. 
 
 And let the foolish veonian go. 
 
 THE MAT QUEEN. 
 
 You must wake and call nie early, call me early, 
 
 mother dear ; 
 To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 
 
 New-year ; * 
 
 Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest 
 
 merriest day ; 
 For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 There 's many a black black eye, they say, but 
 
 none so bright as mine ; 
 There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and 
 
 Caroline : 
 But none so fair as little Alice in all tiie land 
 
 they say, 
 So I 'in to be Queen o' tiie May, mother, I 'm to 
 
 be Queen o' tiie May. 
 
 I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall 
 
 never wake. 
 If you do not call nic loud when the day begins 
 
 to break : 
 But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and 
 
 garlands gay, 
 For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, niotlier, I 'lu 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 As I came up the valley whom think ye should I 
 
 see. 
 But Bobiu leaning on the bridge bencalh the 
 
 hazel-tree ? 
 He thought of that sliarp look, mother, I gave 
 
 him yesterday, — 
 But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 He thought I was a ghost, mother, for 1 was all 
 
 in white. 
 And I ran by him without speaking, like a Hash 
 
 of light. 
 
 -g> 
 
(&■ 
 
 THE MAY-QUEEN. 
 
 901 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Tliey call me cruel-hearted, but I care uot wliat 
 
 tlicy say, 
 For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to 
 
 be Queen o' the May. 
 
 They say he's dying all for love, but that can 
 never be : 
 
 They say his heart is breaking, mother — what 
 is that to me ? 
 
 There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any sum- 
 mer day, 
 
 And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 Little Eftie shall go with me to-morrow to the 
 
 green, 
 And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made 
 
 the Queen ; 
 for the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from 
 
 far away, 
 And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its 
 
 wavy bowers. 
 And by tiie meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 
 
 cuckoo-flowers ; 
 And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire iu 
 
 swamps and hollows gray. 
 And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 The night-winds come and go, mother, npon tlie 
 
 meadow-grass, 
 And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 
 
 as they pass ; 
 There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the 
 
 livelong day, 
 And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 All tlie valley, mothei-, 'ill be fresli and green and 
 
 still, 
 Aud the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all 
 
 the hill, 
 Aud the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily 
 
 glance and play, 
 For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 
 
 mother dear, 
 To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the 
 
 glad New-year ; 
 To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest 
 
 merriest day. 
 For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 
 
 to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 ^ 
 
 NEW-YEARS EVE. 
 
 If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, 
 mother dear. 
 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
 year. 
 
 It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 
 
 Then you may lay me low i' the moidd and think 
 no more of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left be- 
 hind 
 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 
 peace of mind ; 
 
 And the New-year 's coming up, mother, but I 
 shall never see 
 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the 
 tree. 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had 
 
 a merry day ; 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green tliey made 
 
 me Queen of May ; 
 And we danced about the may-pole and in the 
 
 hazel copse. 
 Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white 
 
 chimney-tops. 
 
 There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost 
 
 is on the pane ; 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: 
 I wish the snow would melt and the sun come 
 
 out on high : 
 I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 
 
 The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall 
 elm-tree. 
 
 And the tufted ])lover pipe along the fallow lea. 
 
 And the swallow 'ill come back again with sum- 
 mer o'er the wave. 
 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moul- 
 dering grave. 
 
 Upon the ehaneel-casement, and upon that grave 
 
 of mine. 
 In the early, early morning the summer sun 'ill 
 
 shine. 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon 
 
 the hill. 
 When you are warm-asleep, mother, aud all the 
 
 world is still. 
 
 T^Hien the flowers come again, mother, beneath 
 
 the waning light. 
 You 'II never see me more in the long gray fields 
 
 at night ; 
 When from the dry dark wold the summer airs 
 
 blow cool 
 On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, aud the 
 
 bulrush in the pool. 
 
 -u> 
 
e 
 
 dO-2 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 You '11 bury iiic, uiy mother, just bcneatii the 
 
 hawthoru shade, 
 And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I 
 
 am lowly laid. 
 I shall not I'orget you, mother, I shall hear jou 
 
 when you ])ass. 
 With your feet above my head in the long and 
 
 pleasant grass. 
 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 for- 
 give me now ; 
 
 You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me 
 ere I go ; 
 
 Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief 
 be wild. 
 
 You should not fret for me, mother, you have 
 another child. 
 
 If 1 can I '11 come again, mother, from out my 
 
 resting-place ; 
 Though you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look 
 
 upon your face ; 
 Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken 
 
 what you say. 
 And be often, often with you when you think 
 
 I 'm far away. 
 
 Good-uight, good-night, when I have said good- 
 night forevermore. 
 
 And you see me carried out from the threshold 
 of the door ; 
 
 Don't let Effle come to see me till my grave be 
 growing green : 
 
 [She '11 be a belter child to you than ever I have 
 been. 
 
 She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary 
 floor. 
 
 Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never 
 garden more : 
 
 But tell licr, when I 'm gone, to train the rose- 
 busli tliat I set 
 
 About the parlor-window and the box of migno- 
 nette. 
 
 Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the 
 day is born. 
 
 All niglit 1 lie awake, but I fall asleep at 
 morji ; 
 
 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
 year, 
 
 So, if you ' re waking, call me, call me early, mother 
 dear. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I TMOUrjiiT to pass aw.iy before, and yet alive 
 
 1 am ; 
 And in the fields all round I hear the bleating 
 
 of the lamb. 
 
 <^ 
 
 How sadly, 1 remember, rose the morning of the 
 
 year ! 
 To die before the snowdrop came, and now the 
 
 violet 's here. 
 
 O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 
 
 skies. 
 And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me 
 
 that cannot rise. 
 And sweet is all the land about, and all the 
 
 flowers that blow. 
 And sweeter far is death than life to me that long 
 
 to go. 
 
 It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the 
 
 blessed sun, 
 And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His 
 
 will be done ! 
 But still I think it can't be long before 1 find 
 
 release ; 
 And that good man, the clergyman, has told me 
 
 words of peace. 
 
 O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver 
 
 hair ! 
 And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 
 
 me there I 
 
 blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver 
 
 head ! 
 A thousand times I blest liim, as he knelt beside 
 my bed. 
 
 He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me 
 
 all the sin. 
 Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there 's 
 
 One will let me in : 
 Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that 
 
 could be, 
 For my desire is but to pass to Him that died 
 
 for me. 
 
 1 did not hear tlie dog howl, mother, or the death- 
 
 watch beat. 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and 
 
 morning meet : 
 But sit l)eside my bed, mother, and i)ut your 
 
 hand in mine. 
 And Effie on the otlier side, and I will tell the 
 
 sign. 
 
 All in the wild March-moniing I heard the an- 
 gels call ; 
 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark 
 was over all ; 
 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began 
 to roll. 
 
 And in the wild Mareh-morning I heard them call 
 mv soul. 
 
 ^ 
 
(pr 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. — ULYSSES. 903 
 
 ^ 
 
 Fur lying broad awake I thought of you and 
 
 " Effic dear ; 
 I saw yju sitting in tlic liouse, and I no longer 
 
 hero ; 
 Witli all my strengtli 1 prayed for botii, and so I 
 
 felt resigned, 
 And up the valley came a swell of music ou the 
 
 wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my 
 
 bed. 
 And then did something speak to me — I know 
 
 not what was said ; 
 For great delight and shuddering took hold of all 
 
 my mind, 
 And up the valley came again the music on the 
 
 wind. 
 
 But you were sleeping; and I said, " It 's not 
 
 for them : it 's mine." 
 And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it 
 
 for a sign. 
 And once again it came, and close beside the 
 
 window-bars. 
 Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and die 
 
 among the stars. 
 
 So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. 
 
 I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will 
 
 have to go. 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
 But, Eflie, yon must comfort her when I am past 
 
 away. 
 
 And say to Robin a kind w-ord, and tell him not 
 
 to fret ; 
 There 's many worthier than I, would make him 
 
 happy yet. 
 If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have 
 
 been his wile ; 
 But all tliese things have ceased to be, with my 
 
 desire of life. 
 
 look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are 
 
 in a glow ; 
 He shines upon a liuudred fields, and all of them 
 
 I know. 
 And there I move no longer now, and there his 
 
 light may siihie — 
 A\'ild flowers in the \alley for other hands than 
 
 mine. 
 
 O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this 
 
 day is done 
 The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond 
 
 the sun — 
 Forever and forever with those just souls and 
 
 true — 
 And what is life, that we should moan ? why 
 
 make we such ado ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 Forever and forever, all in a blessed home, — 
 
 x\nd there to wait a little while till you and Lffie 
 come — • 
 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 
 breast — 
 
 And the wicked cease from troubling, and tin- 
 weary are at rest. 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 
 
 The thunders breaking at her feet: 
 
 Above her shook the starry lights : 
 She heard the torrents meet. 
 
 There in her place she did rejoice. 
 
 Self-gathered in her prophet-mind. 
 
 But fragments of her mighty voice 
 Came rolling on the wind. 
 
 Then slept she down through town and field 
 To mingle with the human race. 
 
 And part by part to men revealed 
 The fulness of her face — 
 
 Grave mother of majestic works. 
 
 From her isle-altar gazing down. 
 
 Who, God-like, grasps the trii)le forks, 
 And, King-like, wears the crown : 
 
 Her open eyes desire the truth. 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand years 
 Is in them. May perpetual youth 
 
 Keep dry their light from tears ; 
 
 That her fair form may stand and siiine. 
 
 Make bright our days and light our dreams. 
 
 Turning to scorn with lips divine 
 The falsehood of extremes ! 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 It little profits that an idle king. 
 By this still hearth, among these barren crags. 
 Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
 Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
 That hoard, and sleej), and feed, and know not me 
 I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
 Life to the lees : all times I liave enjoyed 
 Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
 That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 
 Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
 Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
 For always roaming with a hungry heart 
 Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 
 And manners, climates, councils, governments. 
 Myself not least, but honored of them all ; 
 And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
 Far on the ringing ])lains of windy Troy. I 
 
 >-& 
 
(&■ 
 
 904 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -ft) 
 
 fr 
 
 I am a part of all tliat I have met ; 
 
 Yet all experience is an arch ■HJicretlirough 
 
 Gleams that uutra veiled world, whose margin fades 
 
 Forever and forever when 1 move. 
 
 How dull it is to pause, to inalie an end, 
 
 To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 
 
 As thougli to breathe were life. Life piled on 
 
 life 
 Were all too little, and of one to me 
 Little remains : but every hour is saved 
 From that eternal silence, sonietliing more, 
 A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
 For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 
 And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
 To follow l<nowlcdge, like a sinking star, 
 Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 
 
 This is my son, mine own Telemaehus, 
 To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
 Well loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
 This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
 A rugged people, and tiirougli soft degrees 
 Subdue them to tlie useful and the good. 
 Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
 Of common duties, decent not to fail 
 In offices of tenderness, and pay 
 Meet adoration to my household gods. 
 When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
 There Ues the port : the vessel putfs her sail : 
 There gloom tiie dark broad seas. My mariners. 
 Souls that have toiled, and wrougiit, and thought 
 
 with me — 
 Tiiat ever with a frolic welcome took 
 The tliunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
 Free hearts, free foreheads — yo>i and 1 are old ; 
 Old age iiath yet his lionor and liis toil ; 
 Death closes all : but something ere the end. 
 Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 
 Not unbecoming men that strove witli gods. 
 The lights begin to twinkle from tile rocks : 
 The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs ; the 
 
 deep 
 Moans round witli many voices. Come, my 
 
 friends, 
 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
 Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
 The sounding I'urrows ; for my pur|)ose holds 
 To sail beyond tlie sunset, and the liaths 
 Of all the western stars, until 1 die. 
 It may be that the gull's will wash us down : 
 It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
 And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
 Though much is taken, much abides ; and though 
 We are not now that strength which in old days 
 Moved earth and heaven ; that which \vc are, we 
 
 arc ; 
 One ec|ual temper of heroic hearts, 
 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
 To strive, to seek, to (iiid, and not to yii'ld. 
 
 LOCKSLET HALL. 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 
 
 't is early morn : 
 Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 
 
 upon the bugle-horn. 
 
 'T is the iilacc, and all around it, as of old, the 
 
 curlews call, 
 Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over 
 
 Locksley Hall ; 
 
 Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 
 
 sandy tracts. 
 And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 
 
 Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I 
 
 went to rest. 
 Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 
 
 west. 
 
 Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through 
 
 the mellow shade. 
 Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a 
 
 silver braid. 
 
 Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a 
 
 youth sublime 
 With the fairy tales of science, and the long 
 
 result of Time ; 
 
 When the centuries behind me like a fruitful 
 
 land reposed ; 
 When I clung to all the present for the promise 
 
 that it closed : 
 
 WTien I dipt into the future far as human eye 
 
 could see ; 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the W'onder 
 
 that would be. 
 
 In the spring a fuller crimson comes U])on the 
 
 robin's breast ; 
 In the s]iring the wanton lapwing gets himself 
 
 another crest ; 
 
 In the spring a livelier iris changes on tlie bur- 
 nished dove ; 
 
 In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns 
 to thoughts of love. 
 
 Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should 
 be for one so young, 
 
 And lier eyes on all my motions with a mute ob- 
 servance liung. 
 
 And I said, " My cousin Amy, s])eak, and speak 
 
 the truth to me. 
 Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets 
 
 to thee." 
 
 -^ 
 
r 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 905 
 
 ■fb 
 
 Oil lici- [liillid check and foreliead came a color 
 
 and a liglit. 
 As I have sccii the rosy red flushing hi the nortli- 
 
 eru night. 
 
 And she turned — her bosom shaken with a 
 
 sudden storm of sighs — 
 All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 
 
 eyes — 
 
 Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they 
 
 should do me wrong" ; 
 Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin? " weeping, 
 
 "I have loved thee long." 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in 
 
 "his glowhig hands; 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 
 sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all 
 
 the chords with might ; 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed 
 
 in music out of sight. 
 
 Many a morning on the moorland did we hear 
 
 the copses ring, 
 And her wliisper tlnonged my pulses with the 
 
 fulness of tlic spring. 
 
 Many- an evening by the waters did we watch 
 
 the stately ships. 
 And our spirits rushed together at the touching 
 
 of the lips. 
 
 O my cousin, shallow-hearted 1 my Amy, mine 
 
 no more ! 
 the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, 
 
 barren shore ! 
 
 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all 
 
 songs have sung. 
 Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a 
 
 shrewish tongue ! 
 
 Is it well to wish tliee happy ? — having known 
 
 me — to decline 
 On a range of lower feeliugs and a narrower 
 
 heart than mine ! 
 
 Yet it shall be : thou slialt lower to his level day 
 by day. 
 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
 pathize with clay. 
 
 As the husband is the wife is : thou art mated 
 
 with a clown. 
 And the grossness of Ids nature will have weight 
 
 to drag thee down. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 
 
 spent its novel force, 
 Something better than his dog, a little dearer 
 
 than his horse. 
 
 What is this ? his eyes arc heavy : think not they 
 
 are glazed with wine. 
 Go to him ; it is tliy duty : kiss hiin : take his 
 
 hand in thine. 
 
 It may be my lord is weary, that his Ijraiii is 
 
 overwrought ; 
 Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him 
 
 witli thy lighter thought. 
 
 He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 
 
 understand — 
 Better thou wert dead before nic, though I slew 
 
 thee with my hand ! 
 
 Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 
 
 heart's disgrace, 
 Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last 
 
 embrace. 
 
 Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 
 
 strength of youth ! 
 Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 
 
 living truth ! 
 
 Cursed be the sickly forms that eiT from honest 
 Nature's rule ! 
 
 Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened fore- 
 head of the fool ! 
 
 Well —'tis well that I sliould bluster ! — Hadst 
 thou less unworthy proved — 
 
 Would to God — for I had loved thee more than 
 ever wife was loved. 
 
 Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears 
 
 but bitter fruit ? 
 I will ])luek it from my bosom, though my heart 
 
 be at the root. 
 
 Never, though my mortal summers to such 
 length of years should come 
 
 As the many-wintered crow that leads the clang- 
 ing rookery home. 
 
 Where is comfort ? in division of the records of 
 
 the mind ? 
 Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I 
 
 knew her, kind? 
 
 I remember one that perished : sweetly did she 
 
 speak and move : 
 Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was 
 
 to love. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 906 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Can 1 tliiuk of her as dead, and love her for the 
 
 love she bore ? 
 No — sin never loved mc truly : love is love 
 
 foreverinore. 
 
 Comfort? eomfort scorned of devils! this is 
 
 truth the poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 
 
 liap|)ier things. 
 
 Drug tliy memories, lest tliou learn it, lest thy 
 
 heart be put to proof, 
 In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain 
 
 is on the roof. 
 
 Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and tliuu art 
 
 staring at the wall. 
 Where the dying niglit-laiiip flickers, and the 
 
 shadows rise and fall. 
 
 Then a liand shall jjass before thee, pointing to 
 
 his drunken sleep. 
 To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears 
 
 that thou wilt weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whispered 
 
 by the phantom years, 
 And a song from out the distance in the ringing 
 
 of thine ears ; 
 
 MiA an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kiiul- 
 
 ness on tliy ])aiu. 
 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get tliee to 
 
 thy rest again. 
 
 Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender 
 
 voice will cry. 
 'T is a purer life tiian thine ; a lip to drain thy 
 
 trouble dry. 
 
 Baby li])s will laugh me down ; my latest rival 
 
 brings thee rest. 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 
 
 mother's breast. 
 
 O, the ehild too clothes the father with a dcar- 
 
 ness not liis due. 
 Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy 
 
 of the two. 
 
 0, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty 
 
 part, 
 Witli a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 
 
 dauglitcr's heart. 
 
 " They were dangerous guides the feelings — she 
 
 herself was not exempt — 
 Truly, she herself had sull'ered" — Perish in 
 thy self-contempt ! 
 
 c^ — : 
 
 Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore 
 
 should I care '? 
 I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 
 
 despair. 
 
 Wliat is that which I should turn to, lighting 
 
 upon days hke these ? 
 Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to 
 
 golden keys. 
 
 Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the mar- 
 kets overflow. 
 
 I have but au angry fancy : what is that which 
 1 should do ? 
 
 I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- 
 man's ground, 
 
 When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the 
 winds are laid with sound. 
 
 But tiie jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 
 
 Honor feels, 
 And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 
 
 other's heels. 
 
 Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that 
 earlier page. 
 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou won- 
 drous Mother-age ! 
 
 Make nic feel the wild pulsation that I felt be- 
 fore the strife. 
 
 When I heard my days before me, and the tumidt 
 of my life ; 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that tlie com- 
 ing years would yield, 
 
 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 
 father's field. 
 
 And at night along the dusky higiiway near and 
 
 nearer drawn, 
 Sees in Iieavcn the liglit of Loudon flaring like a 
 
 dreary dawn ; 
 
 And his spirit leaps within him to begone before 
 
 him then, 
 Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 
 
 throngs of men ; 
 
 Jlen, my brotliers, men the workers, ever rca))- 
 
 ing something new : 
 That which they have done but earnest of the 
 
 things that they shall do ; 
 
 For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 
 
 see, 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 
 
 that would be ; 
 
cfr 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 -*-Q) 
 
 907 
 
 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 
 
 magic sails, 
 Pilots of tiie purple twilight, dropping down with 
 
 costly bales; 
 
 Heard tlie heavens fill with shouting, and there 
 
 rained a ghastly dew 
 From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 
 
 central blue ; 
 
 Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
 wind rushing warm, 
 
 With tiie standards of the peoples plunging 
 through the thunder-storm; 
 
 Till the war-drum ihrobbed no longer, and the 
 
 'battle-Hags were fui'led 
 In the Parliaineut of man, the Federation of the 
 world. 
 
 There tlie eonnnon sense of most shall hold a 
 fretfid realm in awe. 
 
 And tiic kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in uni- 
 versal law. 
 
 So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping through 
 
 me left me dry, 
 Left me with the palsied heart, and left me witli 
 
 the jaundiced eye ; 
 
 Eye, to which all order festers, all things liere 
 
 are out of joint. 
 Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 
 
 from point to point : 
 
 Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creep- 
 ing nigher. 
 
 Glares at one tliat nods and winks behind a 
 slowly dying fire. 
 
 Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing 
 
 purpose runs, 
 And the thoughts of men are widened with the 
 
 process of the suns. 
 
 What is that to liim that reaps not liarvest of liis 
 
 youtiiful joys, 
 Thougli the deep heart of existence beat forever 
 
 Uke a boy's ? 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I 
 
 linger on the shore, 
 And the individual withers, and the world is 
 
 more and more. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 
 bears a laden breast. 
 
 Full of sad experience, moving toward the still- 
 ness of his rest. 
 
 <B- 
 
 Hark, my merry conn'ades call me, sounding on 
 
 the bugle-horn. 
 They to wliom my foolish passion were a target 
 
 for their scorn : 
 
 Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 
 
 mouldered string? 
 I am shamed through all my nature to have loved 
 
 so slight a thing. 
 
 Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! wonjan's 
 
 pleasure, woman's pain — 
 Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 
 
 shallower brain : 
 
 Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 
 
 matched with mine. 
 Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 
 
 unto wine — 
 
 Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. 
 
 All, for some retreat 
 Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 
 
 began to beat ; 
 
 Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father 
 
 evil-starred ; — 
 I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
 
 ward. 
 
 Or to burst all links of liabit — there to wander 
 
 far away. 
 On from island unto island at the gateways of 
 
 the day. 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 
 
 happy skies, 
 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 
 
 knots of Paradise. 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an European 
 
 flag. 
 Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 
 
 trailer from the crag ; 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 
 
 heavy-fruited tree — 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 
 
 of sea. 
 
 Tliere methinks would be enjoyment more than 
 
 in this march of mind. 
 In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 
 
 that shake mankind. 
 
 There the passions cramped no longer shall 
 iiave scope and breathing-space ; 
 
 I will take some savage woman, she shall rear 
 my dusky race. 
 
 -9> 
 
cQ- 
 
 908 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Iroa-joiiited, supple-siiievved, they shall dive, and 
 
 they shall run, 
 Catch the wild guat by the hair, and hurl their 
 
 lauces in the sun ; 
 
 Wliistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain- 
 bows of the brooks. 
 
 Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
 books — 
 
 Tool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I knoio my 
 
 words are wild, 
 But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 
 
 Ciiristian child. 
 
 /, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 
 
 glorious gains. 
 Like a beast with lower pleasures, Uke a beast 
 
 with lower pains ! 
 
 Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were 
 
 sun or clime ? 
 I the heir of all the ages, in tlie foremost files of 
 
 time — 
 
 I that rather held it better men should perish 
 
 one by one, 
 Tlian that eartli should stand at gaze like Joshua's 
 
 moon in Ajalon ! 
 
 Not in vain tlie distance beacons. Forward, for- 
 ward let us range. 
 
 Let tiic great world spin forever down the ring- 
 ing grooves of change. 
 
 Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into 
 
 tlie younger day : 
 Better lil'ty years of Europe than a cycle of Catiiay . 
 
 Mother-.\ge (for mine I knew not), lielp mc as 
 when life begun ; 
 
 Rift the iiiUs, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
 nings, weigh tlie sun — 
 
 O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 
 
 not set. 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my 
 
 fancy yet. 
 
 Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 
 
 Loeksley Hall I 
 Now for me the woods may wither, now for me 
 
 the roof-tree fall. 
 
 Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over 
 
 heath and holt. 
 Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 
 
 thunderbolt. 
 
 Let it fall on Loeksley Hall, with rain or hail, or 
 
 fire or snow ; 
 For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 
 
 I go. ' 
 
 ST, AGNES, 
 
 Dkep on the convcut-roof the snows 
 
 Are sparkling to the moon : 
 My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 
 
 May my soul follow soon ! 
 The shadows of the convent-towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping with the creeping hours 
 
 That lead mc to my Lord : 
 Make thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snowdrop of the year 
 
 That in my bosom lies. 
 
 As these white robes are soiled and dark, 
 
 To yonder shining ground ; 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark, 
 
 To yonder argent round ; 
 So shows my soul before tlie Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before thee ; 
 So in mine earthly house I am, 
 
 To that I hope to be. 
 Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far. 
 
 Tlirough all yon starlight keen, 
 Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors ; 
 
 The flashes come and go ; 
 All heaven bursts her starry floors, 
 
 And strows her lights below, 
 And deepens on and up ! the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The sabbaths of eternity. 
 
 One sabbath deep and wide — 
 A liiiiit upon tlie shining sea — 
 
 The Bridegroom with his bride ! 
 
 Sm GALAHAD. 
 
 :My good blade carves the casques of men. 
 
 My tough lance Ihrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten. 
 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 The shattering trumjiet shrilleth high. 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
 The splintered spear-sliafts crack and fly. 
 
 The horse and rider reel : 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands. 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 On w liom their favors fall ! 
 
 -- 9> 
 
TO 
 
 For them I battle till the end, 
 
 To save from shame and thrall ; 
 But all my heart is di'awii above, 
 
 My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine : 
 I never felt the kiss of love. 
 
 Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam, 
 
 Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
 So keep 1 fair through faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in work and will. 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 
 
 A light before me swims, 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns : 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 
 
 I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
 
 Tlie tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
 The shriU bell rings, the censer swings. 
 
 And solemn chants resound between. 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-mores 
 
 I find a magic bark ; 
 I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 
 
 1 float till all is dark. 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Tliree angels bear the holy Grail : 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 Ah, blessed vision ! lilood of God ! 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides tiie glory slides. 
 
 And starlight mingles with the stars. 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Through dreaming towns I go. 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 
 
 The streets are dumb with snow. 
 The tempest crackles on the leads. 
 
 And, ringing, spins from brand and mail ; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave tlie plain, I climb the iieiglit ; 
 
 No branchy Hiieket shelter yields ; 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 
 
 A maiden knight — to me is given 
 
 Such hope, I know not fear ; 
 I ycani to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease. 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
 
 Wliose odors haunt my dreams ; 
 
 909 
 
 -Q) 
 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
 This mortal armor tliat I wear. 
 
 This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 
 Are touched, are turned to finest air. 
 
 The clouds are broken in the sky. 
 
 And througli the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 
 
 Swells u]), and shakes and falls. 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod. 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
 " O just and faithful knight of God ! 
 
 Ride on ! the prize is near," 
 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale. 
 All-armed I ride, whate'er betide. 
 
 Until I find the liolv Grail. 
 
 TO , 
 
 AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 
 
 '* Cursed be he that moves my bones." 
 
 Shakespeare's EpUiiph. 
 
 You might have won the Poet's name, 
 If such be worth the winning now, 
 And gained a laurel for your brow 
 
 Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 
 
 But you have made the wiser choice, 
 A life that moves to gracious ends 
 Through troops of unrecording friends, 
 
 A decdful life, a silent voice ; 
 
 And you have missed the irreverent doom 
 Of those that wear the Poet's crown ; 
 Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 
 
 Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 
 
 For now the Poet cannot die. 
 Nor leave his music as of old. 
 But round him, ere he scarce be cold, 
 
 Begins the scandal and the cry : 
 
 " Proclaim the faults he would not show ; 
 
 Break lock and seal ; betray the trust ; 
 
 Keep nothing sacred ; 't is but just 
 The many-headed beast should know." 
 
 Ah, shameless ! for he did but sing 
 
 A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
 No public life was his on earth. 
 
 No blazoned statesman he, nor king. 
 
 He gave the people of his best ; 
 
 His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
 
 My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave 
 Wlio will not let his ashes rest ! 
 
 Who make it seem more sweet to be 
 The little life of bank and brier. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 910 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -^ 
 
 k 
 
 Tlie bird that pipes his lone desire 
 And dies unheard within his tree, 
 
 Thau he that wai-bles long and loud 
 And drops at Glory's teniple-gates, 
 For wliom the carrion vulture waits 
 
 To tear his heart before the crowd ! 
 
 SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 
 
 A FllAGMENT. 
 
 Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
 With tears and smiles from heaveu again 
 Tlie maiden Spring upon the plain 
 Came in a sunlit fall of rain. 
 
 In crystal vapor cverywliere 
 Bhio isles of heaven laughed between. 
 And, far in forest-deeps unseen, 
 Tlie topmost elm-tree gatliered green 
 From drauglits of balmy air. 
 
 Sometimes the linnet piped liis song : 
 Soihetinies the throstle wiiistled strong : 
 Sometimes tlie sparhawk, wheeled along. 
 Hushed all tlie groves from fear of wrong : 
 
 By grassy capes with fuller sound 
 In curves the yellowing ri\er ran, 
 And drooping chestnut-liuds began 
 To spread into the perfect fan. 
 Above the teeming ground. 
 
 Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
 Sir Launcclot and Queen Guinevere 
 llodo through the coverts of the deer, 
 ^Vi^l^ lilissful treble ringing clear. 
 
 She seemed a part of joyous Spring: 
 A gown of grass-green silk she wore. 
 Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
 A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 
 Closed in a golden ring. 
 
 Now on some twisted ivy-net, 
 
 Now by some tinkling rivulet, 
 
 In mosses mixt with violet 
 
 Her cream-white mule his pastern set -. 
 
 And fleeter now she skimmed the plains 
 Tiian she whose elfin prancer springs 
 By night to eery warblings. 
 When all the gliiiimering moorland rings 
 With jingling bridle-reins. 
 
 As she fled fast through sun and shade, 
 'I'lie happy winds upon her played, 
 Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
 She looked so lovely, as she swayed 
 
 The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
 A man had given all (ither bliss, 
 And all his worldly wortii for this. 
 To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
 Upon her perfect lips. 
 
 THE EAGLE, 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
 Close to the sun in lonely lands. 
 Ringed with the azure world, he stands. 
 
 The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
 He watelies from his mountain walls. 
 And like a thunderbolt he falls. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, Sea I 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 well for the fislierman's boy. 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 well for the sailor lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay. 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 To their haven under the hill; 
 
 But for the touch of a vanished hand. 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to nie. 
 
 TEAKS, IDLE TEAKS. 
 
 Teaes, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
 Tears from the depths of some divine desjiair 
 Ilise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
 In looking on the hapjiy Autumn-fields, 
 And thinking of the days tiiat are no more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
 That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 
 
 Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
 The easement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 
 
 Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
 And sweet as those by hopelrss fancy feigned 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
 O Death in Life, the d;\ys that are no more. 
 
 T/ic I'l-inrfss. 
 
a- 
 
 HOME THEY BKOUGHT HER WAUEIOR DEAD. 
 
 911 
 
 -& 
 
 fr 
 
 THE POET'S SONG, 
 
 The raiu had fallen, the Poet arose, 
 
 He passed by the town and out of the street, 
 A liglit wind blew from the gates of the sun, 
 
 And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
 And he sat him dowu in a lonely place. 
 
 And ehaiited a melody loud and sweet, 
 That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 
 
 And the lark drop down at his feet. 
 
 The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee. 
 
 The snake slipt under a spray, 
 The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 
 
 And stared, witli his foot on the prey, 
 And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many 
 songs, 
 
 But never a one so gay. 
 For he sings of what the world will be 
 
 When the years have died away." 
 
 SWEET AND LOW, SWEET AND LOW. 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea. 
 Low, low, breatlie and blow, 
 
 Wind of the western sea I 
 Over the rolling waters go. 
 Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
 
 Blow him again to me ; 
 While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 Father will come to his babe in the nest. 
 Silver sails all out of tlie west 
 
 Under the sdver moon : 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 
 
 The rrincess. 
 
 THE BUGLE SONG. 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story : 
 The long light shakes across the lakes 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear. 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 sweet and far from cliff and soar 
 The horns of Ellland faintly blowing ! 
 Blow, let ns hear the purple glens replying : 
 Blow, bnglc; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
 Tlicv faint on hill or field or river : 
 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dynig. 
 
 The Piiiircss. 
 
 SWALLOW, SWALLOW, PLYING, FLYING 
 SOUTH, 
 
 O Sw.\LLOw, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
 Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
 And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 
 
 O tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each. 
 That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
 And dark and true and fender is the North. 
 
 O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
 Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
 And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 
 
 were I thou that she might take me in. 
 And l;iy mo on her bosom, and Iier heart 
 Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 
 
 Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love. 
 Delaying as the tender ash delays 
 To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 
 
 O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
 Say to her, I do but wanton in the South 
 But in the North long since my nest is made. 
 
 O tell her, brief is life, but love is long. 
 And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
 And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 
 
 O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
 Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 
 
 mine. 
 And tell her, tell her, that I follow fhce. 
 
 The Prineess, 
 
 THY VOICE IS HEAKD THROUGH ROLLING 
 DRUtaS, 
 
 Thy voice is heard tiirough rolling drums. 
 
 That beat to battle where he stands ; 
 Thy face across his fancy comes, 
 
 And gives the battle to his hands : 
 A moment, while the trumpets blow. 
 
 He .sees his brood about thy knee ; 
 The next, like fire he meets the foe, 
 
 And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 
 The Prhfress. 
 
 HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD, 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead ; 
 
 She nor swooned, nor uttered cry : 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 
 " She must weep or she will die." 
 
 ^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 912 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Then tliey praised htm, soft and low, 
 Called him worthy to be loved, 
 
 Ti'ucst friend and noblest foe ; 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place. 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stcpt, 
 Took the face-cloth from the face; 
 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of iiiuety years. 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 
 Like summer tempest came her tears — 
 " Sweet my child, I live ibr thee." 
 
 T/ie Princess. 
 
 ASE no: NO MOBE, 
 
 Ask me no more ; the moon may draw the sea ; 
 The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 
 
 shape, 
 Willi fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
 But too foud, when have I answered thee ? 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more ; what answer should I give ? 
 I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
 Yet, O my friend, I will uot have thee die ! 
 
 Ask me no more, lest 1 should bid thee live ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed ; 
 1 strove against the stream and all in vain : 
 Let the great river take me to the main : 
 No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
 Ask mc no more. 
 
 T/ie Princess. 
 
 STRONG SON OF GOD, IMMORTAL LOVE. 
 
 Sthoxg Son of God, immortal Love, 
 Wlioni we, that have not seen thy face, 
 By faith, and faith aloue, embrace. 
 
 Believing where we cannot prove; 
 
 Thine arc these orbs of light and shade ; 
 
 Thou madest life in man and brute ; 
 
 Thou madest Death ; and lo, tliy foot 
 Is on the skull which tiiou hast made. 
 
 Thon wilt not leave us in the dust : 
 'J'hon madest man, he knows not W'hy ; 
 He thinks lie was not made to die ; 
 
 And thou hast made him ; thou art just. 
 
 Thou seemcst human and divine. 
 The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
 Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 
 
 Oiir wills are ours, to make them thine. 
 
 Our little systems have their day; 
 They liavc their dav and cease to be : 
 
 They are but broken lights of thee. 
 And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 
 
 We have but faith : we cannot know ; 
 
 For knowledge is of things we see ; 
 
 And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
 A beam in darkness : let it grow. 
 
 Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
 But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
 That mind and soul, according well. 
 
 May make one music as before. 
 
 But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
 We mock thee when we do not fear : 
 But help thy foolish ones to bear; 
 
 Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 
 
 Forgive what seemed my sin in me ; 
 
 What seemed my worth since I began ; 
 
 For merit lives from man to man. 
 And not from man, Lord, to thee. 
 
 Forgive my grief for one removed. 
 Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
 I trust he lives in thee, and there 
 
 I find him worthier to be loved. 
 
 Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
 Confusions of a wasted youtli ; 
 Forgive them where they fail in truth, 
 
 And in thy wisdom make me wise. 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 TET WE TRUST TEAT SOMEHOW GOOD. 
 
 YKT we trust that somehow good 
 Will be the final goal of ill. 
 To pangs of nature, sins of will. 
 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 
 
 That nothing walks witli aimless feet ; 
 That not one life shall be destroyed. 
 Or east as rubbish to the void. 
 
 When God hath made the pile complete; 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
 That not a moth with vain desire 
 Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 
 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 Behold, wc know not anything; 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At last — far off— at last, to all. 
 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream : but what am I? 
 
 An infant crying in the night ; 
 
 An infant crying for the light : ' 
 And with no language but a cry. 
 
 In Memoriiv) 
 
 ^ 
 
<^- 
 
 rinct out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
 
 913 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 SPIRITUAL COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 How pure at licart and soujid in head, 
 
 With what divine ajfections bold, 
 
 Should be the man whose thought would hold 
 An hour's communion with the dead. 
 
 In vain shalt thou, or any; call 
 The spirits from their golden day. 
 Except, like them, thou too canst say, 
 
 ily spirit is at peace with all. 
 
 They haunt the silence of the breast. 
 
 Imaginations calm and fair, 
 
 The memory like a cloudless air, 
 The eonscieuce as a sea at rest : 
 
 But when the heart is full of din, 
 And doubt beside the portal waits, 
 Tlicy can but listen at the gates. 
 
 And hear the household jar wit(nn. 
 
 1/1 Memoriam. 
 
 HER EYES ARE HOMES OF SILENT PRATER. 
 
 Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
 Nor other thought her mind admits 
 But, he was dead, and there he sits. 
 
 And he that brought him back is there. 
 
 Then one deep love doth supersede 
 All other, when her ardent gaze 
 Roves from the living brother's face. 
 
 And rests upon the Life indeed. 
 
 All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
 Borne down by gladness so complete, 
 She hows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 
 
 With costly spikenard and with tears. 
 
 Thrice blest whose lives are faithful pr.ayers, 
 Wiose loves in higher love endure ; 
 What souls possess themselves so pure. 
 
 Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 
 
 In DIemoriam, 
 
 RINa OUT, WILD BELLS, TO THE WILD SKY. 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
 The year is dying in the night ; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
 The year is going, let him go ; 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
 For those that here we see no more ; 
 Ring out the fe\id of rich and poor, 
 
 Rintr in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
 And ancient forms of party strife ; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out (4ie want, the cai'e, the sin, 
 The faithless coldness of the times ; 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes. 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
 The civic slander and the spite ; 
 Ring in the love of truth and right, 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 Ring out old sliapes of foul disease ; 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man and free. 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
 Ring out the darkness of the land, 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 In 3Iemoriam, 
 
 BIRDS IN THE HIGH HALL-GARDEN. 
 
 BiRCS in the high Hall-garden 
 
 When twilight was falling, 
 Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 They were crying and calling. 
 
 Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 
 
 And I, who else, was with her. 
 Gathering woodland lilies. 
 
 Myriads blow together. 
 
 Birds in our wood sang 
 
 Ringing through the valleys, 
 
 Maud is here, here, here 
 In among tlie lilies. 
 
 I kissed her slender hand. 
 She took the kiss sedately ; 
 
 Maud is not seventeen. 
 But she is tall and stately. 
 
 I to cry out on pride 
 
 Wiio have won her favor ! 
 
 Maud were sure of Heaven 
 If lowliness could save her. 
 
 1 know the way she went 
 Home with her maiden posy. 
 
 For her feet have touched the meadows 
 And left the daisies rosy. 
 
 Birds in the high Hall-garden 
 Were crying and calling to her. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 914 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 One is come to woo lier. 
 
 Look, a liorse at the door, 
 
 And little King Charles is snarling, 
 Go back, my lord, across tijp moor, 
 
 You are not her darling. 
 
 Maud. 
 
 GO NOT, HAPPY DAT. 
 
 Go not, happy day, 
 
 From the shining fields, 
 Go not, happy day. 
 
 Till the maiden yields. 
 Rosy is the West, 
 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks, 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 When the happy Yes 
 
 Falters from her lips, 
 Pass and blush the news 
 
 O'er the blowing ships. 
 Over blowing seas, 
 
 Over seas at rest. 
 Pass the happy news. 
 
 Blush it through the West ; 
 Till the red man dance 
 
 By his red cedar-tree, 
 And the red man's babe 
 
 Lea]), beyond the sea. 
 Blush from West to East, 
 
 Blush from East to West, 
 Till the West is East, 
 
 Blush it through the West. 
 Rosy is the West, 
 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks. 
 
 And a rose her month. 
 
 I HAVE LED HER 
 
 HOME, MY 
 FKIEND. 
 
 Maud. 
 
 LOVE, MY ONLY 
 
 fr 
 
 T iiAVK led lier home, my love, my only friend. 
 
 There is none like her, none. 
 
 And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
 
 And sweetly, on and on 
 
 Calming itself to th<! long-wished-for end, 
 
 Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 
 
 None like her, none. 
 
 Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk 
 
 Seemed her light foot along the garden walk, 
 
 And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; 
 
 But even then I heard her close the door, 
 
 The gates of Heaven are closed, and slie is gone. 
 
 There is none like her, none. 
 
 Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 
 
 O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
 
 Li the long breeze that streams to thy delieiou 
 
 East, 
 Sighing for Lebanon, 
 
 Dark cedar, though thy limbs have here increased, 
 Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
 And looking to the South, and fed 
 ^Vitli honeyed rain and delicate air. 
 And haunted by the starry head 
 Of her wliose gentle will has changed my fate, 
 And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 
 And over whom thy darkness must have spread 
 With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 
 Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
 Shadowing the snow-limbed Eve from whom she 
 
 Here wUI I lie, while these long branches sway. 
 
 And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
 
 Go in and out as if at merry play. 
 
 Who am no more so all forlorn. 
 
 As when it seemed far better to be born 
 
 To labor and the mattock-hardened hand. 
 
 Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 
 
 A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
 
 That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 
 
 Luiumerable, pitiless, passioidess eyes, 
 
 Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 
 
 His nothingness into man. 
 
 But now shine on, and what care I, 
 
 Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
 
 The countercharm of space and hollow sky. 
 
 And do accept my madness, and would die 
 
 To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 
 
 Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give 
 
 More life to Love than is or ever was 
 
 In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. 
 
 Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
 
 It seems that I am happy, that to me 
 
 A liveUer emerald twinkles in the grass, 
 
 A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 
 
 Not die ; but live a life of truest breath. 
 And teach true life to figlit with mortal wrongs. 
 O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 
 Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death? 
 Make answer, Maud my bhss, 
 Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss. 
 Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 
 " 'l"he dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
 With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more 
 dear." 
 
 Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
 Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 
 And hark the clock within, the silver knell 
 Of twelve sweet hoiirs that past in bridal while, 
 
 ^ 
 
r 
 
 COME INTO THE GAEDEN, MAUD. — THE BROOK. 
 
 915 I 
 
 And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 
 But now by this my love lias closed her sight 
 And given false death her liand, aud stolen away 
 To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwcU 
 Among the fragments of tlie golden day. 
 May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! 
 Dear heart, I feel with Ihee the drowsy spell. 
 My bride to be, my. evermore delight, 
 My own licart's heart and ownest own, farewell ; 
 It is but for a little space I go. 
 And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
 Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
 Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 
 Of your soft splendors that you look so bright ? 
 / have cUmbed nearer out of lonely Hell. 
 Beat happy stars, timing with things below, 
 Beat, with my heart more blest than heart can 
 
 tell, 
 Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 
 That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : 
 
 Let all be well, be well. 
 
 Maud. 
 
 COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 
 
 Comb into the garden, Maud, 
 For the bhick bat, night, has flown, 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone ; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
 And the nnisk of the roses blown. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves. 
 And the planet of Love is on high. 
 
 Beginning to faint in the hght that she loves 
 On a bed of daffodil sky, 
 
 To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
 To faint in his light, aud to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
 All night has the casement jessamine stirred 
 
 To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
 Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 
 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one 
 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her alone ? 
 
 She is weary of danee and play." 
 Now half to the setting moon are gone. 
 
 And half to the rising day ; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
 
 In babble and revel and wine. 
 young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 
 
 For one that will never be thine ? 
 
 But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
 " For ever and ever, mine." 
 
 And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 
 
 As the music clashed in the hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood. 
 
 For I heard your rivulet fall 
 From the lake to the meadow aud on to the wood. 
 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
 That whenever a March-wind sighs 
 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 In violets blue as your eyes. 
 
 To the woody hollows in which we meet 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia wordd not shake 
 
 One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 
 
 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
 But the rose was awake all night for your 
 sake. 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 The lilies and roses were all awake. 
 
 They sighed for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
 Come hither, the dances are done. 
 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
 Queen lily and rose in one ; 
 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over with curis. 
 To the flowers, and be their sun. 
 
 There has fallen a splendid tear 
 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
 
 She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
 The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near"; 
 
 And the white rose weeps, " She is late " ; 
 The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear " ; 
 
 And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet; 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread, 
 My heart would hear her aud beat. 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
 My dust would hear her and beat. 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead ; 
 
 Would start and tremble under her feet, 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 Mand. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 
 
 I make a sudden sally 
 And sparkle out among the fern. 
 
 To bieker down a valley. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 916 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^&- 
 
 By thirty liUls I Imri-y down, 
 Or slip between tlie ridges, 
 
 By twenty tliorps, a little town, 
 And half a hundred, bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may coiiie and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 
 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men nuiy come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 With here a blossom sailing, 
 
 And here and there a lusty trout. 
 And here and there a grayling, 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel. 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I shde by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 
 I make tlie netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shalloAvs. 
 
 I iminnur under moon and stars 
 In Ijranihly wildernesses; 
 
 I linger by ihy shingly bars ; 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 To join tlie brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 TO THE EEV. F. D. MATJEIOE. 
 
 Come, when no graver cares employ, 
 God-father, come and see your boy : 
 
 Your presence will be s\in in winter. 
 Making the little one leap for joy. 
 
 For, being of that honest few. 
 Who give the Fiend himself his due. 
 
 Should eighty thousand college councils 
 Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you; 
 
 Should all our cliurchmen foam in spite 
 At you, so careful of the right, 
 
 Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
 (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 
 
 Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
 I watch the twilight falling brown 
 
 All round a careless-ordered garden 
 Close to the ridge of a noble down. 
 
 You '11 have no scandal while you dine. 
 But honest talk and wholesome wiue, 
 
 And only hear the magpie gossip 
 Garrulous under a roof of pine : 
 
 For groves of pine on either hand. 
 To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
 
 And further on, the hoary Channel 
 Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 
 
 Where, if below the milky steep 
 Some ship of battle slowly creep, 
 
 And on through zones of light aud shadow 
 Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 
 
 We might discuss the Northern sin 
 Which made a selfish war begin ; 
 
 Dispute the chums, arrange the chances ; 
 Emperor, Ottoman, which sliall win : 
 
 Or whether war's avenging rod 
 Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
 
 Till you should turn to dearer matters. 
 Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 
 
 How best to help the slender store, 
 How mend llie dwellings, of the poor; 
 
 How gain in life, as life advances. 
 Valor and charity more and more. 
 
 Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
 Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; 
 
 But when the wreath of March has blos- 
 somed. 
 Crocus, anemone, violet. 
 
 -9> 
 
MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 917 
 
 ■fi) 
 
 Or later, pay one visit here. 
 
 For those are few we hold as dear ; 
 
 Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
 
 Many and many a happy year. 
 
 January, 1854. 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 Half a league onward, 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the si.\ hundred. 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
 Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade I " 
 Was there a man dismayed ? 
 Not though the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blundered : 
 Theirs not to make reply. 
 Theirs not to reason why. 
 Theirs but to do and die, 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them. 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well, 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flashed all their sabres bare. 
 Flashed as they turned in air. 
 Sabring the gunners there. 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered : 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke. 
 Right through the line they broke ; 
 Cossaek and Russian 
 Reeled from the sabre-stroke 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode baek, but not 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 CauHon to left of them, 
 Canuon behind them 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Wliilc horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Baek from the mouth of Hell, 
 
 All that was left of them, 
 Lett of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade ? 
 the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred I 
 
 WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY 7 
 
 What does little birdie say 
 In her nest at peep of day ? 
 Let me fly, says little birdie. 
 Mother, let me fly away. 
 Birdie, rest a little longer. 
 Till the little wings are stronger. 
 So she rests a little longer, 
 Then she flies away. 
 
 What does little baby say. 
 In licr bed at peep of day ? 
 Baby says, hke little birdie. 
 Let me rise and fly away. 
 Baby sleep, a little longer, 
 Till the httle limbs are stronger. 
 If she sleeps a little longer, 
 Baby too shall fly away. 
 
 Sea Dreams. 
 
 MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 Shame upon you, Robin, 
 
 Shame upon you now ! 
 Kiss me woidd you ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow ? 
 
 Daisies grow again. 
 
 Kingcups blow again. 
 And you came and kissed me milking the cow. 
 
 Robin came behind me, 
 
 Kissed me well I vow ; 
 Cuff him could I ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow ? 
 
 Swallows fly again. 
 
 Cuckoos ery again. 
 And you came and kissed me niUking the cow. 
 
 Come, Robin, Robin, 
 
 Come and kiss me now ; 
 Help it can I ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow ? 
 
 Ringdoves coo again. 
 
 All things woo again. 
 Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 
 
 Queen Mary, 
 
 -P 
 
cO- 
 
 918 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 
 
 THE BLACEBIED. 
 
 How sweet the harmonies of afternoon ! 
 
 The bkckbird sings along the sunny breeze 
 His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon ; 
 
 Ricli breath of haj'iields streams through whis- 
 pering trees ; 
 And birds of morning trim tlieir bustling wiugs, 
 And listen fondly, — wliile the blackbird siugs. 
 
 How soft the lovelight of the west reposes 
 
 On this green valley's cheery solitude. 
 On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, 
 
 On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, 
 And murmuring mUl-race, and the wheel that 
 
 flings 
 Its bubbling freshness, — while the blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 The very dial on the village church 
 
 Seems as 't were dreaming in a dozy rest ; 
 
 The scribbled benclies underneatli the porch 
 Bask in the kindly welcome of tlie west ; 
 
 But the broad casements of the old Tliree Kings 
 
 Blaze Ukc a furnace, — while the blackbird siugs. 
 
 And there beneath the immemorial elm 
 Three rosy revellers round a table sit, 
 And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, 
 Curse good and great, but worship their own 
 wit, 
 And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, 
 Corn, colts, and curs, — the while the blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 Before her home, in her accustomed scat, 
 Tiie tidy grandam spins beneath the shade 
 
 Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet 
 
 The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid ; 
 
 To her low chair a little maiden clings, 
 
 And spells in silence, — while the blackbird sings. 
 
 Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud 
 Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, 
 
 While the far fields, with sunlight ovcrfiowcd. 
 Like golden shores of fairyland are seen ; 
 
 Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, 
 
 And fires the thicket where the blackbird sings. 
 
 The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor-house, 
 With its peaeh-eovered walls and rookery loud. 
 
 The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with 
 boughs, 
 The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A brother of .\Ifrc(l Tennyson. 
 
 The mossy fountain with its murmurings, 
 
 Lie iu warm sunshine, — while the blackbird sings. 
 
 The gug of silver voices, and the sheen 
 
 Of festal garments, — and my Lady streams 
 
 With her gay court across the garden green ; 
 Some laugh and dance, some whisper their 
 love-di'eams ; 
 
 And one calls for a little page ; he strings 
 
 Her lute beside her, — while the blackbird sings. 
 
 A little while, and lo ! the charm is heard, 
 A youth, whose life has been all summer, steals 
 
 Forth from the noisy guests around the board, 
 Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool kneels ; 
 
 And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things 
 
 Into her fond ear, — while the blackbird sings. 
 
 The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl u\) 
 higher. 
 
 And dizzy things of eve begin to float 
 Upon the hght ; the breeze begins to tire ; 
 
 Half-way to sunset with a drowsy note 
 The ancient clock from out the valley swings ; 
 The grandam nods, — and still the blackbird siugs. 
 
 Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal. 
 Where the great stack is piling in the sun ; 
 
 Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel. 
 And barking curs into the tumult run; 
 
 While the inconstant wind bears olf, and brings 
 
 The merry tempest, — and the blackbird sings. 
 
 On the high wold the last look of the sun 
 Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; 
 
 The shouts have ceased, the laugliter and the fun ; 
 The grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream ; 
 
 Only a luimnier on an anvil rings; 
 
 The day is dying, — stiU the blackbird sings. 
 
 Now the good vicar passes from his gate. 
 Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye 
 
 Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate, 
 And felt the wiugs of immortality ; 
 
 His iieart is thronged with great imaginings. 
 
 And tender mercies, — while the blackbird sings. 
 
 Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through 
 A lowly wicket ; and at last he stands 
 
 Awful beside the bed of one wlio grew 
 
 From boyhood with him, who, with lifted hands 
 
 And eyes, seems listening to far wclcomiugs, 
 
 And sweeter music than the blackbird sings. 
 
 Two golden stars, like tokens from the blest. 
 Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun ; 
 
 His sinking liands seem pointing to the west ; 
 He smiles as though lie said, "Thy will be 
 done": 
 
 His eyes, they see not those illuminings ; 
 
 His ears, they hear not what the blackbird sings. 
 
 -8^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 BIRD-NESTING. — THE EAINBOW. 
 
 919 
 
 -0) 
 
 CHARLES TURNER. 
 
 BIRD-NESTniG. 
 
 An ! that lialf-basliful and half -eager face ! 
 Among the trees thy guardian angel stands, 
 With his heart beating, lest tliy httle hands 
 Should come among tlie sliadows and efface 
 The stainless beauty of a life of love 
 And childhood innocence ; for hark, the boys 
 Are peering through the hedgerows and the grove. 
 And ply their cruel sport with mirth and noise ; 
 But thou hast conquered ! and dispelled his fear ; 
 Sweet is the hope tiiy youthful pity brings — 
 And oft, methinks, if thou shalt shelter here 
 Wlieu these blue eggs are linnets' throats and 
 
 wings, 
 A secret spell shall bring about the tree 
 The httle birds that owed their life to thee. 
 
 J. HOLLAND. 
 
 THE RAIITBOW. 
 
 The evening was glorious, and light through the 
 
 trees 
 Played the sunshine and raiu-drops, the birds and 
 
 the breeze ; 
 The landscape, outstretching in loveliness, lay 
 On the lap of the year in the beauty of May. 
 
 Tor the Queen of the Spring, as she passed down 
 
 the vale. 
 Left her robe on the trees and her breath on the 
 
 gale ;^ 
 And the smUe of her promise gave joy to the 
 
 hours. 
 And flush in her footsteps sprang herbage and 
 
 flowers. 
 
 The skies, like a banner in sunset unrolled. 
 
 O'er the west threw their splendor of azure and 
 gold; 
 
 But one cloud at a distance rose dense, and in- 
 creased 
 
 Till its margin of black touched the zenith and 
 east. 
 
 We gazed on the scenes, while around us they 
 
 glowed, 
 Wlien a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud ; 
 
 * A brother of Alfred Tenuysou, though he has changed his 
 name. 
 
 ^9-- 
 
 'T was not like the sun, as at midday we view, 
 Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through starhght 
 and blue. 
 
 Like a spirit it came in the van of a storm ! 
 And the eye and the heart haded its beautiful 
 
 form ; 
 For it looked not severe, like an angel of wrath. 
 But a garment of brightness illumed its dark path. 
 
 Sublime in the hues of its grandeur it stood. 
 O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood ; 
 And river, field, village, and woodlands grew 
 
 bright. 
 As conscious they gave and afforded delight. 
 
 'T was the bow of Omnipotence ! bent in his 
 hand, 
 
 Whose grasp at creation the universe spanned ; 
 
 'T was the presence of God, in a symbol sub- 
 lime, — 
 
 His vow from the flood to the exit of time ! 
 
 Not dreadful as when in the whirlwind he pleads, 
 
 When storms are his chariot and lightnings his 
 steeds ; 
 
 The black clouds his banner of vengeance un- 
 furled, 
 
 And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world ; 
 
 In the breath of his presence when thousands ex- 
 pire, 
 
 And seas boil with fury and rocks burn with fire. 
 
 And the sword and the plague-spot with death 
 strew the plain. 
 
 And vultures and wolves are the graves of the 
 slain ; — 
 
 Not such was that I'ainbow, that beautiful one. 
 Whose arch was refraction, its keystone the 
 
 sun; 
 A paviUon it seemed which the Deity graced. 
 And Justice and Mercy met there and embraced. 
 
 Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom. 
 
 Like Love o'er a death-couch or Hope o'er the 
 tomb ; 
 
 Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly re- 
 tired. 
 
 As Love had just vanished or Hope had ex- 
 pired. 
 
 I gazed not alone on that source of my song ; 
 To all who beheld it those verses belong ; 
 Its presence to all was the path of the Lord ! 
 Each full heart expanded, grew wai'm, and 
 adored ! 
 
 Like a visit, the converse of friends, or a day, 
 That bow from my sight passed forever away; 
 
 -P 
 
cfl- 
 
 920 
 
 GOOD. — HALLAM. — THACKERAY. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Like that visit, that coaverse, that day, to my 
 
 heart 
 That bow from remembrance can never depart. 
 
 'T is a picture in memory distinctly defined 
 With the strong and unperishing colors of mind ; 
 A part of my being, beyond my control. 
 Beheld on that cloud and transcribed on my soul. 
 
 JOHN MASON GOOD. 
 
 1764-1887. 
 
 THE DAISY, 
 Not worlds ou worlds iu phalanx deep, 
 
 Need we to pi-ovc a God is here : 
 The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep. 
 
 Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 
 
 For wlio but he that arched tiie skies, 
 And pours the day spring's living flood. 
 
 Wondrous alike iu all he tries. 
 
 Could rear tiie daisy's purple bud, — 
 
 Mould its green cup, its wiry stem. 
 
 Its fringed border nicely spin, 
 And cut the gold-embossed gem. 
 
 That set in silver gleams within, — 
 
 Then fliug it, unrestrained and free, 
 O'er iiiU and dale and desert sod, 
 
 That man, where'er he walks, may see 
 In every step the stamp of God ? 
 
 ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM.* 
 
 1811-1833. 
 
 TO MT MOTHEE, 
 
 When barren doubt Uke a late-coming snow 
 Made an uukiud December of my spring, 
 That all the pretty flowers did droop for woe, 
 And the sweet birds their love no more would 
 
 sing; 
 Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith, 
 Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart ; 
 Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe, 
 And from thy hope I could not live apart. 
 Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom. 
 And on the calmed waters once again 
 Ascendant Faith circles with silver plume, 
 Tliat casts a ciiarnied shade, not now in pain, 
 Thou child of Clirist, in joy I think of thee, 
 And mingle prayers for wliat we botli may be. 
 
 Jmuaiy, IB.'il. 
 
 * The Bon of Heury nnllnni, tlic liistoriau; the "A. II. H." 
 inmiortalizt'd in Tennyson's In Mcmorinm. 
 
 AN ENGLISH MAIDEN AND AN ENGLISH WIFE, 
 
 Laxiy, I bid thee to a sunny dome 
 Ringing with echoes of Italian song ; 
 Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong, 
 And all the pleasant place is like a iiome. 
 Hark, on the right with full piano tone 
 Old Dante's voice encircles all the air ; 
 Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare 
 Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca's moan. 
 Pass thou the lintel freely : without fear 
 Feast on the music : I do better know thee. 
 Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me 
 Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear 
 Tliat element whence thou must draw thy life ; — 
 An English maiden and an English wife. 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACK- 
 ERAY. 
 
 1811-1863. 
 
 AT THE CHUECH GATE. 
 
 Although I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Ofttimes I hover ; 
 And near the sacred gate. 
 With longing eyes I wait, 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout. 
 
 And noise and humming ; 
 They 've bushed the minster bell : 
 The organ 'gins to swell ; 
 
 She 's coming, she 's coming ! 
 
 My lady comes at last. 
 Timid and stepping fast, 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes downcast : 
 She comes, — she 's here, slie 's past, — 
 
 May Heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 T will not cuter there. 
 To sully your pure pi'ayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidilcn place, 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast s])irits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Ansrels witliiu it. 
 
THE AGE OF WISDOM. — EAITH. 
 
 — Q) 
 
 921 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM. 
 
 Ho, ])retty Jiage, with tlie dimpled chin, 
 
 Tliat never lias known the barber's shear. 
 All your wish is woman to win. 
 Tills is the way that boys begin, — 
 Wait till you come to forty year. 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains. 
 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
 Sigliing and singing of midnight strains, 
 Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 
 Wait till you come to forty year ! 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. 
 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear, — 
 Then you know a boy is an ass. 
 Then you know tiie worth of a lass. 
 Once you have come to forty year. 
 
 Pledge me round, I bid ye declare. 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are gray, 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 Common grow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was past away ? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever have kissed. 
 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
 May pray and whisper, and we not list, 
 Or look away, and never be missed, 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone. 
 
 Gilhan 's dead, God rest her bier ; 
 
 How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
 Marian 's married, but I sit here 
 Alone and merry at forty year, 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon •wine. 
 
 SORROWS OF WERTHER. 
 
 Wertiier luid a love for Charlotte 
 Such as wcu'ds could never utter ; 
 
 Would you know how first lie met her ? 
 Slie was cutting bread and butter. 
 
 Ciiarlotte was a married lady. 
 And a moral man was Werther, 
 
 And for all the wealth of Indies 
 Would do nothing for to hurt her. 
 
 So lie sighed and pined and ogled. 
 And his passion boiled and bubbled. 
 
 Till he blew his silly brains out, 
 And uo more was by it troubled. 
 
 Charlotte, having seen his body 
 Borne before her on a shutter. 
 
 Like a well-conducted person, 
 
 Went on cutting bread and butter. 
 
 LITTLE BILLEE.* 
 
 There were three sailors of Bristol city 
 Who took a boat and went to sea. 
 But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
 And pickled pork they loaded she. 
 
 Tiiere was gorging Jack and guzzling rimmy, 
 And the youngest he was little Billee. 
 Now when they got as far as tlie equator 
 Tiicy 'd nothing left but one split pea. 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 "I am extremely hungaree." 
 To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 
 " We 've nothing left, us must eat we." 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 " With one another we should n't agree ! 
 There 's little Bill, he 's young and tender, 
 We 're old and tough, so let 's eat he. 
 
 " O Billy, we 're going to kUl and eat you, 
 So undo the button of your chemie." 
 When Bill received this information 
 He used his ])ocket handkerehie. 
 
 " First let me say my catechism. 
 
 Which my poor maiiiy tauglit to me." 
 
 " Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, 
 
 Wliile Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 
 
 So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast. 
 And down he fell on his bended knee. 
 He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment 
 When u]i he jumps. "There 's land I see : 
 
 " Jerusalem and Madagascar-, 
 
 And North and South Amerikee : 
 
 Tliere 's the British Hag a riding at anchor, 
 
 With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 
 
 So when they got aboard of tlie Admiral's 
 He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee ; 
 But as for little Bill he made hiin 
 The captain of a Seventy-three. 
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 
 
 1811- 
 
 PAITH, 
 
 Betteb, trust all, and be deceived. 
 And weep that trust and that deceiving. 
 
 Than doubt one heart, that, if believed. 
 Had blessed one's life with true believing. 
 
 * As different versions of this popular son^ have been set 
 to music and sung, it may be well to state ttiat this is the 
 onlv correct version. 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 922 
 
 DICKENS. —MACKAY. 
 
 ■n> 
 
 h 
 
 O, in this mockiug world, too fast 
 
 The doubting licud o'ertakcs our youth ! 
 
 Better be cheated to the last, 
 
 Thau lose the blessed hope of truth. 
 
 ABSENCE, 
 What shall I do with all the days and hours 
 
 That must be counted ere I see thy face? 
 How shall I charm the interval that lowers 
 
 Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 
 
 Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense. 
 Weary with longing ? — shall I flee away 
 
 Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
 Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
 Of casting from me God's great gift of time ; 
 
 Shall I these mists of memory locked within. 
 Leave, and forget life's purposes sublime ? 
 
 0, how, or by what means, may I contrive 
 To bring the hour that brings thee back more 
 near ? 
 
 How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
 Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 
 
 I Tl tell thee : for thy sake, I will lay hold 
 Of all good aims, and conseci'ate to thee. 
 
 In worthy deeds, caeh moment that is told 
 While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 
 
 Tor thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
 All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 
 
 Tor thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
 
 Through these long hours, nor call their min- 
 utes pains. 
 
 I will this dreary blanlc of absence make 
 A noble task-time, and will therein strive 
 
 To follow excellence, and to o'crtake 
 
 More good than I have won, since yet I live. 
 
 So may this doomed time build up in me 
 A thousand graces which shall thus be thine ; 
 
 So may my love and longing hallowed be. 
 And thy dear thought an influence divine. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 1812-1870. 
 
 THE IVT GKEEN. 
 
 On, a dainty plant is the ivy green. 
 
 That creepoth o'er ruins old ! 
 On right choice food arc liis meals, I ween. 
 
 In l\is cell so lone and cold. 
 The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed. 
 
 To pleasure his dainty wliini ; 
 
 And the mouldering dust that years have made. 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 
 Creeping where no Hfe is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
 wings. 
 And a stanch old heart has he ; 
 How closely he twineth, how close he clings, 
 
 To his friend the huge oak-tree ! 
 And slily he traileth along the ground, 
 
 And his leaves he gently waves, 
 As he joyously hugs and erawleth round 
 The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
 
 Creeping where grim Death has been, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 Whole ages have fled, and their works de- 
 cayed. 
 And nations have scattered been; 
 But the stout old ivy shall never fade 
 
 From its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 
 Shall fatten on the past : 
 For the stateliest building man can raise 
 Is the ivy's food at last. 
 
 Creeping on where Time has been, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green ! 
 
 CHARLES MACKAY. 
 
 THE GOOD TIME COMING. 
 
 Theke 's a good time comiug, boys, 
 
 A good time coming ; 
 Wc may not live to sec the day, 
 But eartli shall glisten in the ray 
 
 Of the good time coming. 
 Cannon-balls may aid the truth. 
 
 But thought 's a weapon stronger ; 
 We 'U win our battle by its aid ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The pen shall supersede the sword ; 
 And Eight, not Might, shall be the lord 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Worth, not birtii, shall rule mankind. 
 
 And be acknowledged stronger ; 
 The proper iniiMdse has been given ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 A good time coming : 
 
 -g> 
 

 
 
 ^ 
 
 /i/flcc/c/^^lotlyn^tt^/^'te'^u^ 
 
THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. — TO GEORGE SAND. 
 
 -n> 
 
 923 
 
 War in all men's eyes shall be 
 A monster of iniquity 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Nations shall not quarrel then. 
 
 To prove which is the stronger ; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; - 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Hateful rivalries of creed 
 Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Religion shall be shorn of pride, 
 
 And flourish all the stronger ; 
 And Ciiarity shall trim her lamp ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 And a poor man's family 
 Shall not be his misery 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Every child shall be a help 
 
 To make his right arm stronger ; 
 The happier he the more he has ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming ; 
 Little cliLldren_ shall not toil 
 Under, or above, the soil 
 
 In the good time coming ; 
 But shall play in healthful fields 
 
 Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 
 And every one shall read and write ; - 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Tiie people shall be temperate. 
 And shall love instead of hate. 
 
 In tlie good time coming. 
 They shall use, and not abuse. 
 
 And make all virtue stronger ; 
 The reformation has begun; — ■ 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Let us aid it all we can, 
 Every woman, every man. 
 
 The good time coming. 
 Smallest help, if rightly given. 
 
 Makes the impulse stronger; 
 'T will be strong enough one day ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN- 
 ING.* 
 
 1809-1861. 
 
 THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION, 
 
 With stammering lips and iusutficient sound 
 I strive and sti'uggle to deliver right 
 That music of my nature, day and night 
 With dream and thought and feeling iutcrwound. 
 And inly answering all the senses round 
 With octaves of a mystic depth and height 
 Which step out grandly to the infinite 
 From the dark edges of the sensual ground ! 
 This song of soul I struggle to outbear 
 Through portals of the sense, subUme and whole, 
 And utter all myself into the air. 
 But if I did it, — as the thunder-roU 
 Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there. 
 Before that dread apocalypse of soul. 
 
 TO GEOKOE SAND. 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted 
 
 man. 
 Self-called George Sand ! whose soul, amid the 
 
 lions 
 Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance. 
 And answers roar for roar, as spirits can ! 
 I would some mild miraculous thunder ran 
 Above the applauded circus, in appliance 
 Of thine own noblernature's strength and science. 
 Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan. 
 From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place 
 With holier liglit ! that thou to woman's claim. 
 And man's, might' st join beside the angel's grace 
 Of a pure genius sanctified from blame, — 
 Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace. 
 To kiss upon thy hps a stainless fame. 
 
 TO GEORGE SAND, 
 A RECOGNITION. 
 
 True genius, but true woman ! dost deny 
 Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn, 
 And break away the gauds and armlets worn 
 By weaker women in captivity ? 
 
 * We place Mrs. Browning out of strict chronological suc- 
 cession, in order that she may immediately precede her hus- 
 hand. The poems selected simply indicate qualities of genius . 
 which the reader will find more amply expressed iu The Cry 
 of the Children. The Dead Pan, The Cry of the Human, Mother 
 and Poet, J/y Heart and I, Only a Curl, Catannu to Camoens, 
 A Vision of Poets, Bertha iu the Lane. Fhynie of the Duchess 
 May, Lady Geraldine's Courtship, and in many passages of 
 Aurora Leiyh and Casa Guidi Windows. This nohle woman 
 can he adequately known only by the study of the Avhole body 
 of her works. 
 
 -9> 
 
a- 
 
 924 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 All, vain denial ! that revolted cry- 
 Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn ! — 
 Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn, 
 Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, 
 Disproving thy man's name ! and while before 
 The world thou buniest in a poet-fire 
 We see thy womau-heart beat evermore 
 Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and 
 
 higher. 
 Till God uusex thee on the heavenly shore, 
 AVhcre uniucarnate spirits purely aspire. 
 
 THE SLEEP, 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvii. 2. 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar. 
 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
 Now tell me if that any is. 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep ! " 
 
 What woidd we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart, to be unmoved. 
 
 The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep. 
 The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, 
 The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? — 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 What do we give to our beloved? 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 
 A little dust to overweep. 
 And bitter memories to make 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake. 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say. 
 But have no tune to charm away 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyehds creep. 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 
 O delved gold, the waders heap ! 
 O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God strikes a silence through you all. 
 
 And giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill ; 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man 
 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
 But angels say, and through the word 
 I think their happy sniile is heard, — 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show. 
 
 That sees through tears the mummers leap. 
 Would now its wearied vision close. 
 Would childlike on His love repose. 
 
 Who giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 And, friends, dear friends, — when it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from nie. 
 
 And round my bier ye come to weep. 
 Let oue, most loving of you all. 
 Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ; 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 COWPEE'S GRAVE. 
 
 It is a place where poets crowned may feel the 
 
 heart's decaying. 
 It is a place where happy saints may weep amid 
 
 their praying. 
 Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, 
 
 languish. 
 Earth surely now may give her calm to whom 
 
 she gave her anguish. 
 
 poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the 
 
 deathless singiug! 
 O Christians, at your cross of hope, a hopeless 
 
 hand was clinging ! 
 O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths 
 
 beguihng 
 Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died 
 
 while ye were smihug ! 
 
 And now, what time ye all may read through 
 dimming tears his story. 
 
 How discord on the music fell, and darkness on 
 the glory. 
 
 And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and 
 wandering lights departed. 
 
 He wore no less a loving face because so broken- 
 hearted, 
 
 He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high 
 
 vocation, 
 And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker 
 
 adoration. 
 Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good 
 
 forsaken. 
 Named softly, as the household name of onewhom 
 
 God hath taken. 
 
 With quiet sadness and no gloom I leani to think 
 
 upon him, — 
 With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose 
 
 heaven hath won him, 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 
 
 925 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own 
 
 love to bhnd him, 
 But gently led the blind along where breath and 
 
 bird could find him, 
 
 And wrought within liis shattered brain such 
 
 quick poetic senses 
 As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious 
 
 influences. 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within 
 
 its number, 
 And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him 
 
 like a slumber. 
 
 Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share 
 his home-caresses, 
 
 Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tender- 
 nesses. 
 
 The very world, by God's constraint, from false- 
 hood's ways removing. 
 
 Its women and its men became, beside him, trae 
 and loving. 
 
 And though, in blindness, he remained uncon- 
 scious of that guiding, 
 
 And things provided came without the sweet 
 sense of providing, 
 
 He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy 
 desolated, — 
 
 Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only God 
 created. 
 
 Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother 
 
 while she blesses 
 And drops upon his burning brow the coolness 
 
 of her kisses, — 
 That turns his fevered eyes around, — " My 
 
 mother ! where 's my mother ? " 
 As if such tender words and deeds could come 
 
 from any other ! — 
 
 The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her 
 
 bending o'er him. 
 Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary 
 
 love she bore him ! — 
 Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's 
 
 long fever gave him, 
 Beneath those deep pathetic eyes, which closed 
 
 in death to save him. 
 
 Thus ? O, not i/i/is ! no type of earth can image 
 
 that awaking, 
 "SVhercin he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs 
 
 round him breaking, 
 Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body 
 
 parted. 
 But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — " My 
 
 Saviour ! not deserted ! " 
 
 Deserted ! Who hath dreamt that when the cross 
 
 in darkness rested. 
 Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was 
 
 manifested ? 
 What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the 
 
 atoning drops averted ? 
 What tears have washed them from the soul, that 
 
 one should be deserted ? 
 
 Desei-ted ! God could separate from his own es- 
 sence rather ; 
 
 And Adam's sins hat:e swept between the right- 
 eous Son and Father. 
 
 Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe 
 hath shaken, — 
 
 It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am 
 forsaken ! " 
 
 It went up from the Holy's lips amid Ids lost 
 
 creation. 
 That, of the lost, no son should use those words 
 
 of desolation ! 
 That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should 
 
 mar not hope's fruition. 
 And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture 
 
 in a vision. 
 
 A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 
 
 A. A. E. C. 
 BOEN, JULY, 18t8. DIED, NOVEMBER, 1849. 
 
 Of English blood, of Tuscan birth. 
 What country should we give her ? 
 
 Instead of any on the earth, 
 The civic heavens receive her. 
 
 ^ And here, among the English tombs. 
 In Tuscan ground we lay her, 
 Wlule the blue Tuscan sky endomes 
 Our EngUsh words of prayer. 
 
 A little child ! — how long she lived. 
 By mouths, not years, is reckoned ; 
 
 Bom in one Jidy, she survived 
 Alone to see a second. 
 
 Bright-featured, as the July sun 
 Her little face still played in. 
 
 And splendors, with her birth begun, 
 Had had no time for fading. 
 
 So, Lily, from those July hours. 
 No wonder we should call her ; 
 
 She looked such kinship to the flowers. 
 Was but a Uttle taller. 
 
 We could not wish her whiter, — her 
 Wlio perfumed with pure blossom 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 92G 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 -fl) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Tlie house ! — a lovely thing to wear 
 Upon a mother's bosom ! 
 
 * » * 
 
 Poor earth, poor heart, — too weak, too weak, 
 
 To miss the July shining ! 
 Poor heart ! — wliat bitter words we speak, 
 
 When God speaks of resigning ! 
 
 Sustain tiiis heart in us tliat faints. 
 
 Thou God, the self-existent ! 
 W^e catch up wild at parting saints, 
 
 And feel thy Heaven too distant. 
 
 The wind tliat swept them out of sin. 
 
 Has ruffled all our vesture. 
 On the shut door that let them in. 
 
 We beat with frantic gesture, — 
 
 * * * 
 Love, strong as Death, shall conquer Death, 
 
 Through struggle, made more glorious. 
 This mother stills her sobbing breath, 
 Renouueiug, yet victorious. 
 
 Ai-ms, empty of her child, she lifts. 
 
 With spirit unbereaven, — 
 " God will not take back all his gifts ; 
 
 My Lily 's mine in heaven! 
 
 " Still mine ! maternal rights serene 
 
 Not given to another ! 
 The crystal bars shine faint between 
 
 The souls of child and mother. 
 
 " Meanwhile," the mother cries, " content ! 
 
 Our love was well divided. 
 Its sweetness following where she went, 
 
 Its anguish stayed where I did. 
 
 " Well done of God, to halve the lot, 
 
 And give her all the sweetness ; 
 To us, the empty room and cot, — 
 
 To her, the Heaven's completeness. 
 
 "To us, this grave, — to her, the rows 
 The mystic palm-trees spring in. 
 
 To us, the silence in liie house, — 
 To her, the choral singing." 
 
 A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. 
 
 TiiEY say that God hves very high. 
 
 But if you look above the ]m\es 
 You cannot sec our God ; and why ? 
 
 And if you dig down in the mines 
 You never sec hiui in the gold ; 
 Though from him all that 's glory shines. 
 
 God is so good, he wears a fold 
 
 Of heaven and earth across his face, — 
 Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 
 
 But still I feel that liis embrace 
 
 Shdes down by thrills, through all things made. 
 Through sight and sound of every place. 
 
 As if my tender mother laid 
 
 On my shut lids her kisses' pressure. 
 
 Half waking me at night, and said, 
 
 " Who kissed you through the dark, dear 
 guesser? " 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE POETUGUESE,* 
 
 I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung 
 Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, 
 Wlio each one in a gracious hand appears 
 To bear -a gift for mortals, old or young : 
 And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
 I saw, in gradual vision through my tears. 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years. 
 Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
 A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, 
 So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
 Behind mc, and drew me backward by the hair. 
 And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . . . 
 "Guess now who holds thee?" — "Death," I 
 
 said. But, there. 
 The silver answer rang ..." Not Death, but 
 
 Love." 
 
 * ♦ * 
 
 Unlike are we, uuhkc, O princely Heart ! 
 
 Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
 
 Our ministering two angels look surprise 
 
 On one another, as they strike athwart 
 
 Tiieir wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art 
 
 A guest for queens to social pageantries, 
 
 Willi gages from a hundred brighter eyes 
 
 Thau tears even can make mine, to ply thy part 
 
 Of chief musician. What hast //lou to do 
 
 "With looking from the lattice-lights at me, 
 
 A poor, tired, wandering smgcr, . . . singing 
 
 through 
 The dark, and leaning up a cypress-tree? 
 The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the 
 
 dew, — 
 And Death must dig the level where these agree. 
 
 * » * 
 
 Go from mc. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
 Henceforward in tiiy siiadow. Nevermore 
 Alone u])OU the threshold of my door 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 
 • Tlicse Sounds nve probably the most exquisite of all Mrs. 
 Hro\vniiif!'s poems. Vain a tliin veil they ileseribc the 
 vnniic Iieginuings and final consummation of love in two poets, 
 ending in a happy marriage, — a marriage of gcmiis ns well as 
 of hiarts and hands. The bride is Elizabeth liarrett ; the 
 bridegroom. Robert Browning. 
 
 In all literary history, the lore recorded i« these Sonnets 
 finds no parallel ; for both the woman and the man were poets 
 of neknowledgcd genius, each having obtained a separate fame 
 before they were inseparably united. 
 
 -95 
 
a- 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 9-27 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 The uses of my soul, nor Kft my hand 
 Serenely in the sunsliine as before, 
 Without tlie sense of that which I forbore, . . . 
 Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream iuclude thee, as the wiue 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And wlicn I sue 
 God for myself, he hears that name of thine. 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Yet, love, mci-e love, is beautiful indeed 
 And wortliy of acceptation. Fire is bright. 
 Let temple burn, or flax. An equal light 
 Leaps in the flame from cedar plank or weed. 
 And love is fire ; and when I say at need 
 / love tliee . . . mark ! . . . / loce tliee .' . . . in thy 
 
 sight 
 I stand transfigured, glorified aright. 
 With conscience of the new rays that proceed 
 Out of my face toward thine. There 's nothing 
 
 low 
 In love, when love the lowest : meanest creatures 
 Who love God, God accepts whUe loving so. 
 And what \feel, across the inferior features 
 Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show 
 How that great work of Love enhances Nature's. 
 
 * * * 
 
 I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
 To a mau. Dearest, except this to thee, 
 Wiiicli now upon my fingers thoughtfully 
 I ring out to the full brown length and say 
 ■' Take it." My day of youth went yesterday ; 
 My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. 
 Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree. 
 As girls do, any more. It only may 
 Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, 
 Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside, 
 Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral- 
 shears 
 Would take this first, but Love is justified, — 
 Take it thou, . . . finding pure, from all those 
 
 years, 
 The kiss my mother left here when she died. 
 
 * * * 
 Say over again, and yet once over again, 
 
 That thou dost love me. Though the word re- 
 peated 
 Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat 
 
 it, 
 Remember never to the hill or plain, 
 Valley and wood, without her euekoo-strain. 
 Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. 
 Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
 By a doubtful spirit-voice,, in that doubt's pain 
 Cry ..." Speak once more . . . thou lovest ! " 
 Who can fear 
 
 Too many stars, though each in heaven shall 
 
 roil, — 
 Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 
 
 year? 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toU 
 The silver iterance ! — only minding, Dear, 
 To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 
 
 * * * 
 Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
 Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ? 
 And would the sun for thee more coldly shine, 
 Because of grave-damps falling round my head ? 
 I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
 
 Thy thought so in the letter, I am thine — 
 But . . .so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine 
 Wliile my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead 
 Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. 
 Then, love me, Love ! look on me . . . breathe on 
 
 me ! 
 As blighter ladies do not count it strange, 
 For love, to give up acres and degree, 
 I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange 
 My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with 
 
 thee ! 
 
 * * * 
 FlEST time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
 And, ever since, it grew more clean and white, . . . 
 Slow to world-greetings . . . quick with its "0, 
 
 list," 
 When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
 I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, 
 Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 
 The first, and sought the forehead, and half 
 
 missed. 
 Half falling on the hair. beyond meed ! 
 That was the chrism of love, which love's own 
 
 crown, 
 With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
 The third upon my li])S was folded down 
 In perfect, purjile state ; siuce when, indeed, 
 I have been proud and said, " My love, my own." 
 
 * * * 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 
 
 I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
 
 For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
 
 I love thee to the level of every day's 
 
 Most qiuct need, by sun and candlelight. 
 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
 
 I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
 
 I love thee with the passion put to use 
 
 In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
 
 With my lost saints, — I love thee with tlie breath. 
 
 Smiles, tears, of all my life I — and, if God choose, 
 
 I shall but love thee better after death. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 928 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING.* 
 
 1813- . • 
 
 OVER THE SEA OUK GALLEYS WENT, 
 
 Over tlic sea our gaUeys weut, 
 
 With cleaving prows iii order brave, 
 
 To a speeding wind and a bounding wave, — 
 
 A gallant armament : 
 Each bark built out of a forest-tree, 
 Left leafy and rough as lirst it grew. 
 And nailed aU over the gaping sides, 
 Within and without, with blaek-buU hides. 
 Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
 To bear the playful billows' game ; 
 So each good ship was rude to see, 
 Rude and bare to the outward view, 
 
 But each upbore a stately teut ; 
 
 * Tlic editors are aware tliat. in making these selections from 
 Browning, tliey have not qtioted those [wems wliich tlie special 
 admirers of the poet consider his hest and most characti'ristic 
 productions. Poetry, with Browning, is not something "simple, 
 sensuous, and passionate," hut something expressing the pro- 
 cesses and results of the most intense imaginative analysis. 
 He coneci\es or creates an individual cliaracter, and then 
 proceeds to exhihit the mental operations of his imagined 
 character, — following minutely all the involutions and evolu- 
 tions of his thinking, as his mind is thrown hack on itself to 
 seek self-justification in sclf-comnninion. Ilis genius is dra- 
 matic in the sense that he thus surveys nature and human 
 nature from many points of view ; I)nt the characters, it will 
 he noticed, are not exhilnted in action, with thoughts Hashing 
 forth just heforc or after a deed, hut in nu'ditation, after the 
 acts have heen done, and analysis works on memories. And 
 it may l)e said that such poems as Sordello, Paracelsus, Jtabbi 
 Ben Ezra, Caliban upon Srtrbns, Mr. Slntlf/e, tkf Meditnn, 
 Bishop Blougram^s Apolotpj, not to mention many others, are 
 studies in the concrete philosophy of human nature, as dis- 
 tinguished from abstract philosophies of the human mind. 
 Yet the most characteristic poems of Browning demand frotn 
 the reader a power of close attention similar to that he gives to 
 any work of ethical, metaphysical, or nmthematical science. 
 Nohody can intelligently read such a poem as The Ithitf and 
 the Book, and take in its whole scope and meaning, without 
 devoting to it an intellectual energy similar to that which the 
 theological student exercises on Butler's Analogy, the meta- 
 physical student on Kant's Critique of Pure Reason., the math- 
 ematical student on Newton's Principia or La Place's J/cm- 
 niqae Celeste. Indeed, in listening to ordinary criticisms on 
 Browning's obscurity and long-windedncss, oiie is remindetl of 
 Fuseli's remark to a noble coxcomb, who condescended to 
 praise his illustrations of Milton. "After seeing these pic- 
 tures," he drawled, in the most languid, lyini)hritic lisp then 
 in fashion,"! really now, — do you know, Mr, Kuseli, — I 
 really think 1 must read Parattise Lost." "Don't attempt it, 
 my I/)rd," growled the artist in his broken English, "for 
 you '11 tind it a tarn tough job." Those who resolutely ex- 
 plore the "interiors" of Browning's iteculiar gennis will find 
 it a task similar to that wliicli Fuseli warned the noble loid 
 not to attempt. The robust intellect and character of Brown- 
 ing, it must be confessed, have failed of making their due im- 
 pression, through his tendency to indulge in subtleties of 
 mental ol>ser\ntion and analysis which arc not percei\ed by 
 the general reader, and through his habit of becoming un- 
 mclmiious just at the moment he becomes most profound. 
 And then he disturbs poetic faith in men and women, by his 
 persistent liuntinK lor the taint of sin in characters generally 
 pure and notde. The poem of fioht Hair is one of the ungra- 
 cious examples of this pitiless search for a stain in what 
 appears stauiless 
 
 Where cedar-pales in scented row 
 Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine: 
 And au awiring drooped tlie mast below. 
 In fold on fold of the pur])le fine. 
 That neither noontide, nor star-shine. 
 Nor mooidight cold which niaketh mad, 
 
 flight pierce the regal tenement. 
 When the sun dawned, O, gay and glad 
 We set the sail and plied t lie oar ; 
 But when the uight-wind blew like breath, 
 For joy of one day's voyage more. 
 We sang together on the wide sea. 
 Like men at peace on a peaceful shore ; 
 Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
 Each helm made sure by the twilight star. 
 And in a sleep as calm as death. 
 We, the strangers from afar. 
 
 Lay stretched along, eaeli weary crew 
 In a circle round its wondrous tent, 
 Wlience gleamed soft liglit and curled rich sceut, 
 
 And with light and perfume, music too : 
 So tlie stars wheeled round, and the darkness past. 
 And at morn we started beside the mast. 
 And stni each ship was sailing fast ! 
 
 One mom the land appeared ! — a speck 
 Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky, — 
 "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check 
 
 The shout, restrain the longing eye ! " 
 But tlie heaving sea was black behind 
 For many a night and many a day, 
 And land, though but a rock, drew nigh ; 
 So he broke the cedar-pales away, 
 Let the purple awning flap in the wind, 
 
 And a statue bright was on every deck ! 
 We shouted, every man of us, 
 And steered right into the harbor thus, 
 With pomp and paean glorious. 
 
 An hundred shapes of lueid stone ! 
 
 All day we built a shrine for each, — 
 A shrine of rock for every one, — 
 Nor paused we till in the westering sun 
 
 We sate together on the beach 
 To sing, because our task was done ; 
 When lo ! what shouts and merry songs ! 
 What laughter all tlie distiiiiec stirs ! 
 What raft comes loaded with its throngs 
 Of gentle islanders ? 
 " The isles are just at hand," they cried ; 
 
 " Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping. 
 Our temple-gates are opened wide. 
 
 Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 
 For the lueid shapes you bring," they cried. 
 O, then we awoke with sudden start 
 From our deep dream ; we knew, too late. 
 How bare the rock, how desolate, 
 To which we Iwtd flung our iireeions freight : 
 
 ■w 
 
a- 
 
 THE PIED PIPEE OP HAMELIN. 
 
 929 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Yet we called out, — " Depart ! 
 Our gifts, once given, must here abide : 
 
 Our work is done ; we have no heart 
 To mar our work, though vain," — we cried. 
 
 THE LOST LEADER. ' 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us, 
 
 Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — 
 Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. 
 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
 They, with the gold to give, doled him out/silver, 
 
 So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
 How all our copper had gone for liis service ! 
 
 Rags, — were they purple, his heart had been 
 proud ! 
 We that had loved him so, followed him, honored 
 him, 
 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
 Learned his great language, caught his clear ac- 
 cents. 
 
 Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch 
 from their graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen. 
 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 
 
 We shall march prospering, — not through his 
 presence ; 
 Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his qui- 
 escence. 
 Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire -. 
 Blot out his name, then, — record one lost soul 
 more, 
 One task more declined, one more footpath 
 untrod, 
 One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for 
 angels, 
 Oue wrong more to man, one more insult to 
 God! 
 Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 
 
 There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
 Forced praise on our part, the gUnimer of twilight. 
 
 Never glad confident morning again ! 
 Best fight ou well, for we taught hiin, — strike 
 
 gallantly, 
 • Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his owni ; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait 
 us. 
 Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne ! 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN, 
 
 Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick, 
 By famous Hanover city ; 
 
 The river Weser, deep and wide. 
 
 4 
 
 Washes its wall on the southern side ; 
 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 But, when begins my ditty. 
 
 Almost five hundred years ago, 
 
 To see the townsfolk suffer so 
 From vermin, was a pity. 
 
 Rats ! 
 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 
 
 And bit the babies inthe cradles, 
 And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 
 
 And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles. 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
 And even spoiled the women's chats. 
 
 By drowning their speaking 
 
 With shrieking and squeaking 
 In fifty different sharps and flats. 
 
 At last the people in a body 
 
 To the Town Hall came flocking : 
 " 'T is clear," cried they, "our Mayor 's a noddy ; 
 
 And as for our Corporation, — shockiug 
 To tliink we buy gowns lined with ermine 
 For dolts that can't or won't determine 
 What 's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
 You hope, because you 're old and obese. 
 To find in the furry civie robe ease ? 
 Rouse up. Sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
 To find the remedy we 're lacking. 
 Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing ! " 
 At this the Mayor and Corporation 
 Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
 
 An hour they sat in counsel. 
 
 At length the JIayor broke silence : 
 
 " For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown sell ; 
 I wish I were a mile hence ! 
 
 It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain, — 
 
 I 'm sure my poor head aches again 
 
 I 've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
 
 O for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 
 
 Just as he said this, what should hap 
 
 At the chamber door but a gentle tap? 
 
 " Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what 's that ? " 
 
 (With the Corporation as he sat. 
 
 Looking little, though wondrous fat ; 
 
 Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 
 
 Thau a too long-opened oyster. 
 
 Save when at noon his pauneh grew mutinous 
 
 For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) 
 
 " Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? 
 
 Anything like the sound of a rat 
 
 Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 
 
 " Come in ! " — tlie Mayor cried, looking bigger : 
 
 And in did come the strangest figure ! 
 
 His queer long coat from heel to head 
 
 Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
 
 And he himself was tall and thin. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 930 
 
 BEOWNING. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 With sharp blue eyes, each hke a pin, 
 
 And hght loose hair, yet. swarthy skin, 
 
 No tiil't on cheek nor beard on chin. 
 
 But Ups where smiles went out and in, — 
 
 There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
 
 And nobody could enough admire 
 
 The tall man and his quaint attire : 
 
 Quoth one : " It 's as my grcat-grandsire. 
 
 Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, 
 
 Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! " 
 
 He advanced to the council-table : 
 
 And, " Please your honors," said he, " I 'm able, 
 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 
 All creatures living beneath the sun, 
 
 That creep, or swim, or fly, or run. 
 
 After me so as you never saw ! 
 
 And I chiefly use my charm 
 
 On creatures that do people harm. 
 
 The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper; 
 
 And people call me the Pied PiiJcr." 
 
 (And here they noticed round his neck 
 
 A scarf of red and yellow stripe. 
 
 To match with his coat of the selfsame cheek ; 
 
 And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 
 
 And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying 
 
 As if impatient to be playing 
 
 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
 
 Over his vesture so old-fangled. j 
 
 " Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 
 
 In Tartary I freed tlie Cham 
 
 Last June from his huge swarms of gnats ; 
 
 I eased in Asia the Nizam 
 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampire -bats : 
 
 And, as for what your brain bewilders, 
 
 If I can rid your town of rats 
 
 Will you give me a thousand guilders ? " 
 
 " One ? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation 
 
 Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 
 
 Into the street the Piper stept, 
 
 Smiling first a httle smile, 
 As if he knew what magic slept 
 
 III his quiet pipe the while; 
 Then, like a musical adept. 
 To blow the pi|)o his lips he wrinkled, 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled 
 Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
 And ere three shrill notes the ]>ipe uttered, 
 You heard as if an army muttered; 
 And the muttering grew to a grumljling ; 
 And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumliling. 
 And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
 Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. 
 Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 
 
 Fidliers, mothers, uncles, cousins. 
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers. 
 
 Families by tens and dozens. 
 
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
 FoUowed the Piper for their lives. 
 From street to street he jiiped advancing. 
 And step for step tlicy followed dancing. 
 Until tliey came to the river Weser 
 Wherein all plunged and perished, 
 
 — Save one who, stout as Julius Ciesar, 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 
 (As he the manuscript he cherished) 
 
 To Hat-laud home his commentary, 
 
 Which was, " At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. 
 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
 
 Into a cider-press's gripe : 
 
 And a moving away of pickle -tub-boards. 
 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 
 
 And a drawing tlie corks of train-oil-flasks, 
 
 And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 
 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
 
 Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice I 
 
 The world is grown to one vast drysaltery I 
 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon. 
 
 Breakfast, supper, dimier, luncheon ! 
 
 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 
 
 All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
 
 Glorious scarce an inch before me. 
 
 Just as raethought it said, Come, bore me ! 
 
 — I found the Weser rolhng o'er me." 
 
 You shoidd have heard the Hameliu people 
 Ringing the bells till they rocked tlie steeple ; 
 " Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles ! 
 Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 
 Consult with carpenters and builders, 
 And leave in our town not even a trace 
 Uf the rats ! " — when suddenly up the face 
 Of the Piper perked in the niarket-iilace. 
 With a, " First, if you please, my thousand 
 guilders 1 " 
 
 A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; 
 
 So did the Corporation too. 
 
 F'or council dinners made rare havoek 
 
 With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock ; 
 
 And half the money would re|ilenish 
 
 Their cellar's biggest butt with Bhenish. 
 
 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
 
 With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! 
 
 " Heside," quotli the Mayor with a knowing wink, 
 
 " Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
 
 We saw with our eyes tiie vermin sink. 
 
 And what 's dead can't come to life, I think. 
 
 So, friend, wc 're not the folks to shrink 
 
 From the duty of giving yo>i something for drink. 
 
 And a matter of money to ])ut in your poke ; 
 
 l?ut, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
 
 Of tlicm, as you very well know, was in joke. 
 
 Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
 
 ^U-^ 
 
 -^-9^ 
 
&- 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 
 
 931 
 
 -Q) 
 
 A thousand guilders ! Come; take fifty ! " 
 Tlie Piper's lace fell, and he cried, 
 " No trifling ! I can't wait, beside ! 
 I 've promised to visit by dinner-time 
 Bagdat, and accept tlie prime 
 Of tJie Head Cook's pottage, all he 's rich in, 
 For having left, in the Calipii's kitchen, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor, — 
 With liim I proved no bargain-driver. 
 With you, don't think I '11 bate a stiver ! 
 And folks who put me in a passion 
 May find me pipe to another fashion." 
 
 "How?" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I'll 
 
 brook 
 Being worse treated than a cook ? 
 Insulted by a lazy ribald 
 With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
 You threaten us, felhiw ? Do your worst. 
 Blow your pipe there till you burst ! " 
 
 Once more he stept into the street; 
 
 And to liis lips again 
 Laid his long ])ipe of smooth straight cane ; 
 
 And ere he blew three notes (sucli sweet 
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
 
 Never gave tlie enraptured air) 
 Tliere was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling 
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling. 
 Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. 
 Little hands clapping, and little tongues ciiattcr- 
 
 ing, 
 And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is 
 
 scattering, 
 Out came the cliildren running. 
 All the little boys and girls. 
 With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
 The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 
 
 Tlie Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
 
 As if tliey were clianged into blocks of wood. 
 
 Unable to move a ■step, or cry 
 
 To the children merrily skipping by, — 
 
 And could only follow with the eye 
 
 That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
 
 But how the Mayor was on tlie rack. 
 
 And the wretciied Council's bosoms beat. 
 
 As the Piper turned from tlie High Street 
 
 To where tlie Wescr rolled its waters 
 
 Right in tlie way of tlieir sons and daughters ! 
 
 However he tui-ned from South to West, 
 
 And to Koppelbcrg Hill his steps addressed, 
 
 And after him the cliildren pressed; 
 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 
 " He never can cross that mighty top ! 
 
 He 's forced to let the piping drop. 
 
 And we shall see our children stop ! " 
 
 &- 
 
 When, lo I as they reached the mountain's side, 
 
 A wondrous portal opened wide, 
 
 As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
 
 And the Piper advanced and the childrenfollowed, 
 
 And when all were in to the very last. 
 
 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
 
 Did 1 say all ? No. One was lame. 
 
 And could not dance the whole of the way ; 
 
 And in after years, if you Would blame 
 
 His sadness, he was used to say, — 
 
 " It 's dull in our town since my playmates left! 
 
 I can't forget that I 'm bereft 
 
 Of all the pleasant sights they see. 
 
 Which the Piper also promised me ; 
 
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
 
 Joining the town and just at hand. 
 
 Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew. 
 
 And fhjwers put foilh a fairer hue. 
 
 And everything was strange and new; 
 
 The sparrows were brighter than peaeocks here, 
 
 And their dogs .outran our fallow deer, 
 
 And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
 
 And horses were bom with eagles' wings ; 
 
 And just as I became assured 
 
 My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
 
 The music stopped and I stood still, 
 
 And found myself outside the hill. 
 
 Left alone against my will. 
 
 To go now limping as before. 
 
 And never hear of that country more ! " 
 
 Alas ! alas for Hamelin ! 
 
 There came into many a burgher's pate 
 
 A text which says that Heaven's gate 
 
 Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
 As the needle's eye takes a camel in I 
 The Mayor sent East, AVest, North, and South, 
 To (lifer the Piper by word of mouth. 
 
 Wherever it was men's lot to find liim. 
 Silver and gold to his heart's content. 
 If he 'd only return the way he went. 
 
 And bring the children belund him. 
 But when they saw 't was a lost endeavor. 
 And Piper and dancers were gone forever, 
 They made a decree 'that lawyers never 
 Should think their records dated duly 
 If, after the day of the month and year. 
 These words did not as well appear, 
 " And so long after what happened here 
 
 On the twenty-second of J I'lly, 
 Thirteen hundred and seventy-six " : 
 And the better in memory to fix 
 The place of the children's last retreat, 
 They called it the Pied Piper's Street, — 
 Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
 Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
 Nor suifered they hostelry or tavern 
 
 To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; 
 
 -g^ 
 
a- 
 
 932 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 —Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 But opjiosite the place of the Ciiveni 
 They wrote the story on a coliiimi, 
 And on the great church window paiuted 
 The same, to make the world acquainted 
 How their children were stolen away ; 
 And there it stands to this very day. 
 And I must not omit to say 
 That in Transylvania there 's a tribe 
 Of aUeu people that ascribe 
 The outlandish ways and dress 
 On which tlieir neighbors lay such stress, 
 To their fathers and mothers having riseu 
 Out of some subterraneous prison 
 Into wliich they were trepanned 
 Long time ago iu a niiglity band 
 Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
 But how or why, they don't understand. 
 So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 
 Of scores out with all men — especially pipers : 
 And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from 
 
 mice. 
 If we 've promised them aught, let us keep our 
 
 promise. 
 
 DTOrDENT OF THE FBENCH CAMP. 
 
 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : 
 
 A mile or so away 
 On a little mound, Napoleon 
 
 Stood on our storming-day ; 
 With neck outthrust, you fancy how. 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
 As if to balance the prone brow 
 
 Oppressive with its mind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall. 
 Let once my army-leader, Lannes, 
 
 Waver at yonder wall," — 
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy. 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy : 
 
 You hardly could suspect — 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed, 
 
 Scarce any blood came through) 
 You looked twice ere you saw liis breast 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 " Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 
 
 We 've got you Ratisbon ! 
 The Marshal 's in (he market-place, 
 
 And you '11 bo there anon 
 To sec your flag-bird llap his vans 
 
 Where I, to iieart's desire, 
 
 Perched him ! " The Chief 's eye flashed ; his plans 
 Soared up again like fire. 
 
 The Chief's eyes flashed ; but presently 
 
 Soi'tcncd itself, as sheathes 
 A fdm the mother eagle's eye 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
 " You 're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride 
 
 Touched to the quick, he said, 
 "I 'm killed. Sire ! " And, his Chief beside, 
 
 Smiling, the boy fell dead. 
 
 HOW THEY BRODGHT THE GOOD NEWS FEOM 
 GHENT TO AIX. 
 
 I SPRANG to tlie stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 
 I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 
 " Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate- 
 bolts undrew ; 
 " Speed ! " echoed the wall to usgallopingtlirough; 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. 
 And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 
 
 Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace 
 Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing 
 
 our place ; 
 I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
 Rebuckled the clieck-strap, chained slacker the 
 
 bit. 
 Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique 
 
 right. 
 Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 
 
 'T was moonset at starting ; but while we drew 
 
 near 
 Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 
 
 clear ; 
 At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
 At Diiffcld, 't was morning as plain as could be ; 
 And from Mcchcln church-steeple we heard the 
 
 half-chime. 
 So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 
 
 At Acrschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
 And against him the cattle stood black every 
 
 one, 
 To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
 And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
 With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
 The haze, as some bluff river headland its spniy. 
 
 And his low head and crest, just one sharp car 
 
 bent back 
 For my voice, and the other pricked out ou his 
 
 track ; 
 And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that 
 
 glance 
 O'er its wliite edge at me, his own master, 
 
 askance ! 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 EVELYN HOPE. 
 
 933 
 
 -6) 
 
 And the thick heavy spume-flakes wliioh aye and 
 
 anon. 
 Ilis fierce lips shook upwards iu galloping on. 
 
 By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, 
 
 " Stay spur ! 
 Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, 
 We'll reuiember at Aix," — for oue heard the 
 
 quick wheeze 
 or her chest, saw the stretched neck and stagger- 
 ing knees. 
 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 
 As down on her haunches she shuddered audsauk. 
 
 So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
 Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud iu the sky ; 
 The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugli, 
 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble 
 
 like chaff; 
 Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire spraug white, 
 And"Gallop,"gasped Joris, for "Aix is iu sight! 
 
 " How they '11 greet us ! " — and all in a moment 
 
 ilis roan 
 Rolled ueck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
 And there was my Roland to bear the whole 
 
 weight 
 Of the uews which alone could save Aix from her 
 
 fate, 
 With Lis nostrils like pits full of blood to the 
 
 brim. 
 And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 
 
 Then I cast loose my buff-coat, eaeli holster let fall. 
 Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
 Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse with- 
 out peer ; 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any uoise, 
 
 bad or good. 
 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 
 
 And all I remember is, friends flocking round 
 As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the 
 
 ground. 
 And no voice but was praising this Roland of 
 
 mine. 
 As I poured down his throat our last measure of 
 
 wine, 
 Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
 Was no more than his due who brought good 
 
 uews from Ghent. 
 
 EVELYN HOPE. 
 
 BE.\UTiruL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is lier book-shelf, this her bed ; 
 
 She plucked tliat piece of geranium-flower. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass. 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think, — 
 The siuitters are sliut, no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name. 
 It was not her time to love : beside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim. 
 Duties enougii and little cares. 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, — 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 W'hat, your soul was pure and true. 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire, and dew, — 
 And just because I was thrice as old. 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
 Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 
 
 We were fellow-mortals, naught beside ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward tlie love, — 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
 Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 
 
 Through worlds I siiall traverse,-not a few, — 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time will come, — at last it will. 
 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say. 
 In the lower eartli, iu the years long still. 
 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 
 
 And your moutli of your own geranium's red, — 
 And what you would do with me. in fine. 
 
 In the ne\y life come in the old one's stead, 
 
 I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 
 
 Given up myself so many times. 
 Gained me the gains of various men. 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled t.lie climes ; 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 
 
 Either I missed or itself missed me, — 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
 
 What is the issue ? let us see ! 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
 There was place and to spare for the frank young 
 smile. 
 
 And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
 gold. 
 So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep, — 
 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
 There, tliat is our secret ! go to sleep ; 
 
 You will wake, and remember, and understand. 
 
 4? 
 
a- 
 
 934 
 
 BEOWNING. 
 
 -n 
 
 I 
 
 MEETING AT NIGHT. 
 
 The gray sea and the long black land ; 
 
 And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
 
 And the startled little waves that leap 
 
 In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
 
 As 1 gain the eove witli pusliing prow, 
 
 And queiieh its speed in the slushy sand. 
 
 Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 
 
 Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; 
 
 A tap at the pane, the quiclc sharj) scratch 
 
 And blue spurt of a lighted matcli, 
 
 And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 
 
 Thau the two hearts beating eacli to each ! 
 
 PARTING AT MORNING. 
 
 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 
 And the sun looked over tlie mountain's rim. 
 And straight was a path of gukl fur him, 
 And the need of a world of men for mo. 
 
 SONG or PIPPA. 
 
 The year 's at tlie spring. 
 And day 's at the morn ; 
 Morning 's at seven ; 
 The hillside 's dew-pearled ; 
 The lark 's on the wing ; 
 The snail 's on the thorn ; 
 God 's in his heaven, — 
 All 's right with the world ! 
 
 I'ijipa Passes. 
 
 AMONG THE EOCKS. 
 
 O GOOD, gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, 
 Tliis autunni morning ! How he sets his bones 
 
 To bask i' tlie sun, and thrusts out knees and feet 
 
 Tor the ripple to run over in its mirth ; 
 
 Listening tlie wliile, where on the hcai) of 
 stones 
 
 The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. 
 
 That is tlie doctrine, simple, ancient, true ; 
 
 Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. 
 If you loved oiJy what were worth your love, 
 Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you : 
 
 Make the low nature better by your throes ! 
 Give earth yourself, go up for gain above ! 
 
 DAYBREAK. 
 Day! 
 
 Faster and more fust, 
 
 O'er niglit's brim, day boils at last ; 
 
 Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 
 
 Where spurting aud supprest it lay — 
 
 For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
 Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
 Of the eastern cloud an hour away ; 
 I'.ut forth one wavelet, then another, curled, 
 Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest, 
 Kose, reddened, and its seething breast 
 Fhekered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed 
 the world. Pij}/>a Passes. 
 
 MARCHING ALONG, 
 A CAVALIER SONG. 
 
 Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 
 Bidding the erop-headed Parliament swing : 
 And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 
 And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop. 
 Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 
 
 God for King Charles ! Pym and such carles 
 To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous 
 
 paries ! 
 Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the eup. 
 Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 
 Till you 're (Chorus) marching along, fifty-score 
 
 strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 
 
 Hampden to Hell, and his obsequies' knell 
 Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as 
 
 well ! 
 England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! 
 Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here 
 (Cho.) Marching along, fifty-score strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song ? 
 
 Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarls 
 To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles ! 
 Hold by the right, you double your might ; 
 So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, 
 {Cho.) March we along, fifty-score strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 
 
 PEOSPIOE. 
 
 Feae death ? — to feel the fog in my throat. 
 
 The mist in my face. 
 When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 
 
 I am Hearing the place. 
 The power of the night, the press of the storm. 
 
 The post of the foe ; 
 Where he stands, tlie Arch Fear in a visible form. 
 
 Yet the strong man must go : 
 For the journey is done and the summit attained. 
 
 And the barriers fall. 
 Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be 
 gained. 
 
 The reward of it all. 
 
 -g> 
 
a- 
 
 MASSACRE OF MACPHERSON. — SONNET TO BRITAIN. 935 
 
 -ft) 
 
 V- 
 
 I was ever a figliter, so, — one fight more, 
 
 Tlie best and the last ! 
 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and 
 forbore, 
 
 And bade me creep past. 
 No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my 
 peers, 
 
 The lieroes of old, 
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 
 
 Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
 For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 
 
 The black minute 's at end, 
 And the elements' rage, tlie fiend-voices that rave, 
 
 Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
 Shall change, shall become firsta peace, then a joy, 
 
 Then a light, then thy breast, 
 O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 
 
 And with God be the rest ! 
 
 WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE 
 AYTOUN. 
 
 1813-1865. 
 
 THE MASSACEE OF THE MACPHEESON. 
 
 FiiAiRSiiON swore a feud 
 
 Against the clan M'Tavish ; 
 Marched into their laud 
 
 To murder and to rafish ; 
 For he did resolve 
 
 To extirpate the vipers, 
 Witli four-aud-tvventy men 
 
 And live-and-thirty pipers. 
 
 But when he had gone 
 
 Half-way down Strath Canaan, 
 Of his fighting tail 
 
 Just three were remainiu'. 
 They were all he had. 
 
 To back him in ta battle ; 
 All the rest had gone 
 
 Off, to drive ta cattle. 
 
 " Fery coot ! " cried Fhairshon, 
 
 " So my elan disgraced is ; 
 Lads, we '11 need to fight 
 
 Pefore we touch the peasties. 
 Here 's Mliie-Mac-Methusaleh, 
 
 Coming wi' his fassals. 
 Gillies seventy-three. 
 
 And sixty Dhuinewassails ! " 
 
 " Coot tay to you, sir ; 
 
 Are not you ta Fhairshon ? 
 Was you coming here 
 
 To visit any person ? 
 You are a plaekguard, sir! 
 
 It is now six hundred 
 
 Coot long years, and more. 
 Since my glen was plundered." 
 
 " Fat is tat you say ? 
 
 Dare you cock your peaver ? 
 I will teach you, sir. 
 
 Fat is coot peliaviour ! 
 You shall not exist 
 
 For another day more ; 
 I will shoot you, sir, 
 
 Or stap you with my claymore ! " 
 
 " I am fery glad 
 
 To learn what you mention. 
 Since I can prevent 
 
 Any such intention." 
 So Mhic-Mae-Methusaleh 
 
 Gave some warlike howls, 
 Trew his skhiau-dhu. 
 
 An' stuck it in his powels. 
 
 In this fery way 
 
 Tied ta faliant Fliairshon, 
 Who was always thought 
 
 A superior person. 
 Fhairshon had a son, 
 
 Who married Noah's daughter, 
 And nearly spoiled ta Flood, 
 
 By trinking up ta water. 
 
 Which he would have done, 
 
 I at least believe it. 
 Had ta mixture peen 
 
 Only half Glenlivet. 
 This is all my tale : 
 
 Sirs, 1 hope 't is new t' ye ! 
 Here 's your fery good healths, 
 
 And tanni ta whusky tuty I 
 
 THEODORE MARTIN. 
 
 SONNET TO BRITAIN. 
 BY THE DUKE OV WELLINGTON. 
 
 Halt ! Shoulder arms I Recover ! As you were ! 
 Right wheel ! Eyes left I Attention I " Stand at 
 
 ease ! 
 O Britain ! O my country I Words like these 
 
 Have made thy name a terror and a fear 
 To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, 
 
 Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, 
 
 Where the grim despot muttered, — Saiive qui 
 pent ! 
 And Ney fled darkling. — Silence in the ranks ; 
 Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash 
 
 Of armies, in the centre of his troop 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 936 
 
 DE VERB. — GILFILLAN. 
 
 -9) 
 
 The soldier stands, — uumovable, not rash, — 
 Until the forces of the foenicn droop; 
 
 Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash, 
 Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop ! 
 Bon Gtiultiers Ballads. 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 1814- 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 
 That burden treasured in your hearts too long ; 
 Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never 
 name her : 
 She will not hear you, iu her turrets nursing 
 High thoughts, — too high to mate with mortal 
 song ; — 
 Bend o'er iier, gentle Heaven, but do not 
 claim her ! 
 
 In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses. 
 She shades the bloom of her unearthly days ; 
 The forest winds aloue approach to woo her. 
 Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses ; 
 And wild birds hauut the wood-walks where 
 she strays, 
 Intelligible music warbling to her. 
 
 That spirit charged to follow and defend her. 
 He also doubtless suffers this love-paiu ; 
 And she perhaps is sad, hearing his sighing. 
 And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; 
 Like some sweet singer's when her sweetest 
 strain 
 From the heaved heart is gradually dying ! 
 
 SAD IS Oim YOUTH, FOE. IT IS EVEK aOING, 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 
 Crumbling away beneath our very feet; 
 
 Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
 
 In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
 
 Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sow- 
 ing, — 
 
 But tares, self-sown, have overtopped Ihe wheat ; 
 
 Sad arc our joys, for they were sweet in blow- 
 ing. -- 
 
 And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet ; 
 
 And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
 
 Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; 
 
 And sweet is middle life, fin- it hath left us 
 
 A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
 
 And sweet are all things, when we learn to |nize 
 (hi'm. 
 
 Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 
 denies them I 
 
 ^ 
 
 TO MT LADY SINGING. 
 
 She whom this heart must ever hold most dear 
 (This heart iu happy bondage held so long) 
 Began to sing. At first a gentle fear 
 Rosied her countenance, — for she is young. 
 And he who loves her most of all was near ; 
 But wlien at last her voice grew full and strong, 
 0, from their ambush sweet, how rich and clear 
 Bubbled the notes abroad, — a rapturous tlirong I 
 Her little hands were sometimes flung apart. 
 And sometimes palm to palm together prest. 
 Whilst wave-hke l)lushes, rising from her breast. 
 Kept time with that aerial melody. 
 As music to the sight ! — I, standing nigh, 
 Received the faUiug fountain in my heart. 
 
 o-iV,^ 
 
 ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 1798 - 1850. 
 
 IN THE DATS 0' LANGSTNE.* 
 
 In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were 
 
 young. 
 An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung ; 
 When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed 
 
 our ain yill. 
 An' were clad frae the sheep that gacd white on 
 
 the hill ; 
 O, the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye 
 
 fiU! 
 
 In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free, 
 Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea ! 
 To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we 
 
 were kind, 
 An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find 
 The banner of Scotland float high in the wind ! 
 
 In tlie days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang 
 By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang ; 
 Our lads busked braw, and our lasses looked fine. 
 An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to 
 
 shine ; 
 0, where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyue ? 
 
 In the days o' langs>Tie ilka glen had its tale, 
 Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale ; 
 An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain, 
 
 * There seems to he soniethiiij; peculiarly poeticnl in the 
 nin-e (linlect of Scotland. Anion;; scores of volumes we have 
 examined, written in this dialect, «c have fiinnd tlml there is 
 a clmrm in the expression when there is neitln-r originaiit.v in 
 the tliinii;ht nor individuality in the emotion. The old images 
 and the old tunes, repeated hy versifiere vilm. if tliey wrote in 
 plain Knslish, would sink to the rank of the Ilayleys and the 
 Sewards, always seem firsh in every imitation of previous imi- 
 tations of the manner of llamsay and Fergusson, of Burns. 
 Hogg, and Cunningham. 
 
 -U> 
 
cfr 
 
 WE AEE BRETHREN A'. — LITTLE BELL. 
 
 937 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 As it trotted alang tlu-ough the valley or plain ; 
 Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again? 
 
 lu the days o' langsyue there were feasting and 
 
 glee, 
 Wi' pride in ilk lieart, and joy in ilk ee ; 
 And the'auld, 'mangthe nappy, their eild seemed 
 
 to tyne, 
 It was your stoup the uieht, and the morn 't was 
 
 mine : 
 0, the days o' langsyne — O, the days o' langsyne. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL.* 
 
 1814-1837. 
 
 WE AEE BRETHREN A'. 
 
 A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would be. 
 If men, when they 're here, could make shift to 
 
 agree, 
 An' ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage an' ha', 
 " Come, gi'e me yourhand — we are brethren a'." 
 
 I ken na why ane wi' anithcr sliould fight. 
 When to 'gree would make a'body cosie an' right. 
 When man meets wi' man, 't is the best way ava. 
 To say, " Gi'e me yourhand — we are brethren a'. " 
 
 My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine, 
 And I maun drink water, while you may drink 
 
 wine ; 
 But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw : 
 Sae gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride ; 
 Ye would stiind like a rock, wi' the truth on 
 
 your side ; 
 Sae would I, au' nought else would I value a straw; 
 Then gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ; 
 I hand by the right aye, as weel as I can ; 
 We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a' ; 
 Come, gi'e me your liand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 Your mither has lo'cd you as mithers can lo'e ; 
 An' mine has done for me what mithers can do; 
 We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shonldna be 
 
 twa: 
 Sae gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair ; 
 Ilame ! O, how we love it, an' a' that arc there ! 
 Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw — 
 Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 * " I Imve written my heart in my poems ; and rude, un- 
 liiiislied, and hasty as tliey are, it can he read there." — R. 
 
 Nl'OT.L, 
 
 Frail shakin' auld age wiU soon come o'er us baith, 
 An' creeping alang at his back will be death ; 
 Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa' -. 
 Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 THOMAS WESTWOOD. 
 
 1814- 
 
 LITTLE BELL. 
 
 "He prayetli well, wlio loveth well 
 Both man and hird and beast." 
 
 The Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Piped the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray, 
 " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way. 
 
 What 's your name ? " quoth he. 
 " What 's your name ? O, stop and straight un- 
 fold, 
 Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." 
 
 "Little Bell," said she. 
 
 Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks. 
 Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks, — 
 
 " Bonny bird ! " quoth she, 
 " Sing me your best song, before Igo," 
 " Here 's the very finest song I know, 
 
 Little Bell," said he. 
 
 And the Blackbird piped — you never heard 
 Half so gay a song from any bird ; 
 
 Pull of quips and wiles, 
 Now so round and lich, now soft and slow, 
 AU for love of that sweet face below, 
 
 Dimpled o'er with smiles. 
 
 And the while that bonny bird did pour 
 His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er, 
 
 'Neath the morning skies. 
 In the little childish heart below 
 All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
 And shine forth in happy overllow 
 
 From the brown, bright eyes. 
 
 Down the dell she tripped, and through the 
 
 glade — 
 Peeped the squirrel from the hazel-shade. 
 
 And from out the tree 
 Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear. 
 While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear, 
 
 " Little BeU ! " piped he. 
 
 Little Bell sat down amid the fern : 
 
 " Squirrel, Squirrel ! to your task return ! 
 
 Bring me nuts ! " quoth she. 
 Up, away ! the frisky Squirrel hies. 
 Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, 
 
 And adown the tree. 
 
 ■# 
 
cQ- 
 
 938 
 
 FABER. 
 
 DOMETT. 
 
 -Q> 
 
 i 
 
 Great ripe nuts, kissed browu by July sun, 
 In the little lap droj), one by one — 
 Hark ! Iiow Blackbird pipes, to see the full ! 
 "Mappi/ BlU ! " pipes he. 
 
 Little Bell looked up and down the glade : 
 " Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade, 
 Bomiy Blackbird, if you 're not afraid, 
 
 Come and share with me ! " 
 Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, 
 Down came bonny Blackbird, I declare ; 
 Little Bell gave each his honest share — 
 
 Ah ! the merry three ! 
 
 And the while those frolic playmates twain 
 Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 
 
 'Neath the morning skies. 
 In the little childish heart below, 
 All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow. 
 And shine out in hajipy overflow. 
 
 From her brown, bright eyes. 
 
 By her snow-white cot, at close of day. 
 Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray. 
 
 Very calm and clear 
 Rose the praying voice, to where, unseen. 
 In blue heaven, an angel-shape serene 
 
 Paused awliUe to hear. 
 
 " What good child is this," the angel said, 
 '■' That, with happy heart, beside her bed, 
 
 Prays so lovingly ? " 
 Low and soft, O, very low and soft. 
 Crooned the Blackbird in the orchard croft, 
 
 " Bell, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 
 
 " Whom God's creatures love," tiie angel fair 
 Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; 
 
 Child, thy bed shall be 
 Folded safe from harm ; love, deep and kind, 
 Shall watch round and leave good gifts behind. 
 
 Little BeU, for thee." 
 
 FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. 
 
 1813-1863. 
 
 THE RIGHT MUST WIN, 
 
 O, IT is hard to work for God, 
 
 To rise and take his jiart 
 Upon this battle-deld of earth. 
 
 And not sometimes lose heart ! 
 
 lie hides himself so wondrously. 
 As though there were no God ; 
 
 lie is least seen when all the powers 
 Of ill are most abroad. 
 
 Or he deserts us at the hour 
 
 The fight is all bat k)st ; 
 And seems to leave us to ourselves 
 
 Just when we need him most. 
 
 Ill masters good; good seems to change 
 
 To ill witii greatest ease ; 
 And, worst of all, the good with good 
 
 Is at cross-purposes. 
 
 Ah ! God is other than we think ; 
 
 His ways are far above. 
 Far beyond reason's height, and reached 
 
 Only by childlike love. 
 
 Workman of God ! 0, lose not heart. 
 
 But learn what God is like ; 
 And in the darkest battle-field 
 
 Thou shalt know where to strike. 
 
 Thrice blest is he to whom is given 
 
 The instinct that can tell 
 That God is on the field when he 
 
 Is most invisible. 
 
 Blest, too, is he who can divine 
 
 Where real right doth lie, 
 And dares to take the side that seems 
 
 Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 
 
 For right is right, since God is God ; 
 
 And right the day must win ; 
 To doubt M'ould be disloyalty. 
 
 To falter would be sin I 
 
 ALFRED DOMETT. 
 
 1815(!)- 
 A CHEISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 It was the calm and silent night ! 
 
 Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
 Had Rome been growing up to might. 
 
 And now was queen of hind and sea. 
 No sound was heard of clashing wars — ■ 
 
 Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : 
 Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 
 
 Held undisturbed their ancient reign. 
 
 In the solemn midnight, 
 
 Centuries ago. 
 
 'T was in the calm and silent night! 
 
 The senator of haughty Rome, 
 Imjiatient, iirged his chariot's ilight. 
 
 From lordly revel rolling home ; 
 Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 
 
 His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE MARINEE'S DKEAM. 
 
 939 
 
 -Q> 
 
 ^ 
 
 What recked the Roiiiau what befell 
 A paltry province far away, 
 
 111 the solemn iiiiduight, 
 Centuries ago ? 
 
 Within that province far away 
 
 Went plodding home a weary boor; 
 A streak of liglit before him lay. 
 
 Fallen through a luilf-shnt stable-door 
 Across his path. He passed — for naught 
 
 Told wliat was going on within ; 
 How keen the stars, his only thought — 
 
 The air how calm and cold and tliin, 
 In tiie solemn midnight, 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 O, strange indifference ! low and high 
 
 Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 
 The earth was still — but knew not wliy 
 
 The world was listening, unawares. 
 How calm a moment may precede 
 
 One tliat shall thrill the world forever ! 
 To that still moment, none would heed, 
 
 Man's doom was linked no more to sever - 
 In the solemn midnight. 
 Centuries ago I 
 
 It is the calm and solemn night ! 
 
 A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
 Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 
 
 The darkness — charmed and holy now I 
 The night that erst no shame had worn, 
 
 To it a happy name is given ; 
 For in that stable lay, new-born, 
 
 The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
 lu the solemn midnight. 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 WILLIAM DIMOND. 
 
 THE MARINER'S DEEAM, 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; 
 His hammock swung loose at the sport of the 
 wind ; 
 But wateh-woru and weary, his cares flew 
 away. 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er liis mind. 
 
 He dreamt of his home, of his dearnative bowers. 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry 
 morn ; 
 W'hile memory each scene gayly covered with 
 flowei-s. 
 And restored every rose, but secreted its 
 thorn. 
 
 Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 
 
 Now far, I'ar behind him the green waters glide, 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flower o'er tlic thatch, 
 And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest 
 in the wall ; 
 
 All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; 
 His cheek is bedewed witli a mother's warm 
 tear; 
 And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
 With the lips of the maid whom his bosom 
 holds dear. 
 
 The heart of tlie sleeper beats high in his breast ; 
 Joy quickens his pulses, — his hardslii|is seem 
 o'er ; 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his 
 rest, — 
 " God I thou hast blest me, — I ask for no 
 more." 
 
 Ah ! wdience is that flame which now glares on 
 his eye ? 
 Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on 
 his car ? 
 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on 
 the sky I 
 'T is' the crashing of thunders, the groan of 
 the sphere I 
 
 He springs from liis hammock, — he flics to the 
 deck ; 
 Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a 
 wreck ; 
 The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on 
 fire. 
 
 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; 
 
 In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; 
 Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. 
 
 And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er 
 the wave I 
 
 sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight I 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of 
 bliss. 
 Where now is the picture that Fancy touched 
 bright, — 
 Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed 
 kiss? 
 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
 
 Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay ; 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 940 
 
 WALLEK. 
 
 ALEXANDER. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Unblessed and uulionorcd, down deep in the 
 muin, 
 Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 
 
 No tomhshalle'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
 Or redeem form or fame from the merciless 
 surge ; 
 But the white foam of waves shall thy winding- 
 sheet be. 
 And winds in the midnight of winter thy 
 dirge ! 
 
 On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be 
 laid, — 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall 
 grow; 
 Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be 
 made. 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
 And still tlie vast water^ above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must 
 obey, — 
 O saUor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 1810- 
 
 DANCE UGHT. 
 
 "Au! sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that 
 wheel, — 
 Your neat little foot will be weary with spin- 
 ning ! 
 Coinc trip down with mc to the syeaniore-tree : 
 Half the parish is there, and the dance is be- 
 ginning. 
 The suu is gone down, but the full harvest moon 
 Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
 valley ; 
 AVhile all the air rings with the soft, loving things 
 Each little bird sings in the green shaded 
 alley." 
 
 ^Vitli a blush and a smile Kitty rose U]) the while. 
 Her eye in the glass, as she bound her liair, 
 glancing ; 
 'T is hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 
 So she could n't hut clioose to go olf to the 
 dancing. 
 And now on the green the glad groups are seen, — 
 Eaoli gay-liearted lad with the lass of his 
 choosing ; 
 And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kittv 
 Neil, — 
 Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er tliouglit 
 of refusing. 
 
 <^ 
 
 Now Felix Magee put his pipes to his knee. 
 And with flourish so free sets each couple in 
 motion ; 
 With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the 
 ground ; 
 The maids move around just like swans on the 
 ocean. 
 Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's. 
 
 Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing : 
 Search the world all around, from the sky to the 
 ground, 
 No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 
 dancing ! 
 
 Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes 
 of deep blue. 
 Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so 
 mildly. 
 Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded 
 form. 
 Nor feel liis heart warm, and his pulses throb 
 wildly ? 
 Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, 
 Subdued by the smart of such paiuful yet 
 sweet love : 
 The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, 
 Dance light, for mi/ heiirl it lies umleri/ourjiet, 
 love ! 
 
 MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 
 
 BUEIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 " Autl he Ijuried liim in a valley in tlic land of Mo-tI), over 
 nK'iinst Betli-peor ; but no man knowetli uf his seimiLlire unto 
 this day." — Uenterononvj x,vxiv. G. 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain. 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 
 In a vale in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a huiely grave ; 
 
 But no man built that sepulchre, 
 
 And no man saw it e'er ; 
 
 For tlic angels of God u])turned the sod. 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on- earth ; 
 
 Yet no man heard the traini)ling, 
 
 Or saw tlic train go forth : 
 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes wheu the night is done, 
 
 .\nd the crimson streak on ocean's check 
 
 Grows into the great sun ; 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 
 ^-^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 MAY-DAY, 
 
 941 
 
 -Q> 
 
 V- 
 
 Aud all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Unfold their thousand leaves : 
 
 So without sound of music, 
 
 Or voiee of them that wept, 
 
 Silcutly down from the mountain's crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle 
 
 On gray Beth-peor's height 
 
 Out of his rocky eyry 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 
 Perchance tlie lion stalking 
 
 Still shuns that halluwcd spot ; 
 
 For Ijeast and bird liave seen aud heard 
 
 Tliat which man knoweth not. 
 
 But, wlien the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades of the war, 
 
 AVith arms reversed and muffled dioims, 
 
 Follow the funeral car : 
 
 They show the banners taken ; 
 
 They tell his battles won, 
 
 And after him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 While peals the minute-gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the laud 
 
 Men lay the sage to rest, 
 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 With costly marbles drcst, 
 
 In the great minster transept 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 
 And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned hall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword; 
 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced witli his golden pen. 
 
 On the deathless l)age, ti-uths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not liigh honor ? 
 
 The hillside for his pall ! 
 
 To lie in state while angels wait 
 
 With stars for tapers tall ! 
 
 And (he dark rock )iines like tossing plumes 
 
 Over his bier to wave. 
 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely laud, 
 
 To lay him in his grave ! — 
 
 In that deep grave withf)ut a name, 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 
 Shall break again, — O wondrous thought ! 
 
 Before the judgment-day, 
 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around. 
 
 On the hills he never trod. 
 
 And speak of the strife that won our life 
 
 With the incarnate Son of God. 
 
 lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still : 
 
 God hath his mysteries of grace, 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell. 
 
 He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 
 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 FRANCIS BENNOCII. 
 
 About 1816. 
 
 MAY-DAT. 
 
 No trumpet's thrilling call is iieard 
 
 To servile host or lordly crest. 
 But that mysterious, voiceless word. 
 
 By which the world is onward prest, — 
 Which bids the grass ni beauty grow. 
 
 And stars their path of glory keep, 
 Makes winds and waves harmonious flow, 
 
 Aud dreaming infants smile in sleep. 
 That voice, resistless in its sway. 
 Turns winter wild to flowery May. 
 
 From edges of the dusky shade 
 
 That canopies the restless town. 
 Come trooping many a youth aud maid. 
 
 With flushing face and tresses brown. 
 High hopes have they, their hearts to please. 
 
 They seek the wildwood's haunted dcU ; 
 They laughing come, by twos and threes. 
 
 But chiefly twos. I mark them well, — ■ 
 So trindy drest, so blithe and gay, 
 "With them it seems 't is always May. 
 
 They steep their kerchiefs in the dew ; 
 
 Then follow wondrous wringings out; 
 As winged seeds were blown, tliey knew 
 
 What laggard lovers were about. 
 Some pluck the glowing leaves to leam 
 
 If love declared be love sincere ; 
 Or in red ragged streaks discern 
 
 Love lost, aud virtue's burning tear. 
 O, love is earnest though in play. 
 When comes the love-inciting May. 
 
 With hawthorn blooms and speckled shells,* 
 Ciiaplets are twined for blushing brows; 
 
 While gypsies. work their magic spells. 
 And lovers pledge tlieir deathless vows. 
 
 Then rouud and round with many a bound 
 They tread the mystic fairy ring. 
 
 The silent woods have voices found, 
 
 * In some pnrts of the North of Enirlanil tliey form chaplcts 
 for May-day, with fiowcrs and speckled shells of eggs, as here 
 described. 
 
 -* 
 
<&r 
 
 942 
 
 BAILEY. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 And echoing chorus while they sing : 
 
 " Willi sliout and song, and dance and play. 
 We welcome iu the peerless May ! " 
 
 Linked hand in hand, their tripping feet 
 
 Keep lime to mirth's inspiring voice ; 
 They wheel and meet, advance, retreat. 
 
 Till happy hearts in love rejoice. 
 The ring is formed for kisses sly, — 
 
 Leaping and racing o'er the plain ; 
 The young wish time would quicker fly, 
 
 The old wish they were young again. 
 Away with care : no cares to-day ! 
 Care slumbers on the lap of May I 
 
 The voice that bade them welcome forth, 
 
 Now gently, kindly whispers " Home ! " 
 To-day has been a day of mirth, 
 
 To-morrow sterner duties come. 
 Such pleasures nerve the arm for strife, 
 
 Bring joyous thoughts and golden dreams, 
 To mingle with the web of life, — 
 
 Antl memory store with woods and streams. 
 Such joys drive cankering care away ; 
 Then ever welcome, flowery May ! 
 
 May 1, 1852. 
 
 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 
 
 1816- 
 
 LIKE AN ISLAND IN A EIVEB. 
 
 Like an island in a river 
 
 Art thou, my love, to me ; ' 
 And I journey by thee ever 
 
 With a gentle ecstasy. 
 I arise to fall before thee ; 
 
 I come to kiss thy feet : 
 To adorn thee and adore thee, — 
 
 Mine only one, my sweet ! 
 
 And thy love hath power upon me. 
 
 Like a dream upon a brain ; 
 For the loveliness which won me, 
 
 With the love, too, doth remain. 
 .'Vnd my life it beautilleth, 
 
 Though love be but a shade, 
 Known of only ere it dieth, — 
 
 liy tlie darkness it hath made. 
 
 TRUTH AND SORROW. 
 
 .\i(iHT brings out stars as sorrow shows us 
 
 truths: 
 Though many, yet they help not; bright, they 
 
 light not. 
 They are too late to serve us ; and sad things 
 
 Are aye too true. We never see the stars 
 Till we can see naught but them. So with truth. 
 And yet if one would look down a deep well. 
 Even at noon, we might sec these same stars, 
 Far fairer than the blinding blue : the truth 
 Stars in the water like a dark bright eye ; 
 But there are other eyes men better love 
 Than trutli's, for when we have her she is so cold 
 And proud, we know not what to do with her. 
 Sometimes the thought comes swiftening over us. 
 Like a small bird winging the still blue air, 
 And then again at other times it rises 
 Slow, like a cloud which scales the skies all 
 
 breathless. 
 And just o'crhead lets itself down on us. 
 Sometimes we feel the wish across the mind 
 Rush, like a rocket roaring up the sky, 
 That. we should join with God and give the world 
 The go-by, but the world meantime turns round, 
 And peeps as in the face, the wanton world ; 
 ^Ve feel it gently pressing down our arm, 
 The arm we raised to do for truth such wonders ; 
 ^Ve feel it softly bearing on our side ; 
 We feel it touch and thrill us tlirough the body ; 
 And we are fools, and there 's an end of us. 
 
 Festus, 
 
 THE END OF LIFE. 
 
 We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not 
 
 breaths ; 
 In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
 We should count time by heart-throbs. He most 
 
 lives. 
 Who thinks nujst, feels the noblest, acts the best. 
 And he whose heart beats quickest lives the 
 
 longest : 
 Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
 Whose fat l)lood sleeps as it slips along their 
 
 veins. 
 Life is but a means unto an end ; that end. 
 Beginning, mean, and end to all things, — God. 
 The dead have all the glorv of the world. 
 
 A LETTER, 
 
 WiiKX he liath had 
 A letter from his lady dear, he blessed 
 The paper that her hand had travelled over, 
 And her eye looked on, and would think he saw 
 Gleams of that light she lavished from lier eyes, 
 Wandering amid the words of love she 'd traced 
 Like glowworms among beds of flowers. He 
 
 seemed 
 To bear with being but because she loved him ; 
 She was tlie sheath wherein his soul had rest, 
 .\s hath a sword from war. 
 
 -g> 
 
cft-^ 
 
 GREAT THOUGHTS. — ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 943 
 
 -& 
 
 ^ 
 
 GREAT THOUGHTS. 
 
 Who can mistake great thoughts ? 
 They seize upon the mind ; arrest, and search, 
 And shake it ; bow the tall soul as by wind ; 
 Rush over it like rivers over reeds. 
 Which quaver in tlie current ; turn us cold, 
 And pale, and voiceless ; leaving in the brain 
 A rocking and a ringing, — glorious, 
 But momentary ; madness miglit it last. 
 And close the soul with Heaven as with a seal. 
 
 THE POET, 
 
 He had no times of study, and no place ; 
 All places and all times to him were one. 
 Ills soul was like the wind-harp, which he loved. 
 And sounded only when the spirit blew. 
 Sometime in leasts and follies, for he went 
 Lifelike through all tilings; and his thoughts then 
 
 rose 
 Like sparkles in tlic bright wine, brighter still ; 
 Sometimes in dreams, and then the shining words 
 Would wake him in the dark before his face. 
 All things talked thoughts to him. The sea 
 
 went mad 
 To show his meaning ; and the awful sun 
 Thumlered his thoughts into him ; and at night 
 The stars would whisper theirs, the moon sigii 
 
 hers. Festus. 
 
 TOM TAYLOR. 
 
 1817- 
 
 ABEAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 FOULLY ASS.ISSINATED, APRIL U, 1865. 
 
 YoH lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, 
 I'o/i, who with mocking pencil wont to trace. 
 
 Broad for the self-complacent British sneer. 
 His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face. 
 
 His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling 
 liair. 
 
 His garl) uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 
 His lack of all we prize as debonair. 
 
 Of power or will to shine, of ai't to please ; 
 
 Yo/i, wliose smart pen backed up the pencil's 
 laiigli. 
 Judging each step as though the way were 
 plain ; 
 Reckless, so it could point its paragraph 
 Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain : 
 
 Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet 
 The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew. 
 
 Between the mourners at his head and feet. 
 Say, scurrile jester, is there room (or ^oii.'' 
 
 Yes : he had lived to shame nie from my sneer. 
 To lame my pencil, and confute my pen ; — 
 
 To make me own this hind of princes peer, 
 This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. 
 
 My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, 
 Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; 
 
 How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more 
 true ; 
 How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. 
 
 How humble, yet how hopeful he could be : 
 How in good fortune and in ill, the same : 
 
 Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 
 Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 
 
 He went about his work, — such work as few 
 Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, — 
 
 As one who knows, where there 's a task to do, 
 Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace 
 command ; 
 
 Who trusts the strength will with the burden 
 grow. 
 
 That God makes instruments to work his will, 
 If but that will we can arrive to know, 
 
 Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. 
 
 So he went forth to battle, on the side 
 
 That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, 
 
 As in his pleasant boyhood he had plied 
 
 His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting 
 mights, — 
 
 The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil. 
 
 The iron-bark, that turns the'lumbcrer's axe. 
 
 The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil. 
 The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, 
 
 The ambushed Indiaii, and the ]n'owling bear ; — 
 
 Sueli were the deeds that helped his youth to 
 
 train : 
 
 Rough culture, — but such trees large fruit may 
 
 bear. 
 
 If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. 
 
 So he grew up, a destined work to do. 
 
 And lived to do it; four long-sutt'ering years' 
 
 Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through. 
 And then he heard the hisses change to cheers. 
 
 The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise. 
 And took both with the same unwavering mood ; 
 
 Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, 
 And seemed _to touch the goal from where he 
 stood, 
 
 A felon hand, between the goal and him. 
 
 Reached from behind his baclc, a trigger prest, — 
 
 And those per])lexed and patient eyes were dim. 
 
 Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to 
 
 rest! 
 
 -g^ 
 
a- 
 
 944 
 
 COOK. — CLOUGH. 
 
 —9) 
 
 The words of mercy were upon his lips, 
 Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, 
 
 Wlien this vile murderer brouglit swift eclipse 
 To thoughts of peace on earth, good- will to men. 
 
 The Old World and the New, from sea to sea. 
 Utter one voice of sympathy and shame ! 
 
 Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; 
 Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came. 
 
 A deed accurst ! Strokes have been struck before 
 By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt 
 
 If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; 
 
 But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly 
 out. 
 
 Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, 
 Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven ; 
 
 And with the martyr's crown erownest a life 
 With much to praise, little to be forgiven. 
 
 London Punch. 
 
 ELIZA COOK. 
 
 1817- 
 
 TEE OLD AEM-CHIIE, 
 
 I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare 
 
 To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 
 
 I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
 
 I 've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with 
 
 sighs ; 
 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 Would ye learn the spell ? a mother sat there, 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 
 The hallowed seat with listening ear ; 
 
 And gentle words that mother would give. 
 
 To fit me to die and teach me to live. 
 
 She told me shame would never betide, 
 
 Witli truth for my creed and God for my guide ; 
 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 
 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and watclied her many a day. 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 
 And I almost worshiiipcd her when she smiled. 
 And turned from her l^ible to bless her child. 
 Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
 My idol was sliattcred, my earth-star fled ; 
 I learut how uiueh tiic heart can bear, 
 When I saw her die in that old arm-cliair. 
 
 'T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now 
 With (piivering breatii and throbbing brow : 
 'T was there she nursed me, 't w as there she died ; 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
 
 While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 ^0-^ 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.* 
 
 1819-1861. 
 
 QUA CUESUM VENT0S, 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so, — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged. 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 
 
 At dead of night their sails were fdled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered, — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides, 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But blithe breeze ! and great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest (lartiug past. 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought. 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 bounding breeze, O rushing seas I 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 WHERE LIES THE LAND? 
 
 WiiKRE lies the land to which the ship would go? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face. 
 Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ; 
 
 • The two long poems of tins writer. Tlif Bolhie of Tober- 
 Ntt-Vnol'ich and Amours de Vi^yngf, give tlic best impression of 
 his poetic power. 
 
 -P 
 
cfi- 
 
 THE OLD WATER-WHEEL. 
 
 THE THREE EISHERS. 945 
 
 :^ 
 
 Or, o'er the stern reclining, wateli below 
 The foaming wake far widening as we go. 
 
 On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave. 
 How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
 The dripping sailor on the reehng mast 
 Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 
 
 Where hes the land to which the ship would go? 
 Ear, far ahead, is aU her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN.* 
 
 1819- 
 
 THE OLD WATEK-WHEEL, 
 
 It lies beside the river, where its marge 
 Is black with many an old and oarless barge. 
 And yesty filth and leafage wild and rank 
 Stagnate and batten by the crumbling bank. 
 
 Once, slow revolving by the industrious mill, 
 It murmured, — only on the sabbath stiU ; 
 And evening winds its pulse-like beating bore 
 Down the soft vale and by the winding shore. 
 
 Sparkling around its orbed motion, fiew, 
 With quick fresh fall, the drops of dashing dew ; 
 Through noontide heat that gentle rain was flung, 
 And verdant, round, the summer herbage sprung. 
 
 Now, dancing light and sounding motion cease, 
 In these dark hours of cold continual peace ; 
 Through its black bars tlie unbroken moonUght 
 
 ilows. 
 And dry winds howl about its long repose ! 
 
 And mouldering lichens creep, and mosses gray 
 Cling round its arms, in gradual decay, 
 Amidst the hum of men, — whieli doth not suit 
 That shadowy circle, motionless and mute ! 
 
 So, by the sleep of many a human heart 
 The crowd of men may bear their busy part. 
 Where withered, or forgotten, or subdued, 
 Its noisy passions have left solitude : — 
 
 Ah ! little can tliey trace the hidden tnith. 
 What waves have moved it in the vale of yonth ! 
 And Uttle can its broken chords avow 
 How once they sounded. All is silent, now ! 
 
 * Rnskin is specially known as a poet writing in prose. 
 Before, however, the first volume of The Modem Painters was 
 issued he published a few occasional pieces in verse. 
 
 fr 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 1819-1875. 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE, 
 
 " Mahy, go and call t he cattle home. 
 And call tlie cattle home. 
 And call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee " ; 
 The western wind was wild and dank with foam. 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The western tide crept up along the sand. 
 And o'er and o'er the sand. 
 And round and round the sand, 
 As far as eye could see. 
 The rolUng mist came down and hid the land : 
 And never home came she. 
 
 " 0, is it weed, or fish, or fioating hair, — 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's hair 
 Above the nets at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among tlie stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolUng foam, 
 The cruel crawling foam. 
 The cruel Imngry foam, 
 To her grave beside the sea : 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee. 
 
 THE THREE FISHEKS, 
 
 Thbee fishers went saiUng away to the West, 
 
 Away to the West as the sun went down ; 
 Each thought on the woman who loved him the 
 best. 
 And the children stood watching them out of 
 
 the tow-n ; 
 For men must work, and women must weep. 
 And there 's httlc to earn, and many to keep. 
 Though the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. 
 And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
 down ; 
 They looked at the squall, and they looked at 
 the shower. 
 And the night-rack came rolling up ragged 
 
 and brown. 
 But men must work, and women must weep. 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
 
 -* 
 
cfi— 
 
 946 
 
 ELIOT. 
 
 ^-Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 And the women are weeping and wringing their 
 iiands 
 For tliose who will never come home to the 
 
 town ; 
 For men must work, and women must weep, 
 And the sooner it 's ovei', the sooner to sleep ; 
 And good by to the bar and its moaning. 
 
 A FAREWELL, 
 
 My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 
 
 No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; 
 Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
 For every day. 
 
 Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
 Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : 
 And so make life, deatli, and that vast forever 
 One grand, sweet song. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 The merry merry lark was up and singing. 
 And the hare was out and feediug on the lea; 
 
 And the merry merry bells below were ringing. 
 When my child's laugh rang througii me. 
 
 Now the hare is snared and dead beside the 
 snow-yard, 
 
 And the lark beside the dreary winter sea ; 
 And tiie baby in his cradle in the ciiurcliyard 
 
 Sleeps sound till the bell brings me. 
 
 THE DAT OF THE LORD. 
 
 TriE Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand : 
 
 Its storms roll up the sky ; 
 The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold ; 
 
 All dreamers toss and sigli ; 
 The night is darkest before tiie morn ; 
 When the pain is sorest the child is born, 
 And the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 Gather you, gather you, angels of God, — 
 Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; 
 
 Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old ; 
 Come downi, and renew us her youth. 
 
 Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Darin,g, and Love, 
 
 Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, 
 To the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell, — 
 
 Famine, and Plague, and War; 
 Idleness, Bigotry. Cant, and Misrule, 
 
 (iather, and fall in tlie snare I 
 Hireling and !Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, 
 Crawl to the battle-lield, sneak to your grave, 
 111 the Dav of the Lord at hand. 
 
 Who would sit do^vn and sigh for a lost age of 
 . gold. 
 While the Lord of all ages is here? 
 True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 
 
 And those who can sulTcr can dare. 
 Each old age of gold was an iron age too. 
 And the meekest of saints may find stern work 
 to do 
 In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT (MRS. GEORGE H. 
 LEWES).* 
 
 1880(;)- 
 
 SHOULD I LONG THAT DARK WERE FAIR? 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair? 
 
 Say, song! 
 
 Lacks my love aught, that I should long ? 
 
 Dark the night, with breath all flowers, 
 
 And tender broken voice that fills 
 
 With ravishment the listening hours : 
 
 Whisperings, wooings. 
 
 Liquid ripples and soft ring-dove cooings 
 
 In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills. 
 
 Dark the night. 
 
 Yet is she bright, 
 
 For in her dark she brings the mystic star. 
 
 Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love. 
 
 From some unknown afar. 
 
 O radiant Dark ! darkly fostered ray I 
 
 Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day. 
 
 The Spanish Gitpsy. 
 
 MAIDEN, CROWNED WITH GLOSSY BLACKNESS, 
 
 Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness, 
 Lithe as panther forest-roaming. 
 
 Long-armed naiad, when she dances, 
 On a stream of ether floating, — 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 
 
 * These selections from " George Eliot 's " poems convey 
 hut the slightest hint of her iniiiginativc ])owcr, or of the 
 subtlet.v, depth, and comprehensiveness of her intellect. In 
 those mental qualities which are eonnnonl.v dignilied by the 
 epithet " masculine," such as exact observation, penetrating 
 insight, power of characterization, and largeness of view, she 
 is at least the equal of (he most eminent male novelists of the 
 century. She has shown her capacity to conceive and vividly 
 represent forms of cliaracter with which she can have no other 
 symi)athy than that derived from imaginative insight. She 
 has the power of creating aon}s, — ft very rare faculty, pos- 
 sessed only by dramatists and novelists of the first class, nutl 
 perhaps never before exhibited in an equal degree by a woman. 
 .Ml the intellectual limitations of her sex, as commonly laid 
 down by those who learnedly discourse about the nppiiipriate 
 " sphere of woman," this woman has qnietly ignored. I'roba- 
 bly there is no man. among the thinkers of this genei-ation. 
 who is sufficiently great to indulge in the luxury of dcspisin; 
 her intellect. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 DAY IS DYING. — BABY MAY. 
 
 947 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 Form all curves like softness drifted, 
 Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling, 
 
 Tar-off music slowly winged, 
 Gently rising, gently sinking, 
 Bright, briglit Fedalma ! 
 
 Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf. 
 
 Cloud high-born in noonday spotless. 
 
 Sudden perfect as the dew-bead, 
 Gem of earth and sky begotten, — 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 
 
 Beauty has no mortal father. 
 
 Holy light her form engendered 
 Out of tremor, yearning, gladness. 
 
 Presage sweet and joy remembered, — 
 Child of Light, Fedalma ! 
 
 The Spanish Gypsy. 
 
 BAT IS DTDIG, 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, O song, 
 
 Down the westward river, 
 Requiem chanting to the Day, — 
 
 Day, the mighty Giver. 
 
 Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds. 
 
 Melted rubies sending 
 Through the liver and the sky, 
 
 Earth and heaven blending ; 
 
 All the long-drawn earthy banks 
 
 Up to cloud-land lifting : 
 Slow between them drifts the swan, 
 
 'Twixt two heavens drifting. 
 
 Wings half open, like a flower 
 
 Inly deeper flushing. 
 Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 
 
 Virgin proudly blushing. 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, O swan, 
 
 Down the ruby river ; 
 Follow, song, in requiem 
 
 To the mighty Giver. 
 
 T/ie Spanish Gypsy. 
 
 0, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIK INVISIBLE! 
 
 O, MAY I join the choir in\'isible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence ; live 
 
 In pulses stirred to generosity. 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 
 Of miserable aims that end with self. 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like 
 
 stars. 
 And with their mild persistence urge men's 
 
 minds 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying music in the world. 
 Breathing a beauteous order, that controls 
 With growing sway tlie growing life of man. 
 So we inlierit that sweet purity 
 For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
 Kebellious flesh tliat would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
 Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies. 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
 That watched to ease the burden of the world. 
 Laboriously tracing what must be. 
 And what may yet be better, — saw within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary. 
 And shaped it forth before the multitude. 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 To liigher reverence more mixed with love, — 
 That better self shall Uve till humau Time 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 Be gathered like a scroll witliin the tomb. 
 Unread forever. 
 
 This is life to come, 
 Which martyred men have made more glorious 
 For us, who strive to foUow. 
 
 May I reach 
 That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony, 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
 Beget tlie smiles that have no cruelty. 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. 
 And in diffusion ever more intense ! 
 So shall I join the choir invisible. 
 Whose music is the srladness of the world. 
 
 WILLIAM C. BENNETT. 
 
 BABY MAY. 
 
 Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
 Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
 Poppies paleness ; round large eyes 
 Ever great with new surprise ; 
 Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; 
 Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
 Happy smiles and wailing cries ; 
 Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
 Lights and shadows, swifter born 
 Than on wind-swept autumn com ; 
 Ever some new tiny notion, 
 Making every limb all motion ; 
 Cateliing up of legs and arms ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 948 
 
 REYNOLDS. — BARNES. 
 
 -a 
 
 ^ 
 
 Throwiugs back and small alarms ; 
 Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
 Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
 Kickings up and straining risings ; 
 Motlier's ever new surprisings ; 
 Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
 At all things the heavens under ; 
 Tiny scorns of smiled reprovhigs 
 That have more of love than lovings ; 
 Mischiefs done with such a winning 
 Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
 Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
 Graspings small at all that passes ; 
 Pullings off of all tiiat 's able 
 To be caught fro)n tray or table ; 
 Silences — s^iall meditations 
 Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ; 
 Breaking into wisest speeches 
 In a tongue that nothing teaches ; 
 All the thoughts of whose possessing 
 Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
 Slumbers — sucli sweet angel-seemings 
 That we 'd ever have such dreamings ; 
 Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
 And wc 'd always have thee waking; 
 Wealtli for which we know no measure ; 
 Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
 Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
 Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
 Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
 Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
 Beauty all tiiat beauty may be ; — 
 That 's May Bennett ; that 's my baby. 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 
 
 THINK OF ME. 
 
 Go where the water glideth gently ever, 
 
 Glideth through meadows that the greenest 
 he — 
 Go, listen to our own beloved river, 
 And think of me. 
 
 Wander in forests, where the small flower 
 layetii 
 Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree ; 
 List to the dim brook, pining as it playcth. 
 And think of me. 
 
 And when the sky is silvcr-jiale at even, 
 
 And the wind gricvcth in the lonely tree, 
 Walk out beneath the solitary heaven, 
 And think of me. 
 
 And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming. 
 
 And trcadeth with white feet tlie lulled sea. 
 Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming, 
 And think of me ! 
 
 WILLIAM BARNES. 
 
 1810 (?) - 
 
 THE MAID VAB MY BEIDE. 
 
 IN THE DORSET DIALECT. 
 
 Ah, don't tell o' maidens ! the oone var my bride 
 
 Is little lik' too many maidens bezide, — 
 
 Not brantcn, nar spitevul, nar wild ; she 've a 
 
 mind 
 To think o' what 's right, an' a heart to be kind. 
 
 She 's straight an' she 's slender, but not auver 
 
 tall, 
 Wi' lim's that be litsom, but not auver .small ; 
 Ther 's love-winnen goodness a-show'd ui her 
 
 face. 
 An' a queen, to be stiately, must wa'k wi' her 
 
 place. 
 
 Her frocks be a-miade all bccomen an' plain. 
 An' cleilu as a blossom undimmed by a stain ; 
 Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-ticd 
 Up under her chin, ar let down at the zide. 
 
 When she da speak to oone, she don't stiare an' 
 
 grin; 
 Ther 's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her 
 
 chin. 
 An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so 
 
 meek. 
 An' her eyes da look down a-beginnen to speak. 
 
 Her skin is so white as a lUy, an' each 
 Ov her cheiiks is so downy an' red as a peach ; 
 She 's pirty enough zitten still ; but my love 
 Da watch her to madness when oonce she da 
 move. 
 
 An' when she da wa'k huome vrom church droo 
 
 the groun', 
 Wi' oone yarm in mine, an' wi' oone a-huug 
 
 down, 
 I da think, an' da vccl muore o' shame than o' 
 
 pride. 
 Da miake me look ugly to wa'k by her zide. 
 
 Zoo don't ta'k o' maidens ! the oone var my bride 
 Is but little lik' too many maidens bezide, — 
 Not branten, nar spitevul, nar wild, she 've a 
 
 mind 
 To think o' what 's right, an' a heart to be kind. 
 
 -P 
 
WOKDSWOKTH AND GOETHE. 
 
 EXCUSE. 
 
 949 
 
 -Q) 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD.* 
 
 WORDSWORTH AUD GOETHE. 
 
 Some secrets may the poet tell, 
 
 For tlie world loves new ways ; 
 To tell too deep ones is not well ; 
 
 It knows not what he says. 
 
 Yet of the spirits who have reigned 
 
 In this our troutilcd day, 
 I know but two who liave attained. 
 
 Save thee, to sec their way. 
 
 By England's lakes, in gray old age. 
 
 His quiet home one keeps ; t 
 And one, the strong, much-toiling Sage, 
 
 In German Weimar sleeps. 
 
 But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken 
 
 From half of human fate ; 
 And Goethe's course few sous of men 
 
 May think to emulate. 
 
 For he pursued a lonely road. 
 
 His eyes on Nature's plan ; 
 Neither made man too much a God, 
 
 Nor God too much a man. 
 
 Strong was he, with a spirit free 
 From mists, and saue, and clear ; 
 
 Clearer, how much ! than ours : yet we 
 Have a worse course to steer. 
 
 For though his manhood bore the blast 
 
 Of Europe's stormiest time, 
 Yet in a tranquil world was passed 
 
 His tenderer youtliful prime. 
 
 But we, brought forth and reared in hours 
 
 Of change, alarm, surprise — 
 What slieltcr to grow ripe is ours ? 
 
 What leisure to grow wise ? 
 
 Like children bathiug on the shore. 
 
 Buried a wave beneatli. 
 The second wave succeeds, before 
 
 We have had time to breathe. 
 
 Too fast we live, too much are tried. 
 
 Too harassed, to attain 
 Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide 
 
 And luminous view to gain. 
 
 Obennann. 
 
 ^ To gain an adequate idea of Arnold's poetic power, tlie 
 reader must go to the last edition of liis poems. Soltrah and 
 Rustum, Tristram and Isenlt, Einpedodes on Etna, Mrrope, 
 aud Thyrsis, may he named as specially worthy of attention. 
 Arnold's poems haveheen comparatively overlooked inthe gen- 
 eral admiration awarded to the flexihility, sweetness, ease, and 
 vigor of his prose style. As a critic, he is almost unmatched 
 for depth and delicacy of perception. 
 
 + Written in Novemher, 1849. 
 
 ^&-- 
 
 PHILOMELA. 
 
 Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 
 The tawny -throated ! 
 
 Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 
 What triumph ! hark — what pain! 
 0, wanderer from a Grecian shore. 
 Still, — after many years, in distant lauds, — 
 Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 
 That wUd, nuquenehed, deep-sunken, old-world 
 pain, — 
 
 Say, will it never heal ? 
 And can this fragrant lawn, 
 With its cool trees, and night. 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 And moonshine, and the dew. 
 To thy racked heart and brain 
 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
 Dost thou to-uight behold. 
 Here, through the raoonhght on this EngUsh 
 
 grass. 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 
 Dost thou agaiu peruse. 
 With hot cheeks and seared eyes. 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 
 
 Dost thou once more essay 
 Thy flight ; and feel come over thee, 
 Poor fugitive, the feathery change ; 
 Once more ; and once more make resound, 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cepliisiau vale ? 
 
 Listen, Eugenia, — 
 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through 
 
 the leaves ! 
 Again — thou hearest ! 
 Eternal passion ! 
 Eternal pain ! 
 
 EXCUSE. 
 
 I TOO have suffered. Yet I know 
 She is not cold, though she seems so : 
 She is not cold, she is not light ; 
 But our ignoble souls lack might. 
 
 She smiles, and smiles, and will not sigh, 
 Wliile we for hopeless passion die ; 
 Yet she could love, those eyes declare. 
 Were but men nobler than they are. 
 
 Eagerly once her gracious ken 
 Was turned upon the sons of men ; 
 But light the serious visage grew, — 
 ^e looked, and smiled, aud saw them through. 
 
 Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
 Our labored puny passion-fits, — 
 Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
 Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 950 
 
 PATMORE. — MACDONALD. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 I 
 
 Yet that Fate would let lier see 
 One of some worthier race than we, — 
 One for whose sake she once might prove 
 How deeply she who scorns can' love ! 
 
 His eyes be lilce the starry lights, 
 His voice like sounds of summer nights ! 
 In all liis lovely mien let pierce 
 The magic of the universe ! 
 
 And she to liim will reach her hand. 
 And gazing in his eyes will stand. 
 And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
 And cry. Long, long I 've looked for thee ! 
 
 Tlien will she weep. With smiles till then 
 Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
 Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
 Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 18S3- 
 
 HONOEIA. 
 
 She was all mildness ; yet 't was \vi-it 
 
 Upon her beauty legibly, 
 " He that 's for heaven itself unfit, 
 
 Let him not hope to merit me." 
 And such a challenge, quite apart 
 
 From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus 
 To sweet repentance moved my heart. 
 
 And made me more magnanimous. 
 And led me to review my life. 
 
 Inquiring where in aught the least, 
 If question were of her for wife, 
 
 111 might be mended, ho]3e increased: 
 Not that I soared so far above 
 
 Myself, as this great hope to dare : 
 And yet I half foresaw that love 
 
 Might liope where reason would despair. 
 
 THE PARADOX. 
 
 How strange a thing a Lover seems 
 
 To animals that do not love ! 
 Look where he walks and talks in dreams. 
 
 And i\o\ds us with his Lady's glove : 
 How foreign is the garb he wears ; 
 
 And how his great devotion mocks 
 Our poor propriety, and scares 
 
 The undcvout with paradox ! 
 His soul, tlirongh scorn of worldly eare, 
 
 And great extremes of sweet and gall, 
 And musing much on all that 's fair, 
 
 Grows witty and fantastical : 
 He sobs his joy and sings his grief. 
 
 And evermore finds such delight 
 
 In simply picturing his relief^ 
 
 That 'plaining seems to cure his plight : 
 He makes his sorrow, when there 's none ; 
 
 His fancy blows both cold and hot ; 
 Next to the wish that she '11 be won. 
 
 His first hope is that she may not ; 
 He sues, yet deprecates consent ; 
 
 Would she be captured she must fly ; 
 She looks too happy and content. 
 
 For whose least pleasure he would die ; 
 0, cruelty, she cannot eare 
 
 For one to whom she 's always kind I 
 He says he 's naught, but O, despair. 
 
 If he 's not Jove to her fond mind ! 
 He 's jealous if she pets a dove. 
 
 She must be his with all her soul ; 
 Yet 't is a postulate in love 
 
 That part is greater than the whole. 
 And all his apprehension's stress. 
 
 When he 's with her, regards her hair. 
 Her hand, a ribbon of her dress, 
 
 As if his life were only there : 
 Because she 's constant, he will change. 
 
 And kindest glances coldly meet. 
 And, all the time he seems so strange. 
 
 His soul is fawning at her feet : 
 Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired. 
 
 He wickedly provokes her tears. 
 And when she weeps, as he desired. 
 
 Falls slain with ecstasies of fears ; 
 He finds, although she has no fault. 
 
 Except the folly to be his ; 
 He worships her, the more to exalt 
 
 The profanation of a kiss ; 
 Health 's his disease ; he 's never well 
 
 But when liis paleness shames her rose ; 
 His faith 's a roek-built citadel, 
 
 Its sign a Hag that each way blows ; 
 His o'erl'cd fancy frets and fumes ; 
 
 Aiul Love, in him, is fierce like Hate, 
 And ruffles his ambrosial plumes 
 
 Against the bars of Time and Fate. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD.* 
 
 1824 - 
 
 LESSONS FOR A CHILD. 
 I. 
 There breathes not a brcatii of the morning air. 
 But the Spirit of Love is moving there ; 
 Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree 
 Mingles with thousands in harmony. 
 But the Spirit of God doth make the sound, 
 
 * This 13 a poet wim, touch him wherever you accidentally 
 may. Bcems alwnys to breatlie fovtli « feeling of the beneficence 
 of God and the brotherhood of man. 
 
 -g^ 
 
a- 
 
 THE SHADOWS. 
 
 HOW 'S MY BOY? 
 
 951 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Ami tlie t.iiouglits of the insect tluit creepeth 
 
 around. 
 And tlie sunshiny butterflies come and go, 
 Like beautiful thoughts moving to and fro ; 
 And not a wave of their busy wings 
 Is nnWiown to the Spirit tliat moveth all things. 
 And the long-iliantled moths that sleep at noon, 
 And dance in the light of the mystic moon, — 
 All liave one Being that loves them all ; 
 Not a fly in the spider's web can fall, 
 But he cares for the spider, and cares for the fly ; 
 And he cares for each little child's smile or sigh. 
 How it can be, I cannot know ; 
 He is wiser tiian I, and it must be so. 
 
 n. 
 The tree-roots met in the spongy ground. 
 
 Looking wliere water lay ; 
 Because they met, they twined around, 
 
 Embiaced, and went their way. 
 
 Drop dashed on drop as the rain showers fell. 
 Yet they strove not, but joined together ; 
 
 And they rose from the earth a bright clear well. 
 Singing in sunny weather. 
 
 Sound met sound in the wavy air ; 
 
 They kissed as sisters true ; 
 Yet, jostling not on their journey fair, 
 
 Each on its own path flew. 
 
 Wind met wind in a garden green ; 
 
 Each for its own way plead ; 
 And a trampling whirlwind danced between, 
 
 Till the flower of Love lay dead. 
 
 THE SHADOWS. 
 
 My little boy, with pale, round cheeks, 
 
 And large, brow'n, dreamy eyes. 
 Not often, little wisehoad, speaks. 
 
 But yet will make repUes. 
 
 His sister, always glad to show 
 
 Her knowledge, for its praise, 
 Said yesterday : " God 's here, you know ; 
 
 He 's everywhere, always. 
 
 " He 's in this room." His large brown eyes 
 Went wandering round for God ; 
 
 In vain ho looks, in vain he tries. 
 His wits are all abroad. 
 
 " He is not here, mamma ? No, no ; 
 
 I do not sec him at all, 
 He 's not the shadows, is he ? " So 
 
 His doubtful accents fall, — 
 
 Fall on my heart, like precious seed. 
 Grow up to flowers of love ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 For as my child, in love and need. 
 Am I to Him above. 
 
 How oft before the vapors break, 
 
 And day begins to be. 
 In our dijii-lighted rooms we take 
 
 The shadows. Lord, for thee. 
 
 Wljile every shadow lying there. 
 
 Slow remnant of the night. 
 Is but an aeliing, longing prayer 
 
 For thee, O Lord, the light. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 1884 - 
 
 HOW'S MY BOY? 
 
 " Ho, sailor of tlie sea ! 
 How 's my boy — my boy ? " 
 "What's your boy's name, good wife. 
 And in what good ship sailed he ? " 
 
 " My boy John — • 
 He that went to sea — 
 What care I for the ship, sailor ? 
 My boy 's my boy to me. 
 
 " You come back from sea. 
 
 And not know my John ? 
 
 I might as well have asked some landsman 
 
 Yonder down in the town. 
 
 There 's not an ass in all the parish 
 
 But he knows my John. 
 
 " How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 
 And unle'ss you let me know, 
 
 I "11 swear you are no sailor. 
 
 Blue jacket or no. 
 
 Brass buttons or no, sailor, 
 
 Anchor and crown or uo ! 
 
 Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton' " — 
 
 " Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 
 
 " And why should I speak low, sailor, 
 
 About my own boy, John ? 
 
 If I was loud as I am proud, 
 
 I 'd sing him over tlie town ! 
 
 Why should I speak low, sailor?" — 
 
 " That good ship went down ! " 
 
 " How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 
 What care I for the ship, sailor ? 
 
 I was never aboard her. 
 
 Be she afloat or be she aground. 
 
 Sinking or swimming, I '11 be bound, 
 
 Her owners can afford her ! 
 
 I say, iiow 's my John ? " — 
 
 " Every man on board went down. 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi-^ 
 
 952 
 
 MULOCK. — ALLINGHAM. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I 
 
 Every man aboard her." — 
 " How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 What care 1 for the men, sailor ? 
 I 'm not their mother — 
 How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 Tell me of him, and no other ! 
 How 's my boy — my boy ? " 
 
 DINAH MARIA MULOCK (CRAIK). 
 
 1826- 
 
 DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE. 
 
 Could yc come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
 
 In the old likeness that I knew, 
 I would be so faitliful, so loving, Douglas, 
 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
 I 'd smile on ye sweet as tlie angels do ; — 
 
 Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 to call back the days that are not ! 
 
 My eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
 Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 
 
 1 never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 
 Not ludf worthy the like of you ; 
 
 Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 
 I love ;i/ou, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
 Drop forgiveness from licaveu like dew ; 
 
 As I lay my heart on your dead heait, Douglas, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 PHILIP MT KING. 
 
 ""Who bears upon Iiis haliy brow tlie round 
 And top df sovereignty." 
 
 Look at me witli thy large brown eyes, 
 
 Philip my king, 
 Round whom tlic onshadowing purple lies 
 Of babyliootl's royal dignities : 
 Lay on my neck thy tiny liaud 
 With love's invisible seo])tre laden ; 
 I am thine Esllicr to command 
 Till thou shalt fiiut a queen-handmaiden, 
 
 Pliihp my king. 
 
 tlie day when thou goest a wooing, 
 
 Pliilip my kin;;; 1 
 Wlieu those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
 Aiul some gentle heart's bars undoing 
 Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 
 
 Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly. 
 Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair. 
 For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
 Philip my king. 
 
 Up from thy sweet mouth — up to thy brow, 
 
 PhiUp my king ! 
 The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
 May rise Uke a giant and make men bow 
 As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers : 
 My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer 
 Let me behold thee in future years ; — 
 Yet thy head needctii a circlet rarer, 
 
 Phihp my king. 
 
 A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, 
 
 Philip my king, 
 Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way 
 Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : 
 Rebel's within thee and foes without. 
 Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glo- 
 rious, 
 Martyr, yet monarch : till angels shout. 
 As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
 
 " Philip the king ! " 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 1888 (!)- 
 LOVELY MART DONNELLY, 
 
 O LOVELY Mary Dounelly, it 's you 1 love the best ! 
 If fifty girls were I'ound you, I 'd liardly see the 
 
 rest. 
 Be what it may the time of day, the ])hice b(^ where 
 
 it will. 
 Sweet looks of Mary Domielly, they bloom before 
 
 me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on 
 
 a rock. 
 How clear they are, liow dark tliey are ! and they 
 
 give me many a shock. 
 Red rowans warm in sunsliinc, ami wetted with 
 
 a shower. 
 Could ne'er express the charming lip that lias mc 
 
 in its power. 
 
 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 
 
 lifted up, 
 Her chin is very neat aiul ]icrt, and smooth like 
 
 a china cup. 
 Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weigiity and so 
 
 fine ; 
 It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered 
 
 in a twine. 
 
 -P 
 
a-^ 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 LOVE IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 953 
 
 -9) 
 
 ^ 
 
 The dance o' last Wliit-Mouday uiglit exceeded 
 
 all before ; 
 No pretty girl for miles about was missing from 
 
 the floor; 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, aud O, but she 
 
 was gay ! 
 She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my 
 
 heart away. 
 
 AVhen she stood up for dancing, her steps were so 
 
 complete 
 The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ; 
 The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so 
 
 much praised, 
 But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her 
 
 voice she raised. 
 
 And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what you 
 
 sung. 
 Your smile is always in my heart, your name 
 
 beside my tongue ; 
 But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count 
 
 on botli your hands. 
 And for myself there 's not a tliumb or little finger 
 
 stands. 
 
 O, you 're the flower o' womankind in country or 
 
 in town ; 
 The higher I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. 
 If some great lord should come this way, and see 
 
 your beauty bright. 
 And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but right. 
 
 ( ), might we live together in a- lofty palace hall, 
 
 ^\^lere joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur- 
 tains faE I 
 
 O, might we live together in a cottage mean and 
 small ; 
 
 With sods of grass the only roof, aud mud the 
 only wall ! 
 
 lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my dis- 
 tress ; 
 
 It 's far too beauteous to be miuc, but I 'U never 
 wish it less. 
 
 The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 
 poor aud low ; 
 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you 
 may go ! 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 A M.\N there came, whence none could tell, 
 Bearing a Touchstone in his hand. 
 And tested all things in the land 
 By its unerring speU. 
 
 A thousand transformations rose 
 From fair to foul, from foul to fair : 
 The golden crown he did not spare. 
 Nor scorn the beggar's clothes. 
 
 Of heirloom jewels, prized so nuieh, 
 Were many changed to chips and clods ; 
 And even statues of the gods 
 Crumbled beneath its touch. 
 
 Theu angrily the people cried, 
 " The loss outweighs the profit far; 
 Our goods suflice us as they are : 
 We will not have them tried," 
 
 And, since they could not so avail 
 To check his uureleutiug quest, 
 Tiiey seized him, saying, " Let him test 
 How real is our jail ! " 
 
 But though tliey slew him with the sword. 
 And in a fire his Touchstone burned. 
 Its doings could not be o'ertunied. 
 Its undoings restored. 
 
 And when, to stop all future harm. 
 They strewed its ashes on the breeze. 
 They little guessed each grain of these 
 Conveyed the perfect charm. 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 
 1828 - 
 
 LOVE IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 Undeb yonder beech-tree staudiug on the green- 
 sward, 
 
 Couched with her arms behind her little head. 
 Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her bosom, 
 
 Lies my young love sleepiug in the shade. 
 Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her ! 
 
 Press her Ai-eaming lips as her waist I folded slow, 
 Waking on the instant she could not but embrace 
 me — 
 
 Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? 
 
 Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow ; 
 
 Swift as the swallow when athwart the western 
 flood 
 Circleting the surface he meets his mirrored 
 wiuglets, — 
 
 Is that dear one in her maiden bud. 
 Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine-tops ; 
 
 Gentle — ah ! that she were jealous as the dove ! 
 Full of all the wildncss of the woodlaud creatures, 
 
 Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! 
 
 What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her? 
 
 Can she truly doubt me when looking on my 
 
 brows ? 
 
 Nature never teaches distrust of tender love -tales, 
 
 What cau have taught her distrust of all my 
 
 vows ? 
 
 No, she does not doubt me ! on a dcwv eve-tide. 
 
 ^ 
 
cS- 
 
 954 
 
 ROSSETTI. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 W'liispering together beneath the listening 
 
 moon, 
 I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till she 
 
 faltered — 
 Fluttered to my bosom — ah! to fly away so 
 
 soon ! 
 
 When her mother tends her before the laughing 
 mirror. 
 
 Tying up her laces, looping up her hair. 
 Often she thinks, "Were this wild thing wedded, 
 
 I should have more love, and much less care." 
 When her motiier tends her before the bashful 
 mirror, 
 
 Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, 
 Often she tliinks, " Were this wild thing wedded, 
 
 I should lose but one for so many boys and 
 
 Clambering roses peep into her chamber. 
 
 Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet; 
 White-necked swallows twittering of summer. 
 Fill her with balm and nested peace from head 
 to feet. 
 Ah ! will the rose-bougli see her lying lonely. 
 When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on tlie 
 leaves V 
 Will the autumn garners see her still ungathered, 
 AVhen the liekle swallows forsake the weeping 
 eaves ? 
 
 Comes a sudden question — should a strange band 
 pluck her ! 
 
 0, what an anguish smites me at the thought, 
 Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with 
 jewels ! — 
 
 Can sueli beauty ever thus be bought ? 
 Sometimes tlie huntsmen prancingdown the valley 
 
 Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth ; 
 They see as I see, mine is the fairest ! 
 
 Would she were older, and could read my worth ! 
 
 Are tliere not sweet maidens if she still deny me ? 
 Show the liridal heavens but one bright star ? 
 Wherefore thus tlien do I ehase a shadow. 
 
 Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar? 
 So 1 rliyme and reason till she darts before me — 
 Through the milky meadows from flower to 
 flower she Hies, 
 Sunning her sweet palms to shade lu'r ila/.zled 
 eyelids 
 From the golden love that looks too eager in 
 her eyes. 
 
 Wlicu al dawn she wakens, and her fair face gazes 
 Out on the weatlier through the window-panes. 
 
 Beauteous she looks ! like a white water-lily 
 Bursting o>it of bud on the rippled river-plains. 
 
 ^ 
 
 When fi'om bed she rises, clothed from neck to 
 ankle 
 In her long nightgown, sweet as boughs of 
 May, 
 Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily 
 Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! 
 
 Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles 
 
 Over the fields all fresh witli bloomy dew ; 
 When the cold-cheeked dawn grows ruddy up the 
 twilight. 
 
 And the gold sun wakes, and weds lier in the 
 blue. 
 Then when my darling tempts the early breezes, 
 
 She the only star tiiat dies not with the dark ! 
 Powerless to s])eak all the ardor of my jiassion, 
 
 I eatch her little hand as we listen to the lark. 
 
 Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweet- 
 iicarts ? 
 Season after season tell a fruitless tale ; 
 Will not the virgin listen to their voices ? 
 
 Take the honeyed meaning — wear the bridal 
 veil. 
 Fears she frosts of winter, fears she tlie bare 
 branches ? 
 Waits she the garlands of springfor her dower? 
 Is she a nightingale that will not be nested 
 Till the April woodland has built her bridal 
 bower ? 
 
 Tiien come, merry April, with all thy birds and 
 beauties ! 
 With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, 
 showery glee ; 
 With thy budding leafage and fresh green 
 pastures ; 
 And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honey- 
 moon for me ! 
 Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the violet ! 
 Come, weeping Loveliness, in all thy blue 
 delight! 
 Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer ! 
 Bring her to my arms on the first May night. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.* 
 
 1838- 
 
 LOVE-LIIT. 
 
 Betwekn the hands, between the brows, 
 
 Between the lips of Love-Lily, 
 A spirit is born W'liose birth endows 
 
 My blood with fire to bui'u through me; 
 Who breatiies upon my gazing eyes, 
 
 * Pi-rli«l)9 the poem of The BUssett Dftmo:r/, or Sister Helen, 
 or Jemnj would be more chnraulcnstic of tlie autlior than 
 Lore-Lily, liut tliey are too long to tic inserted here. 
 
 ■# 
 
a- 
 
 AT HOME. —LITTLE WILLIE. 
 
 955 
 
 -9) 
 
 fr 
 
 Who laughs aud murmurs iu raiue ear, 
 At whose least touch my color flies, 
 Aiid whom my life grows faiut to hear. 
 
 Witliiu the voice, withiu the heart, 
 
 Within the mind of Love-LUy, 
 A spirit is born who lifts apart 
 
 His tremulous wings and looks at me ; 
 Who on my mouth his finger lays. 
 
 And shows, while whispering lutes confer, 
 That Eden of Love's watei'ed ways 
 
 Whose winds and spirits worship her. 
 
 Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, 
 
 Kisses aud words of Love-Lily, — 
 O, bid me with your joy rejoice 
 
 Till riotous longing rest in me ! 
 Ah ! let not hope be still distraught. 
 
 But find in her its gracious goal. 
 Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought 
 
 Nor Love her body from her soul. 
 
 CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 When I was dead, my spirit turned 
 
 To seek the much-frequented house : 
 I passed the door, and saw my friends 
 
 Feasting beneath green orange-boughs ; 
 From hand to hand they pushed the wine, 
 
 They sucked the pulp of plum and peach ; 
 They sang, they jested, and they laughed, 
 
 For each was loved of each. 
 
 I listened to their honest chat : 
 
 Said one : " To-morrow we shall be 
 Plod plod along the featureless sands 
 
 And coasting miles and miles of sea." 
 Said one : " Before the turn of tide 
 
 We will acliieve the eyry-seat." 
 Said one : " To-morrow shall be Uke 
 
 To-day, but much more sweet." 
 
 " To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, 
 
 Aud dwelt upon the pleasant way : 
 " To-morrow," cried tliey one and all. 
 
 While no one spoke of yesterday. 
 Their life stood full at blessed noon, 
 
 I, only I, had passed away : 
 "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; 
 
 I was of yesterday. 
 
 I shivered comfortless, but cast 
 No chill across the table-cloth ; 
 
 I all-forgotten shivered, sad 
 
 To stay, and yet to part how loath ; 
 
 I passed from the familiar room, 
 I who from love had passed away. 
 
 Like the remembrance of a guest 
 That tarrieth but a day. 
 
 A KING POST. 
 
 Jess and Jill are pretty girls. 
 Plump aud well to do, — 
 
 In a cloud of windy curls ; 
 Yet I know who 
 
 Loves me more than curls or pearls. 
 
 I am not pretty, not a bit, — 
 
 Thin, and sallow-pale : 
 Wlien I trudge along the street 
 
 I don't need a veil ; 
 Yet I have one fancy hit. 
 
 Jess and Jill can trill and sing 
 
 With a flute-like voice. 
 Dance as Hght as bird on wing. 
 
 Laugh for careless joys ; 
 Yet it 's I who wear the ring. 
 
 Jess and Jill will mate some day, 
 
 Surely, surely, — 
 Ripen on to June through May, . 
 Wliile the sun shiucs make their hay. 
 
 Slacken steps demurely ; 
 Yet even there I lead the way. 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
 LITTLE WILLIE. 
 
 Poor little WUlie, 
 
 With his many pretty wiles ; 
 Worlds of wisdom in liis looks, 
 
 Aud quaint, quiet smiles ; 
 Hair of amber, touched with 
 
 Gold of heaven so brave ; 
 All lying darkly hid 
 
 In a workliouse grave. 
 
 You remember little Willie ; 
 
 Fair aud funny fellow ! he 
 Sprang like a lily 
 
 From the dirt of poverty. 
 Poor little Willie ! 
 
 Not a friend was nigh, 
 When, from the cold woi-Id, 
 
 He crouched down to die. 
 
 Iu the day we wandered foodless, 
 Little Willie cried for bread ; 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 956 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 fr 
 
 In the night we waudered liomeless. 
 Little Willie cried for bed. 
 
 Parted at the workhouse door, 
 Not a word we said : 
 
 Ah, so tired was poor Willie, 
 And so sweetly sleep the dead. 
 
 'T was iu the dead of winter 
 
 We laid him iu the earth; 
 The world brought iu the New Year, 
 
 On a tide of mirth. 
 But, for lost little Willie, 
 
 Not a tear we crave ; 
 Cold and luuicjer cannot wake him, 
 
 In his workhouse grave. 
 
 We thought him beautifirl, 
 
 Felt it hard to part ; 
 We loved him dutifid ; 
 
 Down, down, poor heart ! 
 The storms they may beat ; 
 
 Tlie winter winds may rave ; 
 Little Willie feels not. 
 
 In his workhouse grave. 
 
 No room for little WUlie ; 
 
 In the world he had no part; 
 On him stared the Gorgon-eye, 
 
 Through which looks no heart. 
 Come to me, said Heaven ; 
 
 And, if Heaven will save. 
 Little matters though the door 
 
 Be a workhouse grave. 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 1830- 1867. 
 
 LADY BARBARA. 
 
 Eakl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara, 
 High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold ! 
 'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer 
 
 shaw, 
 In soft green light his passion he has told. 
 .When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold. 
 The Earl to take her fair reluctant car 
 Framed passion-treml)led ditties manifold ; 
 Silent she sat his amorous breath to hear, 
 With calm and steady eyes ; her heart was other- 
 where. 
 
 He sighed for her through all the summer weeks; 
 Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs 
 Bore glorious apples with smooth, sliining clioeks, 
 Earl Gawain came and whispered, " Lady, rouse! 
 Thou art no vestal held in holy vows ; 
 Out witli our falcons to tlie pleasant heath." 
 
 Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows, — 
 He wlio, cxidting in the trumpet's breath. 
 Came charging like a star across the lists of death. 
 
 Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke : 
 And then she sat, her hands clasped round lier 
 
 knee : 
 Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look. 
 For in a morning cold as misery 
 She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; 
 Before the north 't was driven like a cloud, 
 High on the poop a man sat mournfidly : 
 The wind was wliistling through mast and shroud. 
 And to the whistling wind thus did he sing 
 
 aloud : — 
 
 " Didst look last night upon my native vales. 
 Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea hast 
 
 clomb ? 
 Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails. 
 Upon the sidt sea must I ever roam. 
 Wander forever on the barren foam ? 
 O, happy are ye, resting mariners ! 
 
 Death, that thou wouldst come and take me 
 
 home ! 
 A hand iinscen this vessel onward steers. 
 And onward I must float through slow, moon- 
 measured years. 
 
 " Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove us on, 
 
 Frotliing the waters, and along our way. 
 
 Nor cape nor headland through red mornings 
 
 shone, 
 One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray. 
 One howled ' Upon the deep we are astray.' 
 On our wild liearts his words fell like a blight : 
 In one short hour my hair was stricken gray. 
 For all the crew sank ghastly iu my sight 
 As wc went driving on through the cold starry 
 
 night. 
 
 " Madness fell on me in my loneliness. 
 The sea foamed curses, and the recliug sky 
 Became a dreadful face which did oppress 
 Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. 
 It fled, when I burst fiu'th into a cry, — 
 A shoal of fiends came on me trom the deep ; 
 
 1 hid, but iu all corners they did pry, 
 
 And dragged me forth, and round did dance and 
 
 leap ; 
 They mouthed on me Lq dream, and tore me from 
 
 sweet sleep. 
 
 " Strange consteUatious burned above my head. 
 Strange birds around the vessel shiiekcd and flew. 
 Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear 
 
 sea fled, 
 As our lone sliip, wide-winged, came rippling 
 
 through. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 THE GARLAND. — UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY. 
 
 957 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Angering to foam tlie smooth and sleeping blue." 
 Tlie lady sighed, " far, far upon the sea, 
 My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! 
 The wind blows shrill between my love and 
 
 me." 
 Fond heart ! the space between was but the 
 
 apple-tree. 
 
 There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands 
 She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest ; 
 Like washing water on the figured sands, 
 His being came and went in sweet unrest, 
 As from the mighty slielter of his breast 
 Tlie Lady Barbara her head uprears 
 With a wan smile, " Methinks I 'ni but half 
 
 blest: 
 Now when I 've found thee, after weary years, 
 I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am with tears." 
 
 ROBERT LEIGHTON.* 
 
 THE GABLAND. 
 
 No cidtivated garden did he own, 
 
 But found his bent by wayside and in forest : 
 He gathered flowers whei'e seed was never sown. 
 Unless by Nature's Florist. 
 
 He lacked the cultured mind, so richly prized, 
 But in the wastes of soul found endless choos- 
 ings, 
 And culled a garland, not to be despised, 
 
 Of transient thoughts and musings. 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 I CANNOT think the glorious world of mind, 
 Embalmed in books, which I can only see 
 In patches, though I read my moments blind, 
 Is to be lost to me. 
 
 I have a thought that, as we live elsewhere, 
 So will those dear creations of the brain ; 
 That what I lose unread, I '11 find, and there 
 Take up my joy again. 
 
 O then the bliss of blisses, to be freed 
 From aU the wants by which the world is 
 driven ; 
 With liberty and endless time to read 
 The libraries of Heaven ! 
 
 * Tlie author of a vohime of poems published in Liverpool 
 in 1866. 
 
 ^&-*- 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY. 
 AN EXPERIMENT. 
 
 When he whispers, "O Miss Bailey, 
 Thou art brightest of the throng," 
 
 She makes murmur, softly-gayly, 
 " Alfred, I have loved thee long." 
 
 Then he drops upon his knees, a 
 Proof his heart is soft as wax : 
 
 She 's — I don't know who, but he 's a 
 Captain bold from Halifax. 
 
 Though so loving, such another 
 Artless bride was never seen, 
 
 Coaehee thinis that she 's his mother — 
 Till they get to Gretna Green. 
 
 There they stand, by him attended, 
 Hear the sable smith rehearse 
 
 Tliat which links them, when 't is ended, 
 Tight for better — or for worse. 
 
 Now her heart rejoices — ugly 
 Troubles need disturb her less — 
 
 Now the Happy Pair are snugly 
 Seated in the night express. 
 
 So they go with fond emotion. 
 So they journey through the night — 
 
 London is their land of Goshen — 
 See, its suburbs are in sight ! 
 
 Hark ! the sound of life is swelling, 
 
 Pacing up, and racing down. 
 Soon they reach her simple dwelling — 
 
 Burley Street, by Somei-s Town. 
 
 What is there to so astound them ? 
 
 She cries " Oh ! " for he cries " Hah !" 
 When five brats emerge, confound them ' 
 
 Shouting out, " Mamma ! — Papa ! " 
 
 While at this he wonders blindly, 
 Nor their meaning can di\'ine. 
 
 Proud she turns them round, and kindly, 
 " All of these are mine and thine ! " 
 * * * 
 
 Here he pines and grows dyspeptic. 
 Losing heart he loses pith — 
 
 Hints that Bishop Tail's a sceptic — 
 Swears that Moses was a myth. 
 
 Sees no evidence in Paley — 
 
 Takes to drinking ratafia : 
 Shies the luufBns at Miss Bailey 
 
 While she 's pouring out the tea. 
 
 ^ 
 
C&- 
 
 958 
 
 INGELOW. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 ^ 
 
 One day, knocking np his quarters, 
 Poor Miss Bailey I'ouucl liim dead. 
 
 Hanging in liis knotted garters, 
 Wliicli slie knitted ere they wed. 
 
 JEAN INGELOAV. 
 
 DIVIDED. 
 
 I. 
 
 An empty sky, a world of heather, 
 Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 
 
 We two among them wading together. 
 Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 
 
 Crowds of bees are giddy with elover, 
 Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet. 
 
 Crowds of larks at their matins hang over. 
 Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 
 
 Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
 Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 
 
 'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver. 
 Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 
 
 We two walk till the purple dieth, 
 
 And short dry grass under foot is brown, 
 
 But one little streak at a distance lieth 
 Green like a ribbon to prank the down. 
 
 Over the grass we stepped unto it. 
 
 And God he knoweth how blithe we were ! 
 
 Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 
 
 Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 
 
 Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it. 
 We parted the grasses dewy and sheen : 
 
 Drop over drop there fdtered and slided 
 A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
 Light was our talk as of faery bells ; 
 
 Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
 Down in their fortunate parallels. 
 
 Hand in hand while the sun peered over, 
 
 Wc lapped the grass on that youngling spring ; 
 
 Swept back its rushes, smoothed its elover, 
 And said, " Let us follow it westering." 
 
 A dappled sky, a world of meadows, 
 Circling above us tlic l)lack rooks fly 
 
 Forward, backward; lo their dark shadows 
 Flit on the blossoming tapestry; 
 
 Flit on the beck ; for her long grass parteth 
 As hair from a maid's briglit eyes blown back : 
 
 And, lo, the sun Uke a lover darteth 
 
 His flattering smile on her wayward track. 
 
 Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather 
 Till one steps over the tiny strand. 
 
 So narrow, in sooth, that still together 
 On either brink we go hand in hand. 
 
 The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 
 
 On either margin, our songs all done, 
 We move apart, while she singeth ever, 
 
 Taking the course of the stooping sun. 
 
 He prays, " Come over," — I may not follow ; 
 
 I cry, " Return," — but he cannot come : 
 We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 
 
 Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 
 
 A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
 A little talking of outward tilings : 
 
 The careless beck is a merry dancer. 
 Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 
 
 A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 
 
 " Cross to me now ; for her wavelets swell." 
 " I may not cross," — and the voice beside her 
 
 Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 
 
 No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 
 
 No second crossing that rip])lp's flow : 
 " Come to nie now, for the west is burning ; 
 
 Come ere it darkens." " Ah, no ! ah, no ! " 
 
 Then cries of pain, and arms outi-eaehing. 
 The beck grows wider and swift and deep : 
 
 Passionate words as of one beseeehing : 
 The loud beck droivns them : we walk, and 
 weep. 
 
 A ycUow moon in splendor drooping, 
 A tired queen with her state oppressed, 
 
 Low by rushes and swordgraSs stooping, 
 Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 
 
 The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 
 
 Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
 The wild beck ends her tunc of gladness, 
 
 And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 
 
 Wo two walk on in our grassy jilaces 
 On either marge of the moonlit flood, 
 
 AVith the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
 AAHicre joy is withered, blossom and bud. 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 MATERNITY. —MADAME LA MAEQUISE. 
 
 959 
 
 -Q5 
 
 h 
 
 A shady freshness, chafers whirring ; 
 
 A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
 A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring; 
 
 A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 
 
 Bare grassy slopes Mhere kids arc tethered. 
 Round valleys like nests all feniy-lined, 
 
 Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered. 
 Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 
 
 A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 
 
 When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 
 
 A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 
 The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 
 
 Broad and white, and polished as silver 
 On she goes under fruit-laden trees : 
 
 Sunk in leafage eooeth the culver, 
 And 'plaiueth of love's disloyalties. 
 
 Glitters the dew, and shines the river. 
 Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 
 
 But two are walking apart forever. 
 And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 
 
 A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 
 
 The river hasteth, her banks recede. 
 Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 
 
 Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. 
 
 Stately prows are rising and bo\ving 
 (Shouts of mariners ■ninuow the air). 
 
 And level sands for banks endowing 
 
 The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 
 
 While, O my heart ! as white sails shiver. 
 And clo\uls are passing, and banks stretch wide, 
 
 IIow hard to follow, with lips that quiver. 
 That moving speck on the far-off side. 
 
 Farther, farther ; I see it, know it — 
 My eyes l)rim over, it melts away : 
 
 Only my heart to my heart shall show it 
 As I walk desolate day by day. 
 
 And yet I know past all doubting, truly, — 
 A knowledge greater than grief can dim, — 
 
 I know, as he loved, he will love me duly, — 
 Yea better, e'en better than I love him. 
 
 And as I walk by the vast calm river. 
 
 The awful river so dread to see, 
 I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth forever 
 
 Arc bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." 
 
 MATERNITY. 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups. 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall, 
 Wlien the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses. 
 And dance with the euckoo-buds, slender and 
 small : 
 Here 's two bonny boys, and here 's mother's 
 own lasses. 
 Eager to gather them all. 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups : 
 
 Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
 Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, 
 That loved lu-r brown little ones, loved them 
 full fain ; 
 Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house 
 be but narrow " — 
 Sing onee, and sing it again. 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups. 
 
 Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they 
 bow; 
 A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters. 
 
 And haply one musiug doth stand at her prow. 
 Maybe lie thinks on you now ! 
 bonny brown sons, and sweet Uttlo daughters. 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups. 
 
 Pair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ; 
 A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 
 And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and 
 thrall. 
 Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its 
 measure — 
 God that is over us all. 
 
 ROBERT BULAVER LYTTON, LORD 
 LYTTON (OWEN MEREDITH).* 
 
 MADAME LA MAKQUISE. 
 
 The folds of her wine -dark violet dress 
 
 Glow over the sofa, fall on fall, 
 As she sits in the air of her loveliness 
 
 With a smile for each and for all. 
 
 Half of her exquisite face in the shade 
 Wliich o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings : 
 
 * The son of the distinguished novelist. Most of his poems 
 weve puhlislied under tlie uom ds plume of " Owen Meredith.*' 
 He is the first poet ever raised to tiie great office of Goveraor 
 General of India, ruliuu; a hundred and fifty millions of people, 
 not one of wlioui can he supposed to have ever read Lucilh-, 
 Fair Totamt icith tlir. J'l'llow Hair, or Tfie Nntional Soitffs of 
 Servia. There is every reason to suppose that he values his 
 poetieal reputation more than his politieal distinction. 
 
 ■^ 
 
960 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 -^ 
 
 fr 
 
 Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous 
 braid : 
 In the firelight are sparkling her rings. 
 
 As she leans, — the slow smile half shut up in 
 her eyes 
 Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; 
 Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint 
 replies, 
 Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. 
 
 As she leans, — where your eye, by her beauty 
 subdued, 
 Droops, — from under warm fringes of broidery 
 white 
 Tlie sliglitest of feet, silken-slippered, protrude 
 For one moment, then slip out of sight. 
 
 As I bend o'er her bosom, to-tell hei*the news, 
 The faint scent of her hair, the approach of 
 lier cheek, 
 Tlie vague warmth of her breath, all my senses 
 suffuse 
 With HERSELF : and I tremble to speak. 
 
 So she sits in the curtained, lu.\urious light 
 Of tliat room, with its porcelain, and pictures, 
 and flowers, 
 IVlien the dark day 's half done, and the snow 
 flutters white 
 Past the windows in feathery showers. 
 
 All without is so cold, — 'neath the low leaden 
 sky! 
 Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the 
 gendarme 
 Stalks surly : a distant carriage hums by ; — 
 All within is so bright and so warm ! 
 
 Here we talk of tlie schemes and the scandals of 
 court. 
 How. the courtesan pushes : the charlatan 
 thrives : 
 We put liorns on tlie heads of our friends, just 
 for sport ; 
 Put intrigues in the heads of their wives. 
 
 Her warm hand, at parting, so strangely thrilled 
 mine. 
 That at dinner I scarcely remark what they 
 say,— 
 Drop tlie ice in my soup, spill the salt in my wine. 
 Then go yawn at my favorite play. 
 
 But she drives -after noon : — tlien 's the time to 
 behold her, 
 With her fair face half hid, like a ripe ppc])ing 
 rose, 
 'Neath that veil, — o'er the velvets and furs 
 wiiich enfold her, 
 Leaning back with a queenly repose, — 
 
 As she glides up the sunlight ! . . . You 'd say she 
 was made 
 
 To loll back in a carriage, all day, with a smile ; 
 And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade 
 
 Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while. 
 
 Could we find out her heart through that velvet 
 and lace ! 
 Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous 
 dress ? 
 She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face ; 
 But what the heart 's like we must guess. 
 
 With live women and men to be found in the 
 world 
 (Live with sorrow and sin, live \vitli pain and 
 with passion,) — 
 Who could live with a doll, though its locks 
 should be curled. 
 And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 
 
 'T is so fair ! . . . would my bite, if I bit it, draw 
 blood ? , 
 
 Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? 
 Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? 
 
 ... Is it worth while to guess at all tliis ? 
 
 o>Ko 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 TLOWEKS. 
 
 Sweet sisterhood of flowers. 
 
 Ye tell of happier hours. 
 Eloquent eyes, soft hands, and beaming brow ; 
 
 Ye were a gift from one 
 
 Best loved beneath the sun. 
 And ye must bring me memories of her now. 
 
 Tiiou rare red Picotine ! 
 
 Seemed she not like a queen. 
 Gloriously proud, nor beautiful the less, 
 
 WHien what I whispered low 
 
 Made the red blushes show. 
 For shame to hear of her own loveliness ? 
 
 Thou dost remind me well, 
 
 Down-looking heathcrbcU, 
 How she looked downward in that lonely spot, 
 
 And to my earnest prayer 
 
 Tremblingly gave me there 
 Tills star of lover's hope, — " Forget-me-Not." 
 
 Sweet Rose ! thy crimson leaves 
 Are little happy thieves ! 
 She kissed thee, and her lips arc mine alone : 
 Now by that blessed day 
 
 ^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. — A WOMAN'S ANSWER. 
 
 961 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I '11 wear tliy leaves away. 
 Kissing the kiss till kissing-plaoe be gone. 
 
 Beautiful, bright- winged Pea ! 
 
 Ah ! but I envied thee, 
 Plueked by her hand, and on her bosom lying. 
 
 O, it were happy death 
 
 Tiiere to sigh out the breath ; 
 Never to die, and yet be still a-dying. 
 
 Wliitc lily of the vale ! 
 
 I fear thon saw'st a tale 
 Told without words, when none but thou wert 
 nigh : 
 
 Keep faith, sweet bud of snow ! 
 
 None but ourselves must know — 
 Thou and the Evening Star, and She, and I. 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
 
 1835-1864. 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee. 
 
 Or place my hand in thiue, 
 Before I let thy future give 
 Color and form to mine. 
 Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to- 
 night for me. 
 
 I break all sHghter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of i-egret : 
 Is there one link within the Past 
 That holds thy s]Hrit yet ? 
 Or is thy faith as clear aiW free as that which I 
 can pledge to thee ? 
 
 Does there witiiin thy dimmest dreams 
 
 A possible future shine, 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
 Untouched, unshared by mine? , 
 
 If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is 
 lost. 
 
 Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, 
 
 Within thy inmost soul. 
 That thou hast kept a portion back. 
 While I have staked the whole. 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy 
 tell me so. 
 
 Is tiiere within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine caimot fulfil ? 
 One chord that any other hand 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 Speak now, — lest at some future day my whole 
 life Avithcr and decay. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Lives there within thy nature liid 
 
 The demon-spirit Change, 
 Shedding a passing glory stUl 
 
 On all things new and strange ? — 
 It may not be thy fault alone, — but shield my 
 heart against thy own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
 
 And answer to my claim. 
 That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — . 
 Not thou — had been to blame ? 
 Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou wilt 
 surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay, answer ?io(, — I dare not hear, 
 
 The words would come too late ; 
 Yet I would spare, thee all remorse. 
 So, comfort thee, my Fate, — 
 Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I 
 mould risk it all ! 
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER, 
 
 I WILL not let you say a woman's part 
 Must be to give exclusive love alone ; 
 
 Dearest, although I love yon so, my heart 
 Answers a thousand claims besides your own. 
 
 I love, — what do I not love ? Earth and air 
 Find space witliin my heart, and myriad things 
 
 You would not deign to heed are cherished there, 
 And vibrate on its very inmost strings. 
 
 I love the summer, with her ebb and flow 
 
 Of light and warmth and music, that have 
 nursed 
 
 Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you know 
 It was ill summer that I saw you first. 
 
 I love the winter dearly too, . . . but then 
 I owe it so much ; on a winter's day. 
 
 Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again. 
 When you had been those weary months away. 
 
 I love the stars like friends ; so many nights 
 I gazed at them, v/hen you were far from me, 
 
 Till I grew blind with tears . . . those far-off lights 
 Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see. 
 
 I love the flowers ; Iiappy hours lie 
 
 Shut up within their petals close and fast : 
 
 You have forgotten, dear ; but they and I 
 Keep every fragment of the golden Past. 
 
 I love, too, to be loved ; all loving praise 
 
 Seems like a crown upon my life, — to make 
 
 It better worth the giving, and to raise 
 
 Still nearer to your own the heart you take. 
 
 -* 
 
a- 
 
 962 
 
 MORRIS. — GRAY. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 I love all good and noble soiils ; — I heard 
 One speak of you but lately, and for days, 
 
 Only to tliiuk of it, my soul was stirred 
 In tender memory of sueh generous praise. 
 
 I love all those wlio love you, all who owe 
 Comfort to you ; and I ean liud regret 
 
 Evcufortliose poo rerheartswlioouce could know, 
 And once could love you, and can now forget. 
 
 Well, is ray heart so narrow, — I, who spare 
 Love for all these ? Do I not even hold 
 
 My favorite books in special tender care. 
 And prize them as a miser does his gold ? 
 
 The poets that you used to read to me 
 Wi]ile summer twilights faded in tiie sky; 
 
 But most of all I tliiuk Aurora Leigh, 
 Because — because — do you remember why ? 
 
 Did you guess before 
 things ? — Still you the 
 
 WiU you be jealous ? 
 
 I loved so mauy 
 best : — 
 Dearest, remember that 1 love you more, 
 
 more a thousand times, than all the rest ! 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 BIDING TOGETHER. 
 
 ToK many, many days together 
 
 The wind blew steady from the east ; 
 
 For many days hot grew the weather. 
 About the time of our Lady's Feast. 
 
 For many days we I'ode together. 
 Yet met we neither friend nor foe ; 
 
 Hotter and clearer grew the weather. 
 Steadily did the east-wind blow. 
 
 We saw the trees iu tlie hot, bright weather, 
 Clear-cut, with shadows very black. 
 
 As freely we rode on together 
 
 With iielms unlaced and bridles slack. 
 
 And often as we rode together, 
 
 We, looking dowu the green-banked stream, 
 Saw flowers in the sunny weather, 
 
 Aud saw the bubble-making bream. 
 
 And in the night lay down together, 
 And hung above our heads the rood, 
 
 Or watched night-long in the dewy weather, 
 The while the moon did watcii the wood. 
 
 Our spears stood bright and thick together. 
 Straight out the banners streamed behind, 
 
 As we galloped on in the sunny weather, 
 With faces turned towards the wind. 
 
 DoMai sank our threescore spears together, 
 
 As thick we saw the pagans ride ; 
 His eager face in the clear fresh weather 
 
 Shone out that last time by my side. 
 
 Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed togetber, 
 It rocked to the crash of the meeting spears, 
 
 Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather, 
 The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. 
 
 There, as we rolled and writhed together, 
 
 I threw my arms above my head. 
 For close by my side, in the lovely weather, 
 
 I saw him reel and fall back dead. 
 
 I and the slayer met together, 
 
 He waited the death-stroke there in his place, 
 With thoughts of death, iu the lovely weather 
 
 Gapingly mazed at my maddened face. 
 
 MacUy I fought as we fought together; 
 
 In vain : the little Christian band 
 The pagans drowned, as in stormy weather, 
 
 The river drowns low-lying land. 
 
 They bound my blood-stained hands together. 
 They bound his corpse to nod by my side : 
 
 Then on we rode, in the bright JIarch weather. 
 With clash of cymbals did we ride. 
 
 We ride no more, no more together ; 
 
 My prison-bars are thick and strong, 
 I tflke no heed of any *veather, 
 
 Tlie sweet Saints grant I Uvc not long. 
 
 DAVID GRAY.* 
 
 1838 - 1861. 
 
 MT LITTLE BKOTHEK. 
 
 The goldeuing peach on the orcliard wall. 
 
 Soft feeding in the sun. 
 
 Hath never so downy and rosy a cheek 
 
 As this laughing little one. 
 
 Tlie brook that murmurs and dimples alone 
 
 Through glen and grove and lea. 
 
 Hath never a life so merry and true 
 
 As my brown little brother of three. 
 
 From flower to flower, and from bower to bower, 
 
 * The story of tliis poet's life is one of tlic most pntliotic in 
 the lontr list of biojrrapliics which rtrord the struc^rles nnd 
 diaappiiintments of Youthful genius. 
 
 '■ Q5 
 
cQ- 
 
 LANGLEY LANE. 
 
 9G3 
 
 -Q) 
 
 In my mother's garden green, 
 
 A-peering at this, and a-cheering at that, 
 
 The funniest ever was seen ; — 
 
 Now throwing himself in his mother's lap, 
 
 With his clieek upon licr breast, 
 
 He tells his wonderful travels, forsooth ! 
 
 And chatters himself to rest. 
 
 And what may become of that brother of mine. 
 
 Asleep in his mother's bosom ? 
 
 Will the wee rosy bud of his being at last 
 
 Into a wild-flower blossom ? 
 
 Will the hopes that are deepening as silent and 
 
 fair 
 As the azure about his eye 
 Be told in glory and motlierly pride, 
 Or answered with a sigh? 
 Let the curtain rest ; for, alas ! 't is told 
 Tliat Mercy's hand benign 
 Ilath woven and spun tlie gossamer thread 
 That forms the fabric so fine. 
 Tlien dream, dearest Jackie ! thy sinless dream, 
 And waken as blithe and as free ; 
 1'here 's many a change in twenty long years, 
 ]\Iy brown little brother of three. 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 1841- 
 
 LANGLET LANE, 
 
 A LOVE POEM. 
 
 In all the land, range up, range down. 
 
 Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet, 
 As Langley Lane in London town. 
 
 Just out of the bustle of square and street? 
 Little white cottages all in a row, 
 Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow, 
 
 Swallows' nests in roof and wall. 
 And up above tlie still blue sky 
 AVhere the woolly white clouds go sailing by, — 
 
 I seem to be able to see it all ! 
 
 For now, in summer, I take my chair. 
 
 And sit outside in the sun, and hear 
 The distant murmur of street and square. 
 
 And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; 
 And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 
 Couies rumiing many a time each day 
 
 With her little liand's touch so warm and kind. 
 And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek. 
 And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, — 
 
 For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 
 
 Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 
 
 Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, 
 
 ^ 2_ 
 
 And I am older by summers three, — 
 
 Why should we hold one another so dear ? 
 
 Because she cannot utter a word. 
 
 Nor hear the nnisic of bee or bird. 
 
 The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call ! 
 
 Because I have never seen the sky. 
 
 Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — 
 Yet know she is gazing upon them all ! 
 
 For the sun is shining, the swallows fly. 
 
 The bees and the blue-flics murmur low. 
 And I hear the water-cart go by. 
 
 With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row ; 
 And the little one close at my side perceives 
 Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves. 
 
 Where birds are chirping in summer shine. 
 And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, 
 Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, — 
 
 And the Utile soft fingers flutter in mine ! 
 
 Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 
 
 When it stirs on my palm for the love of me ? 
 Do I not know she is pretty and young ? 
 
 Hath not my soul an eye to see ? — 
 'T is pleasure to make one's bosom stir, 
 To wonder how things appear to hei-. 
 
 That I only hear as they pass around ; 
 And as long as we sit in the music and light, 
 S/ie is happy to keep God's sight, 
 
 And I am happy to keep God's sound. 
 
 Why, I know her face, though I am blind, — 
 
 I made it of music long ago : 
 Strange large eyes and dark hair twined 
 
 Round tlie pensive light of a brow of snow ; 
 And when I sit by my little one. 
 And hold her hand and talk in the sun. 
 
 And hear the nnisic that haunts the place, 
 I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
 And guessing how gentle my voice must be. 
 
 And seeing the music upon my face. 
 
 Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a 
 prayer 
 (I know the fancy is only vain), 
 I should pray, just once, when the weather is 
 fair. 
 To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ; 
 Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to liear 
 The voice of tlie friend that she holds so dear. 
 
 The song of tlie birds, the hum of the street, — 
 It is better to be as we have been, — 
 Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen. 
 To make God's heaven more strange and 
 sweet ! 
 
 Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! 
 There is always something sweet to hear ! 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 -Q) 
 
 *J64 
 
 O'REILLY. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 Chirping of birds or patter of raiu ! 
 
 And Fanny, my little one, always near ! 
 And though I am weakly and can't live long. 
 And Fanny my darling is far from strong, 
 
 And though we can never married be, — 
 TVliat then? — since we hold one another so dear. 
 For the sake of the pleasure o;ie cannot hear, 
 
 And the pleasure that only one can see ? 
 
 o^io 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.* 
 
 1844 - 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 It chanced to me upon a time to sail 
 
 Across the Southern Ocean to and fro ; 
 And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 
 
 Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
 And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep. 
 
 Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, 
 Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, 
 
 And left us yearning still for lauds unknown. 
 
 And wlien we found one, — for 't is soon to find 
 
 In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, — 
 For one short noon its treasures filled the mind, 
 
 And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. 
 And so it was, from isle to isle we passed. 
 
 Like wanton Ijees or boys on flowers or lips ; 
 And when that all was tasted, then at last 
 
 We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 
 
 I learned from this there is uo Southern land 
 
 Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. 
 Sick minds need change ; but, when in licalth 
 they stand 
 
 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen. 
 And thus with me it was : the yearning turned 
 
 From laden airs of cimiamon away. 
 And stretched far westward, while the full heart 
 burned 
 
 With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! 
 
 My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! 
 
 My land, that has uo peer in all the sea 
 For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 
 
 If first to no man else, tliou 'rt first to me. 
 New loves may come with duties, but the first 
 
 Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and 
 smiles : 
 Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed 
 
 Is my poor laud, the Niobe of isles. 
 
 • Mr. O'Reilly, whose escape from Australia forms one of 
 the most thrilling narrntiVcs in the annnls of Irish patriotism, 
 is now an Anirrirnn ritizcn ; Imt that he was a poet lieforc he 
 bccauic an Iri^^h .\nifriran, is pmvod iiy the pncin «'e have sc- 
 lectetl. 
 
 ALGERNOxN CHARLES S\VIN- 
 BURNE. 
 
 1837 - 
 
 WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING ARE ON 
 WINTER'S TRACES. 
 
 Wi I E N th e hounds of Spring are on Winter's traces. 
 The mother of months in meadow or plain 
 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
 
 And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
 
 Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, 
 The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 Come with bows bent and with emptying of 
 quivers. 
 
 Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
 With a noise of winds and many rivers. 
 
 With a clamor of waters, and with might ; 
 Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. 
 Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; 
 For the faint cast quickens, the wan west shivers, 
 
 Round the feet of the day and the feet of the 
 night. 
 
 Wliere shall we find her, how shall we sing to her. 
 Fold our hands round her knees, and cling ? 
 
 that man's heart were as fire and could s]n'ing 
 to her, 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring ! 
 
 For the stars and the winds arc unto her 
 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
 
 For the risen stars and, the fallen cling to her. 
 And the southwest-wind and the west- wind sing. 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over. 
 And all the season of snows and sins ; 
 
 The days dividing lover and lover. 
 
 The light that loses, the night that wins ; 
 
 And time remembered is grief forgotten, 
 
 ./Vud frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 
 
 And in green underwood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of nishes. 
 Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 
 
 • We close our selections from the j,Teat hoily of British and 
 Irish poetry with Swinbuiiie, though he is not. as respects his 
 birth, in strict chronological succession. Three poets we have 
 quoted have the advantage of heing horn a few years after him. 
 So far. Mr. Swinburne has specially shown his sujieriority to the 
 younger poets with whom he would naturally lie compared by 
 iiis command of many metres and by the wonderful nielodious- 
 ncss of his verse It may not, perhaps, be ungracious to ob- 
 serve, that his genius would be more uni\xr3ally acknowl- 
 edged, were it not for his occasional fits of perversity and 
 caprice in the choice of his topics, and for ft habit he has of 
 making his readers almost forget the matter of his verae in 
 admiration of its melody. 
 
 -GP 
 
cfi- 
 
 KISSING HER HAIR. 
 
 965 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 Tlie faint fresli flame of the young year flushes 
 
 rroiu leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and Are, 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre, 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 
 
 And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 
 Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
 Follows with dancing and fills with delight 
 
 The Maenad and the Bassarid ; ' 
 And soft as lips that laugh and hide 
 The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
 And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
 The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
 
 Her bright breast shortening into sigiis ; 
 The wild vine slips with tiie weight of its leaves. 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the liinbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
 
 Aialanta in Calydon. 
 
 THE SUHDEW, 
 
 A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow-green, 
 And pricked at lip with tender red. 
 Tread close, and cither way you tread 
 Some faint black water jets between 
 Lest you should bruise the curious head. 
 
 A live thing maybe ; who shall know .' 
 The summer knows and suffers it; 
 For the cool moss is thick and sweet 
 Each side, and saves the blossom so 
 That it lives out the long June heat. 
 
 The deep scent of the heather burns 
 About it ; breathless though it be, 
 Bow down and worship ; more than we 
 Is the least flower whose life returns. 
 Least weed renascent in the sea. 
 
 We are vexed and cumbered in earth's sight 
 With wants, with many memories ; 
 These see their mother what she is, 
 Glad-growing, till August leave more bright 
 The apple-colored cranberries. 
 
 Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass. 
 Blown all one way to shelter it 
 From trample of strayed kine, with feet 
 Felt heavier than the moorhen was. 
 Strayed up past patches of wild wheat. 
 
 You call it sundew ; how it grows. 
 If with its color it have breath. 
 
 If life taste sweet to it, if death 
 Pain its soft petal, no man knows : 
 Mau has no sight or sense that saith. 
 
 My sundew, grown of gentle days. 
 In these green miles the spring begun 
 Thy growth ere April had half done 
 With the soft secret of lier ways 
 Or June made ready for the sun. 
 
 red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower, 
 
 1 have a secret halved with thee. 
 The name that is love's name to me 
 Tho\i knowest, and the face of her 
 Who is my festival to see. 
 
 The hard sun, as thy petals knew, 
 Colored the heavy moss-water : 
 Thou wert not worth green midsummer 
 Nor fit to live to August blue, 
 O sundew, not remembering her. 
 
 OU VONT LES VTEILLES LTJNES7 
 
 CouLDST thou not watch with me one hour? 
 
 Behold 
 Dawn skims the sea with flying feet of gold. 
 With sudden feet that graze the gradual sea, 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 Wliat, not one hour ? For star by star the night 
 Falls, and her thousands world by world take 
 
 flight, • 
 They die, and day survives, and what of thee ? 
 Coiddst thou not watch witli me ? 
 
 Last year, a brief while since, an age ago, 
 A whole year past, with bud and bloom and snow, 
 O moon that wast in heaven, what friends were we ! 
 Couldst thou not watch with me ? 
 
 As a new moon above spent stars thou wast. 
 But stars endure after the moon is past ; 
 Lie still, sleep on, be glad as such things be. 
 Thou couldst not watch with me. 
 
 KISSING HER HAIB. . 
 
 Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet: 
 Wove and unwove it, — wound, and found it 
 
 sweet ; 
 Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her 
 
 eyes. 
 Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies ; 
 With her own tresses bouud, and found her fair, — 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — 
 Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea : 
 
 -g> 
 
cfi- 
 
 9GG 
 
 SWINBUKNE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 What pain could get between my face aud hers? 
 What new sweet thing would Love not relish 
 
 worse ? 
 Unless, perhaps, wliite death had kissed me 
 there, — 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS. 
 
 Befoee the beginning of years 
 
 There came to the making of man 
 Time, with a gift of tears ; 
 
 Grief, with a glass that ran; 
 Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 
 
 Summer, witii (lowers tiiat fell ; 
 Remembrance fallen from heaven, 
 
 And madness risen from hell ; 
 Strength without hands to smite ; 
 
 Love that endures for a bi'eath ; 
 Night, the siiadow of light. 
 
 And life, the shadow of death. 
 
 And the high gods took in hand 
 
 Fire, aud the falling of tears. 
 And a measure of sliding sand 
 
 From under the feet of the years ; 
 And froth and drift of the sea ; 
 
 And dust of the laboring earth ; 
 And bodies of things to be 
 
 In the houses of death aud of birtU ; 
 
 And wrought with weeping and laugiiter. 
 
 And fashioned with loathing and love, 
 With life before and after 
 
 And death beueatli and above, 
 For a day and a night and a morrow, 
 
 Tiuit his strength might endure for a sjian 
 With travail and heavy sorrow, 
 
 The holy spirit of man. 
 
 From tiie winds of the nortli and the soutli 
 
 They gathered as unto strife ; 
 Tiiey Ijrcathed upon his mouth. 
 
 They filled his body with life ; 
 Eyesight and speech they wrought 
 
 For the veils of the soul therein, 
 A time for labor and thought, 
 
 A time to serve and to sin ; 
 They gave him light in his ways. 
 
 And love, and a space for delight, 
 Aud beauty and length of days, 
 
 Aud night, and sleep in the night. 
 His speech is a burning fire ; 
 
 With his lips he travaileth ; 
 Li liis heart is a blind desire. 
 
 In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
 He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 
 
 Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
 His life is a watch or a vision 
 
 Between a sleep and a sleep. 
 
 Atttlania in Cali/don. 
 
 L- 
 
 --^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 ■Q> 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 BRITISH BALLADS, 
 
 THOMAS THE EHYMEK. 
 
 True Thomas lay on Huntlie Bank ; 
 
 A ferlie he spied wi' his ee; 
 And there he saw a ladye bright, 
 
 Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. 
 
 Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
 
 Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ; 
 At ilka tett of her horse's mane, 
 
 Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 
 
 True Thomas, he pulled aff his cap, 
 And louted low down to his knee : 
 
 " All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 
 For thy peer on earth I never did see." 
 
 " no, no, Thomas," she said, 
 " That name does not bclang to me ; 
 
 I am but the Queen of fair Elfland, 
 That am hither come to visit thee. 
 
 " IJarp and carp, Thomas," she said ; 
 
 " Harp and carp along wi' me ; 
 And if ye dare to kiss my lips. 
 
 Sure of your bodie I will be." 
 
 " Betide me weal, betide me woe. 
 That weird shall never daunton me." 
 
 Syne he has kissed her rosy lips. 
 All underneath the Eildon Tree. 
 
 " Now, ye maun go wr me," she said ; 
 
 " True Thomas, ye raauu go wi' me ; 
 And ye maun serve me seven years, 
 
 Through weal or woe as may chance to be.' 
 
 She mounted on her milk-white steed ; 
 She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind : 
 
 And aye, whene'er her bridle rang, 
 The st*ed flew swifter than the wind. 
 
 they rade on, and farther on ; 
 
 The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 
 Until they reached a desert wide. 
 
 And Kving land was left behind. 
 
 " Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, 
 And lean your head upon my knee ; 
 
 Aljide and rest a little space. 
 
 And I wiU shew you fcrlies three. 
 
 " see ye not yon narrow road, 
 So thick beset with thorns aud briers ? 
 
 That is the path of righteousness. 
 Though after it but few enquires. 
 
 " And see ye not that braid braid road, 
 
 That lies across that lily leven? 
 That is the path of wickedness, 
 
 Though some call it the road to heaven. 
 
 " And see not ye that bonny i-oad, 
 Tiiat winds about the fernie brae ? 
 
 That is the road to fair Elfland, 
 
 Where thou and I this night maun gae. 
 
 " But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue. 
 
 Whatever yc may hear or sec ; 
 For, if you speak word in Elfyn land. 
 
 Ye '11 ne'er get back to your ain countrie." 
 
 O they rade on, and farther on, 
 
 And they waded through riversaboon the knee, 
 And they saw neither sun nor moon. 
 
 But they heard the roaring of the sea. 
 
 fr 
 
 * We have taken oiu- selectious from the admirable edition, in eight volumes, of English and Scottish 
 Ballads, edited by Francis J. Child. Professor Child also edited the American reprint of the Aldine edition 
 of The British Poets. In everything that relates to the sources of English and Scottish poetry his mere 
 opinion is ail authority. He is undoubtedly the profoundest American student of Chaucer, and is so recog- 
 nized in England. ."Vmong the English scholars who have made Chaucer a special study, with all the means 
 at hand to compile a pure text of their favorite poet, he may be equalled, but hardly surpassed, either in 
 rudition or sagacity. His edition of Spenser is the best in existence. 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 968 
 
 BARBAKA ALLEN'S CRUELTY. — LORD LOVEL. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 It was mirk luirk night, and there was nae stern 
 light, 
 
 And they waded through red blude to the knee; 
 For a' the blude that 's shed on earth 
 
 Rins through the springs o' that countrie. 
 
 Syne they came on to a garden green. 
 And she pu'd au apple frae a tree, — 
 
 " Take this for thy wages, true Thomas ; 
 It will give thee the tongue that can never 
 lie." 
 
 " My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said ; 
 
 " A gudely gift ye wad gie to me 1 * 
 I neither dought to buy nor sell, 
 
 xVt fair or tryst where I may be. 
 
 " I dought neither speak to prince or peer. 
 Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." 
 
 " Now hold thy peace ! " the lady said, 
 " For as I say, so must it be." 
 
 He has gotten a coat of the even cloth. 
 And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 
 
 And till seven years were gane and past. 
 True Thomas on earth was never seen. 
 
 BABBABA ALLEN'S CEUELTT. 
 
 In Scarlet towne, where I was borne. 
 There was a fairc maid dwelUn, 
 
 Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye ! 
 Her name was Barbara Alien. 
 
 All in the merrye month of May, 
 Wlicn greene buds they were swellin, 
 
 Yong Jemmye Grove on liis death-bed lay. 
 For love of Barbara Allen. 
 
 lie sent his man unto her then, 
 To the towne where shee was dwelliii ; 
 
 " You must come to my master deare, 
 Giff your name be Barbara Allen. 
 
 " For death is printed on his face, 
 
 And ore his liart is stealin : 
 Then haste away to comfort him, 
 
 lovelye Barbara AUen." 
 
 " Though death be printed on his face. 
 
 And ore his hartc is stealin, 
 Yet little better shall he bee 
 
 For bonny Barbara Allen." 
 
 So slowly, slowly, she came up, 
 And slowly she came nye liim ; 
 
 • " The tradiiionni commcntitry upon (his bnllnd infornia us, 
 that the apple was the produce of tl)c fatal Tree of Knowl- 
 edge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradi'.e. The 
 repugnance of Thomas to he debarred the use of falsehood, 
 when he might find it convenient, has a roniie efTeet." — Sir 
 Waltkr Scott, 
 
 And all she sayd, when there she came, 
 " Yong man, I think y' arc dying." 
 
 He turned his face unto her strait. 
 With dcadlye sorrow sighing ; 
 
 " O lovely maid, come pity mee, 
 I 'me on my death-bed lying." 
 
 " If on your death-bed you doe lye. 
 
 What needs the tale you are telUn ? 
 I cannot keep you from your death ; 
 
 Farewell," sayd Barbara Allen. 
 
 He tumd his face unto the wall. 
 As deadlye pangs he fell in : 
 
 " Adieu ! adieu ! adieu to you all. 
 Adieu to Barbara Allen ! " 
 
 As she was walking ore the fields. 
 She heard the bell a knellin ; 
 
 And every stroke did seem to saye, 
 " Unworthye Barbara Allen ! " 
 
 She tumd her bodye round about. 
 And spied the corps a coming : 
 
 "Laye down, laye down the corps," she 
 " That I may look upon him." 
 
 With scornful eye she looked dowue, 
 Her cheeke with laughter swellin, 
 
 Whilst all her friends eryd out amaine, 
 " Unworthye Barbara Allen ! " 
 
 When he was dead, and laid in grave, 
 Her harte was struck with sorrowe ; 
 
 " mother, mother, make my bed, 
 For I shall dye to-morrowe. 
 
 " Hard-harted creature him to slight. 
 
 Who loved me so dearlye : 
 that I had beene more kind to him. 
 
 When he was alive and ncare mc ! " 
 
 She, on her death-bed as site laye, 
 
 Beg'd to be buried by him, 
 And sore repented of tiic daye, 
 
 That she did ere deuye him. 
 
 " Farewell," she sayd, " ye virgins all. 
 And shun the fault I fell in : 
 
 Hencefortli take warning l)y the fall 
 Of cruel Barbara Allen."' 
 
 LOBD LOVEL, 
 
 Lord Lovei, stands at liis stable door, 
 Mounted upon a gray steed ; 
 
 And bye came Ladio Nanciebel, 
 
 And wished Lord Lovel nnioli speed. 
 
 " O whare are ye going, Lord Lovel, 
 Mv dearest tell to iiir ? " 
 
 sayd. 
 
 ^ 
 
FAIR HELEN OF KIECONNELL. 
 
 969 
 
 -Q) 
 
 "0 I am going a far journey, 
 Some strange countrie to see ; 
 
 " But I '11 return in seven long years, 
 
 Lady Nanciebel to see." 
 "0 seven, seven, seven long years, 
 
 They are much too long for me." 
 * * * 
 
 He was gane a year away, 
 
 A year but barely ane, 
 Wbeu a strange fancy cam into liis head. 
 
 That fair Nanciebel was gane. 
 
 It 's then he radc, and better rade. 
 
 Until he cam to the toun. 
 And then he heard a dismal noise. 
 
 For the church bells a' did soun'. 
 
 He asked what the bells rang for ; 
 
 Tliey said, " It 's for Nanciebel ; 
 Slie died for a discourteous squire, 
 
 And his name is Lord Lovel." 
 
 The Ud o' tiie coffin he opened up. 
 
 The linens he fauldcd doun ; 
 And ay lie kissed her jiale, pale lips. 
 
 And the tears cam trinkliug doun. 
 
 " Weill may I kiss those pale, pale lips, 
 For they will never kiss me ; — 
 
 I '11 mak a vow, and keep it true. 
 That they '11 ne'er kiss ane but thee." 
 
 Lady Nancic died on Tuesday's nicht. 
 Lord Lovel upon the niest day ; 
 
 Lady Nancie died for pure, pure love. 
 Lord Lovel, for deep sorray. 
 
 FAIR HELEN OF KIECONNELL.* 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 SWEETEST sweet, and laircst fair, 
 . Of birth and worth beyond compare. 
 Thou art tlie ca\iser of my care. 
 Since first I loved thee. 
 
 * "Tli6 foUnwing very popular ballad has been handed 
 di)wn liy tj-adition in its present imperfect state. The affect- 
 ing incident on which it is founded is well known. A lady of 
 the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the 
 two clans), daugliter of tlie Lairil of Kirconnell, in Dumfries- 
 shire, and celelirnted for her beauty, was beloved by two 
 gentlemen in the neigliljorliood. The name of the favored 
 suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; tliat of the other 
 has escaped tradition: though it has been alleged that he was 
 a Bell, of lilacket House. The addresses of the latter were, 
 however, favored by the friends of the lady, and the lovers 
 were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the 
 churchy.".rd of Rircoimell, a romantic spot almost surrounded 
 by the river Kirtle. Bnringoneof tliese private interviews the 
 jealous and despised lo\ er suddenly appeared on the opposite 
 bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of 
 bis rival. Helen threw herself before lier lover, received in 
 
 Yet God hath given to me a mind. 
 The which to thee shall prove as kind 
 As any one tliat thou slialt find. 
 Of high or low degree. 
 
 The shallowest water makes maist din, 
 The deadest pool the deepest linn ; 
 The richest man least truth withm. 
 Though he preferred be. 
 
 Yet nevertheless, I am content. 
 And never a whit my love repent. 
 But think the time was a' weel spent, 
 Though I disdained be. 
 
 Helen sweet and maist complete. 
 My captive spirit 's at thy feet ! 
 Thinks thou still fit thus for to treat 
 Thy captive cruelly ? 
 
 Helen brave, but tliis I crave, 
 Of thy poor slave some pity have. 
 And do him save that 's near his grave. 
 
 And dies for love of thee. 
 
 PART SECOMD. 
 
 1 wish I were where Helen lies, 
 Night and day on me she erics ; 
 that I were where Helen lies, 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee ! 
 
 Curst be tlie heart tliat thought the thought, 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot. 
 When ill my arms burd Helen drojit. 
 And died to succor mc ! 
 
 think na ye my heart was sair, 
 
 When my love dro))t down and spak nae mair ! 
 There did she swoon wi' meikle care. 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee ! 
 
 As I went down the water side, 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee ; 
 
 1 lighted down my sword to draw, . 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
 her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and 
 mortal combat ensued lietween Fleming and the murderer, in 
 which the latter was cut to pieces. Otlier accounts say that 
 Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the 
 streets of Madrid. 
 
 " The ballad as now published consists of two parts. The first 
 seems to be an address, either by Fleming or his rival, to the 
 lady; if, indeed, it constituted any portion of the original 
 poem. For the editor cannot help suspecting that these verses 
 liave been the production of a different and.inferior bard, and 
 only adapted to the original measure and tune. But this sus- 
 picion being unwarranted by any copy he has been alilc to 
 procure, he docs not venture to do more than intimate his own 
 opinion. The second part, by far the most beautiful, and 
 which is unquestionably original, forms the lament of Fleming 
 over the grave of fair Helen." — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfi- 
 
 970 
 
 THE TWA CORBIES. — SIR PATRICK SPENS. 
 
 -ft> 
 
 ^ 
 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 Por lier sake that died for me. 
 
 Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
 
 1 '11 make a garland of thy hair, 
 Shall bind my heart forever mair, 
 
 Until the day I die. 
 
 that I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise. 
 Says, " Haste and come to me ! " 
 
 Helen fair! O Helen chaste ! 
 If I were with thee, I were blest. 
 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 
 
 On fair KireonneU Lee. 
 
 1 wish my grave were growing green, 
 A winding-sheet drawn ower my eeu. 
 And I in Helen's arms lying. 
 
 On fair Kireonnell Lee. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me slie cries ; 
 And I am weary of the skies. 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 THE TWA COEBIES.* 
 
 As I was walking all alane, 
 
 1 heard twa corbies making a mane ; 
 
 The tanc unto the t' other say, 
 
 " Where sail we gang and dine to-day ? " 
 
 " In behint yon anld fail dyke, 
 1 wot there lies a new-slain knight ; 
 And nacbody kens that he lies there, 
 But his liawk, his hound, and lady fair. 
 
 " His hound is to the hunting gane. 
 His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame. 
 His lady 's ta'en another mate. 
 So wc" may mak our dinner sweet. 
 
 " Ye '11 sit on his white hanse-bane. 
 And I '11 pick out his bonny blue een : 
 Wi' ae lock o' his gowden iiair 
 We '11 theek our nest when it grows bare. 
 
 " Mony a one tor him makes mane. 
 But nane sail ken where he is gano : 
 O'er his white banes, when they are bare, 
 The wind sail blaw forever mair." 
 
 " From MinstreUy of Ihr Senltiih Sorttgr, It Wfls coninui- 
 iiicnted to Scott I)y Mr. Slinrpi*, as written down, from tra- 
 dition, Ijy u lady. 
 
 Sm PATRICK SPENS.* 
 
 TuE king sits in Dunfcnnlinc town. 
 
 Drinking the blude-red wine : 
 " wliare will I get a .skeely skipper 
 
 To sad this new ship of mine ? " 
 
 up and spake an eldern knight. 
 
 Sat at the king's right knee : 
 " Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
 
 That ever sailed the sea." 
 
 Our king has written a braid letter. 
 
 And sealed it witli his hand, 
 Ami sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
 
 Was walking on the strand. 
 
 " To Noroway, to Noroway, 
 
 To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
 The king's daughter of Noroway, 
 
 'T is thou maun bring her liame ! " 
 
 The first word that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 Sae loud loud laughed he ; 
 The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 The tear bhndit his e'e. 
 
 " wha is this has done this deed. 
 
 And tauld the king o' me, 
 To send us out at this time of the year. 
 
 To sail upon the sea ? 
 
 " Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 
 
 Our ship must sail the faem ; 
 The king's daughter of Noroway, 
 
 'T is we must fetch her hame." 
 
 They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn 
 
 Wi' a' the speed tlicy may ; 
 They hae landed in Noroway 
 
 U])on a Wodensday. 
 
 They hadna been a week, a week, 
 
 In Noroway, but twae. 
 When that the lords o' Noroway 
 
 Began aloud to say : 
 
 "Ye Scottishmen s])end a' our king's goud, 
 
 And a' our quecnis fee." 
 " Ye lie, ye lie, yc liars loud ! 
 
 Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 
 
 "For I brought as much white luoiiie 
 
 As gane my men and me, — 
 And I brought a half-loti o' gudc red goud 
 
 Out o'er the sea wi' me. 
 
 " Make ready, make ready, my iticrrymen a' ! 
 Our gude ship sails the morn." 
 
 • In siii'.'inp. ttir interjrrlinn O is :iddi*d to tlip ritoihI find 
 fmirlli liii.'s. 
 
 ->-& 
 
cS- 
 
 WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY 
 
 971 
 
 -a 
 
 " Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 
 I fear a deadly storm ! 
 
 " I saw the new moon, late yesti'een, 
 
 Vi"i' tlio auld moon in her arm ; 
 And if we gang to sea, master, 
 
 I fear we '11 come to harm." 
 
 They hadua sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league, but barely three. 
 When tiie lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud. 
 
 And gurly grew the sea. 
 
 The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap. 
 
 It was sic a deadly storm ; 
 And the waves came o'er the broken ship. 
 
 Till a' her sides were torn. 
 
 " O where will I get a gude sailor, 
 
 To take my helm in liand. 
 Till I get up to tlie tall topmast. 
 
 To see if I can spy land Y " 
 
 " O here am I, a sailor gude, 
 
 To take tlie holm in hand, 
 Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 
 
 But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 
 
 He hadna gane a step, a step, 
 
 A step, b\it barely ane, 
 When a bout flew out of our goodly ship. 
 
 And the salt sea it came in. 
 
 " Gae fetcli a web o' the silken claith, 
 
 Anotlier o' the twine. 
 And wa]> them into our ship's side, 
 
 Aud letiia tlie sea come in." 
 
 They fctclied a web o' tlie silken claith, 
 
 Another o' the twine, 
 And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's 
 side. 
 
 But still the sea came iu. 
 
 laitli laith were our gude Scots lords 
 
 To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 
 But lang or a' tlie play was played. 
 
 They wat their hats aboou. 
 
 And mony was the feather-bed 
 
 That flattered on the faem ; 
 Aud mony was the gude lord's son 
 
 That never mair cam hame. 
 
 The ladyes wrang their fingers white. 
 
 The maidens tore their hair; 
 A' for the sake of their true loves, 
 
 Por them they '11 see nae mair. 
 
 fr 
 
 lang lang may the ladyes sit, 
 Wi' their fans into their hand. 
 
 Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
 Come sailing to the strand ! 
 
 And lang lang may the maidens sit, 
 Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, 
 
 A' waiting for their ain dear loves. 
 For them they '11 see nae mair. 
 
 forty miles off Aberdeen 
 
 'T is fifty fathoms deep, 
 And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 
 
 Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. - 
 
 WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.* 
 
 WALV, waly np the bank, 
 
 And waly, waly down the, brae, 
 And waly, waly yon burn side. 
 Where I aud my love wont to gae. 
 
 1 leaned my back unto an aik, 
 
 I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
 But first it bowed, and syne it brak, 
 Sae my true love did lightly me ! 
 
 O waly, waly, but love be bonny, 
 
 A little time while it is new ; 
 But when 't is auld, it waxeth caukl. 
 
 And fades away like the morning dew. 
 
 wherefore should I busk my liead ? 
 
 Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 
 For my true love has me forsook. 
 
 And says he 'U never love me mair. 
 
 Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed. 
 The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me : 
 
 Saint Anton's well shall be my drink. 
 Since my true love has forsaken me. 
 
 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
 And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 
 
 gentle death, wlien wilt thou come ? 
 For of my life I 'm weary. 
 
 'T is not the frost that freezes fell, 
 Nor blawing snaw's ineleiiieucy ; 
 
 'T is not sic eauld that makes me cry, 
 But my love's heart grown eauld to me. 
 
 * " These beautiful verses ave tliouglit to lie only a pavt of 
 lonl Jamie Doui/his, in one copy or another of which, accord- 
 ing to Motherwell, nearly all of Iheni are to lie found. They 
 were first published in tlie Tm-TuUe MisceUmiy, and are liere 
 given as tliey there appear, separate from an explicit story. 
 .\lthougli in this condition they must be looked upon as a frag- 
 ment, still they are too nwliM-ardly introduced ill the liallad 
 above mentioned, and too superior to the rest of the compo- 
 sition, to allow of our believing that tliey have as yet found 
 their proper connection." — F. J. Child. 
 
 ^ 
 
(fr-*- 
 
 972 
 
 THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 fr 
 
 When we came in by Glasgow towu. 
 We were a comely sight to see ; 
 
 My love was clad in the black velvet, 
 And I my sell in cramasie. 
 
 But had I wist, before I kissed. 
 That love had been sae iU to win, 
 
 I 'd locked my hcitrt in a case of gold. 
 And pinned it with a silver pin. 
 
 Oh, oh, if my young babe were born. 
 And set upon the nurse's knee. 
 
 And I my sell were dead and gane ! 
 Tor a maid a!rain I '11 never be. 
 
 LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT, 
 
 Balow, my babe, lye still and sleipe ! 
 It grieves me sair to see thee weipe : 
 If thoust be silent, Ise be glad, 
 Thy mainiug maks my heart ful sad. 
 Balow, my boy, thy mothers joy. 
 Thy fat her breidcs me great annoy. 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
 It grieves me sair to see thee weepe. 
 
 Whan he began to court my luve, ' 
 And with his sugred wordcs to muve. 
 His faynings fals and flattering cbeire 
 To me that time did not appoire : 
 But now I see, most crueU bee 
 Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 
 Balow, etc. 
 
 Lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, 
 And when thou wakest, sweitly smile : 
 B\it smile not, as thy father did. 
 To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
 But yett I feire, thou wUt gae neire 
 Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 
 Balow, etc. 
 
 I cannae chuse, but ever will 
 Be luving to thy father still : 
 Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde. 
 My luve with him doth still abyde : 
 In well or wae, whaireir he gae, 
 Mine liart can neire depart him frae. 
 Balow, etc. 
 
 But doe not, doe not, pretty mine. 
 To faynings fals thine hart incline ; 
 Be loyal to thy luvcr trcw. 
 And ucvir change her for a new : 
 If gudc or faire, of hir have care. 
 For womens banning 's wouderous sair. 
 Balow, etc. 
 
 Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, 
 Thy winsome smiles maun cise my paino; 
 
 My babe and T '11 together live. 
 He '11 comfort me when cares doe grieve: 
 My babe and I right saft will ly, 
 And quite forgeit man's cruelty. 
 Balow, etc. 
 
 Farewill, farewill, thou falsest youth. 
 That evir kist a woman's mouth I 
 I wish all maides be warned by mee 
 Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
 For-if we doe bot chance to bow. 
 They '11 use ns then they care not how. 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
 It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 
 
 THE CHILDEEN IN THE WOOD.* 
 
 Now ponder well, you parents deare. 
 
 These wordes which I shall write ; 
 A dolel'id story you shall heare, 
 
 In time brought forth to light. 
 A gentleman of good account 
 
 In Norfolke dwelt of late, 
 Who did in honor far surmount 
 
 Most men of his estate. 
 
 Sore sicke he was, and like to dye. 
 
 No helpe his life could save ; 
 His wife by him as sicke did lye, 
 
 And both possest one grave. 
 No love between these two was lost. 
 
 Each was to other kinde ; 
 In love they Uved, in love they dyed, 
 
 Aud left two babes behinde : 
 
 The one a fine and pretty boy, 
 
 Not passing three yeares olde ; 
 The otbcr a girl more young than he, 
 
 And trained in beautycs molde. 
 The father left liis little sou, 
 
 As plainlye doth appcare. 
 When he to ))erfcct age should come, 
 
 Three hundred pouudes a yeare. 
 
 And to his little daughter Jane 
 Five hundred pouudes in gold. 
 
 To be iKiid dowue on marriage-day. 
 Which might not be controlled : 
 
 But if the cliildreu eliauce to dye, 
 Ere they to age should come, 
 
 • " The Chihiven in the Wood is perliaps the most popular of 
 all Enfilisli liallads. Its merit is ntteslcd by the favor it has 
 cnjoyeil witli so many generations, ami was vindicated to a 
 cold and artilicial age liy the kmdly pen of Addison. The 
 editor of the Ifeli/jues tliouglit tliat tlie subject was taken from 
 an old play, p\iblished in IdOl. "of a young child murtbered 
 in a wood by two runins, with the consent of his unkle," but 
 Ilitson discovered tllat the ballad wa.s entered in the Slation- 
 ers' Registers in \»^'t. The plot of the play was undoulilitlly 
 derived from the Italian, and the author of the ballad may 
 have taken a hint from the same source." — F. J. Child. 
 
 -P 
 
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 
 
 973 
 
 -fl) 
 
 h 
 
 Their uncle should possesse their wealth; 
 For so the wille did ruu. 
 
 " Now, brother," said the dying man, 
 
 " Look to my children deare ; 
 Be good unto my boy and girl, 
 
 No friendes else have they here : 
 To God and you I recommend 
 
 My children deare this daye ; 
 But little while be sure we have 
 
 Witliin this world to staye. 
 
 " You must be father and mother both. 
 
 And uncle all in one ; 
 C4od kuowes what will become of them, 
 
 When I am dead and goue." 
 With that bespake their mother deare, 
 
 " O brother kiude," quoth shce, 
 " You are the man must bring our babes 
 
 To wealth or miserie : 
 
 " And if you keep tliem carefully. 
 
 Then God will you reward ; 
 But if you otlierwise should deal, 
 
 God will your dccdes regard." 
 Witli lippes as cold as any stone, 
 
 Tiiey kist their children small : 
 "God bless you both, my children deare"; 
 
 With tbat tl\e teares did fall. 
 
 These speeches then their brother spake 
 
 To this sieke couple there -. 
 " The keeping of your little ones. 
 
 Sweet sister, do not feare. ' 
 God never prosper me nor mine. 
 
 Nor aught else tliat I have. 
 If I do wrong your children deare. 
 
 When you are layd in grave." 
 
 Tlie parents being dead and gone. 
 
 The children home he takes. 
 And bringes them sti-aite unto his house. 
 
 Where much of them he makes. 
 He had not kept tiiese pretty babes 
 
 A twelvemonth and a daye, 
 But, for their wealth, he did devise 
 
 To make them both awaye. 
 
 He bargained with two ruffians strong, 
 
 Which were of furious mood, 
 That they should take these children young 
 
 And slaye them in a wood. 
 He told his wife an artful tale. 
 
 He would the cliildren send 
 To be brought up in fiiire London, 
 
 With one that was his friend. 
 
 Away then went those pretty babes, 
 Rejoycing at tluit tide. 
 
 Rejoycing with a merry niinde, 
 
 Tiiey should on cock-horse ride. 
 They prate and prattle pleasantly. 
 
 As they rode on the waye. 
 To those that should their butchers be, 
 
 Aud work their lives decaye : 
 
 So that tlie pretty speeche they had, 
 
 Made Murder's heart relent: 
 And they that undertooke the deed. 
 
 Full sore did now repent. 
 Yet one of them more hard of lieart. 
 
 Did vowe to do his charge. 
 Because the wretch, that hired him. 
 
 Had paid him very large. 
 
 The other won't agree thereto, 
 
 So here they fall to strife ; 
 With one another tiiey did fight. 
 
 About the childrens life : 
 And he that was of mildest mood. 
 
 Did slaye the other there. 
 Within an unfrequented wood ; 
 
 The babes did quake for feare ! 
 
 He took the children by the hand, 
 
 Teares standing in their eye. 
 And bad them straitwaye follow him, 
 
 And look tiiey did not crye : 
 And two long miles he ledd fliein on, 
 
 Wliile tiiey for food oomplaine : 
 " Staye here," quotli he, " I '11 bring you bread, 
 
 When I come back agaiue." 
 
 These pretty babes, with liand in hand. 
 
 Went wandering up and dowue ; 
 But never more could see the man 
 
 Approaching from the towne : 
 Their prettye lippes with blackberries 
 
 Were all besmeared and dyed, 
 And wlien they sawe the darksome night. 
 
 They sat them downe and cryed. 
 
 Thus wandered these poor innocents. 
 
 Till deathe did end their grief. 
 In one anothers amies they died, 
 
 As wanting due relief: 
 No burial tliis pretty pair 
 
 Of any man receives. 
 Till Robin-rcd-l)rcast piously 
 
 Did cover tliem witli leaves. 
 
 And now the heavy wTatlie of God 
 
 Upon their uncle fell ; 
 Yea, fearfiiU fiends did haunt his house. 
 
 His eouscicnce felt an hell ; 
 His barnes were fired, his goodes consumed, 
 
 His landcs were barren made, 
 His cattle dyed witliin the field, 
 
 And nothing with him stayd. 
 
 -g> 
 
e 
 
 974 
 
 CHEVY-CHACE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 And ill the voyage of Portugal 
 
 Two of bis sonnes did dye ; 
 And to conclude, himselfc was brought 
 
 To want and miserye : 
 He pawned and mortgaged all liis land 
 
 Ere seven years came about. 
 And now at lengtli this w-ickcd act 
 
 Did l)y this meaues come out : 
 
 The fellowe, that did take in hand 
 
 Tiiese children for to kill, 
 Was for a robbery judged to dye. 
 
 Such was God's blessed will : 
 Who did confess the very truth. 
 
 As here hath been displayed : 
 Their uncle having dyed in gaol, 
 
 Wliere he for debt was layd. 
 
 You that executors be made. 
 
 And overseers eke 
 Of children that be fatherless. 
 
 And infants mild and meek ; 
 Take youexample by this thing. 
 
 And yield to each liis right. 
 Lest God with such like miserye 
 
 Your wicked minds requite. 
 
 CHEVY-CHACE. 
 
 God prosper long our noble king. 
 
 Our lives and safeties all ; 
 A woful hunting once there did 
 
 In Chevy-Chace befall. 
 
 To drive the deer with iiouiid and horn, 
 
 Erie Pierey took his way ; 
 The ciiild may rue tliat is unbom, 
 
 The hunting of that day. 
 
 The stout Earl of Northumberland 
 
 A vow to God did make. 
 His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
 
 Three summer's days to take; 
 
 Tlio chicfest harts in Chevy-Chace 
 
 To kill and bear away : 
 The tidings to Earl Douglas came. 
 
 In Scotland where he lay. 
 
 W\\o sent Earl Pierey present word. 
 He would prevent iiis sport ; 
 
 The English earl not fearing this. 
 Did to the woods resort, 
 
 With fifteen hundred bowmen bold 
 
 All chosen men of might. 
 Who knew full well in time of need 
 
 To aim their shafts aright, 
 
 The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 
 
 To cliasc the fallow deer; 
 On Monday they began to hunt. 
 
 When daylight did appear. 
 
 And long before high noon they had 
 
 An hundred fat bucks slain ; 
 Then having dined, tiie drovers went 
 
 To rouze them up again. 
 
 The bowmen mustered cm the hills. 
 
 Well able to endure ; 
 Tiieir backsides aH, with special care, 
 
 That day were guarded sure. 
 
 The hounds ran swiftly througli the woods. 
 
 The nimble deer to take, 
 And with their cries the hills and dales 
 
 An ecelio shrill did make. 
 
 Lord Pierey to the quarry went. 
 
 To view the tender deere ; 
 Quoth be, " Earl Douglas promised 
 
 This day to meet me heer. 
 
 " If that I thought he would not come. 
 
 No longer would I stay." 
 With that, a brave young gentleman 
 
 Thus to the Earl did say : 
 
 " Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come. 
 
 His men in armor bright ; 
 Eull twenty hundred Scottish spears. 
 
 All mareJiing in our sigiit. 
 
 " All men of jileasant Tividale, 
 
 East by the river Tweed " : 
 "Then cease your sport," Erie Pierey said, 
 
 "And take your bows with speed. 
 
 " And now with me, my countrymen. 
 
 Your courage forth advance ; 
 For tliere was never champion yet 
 
 In Scotland or in France, 
 
 " Tliat ever did on horseback come, 
 
 But, if my iiap it were, 
 I durst encounter man for man, 
 • ^\'ith him to break a spear." 
 
 Earl Douglas on bis milk-white steed. 
 
 Most like a baron bold. 
 Rode foremost of tlie company, 
 
 Wliose armor shone like gold. 
 
 " Show me," he said, " whose men you lie. 
 
 That hunt so boldly here. 
 That, witliout my consent, do chase 
 
 And kill mv fallow-deer." 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 CHEVY-CHACE. 
 
 975 
 
 -Q) 
 
 The man that first did answer make 
 
 Was noble Pieroy he ; 
 Who said, " We Hst not to declare, 
 
 Nor show whose men we be. 
 
 " Yet we will spend our dearest blood. 
 Thy chicfest hart to slay " ; 
 
 Tlien Douglas swore a solenni oath, 
 And thus in rage did say : 
 
 "Ere thus I will out-braved be. 
 
 One of us two shall dye : 
 I know thee well, an earl thou art ; 
 
 Lord Piercy, so am I. 
 
 " But trust me, Piercy, pity it were. 
 
 And great ofTcnce, to kill 
 Any of these our harmless men, 
 
 Eor tliey have done no ill. 
 
 " Let thou and I the battel try. 
 
 And set our men aside : " 
 " Accursed be he," Lord Piercy said, 
 
 " By whom this is denyed." 
 
 Then stept a gallant squire forth 
 (Witheriugton was his name). 
 
 Who said, " I would not have it told 
 To Henry our king for shame, 
 
 " That ere my capfaine fought on foot. 
 
 And I stood looking on : 
 You be two earls," said Witheriugton, 
 
 " And I a squire alone. 
 
 " I '11 do the best that do I may. 
 While I have power to stand ; 
 
 While I have power to wield my sword, 
 I '11 fight with heart and hand." 
 
 Our English archers bent their bows. 
 Their hearts were good and true ; 
 
 At the first flight of arrows sent. 
 Full threescore Scots they slew. 
 
 To drive the deer with hound and horn, 
 
 Earl Douglas had the bent ; 
 A captain moved with micklc pride 
 
 The spears to shivers sent. 
 
 They closed full fast on every side. 
 No slacknes there was found; 
 
 And many a gallant gentleman 
 Lay gasping on the ground. 
 
 O Christ ! it was a grief to see. 
 
 And likewise for to hear. 
 The cries of men lying in their gore. 
 
 And scattered here and there. 
 
 At last these two stout earls did meet. 
 Like captains of great might ; 
 
 Like hons moved they laid on load. 
 And made a cruel fight. 
 
 They fought until they both did sweat, 
 With swords of tempered steel ; 
 
 Uutil the blood, like drojis of rain. 
 They trickling down did feel. 
 
 "Yield thee. Lord Piercy," Douglas said; 
 
 " In faith I will thee bring. 
 Where thou shalt high advanced be 
 
 By James, our Scottish king. 
 
 " Thy ransom I will freely give. 
 
 And thus report of thee. 
 Thou art the most couragious knight 
 
 That ever I did see." 
 
 "No, Douglas," quoth Earl Piercy then, 
 
 " Thy proffer I do scorn ; 
 I will not yield to any Scot 
 
 That ever yet was born." 
 
 With that, there came an arrow keen 
 
 Out of an English bow, 
 Wliieh struck Earl Douglas to the heart, 
 
 A deep and deadly blow ; 
 
 Who never spoke more words than these, 
 "Eight on, my merry men all; 
 
 For why, my life is at an end. 
 Lord Piercy sees my fall," 
 
 Then leaving life. Earl Piercy took 
 
 The dead man by the hand ; 
 And said, " Earl Douglas, for thy life 
 
 Would I had lost my land I 
 
 " O Christ ! my very heart doth bleed 
 
 With sorrow for thy sake; 
 For sure, a more renowndd knight 
 
 Mischance did never take." 
 
 A knight amongst tlie Scots there was. 
 Which saw Earl Douglas dye. 
 
 Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 
 Upon the Earl Piercy. 
 
 Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, 
 Wlio, with a spear most bright. 
 
 Well-mounted on a gallant steed, 
 Ran fiercely through the fight ; 
 
 And passed the English archers all. 
 
 Without all dread or fear. 
 And through Earl Piercy's body then 
 
 He thrust his hateful spear. 
 
 -* 
 
cfi- 
 
 97G 
 
 CHEVY-CHACE. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 With such a vehement force and might 
 
 He did liis body gore, 
 The spear ran tlirough the other side 
 
 A large cloth-yard, and more. 
 
 So thus did both tiiese nobles dye, 
 Whose courage none could stain ; 
 
 An English archer then perceived 
 The noble earl was slain. 
 
 He had a bow bent in his hand. 
 
 Made of a trusty tree ; 
 An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
 
 Up to the head drew he. 
 
 Against Sir Hugh Montgomery 
 
 So right his shaft he set. 
 The gray goose-wing that was thereon 
 
 In his heart's blood was wet. 
 
 This fight did last from break of day 
 
 Till setting of the sun ; 
 Por wlicn they rung the evening bell, 
 
 The battel scarce was done. 
 
 With the Earl Piercy, there was slain 
 
 Sir Jolin of Ogerton, 
 Sir Koliert Ratcliif, and Sir John, 
 
 Sir James, that bold baron. 
 
 And with Sir George and good Sir James, 
 Both l:niglits of good account. 
 
 Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slain. 
 Whose prowess did surmount. 
 
 For Witherington needs must I wail. 
 
 As one in doleful dumps ; 
 For Vihen his legs were smitten off, 
 
 He fouglit upon his stumps. 
 
 And with Earl Douglas, there was slain 
 
 Sir Hugh Montgomery, 
 Sir Charles Currcl, that from the field 
 
 One foot would never fly. 
 
 Sir Charles Murrel, of Ratoliff, too. 
 
 His sister's son was he ; 
 Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed. 
 
 Yet saved could not bee. 
 
 And the Lord Maxwell in like wise 
 
 Did with Earl Douglas dye ; 
 Of twenty hundred Scottish spears 
 
 Scarce fifty-five did fly. 
 
 Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 
 
 Went home but fifty-three ; 
 The rest were slain in Chevy-Chace, 
 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 Next day did many widows come, 
 
 Their husbands to bewail; 
 They washed their wounds in brinish tears. 
 
 But all would not prevail. 
 
 Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. 
 
 They bore with them away : 
 Tiiey kissed them dead a thousand times, 
 
 When they were clad in clay. 
 
 This news was brought to Edinburgh, 
 Where Scotland's king did reign, 
 
 That brave Earl Douglas suddeidy 
 W^as with an arrow slainc. 
 
 " O heavy news," King James did say ; 
 
 " Scotland can witness be, 
 I have not any captain more 
 
 Of such account as he." 
 
 Like tidings to King Henry came. 
 
 Within as short a space, 
 Tliat Piercy of Northumberland 
 
 Was slaine in Chevy-Chaee. 
 
 " Now God be with him," said our king, 
 
 " Sitli 't will no better be ; 
 I trust I have within my realm 
 
 Five hundred as good as he. 
 
 " Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say. 
 
 But I will vengeance take, 
 And be revenged on them all. 
 
 For brave Earl Piercy's sake." 
 
 This vow full well the king performed, 
 
 After, on Humliledowu; 
 In one day, fii'ty knights were slain. 
 
 With lords of great reno^vn. 
 
 And of i\\e rest, of small account. 
 
 Did many tiiousauds dye: 
 Thus cudetli the hiniting of Chcvy-Chacc, 
 
 Made by the Earl Piercy. 
 
 God save the king, and bless the land 
 
 In plenty, joy, and peace; 
 And grant henceforth, tiiat foul debate 
 
 'Twixt noblemen may cease ! 
 
 <U^- 
 
 ^ 
 
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG! 
 
 977 
 
 -^ 
 
 ANONYMOUS, 
 
 MT SWETE SWETTNG. 
 A LOVE-SOJiG OF THE TIME OE JIENRY VIII. 
 
 Ah ! my swete swetyng, 
 My lytyl pretie swetyug ! 
 My swetyng wyl I loue wlieveuer I goe : 
 She is soe proper and pure, 
 Stedfaste, stabvll, and demure, — 
 There is nonne suche, ye may be sure, 
 As my swete swetyng. 
 
 In all tliys worlde, as thynketh mee, . 
 Is nonne soe plesaunte to my e'e. 
 That I am ghadde soe ofte to see, 
 As my swete swetynge. 
 
 When I beholde my swetyng swete, 
 Her face, her haundes, her minion fete. 
 They seeme to mee ther is nonne soe mete 
 As my swete swetynge. 
 
 Above alle others prayse must I, 
 And loue my pretie pigsnye ; * 
 For nonne I finde so womaulie 
 As my swete swetynge. 
 
 THE AULD CLOAK.t 
 
 In winter, when the rain rained cauld. 
 
 And fi'ost and snaw on ilka hill, 
 And Boreas, wi' his blasts sae bauld, 
 
 Was threat'nin' a' our kye to kill : 
 Then Bell, my wife, who lo'es nae strife. 
 
 She said to me richt hastilie. 
 Get up, gudeman, save Crummie's Ufa, 
 
 And tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 My Crummie is a usefu' cow. 
 
 And siie is come of a good kin'. 
 Aft has she wet the bairns's mou'. 
 
 And I am laith that she should tyne ; 
 Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time. 
 
 The sun shines frae the lift sae hie ; 
 Sloth never made a gracious end ; 
 
 Gae, tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 My cloak was ance a gude grey cloak, 
 When it was fitting for my wear ; 
 
 But now it 's seantly worth a groat, 
 For I have woni 't this thretty year : 
 
 Let 's spend the gear that we ha'e won, 
 We little ken the day we '11 die ; 
 
 'U-*- 
 
 Sweetheart, 
 t This 13 the Scottish version of the old song. 
 
 Then I '11 be proud, since I have sworn 
 To ha'e a new cloak about me. 
 
 In days when our King Robert rang, 
 
 His trews they cost but half a croun ; 
 He said they were a groat ower dear. 
 
 And ca'd the tailor thief and loon : 
 He was the king that wore a croun. 
 
 And thou the man of laigh degree : 
 It 's pride puts a' the country doun ; 
 
 Sae tak' your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 Ilka land has its ain lauch. 
 
 Ilk kmd o' corn has its ain hool ; 
 I think the world is a' gane wrang. 
 
 When ilka wife her man wad rule ; 
 Do ye no see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 
 
 As they are girded gallantlie, 
 While I sit iiuyklin i' the aese ? — 
 
 I '11 ha'e a new cloak about me. 
 
 Gudeman, I wat it's thretty year 
 
 Sin' we did ane anither ken ; 
 And we ha'e had atween us twa 
 
 Of lads and bonnie lasses ten : 
 Now they are women grown and men, 
 
 I wish and pray weel may they be ; 
 If you would prove a gude husljand. 
 
 E'en tak' your atdd cloak about ye. 
 
 Bell, my wife, she lo'es nae strife, 
 
 But she would guide me, if she can ; 
 And to maintain an easy life, 
 
 I aft maun yield, though I 'm gudeman : 
 Nocht 's to be gained at woman's baud. 
 
 Unless ye gi'e her a' the plea ; 
 Then I '11 leave aff where I began. 
 
 And tak' my auld cloak about me. 
 
 LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LON&l 
 
 Love me little, love me long ! 
 Is the burden of my song : 
 Love that is too hot aud strong 
 
 Burnetii soon to waste. 
 Still I would not have thee cold, — 
 Not too backward, nor too bold ; 
 Love that lasteth till 't is old 
 
 Fadetli not in haste. 
 Love me little, love me long ! 
 Is the burden of my song. 
 
 If thou lovest me too much, 
 
 'T will not prove as true a touch ; 
 
 -P 
 
a- 
 
 978 
 
 THE GREAT ADVENTURER. 
 
 -to 
 
 fr 
 
 Love me little move than sucli, — 
 
 For I fear the end. 
 I 'm with little well content. 
 And a little from thee sent 
 Is enough, with true intent 
 
 To be steadfast, friend. 
 
 Say thou lovcst me, while thou live 
 I to thee my love will give, 
 Never dreaming to deceive 
 
 While that life endures ; 
 Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
 I to thee will keep my truth, 
 As now when in my May of youth : 
 
 This my love assures. 
 
 Constant love is moderate ever. 
 And it will through life persever; 
 Give me that with true endeavor, — 
 
 I will it restore. 
 A suit of durance let it be, 
 Tor all weathers, — that for me, — 
 Eor the land or for the sea : 
 
 Lasting evermore. 
 
 Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
 Autumn's tempests on it beat ; 
 It can never know defeat. 
 
 Never can rebel : 
 Such the love that I would gain, 
 Such the love, I tell thee plain. 
 Thou must give, or woo in vain : 
 
 So to thee — farewell ! 
 
 THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 
 
 It is not Beauty I demand, 
 A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 
 Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. 
 Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : 
 
 Tell ine not of your starry eyes. 
 Your lips that seem on roses fed. 
 Your breasts, where Cupid tumbHng lies 
 Nor sleeps for kissing of liis bed : — 
 
 A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks 
 Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 
 A breath that softer musift speaks 
 Than summer winds a-wooing flowers ; 
 
 These are but gauds : nay, what are lips ? 
 Coral beneath the ocean-stream, 
 Whose brink when your adventurer slips 
 Full oft he pcrisheth on them. 
 
 And what are elieeks, but ensigns oft 
 That wave hot voutli io fields of blood ? 
 
 Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft. 
 Do Greece or Ihum any good ? 
 
 Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; 
 Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; 
 There 's many a white band holds an uni 
 With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 
 
 For crystal brows there 's naught within; 
 They are Irat empty cells for pride ; 
 He who the Siren's hair would win 
 Is mostly strangled in the tide. 
 
 Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 
 A tender heart, a loyal mind 
 Which with temptation I would trust. 
 Yet never linked with error find, — 
 
 One in whose gentle bosom I 
 Could pour my secret heart of woes. 
 Like the care-burthened honey-fly 
 That hides his murmurs in the rose, — 
 
 My earthly Comforter ! whose love 
 So indefeasible might he 
 That, when my spirit wonned above. 
 Hers coidd not stay, for sympathy. 
 
 THE GKEAT ADVENTUREB, 
 
 Over the mountains 
 And over the waves, 
 Under the fcnmtains 
 And under the graves ; 
 Under floods that are deepest. 
 Which Neptune obey ; 
 Over rocks that are steepest 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Where there is no ])lace 
 
 T'or the glowworm to lie ; 
 
 Where there is no space 
 
 For receipt of a fly ; 
 
 Wliere the midge dares not venture 
 
 Lest herself fast she lay ; 
 
 If love come, he will enter 
 
 And soon find out his '«'ay. 
 
 You may esteem him 
 A child for his might ; 
 Or you may deem him 
 A coward from his fliglit ; 
 But if she wliom love doth honor 
 Be concealed from the day, 
 Set a thousand guards upon her, 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Some think to lose him 
 By having him confined ; 
 And some do suppose him. 
 Poor thing, to be blind ; 
 
 -^ 
 
WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING. 
 
 979 
 
 -ft> 
 
 ^ 
 
 But if ne'er so close ye wall liini, 
 Do the best that you may. 
 Blind love, if so ye call him. 
 Will find out his way. 
 
 You may train the eagle 
 To stoop to your fist ; 
 Or you may inveigle 
 The phoenix of the East ; 
 The lioness, ye may move her 
 To give o'er her prey ; 
 But you '11 ne'er stop a lover : 
 He will find out his way. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE BOEDER WIDOW. 
 My love he built me a bonny bower. 
 And clad it a' wi' lilye flour ; 
 A brawer bower ye ne'er did see 
 Thau my true-love he built for me. 
 
 There came a man, by middle day ; 
 He spied his sport, and went away ; 
 And brought the kiug that very night, _ 
 Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 
 
 He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 
 He slew my knight, and poiued his gear ; 
 My servants all for life did flee, 
 And left me in extremitie. 
 
 I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 
 I watched the corpse, myself alane ; 
 I watched his body, night and day ; 
 No living creature came that way. 
 
 I tuk his body on my back, 
 
 And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 
 
 I digged a grave, and laid him in. 
 
 And happed him with the sod sae green. 
 
 But think na ye my heart was sair, 
 When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ? 
 
 think na ye my heart was wae, 
 \Vlicn I turned about, away to gae ? 
 
 Nae living man I '11 love again, 
 Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 
 Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair 
 
 1 '11 chain my heart forever mair. 
 
 SIE JOHN BARLEYCORN. 
 There came three men out of the West, 
 
 Their victory to try ; 
 And they have taken a solemn oath. 
 
 Poor Barleycorn should die. 
 
 They took a plough and ploughed him in. 
 And harrowed clods on his head ; 
 
 And then they took a solemn oath, 
 Poor Barleycorn was dead. 
 
 There he lay sleeping in the ground, 
 
 Till rain from the sky did fall : 
 Then Barleycorn sprung up his head. 
 
 And so amazed them all. 
 
 There he remained till midsummer, 
 
 And looked both pale and wan ; 
 Then Barleycorn he got a beard, 
 
 And so became a man. 
 
 Then they sent men with scythes so sharp, 
 
 To put him off at knee ; 
 And tiien poor little Barleycorn, 
 
 They served him barbarously. 
 
 Then they sent men with pitchforks strong 
 To pierce him through the heart ; 
 
 And like a dreadful tragedy. 
 They bound him to a eart. 
 
 And then they brought him to a barn, 
 
 A prisoner to endure ; 
 And so they fetched him out again, 
 
 And laid him on the floor. 
 
 Then they set men with holly elubs. 
 To beat the flesh from his bones ; 
 
 But the miller he served him worse than that, 
 For he ground him betwixt two stones. 
 
 O, Barleycorn is the choicest grain 
 
 That ever was sown on land ; 
 It will do more than any grain. 
 
 By the turning of your hand. 
 
 It will make a boy into a man. 
 
 And a man into an ass ; 
 It will change your gold into silver. 
 
 And your silver into brass. 
 
 It will make the huntsman hunt the fox. 
 
 That never wound his horn ; 
 It will bring the tinker to the stocks, 
 
 That people may him scorn. 
 
 It will put sack into a glass, 
 
 And claret in the can ; 
 And it will cause a man to drink 
 
 Till he neither can go nor stand. 
 
 WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING. 
 
 When banners are waving. 
 And lances a-pushing ; 
 
 When captains are shouting. 
 And war-horses rushing ; 
 
 When cannon are roaring. 
 And hot bullets flying. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 980 
 
 ROBIN ADAIR. 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 He tliat would lionoi- ■win 
 Must not fear dying. 
 
 Though sliafts fly so thick 
 
 Tiiat it seems to be snowing ; 
 Though streamlets witli blood 
 
 More than water are flowing ; 
 Tiiough with sabre and bullet 
 
 Our bravest are dying, 
 We speak of revenge, but 
 
 We ne'er speak of flying. 
 
 Come, stand to it, heroes ! 
 
 The heathen are coming ; 
 Horsemen are round the walls. 
 
 Riding and running ; 
 Maidens and matrons all 
 
 Arm ! arm ! are crying, 
 From jietards the wildfire 's 
 
 Plashing and flying. 
 
 ^ 
 
 The trumpets from turrets liigh 
 
 Loudly ai'e braying ; 
 The steeds for the onset 
 
 Are snorting and neighing ; 
 As waves in the ocean. 
 
 The dark plumes are dancing ; 
 As stars in the blue sky. 
 
 The helmets are glancing. 
 
 Their laddei'S are planting, 
 
 Tlieir sabres are sweeping ; 
 Now swords from our sheaths 
 
 By the thousand are leajiiug ; 
 Like the flash of the levin 
 
 Ere men hearken tiumder. 
 Swords gleam, and the steel caps 
 
 Are cloven asunder. 
 
 The shouting has ceased. 
 
 And tlie Hashing of cannon ! 
 I looked from the turret 
 
 For crescent and pennon : 
 As flax touched by fire, 
 
 As hail in the river. 
 They were smote, they were fallen. 
 
 And had melted forever. 
 
 EOBIN ADAIB, 
 
 WELfOME on sliore again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 Welcome onee more again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 I feel thy trembling hand ; 
 Tears in thy eyelids stand, 
 To greet thy native land, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 Still I jirayed for thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 When thou wert far at sea 
 Many made love to me. 
 But still I thought on thee, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Come to my heart again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 Never to part again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 And if thou still art true, 
 I will be constant too. 
 And will wed none but you, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 PRESENT IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Absence, hear thou my protestation 
 Against thy strength. 
 Distance, and lengtli ; 
 Do what tliou canst for alteration : 
 For hearts of truest mettle 
 Absence doth join, and Time doth settle. 
 
 Who loves a mistress of such quality. 
 He soon hath found 
 Affection's ground 
 Beyond time, place, and all mortality. 
 To hearts that cannot vary 
 Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry. 
 
 By absence this good means I gain. 
 That I can catch lier. 
 Where none can watch her. 
 In some close corner of my brain : 
 There I embi-ace and kiss her ; 
 And so I both enjoy and miss her. 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE,* 
 
 Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 
 
 Where eai-ly fa's the dew ; 
 Where me and Annie Laurie 
 
 Made up tfic promise true, 
 Made up the promise true; 
 
 And never forget will I ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I '11 lay me doun and die. 
 
 * Mr. Chambers tells U3 that this sang was written by a Mr. 
 l)nuj;lass, who paid court to .\nnie, one of tlic daughters of Sir 
 Robert Laurie. He was unsuccessful in his suit, as she mar- 
 ried n Mr. l-'ergusson ; but he iiiiinovtalized her name in the 
 vain attempt to engross her ntTection. The ordinary modern 
 version of the song is no improvement on the original, which 
 may he found in Alexander \Vhitelaw*8 excellent Book of 
 Scottish Song, published in ISTS. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 O, SAW YE THE LASS? — THE VICAE OF BRAY. 
 
 981 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 She 's backit like the peaeock, 
 
 She 's breistit like the swan, 
 She 's jimp about tlie middle, 
 
 Her waist ye weel micht span ; 
 Her waist ye wcel mieht span. 
 
 And she has a rolling eye ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I '11 lay me down and die. 
 
 0, SAW TE THE LASS 7 
 
 0, SAW ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een ? 
 Her sinUo is the sweetest that ever was seen ; 
 Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween ; 
 She 's the loveliest 'lassie that trips on the green. 
 The home of my love is below in the valley, 
 AVherc wild -flowers welcome the wandering bee; 
 But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is 
 
 seen 
 Is the dear one I love wi' the bouny blue een. 
 
 AVhcu night overshadows her cot in the glen, 
 She '11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again; 
 And when tlje moon shines on yon valley so green, 
 I '11 welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 
 As the dove that has wandered away from his nest, 
 Returns to Iiis mate his fond heart loves the best, 
 I "11 lly from the world's false and vanishing scene. 
 To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 
 
 LOVE NOT ME EOK COMELY GRACE. 
 
 Love not me for comely grace. 
 For my pleasing eye or face. 
 Nor for any outward part. 
 No, nor for my constant heai-t, — 
 For those may fail, or turn to ill, 
 So thou and I shall sever: 
 Keep therefore a true woman's eye. 
 And love me still, but know not why, - 
 So hast thou the same reason still 
 To doat upon me ever ! 
 
 BEGONE, DULL CAKE. 
 
 Begone, dull care ! 
 
 I prithee begone from me : 
 Begone, dull care ! 
 
 Thou and I can never agree. 
 Long while thou hast been tarrying here, 
 
 And fain thou wouldst me kill ; 
 But i' faith, dull care, 
 
 Thou never shalt have thy will. 
 
 Too much care 
 
 Will make a young man gray ; 
 Too much care 
 
 Will turn an old man to clay. 
 
 My wife shall dance, and I will sing, 
 
 So merrily pass the day ; 
 For I hold it is the wisest thing. 
 
 To drive dull care away. 
 
 Hence, dull care, 
 
 I '11 none of thy company ; 
 Hence, dull care, 
 
 Thou art no pair for me. 
 Wc'U hunt the wild boar through the wold. 
 
 So merrily pass the day ; 
 And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl, 
 
 We '11 drive dull care away. 
 
 THE VICAB OF BRAY, 
 
 In good King Charles's golden days, 
 
 Wlien loyalty no harm meant, 
 A zealous high-churchman I was, 
 
 And so I got preferment ; 
 To teach my flock I never missed. 
 
 Kings are by God appointed. 
 And danmod are those that do resist 
 Or touch the Lord's Anointed. 
 And this is law I will maintain 
 
 Until my dying day, sir, — 
 
 That wliatsoever king shall reign, 
 
 I '11 be the viear of Bray, sir. 
 
 When Royal James obtained the crown. 
 
 And popery came in fashion, 
 The penal laws I hooted down. 
 
 And read the Declaration: 
 The church of Rome I found woidd fit 
 
 Full well my constitution ; 
 And had become a Jesuit, 
 
 But for the Revolution. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 Wiien William was our king declared, 
 
 To ease the nation's grievance ; 
 With this new wind about I steered, 
 
 And swore to him allegiance : 
 Old principles I did revoke. 
 
 Set couseience at a distance; 
 Passive obedience was a joke, 
 
 A jest was non-resistance. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 When gi-acious Anne became our queen, 
 
 The church of England's glory. 
 Another face of things was seen, 
 
 And I became a tory : 
 Occasional conformists base, 
 
 I damned tlieir moderation ; 
 And thought the church in danger was 
 
 By such prevarication. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 982 O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. — OLD KING COUL. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 fr 
 
 When George in pudding time eanie o'er, 
 
 And moderate men looked big, sir ! 
 I turned a eat-in-pan once more, 
 
 And so became a wliig, sir : 
 And tlius prclcrmont I procured 
 
 From our new faith's defender; 
 And almost every day abjured 
 
 The pope and the pretender. 
 And this is law, ete. 
 
 The illustrious House of Hanover, 
 
 And Protestant succession ; 
 To these I do allegiance swear, — 
 While tliey can keep possession: 
 For in my faith and loyalty 
 I never more will falter. 
 And George my lawful king shall be, — 
 Until the times do alter. 
 And this is law I will maintain 
 Until my dying day, sir, — 
 That W'hatsoever king shall reign, 
 I '11 be the vicar of Bray, sir. 
 
 O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. 
 
 Come, boat me ower, come, row me ower, 
 
 Come, boat me ower to Charlie ; 
 I 'U gi'e John Ross another bawbee. 
 To ferry me ower to Charlie. 
 
 We '11 over the water, and over the sea, 
 
 We '11 over the water to Cliarlic ; 
 Come weel, come woe, we '11 gather and go. 
 And live and die wi' Charlie. 
 
 It 's weel I lo'e my Charlie's name. 
 Though some there be that abhor him ; 
 
 But O, to see Auld Nick gaun hame, 
 And Charlie's facs before him ! 
 
 I swear by moon and stars sac bricht. 
 
 And the sun that glances eai'ly, 
 If I liad twenty thousand lives, 
 
 I 'd gi'e them a' for Charlie. 
 
 I ance bad sons, I now ha'e nane ; 
 
 1 bred them, toiling sairly ; 
 And 1 wad bear them a' again. 
 
 And lose them a' for Charlie ! 
 
 WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN? 
 
 When shall we three meet again? 
 ^Vhcn shall we three meet again ? 
 Oft shall glowing hope expire. 
 Oft sliall wearied love retire. 
 Oft shall death and sorrow reign. 
 Ere we three shall meet again. 
 
 Though in distant lands we sigh, 
 Parched beneath a hostile sky ; 
 Though the deep between us rolls, 
 Friendship shall unite our souls. 
 Still in Fancy's rich domain 
 Oft shall we three meet again. 
 
 Wlien the dreams of life are fled, 
 Wlien its wasted lamps are dead; 
 When in cold oblivion's shade 
 Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
 Where immortal spirits reign. 
 There shall we three meet again. 
 
 OLD KING COUL,* 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 
 
 And a jolly old soid was he ; 
 And old King Coul, he bad a brown bowl. 
 
 And they brought liiin in fiddlers three; 
 And every fiddler was a very good fiddler, 
 
 And a very good fiddler was he : 
 Fiddle -diddle, .fiddle -diddle, went the fiddlers 
 three : ' 
 
 And there 's no' a lass in a' Scotland, 
 
 Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he ; 
 Old King Coul, lie had a brown bowl. 
 And they brought him in pipers tliree: 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-didtUe, how-diddle, 
 
 went the pipers three ; 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
 three : 
 And there 's no' a lass in a' tlie land. 
 Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he ; 
 Old King Coul, he bad a brown bowl, 
 And they brought him in har|)crs three: 
 Twingle - twaugle, twingle - twangle, went the 
 
 harpers ; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 
 
 went the pipers ; 
 Fiddle -diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
 tliree : 
 And there 's no' a lass in a' the laud. 
 Compared to our sweet Jlarjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he ; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
 
 And they brought him in trumpeters three : 
 
 * "Old King Coul, occovdiiig to fnl)ulous .Scotlisli liistoiy, 
 (luiirialicd in the lifth century, nud was father of the giant Fin 
 M'Coul. Coiln {.\yr8hire) was under his swny." — Alkxas- 
 1)KR W'hitki.aw. 
 
 -g> 
 
cfr 
 
 AWAY! LET NAUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. 
 
 983 
 
 -Q> 
 
 fr 
 
 Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpeters ; 
 Twingle - twaugle, twmgle - twangle, wont the 
 
 harpers ; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 
 
 went the pipers ; 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
 three : 
 And tlicre 's no' a lass in a' Scotland, 
 Compared to sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly old soul was he ; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
 
 And they brought him in dnnnmers three : 
 Ilub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ; 
 Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpeters ; 
 Twiiigle - twangle, twingle - twangle, went the 
 
 harpers ; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, !ia-diddle, how-diddle, 
 
 went the pipers ; 
 Kddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
 three : 
 And there 's no' a lass in a' the land, 
 Compared to sweet Marjorie. 
 
 TO-MOKKOW. 
 
 In the downhill of life, when I find I 'm declining, 
 
 May my lot no less fortunate be 
 Than a snug elbow-chair can aff'ord for reclining, 
 
 And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; 
 With an ambling pad-pony topace o'er the la'mi, 
 
 While I carol away idle sorrow. 
 And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn 
 
 Look forward with hope for to-morrow. 
 
 With a porch at my door, both for shelter and 
 shade too. 
 
 As the sunshine or raiir may prevail ; 
 And a small spot of ground for the use of the 
 spade too. 
 
 With a barn for the use of the flail ; 
 A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game. 
 
 And a purse when a friend wants to borrow, — 
 I 'U envy no nabob his riches or fame. 
 
 Nor what honors await him to-morrow. 
 
 Proni the bleak northern blast may my cot be 
 completely 
 Secured by a neighboring hill ; 
 And at night may repose steal upon me more 
 sweetly 
 By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
 And while peace and plenty I find at my board. 
 With a heart free from sickness and sorrow. 
 With my friends may I share what to-day may 
 afford, 
 And let them spread the table to-morrow. 
 
 And when I at last must throw off this frail covering 
 Which I 've worn for threescore years and 
 ten. 
 On the brink of the grave I '11 not seek to keep 
 hovering. 
 Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 
 But my face iu the glass I '11 serenely survey. 
 
 And with smiles count cacli wrinkle and furrow ; 
 As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare 
 to-day. 
 May become everlasting to-morrow. 
 
 AWAY! LET NAUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASINO.* 
 
 Away ! let naught to love displeasing, 
 Jly Wiuifreda, move your care ; 
 
 Let naught delay the heavenly blessing. 
 Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 
 
 Wliat though no grants of royal donors 
 With pompous titles grace our blood. 
 
 We '11 shine in more substantial honors. 
 And, to be noble, we '11 be good. 
 
 Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
 Will sweetly sound where'er 't is spoke ; 
 
 And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
 How they respect such little folk. 
 
 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty. 
 No miglity treasures we possess ; 
 
 We '11 find, within our pittance, plenty. 
 And be content without excess. 
 
 Still shall each kind returning season 
 
 SuSicient for our wishes give ; 
 For we will live a life of reason. 
 
 And that 's the only life to live. 
 
 Through youth and age, in love excelling. 
 We '11 hand in hand together tread ; 
 
 Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
 And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 
 
 How should I love the pretty creatures, 
 Wliile round my knees they foncUy clung ! 
 
 To see them look their mother's features. 
 To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 
 
 And when with envy Time transported 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys. 
 
 You '11 in your girls again be courted. 
 And I '11 go wooing in my boys. 
 
 * Tlii3 song, one of the most popular in the language, for 
 a long time preserveil the name of John Gilljcrt Cooper from 
 ohlivion. As he wrote nothing else which could for a moment 
 be compared with it, a doubt of tlie authorship led to inquiries as 
 to the date of its original publication. It was traced bark to 
 a collection of miscellaneous poetry, published in 1726, when 
 Cooper was three years old, — a period of life irreconcilable 
 with the notion that he could go wooing in his boys, or tliat 
 his wife could again be courted iii her girls. The name of the 
 writer still remains unknown. 
 
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cfi- 
 
 984 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 PERFUME AND JEWELS. 
 
 -fi) 
 
 KOT'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. 
 
 RoY's'wife of Aldivallocli, 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 
 
 Wot ye how she clieated me, 
 
 As I cam' o'er the braes of Balloeh ? 
 
 She vowed, she swore she wad he mine ; 
 
 She said she lo'ed me best of oiiie; . 
 But ah ! the fiekle, faithless quean, 
 
 She 's ta'cu the carle, aud left her Jolumie. 
 Roy's wife, etc. 
 
 0, she was a cantie quean, 
 
 Weel could she dance the Highland walloch; 
 How liappy I, had she been mine. 
 
 Or 1 been Roy of Aldivalloch. 
 Roy's wife, etc. 
 
 Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, 
 
 Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bomiie ; 
 
 To me she ever will be dear. 
 
 Though she 's forever left her Johnnie. 
 Roy's wife, etc. 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE, 
 
 WuEN the cornfields and meadows 
 Arc pearled witli the dew. 
 
 With the first sunny shadow 
 Walks little Boy Blue. 
 
 0, the Nymphs and the Graces 
 
 Still gleam on his eyes. 
 And the kind fairy faces 
 
 Look down from the skies ; 
 
 And a secret rcveaUng 
 
 Of life within life, 
 When feeling meets feeling 
 
 In musical strife ; 
 
 A winding aud weaving 
 
 In Mowers and in trees, 
 A floating and heaving 
 
 In suuliglit and breeze ; 
 
 A striving and soaring, 
 
 A gladness and grace. 
 Make him kneel half adoring 
 
 Tiie God in the place. 
 
 Then amid the live shadows 
 
 Of lambs at their jilay, 
 Where the kino scent the meadows 
 
 With breath like the May, 
 
 lie stands in the splendor 
 That waits on the morn, 
 
 And a music more tender 
 Distils from his horn ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 Aud he weeps, he rejoices. 
 He prays ; nor in vaiu, 
 
 For soft loving voices 
 Will answer again ; 
 
 And the Nymphs and the Graces 
 Still gleam through the dew. 
 
 And kind fairy faces 
 Watch little Boy Blue. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE, 
 
 SENT BY A VORKISH LOVER TO 
 MISTRESS. 
 
 HIS LAN'CASTEIAN 
 
 Ip this fair rose offend thy sight. 
 Go place it in thy bosom fair, 
 
 'T will blush to find itself less white, 
 Aiid turn Lancastrian there. 
 
 But if thy ruby lip it spy. 
 As kiss it thou mayest deign. 
 
 With envy pale 't will lose its dye. 
 And Yorkish turn again. 
 
 PERFUME AND JEWELS. 
 
 Lady, why blend these dying sweets 
 With that immortal sweetness all thiue own? 
 
 Why ask of Art her counterfeits. 
 Her languid, cloying odors, but to crown 
 
 That ever-deepening, ever-mellowing bloom 
 
 Whose very presence is perfume ? 
 
 Dost thou mistrust thine ardent eyes. 
 And that deep glow of soul indwelling there, 
 
 Tiiat witii these rival galaxies 
 Of glimmering gems thou hast bedewed thy 
 hair ? 
 
 Or dost thou stoop to those who equal deem 
 
 The innate lustre and the surface gleam ? 
 
 The clear-starred purple overhead 
 Brooks not her virgin trueness should be soiled 
 
 With false and fevered glare and red 
 Of mocking meteors ; of their thrones de- 
 spoiled, 
 She slioots them down in scorn, to find i' the 
 
 earth 
 Some miry home more level with their birth : 
 
 So do thou ever prize, like her. 
 The simple majesty of maidenhood ; 
 
 And in calm wrath tlio odors tear. 
 And soulless jewels, from thee, — u]istart brood 
 
 Unblcst ! and only let thy cool white l)row 
 
 Forever wear the light of its own stainless snow. 
 
 -^ 
 
a- 
 
 -fi) 
 
 UDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 fr 
 
 A baby was sleeping Lover 853 
 
 A better prize tbere is for man W. Herbert 734 
 
 A boding sik-nce rcigiis Tltonisoii 341 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem iniay his tribe increase !) Hunt T67 
 
 About tlie sTveet bag of a bee Herrick 163 
 
 Absence, liear thou my protestation Anoit. 980 
 
 A clinnge so swift wbat heart did everfeeli Drydem, 263 
 
 A chieftain, to the Highlands bound Caviphell 724 
 
 A cloud lay cradled near the setting sua .J. WilsoK. 776 
 
 A country that draws fifty fool of water Butler 225 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and tlien we sever Burns 542 
 
 A famous man is Robin Hood Wordsworth 594 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride ..Priugle 783 
 
 A fox, in life's extreme decay Gray 310 
 
 A ! fredome is a nobill thing !..... Barbour 15 
 
 After all these there marcht a most faire Da^e ...Sjienser 48 
 
 After so long a race as I have run Sjyenser 55 
 
 Again, how can she but immortal be Davks 137 
 
 Again to the battle, Achaians ! Cam-phdl 73S 
 
 A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine Spenser 31 
 
 A gentle squire would gladly entertain Hall 143 
 
 A happy bit hame this auld world woidd be Nicoll 937 
 
 Ah Ben! Herrick 167 
 
 Ah, Cliloris! that I now could sit Sedlcy 267 
 
 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh Scott 64G 
 
 Ah, don't tell o' maidens ! the oone var my bride Barnes 948 
 
 Ah ! how unjust to nature, and himself Young 300 
 
 All, I remember well (and how can I DaiiUl 67 
 
 Ah! little think the gay licentious proud Thonson 344 
 
 Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn Shenstone 382 
 
 Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak 't and §vie(...€owUy 240 
 
 Ah ! my swete swetyng AnoJu 977 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! the livelong day Scott G46 
 
 Ah ! sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel ,. .Waller 9t0 
 
 Ah! that half-bashful and half-eager face I Turner ^10 
 
 Ah, what avails the sceptred race Lander 710 
 
 Ah ! what a weary rare my feet have run, T. Warton 425 
 
 Ah ! what is love ! It is a pretty thing Greene 59 
 
 Ah, when she sings, all music else be still Greene 59 
 
 Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb Beattic 472 
 
 Alas! I have walked through life flood 862 
 
 Alas, 't is true I have gone here and there ...SJiakespearc 74 
 Aias! what boots the long, laborious quest... Wordsworth G23 
 
 Alexis shunned his fellow swains Prior 272 
 
 A little black thing among the suow Blake 522 
 
 A little lowly hermitage it was Spenser 32 
 
 A litle marsh-plant, yellow -green Swinburne 965 
 
 A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight Burns 550 
 
 AI!en-a-l)ale has no fagot for burning Scott Gil 
 
 All human race would fiiin be wits S^oift 280 
 
 All human things are subject to decay Dryden 255 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moored Gray 309 
 
 All nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair Coleridge 677 
 
 Allowed to settle on celestial eyes M. Tiglie 688 
 
 All suddenly out of the thickest brush SjKnscr 48 
 
 All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes Cowley 237 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights Coleridge 668 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom Campbell 726 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bowers J. Fletcher 117 
 
 Along the mead Europa walks StajUey 252 
 
 Al peynted was the wal in lengthe and breede Otauoer 11 
 
 Although I enter not , Thackeray 920 
 
 A man so various, that he seemed to be Drydcn 253 
 
 A man there came, whence none could tell AlUngham 953 
 
 Amarautha, sweet and fair Lovelace 232 
 
 Amid the pompous crowd E. MontgoTnery 889 
 
 A mighty pain to love it is Cowley 235 
 
 Am I the slave they say Baiiivi 872 
 
 A moment ends the fervent din Wordsworth G19 
 
 Among these otlier folke was Creseida Chaucer 13 
 
 A mother's love, — how sxj'eet the name! ■/. Montgomery 651 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? Mickle 471 
 
 And auld Robin Forbes hes glen tem a dance... 5. Blamire 498 
 
 And did he rise? Young 301 
 
 And firat, williin the porch and jaws of hell...r. Saclcville 25 
 
 And, gentlemen, to you now .J, Fletcher 117 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly liome Moir 855 
 
 And here the fates, Armstrong 378 
 
 And if my wice break forti, 'tis not that now Byron 806 
 
 And is there care in heaven? And is there love.., S^>c7iscr 45 
 
 And is the swallow gone ? W. Howitt 883 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the stream ...Wordsworth 596 
 
 Aad lo! upon the murmuring waves /. Wilson 774 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace Scott 633 
 
 And now behold your tender nurse, the air, Davies 139 
 
 And now, lashed on by destiny severe -....Falconer 4-17 
 
 And now, philanthropy! thy rays divine Darwin 466 
 
 And said I that my limbs were old Scott 627 
 
 And strayt forth stalking with redoubled pa.ce T.Sackville 25 
 
 And therefore I, with reason, chose Butler 223 
 
 And this place my forefathers nmdc for man! ...Coleridge 679 
 And tliou hast walked about (how strange a story !) Smith 735 
 
 And what 's a life ? — a M-eary pilgrimage, Qiiarles 16S 
 
 And wherefore do the poor complain ? Southey 701 
 
 And will he not come again? Shakespeare 83 
 
 And yet Sarolta, simple, inexi>erienced Coleridge 679 
 
 An empty sky, a world of heather /. Ingelovj 958 
 
 An exquisite invention this Hunt 767 
 
 Anger, in hasty words or blows Waller 178 
 
 A nightingale, that all day long Cowper 461 
 
 A noble fortitude in ills delights Young 302 
 
 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king Shelley 829 
 
 An old song made by an aged old pate Dekker 102 
 
 Another nympli, amongst the many fair Prior 277 
 
 An oyster, cast upon the shore Cowper 457 
 
 Antichristian assemblies Butler 226 
 
 A poet! He Lath put his heart to school Wordsicortk 621 
 
 Arc they not senseless, theii, that think the soul... Davies 136 
 
 Arm, arm, arm, arm! Beaumont and Flctehcr 121 
 
 Arrayed — a half-angelic siglit Lamb 714 
 
 Art thou a statist, in the van Wordsworth 598 
 
 Art thou god to shepherd turned Shakespeare 81 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Dckkcr 102 
 
 As, hy some tyrant's stern command Blackstone 420 
 
 As Chaos whicti, by heavenly doom Horace Smith 73" 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention Prior 277 
 
 As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean 3/oore 743 
 
 A session was held the other day Suckling 157 
 
 A set of phrases learned by lote Swift 279 
 
 As flame ascends Akenside 413 
 
 A simple child Wordsworth 579 
 
 As it fell upon a day Barnjield 85 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 98G 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 TD 
 
 As I was pausing ia a moniiugaire King Janies VL 86 
 
 As I was walking all alane Anon. 070 
 
 Aske me why I send you here Herrick 1G6 
 
 Ask me uo move : the moon may draw the aen... Tennyson 912 
 
 Ask menu more where Jove bestows Carew IGl 
 
 A siautiug ray of evening light Jane Taylo'r 7o6 
 
 As low as misery Massinger 125 
 
 As once, — if, not with light regard Collins 399 
 
 As one who destined from his friends to part lioscoc 509 
 
 As one who, long hy wasting sickness worn Bowles 558 
 
 A soug to the oak, the brave old oak Chorley 881 
 
 As rising from the vegetable world Thomson ^iO 
 
 As Rochefoucault his maxims drew Swiji 2sl 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay Clough 91-i 
 
 As slow I climbed the cliff's ascending side ...Bowles 558 
 
 As some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore Dnjden 2G3 
 
 As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce :Thomson 34-4- 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away Donne IW 
 
 A sweet disorder in the dresse Herrick 1G3 
 
 As, when a tree 's cut down, the secret root Drydcn 260 
 
 A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing ...Harrington Gi 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy forever Keats 842 
 
 A thousand fantasies ....Miltoji Idt 
 
 Athousand pretty ways we'll think upon Cowley 239 
 
 At Inst he came unto a gloomy glade Spenser 42 
 
 At last she chaunccd by good hap to meet SpeJiser 38 
 
 At length, my Lord, I have the bliss Moore 745 
 
 A torn beard's like a battered ensign Butler 226 
 
 A tree grew in Java, whose pestilent rind ...James Smith 70G 
 
 At setting day and rising morn Ramsay 30G 
 
 At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow ...Campbell 716 
 
 Attend, all ye who list to hear Macaulay 86S 
 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is si\\\...BeatUc 472 
 
 At Venus' entreaty for Cupid her son .P<xh 53 
 
 At ^'estminster, where little poets strive Cowper 449 
 
 At "Willie's wedding on the green Sir A. Boswell 70G 
 
 Ave Marial blessed be the hour! Byron 819 
 
 Ave Maria ! maiden mild! Scott C34 
 
 Avenge, Lord, thy slaughtered saints Milton 194 
 
 A veteran see! whose last act on the stage Garrick 387 
 
 A voice of grief and anger E. Elliott 752 
 
 Awake, ^olian lyre, awake Gray 390 
 
 Awake, awake, my LjTe ! Coivlcy 24<i 
 
 A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright Lewis G86 
 
 Away! let naught to love displeasing Anon. 983 
 
 A wee bird cam' to our ha' door Glen 755 
 
 A well there is in the west country Sonthey G99 
 
 A wet sheet and a (lowing sea A. Cnnninghavi 111 
 
 Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are . . .Moore 746 
 Ay me! what perils do environ Butler 221 
 
 Back and side go bare, go bare Still 27 
 
 Bacon at last, a mighty man, arose Cowley 240 
 
 Balow, my babe, lye still and sleipel Anon. 972 
 
 Beauties, have you seen this toy Jonson 9G 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Browning 933 
 
 Beauty, arise, show forth thy glorious shining Dekker 102 
 
 Beauty clear and fair Beaumont and Fldclier 118 
 
 Because you have thrown off your Prelate Lord ,. .Milton 192 
 
 Be dumb forever, silent as the grave Rowc 290 
 
 Before 1 sigh my last gasp, let me breathe Donne 141 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee *..A. A. Procter 9G1 
 
 Before the beginning of years Swinhnrne 9CG 
 
 Before thy leaves thou coniest once more E. Elliott 753 
 
 Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth Sir IV. Jones 496 
 
 Begone, dull care! Anon. 981 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk Rodger 772 
 
 Bt.-himl yon hilla where Lugar flows Burns 6+7 
 
 Behold, fond man! Thomson 345 
 
 Behold lier.singlc in the field IVordsworth 591 
 
 Behhazzar is king! Belshazzar ia lord ! ...B. IV. Procter "79 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold Hoofl 856 
 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl Zord Houghton 893 
 
 Beneath him with new wonder now he views Milton 212 
 
 Be patient! O, be patient I Trench 889 
 
 Be this our trust, that ages (filled with light Davy 734 
 
 Better trust all, and be deceived F. A. Kemble 921 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose.. .Co^'pcr 456 
 
 Between the hands, between the brows D. G. Rossttti 954 
 
 Bewailing in my chamber, thus alc>nc King James I. 17 
 
 Be wise to-day J 't is madness to defer Young 300 
 
 Beyond the north where Ural hills Aird 8*5 
 
 Bid me to live, and I will live Herrick 166 
 
 Bird of the wilderness Hogg 657 
 
 Birds in the high Ilall-garden Tennyson 913 
 
 Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight Soutkey 698 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound Wyatt 31 
 
 Blessed as the immortal gods is he A. Philips 286 
 
 Blest be thht liand tUvinc, which gently laid Young 301 
 
 Blest pair of sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy Milton 187 
 
 Blood is, too, a price for glory Habington 174 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still Scott 630 
 
 Blow, blow, thou v.inter wind Shakespeare 81 
 
 Blue crystal vault and elemental fires Sir W. Jones 496 
 
 Bonny Kilmeuy gaed up the glen Hogg 654 
 
 Bound upon the accursed tree Mtlman 823 
 
 Brave men who at the Trocadero fell Campbell 730 
 
 Bread of the world, in mercy broken ! Heber 758 
 
 Break, break, break Tennyson 910 
 
 Break, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud Jonson 99 
 
 Breathes there the man, with snul so dead Scott 62" 
 
 Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower Peele 58 
 
 Bright books ! the perspcrti\es to our weak sights Vaughan 250 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the moniing! Hehcr 758 
 
 Bright queen of heaven ! God's virgin spouse \...Vavg}uxn 249 
 Bright shadows of true rest ! some shoots of bliss Vaughan 243 
 
 Brother! know the world decei\eth! Heber 759 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before us Milman 824 
 
 Bruised in body. a ButUr 226 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride Hamilton 366 
 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly Oldys 334 
 
 But ah ! beleeveme there is more then so Spenser 54 
 
 But borne, and like a short delight Herrick IG6 
 
 But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys Grahavie 568 
 
 But Cupid, full of mischief, longs SvAJt 285 
 
 But how shall we this union well express Davies 137 
 
 But, if my Muse or I were so discreet Butler 234 
 
 But if thou fall, then imagine this Shakespeare 76 
 
 But I have lost my reason, have disgraced Drydcn 261 
 
 But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Landor 7t'9 
 
 But 1 remember two miles on this side of the foi"t Shelley 835 
 
 But list ! a low and moaning sound J. iVilson 775 
 
 But lo, where Beauty, dressed in gentler pomp Akenside 412 
 But O, my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find,. .4d<?i>07t 28S 
 But since her stay was long: for fear the sun W. Browne 155 
 
 But since the case appeared so nice Swi/l 284 
 
 But souls that of his own good life partake More 228 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Byron 804 
 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new Byron 8f)7 
 
 But whatH thoughtless animal is man ! Earl of Roscommon 265 
 
 By cool Siloam's shady rill Heber 757 
 
 By Logan streams that rin sac deep Mayne 550 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain Mrs. Alexander 940 
 
 By that heavenly form of thine J. Fletcher 121 
 
 By this had chanticleer, the village cock IV, Browne 154 
 
 Call for tfic rob in- redbreast and the wren Webster 110 
 
 Call it not vain :— they do not err .'. Scott 627 
 
 Calme was the day, and through the trembling nyrc Spenser 53 
 
 Calm on the bosom of thy God....: Mrs. Hernans 840 
 
 Can he be fair, that withers at a blast P Qiiarles 168 
 
 Can I see another's woe Blake 522 
 
 Can I, ivho have for others oft compiled Sir J. Beaumont 14? 
 
 Can tyrants but by tjTants conquered be Byi-on 805 
 
 Can you forget me ? I wJio have so cherished L. E. Landon 877 
 
 Captain or Colonel, or Knight in arms Milton 193 
 
 Cave-charmcr Sleep, son of the sable Night Daniel 67 
 
 Ciire-cbarming Sleep Beaumont and Fletcher 130 
 
 Cease, rude Boreas, blustering rnilerl Stephens 397 
 
 Celestial Happiness, whene'er she stoops Young 300 
 
 Celiaand 1 the other day Prior 273 
 
 Celia, we know, is sixty-five Pope 334 
 
 Oinhleflu shepherds, ranging trackless fields Wordstaorth 617 
 Charles ! my slow heart was only sad Coleridge 673 
 
 fr 
 
 -^ 
 
f 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 987 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Charm mc asleep, and melt me so Herrick \Gi 
 
 Cheeks as soft as July peaches W. C. Bennett 947 
 
 Child of the suu ! pursue thy rapturous flight Rogers oG7 
 
 Children arc wiiat the mothers are Landor 710 
 
 CIiloc, why wish you that your years Cartwright 319 
 
 Choris, yourself you so excel Waller IBl 
 
 Christ is risen! the Lord is come Milnian 634 
 
 Clarcns I sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love...j5i/ron. 801 
 
 Clariuda came at last Clialkhill 157 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake Byron 799 
 
 Clinih, at court, for me, that will Marvell 344 
 
 Cold was tlie ni^'ht-wind, drifting fast the snow... Sonthey 701 
 
 Come, all ye jolly shepherds Hogg 662 
 
 Come away, come away, death Slmkespeare 80 
 
 Come, boat me ower, come, row me ower Anon. 983 
 
 Come, cheer up, my lads ! 't is to glory we steer. ..Garricfc 388 
 
 Come from my First, ay, come! Praed 877 
 
 Come from the sea Hogg C58 
 
 Come, gentle sleep ! attend thy votary's prayer ...Wolcott 485 
 
 Come, golden Evening, in the west J. Mo7Ugomei~y 648 
 
 Come hither, come hither, — by night and hyday,.Jl/oo7-e 744 
 
 Come liither, you that love Beaumont and Fletcher 118 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud Tennyson 915 
 
 Come, let's he sad, my girlg Beaumont and Fletcher 115 
 
 Come, list and hark, the bcU doth toll Heywood 106 
 
 Come live with me and be my love Marlowe 70 
 
 Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green Ramsay 407 
 
 Come, my Celia, let us prove Jonson 97 
 
 Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore ...Jonson 93 
 
 Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Cowper 456 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer ,., Moore 741 
 
 Come, said Jesus' sacred voice Mrs. Barhaidd 490 
 
 Come, see the l>olphin's anchor forged S. Ferguson 8S4 
 
 Come, Sleep, Sleep, the cextain knot of peace ...Sidney 56 
 
 Come, thou monarch of the vine Sh<ikcspcare 84 
 
 Come unto these yellow sanils Shakespeare 82 
 
 Come, when no graver cares employ Tennyson 916 
 
 Come, you whose loves are de&d . Beaumont and Fletcher 119 
 
 Comfort thee, thou mourner, yet awhile! Landor 711 
 
 Coming through the rye, jioor body Burns 548 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little Tennyson 904 
 
 Condemned to hope's delusive mine..; Johnson oil 
 
 Conscript Fathers ! Croly 750 
 
 Convened at midnight in outhouses Butler 236 
 
 Couldst thou propose that we, the friends of fates. ..Garf/t 385 
 Couldst tliou not watch with me one hour? ...Sivinburne 965 
 
 Could ye come back to me, Douglas D.M.MjUock 953 
 
 Ciabl)ed age and youth Sliakespeare 11 
 
 Creator Spirit, by whose aid Dryde7h 260 
 
 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud... il/ti(o)i 193 
 Crowns, therefore keep your oaths of coronation,., Greuii^e 57 
 
 Cruel, could not once blinding me sufUce? Crashaw 219 
 
 Cupid and ray Carapaspe play'd Lyly 28 
 
 Cursed with unnumbered groundless fears Blackloek 407 
 
 Cyriac, this three years day these eyes Miltctn 194 
 
 Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say...r. Dibdin G53 
 
 Darest thou to look on Death ? Byron 814 
 
 Darkness, which fairest nymphs disarms Waller 1S3 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power Gray 390 
 
 Daughters of Israel ! praise the Lord of Hosts \...Sothchy 519 
 
 Dauirhter to that good Earl, once President Milton 193 
 
 David and his three captains bold Mary Larrib 716 
 
 Day ! Browning 934 
 
 Day dawned; — within a curtained room.., B. W. Procter 783 
 
 Day is dying! Float, song George Eliot 947 
 
 Day-stars ! tliat o])e your eyes with mom...fforacc Smith 736 
 
 Dazzled thus with height of place Wotton 134 
 
 Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd N. Cotton 409 
 
 Dear Harp of my Country ! Moore 741 
 
 Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold Blake 533 
 
 Dear night! this world's defeat Vaughan 250 
 
 Death! great proprietor of all ! 'tis thine Yoitng 300 
 
 Death's shafts fly thick! Blair 335 
 
 Death stands above me, whispering low Landor 710 
 
 Deem not devoid of elegance the sage T. Warton 425 
 
 Deep in the sliady sadness of a vale Keats 847 
 
 Deep on the convent-roof the snows Tennyson 908 
 
 Deserted by the waning moon T. Dihdin 654 
 
 Did you hear of the Widow Malone Lever 894 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars ...Dryden 264 
 
 Dispute no more in this, for know, young man Ford 128 
 
 Doctor Epidemic Butler 226 
 
 Doeg. though without knowing how or why Dryden 254 
 
 Done to death by slanderous tongues Sliakespeare 80 
 
 Doriuda's sparkling wit and eyes Charles Sackville 3G6 
 
 Doubtless tlie pleasure is as great Butler 326 
 
 Drink to me only with tbine eyes Jonson 96 
 
 Droop, droop no more, or hang the head Herrick 163 
 
 Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara Alex. Smith 956 
 
 Earl March looked on his dying child Campbell 732 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair ...Wordsworth 621 
 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart Byron 805 
 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still Conner 450 
 
 Enough ; and leave the rest to fame Marvell 344 
 
 Ere long they corae Spenser 38 
 
 Ere on my bed my limbs I lay Coleridge 676 
 
 Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade Coleridge G6G 
 
 Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her gv&\e Byron 786 
 
 Eternal spirit of the cLaiuless mind! Byron 611 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of tlie sky ! Wordsworth 583 
 
 Even in that, note a fool's beatitude Marston 105 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime Moore 738 
 
 Faintly brayed the battle's roar Penrose 488 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray Congreve 289 
 
 Fair OS unshaded light, or as the day Davenant 175 
 
 Faire Daffadills, we weep to see Herrick 166 
 
 Fairc pledges of a fruitfull tree Herrick 166 
 
 Fairfa.v, wliose name in arms througli Europe rings Milton 193 
 
 Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Byron 796 
 
 Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair Daniel 67 
 
 Fair lady, when you see the grace Randolph 133 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France Drayton 67 
 
 Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore Nash 61 
 
 Fair! that you may truly know Waller 180 
 
 Fancies are but streams Ford 128 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if forever Byron 790 
 
 " Farewell, fai'ewell to thee, Araby's daughter! "...Moore 743 
 
 Farewell life ! my senses swim Hood 864 
 
 Farewell rewards and fairies Corbet 148 
 
 Farewell! since nevermore for thee Hervey 866 
 
 Farewell to Lochabcr, and farewell my Jean Ramsay 306 
 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong Burns 544 
 
 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles Wotton 133 
 
 Far from the world, Lord, I flee CoxvjKr 463 
 
 Far have I clambered in my mind Moore 228 
 
 Far in a wild, unknown to puljlic view Pawiell 294 
 
 Far on yon heath, so lone and wild Hinds 837 
 
 Fate heard her prayer : a lover came Whitehead 384 
 
 Father of all! in every age Pope 322 
 
 Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat Browning 934 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun Shttkespeare 83 
 
 Fairshon swore a feud Aytoun 935 
 
 Fiend, I defy thee ! with a calm, fixed mind Shelley 325 
 
 Fill me a mighty bowle Herrick 167 
 
 First bring me Raphael, who alone hath seen Landor 711 
 
 First time he kissed me, he but only kissed B. B. Browning 927 
 
 Five years have past; five summers Wordsworth 581 
 
 Flowers to the fair : to you these flowers I bring Barbauld 489 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes.. J?wr7js 539 
 
 Fly hence, shadows, that do keep Ford 128 
 
 Follow a shadow, it still flies you Jonson 9G 
 
 Fools had ne'er less grace in a year Sliakespeare 84 
 
 For close designs, and crooked councils fit Dryden 253 
 
 For each man's worth is measured by his weed ...Spenser 55 
 
 For England when with favoring gale C. Dibdin 492 
 
 Forget not yet tlie tried intent Wyatt 22 
 
 "Forget thee ? " — If to dream by night Moultrie 86G 
 
 For his religion, it was fit Butler 230 
 
 For lo, the sea that fleets about the land Davies 139 
 
 For many, many days together Morris 962 
 
 For me my fair a wreath has wove Garrick 383 
 
 ^g-^ 
 
 -^ 
 
(&■ 
 
 988 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 -n> 
 
 For physic oiitl farces Gwrrick 388 
 
 Tor sure ia all kinds of liyporrisy Fulke GrevilU 57 
 
 For sure, of all tlmt iu tliis inuvlall frame Spenser 55 
 
 For those my unliaptised rhinica Hcrrick 1G8 
 
 I'or thuse wlio heretofore souglit jirivate holes BiUler ii'i 
 
 Fortli rushed with whirhnnd sound Milton 213 
 
 Fonli we went Wordsworth 62U 
 
 Fortuue,mensay,dothgive too much to many Harrington 65 
 
 Fortune, that with malicious joy Drydcn 2C3 
 
 For what in worth is anything Butler 22G 
 
 For women first were made for men Butler 223 
 
 Friend after friend departs J. Montgomery G52 
 
 Frifudsliip, like love, ia but a name Gray 311 
 
 Frieuds, I come not here to talk M. R Mit/ord 777 
 
 From fruitful beds and tlowery borders VaughuJi 251 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains Hcher 753 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony Drydoi 257 
 
 From his brimstone l)ed at l>reaU of day ...SontJiey 692 
 
 Fmm leaves unopened yet, tliose eyes she lifts ...Landor 711 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen Wordsworth 695 
 
 From Tuscane came my Lady's worthy race Surrey 23 
 
 From unrcmembered ages we Shelley 826 
 
 From you have I been absent in the s'pving... Shakesjyeare 73 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies Shakespeare 82 
 
 Full many a glorious morning have I seen ...Shakespeare 73 
 Full of the art of brewing beer Wolcott 482 
 
 Gaue were but the winter cauld A. Cunningluvm 770 
 
 Gather ye rose-buds while ye may Merrick 1S5 
 
 Genteel in personage Carey 3CG 
 
 Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morae Hcrrick IGi 
 
 Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown Hughes 973 
 
 Give Isaac the nymph who no heanty can boast Sheridan 503 
 
 Give mc a spirit that on life's rough sea Chapman G2 
 
 Give me more love, or more disdain Carew 162 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet Raleigh 30 
 
 Give mc the merchants of the Indian mines Marlowe 71 
 
 Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease Ford 128 
 
 Glorious orb! the idol Byron 813 
 
 Go, child of darkness ! see a Christian die 1 R Montgomery 889 
 
 God is good, is wise, is strong More 227 
 
 God made the country, and man made the town ...Coirpcr -150 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way Cowpcr 4G3 
 
 God of my life! aud author of my days ! ...Mrs. Barbaitld 491 
 
 God prosper long our noble king Anon. 974 
 
 God said, " Let there be light ! " E. FAliott 753 
 
 God save our gracious king Carey 366 
 
 God's child in Clirist adopted, — Christ my all ...Coleridge 678 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' M-ine Burns 54t 
 
 Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand ..E.B.Browning 926 
 Go, happy heart ! for thou slmlt tie Beaumont and Fletcher 121 
 
 Gfjlden slumbers kiss your eyes Dekker 102 
 
 Go, lovel'yrose! Waller 180 
 
 Go not, happy day Tennyson 91t 
 
 Good Aphobus, no more such terrible stories ...linndolph 130 
 
 Good morning to the day : aud next, my gold ! hnson 87 
 
 Good people all, of every sort Goldsmith 4t5 
 
 Good people all, with one accord Goldsmith 415 
 
 Good plays are scarce Byron 784 
 
 Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see C. Dibdin 494 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest Jialcigh 30 
 
 Go where glory waits thee Moore 739 
 
 Go where the water glideth gently ever Reynolds 918 
 
 Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those Byron 8n3 
 
 Great men liave been among us Wordsu>orth 623 
 
 Green grow the rashes, Burns 51-8 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass Hunt 766 
 
 Guilt hears appalled Thomson 343 
 
 Had Cain been Scot Cleveland 227 
 
 Had I a heart for falsehood framed Sheridan 5(H 
 
 Had we but world enough, and time Mar^^cll 243 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the prove! Logan 498 
 
 Hail, Bishop Valentine, whose day this ia Dornie 141 
 
 Hail holy light! offspring of heaven first-born Milton 210 
 
 Ilail! King of glory, clad in I'obcs of light Norris 27S 
 
 Tlail, old palriciaa trees, so great and good ! Cowley 239 
 
 Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserved! Burns 
 
 Hail sister springs Crashaw 
 
 Hail thou, my native soil ! Ihou blessed plot... H'-jBrowJic 
 
 Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Scott 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Shelley 
 
 Hail to thy face aud odors, glorious Sea! Campbell 
 
 Hail wedded love, mysterious law, true source Milton 
 
 Haifa league, half a league Tennyson 
 
 Halt! Shoulder arms ! Recover! As you were ! ...il/ar(iu 
 
 Hamelin Town 's iu Brunswick Browning 
 
 Happy Insect, what can be Cowley 
 
 Happy the man, who liis whole time doth honndi. . .Cowhy 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care Pope 
 
 Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife.../. Philips 
 
 Happy those early days, when 1 Vaugtian 
 
 Hark! ah, the Nightingale! M. Arnold 
 
 Hark ! from yon covert Somerville 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings Shakc-^carc 
 
 Hark ! heard ye not that piercing cry Darwin 
 
 Hark I heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? Byron 
 
 Hark, the bell ! it sounds midnight! all hail Lewis 
 
 Hark ! 't is the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge Cowper 
 Harp of the North I that mouldering long hast hung Scott 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star ColcHdge 
 
 Have they invented tones to win Butler 
 
 He alone remains unshaken Glover 
 
 Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! ...Talfourd 
 
 Hear how I served my lass I love as well lUimsay 
 
 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swnin Crawford 
 
 Heart of the people ! Workingmcn ! Lord Houghton 
 
 Hear, ye ladies that despise Beaumont and Fletcher 
 
 Heaven from all creatures hides the l)00k of fate Pojye 
 
 He clasps the crag with hooked hands Tennyson 
 
 He died, aud left the world behind ! B. W. Procter 
 
 He first deceased; she for a little tried Wotton 
 
 He gave me first my breeding. I acknowledge Jonson 
 
 He had no times of study, and no place Baiky 
 
 Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups J. Ingeloiv 
 
 He is gone on the mountain Scott 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth nmkes free Cowper 
 
 He lives to build, not boast a generous race Savage 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights Beaumont andFletcher 
 
 Hence, avaunt ('tis holy ground) Gray 
 
 Hence away, thou Syren, leave nie WitJter 
 
 Hence, loatb^d Melancholy , Milton 
 
 Hence, vain deluding .joys Milion 
 
 Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock Chalkhill 
 
 Here a pretty baby lies Hcrrick 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling C. Dibdin 
 
 Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells Fletdicr 
 
 Here in the body pent /. Montgomery 
 
 Here lies, to each her parents ruth Jonson 
 
 Here lyes Johnson with the rest Herrick 
 
 Here *s a bank with rich cowslips Darley 
 
 Here's an eye, able to tempt a great miui Tour7icur 
 
 Here she lies, a pretty bud HcT^ick 
 
 Here she lies whose spotless fame F. Beaumont 
 
 Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! ...Jonson 
 
 Here 's to tlie maiden of bashful fit"teen Sheridan 
 
 Here, stranger, in this humble nest Cowley 
 
 Here the self- torturing sophist, wild Rousseau Byron 
 
 Her eye did seem to labor witli a tear Shirley 
 
 Her eyes arc liomes of silent prayer Tennyson 
 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare Wordsworth 
 
 Her eyes the elow-worme lend thee Herrick 
 
 Her face is like the milky way i' the sky Suckling 
 
 Her face bo fairc, as flesh it seemed not Spenser 
 
 Her favorite science was the nmthenmtical Byron 
 
 Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under Shakespeare 
 
 Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Johnson 
 
 He roved among the vales and streams Wordsworth 
 
 Her pretty feet Hci-rick 
 
 He scarce had ceased, when the superior fiend .Milton 
 He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend H. Taylor 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek Carcw 
 
 He that of such a height hath built his mind Daniel 
 
 He touched his harp, and nations Iicnrd. entranced Follok 
 
 533 
 218 
 154 
 633 
 hSl 
 733 
 212 
 917 
 935 
 9S9 
 235 
 2S6 
 323 
 293 
 247 
 919 
 302 
 
 S3 
 407 
 794 
 687 
 453 
 633 
 672 
 226 
 381 
 842 
 306 
 419 
 893 
 119 
 324 
 910 
 783 
 135 
 
 99 
 913 
 959 
 634 
 455 
 335 
 120 
 393 
 153 
 186 
 185 
 156 
 167 
 492 
 122 
 653 
 100 
 167 
 778 
 107 
 164 
 122 
 
 98 
 503 
 239 
 799 
 ISO 
 913 
 oSO 
 167 
 161 
 
 39 
 815 
 
 76 
 377 
 608 
 166 
 199 
 887 
 163 
 
 fr 
 
 -g> 
 
^ 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 989 
 
 -Q) 
 
 He was ouc of many thousjind such H, Taylor 887 
 
 He was the Won), that spake it Dontic iK) 
 
 He who hath beut him o'er the dead Byron 809 
 
 Hey, now the day 'a dawning A. Montgomery 65 
 
 High in front advanced Milton 2H 
 
 High in the airy element there hung G. Fletcher 150 
 
 High iu the breatldess hail the minstrelsate...irorrfsy:orf/i 591 
 
 High on a throne of royal state, which far Milton 204 
 
 His gohlen locks time hath to silver turned Peek 58 
 
 His great heart will not down: 't is like thesea...Cftflpma?i 63 
 
 His learning savours nut the school-like gloss Jonson 99 
 
 " Ho ! " he exclaimed, " King George of England " SoutJiey 703 
 Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land ...Marvell 246 
 
 Home they hraught her warrior dead Tennyson 911 
 
 Honour, riches, marriage-blessing SJiakcspeare 83 
 
 Hope! of all ills that men endure Cowley 235 
 
 Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin TJiackeray 921 
 
 " Ho, sailor of the sea! " Dohell 951 
 
 Hosanua to the living Lord ! Heber 757 
 
 How are tliy servants blest, O Lord Addison 287 
 
 How beautiful is uight! Smitliey 702 
 
 How blest has my time been ! what joys have I ...Moore 381 
 
 How can you hid this heart be blithe Hogg 659 
 
 How charming is divine philosophy! Milton 196 
 
 "How does the water" Southcy 690 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me countthe ways Mrs. Browning 927 
 
 How fares my lord? Home 421 
 
 How fond are men of rule and place Gay 310 
 
 How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Herbert 173 
 
 How happy is he horn and taught Wotton 133 
 
 Ho ! why dost tliou shi^ er and shnke Holcroft 494 
 
 How many summers, love JS. TF. Procter 779 
 
 How many times do I love thee, dear? Beddoes 833 
 
 How near am I now to a Iiappiness Middleton 104 
 
 How old may Pliillis be, you ask Prior 275 
 
 How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed.. Gra/wimc 568 
 
 How purblind is the world Chamberlayne 241 
 
 How pure at heart, and sound in head Tennyson 913 
 
 How reverend is the face of this tall pile Congreve 289 
 
 How seldom, friend ! a good great man inherits Coleridge 675 
 
 How shocking must thy summons be.O Death ! BUiir 337 
 
 How should I your true love know Shakespeare 83 
 
 How sleep the l)rave, who sink to rest .Collins 401 
 
 How snowdrops cold and blue-eyed harebells Darwin 467 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth ...Milton 193 
 
 How strange a thing a Lover seems PcUmore 950 
 
 How sweet I roamed from field to field Blake 520 
 
 How sweet it were, if without feeble fright Hunt 768 
 
 How sweetly flowed the gospel's sound Boxvring 835 
 
 How sweet the harmonies of afternoon F. Tennyson 918 
 
 How sweet thymodest light to view Leyden 707 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze Marvell 244 
 
 How warm this woodland wild recess ! Coleridge 671 
 
 How well you saw Brome 132 
 
 How withered, perished, seems tlie form M. Tighe 689 
 
 How wonderful is Death Shelley 825 
 
 Hunting the buck Beaumont and Fletcher 115 
 
 Hush, my bonny Itabe ! hush, and be still ! Hogg 663 
 
 Hush! my dear, lie still, and slumher Watts 292 
 
 I am coming, I am coming ! M. Howitt 884 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey Cowper 455 
 
 I arise from dreams of thee ..: Shelley 834 
 
 I asked my fair one happy day Coleridge 677 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers ...Shelley 830 
 
 I cannot change as others do Earl of Rochester 36" 
 
 I cannot think the glorious world of mind Leighton 957 
 
 I can repeople with the past, — and of Byron 802 
 
 I care not, though it be Norris 277 
 
 I charm thy life SoutMy 703 
 
 I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn ...Scott 646 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and heni Tennyson 915 
 
 I come not here your candor to implore Lyttelton 378 
 
 I could never have the power Bea/timont and Fletcher 118 
 
 I die for thy sweet love ! The grouTid B. IP". Procter 783 
 
 I'd leave the world for him that hates a woman ... Otivay 270 
 I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find..... Ayton 135 
 
 I do not love thee for that fair Carcw 
 
 I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun M. Lucas 
 
 If all our hopes and all our fears BowHng 
 
 If all the pens that ever poet held Marlowe 
 
 If all these Cupids now were blind Jonson 
 
 If all the w^orld and love were young Raleigh 
 
 If anght of oaten stop or pastoral song Collins 
 
 If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Coleridge 
 
 If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse Tickell 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden Sliclley 
 
 If Heaven the gratefid liljerty would give Pomfret 
 
 If I had thought thou coxddst have died Wolfe 
 
 If I should love a maiden more Hood 
 
 If our souls have stained their firstwhite, yet we. ..Donne 
 
 If she be made of white and red Shakespeare 
 
 If she doth then the subtle sense excel Davies 
 
 If this fair rose off"end thy sight Anon. 
 
 If those who live in shepherd's bower Thomson 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance . . .Rogers 
 
 If tliou wert by my side, my love! Heber 
 
 If (hou wilt case tliine henrt ..Beddoes 
 
 If tliou wouldst view fair Melrose aright Scott 
 
 If thou wouldst view one more than man and less Macavlay 
 
 If to be absent were to be Lovelace 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fou(l...EarlofOxfoi-d 
 If you 're waking, call me early, call me early Tennyson 
 
 I gaed a' waefn' gate yestreen Burns 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain Wordsworth 
 
 I hate that drum's discordant sound J. Scott 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions Lamb 
 
 I have led her home, my love, my only friend... Tennyson 
 
 I have seen a curious child Wordsworth 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes Wordsworth 
 
 I in these flowery meads would be Walton 
 
 I judge the Muse of lewd desire Watts 
 
 I knew by the smoke that so gracefully cui'led Moore 
 
 I know that all beneath tlie moon decays .Drummo7ul 
 
 I lang hae tliought, my youthfu' friend Bums 
 
 I lately lived in quiet case Hogg 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become Byron 
 
 I '11 hear no more, tliou wretch 1 Garrick 
 
 I'll henceforth be indeed a father; never Otway 
 
 Illustrious England, ancient scat of kings Peele 
 
 I long to talk witli some old lover's ghost Donne 
 
 I lov'd tliee once, I Ml love no more Ayton 
 
 I love (and have some cause to love) the earth ...Quarles 
 
 I love an enemy, I was born a soldier J. Fletcher 
 
 I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone Landor 
 
 I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare E. Cook 
 
 I love the jocund dance Blake 
 
 I made a posie while the day ran by ...Herbert 
 
 I met Louisa in the shade Wordsioorth 
 
 Immodest words admit of no defence Earl of Roscommon 
 
 Immortal gods, I crave no pelf Sliakcspeare 
 
 I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary Lady Dufferin 
 
 I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read Daniel 
 
 I'm wearing nwa', Jean Lady Nairn 
 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene Cowley 
 
 In a glnd hour Lucina's aid Swift 
 
 In a king all places are contained Chapman 
 
 In all the land, range up, range down Buchanan 
 
 In a maiden-time professed Middleton 
 
 In ancient times, as story tells Swift 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien Landor 
 
 In Cyprus springs, whereas Dame Venus dwelt ...Surrey 
 
 " Indeed," said Lucid, " 1 have often heard " Spenser 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly Brydges 
 
 I ne'er could any lustre see Sheridan 
 
 I never gave a lock of hair away E. B. Browning 
 
 In good King Charles's golden days Anon. 
 
 In heaven, (me holiday, you read Prior 
 
 In his strong amies he stiflyhim embraste Spe-nscr 
 
 In Kohln, a town of monks and bones Coleridge 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood WordMOorth 
 
 In Love's name you arc charged hereby Shirley 
 
 In May, as that Aurora did upspring Dunbar 
 
 In mv poor mind it is most sweet to muse Lamb 
 
 161 
 247 
 835 
 71 
 98 
 30 
 401 
 676 
 
 823 
 858 
 140 
 
 78 
 137 
 984 
 336 
 564 
 758 
 8S3 
 626 
 867 
 333 
 
 84 
 901 
 548 
 623 
 4-16 
 713 
 914 
 619 
 597 
 128 
 293 
 738 
 148 
 537 
 661 
 798 
 386 
 270 
 
 58 
 141 
 135 
 168 
 116 
 709 
 944 
 530 
 172 
 579 
 264 
 
 84 
 891 
 
 67 
 571 
 337 
 284 
 
 63 
 963 
 104 
 283 
 709 
 
 32 
 
 55 
 556 
 503 
 927 
 981 
 37- 
 
 41 
 678 
 622 
 1J9 
 
 19 
 7U 
 
 fr 
 
 ^ 
 
cQ- 
 
 990 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Innocence is a defence B^ithr 225 
 
 In pride of wit, when high desire of fame Drayton 70 
 
 In Rome no temple was so low Butler 225 
 
 In Seai'let townc, wlierc I was I)onie Anon. 968 
 
 In scenes like these, which, daring to depart Collins 4^)3 
 
 Insensible to high heroic deeds J. Baillie 555 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the sniloi- boy lay Dimond 939 
 
 In such a night when every louder wind ...A. Winchdsea 33t 
 
 Interred i)eneath this marble stone : Prior 271 
 
 In that, Queen of queens, thy birth was free ...Donne 140 
 
 In the days o' langsyne Giljillan 93G 
 
 In the dirge we sung o'er him Moore 744 
 
 In the downhill of life, when I find I *m declining Anon. 977 
 
 In the still airthc music lies unheard Bonar 890 
 
 Invidious Grave! how dost thou rend in sunder ...Blair 337 
 
 III what torn ship soever I embark Donne 142 
 
 In winter, when the rain rained cauid Anon. 977 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan Coleridge 668 
 
 In yonder grave a Druid lies Collins 403 
 
 Ion, our souietime darling, whom we prized Tal/ourd 841 
 
 I pant for the music whicli is divine Shelley 834 
 
 Ipliigenia, when she heard lier doom Landor 708 
 
 I pity, from my soul, unhappy men ...Earl of Roscommon 265 
 
 I pray thee, love, love me no more Drayton 70 
 
 I prythec send me back my heart Suckling 161 
 
 I remember, I rememl)er Hood 800 
 
 I rose anone and thought I woulde gone Chaucer 13 
 
 I saw a boy with eager eye Mary Lamb 715 
 
 I saw an aged beggar in my walk l^ordsworth 601 
 
 I saw eternity the other night Vaughan 24S 
 
 I saw him on the l)attle-eve M. J. Jeivshury 837 
 
 I saw thy form in youthful prime Mowe 74(J 
 
 I saw where in the shroud did lurk Lamb 713 
 
 Is chance a guilt, that my disastrous heart Savage 335 
 
 I see before me the gladiator lie Byron 807 
 
 I see them on their winding way Heber 759 
 
 I sent for Katclilfe ; was so ill Prior 276 
 
 I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau Cmvpcr 457 
 
 Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead E. B. Browning 927 
 
 Is not yon gleam the shuddering mom Marsion 104 
 
 1 sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he Broxvning 932 
 
 Is there a whim-inspired fool Burns StG 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty Bui">is 541 
 
 "Is there no hope?" the sick man said .Gay 311 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Byron 796 
 
 1 stood in Virnice, on the Bridge of Sighs Byron 801 
 
 I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes Earl of Stirling 144 
 
 It chanced to me upon a time to sail O'Reilly 961 
 
 I tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve Congrci^e 290 
 
 I tell thee, Pick, where I have been Suckling 159 
 
 It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands ...Hunt 767 
 
 I that ne'er tasted the Castalian fount. John Taylor 184 
 
 I' the thrang o' stories tellin A. Wilson 571 
 
 I thought of thee, my partner and my guide... iror(?^i(jor(/(. 624 
 I thought once liow Tlicocritus Imd sung . . .E. B. Browning 920 
 
 I thought to pass away before Tennyson 902 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free Wordsworth 620 
 
 It is a place where poets crowned E.B. Browning 924 
 
 It is methinks a morning full of fate Jonson 99 
 
 It is not Beauty I demand Anon. 978 
 
 It is not growing like a tree Jonson 100 
 
 It is not noon, — the suubow's rays still arch Byron 812 
 
 It is not that I love you less Waller 182 
 
 It is not to be thought of, that the flood Wordsworth 6i33 
 
 ^It is Opinion governs all mankind Butler 225 
 
 It is the soul that sees; the outward eyes Crabbe 514 
 
 It lies beside the river, where its marge Rmkin 945 
 
 It little profits that an idle king ; Tennyson 903 
 
 It must be done, my aoul, but 't is a strange Norris 278 
 
 it must l)e 80 — Plato, thou reason'st well ! Addison 2S8 
 
 I too have suffered. Yet I know M. Anwhl 919 
 
 It *s hame, and it 's lianie A. Cunningham 7G9 
 
 It was a beauty that I saw Jonson 98 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray Percy 429 
 
 It was a question whether ho' Butler 226 
 
 It was a summer evening Southey 695 
 
 It was a valley fdliil with sweetest sounds Miller 892 
 
 It was the calm and silent night! Domett 9;W 
 
 It was the time when the still moon Cowley 237 
 
 It was the wild midnight Croly 748 
 
 I 've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking J. Elliot 485 
 
 1 've often wished that I could write a book Frcre 572 
 
 1 *ve seen the smiling A. Cockburn 486 
 
 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west Motherwell 851 
 
 Ivy leaves rank o'ersprcad the banukin wall Douglas 20 
 
 I wandered by the brookside Lord Howjhton 893 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud Wordsworth 586 
 
 I was acquainted once with a time J. Fletcher 117 
 
 I was a scholar: seven useful springs Marstoti 105 
 
 I was a stricken (leer, that left the herd Cou^er 452 
 
 I was a wild and wayward boy Scott 611 
 
 I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged ]}'He]... Wordsworth 603 
 
 I will not let you say a woman's part A. A. Procter 961 
 
 I wish I had a cottage snug and neat Tennant 774 
 
 I wish I was where Anna lies .Gifford 518 
 
 I would not from the wise require Milman 825 
 
 Jacob ! I do not like to see thy nose Southey 691 
 
 Jennie kissed me when we met Hunt 768 
 
 Jess and Jill are pretty girls C. G. Rossetti 955 
 
 Jcsu, lover of my soul Wesley 369 
 
 Jog on, jog on, the footpath way Shakespeare 82 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John Burns 541 
 
 Jobn Gilpin was a cilizen Cowper 458 
 
 Jorasse was in his Ihree-and-twentieth year Rogers 565 
 
 Joy to Philip, he this day Mary Lamb 716 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us Browning 929 
 
 Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' GleniflFer Tannahill 685 
 
 Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King Bi'owning 934 
 
 King Francis was a hearty king Hunt 768 
 
 Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet Sioinburne 965 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and, myrtle ...Byron 810 
 Know you not our only Hunt 769 
 
 Lackyng my Love, I go from place to place Spenser 
 
 Lady Clara Vere dc Vere Tennyson 
 
 Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome HalUtvi 
 
 Lady ! the songs of spring were in the grove Wordsworth 
 
 Lady, why blend these dying sweets ^7ion. 
 
 Laid out for dead, let thy last kindnesse be .Herrick 
 
 Last night I tossed and turned in bed Moore 
 
 Lately on yonder swelling bush Waller 
 
 Lausanne! and Ferney ! ye Imve been the abodes... Byron 
 
 Lawn, as white as driven snow Shakespeare 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse Beaumont and Fletcher 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall Mrs, Hemans 
 
 Lest you should think that verse shall die Pope 
 
 Let age no longer toil with feeble strife Langhcrne 
 
 Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love Thomson 
 
 Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain Carcto 
 
 Let it no longer lie a forlorn hope Crasftaw 
 
 Let me not have this gloomy view Crabbe 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds ...Shakespenre 
 
 Let observatiim, with extensive view Johnson 
 
 Let the bird of loudest lay Shakespeare 
 
 Let tlieru first know themselves Massingcr 
 
 Let those complain that feel Love's cruelty ....Bca». <C Fl. 
 Let those who are in favor with their stars ...Shakespeare 
 
 Let time and chance combine, combine Carbjk 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go Tannahill 
 
 'Life, had he not his answer? ...Middleton 
 
 Life! I know not what thou art Mrs. Barhauld 
 
 Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream Landor 
 
 Like an enfranchised l)ird who wildly springs. ..C. Norton 
 
 Like an island in a river Bailey 
 
 Like souls that balance joy and pain Tennyson 
 
 Like the violet which, alone Habington 
 
 Like to Piaim in her summer weed Greene 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere Lodge 
 
 Like to the falling of a star King 
 
 Lions are kings of beasts, and yet their power Butler 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel I beware of the day Can^phell 
 
 Lo! God is here! kt us adore ..Wcsk'i 
 
 64 
 899 
 920 
 621 
 984 
 163 
 738 
 179 
 801 
 
 82 
 118 
 833 
 333 
 i^o 
 
 340 
 162 
 219 
 517 
 
 74 
 373 
 
 75 
 123 
 120 
 
 72 
 850 
 C^7 
 10-t 
 492 
 70S) 
 891 
 942 
 910 
 174 
 
 59 
 
 60 
 155 
 225 
 721 
 369 
 
 t-*- 
 
 -EP 
 
f 
 
 INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 
 
 991 
 
 -Q) 
 
 Lo! liere the gentle lark, weary of rest SJmkespeare 76 
 
 Lo! 1, the man whose Muse wbylomc did mnske .. Spenser 31 
 
 Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour Davy 735 
 
 Look at me with thy large brcwn eyes D. M. Mulocic 952 
 
 Lookback! a thought which borders on despair Churchill 409 
 Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount... il/i^(oft 31.Tt 
 
 Look on those lips Marston 106 
 
 Look out, bright eyes, aud bless the air! Beau. £ Ft. 120 
 
 Look up to Peutland's towering tap Ramsay 305 
 
 Look, when a painter would surpass the life S)takcspeare 76 
 
 Lord! as the heart embost with lieat Sandys 143 
 
 Lord! calUhy pallid angel E.Elliott 753 
 
 Lord Lovel stands at his stable door Anon. 968 
 
 Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band ...Prior 276 
 
 Lord, when I quit this earthly stage Watts 291 
 
 Lord, with M-liat care hast thou begirt ua round '. Herbert 170 
 
 Loud roared the dreadful thunder Cheney 55G 
 
 Lo\e can with speech inspire a mute Swift 295 
 
 Love divine, all love excelling Toplady 486 
 
 Love in my bosom, like a bee Lodge 01 
 
 Love is blind, and fi wanton Jonson 97 
 
 Love is lilce a lamb, and love is like a lion Middldon 10-i 
 
 Love is that madness whicli all lovers liavc Drydcii 203 
 
 Love is the sire, dam, nurse, and seed P. Fletcher 152 
 
 Love is too great a happiness Butler 225 
 
 Love me little, love me long! Anon. 977 
 
 Love mistress is of many minds Southwell Oi 
 
 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul..,.ff. Philips 2Gi 
 
 Love not me for comely grace Anon. 981 
 
 Love *s but the frailty of the mind .* Congreve 2S9 
 
 Love still has something of the sea Sedlcy 267 
 
 Love, that liveth and reiguetli in my thought Surrey 22 
 
 Love various minds does variously inspire Dryden 263 
 
 Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours Gray 389 
 
 Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use Marvdl 2i3 
 
 Lyke as the culver on the bared bough Spenser 55 
 
 Madame, 1 do, as is my duty Butler 326 
 
 Madam, the gentleman 's below Southern 270 
 
 Jladam, there is a lady in your hall J. BallUe 553 
 
 Madam, what makes yon cvil-ofhc'd man Tourneur 107 
 
 Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness George Eliot 946 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part Byron 785 
 
 Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve! Coleridge G .6 
 
 Mammon emmoved was with inward wrath Spenser 43 
 
 Man is a torch borne in the wind; a dream Chapman 02 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale Scott 045 
 
 Margarita firs.t possest Cowley 234 
 
 Marry, I lent my gossip my mare Lyndsay 21 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain Surrey 23 
 
 Mary! I want a lyre with other strings Cowpcr 464 
 
 Jfa.xwelton hanks are bounie Douglass 980 
 
 May, queen of blossoms Thurlow 752 
 
 May the Babylonish curse Lamh 711 
 
 Meantime, tlie moist malignity to shun Armstrong 378 
 
 Meanwhile the adversary of God and man Milton 209 
 
 Men are but children of a larger growth Dryden 204 
 
 Merry it is in the good greenwood Scott 035 
 
 MeiTV Margaret Skelton 21 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here H. Knoivlcs 854 
 
 Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil Wordsworth 624 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused samt Milton 194 
 
 Me thought I saw the grave wlicrc Laura lay Raleigh 30 
 
 Mid crowded obelisks and urns Wordsworth 593 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! H.K. White 773 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour... W'ord^-)t'or(/t 622 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hiil Rogers 567 
 
 Miserable creature, if thou persist in this Webster 111 
 
 Mona on Saowdon calls Mason 424 
 
 'Mong these there was a politician Butler 226 
 
 Mont Blane is the monarch of mountains Byron 811 
 
 Mordanto fills (h.- trump of fame Swift 280 
 
 Mortality, biliold and fear! F. Beaumont 122 
 
 Most miseiable man, whom wicked fate Spenser 56 
 
 Mother's wag, pretty boy Greene 59 
 
 Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Smollett 407 
 
 Mr, Bull was a Whig orator, a]soasoap-laborator...7/)ig7ics 873 
 
 Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase Chvrchill 470 
 
 Much have 1 travelled in the realms of gold Keats 849 
 
 Much in the stranger's mien appears Scott 641 
 
 • Muses, that sing Love's sensual empiric Chapman 62 
 
 Music has charms to soothe a savage breast Congreve 290 
 
 Musiek, thou quern of heaven Herrick 165 
 
 Music, when soft voices die Shelley 833 
 
 My boat is on the shore Byron 786 
 
 My book and taper Dekker 100 
 
 My brier that smelledst sweet Landor 709 
 
 My brother Jack was nine in May James Smith 704 
 
 My Daphne's hair is twisted gold Lyly 28 
 
 My days among the dead are passed Southcy 702 
 
 My dear and only love, 1 pray Marquess of Montrose 226 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings! " Lockhart 840 
 
 My eyes make pictures, when they are shut Coleridge 675 
 
 My fairest child, I have no song to give you Kingslcy 946 
 
 My father oft would speak Bea^imont and Fletcher 116 
 
 My God, 1 heard this day Herbert 171 
 
 My God, thy service well demands Doddridge 365 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men Tenjiyson 90S 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Keats 847 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold Wordsivorth 578 
 
 My heart 'sin the Highlands, my heart is not here.. Burns 545 
 
 My heid is like to rend, Willie Motherwell 851 
 
 My little boy, with pale, round cheeks Macdonald 951 
 
 My lord, my love, my refuge ! Otway 269 
 
 My loved, my honored, much respected friend! ...Burns 524 
 
 My love lie built nie a bonny bower Anon. 979 
 
 My lute, be as thou wert when thou D'rumviond 143 
 
 My mind to me a kingdom is Byrd 28 
 
 My mother bore me in the Southern wild Blake 521 
 
 Sly Peggy's face, my Peggy's fonu Burns 547 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft check reclined Coleridge 670 
 
 My pipe is lit, my grog is mi.ved Hood 857 
 
 My sheep are neglected, I broke my sheep-hook. ..G. Elliot 486 
 
 My silks and hue array Blake 520 
 
 My son, thou oft hast seen Addison 289 
 
 My soul is an enchanted boat Shelley 827 
 
 Mysterious night ! when our firit parent knew J.B.White 7*^8 
 
 My task is done, — my song hath ceased Byron 809 
 
 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent Byroni 332 
 
 My untried Muse shall no high tone assume ...Bloomjield 570 
 
 Nae gentle dames, though e'er sae fair Burns 547 
 
 Naked on parent's knees, a new-born child Sir W.Joyies 496 
 
 ** Naught loves another as itself" Blake 522 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow Byron 795 
 
 Needy knife-grinder ! whither are you going ? ...Canning 574 
 Never till now, — never till now, queen. ...B. W.Procter 781 
 
 Next to these ladies, but iu naught allied Crabbe 510 
 
 Next week will iiepublislied Moore 747 
 
 Night brings out stars as soitow shows us tniths Bailey 942 
 
 Night is the time for rest J. Montgomery 649 
 
 Nobles and heralds, by your leave Prior 277 
 
 No cultivated garden did he own Leighton 957 
 
 No, doubtless ; for tlie mind can backward cast ...Davies 135 
 No longer mourn for mc when I am dead ...Shakespeare 73 
 
 No man has more contempt than 1 of breath Dryden 363 
 
 No more — no more — O, nevermore on me Byron 816 
 
 No more the Grecian Muse unrivalled reigns Mason 425 
 
 Nor love is always of a vicious kind Dryden 260 
 
 Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds Coxtpcr 449 
 
 Nor shall tlie conscious soul Blair 337 
 
 Nor stop the terrors of these regions here Thomson 341 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea Southey 694 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Wolfe 833 
 
 Not caring to oltserve the wind Waller 182 
 
 Not, Celia. that 1 juster am Scdley 367 
 
 Not far advanced was morning day Scott 629 
 
 Not far from where my father lives, a lady Massingcr 126 
 
 Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell Wordsworth 621 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Shakespeare 73 
 
 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul... Shakespeare 74 
 
 No trumpet's thrilling call is heard Bennoeh 941 
 
 Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung ...Barrett 866 
 Not the last strugde of the sun Landor 709 
 
 ^- 
 
 ■^ 
 
a- 
 
 992 
 
 INDEX OP FIRST LINES. 
 
 -0) 
 
 Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep Good 930 
 
 Nought is there under heaven's wide hoUownesse Spmiser 33 
 
 Now, all ye peaceful regents of the night Chapman 63 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes Wither lo-i 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts Macaulay 867 
 
 Now hands to seed-sheet, hoys Carlyle 850 
 
 Now I turn to thee, thou shadow Foj-d 127 
 
 Now, mid the general glow of opening blooms Grahame 569 
 
 Now, ray friends, emerge ColeHdge 671 
 
 Now ray lord liad the honor of coming down itosi...Anstey 422 
 
 Now Nature hangs her mantle green BnrJis 546 
 
 Now ponder well, you parents deare Anon. 972 
 
 Now stop your noses, readers, all and some Dryden 254 
 
 Now Suranier has one foot from out the world. ..TftMrZow 751 
 Now that the winter 's gone, the earth Imth lost ...Carew 162 
 
 Now the golden morn aloft Gray 394 
 
 Now the hungry lion roars Sluxkespeare 79 
 
 Now the storoi begins to lower Gray 395 
 
 Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Crashaw 215 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room lyordsworth 620 
 
 0, a dainty plant is the ivy green Dickens 922 
 
 O, blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers Moore 740 
 
 lilithe new-conic-r ! I have heard Wordsworth 586 
 
 Boswcll, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name Wolcott 485 
 
 O, breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade... ilfoore 740 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky Cowper 405 
 
 Och ! the Coronation ! what celebration Barkam 820 
 
 O, could you view the melody Lovelace 232 
 
 day most calm, most bright ! Herbert 170 
 
 O, do not wanton with those eyes .Jonson 98 
 
 0, do not wrong him. 'T is a generous mind ...Tourncur 107 
 
 O'er moorlands and mountains rude J. Cunningham 446 
 
 O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea Byron 611 
 
 O'er the wild gannet's bath Darlcy 772 
 
 O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold Coleridge 678 
 
 O fair sweet face I O eyes celestial bright Beau. & Fl. 119 
 
 O fair sweet goddess, queen of love Beau. & Fl. 121 
 
 Of all speculations the market holds forth ...Moore 745 
 
 Of all tlie floures in the niede Chaucer 13 
 
 Of all the gills that are so smart Carey 365 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are E. B. Browning 924 
 
 Of all those arts in which the wise excel J. Sheffield 269 
 
 Of a* the airts the wind can blaw Burns 542 
 
 Of English blood, of Tuscan birth E.B.Browning 925 
 
 0, fie upon this single life: forego it Webster 110 
 
 Of Jupiter thus I find y-writ Gower 15 
 
 Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair Tickell 303 
 
 Of manners gentle, of affections mild Pope 323 
 
 Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit Milton 196 
 
 Of Nelson and the North Campbell 722 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights Tennyson 903 
 
 Of old, when Scarron his coinpauions mviteH. ...Goldsmith 441 
 
 O for a closer walk witli God Cowper 463 
 
 O fur a lodge in some vast wilderness Cowper 450 
 
 O for a tongue to curse the slave Moore 747 
 
 friend ! I know not which way I must look Wordsivorth Gfi2 
 
 Of stature tall, and straightly fashioned Marlowe 70 
 
 Oft lias it been my lot to mark Merrick 393 
 
 Of the erl Hugelj-n of Pyse the langour Chaucer 11 
 
 Of tliis fair volume which we World do a&me... Dnimmond 149 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray Wordsworth 578 
 
 Oft in the stilly night Moore 743 
 
 Oft that wild untutored race would draw Frebe 573 
 
 O good, gigantic smile o' the brown old earth ...Browning 934 
 O griefe of gricfes ! gall of all good heartes ! ...Spenser 55 
 
 happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! Sidney 56 
 
 " O Heaven ! " quoth she, " ran that be true P " . ..Butler 226 
 Oh ! for my sake do you with fortune chide... Shakespeare 74 
 
 Holy, blessed, glorious Trinity Jonson 95 
 
 O, if Love shall live, O, where Crashaw 219 
 
 O, if thou knew'st how thou thyself doat harm ...Stirling 114 
 
 O Italy, how beautiful thou art! Rogers 562 
 
 O, it is hard to work for God Faher 938 
 
 O, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease CoUridge 678 
 
 O, ken ye Meg n' Marlcy glen Hogg 660 
 
 Old harp of the Highlands Hogg 658 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul Anon. 982 
 
 0, listen, listen, ladies gayl Scott 628 
 
 Logan, sweetly didst thou glide Burns 544 
 
 lovely Mary Donnelly AUingham 953 
 
 O majestic Night! Young 302 
 
 0, many are the poets that arc sown Wordsworth 616 
 
 O Mary, at thy window be Burns 545 
 
 "O Mary, go and call the cattle home" Kingsley 945 
 
 O, may I join the choir invisible George Eliot 947 
 
 melancholy bird, a winter's day Thurlow 752 
 
 O mistress mine, where are you roaming? ...Sfiakespeare 80 
 
 O mortal man, who livest here by toil Tnomson S46 
 
 O my lord, lie not idle Webster 111 
 
 0, my love 's like the steadfast sun A. Cunningham 770 
 
 0, my luve 's like a red, red rose Burns 543 
 
 On a day, (alack the day !) Shakespeare 78 
 
 On a hUl there grows a flower Breton 57 
 
 Nanny, wilt thou gang wi* me Percy 430 
 
 Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee ...Wordsworth 622 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past J. Montgomei'y 653 
 
 Once more, luy harp! ouce more Mrs. Norton 890 
 
 Once more to distant ages of the world Wordsworth C18 
 
 Orce on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping Wolcott 463 
 
 One after one the lords of time advance Lord Lytton 878 
 
 One day, as I was going by Hood 863 
 
 One day, it matters not to know Southey 703 
 
 On either side the river lie Tennyson S97 
 
 One more unfortunate Hood 860 
 
 One night came on a hunicane C. Dibdin 493 
 
 0, never rudely will I blame his faith Coleridge 679 
 
 On Gillie's hill, whose height commands Scott 643 
 
 On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood Marlowe 71 
 
 On his death-bed poor Lubin lies Prior 275 
 
 Nightingale, best poet of the grove Thomson 338 
 
 O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Milton 193 
 
 On Leven's banks, while free to rove Smollett 406 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low Camjibell 723 
 
 On man, on nature, and on human life Wordsworth 616 
 
 On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide Cowley 340 
 
 0, no! we never mention her Bayly 853 
 
 On Sunday, here, an altered scene R. Fergusson 503 
 
 On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming! Campbell 719 
 
 O parent of each lovely muse! /. Warton 419 
 
 O reader! hast thou ever stood to see Southey 700 
 
 O, rest, my baby, rest! Sterling 888 
 
 0, Robin Hood was a bowman good , Scott 646 
 
 ORome! my country ! city of the soul! Byron 805 
 
 Orpheus I am, come from the deeps below ...Beau, d' Fi 131 
 
 Orpheus with his lute made trees Shakespeare 83 
 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Byron 808 
 
 0, saiily may I rue the day Hogg 657 
 
 O, saM- ye bonnie Lesley Burns 545 
 
 O, saw ye not fair Ines? Hood S59 
 
 0, saw ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een? Anon. 981 
 
 0. say! what is that thing called light Gibber 286 
 
 O, snatched away in beauty's bloom Byron 790 
 
 Solitude, romantic maid ! Grainger 409 
 
 0, St. Patrick was a gentleman H. Bennett 777 
 
 Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South Tennyson 911 
 
 O sweetest sweet, and fairest fair Anon. 969 
 
 O, synge untoe my roundelaie Chatterton 505 
 
 0, that joy so soon should waste! Jonson 97 
 
 that the chemist's magic art Rogers 567 
 
 that the desert were my dwclling-plaee Byron 803 
 
 O that tliose lips had language ! Life has passed ...Cowper 461 
 
 O, the dangerous siege Chapman 63 
 
 0, the month of May, the merry month of May ...Ikkker 101 
 
 O. the sight entrancing Moore 742 
 
 thou brave ruin of the passed time Thurlow 751 
 
 O thou Conqueror J. Fletcher 116 
 
 thou great Fower! in whom we move Wotton 133 
 
 O, thou Parnassus! whom 1 now survey Byron 795 
 
 thou soft natural death! that art joint twin ...Webster 111 
 
 thou that, with surpassing glory crowned Milton 211 
 
 thou, the nymph with placid eye! Mrs. Barbanhl 4S9 
 
 Othnu! whatever title suit thee Burns 531 
 
 Thou whose power o'er moving worlds presides Johnson 377 
 
 fr 
 
 :^ 
 
 s 
 
cfi- 
 
 INDEX OF FIKST LINES. 
 
 993 
 
 -Q5 
 
 thoxi, whose tentlev serious eyes Thomson 337 
 
 OTime! who know'st a lenitut hand to lay Borvles 553 
 
 O, 't is wondrous mucli Chapman 63 
 
 Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet ...Bowles 558 
 imkind! And sliall we never see each other P Talfourd 812 
 
 Our tingles sang truce Cam.'phell 7-5 
 
 Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim Prior 27-t 
 
 Our lite is twofold : sleep hath its own world Byron 792 
 
 Our patron Pha?hii3, whose sweet \ni\\\t:nce..Jokn Taylor 181 
 
 Out upon it, I have lov'd Si(ckling 160 
 
 Over hill, over dale Shakespeare 78 
 
 Over the mountains Anon. 978 
 
 Over the sea our galleys went Browning 928 
 
 Maly, waly up the bank Anon. 971 
 
 O, weel may the boatie row Ewen 755 
 
 O, weep for Moncontonr ! weep for the liour Macavlay 866 
 
 O, what is man, great Maker of mankind ! Davics 139 
 
 0, what is this which shines so bright Bowles 559 
 
 0, what 's the matter? wliat's the matter ?...Wordsivorth 600 
 
 0, what will a' the lads do Hogg 659 
 
 O, when 't i3 summer weather Bowles 559 
 
 O, wherefore come ye forth Macaulay 869 
 
 0, whither am I wrapt beyond myself? Dekker 101 
 
 0, why sboiUd the spirit of mortal be proud? Knox 822 
 
 wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being Shelley 829 
 
 Winter, niler of the iuverted year Coivper 45i 
 
 ye cold-hearted, frozen formalists! Young SOI 
 
 yet we trust that somehow good Tennyson 912 
 
 ye wha are sne guld yoursel Burns 542 
 
 0, young Lochinvar is come out of the west Scott 62S 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day Jleywood 106 
 
 Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed Lyly 28 
 
 Pardon, goddess of the night Shakespeare 80 
 
 Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Ford 127 
 
 Passions are liken'd best to Hoods and streams ..Raleigh 30 
 
 Patience, my lord! why, *t is the soul of peace Dekker 102 
 
 Patriots, alas! the few that have been found Covjper 449 
 
 Phrebus, arise! Druvimond 149 
 
 Phyllis! why should we delay JValler 181 
 
 Pibroch of Ponuil Phu Scott 61/ 
 
 Pious Sclinda goes to prayers Congreve 290 
 
 Piped the Blackliird, on the beechwood spray ...Westivood 937 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot Udall 24 
 
 Piping down the valleys wild Blake 520 
 
 Pity, pity, pity ! Middlcton 104 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! Moss 557 
 
 Poor little Willie Massey 955 
 
 Powers celestial, whose protection Burns 540 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire J. Montgomery 651 
 
 Prayer, the churches banquet, angels age Herbert 170 
 
 Pride of the British stage Campbell '27 
 
 Prince of the fallen ! around thee sweep Cro^y 749 
 
 Promoting concord, and composing strife Drydeii 256 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood Scott 648 
 
 Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair Jonson 97 
 
 Quin, from afar, lured by the scent of fame Chnrckill 468 
 
 Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares IVotton 134 
 
 Red rowes the Nith 'tween hank and brae A. Cunningham 769 
 
 Religion, thou life of life Sylvester 65 
 
 Remember thee! reniKmber thee ! Byron 785 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Goldsmith 431 
 
 Restore thy tresses to the golden ore Daniel 67 
 
 Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights Soiithwell 63 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky Tennyson 913 
 
 Rise from the shades below Beaumont and Fletcher 118 
 
 Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast Alford 896 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, — roll! ...Byron 808 
 
 Roll on, ye stars ! exult in youthful prime Darwin 467 
 
 Roses, their sharp spines being gone Beau. & Fl. 120 
 
 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea Browning 934 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch Anon. 984 
 
 " Ruin seize thee, nithless king!" G-ray 393 
 
 Sabrina fair Milton 196 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going De Vcre 
 
 Say first, for heaven hides nothing from thy view... Milt ou 
 Say over again, and yet once over again ...E. B. Bro^vmng 
 
 " Say, what remains when hope is fled?" Eogcrs 
 
 Say, when the spirit fleets away W. Herbert 
 
 Say, why was man so eminently raised Akensidc 
 
 " Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my oin thms; "...Macncill 
 Schiller! that hour 1 would liave wished to die Coleridge 
 
 Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have Wordsworth 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled Burns 
 
 Searching auld wives' barrels Bums 
 
 See how the orient dew Marvcll 
 
 See Sir Robert! — bum Pope 
 
 See'st thou how gayly my young master goes Hall 
 
 See'st thou not, in clearest days Wither 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love Jonson 
 
 See, the dapple gray coursers of the mora Marston 
 
 See, what an humble bravery doth shine LovcUice 
 
 Seldom, nlas ! the power of logic reigns Cowpcr 
 
 Send down thy winged angel, God! B. W. Procter 
 
 Sensibility, how charming Burns 
 
 Seraph of heaven ! too gentle to be human Shelley 
 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace Wordsivorth 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? Sluikespeare 
 
 Shall men for whom our age Wordsworth 
 
 Shall pride a heap of s.culptured marble raise Garrick 
 
 Shame upon you, Robin Tennyson 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways Wordsicorth 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing Bums 
 
 She is far fi-oni the land Moore 
 
 She is not fair to outward view H. Coleridge 
 
 She, of whose soul, if we may say, 'twas gold Donne 
 
 She on a dewy leaf doth bathe Duchess of Newcastle 
 
 She once was a lady of honor and wealth Griffin 
 
 She 's ganc to dwall in heaven, my lassie A. Cunningham 
 
 She sleeps amongst her pillows soft B. W. Procter 
 
 She stood a moment as a Pythoness Byron 
 
 She stood breast-high amid the corn Hood 
 
 She turns, and, ere she knows, her lord she spies Fairfax 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night Byron 
 
 She was a creature framed by love divine //. Taylor 
 
 She was all mildness ; yet 't was writ Patmore 
 
 She was a phantom of dL-light Wordsworth 
 
 She whom this hcai't must ever hold most dear ...De Vere 
 
 Slie wore a wreath of roses Bayly 
 
 Shimei, whose youth did early promise bring Drydcn 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot Burns 
 
 Should erring nature casual faults disclose ...Langhorne 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair? George Eliot 
 
 Should once the world resolve to abolish Butler 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more Shakespeare 
 
 Silent nymph, with curious eye Dyer 
 
 Since you are not to be diverted, sir Massingcr 
 
 Sing his praises that doth keep ...Beaumont and Fletcher 
 
 Sing, I pray, a little song B. W.Procter 
 
 Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing ...Dc Vere 
 
 Sing to Apollo, god of day Lyly 
 
 Sir Gawain may be painted in aword Frere 
 
 Sir Marniadukc was a hearty knight Colman 
 
 Sistors ! sisters ! who sent you here? Coleridge 
 
 Six hours in sleep, in law's grave study six. ..Sir W. Jones 
 
 Six years had passed, and forty ere the six Crahbe 
 
 Slave of the dark and dirty mine! ' Leydcn 
 
 Sleep breathes at last I'rom out thee Hunt 
 
 Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed King 
 
 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares Mrs Barbauld 
 
 Slowly and softly let the music go Alford 
 
 Slow, slow, fresh fount Jonson 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts ...Wordsworth 
 
 So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain! Campbell 
 
 So beauty on the waters stood Jonsoji 
 
 So cruel prison how could betide, alas Siirrey 
 
 So dear to heaven is saintly chastity Milton 
 
 Softly woo away her breath B. W. Procter 
 
 So had your body her morning, hath her noon Donue 
 
 So here hath been dawning Carlylc 
 
 Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw Young 
 
 197 
 927 
 567 
 734 
 411 
 497 
 666 
 620 
 639 
 549 
 247 
 331 
 143 
 153 
 95 
 106 
 232 
 4-17 
 782 
 549 
 832 
 6(16 
 
 613 
 388 
 917 
 580 
 545 
 741 
 849 
 149 
 247 
 882 
 771 
 779 
 819 
 860 
 146 
 789 
 887 
 950 
 585 
 936 
 853 
 254 
 543 
 481 
 946 
 225 
 
 79 
 363 
 126 
 119 
 783 
 936 
 
 23 
 573 
 557 
 667 
 496 
 517 
 707 
 766 
 155 
 491 
 896 
 
 97 
 601 
 731- 
 
 98 
 
 33 
 195 
 781 
 139 
 850 
 301 
 
 fr 
 
 ■^ 
 
cfr 
 
 994 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Some ask'd me where the rubies grew Heifick 163 
 
 Some cnll it fury, some a Mnse Butler 225 
 
 Some lashed them iu thciv hammocks ; some put on Byron 816 
 
 Some secrets may the poet tell M. Arnold 9-i9 
 
 Sometimes a light surprises Coioper 4Gt 
 
 Soon shall tliy arm, unconqucreil Steam 1 afar ...Darwin 4G8 
 
 So on the tip of his suhduinjj tongue Shakespeare 75 
 
 So stood Eliza on the wood-crowued height Darwin 4G6 
 
 So the Emperor Caligula Butler 226 
 
 So the sad mother, at the noon of night Darmn 467 
 
 Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er Campbdl 724 
 
 Sound all to arms ! Croln "-A 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground Wordsworth 617 
 
 Spring, the sweet Spring, Is the year's pleasant king.., A'as/f. 61 
 
 St. Agnes' eve, — all, hitter chill it was ! Keats 843 
 
 Star that hringest home the bee Caraphell 730 
 
 Stately the feast and high the cheer T. Warton 427 
 
 Stay, gentle Swains, for though in this disguise ...Milto)h itil 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake A. Opie 571 
 
 Steer hither, steer your winged pines W.Browjie 154 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! Wordsworth 59^ 
 
 Still to be neat, still to he drest Jo7ison 98 
 
 Still young and fine 1 but what is still in view... Vaughmi 250 
 Slop, Cliiistian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God Coleridge 678 
 
 Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies E. Elliott 754 
 
 Strnight is ray person, but of little size Blacklock 40« 
 
 Strengih, too! thou surly and less gentle boast Blair 336 
 
 Strong Son of God, immortal Love Tennyson 913 
 
 Siililime invention, ever young Svuirt 418 
 
 Suijlime the pleasure, meditating song Brydgcs 656 
 
 Sucli age how beautiful ! lady bright Wordsworth 621 
 
 Such moving sounds from such a careless touch \... Waller 181 
 
 Such was Philocica, and such Dorus* flame! Waller 181 
 
 Such was the beauty of this goodly band Spenser -19 
 
 Such was the boy, but for the growing youth... irorcfoivoW/t 617 
 " Suck, baliy.suck ! mollier's love grows by giving " Lamb 714 
 
 Sutldeiu uprisetli from her stately place Spenser 34 
 
 Sure such a wretch as I was never born Smart 418 
 
 Sure there are poets which did never dream Denham 228 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low Tennyson 911 
 
 Sweet arc the thoughts that savour of content Greene 59 
 
 Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain ...Goldsmith 435 
 Sweet bird I that slng'st away tlie early hours Drummond 149 
 
 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright Herbert 171 
 
 Sweet Eve, of softest voice and gentlest beam ...Brydgcs 556 
 
 Sweet Highland girl, a very shower Wordstcorth 593 
 
 Sweet is the' scene wlieu Virtue dies ! Mrs. Barbauld 49'' 
 
 Sweet is the ship that under sail C. Dihdin 493 
 
 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight ...W. Jones 495 
 
 Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? Herbert 173 
 
 Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! ...Charlotte Smith 499 
 
 Sweet, serene, sky-like flower Lovelace 232 
 
 Sweet sisterhood of flowers E. Arnold 960 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou coni'st Drummond HS 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave SMlley 833 
 
 Sjniods are mystical Bear-gardens Butler 221 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear Mason 42i 
 
 Take Tue, Mother Earth, to thy cold breast Mrs. Jameson 853 
 
 Take, 0, take those lips away Shikcspcarc 82 
 
 Take, 0, take thoae lips away, Bea^tmont and Fletcher 119 
 
 Ta.v not the royal saint with vain expense ...Wordsicorth 62 i 
 
 Tcacli me, my God and King Herbert 173 
 
 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.. .Tennyson 910 
 
 Tell me, gentle Hour of >'igbt Campion 86 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind Lovclaec 232 
 
 Tell me, on what holy ground Coleridge 666 
 
 Tell me what is that only thing ...Beaumont and Fletclier 119 
 
 Tell me where is fancy bred Shakespeare 80 
 
 Terror of darkness I thou king of flames! Chapman 63 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of this siwt Wordsimrth 634 
 
 Thanks, my I/)rd, for your venison Goldsmith 439 
 
 Thati Lord de Vaux tliere 's no nmn Booncrsees H. Taylor 887 
 
 That all from Adam first began Prior 277 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful Any... Earl of Roscommon 265 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day Scott 628 
 
 That friendsliip which from M-iihercd lo^c Drydcii 203 
 
 That majesty which through thy work doth reign Marvell 244 
 
 That proud dame Butler 226 
 
 That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect Shakespeare 73 
 
 That way look, my infant, lo ! Wordsworth 583 
 
 That which gilded over his imperfections Gi-ecne 59 
 
 That wliieh her slender waist confined Waller 179 
 
 The appointed time with pious toil fulfilled Thomson 340 
 
 The Aruo and the Tilier lang R. Fer^usson 501 
 
 The Assyrian came down like tlie wolf on the fo\d.. .Byron 789 
 
 The awful shadow of some unseen power Shelley 828 
 
 The baljy wept Hinds 837 
 
 The bilder oke, and eke the harde assbe Chancer 14 
 
 The bird, let loose iu eastern skies Moore 743 
 
 The blessings whicli the weak and poor Talfourd 8U 
 
 Tlie bonniest lad that e'er I saw Burns 548 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck Mrs. Hemans 839 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high Mrs. Hemans 838 
 
 The busy larke, messager of daye Chancer 13 
 
 Tlie chief of Lara is returned again Byron 811 
 
 The cold in clime are cold in blood Byron 810 
 
 The conscious water saw its God and blushed ...Crashaw 219 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day Gray 896 
 
 The Cynic coined false money, and for fear Butler 225 
 
 Tlie daisies peep from everj' field Wolcott 485 
 
 The daisy is fair, the day-lily rare ^ Hogg 661 
 
 The day arrives, the moment wished and feared ...Rogers 561 
 The day breaks glorious to my darken'd thoughts Shirley 139 
 
 The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand Ki7igsley 946 
 
 The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er Macaulay 871 
 
 The Deil cam fiddling through the town Bums 549 
 
 The Devil sits in his easy-chair Hervey 865 
 
 The Devil walked up Chancery Lane Hervey 866 
 
 The dreamy rhymer's measured snore Lanrfor 708 
 
 The dusky night rides down the sky Fielding 368 
 
 The Emperor Kap he would set off Soutliey 696 
 
 Thee, Father! this e.xtent Alcenside 412 
 
 Thee, senseless stock, because thou 'rt Fanshawe 183 
 
 The evening star, the lover's star B. W. Procter 779 
 
 The evening was glorious Holland 919 
 
 The e.vtremes of glory and of shame Butler 226 
 
 The fairest action of our human life Lady E. Carew 176 
 
 The feast was over in Branksome tower Scott 620 
 
 The feathered songster chnnticlcer Chaiterton 505 
 
 The first fresh dawn then waked Thomson 339 
 
 The first of them could things to come foresee ...Spenser 46 
 
 Tlie licet astronomer can bore Herbert 170 
 
 The folds of her wine-dark violet dress ...Owen Meredith 959 
 
 The forward youth that would appear Marvell 245 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river Shelley 830 
 
 The frost performs Its secret ministry Coleridge 671 
 
 The Gael beheld him grim the while Scott 636 
 
 The garden like a lady fair was cut G. Fletcher 150 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove ...C. Smith 499 
 
 The gates were then thrown open Frere 573 
 
 The glories of our blood and state Shirley 129 
 
 The god of lovcat her approach Gay 311 
 
 The god of love jollfe and light Chaucer 14 
 
 The god of us verse-men Prior 275 
 
 The goldcning peach on the orchard wall D. Gray 963 
 
 The gownn glitters on the sward J. BailHe 562 
 
 Tlie gray sea and the long black land Browning 934 
 
 The groves of Blarney they look so charming ...MilUkcn 6t3 
 
 The hand of liim here torpid lies VoAnsort 377 
 
 Tlic harlot muse, so passing gay Lloyd 471 
 
 The hni'p that once through Tara*s halls Moore 741 
 
 The hay is carried; and the hours Landor 711 
 
 The lunrt of man, walk it which way it will ...//. Taylor 8*^7 
 
 The heath this night must be my bed Scott 634 
 
 The heavens on high perpetually do move Gasco'gnc 24 
 
 The liinds how blest, wlio, ne'er beguiled T. Warton 426 
 
 Their lirie steedes with so untamed foi-se Spenser 49 
 
 Theirs is you house that holds the parish poor Crabbc 510 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece Byron 818 
 
 The keener tempests come : and fuming dun ...TJiomson &H 
 
 The king sits In Dunfermline town Anonymous 970 
 
 Tlie king was on his throne Byron 7'?9 
 
 The kuiiilit had ridden from Wcnslev Moor ...Wordsworth 5S9 ' 
 
 fr 
 
 ■^ 
 
f 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 -ft> 
 
 995 
 
 The Laird o'Cockpeii, he 's proud an' he 's great M. Ferrier 7-il 
 Tiic lake has burst I The hike has burst!. .,5. W.Proctcr 780 
 
 The lark had left the eveniiii^ cloud A. Cunning}iam 7G9 
 
 The lark now leaves his watery nest Davenant 175 
 
 The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to huild .Waller 181 
 
 The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's Kin^ Drummond 119 
 
 The last time I came o'er the moor Ramsay 3i 6 
 
 Tlie lift was clear, the morn serene Maync 550 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare Addison 238 
 
 The Lord will come! the earth sliall quake Ilehcr 757 
 
 The lovely young Laviiiia once had friends Thovison ?A^ 
 
 The merry merry lark was up and singing Kingsleij 91G 
 
 The mighty birds still upward rose Davy 734. 
 
 The niiustrel came once more to view Scoti 633 
 
 The moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking ...Hunt "67 
 
 Tlie moon has climhed the liighest hill Loive 500 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night Byron, 803 
 
 The morning hath not lost her virgin blush Clmmberlayne 241 
 
 The morning pearls Chamber lay ne 341 
 
 The mournful earth is fellow to my woe Thurlow 752 
 
 The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Berkeley 303 
 
 The Muses are turned gossips ; they have lost Barbauld 489 
 
 Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak Chapman 62 
 
 Tiien first came Henry Duke of Buckingham T.SackviUe 27 
 
 Then liear me, bounteous Heaven Otway 270 
 
 Tiic night is come like to the day Sir T. Brovmc 15(i 
 
 The night wax'd old Drayton 63 
 
 Then is there mirth in lieaven Shakespeare 82 
 
 Then may I trust her body witli her mind Overbury 14G 
 
 Tlie outmost crowd liave heard a sound Scott 642 
 
 The pitteous Mayden, earet'uU, comfortlcsse Spenser 36 
 
 The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree Shakespeare 84 
 
 The put>lic apprnbntiuu I expect Byron 816 
 
 The pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled) Cowper 451 
 
 The rain had fallen, the Poet arose Tennyson 911 
 
 The readers and the hearers like my books ...Harrington 65 
 
 There ore no colors in the fairest sky Wordsworth 624 
 
 There breathes notaiireath of the morning tdvMacdonald 950 
 
 Tliere cajie three men out of the West Anon. 979 
 
 There came to the heach a poor exile of Erin ...Campbell 723 
 
 There is a calm forthose who weep J. Montgomery 649 
 
 Tiiere is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light Byron 807 
 
 There is a flower, a little flower ...,./. Montgomery 652 
 
 Tiiere is a garden in her face Alison 86 
 
 There is a glorious city in the sea Rogers 563 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride ...J. Montgomery 651 
 
 Tiiere is a land of pure delight Watts 292 
 
 Tiiere is a pleasure in poetic pains Wordsworth 621 
 
 There is a smile of love Blake 523 
 
 There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale ...Wordsworth 585 
 
 There is delight m singing, though none hear Landor 711 
 
 There is no life on earth, l)ut being in love 1 Jonson 99 
 
 Tiiere is One that wakes above Cluupinan 63 
 
 There, like a rich and golden pyramid Jonson 99 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys Mackay 922 
 
 There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale ...Hogg 658 
 
 There 's a grim one-hnrse hearse Noel 895 
 
 There 's not a joy the world can give Byron 785 
 
 There the most daiutie paradise on ground Spenser 47 
 
 Tiiere, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills Byron 803 
 
 Tiiere was a jolly miller once Bickerstaff 480 
 
 There was a little Man, and he had a little Soul ...Moore 739 
 
 There was a siiund of revelry by night Byron 797 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream Words. 609 
 
 There were three sailors of Bristol city Thackeray 921 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height . .Byr^n SO-t 
 
 The rocks are cloven SJielley 827 
 
 The rose had been washed Cowper 456 
 
 Tlie rose that all are praising Bayly 853 
 
 Thcr was in Asie, in a gret citee Chancer 9 
 
 These are thy glorious works, Parent of good Milton 213 
 
 The seas are quiet when the wimU give o'er Waller 180 
 
 These, as they change. Almighty Father, these Thomson 345 
 
 The sea! the sea ! the open sea! B. W. Procter 71^ 
 
 The sensual and the dark rebel in vain Coleridge 666 
 
 These sons of Mavors bore, instead of spears Fairfax 144 
 
 These times strike moneyed worldlings Wordsworth 623 
 
 The shape alone let others prize Alcenside 
 
 The silver moon's enamored Ijeam J. Cunningham 
 
 The sluggish morn as yet undressed Clevehmd 
 
 The soul of man is larger than the sky H. Coleridge 
 
 The spacious firmament on high Addison 
 
 The spearmen heard the bugle sound W. E. Spencer 
 
 The Spirit breathes upon the Word Cowper 
 
 The spirits I have raised abandon me Byron 
 
 The Spirits of the mighty Sea B. W. Procter 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls Tennyson 
 
 The stare above will make thee known Jonson 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Byron 
 
 The straits and nfeds of Catiline being such Jonson 
 
 The summer and autumn had been so wet Southey 
 
 The sun grew low and left the skies Butler 
 
 The sun had closed the winter day BurTis 
 
 The sun had long since in the lap Bvtlcr 
 
 The sun has gane down Taniuihill 
 
 The sun is careering in glory and might ..J/. R. Mitford 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear Slielley 
 
 The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows Scott 
 
 The tender infant meek and mild Johnson 
 
 The thirsty earth soaks up the rain .Cowley 
 
 The to])sails shiver in the wind Thompson 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found //. L. Piozzi 
 
 The truest characters of ignorance Butler 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine Moore 
 
 The twentietli year is wellnigh past Cowper 
 
 The wanton troopers riding by Marvell 
 
 The xvarrior bowed his crested head Mrs. Hemans 
 
 The waters are flashing ...Shelley 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold Scott 
 
 The wisdom of mankind creeps slowly on Home 
 
 The wisest of the wise Landor 
 
 The woosel-cock. so black of hue Shakespeare 
 
 The world is too much with us Wordsworth 
 
 The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man Bacon 
 
 The wretch condemned with life to part Goldsmith 
 
 Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Shakespeare 
 
 They arc all gone into the world of light Vaughaii 
 
 They are hut men who war with mortals Byron 
 
 They course the glass, and let it take no rest ...Gascoigne 
 
 The year's at the spring Brotvning 
 
 They fell devoted, but undying Byron 
 
 They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren 5ac7,-yj7/c 
 
 They met but once, in youth's sweet hour Moore 
 
 They say that God lives very high E. B. Browning 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die .Southey 
 
 They stand between the mountains and the sea ...Pagers 
 
 They that never had tlie use Waller 
 
 Think not, 'cause men flatt'ring say Careio 
 
 Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms Mason 
 
 This figure that thou here secstput Jo7ison 
 
 This is the month, aud this the happy mora Milton 
 
 This is the purest exercise of health Thomson 
 
 This is the secret centre of the isle Mason 
 
 This lady walks discontented Beanmontand Fletcher 
 
 This life, and all that it contains, to him H. Taylor 
 
 This only grant mc, that my means may lie Cowley 
 
 Tliis passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day Chaucer 
 
 This place, so fit for undisturbed repose Garth 
 
 This was the ruler of the land Croly 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show Moore 
 
 Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are Lytton 
 Those lips that Love's own hand did make ...Shakesj^care 
 
 Those that write in rhyme still make Butler 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! Heher 
 
 Thou art not gone being gone ; where'er thou art Donne 
 Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves Fanshawe 
 
 Thoucheat'st us, Ford Crashato 
 
 Thou divinest, fairest, brightest J. Fletcher 
 
 Thou dumb magician, that without a charm ...Massingcr 
 
 Thou! formed to eat, and be despised, and die Byron 
 
 Though grief and fondness in ray breast rebel ...Johnson 
 
 Though I am young and cannot tell Joiison 
 
 Though Paradise were e'er so fair Butler 
 
 Though short thy span Canning 
 
 417 
 446 
 227 
 849 
 287 
 576 
 463 
 811 
 781 
 911 
 
 99 
 814 
 
 93 
 693 
 222 
 534 
 223 
 688 
 776 
 829 
 642 
 377 
 235 
 481 
 487 
 225 
 742 
 464 
 242 
 839 
 833 
 625 
 895 
 710 
 
 79 
 620 
 
 84 
 445 
 
 74 
 249 
 815 
 
 24 
 934 
 811 
 266 
 743 
 926 
 703 
 566 
 182 
 162 
 424 
 
 95 
 188 
 342 
 424 
 115 
 8S3 
 234 
 
 12 
 286 
 749 
 742 
 878 
 
 74 
 226 
 758 
 142 
 183 
 219 
 117 
 128 
 803 
 370 
 
 98 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
a- 
 
 996 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Thou liappy, liappy elf! Hood 830 
 
 TIiou liast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie A. Cunningham 771 
 
 Thou liiddcu love of God, whose height Wesley 3G9 
 
 Thou large -brained woriiau E. B. Browning 923 
 
 Tliou lingering star, with lessening ray Burns u4l 
 
 Thou maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove vest Bnidges 556 
 
 Thou more than most sweet glove Jojison 97 
 
 Thou still unravishcd biide of quietness I Keats 8i8 
 
 Thou that art our queen again Htmt 767 
 
 Thou wert fair, Lady Mary Alford 806 
 
 Thou whose sweet yoiitli and early hopes inhance Herbert IGS 
 
 Thou, whose throne is ou the cloud Croly 7aO 
 
 Thou who shall stop where Thames' translucent wave Pope 324 
 
 Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies Dryden 250 
 
 Three days before my Mary's death /. iViUon 776 
 
 Three fishers went sailing away to the West Kmgshy 9t5 
 
 Three poets, in three distant ages horn Dryden 263 
 
 Three years she grew in sun aud shower IVordsworth 580 
 
 Thrice has the spring beheld thy faded fame Ahenside 41+ 
 
 Thrice, 0, thrice happy, shepherd's life aud state P. Fletcher 1 h\ 
 
 Thi-ough the house what busy joy Mary Lamb 715 
 
 Thu3 all day long the full-distended clouds Thomson 333 
 
 Thus 1, easy philosopher Marvell 241 
 
 Thus it fell upon a night Gotocr 15 
 
 Thus Kitty, beautiful and young Prior 276 
 
 Thus, not without concurrence of an age IVordsworth 581 
 
 Thus pass the temperate hours Thomson 339 
 
 Thus richer than untemptcd kings are we Lovelace 233 
 
 Thus to the Muses spoke the Cyprian darae Prior 276 
 
 Thy braes were bonny. Yarrow stream Logan 4f)9 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe Byron 7^8 
 
 Thy functions are ethereal iVnrdsivorth Gil 
 
 Thy spirit, Independence, let me share Smollett 105 
 
 Thy virtue, wliose resistless force Prior 275 
 
 Thy voice is heard through rolling drums Tennyson 911 
 
 Tiger, tiger, burning bright Blake 522 
 
 Timely blossom, infant fair A. Philijys 286 
 
 Time, place, and action may with pains he wrought Dryden 350 
 Time's gradual touch lias mouldered into heaufy..,Afaso7i 425 
 Tii-'d with all these, for restful death I cry ...Shakespeare 73 
 
 Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Yomig 298 
 
 'T is gone, with its thorns and its roses! ...If. R SpcJiccr 577 
 
 *T is hard to say if greater want of skill Pope 320 
 
 'T is, in good truth, a most wonderful thing ...Davenant 170 
 
 'T is not a pyramid of marble stone Cowley 233 
 
 'T is uot tin; lily brow I prize Coleridge 677 
 
 'T is now, since I sat down before Suckling 100 
 
 'T is past ; the iron North has spent his rage Bruce 490 
 
 'T is sweet to hear the merry lark H. Coleridge 8t9 
 
 'T is sweet to think the pure ethereal being Barltnm 821 
 
 *T is sweet to view, from half past five to six J. Smith 7<'5 
 
 'T is the huurof even now Barton 708 
 
 .'T is the last rose of summer Moore 711 
 
 'T is tlie middle of night liy the castle clock Coleridge 680 
 
 'T is time this heart should be unmoved Byron 820 
 
 'T is to create, aud in creating live Byron 797 
 
 Titan! to whose immortal c^yes ...Byron 785 
 
 To all you ladies now at laud Charles SacJcville 200 
 
 To Astragon, heaven for succession gave Davenant 171 
 
 To rurc tJie mind's wrong bias, spleen Green 333 
 
 To drav.' no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name Jonson 94 
 
 To fair Fidcle's grassy tomb Collins 403 
 
 To live in hell, and heaven to behold Constable 5S 
 
 Toll for the brave! Cowpcr 464 
 
 To make a final conquest of all me.. Man^dl 24-3 
 
 To make this condiment, your poet begs Sydney Smith 57t 
 
 To mercy, pity, peace, and love Blake 521 
 
 To my wish we arc private Massinger 123 
 
 Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime W. R. Spencer 577 
 
 To pray to Goil continually Tusscr 23 
 
 To print, or not to print, —that is the question Jago 38 1 
 
 To sec a world in a grain of sand Blake 52.3 
 
 To Bcc both 1)lendcd in one flood Crashaw 219 
 
 To see the sun to bed, and to arise Lamb 715 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom, I retire Shcnstone 382 
 
 To the ocean now I fly Milton 195 
 
 T' otherday, as Apollo sat pitching bis darta Hunt 759 
 
 To these whom death again did wed Crashaw 
 
 To the sound of timbrels sweet Milman 
 
 Touch us gently, Time! B. W. Procter 
 
 Toussaiut, the most unhappy man of men I ...Wordsworth 
 
 To wake the eouI l>y tender strokes of art Pope 
 
 To whom belongs this valley fair /. Wilson 
 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wcrt thou ...Wordsworth 
 
 Treading the path to nobler ends Waller 
 
 Tread softly, — how the head.. C- Soutliey 
 
 Tread softly through these amorous rooms B. W. Procter 
 
 Treason doth never prosper Sir J. Harrington 
 
 Tiiumphal arch, that fiU'st the sky Caviphell 
 
 Trochee trips from long to short Coleridge 
 
 True genius, but true woman ! dost deny E. B. Browning 
 True-hearted was lie, the sad swnin o* the Yarrow Burns 
 
 True Thomas lay on Iluntlie Bank Ano7i. 
 
 Trusting in God with all her heart and mind Hayley 
 
 Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale Goldsmith 
 
 Turn I my looks unto the skies Lodge 
 
 'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won Dryden 
 
 'T was at the silent solemn hour Malkt 
 
 'T was c\en, — the dewy fields were green Burns 
 
 'T was in heaven pronounced C. FansJiawe 
 
 'T was in that placeo' Scotland's isle Burns 
 
 'T was morn ; i)ut not the ray which falls Swain 
 
 'T was on a lofty vase's side Gray 
 
 'T was on a Monday morning Hogg 
 
 'T was sunset, and the Uanz dcs Vaches was sung Campbell 
 
 'T was whtn tlie seas were roaring Gay 
 
 'T was when tlie wan leaf fiae the birk-tree Laidlaw 
 
 Twelve days aud nights she wilhercd thus Byron 
 
 Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the viUnje-green ...Rogers 
 
 Two boys whose liirth, beyond all question Churchill 
 
 Two children in two neighbor villages Tennyson 
 
 Two mites, two drops, yet all hcM" house and land Crasfiaw 
 
 Two summers since I saw at Lammas fair Crabbc 
 
 Two voices are there ; one is of the sea Wordsworth 
 
 Two went to prayP O, rather say CtclsIuiw 
 
 218 
 92 i 
 782 
 
 025 
 182 
 778 
 780 
 
 65 
 726 
 675 
 923 
 547 
 967 
 495 
 443 
 
 60 
 25 "5 
 302 
 54i 
 822 
 529 
 878 
 395 
 059 
 733 
 3fi9 
 747 
 819 
 5G0 
 470 
 897 
 219 
 511 
 622 
 219 
 
 Underneath tliis sable herse Jonson 99 
 
 Underneath this stone doth lye Joixson 99 
 
 Under the greenwood tree Shakespeare 81 
 
 Under yonder beech-tree Meredith 953 
 
 Unhand mc, gentlemen. By Heaven, I say Sheridan 504 
 
 Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart E. B. Browning 920 
 
 Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring Sluikespeare 70 
 
 Unvcii thy bosom, faithful tomb Watts 292 
 
 Upon a time, Reputation, Love, and Death Webster 110 
 
 Up! up! my friend, and quit your books ...Wordsworth 597 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! ...Woi-dstoorth 583 
 
 Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old Milton 194 
 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent Wordsworth 023 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying Coleridge 077 
 
 Very true, the linnets sing Landor 710 
 
 Victorious men of earth, no more Shirley 129 
 
 Virgins promis'd when I dy'd Herrick 103 
 
 Virtue coxdd see to do what Virtue would Milton 196 
 
 Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt Milton 190 
 
 Virtue's branches wither, virtue pines Dekkcr 101 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame Pope 331 
 
 Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme Cowpcr 445 
 
 Wake, our mirth begins todie Jonson 97 
 
 Walking thus towards a jilcasant grove Lord Herbert 215 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play ...J. Baillie 552 
 
 Was this fair face the cause, quoth she Shakespeare 80 
 
 Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships Marlowe 71 
 
 Watchman, tell us of the night Bowring 835 
 
 Weak and irresolute h man Cou*per 450 
 
 Wrakc is th' assurance ihat wcake flesh reposelh Spenser 51 
 Weak is the will of man, bis judgment blind Wonlsworth 030 
 
 We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon Shelley 825 
 
 We arc the sweet Flowers Hunt 761 
 
 Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at licMt... Southcy 701 
 
 Wc come from the mind Sh4:Uey S27 
 
 WcddiuL' is 'jrcnt Junii's crown SJtttkcspcnrc 82 
 
 ^ 
 
 -»-^ 
 
a- 
 
 INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 
 
 997 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Wee, modest, crinisou-tipped llowcr Burns o3I' 
 
 Weep eyes, bj-enk heart ! MiMleton lot 
 
 Weep no more for what is past Davaiayit 176 
 
 Wee, sleckit, coweria, timorous beastie Burns 533 
 
 AVe evcry-day bards may "anonymous" sign ...J. Smith 704 
 
 We Irnve been friends togetlier Mrs. Norton 891 
 
 Weighing the steadfastness and state Vaughan 249 
 
 Wei'^h me the iire ; or canst thou hud lUrrick 167 
 
 W.icoiuc, maids of honor! Herrick 165 
 
 AV, Icuiiie, oldfriend ! These many years Landor 'V> 
 
 Welrome on shore again Anon. 980 
 
 Welcome, pale primrose 1 starting up between Clare 837 
 
 Welcome, pure thoughts and peaceful hours Vaughan 25U 
 
 Wc live in deeds, not years Bailey 942 
 
 Well '. Ifthe bard was weather-wise, who made Coleridge 073 
 
 Well, then; I now do plainly see Cowley 230 
 
 We nvust have these lures, when we hawk Clw.pman 62 
 
 We pledged our hearts, my love and 1 Coleridge 077 
 
 Were T at once empowered to show Lloyd 471 
 
 Were I but his own wife M. Downing 886 
 
 W<Tther had a love for Charlotte Tliackeray 921 
 
 We seldom use our liberty aright Pom/ret 279 
 
 We watched her breathing through the night ffood 859 
 
 We were two daughters of one race Tennyson 899 
 
 Whan Freedom, dreste yn blodde-stcyned veste Chatterton 604 
 
 Whan tliat Aprille with bis schowres swootc Chaucer 1 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine? S. Blamire 498 
 
 Wliat aspect bore the man who roved or fled Wordsworth 633 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose ! Crawford 420 
 
 What beckoning ghost along the moonliglit shade ...Pope 319 
 
 Wliat birds so sings, yet so does wail ? Lyly 28 
 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail? Ford 128 
 
 What constitutes a state? Sir W. Jones 495 
 
 What did this Eolus,but he Chaucer 14 
 
 What due offence from amorous causes spring Pope 312 
 
 Wlmt does httle birdie say reniii/sojl 917 
 
 What else does history use to tell us Butler 225 
 
 What bideous noise was that? Webster 108 
 
 Wbat is it to have a flattering false insculption Tourneur 107 
 
 Wliat is the existence of man's life King 155 
 
 What is the world itself? Thy world — a grave ,.roJiJi!7 302 
 
 What is 't to us, if ta-\es rise or fall ?.; Churchill 470 
 
 What mad fantastic gambols have been played Butler 224 
 
 Wbat more febcitie can fall to creature Spenser 66 
 
 What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones iililton 192 
 
 What sayst thou, Montfort? J Baillie 553 
 
 Wbat shall I do with all the days and hours F. A. Kemble 922 
 Wliat 's hallowed ground? Has eavtlia clod ...Campbell 728 
 
 Wiiat shall we say, since silent now is he Cowley 240 
 
 What then is taste, but these internal powers ...Akenside 410 
 
 What things have we seen F. Beaumont 122 
 
 What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled Eussell 557 
 
 What was 't awakened first the untried cnv...H. Coleridge 849 
 
 When all thy mercies, my God Addison 287 
 
 When Alpine vales threw forth a suppliant cry ...Words. 624 
 
 When as in silks my Jidia goes Herriek 167 
 
 When banners are waving .^7ioJt. 979 
 
 When barren doubt like a late-coming snow Hallam 920 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command Thomson 338 
 
 When Britain, looking witha just disdain IJ'a^^er 183 
 
 Whence also but from Truth, the light of minds Akenside 413 
 Whence comes my love ? heart, Aiiclose... Harrington 24 
 
 \Mien chapman billies leave the street Burns 526 
 
 When chUl November's surly blast Burns 549 
 
 When civil dudgeon first grew high Butler 220 
 
 AVhen coldness wraps this suffering clay Byron 783 
 
 When daffodils begi'n to peer Shakespeare 82 
 
 When daisies pied, and violets blue Shakespeare 78 
 
 When day is done, and clouds are low Croly 750 
 
 AVlien Delia on the plain appears Lyttelton 381 
 
 Witne'er with haggard eyes I view Canning 575 
 
 When evening listened to the dripping oar Bowles 559 
 
 When father Adio first pat spade in It Fcrgusson 602 
 
 When first, descending from the moorlands ...Wordsworth 604 
 
 When God at first made man Herbert 172 
 
 When he hath had a letter from his lady dear Bailey 942 
 
 When bestrode o'er the wreck Campbell 733 
 
 When he whispers, "0 Miss Bailey" Locker 957 
 
 When homeward bauds their several ways Gralianie 569 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent Milton 194 
 
 When I loved you, I can't but allow Moore 738 
 
 When, in di5gracewithfortuneandmen'seyesS7iafcesj)car'e 73 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time Shakespeare 74 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved ScoM 615 
 
 When I M'as dead, my spirit turned C. G. Rossetti 955 
 
 When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes Johnson 376 
 
 When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair Congreve 290 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly Goldsmith 446 
 
 Wlien love with unconfined wings Lovelace 233 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die Lamb 713 
 
 When marshalled on the nightly plain H. K. Wliite 773 
 
 Wlien midnight o'er the moonless skies ...W. R. Spencer 578 
 
 Wlien mighty roast beef Fielding 368 
 
 "When Music, heavenly maid, was young Collins 402 
 
 W^hen my mother died I was very young BUike 521 
 
 When now mature in classic knowledge .T. Warton 426 
 
 When our diseas'd affections Chupman 62 
 
 When Pliajbus lifts his head Drayton 09 
 
 When riseth Lacedenion's hardihood Byron 796 
 
 When rising from the bed of death Addison 288 
 
 Wlien Ruth was left halfdesolate Wordsworth 586 
 
 When shall we three meet again? Anon. 982 
 
 Wlien some proud son of man returns to earth Byron 784 
 
 Wien that I was and a little tiny boy Shakespeare 80 
 
 Wlien the black-lettered list to the gods ...W. R. Spencer 577 
 
 Wlien the British warrior queen Cowper 461 
 
 Wlien the cornfields and meadows Anon. 984 
 
 When the fierce north-wind with his airy forces ...Watts 291 
 When the heart 's above, the body walks here... JlfitWietoii 104 
 
 When the hounds of Spring SwinUmie 981 
 
 When thelast sunshine of expiring day Byron 790 
 
 Whin the sheep are in the fauld Lady J. Barnard 510 
 
 Wliin the strife was ended which made dim Shelley 828 
 
 When they had passed all those troubled ways ...Fair/ai: 145 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Shaktsjieare 73 
 
 When we two parted Byron 784 
 
 When whispering strains with creeping wind Strode 173 
 
 Wlien wild war's deadly blast was blawn Burns 539 
 
 Where am 1? Sure I wander midst enchantment Otway 270 
 
 Wliere art thou, Mary, pure as fair Bnjdges 6.57 
 
 Where art thou. Muse, that thou forget'st so long Shakes. 73 
 
 Where have ye been, ye ill woman Hogg 603 
 
 Where is it mothers learn their love? Keble 830 
 
 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? Coleridge 075 
 
 Where lies the land to which tlic ship would go ? Clough 944 
 
 ■niiere the bee sucks, there suck I Shakespeare 83 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride Marvell 241 
 
 Wlicrc will they stop, those breathing powers Wm-dsworth 007 
 
 Wliere YalTOW rows amang the rocks Hogg 660 
 
 Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene A. GraJit 518 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow Blake 520 
 
 While, born to bring the Muse's happier days Collins 403 
 
 ■Wliile in this park I sing, the listening deer Waller 179 
 
 WhUe St. Serf, intil a stead Wyntoun 16 
 
 Wliile thus their work went on with lucky speed Fairfax 144 
 
 ■While with a strong and yet a gentle hand Waller 176 
 
 While you here do snoring lie Shakespeare 83 
 
 Whilomein Albion's isle there dwelt a youth Byron 794 
 
 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime C. Cotton 253 
 
 Who can mistake great thoughts? Bailey 943 
 
 Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish Palmerston 772 
 
 Whoe'er she be Crashaw 217 
 
 Who ever saw a noble sight Dryden 263 
 
 Wio first the catalogue shall grace? ....! Young 297 
 
 Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know Prior 273 
 
 Who is Silvia? Wbat is she Shakespeare 78 
 
 Who isthc happy warrior ? Whois he Wordsworth 599- 
 
 Wliolesale critics, that in coffee Butler 226 
 
 Whom arc they ushering from the world Southey 697 
 
 Wliom bold Cymochles travelling to finde Spenser 41 
 
 Whose imp art thou, with diililllcd cheek /. Baillie 555 
 
 Who shall awake the Spartan fife Collins 399 
 
 Wlio so to niarrya minion wife Udall 24 
 
 AYho that bears a human bosom Akenside 413 
 
 ^- 
 
 — y> 
 
a- 
 
 998 
 
 INDEX OF FIKST LINES. 
 
 -S) 
 
 Who would Dot praise Patricio's liigh desert Pope 
 
 Why art tliou slow, thou rest of trouble, Dcaili Massinger 
 
 Why dill I write ? what sia to me unknown Pope 
 
 Why didst thou choose tliat cursed siu Butler 
 
 Why doe ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Uerrick 
 
 Why has not man a collar and a log? Sydney Smith 
 
 Why heaves my mother oft the deep-drawn sigh Tannahill 
 
 Why is 't damnation to despair and die Nash 
 
 Why should this desert silent be? Shakespeare 
 
 Wliy should vain sori*ow follow him with tears Beaumont 
 
 Why should you swear I am foi-sworn Lovelace 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover! Suckling 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Sco(( 
 
 Why, what's that to you if my eyes I'm a-wiping C.Dibdiii 
 
 Why, William, on that old gray stone IVonhworth 
 
 "Will you walk into my parlor?" M. Howitt 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the unirerse ! Wordsworth 
 
 Wishfd Morning 's come ; and now upon the plains Otway 
 
 With blackest moss the flower-plots Tennyson 
 
 With deep affection and recollection .-...Makoney 
 
 With fingers weary and worn Hood 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon ! Sidney 
 
 Within a little siU-nt grove hard by Chalkhill 
 
 Within a thick and spreading liaw thorn -bush Clare 
 
 Within few days the nymph arrived there Fairfax 
 
 Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor ....Lydgate 
 
 Witliiu these woods of Arcadie ^ Roydon 
 
 Within the soul a faculty abides Wordsworth 
 
 Within those glorious orbs which we behold ........ Byron 
 
 With little here to door see Wordsworth 
 
 With no irreverent voice or uncoutli charm Coleridge 
 
 With sacritice before the vising morn Wordsworth 
 
 With silent awe I hail the sacred morn Leyden 
 
 With stammering lips and insufficient sound E. Browning 
 
 Would my good lady love me best ,. Eenryson 
 
 Wouldst thou be more than friend? Shirley 
 
 Would you know what's soft? I dare Carew 
 
 Wow, but your letter made me vauutie ! Bums 
 
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 Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Pnud 876 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around Burns 540 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon Burns 541 
 
 Y'e beauteous offsprinj^ of Olympian Jove AkcTiside 414 
 
 Ye blushing virgins happy arc Habin^tcn 174 
 
 Ye brawny prophets, that in robes so rich T. tVarton 425 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towera Gray 389 
 
 Ye eldest gods, who in no statuesof exactest form TaJfounl 811 
 
 Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you Campbell 729 
 
 Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell Doddridge 365 
 
 Ye have been fresh and green.. licrrick 165 
 
 Ye learned Sisters, which have oftentimes Spcjiser 50 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing Heywood 106 
 
 Ye mariners of England Campbell 722 
 
 Yes ! e'en in sleep the imjircssions all remain Crabbe 512 
 
 Yes, grief will have ivay, but the fast-falling tear ..Jf core 744 
 
 Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale Hamilton S67 
 
 Yes, there are real mourners ; I have seen Crahbe 513 
 
 Yet, Corah, thou shalt from oblivion pass Dryden 254 
 
 Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed.. K. B. Browninc/ 927 
 
 Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more Miltmi 190 
 
 Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills Lyttelton S79 
 
 Yewha are fain to hae your name R. Fergttsson 5fll 
 
 Ye whose hearts arc beating high Keble 836 
 
 Ye who with warmth the public triumph feel Hayky 495 
 
 You are old. Father William, the young man cried Southey 700 
 
 You are so witty, profligate, and thiu Young 303 
 
 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon Browning 932 
 
 You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier...?". Taylor 943 
 
 You loved the daughter of Don Manrique? Coleridge 669 
 
 Your lower limbs seemed far from stout James Smith 704 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night M'ot^on 134 
 
 You miglit have won the Poet's name Tennyson 909 
 
 You umst wake and call me early Tennyson 9ii0 
 
 Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen hawn Lover 854 
 
 You 're very welcome, both ! Beaumont and Fletcher 111 
 
 You spotted snakes, with double tongue Shakespeare 79 
 
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