Book ■ .^ 
 
HALF-HOURS 
 
 WITH THE POETS 
 
 ^^/^ 
 
^^ctic...-^ Ciiu^ O^H 
 
 JAiiiAES MlliLETi PUBLISHER, NT 
 
HALF HOURS 
 
 WITH THE POETS 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 ^t)0ice poems, 
 
 FROM 
 
 CHAUCER TO TENNYSON 
 
 BUsantb Sllustratcli. 
 
 fini,^-- 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, 
 
 647 BROADWAY. 
 1874. 
 
^K' 
 
 ^> 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year iS;:,. by 
 
 JAMES MILLER, 
 in ihe office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 Afitferson fir" Rntnsay^ Pr inters, 2S Frank/c 
 
 'ort Street, Ne7u York. 
 
TO 
 THOSE WHO HAVE LOVED, 
 
 NO LESS THAN 
 
 TO THOSE WHO LOVE 
 
 TO THOSE WHO ARE BELOVED, 
 
 THIS COLLECTION OF 
 
 fobt-Soms 
 
 IS 1 N S C P>. I B E D. 
 
Sutrobuction* 
 
 T was the intention of the compiler to include, in 
 a volume of moderate size, the most notable of the 
 minor love-poems of the English language, and its 
 dialects, in such order and to such extent as would 
 Qy> serve to show the progress of our amatory poetry, 
 while it gave a fair idea of the different style of our poets, 
 and their relative merits in a single field of action. In this, 
 being an endeavor to combine distinct objects in one, there 
 were some difficulties to be encountered; but these did not 
 prove to be insurmountable. It is possible that some may- 
 think a few poems admitted into the collection are not the 
 very best specimens of their kind ; while others may complain 
 that some poems deserving a place have been omitted. The 
 former censure may be palliated by a declaration, that all that 
 is mainly a matter of taste ; and to the latter it may be replied, 
 that some fitting poems may have escaped the compiler's 
 notice. It is believed that the collection will, nevertheless, 
 be found the most complete and best-arranged in its contents, 
 as it is the most elegant in mechanical execution, of any yet 
 issued. Should the volume meet with favour, and arrive at the 
 
8 ISTRODUCTIOX. 
 
 desired goal of other editions, it is to be hoped that the con- 
 sequent revision will render it still more perfect of its kind. 
 
 Some difficulty was experienced in culling for a work de- 
 signed for the centre-table, as well as the library, from cele- 
 brated writers at different periods. In the Elizabethan age 
 especially, the erotic poets covered some of their finest con- 
 ceits with the grossest language, rendering the poems unfit 
 for the perusal of persons of delicate minds. At a later period, 
 the puerilities of the pastoral school afforded but little scope 
 for selection. At all times prior to the close of the last 
 century, there was an affectation of classical knowledge which 
 destroyed the fire and fervour of the verse, by pressing the 
 Roman deities most absurdly into the service of the poet. 
 As the compiler had no right to alter or erase, and did not 
 desire to omit passages, his range of selection was considerably 
 decreased. With all this, there was a sufficient mine of 
 wealth to explore — enough, indeed, to make a larger volume 
 — and he availed himself of the treasure at hand as his judg- 
 ment taught him to do. 
 
 The biographical sketches at the close are purposely meagre. 
 To have made them more flill was no part of the design. 
 A few salient points of personal history, to gratify the curi- 
 osity of the reader, were considered to be sufficient. Where 
 it was thought to be necessary or desirable, in the body of 
 the work, a foot-note has been introduced ; but superfluous 
 comment has been scrupulously avoided. 
 
HALF-HOURS 
 
 WITH THE POETS 
 
 Iol)n Skelton 
 
 [Born 1463. Died 1529.] 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 ERRY Margaret 
 
 As midsummer flower, 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of the tower ; 
 With solace and gladness. 
 Much mirth and no madness. 
 All good and no badness ; 
 
 So joyously. 
 
 So maidenly, 
 
 So womanly 
 
 Her demeaning 
 
 In every thing. 
 
 Far, far passing 
 
10 IIALF-IlOrrxS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 That I can indite 
 Or suffice to write 
 Of merry Margaret 
 
 As midsummer flowei, 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of the tower i 
 As patient and as still, 
 And as full of good-will 
 As fair Isiphil, 
 Coliander, 
 Sweet Pomander, 
 Good Cassander; 
 Stedfast of thought, 
 Well made, well wrought 
 Far may be sought, 
 Ere you can find 
 So courteous, so kind. 
 As merry Margaret 
 
 The midsummer flower, 
 Gentle as falcon. 
 
 Or hawk of the tower. 
 
SIR THOMAS W7AT. 
 
 T I 
 
 Sir fijomas tDyat 
 
 [Born 1503. Died 1542.] 
 
 A Supplication. 
 
 ORGET 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 
 The weary life ye know, since whan 
 The suit, the service none tell can ; 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet the great essays. 
 The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. 
 The painful patience in delays. 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not ! O forget not this. 
 How long ago hath been, and is 
 The mind that never meant amiss— 
 Forget not yet ' 
 
12 J/A L F-IIOVRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Forget not then thine own approved 
 The which so long hath thee so loved, 
 Whose steadfast faith yet never moved- 
 Forget not this ! 
 
 The One He would Love. 
 
 FACE that should content me wondrous 
 well, 
 Should not be fat, but lovely to behold, 
 Of lively look, all grief for to repel 
 
 With right good grace, so would I that it 
 should. 
 Speak without words such words as none can tell. 
 
 Her tress also should be of crisped gold. 
 With wit and these perchance I might be tried. 
 And knit ao-ain with knot that should not slide. 
 
SIR THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 »3 
 
 ^^ 
 
 '^ Love Compared. 
 
 ROM ^hese high hills, as when a spring doth 
 fall, 
 It trilleth down with still and subtle course, 
 Of this and that, and gathers aye and shall, 
 Till it have just down flowed to stream and 
 force, 
 
 Then at the foot it rageth over all : 
 So fareth love when he hath ta'en a course ; 
 Rage is his rain, resistance 'vaileth none, 
 The first eschew is remedy alone. 
 
u 
 
 IlALF-/ff)rf?S WIT/T TUB POETS 
 
 i^cnvn i^oiuavb, ^avl of Suvvcij, 
 
 [Born 1516. Dltn 1547] 
 
 A V O W. 
 
 Jj/S^ ET me where as the sun doth parch the 
 green, 
 Or where his beams do not dissolve the 
 ice, 
 In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen. 
 In presence prest of people, mad or wise; 
 
 Set me in high, or yet in low degree. 
 In longest night, or in the shortest day ; 
 
 In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be. 
 In lusty youth, or when my hairs are grey : 
 
 Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell. 
 In hill or dale, or in the foaming flood ; 
 
 Thrall, or at large, alive where so I dwell. 
 Sick, or in health, in evil fame, or good, — 
 
 Hers I will be, ana only with this thought 
 (Content myself, although my chance be naught. 
 
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 1 5 
 
 Give place, ye Lovers. 
 
 IV E place, ye lovers, here before 
 
 That spent your boasts and brags in vain \ 
 My lady's beauty passeth more 
 
 The best of years, I dare well sayen, 
 Q Than doth the Sun the candle-light, 
 ^ Or brightest day the darkest night. 
 
 And thereto hath a troth as just. 
 
 As had Penelope the Fair; 
 For what she saith, ye may it trust. 
 
 As it by writing sealed were : 
 And virtues hath she many mo' 
 Than I with pen have skill to show. 
 
 I could rehearse, if that I would, 
 The whole offset of Nature's plaint. 
 
 When she had lost the perfect mould, 
 The like to whom she could not paint 
 
 With wringing hands, how did she cry. 
 
 And what she said, I know it aye. 
 
 I knew she swore with raging mind. 
 Her kingdom only set apart. 
 
i6 
 
 HALF- HOURS Wmi THE POETS. 
 
 There was no loss by law of kind 
 
 That could have gone so near her heart ; 
 And this was chiefly all her pain : 
 " She could not make the like again." 
 
 Sith Nature thus gave her the praise, 
 To be the chiefest work she wrought, 
 
 In faith, methink, some better ways 
 On your behalf might well be sought, 
 
 Than to compare as ye have done. 
 
 To match the candle with the Sun. 
 
ELIZABETH QUEEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 OJUjabctl) S;u&or, (SHucen of (Snglaulr* 
 
 [Born 1533. Diep 1603.J 
 
 On my own Feelings. 
 
 I' GRIEVE, and dare not show my discontent 
 I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate ; 
 I do, yet dare not say I ever meant ; 
 
 I seem stark mute, yet Inwardly do prate. 
 I am, and not ; I freeze, and yet am burned. 
 Since from myself my other self I turned. 
 
 My care Is like my shadow in the sun. 
 Follows me flying, flies when I pursue It ; 
 
 Stands and lies by me, does what I have done. 
 This too familiar care does make me rue it. 
 
 No means I find to rid him from my breast, 
 
 Till by the end of things it be suppressed. 
 
 Some gentler passions slide into my mind. 
 For I am soft and made of melting snow ; 
 
 Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind ; 
 Let me or float or sink, be high or low, 
 
 Or let me live with some more sweet content. 
 
 Or die, and so forget what love e'er meant. 
 
1 8 HAL F- 11 rii s w r tii the poe ts. 
 
 3fcl)n i^arrington- 
 
 [BvJKN ii5'?4. D.tn 1581.1 
 
 Sonnet on Isabella Markham. 
 
 HENCE comes my love ? O heart, disclose 
 It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, 
 ,' From lips that spoil the ruby's praise. 
 
 From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : 
 Whence comes my woe, as freely own ; 
 Ah, me ! 'twas 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 'tis Cupid's fire; 
 Yet all so fair but speak my moan, 
 Sith naught doth say the heart of stone. 
 
 Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
 Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek- 
 Yet not a heart to save my pain ? 
 Oh, Venus ! take thy gifts again ! 
 Make not so fair to cause our moan. 
 Or make a heart that's like our own. 
 
VERB, EARL OF OXFORD. 19 
 
 a^inoor^ t)erc, €gx{ of ©-tforir. 
 
 [Born 1534. Died 1604.] 
 
 A Renunciation. 
 
 F 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 service 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 ; 
 
 Who 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 ! 
 
20 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ilII)vi5topl)cr itiarloroc. 
 
 [Born 155a (?). Died 1593.] 
 
 The Passionate Shepherd. 
 
 OME live with me, and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, 
 The woods or steepy mountains yields. 
 
 And we will sit upon the rocks. 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 And I will make thee beds of roses. 
 And a thousand fragrant posies ; 
 A cap of flowers and a kirtle. 
 Embroidered o'er with leaves of myrtle. 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;* 
 Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
 With buckles of the purest gold. 
 
SIE WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
 And if these pleasures thee may move, 
 Come live with me, and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 
 For thy delight, each May morning ; 
 If these delights thy mind may move. 
 Then live with me and be my love. 
 
 21 
 
 Sir iKaltcr Haleigl) 
 
 [Born 155a. Di«p 1618.] 
 
 The Nymph's Reply. 
 
 F all the world and love were young, 
 And truth on every shepherd's tongue. 
 These pleasures might my passion move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But fading flowers in every field, 
 To winter floods their treasures yield ; 
 A honeyed tongue, a heart of gall. 
 Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall. 
 
22 IIALF-TIOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 l^hy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
 Are all soon withered, broke, forgotten. 
 In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 
 Can me with no enticements move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, could Love still breed, 
 Had Joy no date, had Age no need ; 
 Then those delights my mind might move, 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 23 
 
 (gbmunb 0pen0cr 
 
 [Born 1553. Died 1598.] 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 E tradeful merchants ! that with weary toil 
 
 Do seek most precious things to make 
 
 your gain, 
 
 And both the Indies of their treasure spoil, 
 
 What needeth you to seek so far in 
 
 vain ? 
 
 For, lo ! my love doth in herself contain 
 
 All this world's riches that may far be found ; 
 
 If sapphires, lo ! her eyes be sapphires plain ; 
 If rubies, lo ! her lips be rubies sound ; 
 
 If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and round, 
 
 If ivory, her forehead ivory ween ; 
 If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground ; 
 
 If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen : 
 
 But that which fairest is, but few behold, 
 Her mind, adorned with virtues manifold. 
 
24 nALF-IIOURS WITH TIJE rOETS. 
 
 Sir |3l)iHp Sibucij 
 
 [Born 1554.- EHkd 1586.} 
 
 A Ditty. 
 
 ^ true love hath my heart, and 1 have his, 
 
 By just exchange, one to the other given : 
 I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
 
 There never was a better bargain driven : 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 His heart in me keeps him and me in one.» 
 
 My heart in hrm his thoughts and senses guides : 
 
 He loves my heart, for once it vi^as his own, 
 I cherish his because in me it bides : 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
JO By L TLTE. 25 
 
 [Born 1554. Dih^ i6oo.j 
 
 Cupid and Campaspe. 
 
 UPID and my Campaspe played 
 At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : 
 He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. 
 His mother's dove, and team of sparrows ; 
 Loses them too ; then down he throws 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 Growing on's cheek (but none knows how] 
 With these, the crystal of his brow, 
 And then the dimple on his chin j 
 All these did my Campaspe win : 
 At last he set her both his eyes — 
 She won, and Cupid bhnd did rise. 
 
 O Love ! has she done this to thee ? 
 
 What shall, alas ! become of me ? 
 
26 HALF- no URS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 [Born 1555. Dud 16 — .] 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Phillida and Corydon. 
 
 ^^ N the merry month of May, 
 In a morn by break of day, 
 With a troop of damsels playing. 
 Forth I went — forsooth, a Maying 
 
 Where anon by a wood side, 
 Where as May was in his pride, 
 I espied all alone, 
 Phillida and Corydon. 
 
 Much ado there was, God wot ; 
 He would love and she would not. 
 She said, never man was true ; 
 He says, none was false to you. 
 
 He said, he had loved her long ; 
 She says, love should have no wrong. 
 Corydon would kiss her then ; 
 She says, maids must kiss no men 
 
NICHOLAS BRETON. 
 
 Till they do for good and all — 
 When she made the shepherd call 
 All the heavens to witness truth, 
 Never loved a truer youth. 
 
 Then w^ith many a pretty oath, 
 Yea and nay, and faith and troth ; 
 Such as silly shepherds use 
 When they vi^ill not love abuse ; 
 
 Love that had been long deluded, 
 Was with kisses sweet concluded ; 
 And PhilliJa, with garlands gay. 
 Was made the lady of the May. 
 
 27 
 
?8 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 iii;i)cima0 £oIigc 
 
 [Born 1556. Died 16x5.] 
 
 Rosalind's Complaint. 
 
 OVF in my bosom, like a bee, 
 
 Doth suck his sweet ; 
 Now with his wings he plays with me. 
 
 Now with his feet j 
 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 you ? 
 
 And if I sleep, then pierceth he 
 
 With pretty slight, 
 And makes his pillow of my knee 
 
 The live-long night ; 
 Strike I the lute, he tunes the string. 
 He music plays, if I but sing ; 
 He lends me every lovely thing. 
 Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting : 
 
 Ah ! wanton, will you ? 
 
THOMAS LODGE. 
 
 Else I with roses every day 
 
 Will whip you hence, 
 And bind you when you long to play, 
 
 For your offence ; 
 I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, 
 I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
 I'll count your power not worth a pin 
 Alas ! what hereby shall I win, 
 
 If he gainsay me ? 
 
 What if I beat the wanton boy 
 
 With many a rod. 
 He will repay me with annoy. 
 
 Because a god ; 
 Then sit thou softly on my knee. 
 And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
 Lurk in my eyes, I hke of thee, 
 O Cupid ! so thou pity me ; 
 
 Spare not, but play thee. 
 
 29 
 
30 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Uobcrt (!3rccue 
 
 [Born I56o(?). Died 1592. 
 
 Melicertus's Description. 
 
 UNE on, my pipe, the praises of my love, 
 And midst thy oaten harmony* recount 
 ^(j^ How fair she is that makes my music mount, 
 And every string of my heart's harp to move. 
 
 Shall I compare her form unto the sphere, 
 
 Whence sun-bright Venus vaunts her silver shine ? 
 Ah, more than that by just compare is thine. 
 
 Whose crystal looks the cloudy heavens do clear ! 
 
 How oft have I descending Titan seen 
 
 His burning locks quench in the sea-queen's lap. 
 And beauteous Thetis his red body wrap 
 
 In watery robes, as he her lord had been. 
 
 * In the old poets this word is frequently used in the sense of melody. 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 31 
 
 When as my nymph, impatient of the night, 
 Bade bright Arcturus with his train give place, 
 Whiles she led forth the day with her fair face. 
 
 And lent each star a more than Delian light. 
 
 Not Jove nor Nature, should they both agree 
 To make a woman of the firmament 
 Of his mixed purity, could not* invent 
 
 A sky-born form so beautiful as she. 
 
32 
 
 FTA LF-/JOVRS! WITH THE POETS 
 
 Samuel ?Daniicll 
 
 [Born 1562. Died 161 9 
 
 A Character of Love. 
 
 OVE ^s ^ sickness full of woes, 
 
 All remedies refusing, 
 A plant that with most cutting grows. 
 Most barren with best using. 
 Why so .? 
 If we enjoy it, soon it dies ; 
 If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
 Hey ho ! 
 
 Love is a torment of the mind, 
 A tempest everlasting, 
 A heaven has made It of a kind, 
 Not well ; — nor full, nor fasting. 
 
 Why so ? 
 If we enjoy It, soon it dies ; 
 If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
 Hey ho ! 
 
SAMUEL DANYELL. 
 
 33 
 
 To Delia. 
 
 •ft NTO the boundless ocean of thy beauty, 
 
 Runs this poor river, charged with streams 
 of zeal. 
 Returning thee the tribute of my duty, 
 
 Which here my love, my youth, my plaints 
 reveal. 
 Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul, , 
 
 Where I have cast th' accounts of all mv care ; 
 Here have I summed my sighs ; here I enrol 
 
 How they were spent for thee; look what they are. 
 Look on the dear expenses of my youth. 
 
 And see how just I reckon with thine eyes : 
 Examine well thy beauty with my truth ; 
 
 And cross my cares, ere greater cares arise. 
 Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly ; 
 Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly. 
 
34 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 i^cnnj Nonstable- 
 
 [Born I562(r). Died i6o4(?).] 
 
 k^^ 
 
 DiAPHENIA. 
 
 lAPHENlA, like the daffadoundllly, 
 White as the sun, fair as the lilv, 
 Heigh-ho, how I do love thee ! 
 I do love thee as my lambs 
 Are beloved of their dams ; 
 How blest I were if thou wouldst prove m.= 
 
 Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, 
 That in thy sweets all sweets encloses. 
 Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
 I do love thee as each flower 
 Loves the sun's life-giving power ; 
 For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 
 
 Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, 
 
 When all thy praises are expressed. 
 
 Dear joy, how I do love the^ ' 
 
 As the birds do love the spring, 
 
 Or the bees their careful king : 
 
 Then in requite, sweet vir^^in, love me ! 
 
JOSHUA SYLVESTER. 
 
 35 
 
 300l)ua 0|)lt)e0ter- 
 
 [BoRx i';63. Died i6i8. 
 
 Love's Omnipresence. 
 
 liRt I as base as is the lowly plain, 
 
 And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
 yA ♦ Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble 
 swain, 
 Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. 
 
 Were I as high as heaven above the plain. 
 And you, my Love, as humble and as low 
 
 As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
 
 Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. 
 
 Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies. 
 My love should shine on you like to the sun. 
 
 And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 
 
 Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were 
 done. 
 
 Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, 
 Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. 
 
36 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 iilicl)acl Dvanton 
 
 [Born 1563. Died iS^i.^ 
 
 Love's Farewell. 
 
 INCE there's no help, come let us kiss and 
 part,— 
 Nay, I have done, you get no more of 
 me ; 
 
 And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, 
 That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 
 
 Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, 
 And when we meet at any time again, 
 
 Be it not seen in either of our brows 
 That we one jot of former love retain. 
 
 Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, 
 When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies. 
 
 When faith is kneelino; bv his bed of death. 
 And innocence is closing up his eyes, 
 
 — Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him 
 
 over, 
 P'rom death to life thou might'st him yet recover. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 37 
 
 iDilliam 0l)ak6}3earc 
 
 [Born 1564. Died i6i6.| 
 
 "Take, oh, take those lips away/ 
 
 AKE^ oh, 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. 
 
 Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 
 
 Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow. 
 Which thy frozen bosom bears 1 
 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow 
 Are of those that April wears ; 
 
 But first set my poor heart free. 
 
 Bound in those icy chains by thee. 
 
 * The authorship of the above is an unsettled question. The first 
 stanza will be found in Measure for Measure ; and the idea contained in 
 '* Seals of love, but sealed in vain," is to be found in one of Shakspeare's 
 sonnets, and in Venus and Adonis. Both stanzas are in one of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher's plays. The probability is that the first stanza is by Shak- 
 speare, and the next by Fletcher. 
 
ffA LF-JIO Uli S W 1 Til THE POETS. 
 
 A Description. 
 
 f»*/vB ^' ^' of her hands one of her cheeks lay under, 
 Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss, 
 
 V I Which therefore swelled, and seemed to part 
 asunder. 
 As angry to be robbed of such a bliss , 
 
 Inc one looked pale, and for revenge did long. 
 
 While th' other blushed, 'cause it had done the wrong. 
 
 Out of the bed the other fair hand was 
 
 On a green satin quilt, whose perfect white 
 
 Looked like a daisy in a field of grass. 
 
 And showed like unmelt snow unto the sight.' 
 
 * Sir John Suckling completed this unfinished poem, but the addition 
 an inferior one. 
 
 
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE 
 
 39 
 
 
 Love's Perjuries. 
 
 >J a day, alack the day ! 
 
 Love, whose month is 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, 
 
 Wished himself the heaven's breath. 
 
 Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; 
 
 Air, would I might triumph so ! 
 
 But, alack, my hand is 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 me 
 
 That I am forsworn for thee : 
 
 Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear 
 
 Juno but an Ethiope were. 
 
 And deny himself for Jove, 
 
 Turning mortal for thy love. 
 
 /l 
 
40 HALF- HOURS WITH TUE POETS. 
 
 i\s0 True Love. 
 
 ' L \ me not to the marriage of true minds 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or bends w^ith the remover to remove :- 
 
 no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 
 
 That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
 It is the star to every wandering barque 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his height be 
 taken. 
 
 Love's not timers 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, and upon me proved, 
 
 1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Absence 
 
 EING your slave, what should I do but tend 
 Upon the hours and time of your desire ? 
 
 I have no precious time at all to spend, 
 Nor services to do, till you require ; 
 
 Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour 
 
 Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for 
 you, 
 
 Nor think the bitterness of absence sour 
 
 When you have bid your servant once adieu : 
 
 Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 
 Where you may be, or your affairs suppose. 
 
 But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught 
 
 Save, where you are, how happy you make those : 
 
 So true a fool is Ic 
 
 that 
 
 Though you do any thing, he thinks no 
 
42 HALF-IIO URS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ••- \ 
 
 •;?•*)-♦• The Unchangeable. 
 
 NEVER say that I was false of heart, 
 , »• Though absence seemed my flame to quahfy : 
 ••.^ As easy might I from myself depart 
 
 ' As from my soul, which in thy breast doth 
 
 lie. 
 
 This is my home of love ; if I have ranged. 
 Like him that travels, I return again. 
 
 Just with the time, not with the time exchanged. 
 So that myself bring water for my stain. 
 
 Never believe, though in my nature reigned 
 All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 
 
 That it could so preposterously be stained 
 To leave for nothing all thy sum of good : 
 
 For nothing this wide universe I call. 
 Save thou, my rose : in it thou art my all. 
 
RICHARD BARNEFIELD. 43 
 
 llicl)arb Sarnefidb. 
 
 [Contemporary with Shakesheake. Birth uncertain.] 
 
 The Nightingale. 
 
 S 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. 
 Every thing did banish moan 
 Save the nightingale alone. 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 Leaned her breast against a thorn. 
 And there sung the dolefullest ditty 
 That to hear it vv^as great pity. 
 Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; 
 Tereu, tereu, by and by : 
 That to hear her so complain 
 Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 
 For her griefs so lively shown 
 Made me think upon mine own. 
 
44 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 — Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, 
 
 None takes pity on thy pain : 
 
 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee. 
 
 Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 
 
 King Pandion, he is dead. 
 
 All thy friends are lapped in lead : 
 
 All thy fellow-birds do sing 
 
 Careless of thy sorrowing : 
 
 Even so, poor bird, like thee 
 
 None alive will pity me. 
 
SIB HENRY WOTTON 
 
 45 
 
 0ir ^enrij ttJotton 
 
 [Born 1568 Died 16^9.^ 
 
 " You Meaner Beauties. '* 
 
 OU meaner beauties of the night 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes. 
 
 More by your number than your light ; 
 You common people of the skies, 
 What are you when the moon shall rise ? 
 
 Ye violets that first appear 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known, 
 Like the proud virgins of the year, 
 
 As if the Spring were all your own ; 
 
 What are you when the rose is blown ? 
 
 Ye curious chaunters of the wood. 
 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays. 
 
 * Chambers attributes this song to Lord Darnley, king consort of Mary, 
 queen of Scots. There appears no doubt, after investigation, that it was 
 written by Wotton, and was addressed to the gueen of Bohemia, daughter 
 of James I. 
 
46 HALF- I/O r/iS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Thinking \()ur passion understood 
 
 By your weak accents — what's your praise, 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 
 
 So when my mistress shall be seen, 
 In sweetness of her looks and mind ; 
 
 By virtue first, then choice a queen, 
 Tell me if she was not designed 
 Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
SIS ROBERT AYTOUN. 47 
 
 Sir l^obcrt ^atoun. 
 
 [Born 1570. Died jd'^S.] 
 
 Woman's I-nconstancy. 
 
 LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, 
 Thine be the grief, as is the blame ; 
 Thou art not what thou wert before. 
 
 What reason I should be the same ? 
 He that can love, unloved again. 
 Hath better store of love than brain; 
 God send me love my debts to pay. 
 While unthrifts fool their love away. 
 
 Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. 
 If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
 
 Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, 
 I might perchance have yet been thine 
 
 But thou thy freedom did recall. 
 
 That it thou might elsewhere enthral ; 
 
 And then how could I but disdain, 
 
 A captive's captive to remain ? 
 
48 JiALF-iio rns with the poets. 
 
 When new desires had conquered thee, 
 And changed the object of thy will i 
 It had been lethargy in me, 
 
 Not constancy, to love thee still. 
 Yea, it had been a sin to go 
 And prostitute affection so •, 
 Since we are taught our prayers to say. 
 To such as must to others pray. 
 
 Yet do thou glory In thy choice. 
 
 Thy choice of his good fortune boast 
 I'll 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 at a beggar's door. 
 
 " I DO CONFESS." 
 
 '*>4^% nC) confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 
 '^^ And I might have gone near to love thee, 
 
 'VjjU- Had I not found the slightest prayer 
 '^ That lips can speak had power to move thee 
 
 But I can let thee now alone. 
 As worthv to be loved by none. 
 
SIR BO BEET ATT US. 49 
 
 I do confess thee sweet, but find 
 
 Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 
 
 Thy favours are but hke the wind 
 That kisseth every thing it meets : 
 
 And since thou canst with more than one, 
 
 Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
 
 The morning rose that untouched stands, 
 Armed with her briers, doth sweetly smell. 
 
 But plucked and strained through ruder hands 
 Her sweets no longer, with her dwell. 
 
 Her scent and beauty both are gone. 
 
 And leaves fall from her one by one. 
 
 Such fate ere long will thee betide. 
 
 When thou hast handled been awhile — 
 
 Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; 
 And I shall sigh, while some will smile. 
 
 To see thy love to every one 
 
 Hath caused thee to be loved by none. 
 
 :^ 
 
IIALF-nOURS WITH THE rOET^. 
 
 l0l)n ?Donnc 
 
 [Born 157; D.ku 1631.] 
 
 «%VVW "r""^ Message. 
 
 END home my long-strayed eyes to me, 
 Which, oh ! too long have dwelt on thee 
 But if they there have learned such ill, 
 Such forced fashions 
 And false passions, 
 That they be 
 Made by thee 
 Fit for no good sight, keep them still. 
 
 Send home my harmless heart a2;ain, 
 Which no unworthy thought could stain j 
 But if it be taught by thine 
 To make jestings 
 Of protestings. 
 And break both 
 Word and oath, 
 Keep it still, 'tis none of mine. 
 
JOHN DONNE. 5 I 
 
 Yet send me back my heart and eyes, 
 That I may know and see thy lies, 
 And may joy and laugh when thou 
 Art in anguish 
 And dost languish 
 For some one 
 That will none. 
 Or prove false as thou dost now. 
 
 The Prohibition. 
 
 AKE heed of loving me — 
 
 At least remember I forbade it thee ; 
 
 Not that I shall repair my unthrifty waste 
 
 Of breath and blood upon thy sighs and tears, 
 By being to thee then what to me thou wast ; 
 
 But so great joy our life at once outwears •, 
 Then, lest thy love by my death frustrate be, 
 If thou love me, l^tke heed of loving me. 
 
 Take heed of hating me. 
 Or too much triumph in the victory ; 
 Not that I shall be mine own officer, 
 And hate with hate again retaliate ; 
 
52 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 But thou wilt lose the style of Conqueror, 
 
 If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate ; 
 Then, lest my being nothing lessen thee, 
 If thou hate me, take heed of hating me. 
 
 Yet love and hate me too. 
 So these extremes shall ne'er their office do ; 
 Love me, that I may die the gentler way; 
 
 Hate me, because thy love's too great for me 
 Or let these two themselves, not me, decay ; 
 
 So shall I live thy stage, not triumph be : 
 Then lest thy love thou hate, and me undo, 
 O let me live, yet love and hate me too. 
 
 Ar 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 53 
 
 [Born 1574. Died J637.] 
 
 "Drink to Me only." 
 
 RINK to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from my soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine ; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sip, 
 
 I would^lriot change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee, 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 
 It would not withered be. 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
 
 And sent it back to me ; 
 Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
54 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 3fol)n :flctcl)cr. 
 
 [Born 1576 Died 1625,.] 
 
 I 
 
 Song. 
 
 EAREST I do not thou delay me, 
 Since thou know'st I must be gone -, 
 
 Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, 
 But 'tis wind that must be blown 
 
 From that breath, whose native smell 
 
 Indian odours far excel. 
 
 Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair ! 
 
 Kill not him that vows to serve thee ; 
 But perfume this neighbouring air. 
 
 Else dull silence sure will starve me ; 
 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken. 
 Which being restrained, a heart is broken. 
 
THOMAS CAREW. 55 
 
 [Born i58o(?). Died 1639.] 
 
 Mediocrity in Love rejected. 
 
 lYp me more love, or more disdain ; 
 The torrid or the frozen zone 
 
 \M^r^ Bring equal ease unto my pain, 
 ^ The temperate affords me none j 
 
 ^ Either extreme of love or hate 
 
 Is sweeter than a calm estate. 
 
 Give me a storm ; if it be love. 
 Like Danae in that golden shower, 
 
 I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
 Disdain, that torrent will devour 
 
 My vulture-hopes ; and he's possessed 
 
 Of heaven that's but from hell released ; 
 
 Then crown my joys or cure my pain ; 
 
 Give me more love, or more disdain. 
 
IIALF-IIOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Gj^^K_4-t^ 
 
 Song. 
 
 E that loves a rosy cheek. 
 Or a coral lip admires, 
 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 Fuel to maintain its fires ; 
 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and stedfast mind. 
 Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires ; 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 
 
WILLIAM, EARL OF STERLING. 57 
 
 tUilUam ^kjranber, O^arl of Sterling. 
 
 [Born 1580. Died 1640.] 
 
 To Aurora, 
 
 YY thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm, 
 And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my 
 XX.. rest; 
 
 Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy 
 I 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 transformed in me. 
 
 Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul ; 
 
 Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine. 
 
 And if that aught mischanced thou shouldst not moan 
 Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone ; 
 
 No, I would have my share in what were thine : 
 
 And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, 
 This happy harmony would make them none. 
 
58 HALF -no UPcS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 tUilUam IDrummouii- 
 
 [Born 1585. Died 1649.] 
 
 Summons to Love. 
 
 ""HGEBUS, arise! 
 
 And paint the sable skies 
 With azure, white, and red : 
 Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, 
 That 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 liglit, 
 
 — This is that happv morn. 
 That day, long wished day 
 Of all my life so dark 
 (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. $9 
 
 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. 
 And thou two sweeter eyes 
 Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 
 
 Did once thy heart surprise. 
 Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise : 
 If that ye winds would hear 
 A voice surpassing far Amphion'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 show his flaming wheels : 
 The fields with flowers are decked in every hue. 
 The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ; 
 Here is the pleasant place — ^ 
 
 And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! 
 
6o HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 The Quality of a Kiss. 
 
 WY. ^^ss, with so much strife 
 
 Which late I got (sweet heart), 
 Was it a sign of death, or was it Hfe ? 
 Of life it could not be, 
 For I by it did sigh my soul to thee : 
 Nor was it death — death doth no joy impart. 
 Thou silent stand'st, ah ! what didst thou bequeath, 
 A dying hfe to me, or Hving death ? 
 
 ^^^ ^, , Sleeping Beauty. 
 
 ^^ SIGHT too dearly bought : 
 
 '^ She sleeps, and though those eyes 
 •!• ) * Which lighten Cupid's sighs 
 I Be closed, yet such a grace 
 
 Environeth that place. 
 That I through wonder to grow faint am brought : 
 Suns, if eclipsed, you have such power divine. 
 What power have I t'endure you when you shine ? 
 
RICHARD ALLISON. 
 
 6i 
 
 Eicljarb ^.lUeon. 
 
 [From " An Houre's Recreation in Musicke." — 1606.] 
 
 " There is a Garden in her Face." 
 
 HERE is a garden in her face, 
 
 Where roses and white lilies grow ; 
 
 A heavenly 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 filled with snow ; 
 Yet them no peer nor prince may buy. 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.* 
 
 * It is probable that Herrick's Song of " Cherry Ripe" was suggested 
 fiy this stanza. 
 
62 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still, 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 
 Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
 AH that approach with eye or hand 
 
 Those sacred cherries to come nigh, 
 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
GILES FLETCMER. 
 
 63 
 
 Sties irictcl)er 
 
 [BoBi* i5?8 D«D i6n J 
 
 Panglory's Wooing Song. 
 
 OVE is the blossom where there blows 
 Every thing that lives or grows ; 
 Love doth make the heavens to move, 
 And the sun doth burn in love : 
 Love, the strong and weak doth yoke, 
 And makes the ivy climb the oak. 
 Under whose shadows, lions wild. 
 Softened by love grow tame and mild. 
 Love, no med'cine can appease ; 
 He burns the fishes in the seas 5 
 Not all the skill his wounds can staunch ; 
 Not all the sea his thirst 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 
 1 the bud and blossom am. 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 Thy wooing shall my winning be. 
 
64 
 
 HALF-IIOVRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 See, see the flowers that below 
 NTow freshly as the morning blow, 
 And of all, the virgin rose. 
 That as bright Aurora shows ; 
 How they all unleaved die 
 Losing their virginity ; 
 Like unto a summer shade. 
 But now born, and now they fade, 
 Every thing doth pass away ; 
 There is danger in delay. 
 Come, come, gather then the rose ; 
 Gather it, or it you lose. 
 All the sand of Tagus' shore, 
 In my bosom casts its ore : 
 All the valleys' swimming corr^ 
 To my house is yearly borne : 
 Every grape of every vine 
 Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; 
 While ten thousand kings, as proud 
 To carry up my train, have bowed. 
 And a world of ladies send me 
 From my chamber to attend me : 
 All the stars in heaven that shine. 
 And ten thousand more are mine. 
 Only bend thy knee to me, 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 65 
 
 (George U)itl)er. 
 
 SilALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.'* 
 
 , HALL j^ wasting in despaii, 
 Die because a woman's fair ? 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
 'Cause another's rosy are ? 
 Be she fairer than the day, 
 Or the flowery meads in May, 
 If she be not so to me. 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 Should my heart be grieved or pined 
 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
 
 Or a well-disposed nature 
 
 Joined with a lovely feature ? 
 
 Be she meeker, kinder, than 
 
 Turtle-dove or peHcan, 
 
 If she be not so to me. 
 
 What care 1 how kind she be ? 
 
66 HALF- nouns with the poets. 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or, her well-deservings known, 
 Make me quite forget my own ? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may gain her name of best, 
 If she be not such to me, 
 What care I how good she be ?. 
 
 'Cause her fortune seems too high. 
 Shall I play the fool and die ? 
 Those that bear a noble mind. 
 Where they want of riches find, 
 Think what with them they would do, 
 That without them dare to woo ; 
 And unless that mind I see. 
 What care I how great she be ? 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 I will ne'er the more despair : 
 If she love me, this believe, 
 I will die ere she shall grieve : 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 I can scorn and let her go : 
 For, if she be not for me, 
 What care I for whom she be ? 
 
GEORGE WITHER 6/ 
 
 Upon a Stolen Kiss. 
 
 OW gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 
 Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts 
 in awe ; 
 And free access unto that sweet lip lies, 
 
 From whence I long the rosy breath to 
 draw. 
 Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal 
 
 From 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 ; 
 Why then should I this robbery delay ? 
 
 Oh ! she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! 
 Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one. 
 And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. 
 
68 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITIf THE POETS. 
 
 toil Ham Brorouc 
 
 [Born 1590. Died 1645.] 
 
 " Welcome, Welcome, do I sing." 
 
 ELCOME, welcome, do I sing, 
 Far more welcome than the spring. 
 He that parteth from you never, 
 Shall enjoy a spring forever. 
 
 Love, that to the voice is near, 
 Breaking from your ivory pale. 
 
 Need not walk abroad to hear 
 The delightful nightingale. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c, 
 
 Love, that looks still on your eyes. 
 Though the winter have begun 
 
 To benumb our arteries. 
 
 Shall not want the summer's sun. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, kc. 
 
 Love, that still may see your cheeks. 
 Where all rareness still reposes. 
 
WILLIAM BROWNE. 69 
 
 'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks 
 Other hlles, other roses. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 
 
 Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 
 And perceives your breath in kissing. 
 
 All the odors of the fields 
 
 Never, never shall be missing. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 
 
 Love, that question would anew 
 
 What fair Eden was of old. 
 Let him rightly study you. 
 
 And a brief of that behold. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 
 
 Song. 
 
 ^ HALL I tell you whom I love ? 
 
 Hearken then awhile to me ; 
 And if such a woman prove 
 
 As I now shall verify; 
 Be assured, 'tis she or none 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
70 HALF- no UBS TV I Til THE POETS. 
 
 Nature did her so much right. 
 As she scorns the help of art. 
 
 In as many virtues dight 
 
 As e'er yet embraced a heart. 
 
 So much good so truly tried, 
 
 Some for less were deified. 
 
 Wit she hath, without desire 
 
 To rtlake known how much she hath ; 
 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 
 Full of pity as may be, 
 
 Though perhaps not so to me. 
 
 Reason masters every sense. 
 
 And her virtues grace her birth ; 
 
 Lovely as all excellence. 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth : 
 
 Likelihood enough to prove 
 
 Only worth would kindle love. 
 
 Such she is, and if you know 
 Such a one as I have sung -, 
 
 Be she brown, or fair, or so 
 
 That she be but somewhile young ; 
 
 Be assured, 'tis she or none 
 
 That I love, and love alone 
 
BISHOP OF CHICHESTER. 
 
 V 
 
 tm\} King, Bisljap of (!ri)icl)C5ter* 
 
 [Born 1591. Vhax 1669.) 
 
 "Tell me no more." 
 
 ELL me no more how fair she is ; 
 1 have no mind to hear 
 '") (^' The story of that distant bliss 
 I never shall come near : 
 By sad experience I have found , 
 That her perfection is my wound. 
 
 And tell me not how fond I am 
 
 To tempt my daring fate, 
 From whence no triumph ever came 
 
 But to repent too late : 
 There is some hope ere long I may 
 In silence dote myself away. 
 
 1 ask no pity, Love, from thee. 
 Nor will thy justice blame, — 
 
 So that thou wilt not envy me 
 The glory of my flame. 
 
 Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, 
 
 In that it falls her sacrifice. 
 
72 
 
 HALF- HOUR 8 WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Kobcvt f)crrick 
 
 [Born 1591 Di»» «^>7« \^)-\ 
 
 The Kiss: a Dialogue. 
 I. 
 MONG thy fancies tell me this : 
 What is the thing we call a kiss ? — 
 2. I shall resolve ye what it is : 
 
 It is a creature born and bred 
 Between the lips, all cherry red ; 
 By love and warm desires fed ; 
 Cho*- And makes more soft the bridal bed. 
 
 2. It is an active flame, that flies 
 f'irst to the babies of the eyes. 
 And charms them there with lullabies ; 
 Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. 
 
 Then to the chin, the check, the ear. 
 It frisks and flies ; now here, now there ; 
 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near ; 
 Chor, And here, and there, and everywhere. 
 
ROBERT HERRICK. 73 
 
 I. Has it a speaking virtue ? — 2. Yes. 
 I. How speaks it, say ? — 2. Do you out tnis. 
 Part your joined lips, then speaks your kiss i 
 Chor. And this love's sweetest language is. 
 
 I. Has it a body } — 2. Ay, and wings, 
 With thousand rare encolorings ; 
 And as it flies, it gently sings, 
 Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. 
 
 "Go, Happy Rose." 
 
 O) happy Rose, and, interwove 
 With other flowers, bind my love. 
 \^ Tell her, too, she must not be 
 Longer flowing, longer free. 
 That so oft hath fettered me. 
 
 Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
 Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; 
 Tell her, if she struggle still, 
 I have myrtle rods at will. 
 For to tame, though not to kill. 
 
 Take then my blessing thus, and go. 
 And tell her this, — but do not so ! 
 
 7 
 
74 //^ 1 L F- II OVR S WI Til ril E P O E TF^. 
 
 Lest a handsome anger fly, 
 Like a lightning from her eye, 
 And burn thee up, as well as \. 
 
 To Anthea, 
 
 WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING. 
 
 ID me to live, and I will live 
 
 Thy Protestant to be : 
 Or bid me love, and 1 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 canst hnd, 
 
 That heart I'll give to thee. 
 
 Bid that heart stay, and it will stav, 
 
 To honor thy decree: 
 Or bid it languish quite away. 
 
 And 't shall do so for thee. 
 
 Bid me to weep, and I will weep 
 
 While I have eyes to see : 
 And ha\ing none, yet I will keep 
 
 A heart to weep for tliee. 
 
ROBERT HERRI GK. 
 
 Bid me despair, and I'll despair, 
 
 Under that cypress-tree : 
 Or bid me die, and I will dare 
 
 E'en Death, to die for thee. 
 
 Thou art my life, my love, my heart. 
 
 The very eyes of me. 
 And hast command of every part, 
 
 To live and die for thee. 
 
 "Ayp^^- 
 
 To DiANEME. 
 
 WEETj be not proud of those two eyes 
 Which star-like sparkle in their skies; 
 Nor be you proud, that you can see 
 All hearts your captives ; yours yet free : 
 Be you not proud of that rich hair 
 Which w^antons v^^ith the love-sick air ; 
 Whenas that ruby which you wear. 
 Sunk from the tip of your soft ear. 
 Will last to be a precious stone 
 When all your world of beauty's gone. 
 
;<') //A LF-J/o I'/iS W IT II T UK POETS. 
 
 [Date of birth and death uncertain. Flourished from 1596 to 1640.] 
 
 Good-Morrow. 
 
 * 
 
 f2|jAC'K. clouds away, and welcome day, 
 With night we banish sorrow ; 
 Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft. 
 To give my love Good-morrow ! 
 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 
 
 Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sino;, 
 To give my love Good-morrow ! 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast. 
 
 Sing birds in every furrow. 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love Good-morrow ! 
 
 Blackblnl and thrush, in every bush, 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
 
 You pretty elves among yourseh es. 
 Sing my fair love Good-morrow ! 
 
<? ^9'■ 
 
THOMAS HEYWOOD. 7/ 
 
 "Ye Little Birds.'' 
 
 E little birds that sit and sing 
 
 Amidst the shady vaUies, 
 And see how Phillis sweetly walks 
 
 Within her garden alleys ; 
 Go, pretty birds, about her bower. 
 Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower, 
 Ah, me ! methinks I see her frown, — 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go tell her through your chirping bills 
 
 As you by me are bidden, 
 To her is only known my love. 
 
 Which 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 will not change my choice ; 
 
 7* 
 
;S II A I. r IKK- 1: s w i r ii r ii /•; /' (t e ts. 
 
 Yet still mcthinks I sec her frown, — 
 Yc pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 O Hy, make haste, — see, see, she falls 
 
 Into a pretty slumber ; 
 Sing round about her rosy bed, 
 
 That waking she may wonder. 
 Sing to her 'tis her lover true 
 That sendeth love by you and you. 
 And when you hear her kind reply, 
 
 Return with pleasant warblings. 
 
WILLIAM STRODE. 
 
 79 
 
 iDtlliam ©trobe 
 
 [Born 1600. Died 1644..] 
 
 "My Love and I." 
 
 Y love and I for kisses played ; 
 
 She would keep stakes, I was content ; 
 But when I won she would be paid, 
 
 This made me ask her what she meant ; 
 Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, 
 Take your own kisses, give me mine again. 
 
So HAL I -no r US with the poets. 
 
 lllilliam Cjabiugton. 
 
 [BoKN 1605. DltD 1654] 
 
 C ASTAR A. 
 
 IKK the violet which, alone, 
 
 Prospers in some happy shade, 
 My Castara lives unknown. 
 
 To no looser eye betrayed, 
 For she's to herself untrue 
 Who delights i' th' public view. 
 
 Such is her beauty as no arts 
 
 Have enriched with borrowed grace 
 
 Her high birth no pride imparts, 
 For she blushes in her place. 
 
 Folly boasts a glorious blood, 
 
 She is noblest being good. 
 
 She her throne makes reason climb, 
 While wild passions capti\e lie : 
 
 And each article of time 
 
 Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: 
 
 All her vows relijiious be. 
 
 And her love she vows to me. 
 
Sm WILLIAM DAVENANT. 
 
 Sir ItJiUiam Daucnant 
 
 [BoK'N 1605. Died 1668.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 HE lark now leaves his watery nest, 
 ^ And climbing shakes his dewy wings ; 
 He takes his window from the east, 
 And to implore your light,, he sings, — 
 Awake, awake, the morn will never rise. 
 Till she can dress her beauty by 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. 
 
82 
 
 // I /, /• IK) rh's 
 
 rni Tin: poets. 
 
 (Ciimuni) lUallcv 
 
 Born 1605. Diti) 16S7.J 
 
 On a Girdle. 
 
 HA T which her slender waist confined 
 Shall now mv jovful temples bind : 
 No monarch hut would gi\'e his crown 
 His arms might do what this has done. 
 
 It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
 The pale which held that lovely dear : 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
 Did all within this circle mo\e. 
 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair 
 Give mc but what this riband bound. 
 Take all the rest the sun irocs round. 
 
EDMUND WALLER. 83 
 
 "Go, Lovely Rose!" 
 
 O, 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 shuns 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. 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die ! that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee : 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 
 
^4 ir.\ r /•- /fof'h's WITH the poets. 
 
 d' 
 
 .^' ^ Helen of Kirkconnell. 
 
 '^W\4 WISH I were where Helen lies ; 
 
 * ^ H F 
 
 ^H// Night and day on me she cries ; 
 J^ O that I were where Helen lies, 
 ^■^^ On fair Kirkconnell lee. 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thoueht 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot, 
 When in my arms bird Helen dropt 
 And died to succour me ! 
 
 Oh, think ye na my heart was sair, 
 When my love dropt down and spake nae mair 
 There did she swoon wi' meikle care, 
 On fair Kirkconnell lee. 
 
 As I went down the water side. 
 None but mv foe to be my o-uide. 
 
 O 7 
 
 None but my foe to be my guide 
 On fair Kirkconnell lee — 
 
 I lighted down, my sword did draw, 
 J hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
ANONYMOUS. 85 
 
 I hacked him in pieces sma' 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 Oh, Helen, fair beyond compare ! 
 I'll weave a garland of thy hair 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
 Until the day I dee. 
 
 Oh, 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 !" 
 
 Oh, Helen fair ! Oh, Helen chaste ! 
 Were I with thee I would be blest. 
 Where thou lies low and takes thy rest 
 On fair Kirkconnell lee. 
 
 I wish my grave were growing green ; 
 A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en. 
 And I in Helen's arms lying 
 On fair Kirkconnell lee. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries. 
 And I am weary of the skies. 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
86 II M.F-no ri:s w mi the roETS. 
 
 Vl/ "Waly, Waly." 
 
 wPy^ H,waly, waly up the bank, 
 ^^^J And walv, waly down the brae, 
 "^y And walv, waly von burn-side, 
 ^ Where I and my love wont to gae ! 
 
 I leaned my bauk unto an aik, 
 
 And thoucht it was a trusty tree ; 
 But first it bowed and svne it brak : 
 Sae my true-love did lichtlie me. 
 
 Oh, waly, walv, but love be bonnie 
 
 A little time while it be new ; 
 But when its auld it waxes cauld, 
 
 And fades awav like the morning dew. 
 Oh, wherefore should I busk my heid. 
 
 Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 
 For my true-love has me forsook. 
 
 And says he'll love me never mair. 
 
 Now Arthur's Scat shall be my bed. 
 
 The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me, 
 
 St. 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 ? 
 
ANONYMOUS. 87 
 
 O gentle death, when wilt thou come ? 
 For of my life I am wearie. 
 
 'Tis not the fruit that freezes fell, 
 
 Nor blawing men's inclemencie ; 
 'Tis not sic cauid that makes me cry ; 
 
 But my love's heart's grown cauld to me. 
 When we came in by Glasgow toun, 
 
 We were a comely sight to see ; 
 My love was clad in the black velvet, 
 
 And I mysel' in cramasie. 
 
 But had I wist before I kiss'd 
 
 That love had been so ill to win, 
 I'd locked my heart in a case of gold, 
 
 And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. 
 Oh, oh, if my young babe was born. 
 
 And set upon the nurse's knee. 
 And I mysel' were dead and gone. 
 
 And the green grass growin' ower me ! 
 
SS iiA I r- ff(>riis wi rii the poets. 
 
 lUilliam €artmvigl)t 
 
 [B)KN lOII. Dl*.D itHlJ 
 
 % 
 
 To Cupid. 
 
 HOU who didst never see the hght, 
 Nor know'st the pleasure of the sight, 
 But, always blinded, canst not say, 
 Now it is night, or now 'tis day ; 
 So captivate her sight, so blind her eye, 
 That still she love me, yet she ne'er know why. 
 
 Thou who dost wound us with such art. 
 We see no blood drop from the heajt. 
 And, subt'ly cruel, leav'st no sign 
 To tell the blow or hand was thine ; 
 O gently, gently wound my fair, that she 
 May thence believe the wound did come from me. 
 
JAMES, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 89 
 
 3ame5, iHarquis of Montrose. 
 
 [Born 1612. Diti> 1 6jo. j 
 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 Y dear and only love, I pray- 
 That little w^orld of thee 
 
 Be governed by no other sway 
 But purest monarchy; 
 
 For if confusion have a part, 
 Which virtuous souls abhor, 
 
 I'll call a synod in my heart, 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 As Alexander I will reign, 
 
 And I will reign alone ; 
 My thoughts did evermore disdain 
 
 A rival on my throne. 
 He either fears his fate too much 
 
 Or his deserts are small. 
 Who dares not put it to the touch 
 
 To gain or lose it all. 
 
_L 
 
 90 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 But 1 will reign and govern still, 
 
 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 storm or vex me sore. 
 As if thou set me as a blind, 
 
 ril never love thee more. 
 
 
 And in the empire of thy heart, 
 
 Where I should solely be, 
 U others do pretend a part. 
 
 Or dare to share with me ; 
 Or committees if thou erect. 
 
 Or go on such a score, 
 *'ll smiling mock at thy neglect. 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 But if no faithless action stain 
 
 Thy love and constant word, 
 I'll make thee famous bv my pen. 
 
 And glorious by my sword ; 
 I'll serve thee in such noble ways 
 
 As ne'er was known before ; 
 I'll deck and crown thy head with bays. 
 
 And love thee evermore. 
 
SIB JOHN SUCKLING. 91 
 
 Sir 3o\)n Suckling 
 
 [Born 1613. Died 1641.J 
 
 / Song. 
 
 ONEST lover, whosoever, 
 If in all thy love there ever 
 Was one wavering thought, if thy flame 
 Were not still even, still the same ; 
 Know this. 
 Thou lovest amiss. 
 And to love true 
 Thou must begin again, and love anew. 
 
 If when she appears i' th' room, 
 
 Thou dost not quake, art not struck dumb ; 
 
 And if in striving this to cover 
 
 Dost not speak thy words twice over ; 
 
 Know this. 
 
 Thou lovest amiss. 
 And to love true 
 Thou must begin again, and love anew. 
 
92 JIALF-HOUnS M'lTII THE POETS. 
 
 If fondly thou dost not mistake, 
 And all defects for graces take, 
 Persuadest thyself that jests are broken. 
 When she has little or nothing spoken : 
 
 Know this, 
 
 l^hou lovest amiss, 
 And to love true 
 Thou must begin again, and love anew. 
 
 If when thou appearest to be within, . 
 Thou let'st not men ask, and ask again ; 
 And when thou answerest, if it be 
 To what was asked thee properly : 
 Know this, 
 Thou lovest amiss. 
 And to love true 
 Thou must begin again, and love anew. 
 
 If when thy stomach calls to eat, 
 lliou cut'st not fingers 'stead of 
 And with much sazincr on her face 
 
 1 
 
 Dost not rise hungry from the place : 
 Know this. 
 Thou lovest amiss. 
 And to love true 
 Thou must begin again, and love anew. 
 
SIB JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 93 
 
 U by this thou dost discover 
 That thou art no perfect lover. 
 And desiring to love true 
 Thou dost begin to love anew : 
 
 Know this, 
 
 Thou lovest amiss. 
 And to love true 
 Thou must begin again, and love anew. 
 
94 JIA L I -Jlo riiS WJTU THE POETS. 
 
 Hicl)arii £raril)au)- 
 
 [B(.RN i6i5(',. DitD 1652.] 
 
 ...^ "The Dew no more shall weep." 
 
 HE dew no more shall weep. 
 
 The primrose's pale cheek to deck ; 
 D The dew no more shall sleep 
 Nuzzled in the lily's neck : 
 Much 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 be in these 
 Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the kevs. 
 
 When Sorrow would be seen 
 
 In her bright majesty. 
 For she is a Queen, 
 
 Then she is dressed by none but thee y 
 Then, and only tlicn, she wears 
 Her richest pearls; — I mean thy tears. 
 
RICHARD CRASH AW. 95 
 
 Not in the evening's eyes, 
 
 When they red with weeping are 
 
 For the sun that dies. 
 
 Sits Sorrow with a face so fair : 
 
 Nowhere but here doth meet 
 
 Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 
 
 Wishes for the supposed Mistress. 
 
 HOE'EH she be. 
 
 That not impossible She 
 That shall command 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 shine 
 
96 HA LF-r/orns with the poets. 
 
 — Meet you her my Wishes, 
 Bespeak her to my blisses, 
 And be ye called, my absent kisses. 
 
 I wish her beauty 
 That owes not all its duty 
 l\j gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie : 
 
 Something more than 
 
 Taffeta or tissue can, 
 
 Or rampant feather, or rich fan, 
 
 A face that's best 
 By its own beauty drest, 
 And can alone command the rest : 
 
 A face made up 
 Out of no other shop 
 Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. 
 
 Sydneian showers 
 Of sweet discourse, whose powers 
 Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. 
 
 Whate'er delight 
 Can make day's forehead bright, 
 Or a;ive down to the winp-s of nio;ht. 
 
RICHARD CRASHAW. 97 
 
 Soft, silken hours, 
 Open suns, shady bowers ; 
 *Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 
 
 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. 
 
 Life, that dares send 
 A challenge to his end, 
 And when it comes, says, " Welcome, friend," 
 
 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 that dares be 
 What these lines wish to see: 
 I seek no further, it is She, 
 
98 HALF- Horn s wrrir the poets. 
 
 'Fis She, and here, 
 Lo ! I unclothe and clear 
 My wishes, cloudy character. 
 
 Such worth as this is 
 Shall fix my flying wishes, 
 And determine them to kisses. 
 
 Let her full glory, 
 My fancies, fly before ye ; 
 Be ye my fictions : — but her story. 
 
RICHARD LOVELACE. 
 
 99^ 
 
 Ktcliarb Cotielace. 
 
 [Born i6i8. Died 1658.] 
 
 " Tell me not, Sweet." 
 
 ELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
 That from the nunnery 
 (Tv/c) ^^ ^^y chaste breast and quiet mind. 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase. 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 And 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 more. 
 
 ^' ^ o 
 
1 00 II .\L /•'- no I m .V if / tii tji k r o /<: vs. 
 
 ^bval)am CoiDlcn 
 
 [Bi)kN i6iS. DiKP 1667.] 
 
 >^ A Supplication. 
 
 WAKE, 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, 
 7>I1 her, such different notes make all thy harmony 
 
 Hark ! how the strings awake : 
 And though the moving hand approach not near, 
 Themselves with awful fear 
 A kind of numerous tremblino- make 
 
 o ■ 
 
 Now all thy forces try ; 
 Now all thy charms apply ; 
 Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 
 
 Weak Lyre ! thy \irtuc sure 
 Is useless here, since thou art only found 
 
ABRAHAM COWLEY. 101 
 
 To cure, and 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. 
 
 Inconstant. 
 
 A ' HA ! y^^ think you've killed my fame 
 By this not understood, yet common name ; 
 A name that's full and proper when assigned 
 To womankind ; 
 But when you call us so. 
 It can at best but for a metaphor go. 
 
 Can you the shore inconstant call, 
 Which still, as waves pass by, embraces all, 
 
102 
 
 uMF-irnrns wrrii the roET^. 
 
 That had as hef the same waves always love, 
 
 Did they not from him move ; 
 
 Or can you fault with pilots find 
 For changing course, yet never blame the wind ? 
 
 Since drunk with vanity you fell, 
 The things turn round to you that steadfast dwell ; 
 And you yourself who from us take your flight, 
 Wonder to find us out of sight ; 
 So the same error seizes you. 
 As men in motion think the trees move too. 
 
 The Discovery 
 
 V Heaven, I'll tell her boldly that 'tis she •, 
 Why should she ashamed or angry be 
 
 To be beloved by me ? 
 The gods may give their altars o'er. 
 They'll smoke but seldom any more, 
 nc but happy men must them adore. 
 
 The lightning which tall oaks oppose in vain, 
 To strike sometimes does not disdain 
 l^he humble furzes of the plain. 
 
A BE ARAM COWLEY. IO3 
 
 She being so high, and I so low, 
 Her power by this does greater show, 
 Who at such distance gives so sure a blow. 
 
 Compared with her all things so worthless prove, 
 
 That naught on earth can to'ards her move. 
 
 Till 't be exalted by her love. 
 
 Equal to her, alas ! there's none ; 
 
 She like a deity is grown, -. 
 That must create, or else must be alone. 
 
 If there be man who thinks himself so high 
 
 As to pretend equality, 
 
 He deserves her less than I ; 
 
 For he would cheat for his relief, 
 
 And one would give with lesser grief 
 To an undeserving beggar than a thief. 
 
104 
 
 n.\ r r- no i -r s w / r n the poe t.h. 
 
 [BoKN i6zo. DiEu 166^] 
 
 The Resolve. 
 
 T^Kit""^^' me not of a face that's fair, 
 /Sl>f ^^^'' ^'P ^"*J cheek that's red, 
 Nor of the tresses of her hair. 
 
 Nor curls in order laid ; 
 Nor of a rare seraphic voice. 
 
 That like an angel sings , 
 Though, if I were to take my choice, 
 
 I would have all these things. 
 But if that thou wilt have me love. 
 
 And it must be a she ; 
 The only argument can move 
 
 Is, that she will love me. 
 
 The glories of your ladies be 
 But metaphors of things, 
 
 And but resemble what we see 
 Each common object brings. 
 
 Roses outred their lips and cheeks. 
 Lilies their whiteness stain : 
 
ALEXANDER BROME. 
 
 IOn 
 
 What fool is he that shadow seeks, 
 And may the substance gaui ? 
 
 Then, if thou'lt have me love a lass, 
 Let it be one that's kind, 
 
 Else I'm a servant to the glass 
 That's with canary lined. 
 
f06 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 [Born 1620. Died 1678.] 
 
 The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of 
 Flowers. 
 
 2 E F. with what simplicity 
 
 This nymph begins her golden days ! 
 In the green grass she loves to lie, 
 And there with her fair aspect tames 
 The wilder flowers, and gives them names ; 
 But only with the roses plays, 
 And them does tell 
 What colour best becomes them, and what smell 
 
 Who can foretell for what high cause 
 This darling of the gods was l^orn ? 
 See, this is she whose chaster laws 
 The wanton Love shall one day fear, 
 And, under her command severe. 
 See his bow broke and ensigns torn. 
 IIapp\ who can 
 Appease this virtuous cncm\- of man! 
 
ANDREW MARVEL. 
 
 O then let me In time compound, 
 
 And parley with those conquering eyes j 
 Ere they have tried their force to wound, 
 Ere with their glancing wheels they drive 
 In triumph over hearts that strive, 
 
 And them that yield but more despise. 
 Let me be laid 
 Where I may see the glory from some shade. 
 
 Meanwhile, whilst every verdant thing 
 
 Itself does at thy beauty charm. 
 Reform the errors of the spring ; 
 Make that the tulips may have share 
 Of sweetness, seeing they are fair ; 
 And roses of their thorns disarm : 
 But most procure 
 That violets may a longer age endure. 
 
 107 
 
 But oh, young beauty of the woods. 
 
 Whom nature courts with fruit and flowers, 
 Gather the flowers, but spare the buds ; ^ 
 Lest Flora, angry at thy crime 
 To kill her infants in their prime. 
 
 Should quickly make the example yours ; 
 And, ere we see, 
 Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee. 
 
io8 
 
 11 .\ L I - Hit I US 11/ /■ // /•// /•; roE TS. 
 
 [Born 1631. Dit-i) 1701.] 
 
 Ah ! HOW SWEET 
 
 how sweet it is to 1 
 
 ove ! 
 
 Ah ! how gay is young desire ; 
 And what pleasing pains we prove,. 
 
 When we first approach love's fire 
 Pains of love are sweeter far 
 Xhan all other pleasures are.* 
 
 Sighs which are from loxers blown 
 Do but gently heave the heart : 
 
 E'en the tears they shed alone, 
 
 Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 
 
 Lovers, when they lose their breath. 
 
 Bleed awa\' in easy death. 
 
 Love and Time with reverence use, 
 Treat them like a parting friend ; 
 
 Burns has used this idea in one of his songs. He shapes it thus: 
 " 'Twcre better for thee despairing, 
 Tiian aught in tlie world beside, Jessie." 
 
JOHN DR7DEN. 
 
 109 
 
 Nor the golden gifts refuse 
 
 Which in youth sincere they send 
 For each year their price is more, 
 And they less simple than before. 
 
 Love, like spring-tides full and high, 
 Swells in every youthful vein ; 
 
 But each tide does less supply, 
 Till they quite shrink in again. 
 
 If a flow in age appear, 
 
 *Tis but rain, and runs not clear. 
 
 ^ "Fair, Sweet, and Young." 
 
 ^A^, sweet, and young, receive a prize 
 Reserved for your victorious eyes ; 
 From crowds, whom at your feet you see, 
 O pity and distinguish me ! 
 As I, from thousand beauties more 
 Distinguish you, and only you adore. 
 
 Your face for conquest was designed ; 
 Your every motion charms my mind ; 
 
I 10 
 
 //.I I r-llol A'.v WITH THE rOETS. 
 
 Aiigcls, when you your silence break, 
 
 f^orgct their hymns to hear you speak ; 
 
 But when at once they hear and view, 
 
 Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you. 
 
 No graces can your form improve. 
 But all are lost unless you love ; 
 While that sweet passion you disdain, 
 Your veil and beauty are in vain : 
 In pity then prevent my fate, 
 For after dying, all reprieve's too late. 
 
 ?WtN 
 
SIJi GEOEGE ETHEREGB. 
 
 Sir George €\\)txt%t. 
 
 [Bo«N i636(?). OiKD 1683,] 
 
 "Cease, anxious World." 
 
 EASE^ anxious world, your fruitless pain. 
 
 To grasp forbidden store ; 
 Your sturdy labors shall prove vain, 
 
 Your alchemy unblest ; 
 Whilst seeds of far more precious ore 
 
 Are ripened In my breast. 
 
 My breast the forge of happier love. 
 
 Where my Lucinda lives ; 
 And the rich stock does so Improve, 
 
 As she her art employs. 
 That every smile and touch she gives 
 
 Turns all to golden joys. 
 
 Since then we can such treasures raise, 
 
 Let*s no expense refuse ; 
 In love let's lay out all our days ; 
 
 How can we e'er be poor. 
 When every blessing that we use 
 
 Begets a thousand more ? 
 
112 HA f, I-JlorPxS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ^I)avlcri Sackuillc, ^avl of Dovoct. 
 
 [BoKN «637. I)i>jD 1706,] 
 
 <#> 
 
 " To ALL YOU Ladies/ 
 
 At 
 
 ~ — ^O all you ladles now on land, 
 <^x3pX> We men at sea indite ; 
 
 But first would have vou 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 fill 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 in ships at sea. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 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 : 
 
CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET. II3 
 
 Our tears we'll send a speedier way — 
 The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
 With ^ fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 The king, with wonder and surprise. 
 
 Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
 Because the tides will higher rise 
 
 Than e'er they did of old ; 
 But let him know it is our tears 
 Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 Should foggy Opdam chance to know 
 
 Our sad and dismal story, 
 The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 
 
 And quit their fort at Goree : 
 For what resistance can they find 
 From men who've left their hearts behind ? 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 Let wind and weather do its worst, 
 
 Be ye to us but kind ; 
 Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, 
 
 No sorrow shall we find ; 
 'Tis then no matter how things go, 
 Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
114 IIA LF-IIOIRS WITH THE rOETS. 
 
 To pass our tedious hours away, 
 
 We thYow a merry main, 
 Or else at serious ombre play ;. 
 
 But why should we in vain 
 Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
 We were undone when we left you. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 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, la, la, la, la. 
 
 When any mournful tune you hear 
 
 That dies in every note. 
 As if it sighed with each man's care 
 
 For being so remote ; 
 Then think how often love we've made 
 To you, when all those tunes were played. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 In justice you cannot refuse 
 To think of our distress. 
 
CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET. II5 
 
 When we for hopes of honors lose 
 
 Our certain happiness : 
 All those designs are but to prove 
 Ourselves more w^orthy of your love. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 And now we've told you all our loves, 
 
 And likewise all our fears ; 
 In hopes this declaration moves 
 
 Some pity for our tears ; 
 Let's hear of no inconstancy. 
 We have too much of that at sea. 
 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
ii6 iiM.r-iiorus w it ii rii e roi'rn^. 
 
 Sir ^Ijarlcci Scblcy- 
 
 [Born 1639. DiKu 1701.] 
 
 ^^ \^ Child and Maiden. 
 
 X^ 4 0^ 
 
 K\iK\, pj Chloris ! could I now but sit 
 
 As unconcerned as when 
 Your infant beauty could beget 
 
 No happiness or pain ! 
 When I the dawn used to admire. 
 
 And praised the coming day, 
 I little thought the rising fire 
 
 Would take my rest away. 
 
 Your charms in harmless childhood lay 
 
 Like metals in a mine ; 
 Age from no face takes more away 
 
 Than youth concealed in thine. 
 But as your charms insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest, 
 So love as unpcrccived did fly. 
 
 And centered in my breast. 
 
SIE CHARLES SEDLEY. 
 
 ^n 
 
 My passion with your beauty grew^ 
 
 While Cupid at my heart, 
 Still, as his mother favoured 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. 
 
I 8 NALF-IforiiS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ^1)0 ma 5 Stanley- 
 
 [R)RN 1644,. DlEU 1678] 
 
 ^ .^ The Deposition. 
 
 C^Sf HOUGH when I loved thee thou wert fair, 
 ^"^*^ Thou art no longer so : 
 
 Those glories, all the pride they wear 
 
 Unto opinion owe : 
 Reauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine, 
 And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. 
 
 The flames that dwelt within thiiie eye 
 
 Do now with mine expire ; 
 Thy brightest graces fade and die 
 At once with my desire. 
 Love's fires thus mutual influence return \ 
 l^hine cease to shine when mine to burn. 
 
 Then, proud Cclinda, hope no more 
 
 To be implored or wooed ; 
 Since by thy scorn thou dost restore 
 The wealth my love bestowed ; 
 And thy despised disdain too late shall find 
 That none are fair but who are kind. 
 
JOHN, EARL OF ROCHESTER. IIQ 
 
 3fal)n iDilmot, (Sari of Bacl)C6ter- 
 
 [BoKN 1647. D:i.v i68q.] 
 
 ^ . Song. 
 
 HILE on these lovely looks I gaze, 
 
 To see a wretch pursuing, 
 In raptures of a blest amaze, 
 
 His pleasing, happy ruin ; 
 'Tis 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 you mine of loving. 
 But whether life or death betide, 
 
 In love 'tis equal measure ; 
 The victor lives with empty pride, 
 
 The vanquished die with pleasure. 
 
120 
 
 lIALF-IIOriiS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 iTauciei ^ttcrburn, Cp. of Uocl)C5tcv. 
 
 [Boi s 1 »)6i. Din> i7i%.\ 
 
 The Lover's Vow. 
 
 AIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth 
 
 For having loved before; 
 For men, till they have learned the truth, 
 
 Strange deities adore. 
 
 My heart, 'tis true, hath often ranged, 
 
 Like bees on gaudy flowers ; 
 And many a thousand loves hath changed, 
 
 Till it was fixed on yours. 
 
 But, Sylvia, when I saw those eyes, 
 'Twas soon determined there ; 
 
 Stars might as well forsake the skies. 
 And vanish into air. 
 
 When I from this great rule do err. 
 
 New beauties to adore. 
 May I again turn wanderer. 
 
 And never settle more. 
 
WILLIAM WALSH. 
 
 T2J 
 
 iDiliiam UJalsl) 
 
 [Born 1663. Died 1709.] 
 
 ^ Rivalry in Love. 
 
 -^ 
 
 -T all the torments, all the cares, 
 
 With which our lives are curst ; 
 Of all the plagues a lover bears, 
 
 Sure rivals are the worst ! 
 By partners of each other kind, 
 
 Affections easier grow ; 
 In love alone we hate to find 
 
 Companions of our woe. 
 
 Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 
 
 Are labouring in my breast, 
 I beg not you would favour me, 
 
 Would you but slight the rest . 
 How great soe'er your rigors are. 
 
 With them alone I'll cope ; 
 I can endure my own despair. 
 
 But not another's hope. 
 
I 22 
 
 ifA T.F-irni'n^ wrru the poets. 
 
 ilTattl)ciD |3vior 
 
 |BoRN 1664. Died 1721.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 HE merchant, to secure his treasure, 
 
 Conveys it in a borrowed name ; 
 Euphelia serves to grace my measure. 
 But Cloe is my real flame. 
 
 My softest verse, my darling lyre 
 Upon Euphelia's toilet lay — 
 
 When Cloe noted her desire 
 
 That I should sing that I should pla) 
 
 av 
 
 My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, 
 
 But with my numbers mix my sighs ; 
 
 And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
 I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. 
 
 Fair Cloe blushed : Euphelia frowned ; 
 
 I sung and gazed ; I played and trembled ; 
 And Venus to the Loves around 
 
 Remarked how ill we all dissembled. 
 
AARON BILL. I23 
 
 [Born 1684-5. D't-D 1749-50.] 
 
 Modesty. 
 
 \ 
 
 S lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
 So modest ease in beauty shines most bright: 
 Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall, 
 And she who means no mischief does it all. 
 
 Song. 
 
 H ! forbear to bid me slight her, 
 Soul and senses take her part ; 
 
 Could my death itself delight her, 
 Life should leap to leave my heart. 
 
 Strong, though soft, a lover's chain. 
 
 Charmed with woe, and pleased with pain. 
 
 Though the tender flame were dying. 
 Love would light it at her eyes ; 
 
 Or, her tuneful voice applying. 
 Through my ear my soul surprise. 
 
 Deaf, I see the fate I shun ; 
 
 Blind, I fear I am undone. 
 
124 
 
 II M.F-iKtrns wirii the pofts. 
 
 3amc0 (Ll)omooiu 
 
 [BuK.N 1700. DlKU 174.8.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 OREV^ER, Fortune, wilt thou prove 
 An unrelenting foe to Love, 
 And when we meet a mutual heart, 
 Come in between and bid us part ? 
 
 Bid us sigh on from day to day. 
 And wish and wish the soul away; 
 Till youth and genial years are flown. 
 
 And all the life of life is gone ? 
 
 But busy, busy still art thou. 
 To bind the loveless, joyless vow. 
 The heart from pleasure to delude. 
 To join the gentle to the rude. 
 
 For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, 
 And I absolve thy future care ; 
 All other blessings I resign. 
 Make but the dear Amanda mine. 
 
DAVID MALLET. 
 
 125 
 
 ^avxh iltallet 
 
 [Born lyool?. Died 1763. j 
 
 Song. 
 
 HE smiling morn, the breathing spring, 
 Invite the tuneful birds to sing: 
 And while they warble from each spray. 
 Love melts the universal lay. 
 Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 
 Like them improve the hour that flies ; 
 And, in soft raptures, waste the day. 
 Among the shades of Endermay. 
 
 Too soon the winter of the year. 
 And age, life's winter, will appear : 
 At this, thy hving bloom must fade ; 
 As that will strip the verdant shade. 
 Our taste of pleasure then is o'er; 
 The feathered songsters love no more 
 And when they droop and we decay, 
 Adieu the shades of Endermay. 
 
126 
 
 IIA LF-I/orRS WFTH THE r O K T ^ . 
 
 lUilliam pattiscn. 
 
 [Bi.RN 1706. Difu 1727. J 
 
 To HER Ring. 
 
 J^^'-LR^'^T ornament ! how happv is thy snare, 
 ^;^ To bind the snowy finger of my fair ! 
 Y O could I learn thy nice coercive art, 
 
 And, as thou bind'st her fingers, bind her 
 heart ! 
 
 Not eastern diadems like thee can shine. 
 Fed from her brighter eyes with beams divine ; 
 Nor can their mightiest monarch's power command 
 So large an empire as thy charmer's hand. 
 
 O could thy form thy fond admirer wear, 
 Thy very likeness should in all appear ; 
 My endless love thy endless round should show, 
 And my heart flaming, for thy diamond glow. 
 
GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON. 
 
 27 
 
 George, Corb Cyttelton^ 
 
 [Born 1709. Died 1773.) 
 
 ''Tell Me, my Heart.*' 
 
 HEN Delia on the plain appears. 
 Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
 I would approach, but dare not move j- 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
 Whene'er 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, 
 Though 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 
 Delight in all that pleased before. 
 The clearest spring, the shadiest grove 
 Tell, me, my heart, if this be love ? 
 
128 
 
 UAL F-jiorns WITH the poets. 
 
 When, fond of power, of beautv \ain, 
 llcr nets she spreads for every swain, 
 I strove to hate, but vainlv stro\e ; — 
 Tell me, niv heart, if this be love r 
 
 
TOBIAS SMOLLETT, M. D. I29 
 
 S:obia0 Smollett, MM. 
 
 [Born lyao. Died 1774.]! 
 
 Song. 
 
 Q fix her — 'twere a task as vain 
 To count the April drops of rain, 
 To sow in Afric's barren soil, 
 Or tempests hold within a toil. 
 
 I know it, friend, she's light as air. 
 False as the fowler's artful snare ; 
 Inconstant as the passing wind, 
 As winter's dreary frost unkind. 
 
 She's such a miser too in love. 
 Its joys she'll neither share nor prove ; 
 Though hundreds of gallants await 
 From her victorious eyes their fate. 
 
 Blushing at such Inglorious reign, 
 I sometimes strive to break her chain ; 
 My reason summon to my aid, 
 Resolved no more to be betrayed. 
 
130 JIALF-HO URS WTTTT THE POETS. 
 
 Ah ! friend, 'tis but a short-lived trance, 
 Dispelled by one enchanting glance ; 
 She need but look, and I confess, 
 Those looks completely curse or bless. 
 
 So soft, so elegant, so fair, 
 Sure something more than human's there ; 
 I must submit, for strife is vain, 
 'Twas destiny that forged the chain. 
 
MARK AKENSIDE, M.D 13I 
 
 ittark Olkensibe, iW. IB. 
 
 [Born 1 721. Died 1770.3 
 
 M 
 
 "The Shape alone."* 
 
 KK shape alone let others prize, 
 The features of the fair ; 
 I look for spirit in her eyes, 
 And meaning in her air. 
 
 A damask cheek and ivory arm 
 Shall ne'er my wishes win ; 
 
 Give me an animated form 
 That speaks a mind within ; 
 
 A face where awful honor shines. 
 Where sense and sweetness move, 
 
 And angel innocence refines 
 The tenderness of love. 
 
 These are the soul of beauty's frame. 
 Without whose vital aid 
 
 ^ There is some doubt about the authorship of this. It is attributed to 
 Akenside, but is not to be found in his collected poems. 
 
132 /fALF-IlOrnS WITH THE POET.^. 
 
 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 delight, 
 
 With graces ever new ! 
 
 Of power to charm the deepest woe, 
 The wildest rage control ; 
 
 Diffusing mildness o'er the brow 
 And rapture through the soul. 
 
 Their power but faintly to express 
 AH language must despair ; 
 
 But go behold Aspasia's face. 
 And read it perfect there. 
 
PERCY BISHOP OF DROMORE. 133 
 
 2[l)ama5 Percy, Bisljop of JOromorc. 
 
 [Born 1728. Died 1811,] 
 
 V 
 
 f ^* O Nancy, wilt thou go with me." 
 
 NANCY ! wilt thou go with me, , 
 
 Nor sigh to leave this flaunting town ? 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee. 
 
 The lowly cot and russet gown ? 
 No longer drest in silken sheen, 
 
 No longer deck'd with jewels rare, 
 Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 O Nancy ! when thou'rt far away. 
 
 Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 
 Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 
 
 Nor shrink b-efore the wintry wind ? 
 O can that soft and gentle mien 
 
 Extremes of hardship learn to bear. 
 Nor sad regret each courtly scene 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
34 HALF- HOURS WIT /I TJIH POETS. 
 
 O Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 
 
 Through perils keen with me to go, 
 Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 
 
 To share with him the pang of woe ? 
 Say, should disease or pain befall. 
 
 Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, 
 Nor wistful those gay scenes recall 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 And when at last thy love 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 breathless clay 
 
 Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear. 
 Nor then regret those scenes so gay 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? * 
 
 * There is a Scotch variation of this poem, differing only in substi- 
 tuting "Nannie" for " Nancy," and "gang" for *' go." We give the 
 lines as originally published. 
 
WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE 
 
 135 
 
 tOilliam IuUu0 Jllicklc 
 
 [Born 1734. Died 1788.] 
 
 "There's nae Luck about the House." 
 
 ^jT)) UTare ye sure the news is true ? 
 
 ^^j And are ye sure he's weel ? 
 
 '''^'' Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel ! 
 
 For there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's nae luck about the house 
 When our gudeman's awa. 
 
 Is this a time to think o' wark, 
 
 When Colin's at the door ? 
 Rax doun my cloak — I'll to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 
 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 
 Gie little Kate her cotton goun. 
 And Jock his Sunday's coat. 
 
136 HALF-HOURS W I T FF T H E TO ETS. 
 
 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 
 Their stockins white as snaw ; 
 
 It*s a* to pleasure our gudcman — 
 He hkes to see them braw. 
 
 There are twa hens into the crib 
 Hae fed this month or mair ; 
 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 
 That CoHn weel may fare. 
 
 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, 
 
 My stockins o' pearl blue — 
 It's a' to pleasure our gudeman. 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 
 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue, 
 
 His breath's 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 dounricht dizzy with the thocht. 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 
 There's nae luck about the house, 
 
 ■ There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's nae luck about the house 
 When our gudeman's avva. 
 
GRAHAM (OF CARTMORE). 137 
 
 <^ral)ani (of Olartmorc). 
 
 [Born 1735. "Oiziy 1797. J 
 
 "Tell me how to woo thee." 
 
 F doughty deeds my lady please, 
 
 Right soon I'll mount my steed ; 
 And strong his arm and fast his seat 
 
 That bears frae me the meed. 
 I'll wear thy colours in my cap, 
 
 Thy picture at my heart ; 
 And he that bends not to thine eye 
 
 Shall rue it to his smart ! 
 Then tell me how to woo thee, Love, 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 P^or thy dear sake, nae care I'll take. 
 
 Though ne'er another trow me. 
 
 If gay attire delight thine eye, 
 
 I'll dight me in array ; 
 I'll tend thy chamber door all night. 
 
 And squire thee all the day. 
 
13^' If A r, r- iimiis wmr the roETS. 
 
 If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, 
 These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
 
 Thv voice I'll steal to woo thysel, 
 That voice that none can match. 
 
 But if fond love thy heart can gain, 
 
 I never broke a vow ; 
 Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, 
 
 Inever loved but you. 
 For you alone I ride the ring, 
 
 For you I wear the blue ; 
 For you alone I strive to sing, 
 
 O tell me how to woo ! 
 Then tell me how to woo thee, Lovej 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
 
 Though ne'er another trow me. 
 
ANNE HUNTER. 1 39 
 
 ^nne punter. 
 
 [Born 1742. Died 1821.] 
 
 " My Mother bids me bind my Hair.' 
 
 fc^'ii Y mother bids me bind my hair 
 \^M^ With bands of rosy hue, 
 
 Tie up my sleeves with ribands rare, 
 '^^io' And lace my bodice blue : 
 
 ^ For why, she cries, sit still and weep, 
 While others dance and play ? 
 Alas ! I scarce can go or creep 
 While Lubin is away. 
 
 'Tis sad to think the days are gone 
 
 When those we love are near : 
 I sit upon this mossy stone. 
 
 And sigh when none can hear. 
 And while I spin my flaxen thread. 
 
 And sing my simple lay, 
 The village seems asleep, or dead, 
 
 While Lubin is away. 
 
HO 
 
 // .1 /. F- no ITR S WI T // THE FOE TS. 
 
 <!II)aiic0 Dibbiiu 
 
 [BOKN 1745. DltD 1814.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 1" 'tis love to wish you near, 
 To tremble when the wind I hear, 
 Because at sea you floating rove ; 
 If of you to dream at night, 
 ^^ To languish when you're out of sight, — 
 If this be loving, then I love. 
 
 If when you're gone, to count each hour, 
 To ask of every tender power 
 
 That you may kind and faithful prove i 
 If, void of falsehood and deceit, 
 I feel a pleasure now we meet, — 
 
 If this be loving;, then I love. 
 
 To wish your fortune to partake, 
 Determined never to forsake. 
 
 Though low in poverty we strove ; 
 If, so that me your wife you'd call, 
 I offer you mv little all, — 
 
 If this be loving, tlicn I love. 
 
JOHN LAPRAIK 141 
 
 3ol)u Capraik, 
 
 [Born i746(?). Died 1807.] 
 
 Matrimonial Happiness.* 
 
 HEN I upon thy bosom lean, 
 
 And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
 I glory in the sacred ties 
 
 That made us ane wha ance were twain. 
 A. mutual flame inspires us baith, 
 
 The tender look, the meltin' kiss ; 
 Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, 
 
 But only gie us change o' bliss. 
 
 Hae I a wish ? it's a' for thee 1 
 I ken thy wish is me to please j 
 
 Our moments pass sae smooth away. 
 That numbers on us look and gaze ; 
 
 Weel pleased they see our happy days. 
 Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame ; 
 
 * An Anglicised version of the above lines was published by George 
 Huddesford 5 and this, from a copy having been found among the papers 
 of Lindley Murray, after his death, was generally attributed to the latter. 
 
14'^ JfALF-iiorn,^ WITH the poets. 
 
 And aye when weary cares arise, 
 Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 
 
 I'll lay me there and talc' my rest ; 
 
 And If that aught disturb my dear, 
 I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 
 
 And beg her not to drop a tear. 
 Hae I a joy ? it's a' her ain ! 
 
 United still her heart and mine ; 
 They're like the woodbine round the tree, 
 
 That's twined till death shall them disjoin. 
 
HECTOR M'NEILL. 143 
 
 Rector itt'J^nll. 
 
 [Born 1746. Died x8i8.] 
 
 My Boy Tammy. 
 
 HAR hae ye been a' day. 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 I've been by burn and flow'ry brae, 
 Meadow green and mountain grey. 
 Courting o' this young thing. 
 Just come frae her mammy. 
 
 And whar gat ye that young thing. 
 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 I got her doun In yonder howe, 
 SmIHng on a bonny knowe. 
 Herding ae wee lamb and ewe 
 
 For her poor mammy. 
 
 What said ye to the bonnle bairn. 
 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 I praised her e'en sae lovely blue. 
 Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou' ; 
 I preed it aft, as ye may trow, — 
 
 She said she'd tell her mammy. 
 
144 HALF-HOUR!^ W I T It THE VOKTS. 
 
 I held her to my beating heart 
 My young, my smiling lan:mie ; 
 
 I hae a house, it cost me dear, 
 
 I've vvalth o' plenishin and gear ; 
 
 Ye'se get it a', wer't ten times mair, 
 Gin ye will leave vour mammv. 
 
 The smile gaed afF her bonnv face — 
 I mauna leave my mammy ; 
 
 She's gien me meat, she's gien me claise. 
 
 She's been my comfort a' my days ! 
 
 My father's death brought many waes ; 
 I canna leave my mammy. 
 
 We'll tak' her hame and mak' her faim. 
 My ain kind-hearted lammie ; 
 
 We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise^ 
 
 We'll be her comfort a' her days. 
 
 The wee thing gies her hand and says, 
 There, gang and ask my mammv. 
 
 Has she been to the kirk wi' thee, 
 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 She has been to the kirk wi' me. 
 And the tear was in her ee ; 
 For, oh, she's but a young thing. 
 
 Just come frae her mammy. 
 
SUSAKXA BLAMIRE. 
 
 H5 
 
 Susanna Blamire 
 
 [Born 1747. Died 1794.] 
 
 The Waefu' Heart.* 
 
 IN livin' worth could win my heart, 
 
 You would not speak in vain ; 
 But in the darksome grave it's laid, 
 
 Never to rise again. 
 My waefu' heart lies low with his, 
 
 Whose heart was only mine ; 
 And, oh, what a heart was that to lose ! 
 
 But I maun not repine. 
 
 Yet, oh, gin Heaven in mercy soon 
 
 Would grant the boon I crave. 
 And take this life, now naething worth. 
 
 Sin' Jamie's In his grave ! 
 And see, his gentle spirit comes. 
 
 To shew me on my way ; 
 Surprised, nae doubt, I still am here, 
 
 Sair wondering at my stay. 
 
 * Erroneously attributed, in the " Garland of Scotia," to Jeanie Fer- 
 guson. 
 
146 
 
 11 A L F- JIO r/fS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 I come, I come, my Jamie dear, 
 
 And, oh, wi' what gudewiH 
 I follow wheresoe'er ye lead ! 
 
 Ye canna lead to ill : — 
 She said, and soon a deadly pale 
 
 Her faded cheek possess'd ; 
 Her waefu* heart forgot to beat. 
 
 Her sorrows sunk to rest. 
 
EEV. JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 '47 
 
 tlet)- jj0l)n Cogan 
 
 [Born 1748. Died 178S.] 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 HY braes were bonnle, Yarrow stream, 
 
 When first on them I met my lover j 
 Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, 
 
 When now thy waves his body cover ! 
 Forever now, O 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 j 
 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 ! 
 
148 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Sweet were his words when last we met \ 
 
 Aly passion I as freely told him : 
 Clasped in his arms, I little thought 
 
 That I should never more 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 little 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 lovelv maid ; 
 
 Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 
 No longer seek him east or west. 
 
 No longer search the forest thorough ; 
 For wandering in the night so dark. 
 
 He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 
 
Mf^ 
 
 REV. JOHK LdGAN. 
 
 The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
 
 No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
 I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
 
 And then with thee I'll 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. 
 '3* 
 
 '49 
 
1 50 JIAL F- no UR S WI T/J THE PO E TS. 
 
 [BOKN 1751. DlKO 1816.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 AD 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'll meet. 
 
 And lovers in the young. 
 
 But when they learn that you have blest 
 
 Another with your heart, 
 They'll bid aspiring passion rest. 
 
 And act a brother's part ; 
 Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 
 
 Nor fear to suffer wrong. 
 For friends in all the aged you'll meet, 
 
 And lovers in the young. 
 
THOMAS CEATTERTON, 151 
 
 2i;i)0ma0 €l)attert0n. 
 
 [BoRM 175a. Died 1770.J 
 
 Minstrel's Song. 
 
 I SING unto my roundelay, 
 
 O ! drop the briny tear with me \ 
 Dance no more at holiday, 
 Like a running river be ; 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night. 
 
 White his skin as the driven snow, 
 Ruddy his face as the morning light. 
 Cold he lies in the grave below ; 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note. 
 Quick in dance as thought could be, 
 
1 52 HA L F- Iiorn »9 TT' / TTI THE POETS. 
 
 Deft his tabour, cudgel stout ; 
 
 O ! he lies by the willow-tree ; 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 
 
 In the briered dell below ; 
 Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
 To the night-mares as they go ; 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 See, the white moon shines on high , 
 Whiter is my true love's shroud •, 
 Whiter than the morning sky. 
 Whiter than the evening cloud , 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Here, upon my true love's grave. 
 Shall the barren flowers be laid. 
 
 Not on holy saint to save 
 All the celness of a maid ; 
 
THOMAS CEATTERTON. 153 
 
 My love Is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 With my hands I'll dent the briers, 
 
 Round his holy corse to gre ; 
 Elves and fairies, light your fires, 
 Here my body still shall be ; 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Come with acorn cup and thorn. 
 
 Drain my heart its blood away ; 
 Life and all its goods I scorn. 
 Dance by night or feast by day ; 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
r54 iiALF-nori?s with the poets. 
 
 Uobcvt Sums* 
 
 [Born 17^9- Diep 1796] 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo.* 
 
 OHN Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent. 
 Your locks were Hke the raven, 
 
 Your bonnle brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is bald, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, mv jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 They say 'tis forty year 
 Syne I ca'd you mv jo, John, 
 
 And you ca'd me vour dear ; 
 But there they're surely wrang, John ; 
 
 'Tis nae sae lang ago ; 
 
 * The second stanza of the above is by some unknown writer. Many 
 attempts at additional words have been made; but the above is the only 
 one in which the language and sentiment are at all equal to those in the 
 verses of Burns. * 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 1$$ 
 
 'Tis but a hinney-moon at maist, 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither ; 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 Fare thee weel. 
 
 E fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
 While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
 Me nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 ril ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her was to love her, 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 
1 56 IlA LF-i/niR s ]v I T u T 11 /; / v> /; ts. 
 
 Had we never loved sac kiiulK ., 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 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 se\'er ; 
 Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
 ^ Highland Mary. 
 
 banks and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' A-lontgomery, 
 Green be your woods and fair your flowers. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie. 
 There Simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there they langest tarry ; 
 f^or there I took the last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
^^JiP ,fi <^ o ^^ 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 'SI 
 
 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 light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi* mony a vow and locked embrace, 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But, oh, fell death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ; 
 Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ' 
 
 Oh, pale, pale now those rosy lips 
 
 I aft hae kissed sae fondly 3 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
 And mould'ring now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ; 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
1^-8 
 
 HA L F- IlOrii S ]]' I Til Til E P O E TS. 
 
 ^ "Of a' THE AlRTS." 
 
 t a* the alrts the wind can blaw 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best : 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And mony a hill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm 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' my Jean. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ^59 
 
 The Banks o' Doon. 
 
 E banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
 i^H How can ye chaunt, ye little birds, 
 (h) And I sae weary fou o' care ! 
 (^ Ye'll break my heart, ye little birds, 
 ? That wanton through the flowery thorn ; 
 
 Ye mind me o' departed joys, 
 Departed never to return. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
 Where Ilka bird sang o' its luve. 
 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi' heartsome glee I pu'd a rose. 
 
 The sweetest on its thorny tree ; 
 But m.y fause love has stown the rose, 
 
 And left the thorn behind wi' me. 
 
[6o 
 
 nALF-IWURS WITH T HE rOETS. 
 
 iZil)oma0 Uuoocll 
 
 [BoKN 1762. Died 1788.] 
 
 To Delia. 
 
 t^^^IS not a cheek that boasts the ruby's glow, 
 
 -^ 
 
 The neck of ivory or the breast of snow ; 
 
 'Tis not a dimple known so oft to charm, 
 
 The hand's soft polish, or the tapering arm ; 
 
 'Tis not the braided lock of golden hue, 
 Nor reddening lip that swells with vernal dew ; 
 'Tis not a smile that blooms with young desire ; 
 'Tis not an eye that sheds celestial fire ; 
 No, Delia ! these are not the spells that move 
 My heart to fold thee in eternal love : 
 But 'tis that Soul, which from so fair a frame 
 Looks truth, and tells us — 'twas from Heaven it 
 came ! 
 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS 
 
 i6i 
 
 Samuel Hogers 
 
 [Born 1762. Died 1855.] 
 
 The Sleeping Beauty. 
 
 LEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile — 
 Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
 
 Thy rosy lips still wear a smile. 
 
 And move, and breathe delicious sighs. 
 
 Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks 
 And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; 
 
 Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks. 
 What most I wish — and fear to know ! 
 
 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
 
 Her fair hands folded on her breast : 
 —And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
 
 A seraph in the realms of rest ! 
 
 Sleep on secure ! Above control, 
 
 Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ; 
 
 And may the secret of thy soul 
 Remain within its sanctuary ! 
 
l62 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 iDilliam iDorbeiuortl) 
 
 [Born 1770. Dikd 1850.J 
 
 A Picture. 
 
 , HE was a phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament j 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her, drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free. 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 163 
 
 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 : 
 
 The 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 still, and bright 
 
 With something of an angel-light. 
 
 V6%'c^'o'flV>- The Lost Love. 
 
 H-t' dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 Beside the springs of Dove ; 
 Q^^ A maid whom there were none to praise, 
 ' And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
1 64 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and O ! 
 
 The difference to me. 
 
 The Dead Love. 
 
 SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seemed a thing that could not feel 
 The touch of early years. 
 
 No motion has she now, nor force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees ; 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 165 
 
 Sir toaltcr Scott. 
 
 [Born 1771. Dieo 1832..] 
 
 -^ ^ "A Weary Lot is Thine.'* 
 
 WEARY ^ot Is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine ; 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine. 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 
 No more of me you knew, my love, 
 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 This morn is merry June, I trow, 
 
 The rose is budding fain ; 
 But it shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again. 
 He turned his charger as he spoke 
 
 Upon the river-shore ; 
 He gave his bridle reins a shake, 
 Said, Adieu for evermore, my love. 
 
 And adieu for evermore ! 
 
1 66 
 
 II A L /''- no L'ji s n'y tu the r o e ts. 
 
 Song. 
 
 HERE shall the lover rest 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 
 Parted for ever ? 
 Where, through groves deep and high. 
 
 Sounds the far billow, 
 Where early violets die 
 
 Under the willow. 
 Eleu lore 
 
 Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There, through the summer day. 
 
 Cool streams are laving : 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving ; 
 There thy rest shalt thou take. 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 Never again to wake. 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest. 
 He, the deceiver, 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 167 
 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin, and leave her ? 
 In the lost battle. 
 
 Borne down by the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
 With groans of the dying ; 
 Eleu loro 
 
 There shall he be lying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
 
 Ere life be parted : 
 Shame and dishonor sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it 
 
 Never, O never! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
1 68 If A L F- no rn s ir / rii the poe ts. 
 
 [BoKN 1771. Died 1^41.] 
 
 -' .• The Mad Girl's Song. 
 
 1 AKE nie j-q your arms, love, 
 
 For keen the wind doth blow ■ 
 O take me to your arms, love, 
 
 For bitter is my woe. 
 She hears me not, she cares not. 
 
 Nor will she list to me ^ 
 And here I lie in misery, 
 
 Beneath the willow-tree. 
 
 My love has wealth and beauty, — 
 
 The rich attend her door ; 
 My love has wealth and beauty, — 
 
 And I, alas ! am poor ; 
 The ribbon fair, that bound her hair, 
 
 Is all that's left to me, 
 While here I lie, in misery. 
 
 Beneath the willow-tree. 
 
THOMAS DIB DIN. 
 
 169 
 
 I once had gold and silver, — 
 
 I thought them without end ; 
 I once had gold and silver, — 
 
 I thought I had a friend. 
 My wealth Is lost, my friend Is false, 
 
 My love is stol'n from me ; 
 And here I He in misery, 
 
 Beneath the willow-tree. 
 
I JO HA LF-IIOURS ]yiTn»TnE POETS. 
 
 Samuel faylor ^olcri^gL 
 
 [Born ijjz. Died 1834.] 
 
 ^ Love. 
 
 K 
 
 P'LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
 Are all 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 the lights of eve ; 
 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leaned against the armed man. 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 
 She stood and listened to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
 
 She loves me best whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 
 I 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 not 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 tone 
 With which I sang another's love 
 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 
 And she forgave me that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 V 
 
172 HALF-HOURS WITH T HE POETS. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 
 l^hat 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 sunny glade. 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did. 
 He leaped amid a murderous band. 
 
 And 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 scorn 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 ; 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR C OLERIDGE. 
 
 — 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 soul 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 murmur of a dream, 
 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stept aside. 
 As conscious of my look she stept — 
 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 
 And bending back her head, looked up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 n 
 
174 
 
 IIA LF-nori?S WITH THE POETS. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 'twas 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 I won my Genevieve, 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 "Maid of my love." 
 
 AID 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 tale of woe. 
 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 ! 
 
THOMAS DERMODY. 
 
 2i;i)0ma0 HermoirB- 
 
 Born 1774. Dik-d 1802. j 
 
 "Her I LOVE." 
 
 § WEET is the woodbine's fragrant twine ; 
 Sweet the ripe burthen of the vine ; 
 The pea-bloom sweet, that scents the air ; 
 The rose-bud, sweet beyond compare ; 
 The perfume sweet of yonder grove ; 
 Sweeter the hp of Her I love ! 
 
 Soft the rich meadow's velvet green. 
 Where cowslip tufts are early seen ; 
 Soft the young cygnet's snowy breast, 
 Or down that lines the linnet's nest ; 
 Soft the smooth plumage of the dove ; 
 Softer the breast of Her I love ! 
 
 Bright is the star that opes the day ; 
 Bright the mid-noon's refulgent ray ; 
 Bright on yon hill the sunny beam ; 
 Bright the blue mirror of the stream ; 
 Bright the gay twinkling fires above ; 
 Brighter the eyes of Her I love ! 
 
176 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 To match one grace, with idle pain 
 
 Through Nature's stores I search in vain ; 
 
 All that is bright, and soft, and sweet, 
 
 Does in her form, concentred, meet ; 
 
 Then, Muse ! how weak my power must prove 
 
 To paint the charms of Her I love ! 
 
 O60 o . 
 
 ^^?^^^ 
 
ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 ^11 
 
 Uobert Sannaljill 
 
 [Born 1774. Died 1810.I 
 
 Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane. 
 
 HE sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben- 
 lomond, 
 And left the red clouds to preside o'er 
 the scene, 
 While lonely I stray in the calm summer 
 gloammg. 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 
 How sweet is the brier with its soft faulding blossom. 
 
 And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle of green ; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom. 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 
 
 She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny, 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain \ 
 
 And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
 
 Who'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 
lyS HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, 
 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' Dumblane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ; 
 
 The sports of the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie, 
 
 Till charmed with young Jessie, the Flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 Though mine were the station of loftiest grandeur. 
 
 Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain. 
 And reckon as nothing the height o' its splendor. 
 
 If wanting young Jessie, the P^lower o' Dumblane. 
 
JOHN LEYDEN, M.D. 
 
 179 
 
 j0i)u it'^htw, iitj]. 
 
 [Born 1775. Died 1811.] 
 
 The Evening Star. 
 
 OW sweet thy modest light to view, 
 Fair star, to love and lovers dear ; 
 While trembling on the falling dew 
 Like beauty shining through the tear ; 
 
 Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
 To mark each image trembling 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 plain, 
 
 And whispers to the closing flowers, 
 That soon the sun will rise again. 
 
8o 
 
 HALF no UBS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 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, though I be doomed to prove 
 That rapture's tears are mixed with pain i 
 
 Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love, — 
 But sweeter to be loved again. 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 i8 
 
 ©Ijomas Campbell- 
 
 [BoRK 1777. Died 1844.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 RINK ye to her that each loves best, 
 
 And if you nurse a flame 
 That's told but to her mutual breast, 
 
 We will not ask her name. 
 
 Enough, while memory tranced and glad 
 
 Paints silently the fair, 
 That each should dream of joys he's had. 
 
 Or yet may hope to share. 
 
 Yet far, far hence be jest or boast 
 From hallowed thoughts so dear ; 
 
 But drink to her that each loves most, 
 As she would love to hear. 
 
iHl HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 3fol)n 61) au), ill. D. 
 
 [BOKN 1778. DlKU l&Q^J 
 
 Song. 
 
 HO has robbed the ocean cave. 
 
 To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? 
 Who, from India's distant wave. 
 
 For thee those pearly treasures drew r 
 Who, from yonder orient sky. 
 Stole the morning of thine eye ? 
 
 Thousand charms thy form to deck. 
 
 From sea, and earth, and air are torn ; 
 Roses bloom upon thy cheek. 
 
 On thy breath their fragrance borne : 
 Guard thy bosom from the day. 
 Lest thy snows should melt away. 
 
 But one charm remains behind, 
 
 W^hich mute earth could ne'er impart i 
 Nor in ocean wilt thou find. 
 
 Nor in the circling air, a heart : 
 Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, 
 Take, oh take that heart from me. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 83 
 
 [Born 1780. Died 1851.] 
 
 " Come, Rest in this Bosom. 
 
 OME, rest In this bosom, my own stricken 
 
 deer. 
 Though the herd have fled from thee, thy 
 home is still here ; 
 Here still Is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast. 
 And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 
 
 Oh ! what was love made for, If 'tis not the same 
 Through joy and through 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. 
 
 Thou hast called me thy Angel In moments of bliss. 
 And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this. 
 Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, 
 And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too. 
 
184 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 "Believe me." 
 
 KL/IEVE me, if all those endearing young 
 charms, 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
 Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in 
 my arms. 
 Like fairy gifts fading away, 
 Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will. 
 And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 
 Would entwine itself verdantly still. 
 
 It is not while beauty and youth are thine own. 
 
 And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known. 
 
 To which time will but make thee more dear ; 
 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets. 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close. 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets. 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose. 
 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 185 
 
 "The Time I've Lost." 
 
 HE time I've lost In wooing, 
 f^ In watching and pursuing 
 
 The light that lies 
 
 In woman's eyes, 
 Has been my heart's undoing. 
 Though wisdom oft has sought me, 
 I scorned the lore she brought me. 
 
 My only books 
 
 Were woman's looks. 
 And folly's all they taught me. 
 
 Her smile when Beauty granted, 
 I hung with gaze enchanted. 
 
 Like him the sprite 
 
 Whom maids by night 
 Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
 Like him, too. Beauty won me ; 
 
 If once their ray 
 
 Was turned away, 
 O ! winds could not outrun me. 
 
 And are those follies going ? 
 And is my proud heart growing 
 
r86 UA LF-i/orRs wiTir the pokts. 
 
 Too cold or wise 
 
 For brilliant eyes 
 Again to set it glowing ? 
 No — vain, alas ! th' endeavor 
 From bonds so sweet to sever ; — 
 
 Poor wisdom's chance 
 
 Against a glance 
 Is now as weak as ever. 
 
 '' COULDST THOU LOOK A§ DEAR." 
 
 OULDST thou look as dear as when 
 
 First I sighed for thee, 
 Couldst thou make me feel again 
 Every wish I breathed thee then. 
 
 Oh, how blissful life would be ! 
 Hopes that now beguiling leave me, 
 
 Joys that lie in slumber cold. 
 All would wake, couldst thou but give me 
 
 One dear smile like those of old. 
 
 Oh, there's nothing left us now 
 
 But to mourn the past : — 
 Vain was every ardent vow. 
 Never yet did Heaven allow 
 
 Love so warm, so wild, to last. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 187 
 
 Not even Hope could now deceive me. 
 
 Life itself looks dark and cold ; 
 Oh, thou never more canst give me 
 
 One dear smile like those of old. 
 
 "Oh, yes so WELL." 
 
 H, yes — so well, so tenderly 
 
 Thou'rt loved, adored by me ; 
 Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty. 
 
 Are worthless without thee. 
 Though brimmed with blisses pure and rare. 
 
 Life's cup before me lay. 
 Unless thy love were mingled there 
 
 I'd spurn the draught away. 
 
 Without thy smile, how joylessly 
 
 All glory's meeds I see ! 
 And even the wreath of victory 
 
 Must owe its bloom to thee. 
 Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs. 
 
 For me have now no charms ; 
 My only world those radiant eyes. 
 
 My throne those circling arms. 
 
 nrn-ffmrrnaa 
 
i88 
 
 IIALF-JIOPRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Echoes. 
 
 OW sweet the answer Echo makes 
 
 To Music at night, 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
 And far away o'er lawns or lakes 
 
 Goes answering light ! 
 
 Yet Love hath echoes truer far. 
 
 And far more sweet, 
 Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
 Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar. 
 
 The songs repeat. 
 
 'Tis when the sigh, — In youth sincere. 
 
 And only then, — 
 The sigh that's breathed for one to hear, 
 Is by that one, that only Dear, 
 
 Breathed back again. 
 
ALLAN CUNNINGBAM. 189 
 
 ^llan €unningl)am. 
 
 [Born 1784. DiKD i8+a.j 
 
 M^. 
 
 Bonnie Lady Ann. 
 
 HERE'S kames o' hinnle 'tween my luve's 
 lips, 
 
 And gowd amang her hair; 
 Her breists are lapt in a holy veil, 
 
 Nae mortal een keek there. 
 What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch, 
 
 Or what arm o' luve daur span, 
 The hinnle lips, the creamy lufe, 
 
 Or the waist o' Lady Ann ? 
 
 She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose, 
 
 Wat wi' the blobs o' dew ; 
 But nae gentle lip nor semple lip 
 
 Maun touch her ladle mou. 
 But a brolder'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd. 
 
 Her jimpy waist maun span ; 
 Oh, she's an armfu' fit for heaven — 
 
 My bonnie Lady Ann ! 
 
 rtnrT"T>TVi^-i-a.-T«ff 
 
1 90 II A L F- no UBS WF TH THE FOE TS. 
 
 Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers 
 
 Tied up wi' siller thread ; 
 And comely sits she in the midst, 
 
 Men's longing een to feed. 
 She waves the ringlets frae her cheek 
 
 Wi' her milky, milky han' ; 
 And her every look beams wi' grace divine, 
 
 My bonnie Lady Ann. 
 
 The mornin' cloud is tasselt wi' gowd, 
 
 Like my luve's broidered cap ; 
 And on the mantle that my luve wears 
 
 Is many a gowden drap. 
 Her bonnie ee-bree's a holy arch, 
 
 Cast by nae earthly han' ; 
 And the breath o' heaven is atween the lips 
 
 O' my bonnie Lady Ann. 
 
 I wonderin' gaze on her stately steps. 
 
 And I feed a hopeless flame ; 
 To my luve, alas ! she mauna stoop. 
 
 It wad stain her honored name. 
 My een are bauld, they dwall on a place 
 
 Where I daurna mint my han' ; 
 But I water and tend and kiss the flowers 
 
 O' my bonnie Lady Ann. 
 
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 19I 
 
 I am her father's gardener lad. 
 
 And puir, puir is my fa' ; 
 My auld mither gets my wee wee fee, 
 
 With fatherless bairnies twa. 
 My lady comes, my lady gaes, 
 
 Wi' a fu' and kindly han' ; 
 Oh, their blessin' maun mix wi' my luve. 
 
 And fa' on Lady Ann ! 
 
igi HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ©corge QBcrbon, Corb Bnron, 
 
 [Born 1788. Dikd 1824.I 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 A RE WELL ' if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For other's weal availed on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air, 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'Tis vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 
 
 Are in the word — Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; 
 
 But in my breast, and in my brain, 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by, 
 
 The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
 My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain. 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel ; * 
 I only know I loved in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
GEORGE, LORD BTRON. I93 
 
 " When we Two parted." 
 
 HEN we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted, 
 
 To sever for years. 
 Pale grew the 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 a warning 
 
 Of what I felt now. 
 Thy vows are all broken. 
 
 And light is thy fame ; 
 I hear thy name spoken. 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 A kfiell to mine ear ; 
 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 Why wert thou so dear ? 
 
194 HALF-IIOUnS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 They know not I know thee^ 
 Who know thee too well ! 
 
 Long, long shall I rue thee 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met, 
 
 In silence I grieve. 
 That thy heart would lorget. 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 {{ I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ? 
 
 With silence and tears ! 
 
 " I SAW THEE WEEP." 
 
 SAW thee weep — the big, bright tear 
 Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
 ^x^_^ And then methought it did appear 
 f^ A violet dropping dew. 
 '^ I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 
 Beside thee cease to shine : 
 It could not match the living rays 
 That filled that glance of thine. 
 
GEORGE, LORD BYROK. 195 
 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and mellow dye, 
 Which scarce the shade of coming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky, 
 These smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart ; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 ^^ The Hebrew Maid. 
 
 HE 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. 
 
196 nALF-IlOVES WITH THE rOETF 
 
 And on that check 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. 
 
 T^ Song. 
 
 HERE be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like thee ; 
 ) And like music on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing. 
 The waves lie still and gleaming. 
 And the lulled winds seem dreaming. 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep. 
 
 Whose heart is gently heaving 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion 
 
 Like the swell of summer's ocean. 
 
MABIA BROOKS. 
 
 ^9; 
 
 iHarta Brooka 
 
 Song. 
 
 AY, in melting purple dying, 
 Blossoms, all around me sighing, 
 Fuagrance, from the lilies straying,, 
 ^ Zephyr, with my ringlets playing. 
 Ye but waken my distress ; 
 I am sick of loneliness. 
 
 Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
 Come, ere night around me darken ; 
 Though thy softness but deceive me. 
 Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee ; 
 Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent. 
 Let me think it innocent ! 
 
 Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : 
 All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 
 Let the shining ore lie darkling. 
 Bring no gem in lustre sparkling : 
 Gifts and gold are naught to me, 
 I would only look on thee ! 
 
I9H HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, 
 
 Ecstasy but in revealing •, 
 
 Paint to thee the deep sensation. 
 
 Rapture in participation, 
 
 Yet but torture, if comprest 
 In a lone, unfriended breast. 
 
 Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 
 
 Let these eyes again caress thee ; 
 
 Once, in caution, I could fly thee: 
 
 Now, I nothing could deny thee ; 
 In a look if death there be. 
 Come, and I will gaze on thee ' 
 
WILLIAM CULL EN BRYANT. I99 
 
 ttJilliam ^ulkii Bryant- 
 
 [Born 1795.] 
 
 Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids ! 
 
 H, fairest of the rural maids ! 
 Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
 Green boughs, and gUmpses of the sky, 
 Were all that met thy infant eye. 
 
 Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child. 
 Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
 And all the beauty of the place 
 Is in thy heart and on thy face. 
 
 The twilight of the trees and rocks 
 Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
 Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
 Its playful way among the leaves. 
 
 Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
 And silent waters heaven is seen j 
 
200 JIA L F- no UR S Wl rU THE POETS. 
 
 Their lashes are the herbs that look 
 On their young figures in the brook. 
 
 The forest depths, by foot unpress'd, 
 .Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
 The holy peace that fills the air 
 Of those calm solitudes, is there. 
 
 Love's Seasons. 
 
 OST thou idly ask to hear 
 
 At what gentle seasons 
 Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
 Press the tenderest reasons ? 
 Ah 1 they give their faith too oft 
 
 To the careless wooer ; 
 Maidens' hearts are always soft, — 
 Would that men's were truer ! 
 
 Woo the fair one when around 
 
 Early birds are singing ; 
 When, o'er all the fragrant ground, 
 
 Early herbs are springing ; 
 When the brookside, bank, and grove, 
 
 All with blossoms laden. 
 Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 
 
 Woo the timid maiden. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 201 
 
 Woo her when, with rosy blush, 
 
 Summer eve is sinking ; 
 When, on rills that softly gush, 
 
 Stars are softly winking ; 
 When, through boughs that knit the bower. 
 
 Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 
 Woo her, till the gentle hour 
 
 Wake a gentler feeling. 
 
 Woo her when autumnal dyes 
 
 Tinge the woody mountain ; 
 When the dropping foliage lies 
 
 In the weedy fountain. 
 Let the scene that tells how fast 
 
 Youth is passing over, 
 Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 
 
 To secure her lover. 
 
 Woo her when the north-winds call, 
 
 At the lattice nightly; 
 When, within the cheerful hall, 
 
 Blaze the fagots brightly; 
 While the wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary. 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story. 
 
202 
 
 HALF- nouns with the poets. 
 
 \ 
 
 1' H E Siesta. 
 
 ( FKOM THE SPANISH.) 
 
 IRS ! that wander and murmur round, 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
 'Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 
 
 Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er : 
 Sweet be her slumbers,— though in my breast 
 
 The pain she has waked may slumber no more. 
 Breathing soft from the blue profound, 
 
 Bearing dehght where'er ye blow, 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 Airs ! that over the bending boughs, 
 
 And under the shade of pendant leaves. 
 Murmur soft, like my timid vows. 
 
 Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 
 Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound. 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, M. D. 203 
 
 Josepl) ll^obman Dmkc, itt.?D. 
 
 [Born 1795. Died i8xo.] 
 
 To Sarah. 
 
 
 NE happy year has fled, Sail, 
 
 Since you were all my own ; 
 The leaves have felt the autumn blight, 
 
 The wintry storm has blown. 
 We heeded not the cold blast, 
 
 Nor the winter's icy air ; 
 For we found our climate in the heart. 
 
 And it was summer there. 
 
 The summer sun is bright. Sail, 
 
 The skies are pure in hue ; 
 But clouds will sometimes sadden them. 
 
 And dim their lovely blue ; 
 And clouds may come to us. Sail, 
 
 But sure they will not stay ; 
 For there's a spell in fond hearts 
 
 To chase their 2;loom away. 
 
204 IIA LF-nOVRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 In sickness and in sorrow 
 
 Thine eyes were on me still, 
 And there was comfort in each glance 
 
 To charm the sense of ill ; 
 And were they absent now, Sail, 
 
 I'd seek my bed of pain. 
 And bless each pang that gave me back 
 
 Those looks of love again. 
 
 O, pleasant is the welcome kiss. 
 
 When day's dull rbund is o'er. 
 And sweet the music of the step 
 
 That meets me at the door. 
 Though worldlv cares may visit us, 
 
 I reck not when they fall, 
 While I have thy kind lips, my Sail, 
 
 To smile away them all. 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 205 
 
 irit?-<Srccnc §aIUck 
 
 [Born 1795. Died 1867. 
 
 Magdalen. 
 
 ./s^ 
 
 SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet 
 
 With blood, except of Freedom's foes ; 
 That hope which, though Its sun be set, 
 
 Still with a starlight beauty glows ; 
 A heart that worshipped In Romance 
 
 The Spirit of the buried Time, 
 And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance. 
 
 And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme ; 
 These had been, and I deemed would be 
 My joy, whate'er my destiny. 
 
 Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright 
 Alone illumed my cradle-bed ; 
 
 And I had borne with wild delight 
 My banner where Bolivar led. 
 
 Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek. 
 Or manhood's pride was on my brow. 
 
206 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POET Si. 
 
 Its folds are furlM — the war-bird's beak 
 
 Is thirsty on the Andes now ; 
 I longed, like her, for other skies 
 Clouded by Glory's sacrifice. 
 
 In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, 
 
 Its soldier-song the bugle sings ; 
 And I had buckled on my brand. 
 
 And waited but the sea-wind's wings, 
 To bear me where, or lost or won 
 
 Her battle, in its frown or smile. 
 Men live with those of Marathon, 
 
 Or die with those of Scio's isle ; 
 And find in Valour's tent or tomb. 
 In life or death, a glorious home. 
 
 I could have left but yesterday 
 
 The scene of my boy-years behind. 
 And floated on my careless way 
 
 Wherever willed the breathing wind. 
 I could have bid adieu to aught 
 
 I've sought, or met, or welcomed here. 
 Without an hour of shaded thought, 
 
 A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. 
 Such was I yesterday — but then 
 I had not known thee, Magdalen. 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 207 
 
 To-day there is a change within me, 
 
 There is a weight upon my brow, 
 And Fame, whose whispers once could win me 
 
 From all I loved, is powerless now. 
 There ever is a form, a face 
 
 Of maiden beauty in my dreams, 
 Speeding before me, like the race 
 
 To ocean of the mountain streams — 
 With dancing hair, and laughing eyes. 
 That seem to mock me as it flies. 
 
 My sword — it slumbers in its sheath ; 
 
 My hopes— their starry light is gone ; 
 My heart — the fabled clock of death 
 
 Beats with the same low, lingering tone : 
 And this, the land of Magdalen, 
 
 Seems now the only spot on earth 
 Where skies are blue and flowers are green ; 
 
 And here I'd build my household hearth, 
 And breathe my song of joy, and twine 
 A lovely being's name with mine. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! the sail is spread ; 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! my task is there ; 
 But when among the unmourned dead 
 
 They lay me, and the ocean air 
 
 mSBmBtimmmai^em 
 
2o8 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Brings tidings of my day of doom, 
 
 Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, 
 
 The load-star of a happy home ; 
 
 In smile and voice, in eye and heart. 
 
 The same as thou hast ever been. 
 
 The loved, the lovely Magdalen. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 209 
 
 [Born 1795. Died i8zi.] 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 RIGHT star ! would I were steadfast as thou 
 art — 
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 
 a) And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
 
 Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, 
 
 The moving waters at their priest-like task 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
 
 Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 
 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors : — 
 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast. 
 
 To feel forever its soft fall and swell. 
 Awake forever in a sweet unrest ; 
 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 And so live ever — r^r pIsr swoon to death. 
 
210 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Ipcrry Byselic SIjcUclk 
 
 [Born 1795. Died i8;2.] 
 
 ^Vt^- 
 
 Lines to an Indian Air. 
 
 P ARISE 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 me — who knows how ? 
 
 To thy chamber-window. Sweet ! 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 
 On the dark, the silent stream — 
 The champak odours fail 
 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 The nightingale's complaint 
 
 It dies upon her heart, 
 As I must die on thine, 
 
 O beloved as thou art ! 
 
PERCY BY S SHE SHELLEY. 
 
 211 
 
 O lift me from the grass ! 
 
 I die, I faint, I fail ! 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
 
 My heart beats loud and fast ; 
 O ! press it close to thine again. 
 
 Where it will break again at last. 
 
 Song. 
 
 I P'EAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; 
 ^ Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burden thine. 
 
 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; 
 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 Innocent is the heart's devotion 
 
 With which I worship thine. 
 
212 
 
 ITALF-nODRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Love's Philosophy. 
 
 HE 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 ? 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Song. 
 
 ^^ word is too often profaned 
 
 P'or me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother, 
 And Pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 213 
 
 I can give not what men call love ; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 
 And the Heavens reject not : 
 The desire of the moth for the star, 
 
 Of the night for the morrow. 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow ? 
 
214 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 The Flight of Love. 
 
 HEN the lamp is shattered, 
 
 The hght in the dust lies dead — 
 When the cloud is scattered, 
 
 The rainbow's glory is shed. 
 When the lute is broken. 
 
 Sweet tones are remembered not \ 
 When the lips have spoken. 
 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 As music and splendour 
 
 Survive not the lamp and the lute, 
 The heart's echoes render 
 
 No song when the spirit is mute — 
 No song but sad dirges, 
 
 Like the wind through a ruined cell, 
 Or the mournful surges 
 
 That ring the dead seaman's knell. 
 
 When hearts have once mingled. 
 
 Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 
 
 The weak one is singled 
 
 To endure what it once possessed. 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 215 
 
 O Love ! who bewailest 
 
 The frailty of all things here, 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 
 
 Its passions will rock thee, 
 
 As the storms rock the ravens on high ; 
 Bright reason will mock thee 
 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 
 Leave thee naked to laughter, 
 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 
2l6 
 
 HALF- no URS WITH THE rOETS. 
 
 i^artlc}) Colcriige 
 
 [Born 1796. Dikd iiJ^>.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 Y is not fair to outward view, 
 
 As many maidens be ; 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me. 
 O then I saw her eye was brighf, 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold, 
 To mine they ne'er reply ; 
 
 And yet 1 cease not to behold 
 The love-light in her eye : 
 
 Her very frowns are fairer fai 
 
 Than smiles of other maidens are. 
 
BRTAN WALLER PROCTOR. 217 
 
 ryan UJaller proctor. 
 
 [Born 1796 (?j.J 
 
 Song. 
 
 Y love is a lady of gentle line, 
 
 Towards some like the cedar bending^ 
 
 Towards me she flies, like a shape divine 
 From heaven to earth descending. 
 
 Her very look is life to me, 
 
 Her smile like the clear moon rising, 
 And her kiss is sweet as the honeyed bee. 
 
 And more and more enticing. 
 
 Mild is my love as the summer air. 
 And her cheek (her eyes half closing) 
 
 Now rests on her full-blown bosom fair, 
 Like Languor on Love reposing. 
 
 <^TI\»^ 
 
2lS 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Song. 
 
 ERE*S a health to thee, Mary, 
 Here's a health to thee ; 
 The drinkers are gone, 
 And I am alone, 
 To think of home and thee, Mary. 
 
 There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, 
 
 And many as frank and free. 
 
 And a few as fair ; 
 
 But the summer air 
 Is not more sweet to me, Mary. 
 
 I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary, 
 And thy dimmed and gentle eye ; 
 And I've called on thy name 
 When the night-winds came. 
 
 And heard thy heart reply, Mary. 
 
 Be thou but true to me, Marv, 
 And I'll be true to thee \ 
 And at set of sun. 
 When mv task is done, 
 
 Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary i 
 
BRYAN WALLER FROOTOB. 
 
 219 
 
 Serenade. 
 
 ISTEN ! from the forest boughs 
 The voice-like angel of the spring 
 
 Utters his soft vows 
 
 To the proud rose blossoming. 
 
 And now beneath the lattice, dear ! 
 
 I am like thy bird complaining : 
 Thou above, I fear. 
 
 Like the rose, disdaining. 
 
 From her chamber in' the skies 
 
 Shoots the lark at break of morning, 
 
 And when daylight flies 
 Comes the raven's warninof. 
 
 This of gloom and that of mirth 
 In their mystic numbers tell ; 
 
 But thoughts of sweeter birth 
 Teacheth the nightingale. 
 
220 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ItJilHam iiTotljcrroeU. 
 
 B(-N ■- -. Dn:i) 1835. 
 
 Jeanie Morrison. 
 
 'Yj^ wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 ^ Through mony 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 ^rows cool. 
 
 O 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 blythe blinks o' lang syne. 
 
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part ; 
 Sweet time — sad time! twa bairns at schule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear ; 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, 
 
 Remembered evermair. 
 
 I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 
 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 
 
 What our wee heads could think ! 
 When baith bent down ower ae braid page, 
 
 Wi' ae bulk on our knee, 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 221 
 
 Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said, 
 
 We cleeked thegither hame ? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The schule then skail't at noon), 
 When we ran off to speel the braes — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June ? 
 
22 2 IIALF-UOURS WITH THE POETS, 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As ane by ane the thochts rush back 
 
 O' schule-time and o' thee. 
 O mornin' Hfe ! O mornin' luve ! 
 
 O hchtsome days and lang. 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts, 
 
 Like simmer-blossoms, sprang ! 
 
 Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun, 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its water croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet. 
 And in the gloamin' o' the w'ud 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wud, 
 
 The burn sung to the trees, 
 And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the siientness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 223 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
 Like dew- beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 There was a time, a blessed time. 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young. 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled — unsung. 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 
 
 As ye hae been to me ? 
 Oh, tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ; 
 Oh, 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 life of luve's young day. 
 
224 
 
 HALF-UOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Oil, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sindered young, 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness, 
 
 And happy could I die, 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 O' bygane days and me ! 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 225 
 
 [Born 1798. Died 1845.] 
 
 Wishing. 
 
 LAKE and a fairy boat, ^ 
 
 To sail in the moonlight clear, — 
 And merrily we would float 
 
 From the dragons that watch us here ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy gown should be snow-white silk ; 
 
 And strings of orient pearls, 
 Like gossamers dipped in milk, 
 
 Should twine with thy raven curls ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Red rubies should deck thy hands, 
 
 And diamonds should be thy dower, — 
 
 But fairies have broke their wands, 
 And wishing has lost its power ! 
 
226 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 To A Cold Beauty. 
 
 jy^ ADY, wouldst thou heiress be 
 
 To ^vinter's cold and cruel part ? 
 When he sets the rirers free, 
 
 Thou dost still lock up thy heart, — 
 Thou that shouldst outlast the snow 
 But in the whiteness of thy brow. 
 
 Scorn and cold neglect are made 
 For winter gloom and winter wind, 
 
 But thou wilt wrong the summer air, 
 Breathing it to words unkind, — 
 
 Breath which only should belong 
 
 To love, to sunlight, and to song ! 
 
 When the little buds unclose, — 
 
 Red and white and pied and blue,- 
 
 And that virgin flower, the rose, 
 Opes her heart to hold the dew, 
 
 Wilt thou lock thy bosom up, 
 
 With no jewel in its cup ? 
 
 Let not cold December sit 
 
 Thus in Love's peculiar throne ; 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Brooklets are not prisoned now, 
 
 But chrystal frosts are all agone ; 
 And that which hangs upon the spray, 
 It is no snow, but flower of May ! 
 
 227 
 
 * * It WAS NOT IN THE WiNTER. " 
 I. 
 
 ^T was not in the winter 
 
 Our loving lot was cast ; 
 It was the time of roses, — 
 
 ^ We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
 i 
 
 II. 
 That churlish season never frowned 
 
 On early lovers yet ; 
 O no ! — the world was newly crowned 
 
 With flowers when first we met. 
 
 III. 
 T was twilight, and I bade you go ; 
 
 But still you held me fast. 
 It was the time of roses, — - 
 
 We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
228 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS, 
 
 Serenade, 
 
 H, sweet, thou little knowest how 
 \ I wake, and passionate watches keep ! 
 And yet, -while I address thee now, 
 
 IVIethinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 
 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, 
 
 That tender thought of love and thee- 
 That while the world is hushed so deep, 
 
 Thy soul 's pej-haps awake to me ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep, 
 
 With golden visions for thy dower ! 
 While I this midnight vigil keep, 
 
 And bless thee in thy silent bower. 
 To me 't is sweeter than the power 
 
 Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, 
 That I alone, at this slill hour, 
 
 In patient love outwatch the world. 
 
 Q 
 
 O 
 
 A' 
 
GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 229 
 
 eorge |). Moxxxb. 
 
 i KoRN j8oj. Died 1864.J 
 
 **Where Hudson's Wave." 
 
 HERE Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands 
 Winds through the hills afar, 
 V Old Cronest like a monarch stands. 
 Crowned with a single star ! 
 And there, amid the billowy swells 
 
 Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earih, 
 My fair and gentle Ida dwells, 
 A nymph of mountain birth. 
 
 The snow-flake that the cliff receives, 
 
 The diamonds of the showers, 
 Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, 
 
 The sisterhood of flowers. 
 Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, 
 
 Her purity define ; 
 But Ida 's dearer far than these 
 
 To this fond breast of mine. 
 
 My heart is on the hills. The shades 
 . Of night are on my brow : 
 
23^ 
 
 HALF-UOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, 
 
 My soul is with you now ! 
 I bless the star-crowned highlands where 
 
 My Ida's footsteps roam — 
 Oh ! for a falcon's wing to bear 
 
 Me onward to mv home. 
 
 When other Friends/* 
 
 HEN other friends are round thee, 
 And other hearts are thine ; 
 w\ V When other bays have crowned thee. 
 More fresh and green than mine ; 
 Then think how sad and lonely 
 
 This doting heart will be, 
 Which, while it throbs, throbs only. 
 Beloved one, for thee 1 
 
 Yet do not think I doubt thee, 
 
 I know thy truth remains ; 
 I would not live without thee 
 
 For all the world contains, 
 lliou art the star that guides me 
 
 Along life's changing sea ; 
 And whatc'er fate betides me, 
 
 This heart still turns to thee. 
 
UnWARD CO ATE PINKNEY. 23 I 
 
 I Born 1802. JDied 1828J, 
 
 A Health. 
 
 FILL this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 
 
 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds, 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burden'd bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
23 2 HA L F- no I R S WITH Til E V E TS. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 
 The measures of lier hours ; 
 Her feehngs have llie fragranc}, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain. 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 But memory, such as mine of her. 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh, my latest sigh 
 • Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill'd this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alotie, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon — 
 Her hcallh ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a frame, 
 'J'hat life might be all ])oclry, 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
RALPH WALDO E3IERS0K 233 
 
 [Born 1803.] 
 
 To Eva, 
 
 H fair and stately maid, whose eyes 
 • Were kindled in the upper skies 
 
 At the same torch that lighted mine ; 
 For so I must interpret still 
 Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 
 
 A sympathy divine. 
 
 Ah, let me blameless gaze upon 
 Features that seem at heart my own ; 
 
 Nor fear those watchful sentinels, 
 Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
 Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, 
 
 With fire that draws while it repels. 
 
^34 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 The Amulet. 
 
 OUR picture smiles as first it smiled ; 
 The im^ you j^ave is still the same 
 
 Your letter tells, oh changing child 
 
 No tidings since it came. 
 
 Give me an amulet 
 
 That keeps intelligence with you — 
 Red when you love, and rosier red, 
 
 And when you love not, pale and blue. 
 
 Alas ! that neither bonds nor vows 
 
 Can certify possession : 
 Torments me still the fear that love 
 
 Died in its last expression. 
 
 ^ -#^l^\t^. &h 
 
GEORGE D. PRENTICE. -ZS 
 
 eorge D. |)rcntice. 
 
 [Born 1804. Died 1870.] 
 
 To A Lady. 
 
 THINK of thee when morning springs 
 
 From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew, 
 And, like a young bii-d, lifts her wings 
 t^^ Of gladness on the welkin blue. 
 
 And when, at noon, the breath of love 
 O'er flower and stream is wandering free, 
 
 And sent in music from the grove, 
 I think of thee — I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee, when, soft and wide, 
 The evening spreads her robes of light. 
 
 And, like a young and timid bride, 
 Sits blushing in the arms of night. 
 
 nirnrnr—finpninrrfjin-TTii 
 
236 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 And when the moon's sweet crescent springs 
 In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea, 
 
 And stars are forth, iil<:e blessed things, 
 I think of thee — I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee; — that eye of flame. 
 Those tresses, falling bright and free, 
 
 That brow, where *' Beauty writes her name," 
 I think of thee — I think of thee. 
 
SIR EDWARD BJJLWER~LYT TON. 
 
 2^7 
 
 Sir OJbtDari) Cytton iSultoer-Cytton. 
 
 Born 1805. Died \%71^\ 
 
 Song. 
 
 I^HEN stars are in the quiet skies, 
 
 Then most I pine for thee ; 
 >' Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 
 As stars look on the sea. 
 For thoughts, Hke waves that glide by night, 
 
 Are stillest when they shine, 
 Mine earthly love lies hushed in light 
 Beneath ihe heaven of thine. 
 
 There is an hour when angels keep 
 
 Familiar watch o'er men. 
 When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep — 
 
 Sweet Spirit, meet me then. 
 There is an hour when holy dreams 
 
 Through slumber fairest glide. 
 And in that mystic hour it seems 
 
 Thou shouldst be by my side. 
 
238 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS 
 
 Tlie thoughts of thee too sacred are 
 
 For daylight's common beam ; 
 I can but know thee as my star, 
 
 My angel and my dream ! 
 When stars are in the quiet skies, 
 
 Then most I pine for thee ; 
 Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 
 
 As stars look on the sea. 
 
 Love at First Sight. 
 
 jy-NTO my heart a silent look 
 
 Flashed from thy careless eyes, 
 
 And what before was shadow, took 
 The light of summer skies. 
 
 The first-born love was in that look ; 
 
 The Venus rose from out the deep 
 Of those inspiring eyes. 
 
 My life, like some lone solemn spot 
 
 A spirit passes o'er. 
 Grew instinct with a glory not 
 
 In earth or heaven before. 
 
SfR EDWARD B ULWER-LYTTON. 239 
 
 Sweet trouble stirred the haunted spot, 
 And shook the leaves of every thought 
 Thy presence wandered o'er ! 
 
 My being yearned, and crept to thine, 
 
 As if in times of yore 
 Thy soul had been a part of mine, 
 
 Which claimed it back once more. 
 Thy very self no longer thine, 
 But merged in that delicious life, 
 
 Which made us one of yore. 
 
 There bloomed beside thee forms as fair, 
 
 There murmured tones as sweet. 
 But round thee breathed the enchanted air 
 
 'Twas life and death to meet. 
 And henceforth thou alone wert fair, 
 And though the stars had sung for joy, 
 
 Thy whisper only sweet ! 
 
240 HALF-UOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 fBORN 1806.1 
 
 To AN Autumn Rose. 
 
 >' 
 
 4i^ 
 
 ELT> her I love her — love her for those eyes 
 0<^^ '^^ Now soft with feeling, radiant now with mirth 
 ( \ Which, like a lake reflecting? autumn skies, 
 Reveal two heavens here to us on Earth — 
 The one in which their soulful beauty lies, 
 And that wherein such soulfulness has birth : 
 Go to my lady ere the season flies. 
 And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast — 
 Go I and with all of eloquence thou hast, 
 The burning story of my love discover, 
 And if the theme should fail, alas ! to move her, 
 Tell her, when youth's gay budding-time is past, 
 And summer's gaudy flowering is over. 
 Like thee, my love will blossom to the last ! 
 
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 24 1 
 
 **I WILL LOVE HER NO MORE." 
 
 WILL love her no more — 'tis a waste of the heart, 
 This lavish of feehng — a prodigal's part : 
 Who, heedless the treasure a life could not earn, 
 Squanders forth where he vainly may look for return. 
 
 I will love her no more ; it is folly to give 
 Our best years to one when for many we live. 
 And he who the world will thus barter for one, 
 I. ween by such traffic must soon be undone. 
 
 T will love her no more ; it is heathenish thus- 
 
 To bow to an idol which bends not to us ; 
 
 Which heeds not, which hears not, which recks not for 
 
 aught. 
 That the worship of years to its altar has brought. 
 
 I will love her no more ; for no love is without 
 Its limit in measure, and mine hath run out ; 
 She engrosseth it all, and, till some she restore. 
 Than this moment I love her, how can I love more ? 
 
242 llALF-HOVRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 1 Born 1S07. Died 1867.] 
 
 The Annoyer. 
 
 }^ti. 
 
 OVE knoweth every form of air, 
 
 And every shape of earth, 
 And comes, unbidden, everywhere, 
 
 Like thought's mysterious birth. 
 The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 
 
 Are written with love's words. 
 And you hear his voice unceasingly, 
 
 Like song, in the time of birds. 
 
 He peeps into the warrior's heart 
 
 From the tip of a stooping plume, 
 And the serried spears, and the many men, 
 
 May not deny him room. 
 He'll come to his tent in the weary night, 
 
 And be busy in his dicam, 
 And he'll float to his eye in morning light, 
 
 Like a fay on a silver beam. 
 
-^^^<- „-^:35 <"?~^ y^^ ^ 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 243 
 
 He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 
 
 And rides on the echo back, 
 And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, 
 
 And flits in his woodland track. 
 The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 
 
 The cloud, and the open sky, — 
 He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 
 
 Like the light of your very eye. 
 
 The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 
 
 And ponders the silver sea. 
 For Love is under the surface hid. 
 
 And a spell of thought has he ; 
 He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 
 
 And speaks in the ripple low. 
 Till the bait is gone from the crafty line. 
 
 And the hook hangs bare below. 
 
 He blurs the print of the scholar's book, 
 
 And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
 And profanes the cell of the holy man 
 
 In the shape of a lady fair. 
 In the darkest night, and the bright daylight. 
 
 In earth, and sea, and sky, 
 In every home of human thought 
 
 Will Love be lurking nigh. 
 
244 IIALF-UOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 To ErM EN GARDE. 
 
 KNOW not if the sunshine waste, 
 
 The world is dark since thou art gone ! 
 The hours are, O ! so leaden-paced ! 
 
 The birds sing, and the stars float on, 
 ^ But sing not well, and look not fair ; 
 A weight is in the summer air, 
 
 And sadness in the sight of flowers ; 
 And if I go where others smile, 
 
 Their love but makes me think of ours. 
 And Heaven gets my heart the while. 
 Like one upon a desert isle, 
 
 I languish of the dreary hours ; 
 I never thought a life could be 
 So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee ! 
 
 I sit and watch the summer sky : 
 
 There comes a cloud through heaven alone ; 
 A thousand stars are shining nigh, 
 
 It feels no light, but darkles on ! 
 Yet now it nears the lovelier moon, 
 
 And, flashing through its fringe of snow, 
 There steals a rosier dye, and soon 
 
 Its bosom is one fieiy glow 1 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 245 
 
 The queen of life within it lies, 
 Yet mark how lovers meet to part : 
 
 The cloud already onward flies, 
 And shadows sink into its heart ; 
 
 And (dost thou see them where thou art ?) 
 Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! 
 
 Its light, like mine, is seen no more. 
 And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before. 
 
 Where press, this hour, those fairy feet ? 
 
 Where look, this hour, those eyes of blue ? 
 What music in thine ear is sweet? 
 
 What odour breathes thy lattice through? 
 What word is on thy lip? What tone, 
 What look, replying to thine own? 
 Thy steps along the Danube stray, 
 
 Alas, it seeks an Orient sea I 
 Thou wouldst not seem so far away. 
 
 Flowed but its waters back to me ! 
 I bless the slowly-coming moon. 
 
 Because its eye looked late in thine ; 
 I envy the west wind of June, 
 
 Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; 
 The flower I press upon my brow 
 Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now \ 
 
246 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 The Confessional. 
 
 THOUGHT of thee- 
 
 I thought of thee 
 
 On ocean many a weary night, 
 When heaved the long and sullen sea, 
 
 With only waves and stars in sight. 
 We stole along by isles of balm, 
 
 We furled before the coming gale, 
 We slept amid the breathless calm, 
 
 We flew beneath the straining sail, — 
 But thou wert lost for years to me, 
 And day and night I thought of thee ! 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In France, amid the gay saloon, 
 Where eyes as dark as eyes may be 
 
 Are many as the leaves in June : 
 Where life is love, and e'en the air 
 
 Is pregnant with impassioned thought, 
 And song, and dance, and music are 
 
 With one warm meaning only fraught, 
 My half-snared heart broke lightly free, 
 And, with a blush, I thought of thee I 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 In Florence, where the fiery hearts 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 2A7 
 
 Of Italy are breathed away 
 
 In wonders of the deathless arts ; 
 Where strays the Contadina, down 
 
 Val d'Arno, with the song of old ; 
 Where clime and women seldom frown, 
 
 And life runs over sands of gold ; 
 I strayed to lonely Fiesole, 
 On many an eve, and thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Rome, w^hen on the Palatine, 
 Night left the Caesar's palace free 
 
 To Time's forgetful foot and mine ; 
 Or, on the Coliseum's wall, 
 
 When moonlight touched the ivied stone, 
 Reclining, with a thought of all 
 
 That o'er this scene hath come and gone. 
 The shades of Rome would start and flee 
 Unconsciously — I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Vallombrosa's holy shade. 
 Where nobles born the friars be. 
 
 By life's rude changes humbler made. 
 Here Milton framed his Paradise ; 
 
 I slept within his very cell : 
 
24 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 And, as I closed my weary eyes, 
 
 I thought the cowl would fit me well ; 
 The cloisters breathed, it seemed to me, 
 Of heart's-ease — but I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Venice, on a night in June ; 
 When, through the city of the sea. 
 
 Like dust of silver, slept the moon. 
 Slow turned his oar the gondolier, 
 
 And, as the black barks glided by, 
 The water, to my leaning ear. 
 
 Bore back the lover's passing sigh ; 
 It was no place alone to be, 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In the Ionian isles, when straying 
 With wise Ulysses by the sea. 
 
 Old Homer's songs around me playing ; 
 Or, watching the bewitched caique. 
 
 That o'er the star-lit waters flew, 
 I listened to the helmsman Greek, 
 
 Who sung the song that Sappho knew : 
 The poet's spell, the bark, the sea, 
 All vanislied as I thought of thee. 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 249 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Greece, when rose the Parthenon 
 Majestic o'er the ^gean sea, 
 
 And heroes with it, one by one ; 
 When, in the grove of Academe, 
 
 Where Lais and Leontium strayed 
 Discussing Plato's mystic theme, 
 
 I lay at noontide in the shade — 
 The ^gean wind, the whispering tree 
 Had voices — and I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee 
 
 In Asia, on the Dardanelles, 
 Where, swiftly as the waters flee. 
 
 Each wave some sweet old story tells ; 
 And, seated by the marble tank 
 
 Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old 
 (The fount where peerless Helen drank, 
 
 And Venus laved her locks of ^old), 
 I thrilled such classic haunts to see, 
 Yet even here I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee ^ I thought of ihee 
 W^here glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, 
 
 All palace-lined from sea to sea : 
 
 And ever on its shores the daughters 
 
250 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Of the delicious East are seen, 
 
 Printing the brink with slippered feet, 
 
 And, O, the snowy folds between. 
 
 What eyes of heaven your glances meet ! 
 
 Peris of light no fairer be, 
 
 Yet, in Stamboul, I thought of thee. 
 
 I've thought of thee — I've thought of thee. 
 
 Through change that teaches to forget ; 
 Thy face looks up from every sea. 
 
 In every star thine eyes are set. 
 Though roving beneath orient skies, 
 
 Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, 
 I envy every bird that flies 
 
 Into the far and clouded West ; 
 I think of thee — I think of thee ! 
 O, dearest ! hast thou thought of me ? 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 251 
 
 ^enry toabetxiortl) Congfelloro^ 
 
 [Born 1807.] 
 
 Endymion. 
 
 HE rising moon has hid the stars ; 
 Her level rays, like golden bars, 
 ^ Lie on the landscape green. 
 
 With shadows brown between. 
 
 And silver white the river gleams, 
 As if Diana, in her dreams, 
 
 Had dropped her silver bow 
 
 Upon the meadows low. 
 
 On such a tranquil night as this. 
 
 She woke Endymion with a kiss. 
 
 When, sleeping in the grove, 
 
 He dreamed not of her love. 
 
 Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
 Love gives itself, but is not bought; 
 Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
 Its deep, impassioned gaze. 
 
2^2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 It comes — the beautiful, the free, 
 The crown of all humanity — 
 
 In silence and alone 
 
 To seek the elected one. 
 
 It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep 
 Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
 And kisses the closed eyes 
 Of him, who slumbering lies. 
 
 O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 
 O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
 
 Are fraught with fear and pain, 
 
 Ye shall be loved again ! 
 
 No one is so accursed by fate. 
 No one so utterly desolate, 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 Responds unto its own. 
 
 Responds — as if, with unseen wings, 
 A breath from heaven had touched its strings ; 
 And whispers, in its song, 
 "Where hast thou stayed so long.?" 
 
^ 
 
 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 253 
 
 Maidenhood. 
 
 AIDEN I with the meek, brown eyes. 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 Thou whose locks outshine the sun. 
 Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet — 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance, 
 On the brooklet's swift advance, 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem. 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then why pause with indecision. 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
 
254 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye. 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
 That our ears perceive no more, 
 Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 
 
 O, thou child of many prayers ! 
 
 Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares, — 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 Morning rises into noon, 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
 Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
 Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
 When the young heart overflows. 
 To embalm that tent of snows. 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 Gates of brass cannot withstand 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 255 
 
 Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
 0, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
 Into wounds that cannot heal. 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 Into many a sunless heart ; 
 For a smile of God thou art ! 
 
56 
 
 I/ALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 My Lady Sleeps. 
 
 TARS of the summer night ! 
 
 Far in yon azure deeps 
 Hide, hide 3'our golden light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Moon of the summer night ! 
 
 Far down yon western steeps 
 Sink, sink in silver light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Wind of the summer night ! 
 
 Where yonder woodbine creeps 
 Fold, fold thy pinions light 1 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Dreams of the summer night ! 
 
 Tell her, her lover keeps 
 Watch, while in slumbers light 
 
 She sleeps 1 
 My lady sleeps 1 
 
 Sleeps I 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEE. 
 
 ^S7 
 
 %o\)\\ (^reenlcaf tDl)ittier* 
 
 Born i8oS. 
 
 My Playmate. 
 
 HE pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 
 Their song was soft and low ; 
 
 The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
 Were falling like the snow. 
 
 The blossoms drifted at our feet, 
 The orchard birds sang clear ; 
 
 The sweetest and the saddest day 
 It seemed of all the year. 
 
 For, more to me than birds or flowers, 
 My playmate left her home, 
 
 And took with her the laughing spring, 
 The music and the bloom. 
 
 She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 
 She laid her hand in mine : 
 
 What more could ask the bashful boy 
 That fed her father's kine ? 
 
258 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 She left us in the bloom of May : 
 The constant years told o'er 
 
 Their seasons with as sweet I\Iay morns, 
 But she came back no more. 
 
 I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 
 
 Of uneventful years ; 
 Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 
 
 And reap the autumn ears. 
 
 She lives where all the golden year 
 
 Her summer roses blow, 
 The dusky children of the sun 
 
 Before her come and go. 
 
 There haply with her jewelled hand 
 She smooths her silken gown, — 
 
 No more the homespun lap w^herein 
 I shook the walnuts down. 
 
 The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 
 The brown nuts on the hill, 
 
 And still the May-day flowers make sweet 
 The woods of Follymill. 
 
 The lilies blossom in the pond, 
 The bird builds in the tree. 
 
 The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 
 The slow song of the sea. 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 259 
 
 I wonder if she thinks of them, 
 
 And how the old time seems, — 
 If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
 
 Are sounding in her dreams. 
 
 I see- her face, I hear her voice ; 
 
 Does she remember mine ? 
 And what to her is now the boy 
 
 That fed her father's kine ? 
 
 What cares she that the orioles build 
 
 For other eyes than ours, — 
 That other hands with nuts are filled, 
 
 And other laps with flowers ? 
 
 O playmate in the golden time ! 
 
 Our mossy seat is green, 
 Its fringing violets blossom yet, 
 
 The old trees o'er it lean. 
 
 The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
 
 A sw^eeter memory blow ; 
 And there in spring the veeries sing 
 
 The song of long ago. 
 
 And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
 
 Are moaning like the sea, — 
 The moaning of the sea of change 
 
 Between myself and thee. 
 
26o HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Caroline ^J'crtDU- 
 
 i Horn i SoS. j 
 
 Love not. 
 
 ; Ya^- *OVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ; 
 
 f Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly 
 
 ^■• 
 
 '*'i^- flowers — 
 
 Things that are made to fade and fall away, 
 i When they have blossomed but a few short 
 
 hours. 
 Love not, love not. 
 
 Love not, love not : the thing you love may die — 
 May perish from the 'gay and gladsome earth ; 
 
 The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
 Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. 
 Love not, love not. 
 
 Love not, love not : the thing you love may change, 
 The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; 
 
 The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, ' 
 The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
 Love not, love not. 
 
CAROLINE NORTON 
 
 261 
 
 Love not, love not : oh ! warning vainly said, 
 In present years, as in the years gone by ; 
 
 Love flings a halo round the dear one's head ; 
 Faultless, immortal — till they change or die. 
 Love not, love not. 
 
262 IIALF-IJOVRS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 ©IiDcr lUcuiicU C)olmc0, 
 
 ( Born iSo<)^ 
 
 }t7^VV^»^ Stanzas. 
 
 TRANGE f that one lightly-whispered tone 
 Is far, far sweeter unto me, 
 ') Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, 
 Or breathe along the sea ; 
 But, lady, w^hen thy voice I greet. 
 Not heavenly music seems so sweet, 
 
 I look upon the fair, blue skies, 
 And naught but empty air I see ; 
 
 But when I turn me to thine eyes. 
 It seemeth unto me 
 
 Ten thousand angels spread their wings 
 
 Within those little azuie rings. 
 
 The lily hath the softest leaf 
 
 That ever western breeze hath fanned, 
 
 But thou shalt have the tender flower, 
 So I may take thy hand ; 
 
 That little hand to me doth yield 
 
 More joy than all the broidered field. 
 
GA 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 263 
 
 O,' lady ! there be many things 
 
 That seem right fair, below, above ; 
 
 But sure not one among them all 
 Is half so sweet as love ; — ■ 
 
 Let. us not pay our vows alone, 
 
 But join two altars both in one. 
 
 The Last Blossom. 
 
 HOUC'iH young no more, we still would dream 
 ' Of beauty's dear deluding wiles: 
 The leagues of life to graybeards seem 
 Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles. 
 
 Who knows a woman's wild caprice ? 
 
 It played with Goethe's silvered hair ; 
 And many a Holy Father's ' ' niece " 
 
 Has softly smoothed the papal chair. 
 
 When sixty bids us sigh in vain 
 To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, 
 
 We think upon those ladies twain 
 
 Who loved so well the tough old Dean. 
 
264 IIALF-IIOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 We see the Patriarch's wintry face, 
 The maid of Egypt's dusky glow ; 
 
 And dream that youth and age embrace, 
 As April violets fill with snow. 
 
 Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile, 
 His lotus-loving Memphian lies, — 
 
 The musky daughter of the Nile, 
 With plaited hair and almond eyes. 
 
 Might we but share one wild caress 
 Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall, 
 
 And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress 
 The long cold kiss that waits us all! 
 
 My bosom heaves, remembering yet 
 The morning of that blissful day 
 
 When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, 
 And gave my raptured soul away. 
 
 Flung from her eyes of purest blue, 
 A lasso, with its leaping chain, 
 
 Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew 
 
 O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain I 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 265 
 
 Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, 
 
 Sweet vision, waited for so long ! 
 Dove that would seek the poet's cage, 
 
 Lured by the magic breath of song ! 
 
 She blushes ! Ah, reluctant maid, 
 
 Love's drapeau rouge ihe truth has told ! 
 
 O'er girlhood's yielding barricade 
 
 Floats the great Leveller's crimson fold ! 
 
 Come to my arms ! — Love heeds not years; 
 
 No frost the bud of passion knows : — 
 Ha ! what is this my frenzy hears ? 
 
 A voice behind me uttered, — Rose ! 
 
 Sweet was her smile, — but not for me ! 
 
 Alas ! when woman looks too kind, 
 Just turn your foolish head and see, — 
 
 Some youth is walking close behind ! 
 
266 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 [ Born in'o^. Died 1861.] 
 
 ,\i^ 
 
 A Man's Requirements. 
 
 VOVE ine, sweet, with all thou art, — 
 Feeling, thinking, seeing ; 
 Love me in the lightest part, 
 Love me in full being. 
 
 Love me with thine open youth, 
 
 In its frank, surrender ; 
 With the vowing of thy mouth, 
 
 With its silence tender. 
 
 Love me with thine azure eyes, 
 Made for earnest granting; — 
 
 Taking color from the skies, 
 
 Can Heaven's truth be wantinq; ? 
 
 Love me with their lids, that fall 
 Snow-like at first meeting ; 
 
 Love me with thy heart, that all 
 The neighbors then see beating. 
 
MRS. E. B. BROWNIKG. 
 
 Love me with thy hand, stretched out 
 
 Freely, — open-minded ; 
 Love me with thy loitering foot, — 
 
 Hearing one behind it. 
 
 Love me with thy voice, that turns 
 
 Sudden faint above me ; 
 Love me with thy blush, that burns 
 
 When I murmur, "Love me/" 
 
 Love me with thy thinking soul — 
 
 Break it to love-sighing ; 
 Love me with thy thoughts, that roll 
 
 On through living, dying. 
 
 Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 
 
 When the world has crowned thee ; 
 
 Love me kneeling at thy prayers. 
 With the angels round thee. 
 
 Love me pure, as musers do, 
 
 Up the woodlands shady ; 
 Love me gayly, fast and true, 
 
 As a winsome lady. 
 
 Through all hopes that keep us brave, 
 
 Farther off or nigher. 
 Love me for the house and grave,— 
 
 And for something higher. 
 
 267 
 
268 HALF-UOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear, 
 Woman's love no fable, 
 
 / will love thee, — half a year, — 
 As a man is able. 
 
 The Lady's Yes. 
 
 ES ! " I answered you last night ; 
 
 ''No!" this morning, sir, I say. 
 Colors, seen by candle light, 
 
 Will not look the same by day. 
 
 When the tabors played their best — • 
 Lamps above, and laughs below — 
 
 Love me sounded like a jest. 
 Fit for yes or fit for no. 
 
 Call me false, or call me free, — 
 Vow, whatever light may shine, 
 
 No man on thy face shall see 
 Any grief for change on mine. 
 
 Yet the sin is on us both : 
 Time to dance is not to woo ; 
 
 Wooer light makes fickle troth ; 
 Scorn of me recoils on vou. 
 
MRS. E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 269 
 
 Learn to win a lady's faith 
 Nobly, as the thing is high ; 
 
 Bravely, as for life and death, — 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 
 Lead her from the festive boards, 
 Point her to the starry skies, 
 
 Guard her by your faithful words. 
 Pure from courtship's flatteries. 
 
 By your truth she shall be true, — 
 Ever true, as wives of yore ; 
 
 And her Yes, once said to you, 
 Shall be Yes for evermore. 
 
 \SJUL/^ 
 
 MyPetName. 
 
 ( FROM THE PORTUGITESE.) 
 
 KS, call me by my pet name 1 Let me hear 
 The name I used to run at, when a child, 
 From innocent play, and leave the cowslips 
 W piled, 
 
 To glance up in some face that proved me 
 dear 
 
 With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear 
 Fond voices, which, being drawn and reconciled 
 
2 70 ITALF-HOURS WTTIT THE POETS. 
 
 Into the music of Heaven's undefiled, 
 Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, 
 While I call God, — call God ! So let my mouth 
 Be heir to those who are now exanimate. 
 Gather the north flowers to complete the south, 
 And catch the early love up in the late. 
 Yes, call me by that name ; and I, in truth. 
 With the same heart will answer, and not wait. 
 
 For Love's Sake Only. 
 
 (from THK PORTUGUESE.) 
 
 F thou must love me, let it be for naught 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
 :m^^ " I love her for her smile, her look, her way 
 [j Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought 
 
 That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"; — 
 For these things in themselves, beloved, may 
 Be changed, or change for thee ; and love so wrought 
 May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
 Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry : 
 A creature might forget to weep who bore 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
 But love me for love's sake, — that evermore 
 Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. 
 
MRS. E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 271 
 
 All for All. 
 
 (from the PORTUGUESE.) 
 
 I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange, 
 And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
 Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss 
 That comes to each in turn ; nor count it strange 
 When I look up, to drop on a new range 
 Of walls and floors, — another home than this? 
 Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
 Filled by dead eyes, too tender to know change ? 
 That's hardest. If to conquer love has tried, 
 To conquer grief tries more, — as all things prove; 
 For grief indeed is love, and grief beside. 
 Alas ! I have grieved so I am hard to love. 
 Yet love me — wilt thou } Open thine heart wide, 
 And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 
 
272 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 [ Born j 8 ic. j 
 
 k -^ ^ * * A S K ME NO MORE." 
 
 SK me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
 The cloud may stoop from heaven and take 
 
 the shape, 
 With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
 But, O too fond ! 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 would not have thee die ! 
 Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed 
 I 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 me no more. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 273 
 
 Lilian. 
 
 IRY, fairy Lilian ! 
 
 Flitting, fairy Lilian ! 
 When I ask her if she love me, 
 Claps her tiny hands above me, 
 
 Laughing all she can ; 
 She'll not tell me if she love me, 
 
 Cruel little Lilian 1 
 
 When my passion seeks 
 
 Pleasance in love-sighs, 
 She, looking through and through me 
 Thoroughly to undo me, 
 
 Smiling, never speaks : 
 So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
 From beneath her gathered wimple 
 Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
 Till the lightning laughters dimple 
 
 The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
 
 Then away she flies ! 
 
 Prithee weep. May Lilian 1 
 
 Gayety without eclipse 
 Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
 
274 nALF-UOUKS WITH THE POETS 
 
 Through my very heart it thrilleth 
 When from crimson-threaded lips 
 
 Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 
 Prithee, weep, ]\Iay Lilian 1 
 
 Praying all I can, 
 If prayers will not hush thee, 
 
 Airy Lilian ! 
 Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 
 
 Fairy Lilian ! 
 
 The Sleeping Beauty. 
 
 EAR after year unto her feet, 
 
 She lying on her couch alone, 
 Across the purpled coverlet 
 
 The maiden's jet-black hair has gro^vn, 
 On either side her tranced form 
 
 Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
 The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, 
 
 And moves not on the rounded curl. 
 
 The silk star-broidered coverlet 
 Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 275 
 
 Languidly ever; and, amid 
 
 Her full black ringlets, downward rolled, 
 Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm, 
 
 With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
 Her constant beauty doth inform 
 
 Stillness with love, and day with light. 
 
 She sleeps ! her breathings are not heard 
 
 In palace chambers far apart. 
 The fragrant tresses are not stirred 
 
 That lie upon her charmed heart. 
 She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 
 
 The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
 
 A perfect form in perfect rest. 
 
 The Miller's Daughter. 
 
 T is the miller's daughter ; 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so d<t2ir. 
 That I would be the jewel 
 
 That trembles at her ear; " 
 For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
 I'd touch her neck, so warm and white. 
 
2 7^ HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 xVnd I would be tlie girdle 
 
 About her dainty, dainty waist, 
 
 And her heart would beat against me 
 In sorrow and in rest ; 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 And I would be the necklace 
 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 
 Upon her balmy bosom 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs : 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce should be unclasped at night. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 2^] 
 
 I Born iSii. Difd 1849,] 
 
 To 
 
 .y SAW thee once — once only — years ago : 
 I must not say how many — but not -many. 
 It was a July midnight ; and from out 
 A full-orbed moon that, like thine o\mi soul, 
 soaring. 
 
 Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven, 
 There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 
 Wiih quietude, and sultriness, and slumber. 
 Upon the upturned faces of a thousand 
 Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 
 Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe — 
 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
 That gave out, in return for the love-light, 
 Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death — 
 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
 That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 
 By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. 
 
27S HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 
 I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon 
 Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, 
 And on thine own, upturned — alas I in sorrow. 
 
 Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight — 
 Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow), 
 That bade me pause before that garden-gate 
 To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses ? 
 No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept, 
 Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked — 
 And in an instant all things disappeared. 
 (Ah, bear in mind, this garden was enchanted !) 
 The pearly lustre of the moon virent out : 
 The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 
 The happy flowers and the repining trees. 
 Were seen no more : the very roses' odours 
 Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 
 All, all expired save thee — save less than thou : 
 Save only the divine light in thine eyes — 
 Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 
 I saw but them — they were the world to me. 
 I saw but them — saw only them for hours — 
 Saw only them until the moon went down. 
 What wild heart-histories seemed to lie cnwritten 
 Uj)on those chrystallinc celestial spheres ' 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope ! 
 How silently serene a sea of pride ! 
 How daring an ambition ! yet how deep — 
 How fathomless a capacity for love ! 
 
 79 
 
 But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight 
 Into a western couch of thunder-cloud, 
 And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
 Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
 They would not go — they never yet have gone. 
 Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
 They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
 They follow me, they lead me through the years ; 
 They are my ministers — yet I their slave. 
 Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
 My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
 And purified in their electric fire — 
 And sanctified in. their Elysian fire. 
 They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), 
 And ^e far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to 
 In the sad, silent watches of my night ; 
 While even in the meridian glare of day 
 I see them still — two sweetly scintillant 
 Venuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 
 
2 8o HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 JTraurcs Savgcnt ©sgooii. 
 
 [ Born 1812. Dito iS^qJ 
 
 Song. 
 
 I' J OVET) ^^ ideal — I sought it in thee; 
 I found it unreal as stars in the sea. 
 
 ^^^^ And shall I, disdaining an instinct divine — 
 O- By falsehood profaning that pure hope of mine — 
 
 Shall I stoop from my vision so lofty — so true — 
 From the light all Elysian that round me it threw? 
 
 Oh ! guilt unforgiven, if false I could be 
 
 To myself and to Heaven, while constant to thee ! 
 
 Ah no 1 though all lonely on earth be my lot, 
 I'll brave it, if only that trust fail me not — - 
 
 The trust that, in keeping all pure from control 
 The love that lies sleeping and dreams in my soul, 
 
 It may wake in some better and holier sphere, 
 Unbound l)y the feller Fate hung on it here ! 
 
THOMAS DA VIS. 
 
 ij;i)0ma6 IDaDts 
 
 [Born 1814. Died 1845.J 
 
 The Welcome. 
 
 OME in the evening, or come in the morning. 
 
 Come when you're looked for, or come without 
 warning. 
 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
 And the linnets are singing, " True lovers ! don't 
 
 sever !" 
 
 I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ; 
 Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 
 I'll fetch from the mountain Its breeze to Inspire you ; 
 ['11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
 Oh ! your step's like the ram to the summer-vexed 
 
 farmer, 
 Or sabre and shield to a knight without armour. 
 
2S: 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 
 Then, wondering, I'll wish you, in silence, to lo\e me. 
 
 We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrv. 
 We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairv. 
 We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the ri\er. 
 Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
 Oh' she'll whisper you, — "Love as unchangeably 
 
 beaming. 
 And trust, when in secret, most tunefullv streaming. 
 Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
 As our souls flow in one down eternitv's river." 
 
 So come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
 Come when you're looked for, or come w^ithout warning. 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before vou. 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore vou ! 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. 
 Red is mv cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
 And the linnets are singing, " True lovers ! don't 
 sever !" 
 
HENRY GLAPP, JUNIOR. 
 
 283 
 
 ^enrL3 €lapp, jiunior 
 
 [Born 18 14.] 
 
 Blue and Gold. 
 
 •Vy the side of the broad blue sea 
 My blue-eyed maiden dwells, 
 And plays with the blue-lipped shells, 
 And hides in the rocky dells, 
 And rolls in the surf with me. 
 
 The morning with golden ray 
 Would gild her beauteous head ; 
 But my charming blue-eyed maid 
 Unloosens her golden braid. 
 
 And shames the proud light away. 
 
 The blue-bird tosses its head. 
 And the violet breathes a sigh 
 As my maiden passeth by ; 
 While to meet her dark-blue eye 
 
 The blue-bells are ever afraid. 
 
284 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 The goldfincli with her is bold, 
 And spying her radiant hair, 
 He hastens to nestle him there. 
 And, tuning his prettiest air. 
 
 Sings how gold ever seeketh gold. 
 
 The blue waves kiss her feet. 
 And sprinkle her marble brow. 
 And her blue eyes bluer grow 
 Than the veins on her hand of snow, 
 
 Where the blue rivers part and n\eet. 
 
 And my maiden she sings to me. 
 As she basks in the golden sun, 
 O ! lav me when life is done 
 Where his goldenest rays have shone, 
 
 Bv the side of the broad blue sea ! 
 
A UBREY DE VERB. 
 
 285 
 
 Aubrey IDe berc, 
 
 [BoKN Ji8i4~.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 ENDING between me and the taper, 
 
 While o'er the harp her white hands strayed, 
 
 The shadows of her waving tresses 
 Above my hand were gently swayed. 
 
 With every graceful movement waving, 
 
 1 marked their undulating swell ; 
 I watched them while they met and parted, 
 
 Curled close or widened, rose or fell. 
 
 I laughed in triumph and in pleasure. 
 So strange the sport, so undesigned ! 
 
 Her mother turned and asked me, gravely, 
 " What thought was passing through my 
 mmd?" 
 
286 
 
 HA LF-iro un s ir ith tit k p o k ts. 
 
 *Tis Love that blinds the eyes of mothers, 
 'Tis Love that makes the young maids fair ! 
 
 She touched my hand ; mv rings she counted •, 
 Yet never felt the shadows there. 
 
 Keep, gamesome Love, beloved Infant, 
 Keep ever thus all A'lothers blind ; 
 
 And make thy dedicated Virgins, 
 In substance as in shadow, kind ! 
 
 
FHILIP PENDLETON COGKE. 
 
 287 
 
 pi)iHp IPeuMetDii (STaokt 
 
 |BoRN 18 I 6. Died i8<;a.] 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 LOVED thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane ; 
 My life's bright dream and early 
 
 Hath come again ; 
 I renew, in my fond vision. 
 
 My heart's dear pain. 
 My hopes, and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The ruin, lone and hoary. 
 
 The ruin old 
 Where thou didst hark my story, 
 
 At even told, — 
 That spot — the hues Elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain — 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 HTfim-nT-irnifiiiTnmir 
 
;8S HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main. 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 But, fairest, coldest, wonder ! 
 
 Thy glorious clav 
 Lieth the green sod under — 
 
 Alas, the day ! 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain — 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane, 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep. 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep ; 
 May their bloom. In beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthlv part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
EPES SARGENT. 
 
 289 
 
 (0pe5 Sargent 
 
 [Born 181 6.1 
 
 The Fugitive from Love. 
 
 S there but a single theme 
 For the youthful poet's dream ? 
 Is there but a single wire 
 To the youthful poet's lyre ? 
 Earth below and heaven above — 
 Can he sing of naught but love f 
 
 Nay ! the battle's dust I see ! 
 God of war ! I follow thee ! 
 And, in martial numbers, raise 
 Worthy paeans to thy praise. 
 Ah ! she meets me on the field— 
 If I fly not, I must yield. 
 
 Jolly patron of the grape ! 
 To thy arms I will escape ! 
 Quick, the rosy nectar bring ; 
 "• lo Bacche" I will sing. 
 
290 
 
 IIALF-IIOUnS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Ha ! Confusion ! every sip 
 But reminds me of her lip. 
 
 Pallas ! give me wisdom's page, 
 
 And awake my lyric rage ; 
 
 Love is fleeting ; Love is vain ; 
 
 I will try a nobler strain. 
 
 O, perplexity ! my books 
 
 But reflect her haunting looks ! 
 
 Jupiter ! on thee I cry ! 
 Take me and my lyre on high ! 
 Lo ! the stars beneath me gleam i 
 Here, O poet ! is a theme. 
 Madness ! She has come above ! 
 Every chord is whispering "Love !' 
 
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 
 
 2gi 
 
 iDillimn Uobb tUallacc- 
 
 [Born i8i8.] 
 
 A Letter to Madelijse. 
 
 URE as a passion felt for stars ; 
 
 Deep as a thought to seraphs known ; 
 Yet sad as bird confined to bars. 
 
 O MadeHne ! my love hath grown — 
 
 Taking a mild and solemn tone, 
 Yes, — still by thee my soul is stirred 
 
 With music ; from the Past it swells, 
 Sweet as a wave's low murmur heard 
 
 In some old sea-remembering shells. 
 
 The misty mountains tower aloft ; 
 
 Thine infant feet their summits trod ; 
 And in yon quiet valleys oft 
 
 Thy little fingers from the sod 
 
 Plucked jewels which a pitying God 
 Scattered around in leaf and flower, 
 
 As if to tell each sorrowmg shore. 
 That He who walked through Eden's bower 
 
 Was yet the dim earth hovering o'er. 
 
92 HA L F-nOFFS WITH THE POETS!. 
 
 And yonder sings the silver stream — 
 
 Dancing adown the hstening hill, 
 That wears its mantle from the beam, 
 
 And learns its music from the rill ; 
 
 'Tis murmuring o'er its legends still. 
 While musing lonely by the scene — 
 
 My spirit dark with grief's eclipse — 
 I took new heart — for Madeline 
 
 That rill had hallowed with her lips ! 
 
 Though black with Winter's shadow lies 
 The land, and black with woe my soul ; 
 
 Though round me here from men and skies 
 Clouds ghost-like stalk or shadowy roll. 
 And such appears the Pilgrim's goal ! — 
 
 Let but a scene which thou didst know, 
 A moment meet mv saddened view, 
 
 And instantly it wears a glow 
 
 Unpressed by thee it never knew : — 
 
 Skies smile with unaccustomed spheres. 
 Lit by thy memory into birth — 
 
 And fade away the doubts and fears 
 That palled my heart : the very eartl-K, 
 So dark before, trembles with mirth ; 
 
 While through her everlasting plains 
 
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE, 293 
 
 The rivers broad triumphing roll, 
 As if they warmed her swelling veins, 
 And thought she owned a living sou.. 
 
 Thus hourly do I feel a chain. 
 
 Whose links are wreathed with flowers and 
 light. 
 Is doomed forever to remain 
 
 Between the world and me : — Thy plight, 
 
 The beautiful star-gush of a night, 
 Whose dusk wings rustle sadly round — 
 
 Thy love — a pure flame lit about. 
 Which must in Nature's Vase* be found, 
 
 To bring its loveliest colours out. 
 
 * The vase was of pure alabaster, whose best figures only appeared when 
 a lamp was kindled inside. — Eastern Tra-vels. 
 
?94 lIALF-noURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 (tljomas Sunn (Cnglisl), ill. D, 
 
 [Born iSiy.] 
 
 Good-Night. 
 
 \' dear, good-night ! the moon is down, 
 The stars have brighter grown above ; 
 There's quiet in this dusky town. 
 
 And all things slumber, save my love. 
 Good-night ! good-night ! and in thy dreams 
 
 Go wander in a pleasant clime. 
 By greenest meadows, singing streams. 
 And seasons all one summer time — 
 Good-night, my dear, good-night ! 
 
 My love, good-night ! let slumber steep 
 
 In poppy-juice those melting eyes. 
 Till morn shall wake thee from thy sleep. 
 
 And bid my spirit's dawn arise. 
 Good-night ! good-night ! and as "o rest 
 
 Upon thy couch tliou liest down, 
 One throb for me pervade thy breast, 
 
 And then let sleep thy senses drown. 
 
 Good-nigh<", my love — good night ! 
 
THOMAS DUNK ENGLISH. 
 
 295 
 
 The Earl's Daughter. 
 
 WOULD not care to see thee — thou 
 
 Art changed, they tell me — so am I ; 
 More bronzed my visage, somewhat tamed 
 The spirit once so high. 
 And If of beauty less 
 
 Than once thou hadst, thou hast. 
 Let me alone behold 
 
 Thy features in the past — 
 Be as I saw thee last. 
 
 For as within that past they were, 
 
 Thy charms by memory here are limned- 
 The tremulous nostril, rounded chin, 
 Bright eye that never dimmed. 
 And snooded, waving hair 
 
 Which ripple-marked a shore 
 Whose beach was ivory — 
 Unhappy me forlore. 
 My bark rides there no more. 
 
 What time we walked by Avon's side. 
 
 Our spirits twain combined In one, 
 And dreamed of lands with Spring eterne, 
 
296 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 And never-setting sun — 
 This is no longer ours ; 
 
 I wander to and fro, 
 Dejected, blind, and shorn ; 
 
 The sunlight will not glow ; 
 
 Hope ever answers — " No •" 
 
 For I am poor. Within that wora 
 
 How many grievous faults there lay ; 
 Such has been since old Babylon, 
 And such shall be for aye. 
 Yet not thy acres broad, 
 
 Thy vassals nor thy gold, 
 Me in such strong control 
 Had ever power to hold. 
 As thy charms manifold. 
 
 Thou art the daughter of an ear^. 
 
 Whose ancestor at Azincour 
 Fell, fighting by his monarch's sine, 
 When mine was but a boor. 
 Since then a host of lords 
 
 And dames of high degree 
 Gave lustre to thy line. 
 Till birth and dignity 
 Rose to their height in thee. 
 
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 2g'j 
 
 Yet, azure-blooded as thou art, 
 
 Whilst I am come of lowlier race, 
 I did not once thy lineage 
 Within thy beauty trace. 
 I scanned no pedigree 
 
 Thy loveliness to prize ; 
 I read no Domesday Book, 
 In love to make me wise ; 
 High rank fanned not my sighs. 
 
 But thou, whilst sitting in the shade 
 Of thine old famous family tree, 
 Wilt scarcely to thy mind recall 
 One, once so much to thee. 
 So high thy station now, 
 
 Thy vision's careless sweep 
 Falls not below to strike 
 That vastly lower deep, 
 Wherein I ever creep. 
 
 Thou wert one time all tenderness. 
 With passion glowing like a spark — 
 
 Sole ember in those ashes grey — 
 Which flashed, and all grew dark. 
 The coolness of thy pride 
 Forbade to rise to fire 
 
298 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 What should have been a flame, 
 
 And swelled and mounted higher, — 
 But / did not expire. 
 
 / lived — I live, if that be life 
 
 To drag these weary moments thus, 
 Doomed to a lack of loving, when 
 Of love most covetous. 
 I am that which I was. 
 
 But thou art different grown. 
 Chilled, petrified by rank. 
 Thyself a thing of stone. 
 Emotionless, alone. 
 
 They wonder at thy scorn of men. 
 
 The trembling vassals of thy nod ; 
 They see not as thy pinions sweep. 
 Where once thy footsteps trod. 
 And thou midst flattering peers 
 
 Mayst well, perhaps, forget 
 How dearer once I was 
 Than all the jewels set 
 Thick on thy coronet. 
 
 But /remember — 'tis to me 
 
 Fixed as a Median edict ; would 
 
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 299 
 
 The past might verily pass, and I 
 Forget thee as I should. 
 Still for thy love I yearn, 
 
 Although 'tis not for me ; 
 As well the pond expect 
 
 To mingle with the sea, 
 
 As I to mate with thee. 
 
 These are my final words to thee — 
 
 Years part me from the timid first — 
 They gushed when came this flood of teais, 
 Or else this heart had burst. 
 These uttered, none shall know. 
 
 Save Him who knows all things. 
 How, driven to my heart 
 On barbed arrow's wings, 
 This hopeless passion stings. 
 
300 
 
 ffALF-JIOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 '.r 
 
 Her Singing. 
 
 AR I stood and listened 
 
 To hear my darling sing — 
 With every note that heaved her throat, 
 
 Her eyes of violet glistened — 
 Pretty thing ! 
 
 The breeze, with will capricious. 
 
 Blew fastly through the trees — 
 It drove away the ditty gay, 
 
 Whose notes were so delicious — 
 Wicked breeze ! 
 
 To still the maiden's singing 
 
 It acts a fruitless part ; 
 I hear no words, but, like a bird's, 
 
 The notes she made are ringing 
 Through my heart 
 
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 30] 
 
 O'er the Seas. 
 
 AINT streams the shimmer of the moon 
 
 Through yonder lattice pane ; 
 Tne quiet of the night enfolds 
 
 My mourning soul again. 
 Deep shadows from the hills depend, 
 
 And fall from yonder trees : — 
 How turns my heart from these to thee, 
 
 Fair lady, o'er the seas ! 
 
 I o*wn no land, I hold no rank, 
 
 I labour for my bread ; 
 These hands of mine are hard with toil, 
 
 And heavy falls my tread. 
 Were I to speak my thoughts, thy frown 
 
 My bold desires would freeze ; 
 And yet I turn from toil to thee, 
 
 Fair lady, o'er the seas. 
 
 The troubadours of old could sing 
 How strove, and not in vain, 
 
 A serf, by deeds of high emprise, 
 A demoiselle to gain. 
 
;02 HALF- HOUR ^ WfTir THE POETS. 
 
 The age is one which does not know 
 
 Such idle tales as these, 
 Yet still I turn with hope to thee, 
 
 Fair lady, o'er the seas. 
 
 The moon is down, and all is dark ; 
 
 The clouds are o'er the skies ; 
 Sleep falls on other things around, 
 
 But shuns these wakeful eyes. 
 Through darkness ever so profound 
 
 The eye of memory sees ; 
 From gloom my spirit turns to thee. 
 
 Fair lady, o'er the seas. 
 
 Light let the breezes waft the barqiio 
 
 Wherein my darling sails ; 
 Smile over her the bluest skies, 
 
 Blow round her spicy gales. 
 Bring back my love to walk again 
 
 Beneath the oaken trees ; 
 Come back ! from other lands, come back. 
 
 Fair lady, o'er the seas ! 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 303 
 
 Janus Huesell Coraell 
 
 [Bjrn 1 81 9.] 
 
 Song. 
 
 IFT up the curtains of thine eyes 
 And let their light outshine ! 
 Let me adore the mysteries 
 
 Of those mild orbs of thine, 
 Which ever queenly calm do roll, 
 Attuned to an ordered soul ! 
 
 Open thy lips yet once again. 
 And, while my soul doth hush 
 
 With awe, pour forth that holy strair 
 Which seemeth me to gush, 
 
 A fount of music, running o'er 
 
 From thy deep spirit's inmost core ' 
 
 The melody that dwells in thee 
 
 Begets in me as well 
 A spiritual harmony, 
 
 A mild and blessed speil ; 
 Far, far above earth's atmosphere 
 I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear. 
 
304 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 X i\\. 35c, Sunior 
 
 [B..KN 1825.] 
 
 The Nameless Rivfr. 
 
 OW, azure as the crystal air, 
 Now, like unsullied snows, , 
 In yonder valley, shining there, 
 A nameless river flows. 
 
 Adown the rocks in bright cascades 
 
 It pours its flood of song ; 
 Through fragrant fields and silent shades 
 
 Its waters wind along. 
 
 Flowers blossom on the rock-crowned hills 
 Whence its fair currents glide, 
 
 And overhang the woodland rills 
 That swell its stately tide. 
 
 Serene its radiant waters flow 
 
 In valleys calm and deep. 
 Where pine and evergreen cedar g-ow, 
 
 And bending willows weep. 
 
A. M. IDE, JUNIOR 305 
 
 Beautiful flowers its banks adorn, 
 
 Its waves are lily-crowned, 
 And harvests of the emerald corn 
 
 Swell o'er the plains around. 
 
 Yet not for this, forevermore 
 
 I love its silvery tide ; 
 My steadfast, peerless Isidore 
 
 Dwells on the river-side ! 
 
 Upon its grassy banks at noon. 
 
 Like one in dreams astray, 
 I listen to the tremulous tune 
 
 The gliding waters play. 
 
 Still unto her my spirit leans. 
 
 When, by the river-side, 
 Mid fragrant flowers and evergreens 
 
 I walk at eventide. 
 
 I loiiier by its waves at night, 
 
 Through shadowy vales afar 
 With visions of ideal delight 
 
 Entranced as lovers are. 
 
 With tremulous stars the waters shine 
 
 Like old enchanted streams : — 
 Beneath her lattice, wreathed with vine, 
 
 They murmur whilst she dreams ! 
 
306 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Flow on, thou nameless river ! flow 
 
 In beauty to the sea ; 
 My heart is on thy waves of snow. 
 
 My love flows on with thee. 
 
 Thy silent waves to me no more 
 Like nameless waters glide, — 
 
 I name thee from my Isidore, 
 Who dwells upon thy side ! 
 
JAMES BAYARD TAYLOR. 307 
 
 3ame0 Saparb S^aylcr, 
 
 TBORN 1825. J 
 
 Bedouin Song. 
 
 ROiVl the Desert I come to thee 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire. 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love but thee. 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 My passion and my pain ; 
 
 I lie on the sands below. 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 
3o8 UALF-nOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 My steps are nightly driven, 
 By the fever in my breast. 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart. 
 
 And open thy chamber door. 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
JAMES BATARD TAYLOR, 
 
 309 
 
 Song. 
 
 violet loves a sunny bank, 
 The cowslip loves the lea ; 
 The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
 But I love — thee ! 
 
 The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 
 
 The stars they kiss the sea ; 
 The west winds kiss the clover bloom, 
 
 But I kiss— thee ! 
 
 The oriole weds his mottled mate ; 
 The lily's bride o' the bee ; 
 
 Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth- 
 Shall I wed thee ? 
 
HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 . n f Phantoms. 
 
 GAIN I sit within the mansion, 
 In the old, familiar seat ; 
 And shade and sunshine chase each other 
 O'er the carpet at my feet. 
 
 But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled 
 upwards 
 
 In the summers that are past. 
 And the willow trails Its branches lower 
 
 Than when I saw them last. 
 
 They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
 
 From out the haunted room ; 
 To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
 
 With silence and with gloom. 
 
 And many kind, remembered faces 
 
 Within the doorway come — 
 Voices, that wake the sweeter music 
 
 Of one that now is dumb. 
 
 They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
 The songs she loved to hear ; 
 
JAMES BAYARD TAYLOR. 3II 
 
 They braid the rose in summer garlands, 
 Whose flowers to her were dear. 
 
 And still, her footsteps in the passage. 
 
 Her blushes at the door, 
 Her timid words of maiden welcome, 
 
 Come back to me once more. 
 
 And all forgetful of my sorrow, 
 
 Unmindful of my pain, 
 1 think she has but newly left me. 
 
 And soon will come again. 
 
 She stays without, perchance, a moment. 
 
 To dress her dark-brown hair ; 
 I hear the rustle of her garments — 
 
 H';r light step on the stair ! 
 
 O, fluttering Heart! control thy tumult, 
 
 Lest eyes profane should see 
 My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 
 
 Her coming brings to me 1 
 
 She tarries long : but lo, a whisper 
 
 Beyond the open door. 
 And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 
 
 A shadow on the floor ! 
 
312 HALF- HOURS WITH TUB POETS. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me j 
 The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
 
 And my patient heart must still await her, 
 Nor chide her long delays. 
 
 But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, 
 
 As many a time before : 
 Her foot is ever at the threshold, 
 
 Yet never passes o'er. 
 
RICHARD HENEY STODDARD. 313 
 
 [BoPN 1825.] 
 
 A Serenade. 
 
 HE moon is muffled in a cloud, 
 That folds the lover's star, 
 But still beneath thy balcony 
 I touch my soft guitar. 
 
 U thou art waking. Lady dear, 
 
 The fairest in the land, 
 Unbar thy wreathed lattice now. 
 
 And wave thy snowy hand. 
 
 She hears me not ; her spirit lies 
 In trances mute and deep j — 
 
 But Music turns the golden key 
 Within the gate of Sleep ! 
 
 Then let her sleep, and if I fail 
 
 To set her spirit free, 
 My song shall mingle in her dream, 
 
 And she will dream of me ! 
 
314 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 What's my Love like? 
 ELL me, what's my love like? 
 
 r 
 
 'Z A lily of the May, 
 
 That does not shun the kissing sun, 
 Yet keeps its dew all day ? 
 Yes, and no ; 
 Fond is she, and coy is she, 
 
 But — whisper low — 
 She is more than this to me. 
 So, no lily shall she be. 
 
 But tell me, what 's my love like ? 
 
 A little, cooing dove. 
 Who feels your breast her safest nest, — 
 A thing of fear and love ? 
 Yes, and no ; 
 Timid she, and tender she ; 
 But — whisper low — 
 She is more than this to me, 
 So, no dove my love shall be. 
 
 O tell me, what's my love like? 
 
 Perhaps a pearl of girls, 
 For whose sweet face the king would place 
 
 His crown upon her curls? 
 
RICHARD HENRI: STODDARD. 
 
 Yes, and no ; 
 Worthy of a king is she ; 
 
 But — whisper low — 
 She is more, and is for me, 
 So, no queen my dear will be. 
 
 3^5 
 
 * ' I KNOW A Little Rose. " 
 
 KNOW a little rose, 
 
 And, O ! but I were blest, 
 Could I but be the drop of dew 
 
 That lies upon her breast ! 
 
 But I dare not look so high, 
 Nor die a death so sweet ; 
 
 It is enough for me to be 
 The dust about her feet ! 
 
i6 UALF-nOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 JJosepI) i3rcnnau. 
 
 [Born 1828. D.ed 1857.] 
 
 To MY Wife. 
 
 lY^ OME to me, dearest — I'm lonely without thee , 
 Day-time and night-time I'm thinking about 
 
 thee ; 
 Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold 
 7" thee — 
 
 Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. 
 Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten ; 
 Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten ; 
 Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly; 
 Come in thy iovingness, queenly and holy. 
 
 Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin. 
 Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing ; 
 And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure. 
 Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
 Oh, Spring of my spirit ! oh, May of my bosom ! 
 Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and blossom : 
 The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
 And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 
 
JOSEPH BRENNAN. 3^7 
 
 Figure that moves like a song through the even — 
 Features Ht up by a reflex of Heaven — 
 Eyes Hke the skies of poor Erin, our mother, 
 Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other ; 
 Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, 
 Opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple ; 
 Oh, thanks to the Saviour ; that even thy seeming 
 Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. 
 
 You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; 
 Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
 Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. 
 As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love. 
 I cannot weep, but your tears will be flowing ; 
 You cannot smile, but my cheeks will be glowing ; 
 I would not die without you at my side, love ; 
 You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 
 
 Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow. 
 Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow — 
 Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love. 
 With a song on your lips and a smile on your cheek, love. 
 Come, for my heart in your absence is weary ; 
 Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary ; 
 Come to the heart which is throbbing to press thee ; 
 Come to the arms that would fondlv caress thee. 
 
3i8 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 3ol)n ^0tcu €ooke 
 
 [B.RN 1S3O.] 
 
 The Bride of the Chevalier. 
 
 LUCKY man is the Chevalier, 
 The Chevalier Louis D'Or ; 
 He won my beautiful love from me ; 
 
 He was rich — I very poor : 
 So very poor that the prudent maid, 
 When we were weighed in the scales together, 
 Found the one side heavy as lead, 
 My own as light as a feather ! 
 
 What then were the loves of boy and girl 
 
 Who had played for years 'neath the oak-trees tall. 
 And plighted their troth a thousand times, 
 
 — When the Chevalier came to the hall ? 
 He came in a chariot gay and fine, 
 
 I, through the dust of the common way ; 
 *Twas a silly thought that a woman's heart 
 
 Could say the rich man nay. 
 
JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 319 
 
 He made his elegant bow, and smiled ; 
 
 He came again and the day was won : 
 When a month had passed he was there no more. 
 
 And the light from the hall was gone : 
 The light and life of the house and lawn 
 
 Had disappeared with the form so dear ; 
 My pride and joy, my hope, my all. 
 
 Was the bride of the Chevalier! 
 
 And now, good friend, do you ask again. 
 
 Why woman with me is a word of scorn r 
 I loved this girl with a doting love. 
 
 And she made my life forlorn ! 
 She sold her maiden body and soul 
 
 For silks and jewels, and plate and gold : 
 Faith, and truth, and honor, and heart 
 
 — Sold, sold, sold ! 
 
 The false and feeble heart gave way ; 
 
 She made me the man you see me now — 
 With the silver in my youthful hair 
 
 And the furrows here on my brow : 
 She taught me then, in my early youth. 
 
 That women were false, and weak, and mean : 
 If she had clung to her troth — who knows — 
 
 My life — what it might have been ? 
 
3 2 O If A L F- no UR S WITH THE POETS. 
 
 For Spring was then in the bud with me ; 
 
 My father left me a noble name — 
 With love to shine on the rugged path, 
 
 I looked to the heights of fame : 
 And now 1 ponder, and mope and dream 
 
 Through a weary life that I hate, my friend, 
 And but for fear of the coward's hiss 
 
 At a coward's act, would end ! 
 
 Do you think I envy the Chevalier 
 
 His beautiful bride with the sunny curls — 
 The woman I loved with a foolish love — 
 
 Adored as the pearl of pearls ? 
 The Chevalier is prince of the Town, 
 
 But I am king of the world of Thought — 
 He is welcome, for me, as the flowers in May, 
 
 To the bride whom his money bought ! 
 
 And she, with a soul that loved alone 
 
 The red gold's sheen, and the back low bent 
 To the gilded coach — is welcome too ; 
 
 She may reign to her heart's content ; 
 She loved me once, if she does not now. 
 
 When a freezing stare would greet my claim 
 To an old acquaintance, years ago, 
 
 With the splendid city dame ! 
 
JOHN ESTEN COOKE. $21 
 
 II. , 
 These words I said with a bitter heart, 
 
 And thought with scorn of the laughing queen, 
 As I walked, with a scowl, through the smiling woods, 
 
 And over the meadows green ; — 
 But when I met, at a ball last night, 
 
 The beautiful bride of the Chevalier, 
 You may laugh, but I swear, at sight of me. 
 
 Her eye was dim with a tear ! 
 
 Does she think — I said — in the dance's whirl, 
 
 As she sees me here, of the hours long gone — 
 The hours we spent in the dear old hall. 
 
 And under the oaks on the lawn ? 
 I turned away, for the dance was done, 
 
 I turned away with a bitter heart — 
 But a slender finger touched my arm — 
 
 We walked from the crowd apart. 
 
 Shall I write the words of the voice that shook, 
 
 As the blue eyes filled with a sudden tear ? 
 The words would scarcely bring a smile 
 
 To the lips of the Chevalier ! 
 " Alas ! for the days," were the murmured words, 
 
 " We passed in the hall, by the sunny stream. 
 The old, old days come back to me, 
 
 Like a happy, smiling dream ! 
 
 i~nTni-ii-Tnrvrrnn 
 
322 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 '*• And ycHi — you have never married, sir — 
 
 You do not love me — I see that well : 
 You pity me, or perhaps despise 
 
 The married ball-room belle ! 
 But oh ! if you knew why the blaze and din 
 
 Of balls is all that I live for now — 
 You would know that the pearls that loop mv hair 
 
 Droop over a burning brow ! 
 
 " I have pined, long years, for the present hour — 
 
 I have tried, with a trembling hand, to write ; 
 But the time has come ; we are face to face, 
 
 You shall know the truth to-night !" 
 And the truth, the terrible, awful truth, 
 
 I heard from the lips that were yet so dear : 
 She had loved me still, with her heart of hearts, 
 
 When the bride of the Chevalier. 
 
 A guardian's threat, and a feeble will, 
 
 Had made her yield to the awful shame — 
 She told me all with a writhing lip 
 
 And a cheek that burned like flame. 
 She told me all, as I shuddered there ; 
 
 She begged like a child for a word of grace — 
 From me who longed to draw her close 
 
 In a passionate, wild embrace ! 
 
JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 323 
 
 But the madness passed, and I sa'id no more 
 
 Than the simple words I write down here, — 
 '' I love you, my darling, and pardon all," 
 
 Then I bowed to the Chevalier ; 
 She took his arm with a smothered sigh 
 
 And a look so sad as they passed away, 
 That the blue eyes wet with tears will haunt 
 
 My heart to its dying day. 
 
 And so, I have told, good friend of mine, 
 
 The story the world has got by heart. 
 I do not mutter against my fate, 
 
 For each must play his part : 
 For me, I have worn the "inky cloak" 
 
 While you may have danced in ribbons gay ; 
 But the dress is naught so the heart is right, 
 
 And we watch, and praise, and pray ! 
 
32+ JIALF-nOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 (Cinuavb Uobci-t BulrDcv-Cnttcin 
 
 [Born 1831.] 
 
 ^ Paris it was, at the opera there, 
 
 And she looked hke a queen in a book that 
 night, 
 
 o^ With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 
 *t And the brooch on her breast so bright. 
 
 Of all the operas Verdi wrote. 
 
 The best to me is the Trovatore, 
 And Mario could charm with his tenor noie 
 
 The souls in Purgatory. 
 
 The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 
 
 And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, 
 As we heard him sing, while the gr.s burned low, 
 
 " Non ti scordar di me ?" 
 
 There, in our front-row box, we sat 
 Together, my bridc-bctrothed and I — 
 
EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON. 325 
 
 My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 
 And hers on the stage hard by. 
 
 Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, 
 As I had not been thinking of aught for years, 
 
 Till over my eyes there began to move 
 Something that felt like tears. 
 
 I thought of the dress that she wore last time, 
 
 When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together. 
 
 In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
 In the crimson evening weather. 
 
 I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
 
 And the letter that brought me back my ring ; 
 
 And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
 Such a very little thing. 
 
 And I think, in the lives of most women and men, 
 There's a moment when all would go smooth and 
 even. 
 
 If only the dead could find out when 
 To come back and be forgiven. 
 
326 liALF-nO Ur.S WITH THE rOETS. 
 
 Paul §. ^amit. 
 
 A Portrait. 
 
 HE laughing Hours before her feet 
 
 Are strewing vernal roses, 
 And the voices in her soul are svi^eet 
 
 As music's mellowed closes ; 
 All hopes and passions heavenly-born, 
 
 In her have met together. 
 And joy diffuses round her morn 
 
 A mist of golden weather. 
 
 As o'er her cheek of delicate dyes 
 
 The blooms of childhood hover. 
 So do the tranced and sinless eyes 
 
 All childhood's heart discover — 
 Full of a dreamy happiness 
 
 With rainbow fancies laden, 
 Whose arch of promise glows to bless 
 
 Her spirit's beauteous Adenn. 
 
PAUL R. HAYNE. 327 
 
 She is a being born to raise 
 
 Those undefiled emotions, 
 That link us with our sunniest days 
 
 And most sincere devotions ; 
 In her, we see renewed, and bright, 
 
 That phase of earthly story. 
 Which glimmers in the morning light 
 
 Of God's exceeding glory. 
 
 Why in a life of mortal cares 
 
 Appear these heavenly faces ? 
 Why on the verge of darkened years 
 
 These amaranthine graces ? 
 'Tis but to cheer the soul that faints 
 
 With pure and blest evangels. 
 To prove if heaven is rich with saints. 
 
 That earth may have her angels. 
 
 Enough ! 'tis not for me to pray 
 
 That on her life's sweet river, 
 The calmness of a virgin day 
 
 May rest, and rest forever ; 
 I know a guardian genius stands 
 
 Beside those waters lowly, 
 And labours with immortal hands 
 
 To keep them pure and holy. 
 
328 
 
 HALF-nOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 €hmiuxh €. Stcbman 
 
 The Test. 
 
 EVEN women loved him. When the wrinkled 
 
 . pall 
 Enwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire, 
 (Death, pale triumphant rival, conquering all, ) 
 
 They came, for that last look, around his pyre. 
 One strew'd white roses, on whose leaves were hung 
 Her tears, like dew ; and in discreet attire 
 
 Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next among 
 71ie group, a fair-hair'd virgin moved serenely, 
 Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung, 
 
 Reach'd the calm dust, and there, composed and queenly 
 
 Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand : 
 
 " That's with the past,'' she said, "nor may I meanly 
 
 Give way to tears !" and pass'd into the land. 
 The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning, 
 With whitcn'd lips- — and feet that stood in sand, 
 
EDMUND C. S TED MAN. 329 
 
 So weak they seem'd — and all her passion owning. 
 The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came, 
 Half for such homage to the dead atoning 
 
 By smiles on one who fann'd a later flame 
 In her slight soul, her fickle steps attended. 
 The fifth and sixth were sisters ; at the same 
 
 Wild moment, both above the image bended. 
 And with immortal hatred each on each 
 Glared, and therewith her exultation blended. 
 
 To know the dead had 'scaped the other's reach ! 
 Meanwhile, thro' all the words of anguish spoken, 
 One lowly form had given no sound of speech. 
 
 Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token ; 
 
 But when they came to bear him to his rest. 
 
 They found her beauty paled — her heart was broken : 
 
 And in the Silent Land his shade confest 
 That she, of all the seven, loved him best. 
 
330 
 
 HA L F- HOUR S WITH THE FOE TS. 
 
 George ^rnoli 
 
 HoKN iS'54. DiF.D tS6<;.] 
 
 Serenade. 
 
 HEAR the dry-voiced insects call, 
 ^ And " Come !" they say, " the night grows 
 brief !^' 
 I hear the dew-drops pattering fall 
 From leaf to leaf— from leaf to leaf. 
 
 Your night-lamp glimmers fitfully ; 
 
 I watch below; you sleep above ; 
 Yet on your blind I seem to see 
 • Your shadow, Love — your shadow, Love ! 
 
 The roses in the night-wind sway. 
 Their petals glistening with the dew ; 
 
 As they are longing for the day, 
 1 long for you — I long for you ! 
 
 But you are in the land of dreams ; 
 
 Your eyes are closed ; your gentle breath 
 So faintly comes, your slumber seems 
 
 Almost like Death — almost like Death ! 
 
GEORGE ARNOLD 
 
 SWep on; but may my music twine 
 Your sleep with strands of melody. 
 
 And lead you, gentle Love of mine, 
 To dream of me — to dream of me ! 
 
 33 
 
 Jam Satis. 
 
 OT much for sordid golden dross I care, 
 I wish not much of worldly wealth to hold -, 
 
 Seek her I love — look on her shining hair — 
 Is It not wealth of gold ? 
 
 I am not envious of the diamond's flash, 
 
 Its wondrous brilliance dazzleth not my sight, 
 
 For .her sweet eyne, beneath their fringed lash 
 Make dim the diamond's light. 
 
 I care no more for music's dreamy swell. 
 Nor flute nor viol greatly pleaseth me ; 
 
 Her speech is softer than a silver be I, 
 Her laugh is melody. 
 
 I leav,^ the wine which once I loved to sip ; 
 
 Wliy should I drain the crimson .eakerdry. 
 When there is subtile nectar on her lip 
 
 That I may drink, and die ? 
 
S3 2 HALF- HOURS WITH THE PCETS. 
 
 Natl)anicl (B. Sl)cpl)crlr. 
 
 ' [Born 1836.] 
 
 A Summer Reminiscence. 
 
 HEAR rio more the locust beat 
 
 His shrill loud drum through all the dav \ 
 1 niiss the mingled odours sweet 
 Of clover and of scented hay. 
 
 No more I hear the smothered song 
 I^rom hedges guarded thick with thorn : 
 
 The days grow brief, the nights are long, 
 The light comes like a ghost at morn. 
 
 I sit before my fire alone, 
 
 And idly dream of all the past : 
 
 I think of moments that are flown — 
 Alas ! they were too sweet to last. 
 
 The warmth that filled the languid noonj? — 
 
 The purple waves of trembling haze — 
 The liquid light of silver moons — 
 The summer sunset's golden biaze. 
 
NATHANIEL G. SHEPHERD. ZZZ 
 
 I feel the soft winds fan my cheek, 
 I hear them murmur throug-h the rye ; 
 
 I see the milky clouds that seek 
 Some nameless harbour in the sky. 
 
 The stile beside the spreading pine. 
 The pleasant fields beyond the grove. 
 
 The lawn where, underneath the vine. 
 She sang the song I used to love. 
 
 The path along the windy beach, 
 
 That leaves the shadowy linden-tree, 
 
 And goes by sandy capes that reach 
 Their shining arms to clasp the sea. 
 
 I view them all — I tread once more 
 
 In meadow grasses cool and deep -, 
 I walk beside the sounding shore, 
 
 I climb again the wooded steep. 
 
 Oh, happy hours of pure delight ! 
 
 Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss ! 
 Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright — 
 
 Each morn and evening seemed to kiss ! 
 
 And that whereon I saw her first. 
 
 While anghng in the noisy brook, 
 When through the tangled wood she burst ; 
 
 In one small hand a glove and book. 
 
'334 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS, 
 
 As with the other, dimpled, white, 
 She held the slender boughs aside ; 
 
 While through the leaves the yellow light 
 Like golden water seemed to glide, 
 
 And broke in ripples on her neck. 
 And played like fire around her hat, 
 
 And slid adown her form to fleck 
 
 The moss-grown rock on which I sat. 
 
 She standing rapt in sweet surprise, 
 And seeming doubtful if to turn ; 
 
 Her novel, as I raised my eyes, 
 
 Dropped down amid the tall green fern. 
 
 This day and that — the one so bright. 
 The other like a thing forlorn ; 
 
 To-morrow, and the early light 
 
 Will shine upon her marriage morn. 
 
 For when the mellow autumn flushed 
 •The thickets where the chestnut fell, 
 
 And in the vales the maple blushed. 
 Another came who knew her well. 
 
 Who sat with her below the pine. 
 
 And with her through the meadow moved. 
 
 And underneath the purpling vine 
 She sang to him the song I loved. 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ZZS 
 
 [Born 1836.] 
 
 *^iV]A.DAM, AS YOU PASS US BY." 
 
 ADAM5 as you pass us by. 
 
 Dreaming of your loves and wine, 
 Do not brush your rich brocade 
 
 Against this little maid of mine, 
 Madam, as you pass us by. 
 
 When in youth my blood was warm ; 
 
 Wine was royal, life complete ; 
 So I drained the flask of wine. 
 
 So I sat at women's feet, 
 When in yoath my blood was warm. 
 
 Time has taught me pleasant truths : 
 Lilies grow where thistles grew ; 
 
 Ah, you loved me not. This maid 
 Loves me. There's an end of you ! 
 
 Time has taught me pleasant truths. 
 
33^ HALF-nOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 I will speak ng bitter words, 
 
 Too much passion made me blind ; 
 
 You were subtle. Let it go ! 
 For the sake of womankind 
 
 1 will speak no bitter words. 
 
 But, Madam, as you pass us bv, 
 Dreaming of your loves and wine. 
 
 Do not brush your rich brocade 
 Against this little maid of mme. 
 
 Madam, as you pass us by. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous we 
 
 Afar I stood and listened. 
 
 Again I sit within the mansion, 
 
 Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit, . 
 
 Ah ! how sweet it is to love. 
 
 Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how. 
 
 Airs ! that wander and murmur around 
 
 Airy, fairy Lilian ! ... 
 
 A lake and a fairy boat. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 
 A lucky man is the Chevalier, . 
 
 Among thy fancies, tell me this, . 
 
 As it fell upon a day, .... 
 
 Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea, 
 
 As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal, 
 
 A sword, whose blade has ne'er been wet 
 
 At Paris it was, at the Opera there, 
 
 Awake, awake, my Lyre ! 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid. 
 
 Being your slave, what should I do but tend, 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 
 
 Bending between me and the taper. 
 
 Bid me to live, and I will live. 
 
 Blest ornament! how happy is thy snare, . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 155 
 12 
 300 
 310 
 116 
 108 
 228 
 202 
 273 
 225 
 170 
 318 
 72 
 
 43 
 272 
 123 
 164 
 205 
 324 
 100 
 165 
 
 41 
 184 
 285 
 
 74 
 126 
 
138 
 
 HALF- 110 UBS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Brij^ht star ! would I were steadfast as tho^l art, 
 But are ye sure the news is true? 
 By Heaven, TU tell her boldly that 'tis she, 
 By the side of the broad blue sea, 
 
 Cease, anxious world, your fruitless pain, 
 
 Come in the evening, or come in the morning, . 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. 
 
 Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, 
 
 Couldst thou look as dear as when, 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played, . 
 
 Day, in melting purple dying. 
 Dearest ! do not thou delay me, 
 Diaphenia, like the daffadoundllly. 
 Dost thou idly ask to hear, . , 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes. 
 Drink ye to her that each loves best, 
 
 Faint streams the shimmer of the moon, 
 
 Fair, sweet,, and young, receive a prize. 
 
 Fair Sylvia, cease to blame my youth, 
 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer, . 
 
 Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove. 
 
 Forget not yet the tried Intent, 
 
 From' the Desert I come to thee, 
 
 From these high hills, as when a spring doth fall. 
 
 Gin llvin' worth could win my heart, 
 Give me more love or more disdain. 
 Give place, ye lovers, here before. 
 Go, happy Rose, and Interwove, 
 Go, lovely Rose, .... 
 
 Had I a heart for falsehood framed. 
 
 Ha! ha! you think you've killed my faniCj 
 
 Here's a health to thee, Mary, 
 
 PAGR 
 209 
 
 ns 
 102 
 
 283 
 
 II I 
 281 
 
 20 
 183 
 316 
 186 
 
 25 
 
 197 
 54 
 34 
 
 200 
 
 53 
 181 
 
 301 
 109 
 120 
 192 
 124 
 
 1 1 
 307 
 
 13 
 
 145 
 
 55 
 
 15 
 
 . 73 
 
 83 
 
 150 
 
 lOI 
 
 218 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 Honest lover, whosoever, . . , 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes, . 
 How sweet thy modest light to view, 
 
 I arise from dreams of Thee, 
 
 I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair. 
 
 If all the world and love were young, 
 
 If doughty deeds my lady please, . 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden. 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange, 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up. 
 
 If thou must love me, let it be for naught. 
 
 If 'tis love to wish you near. 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond, 
 
 I grieve, and dare not show my discontent, 
 
 I hear no more the locust beat, 
 
 I hear the dry-voiced insects call, 
 
 I know a little rose, 
 
 I know not if the sunshine waste, 
 
 I loved an ideal — I sought it in tliee, 
 
 I loved thee long and dearly, 
 
 I loved thee once, I'll love no more, 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 
 Into my heart a silent look, . 
 
 I saw thee once — once only — years ago 
 
 I saw thee weep — the big, bright tear, 
 
 Is there but a single theme, 
 
 I think of thee when morning springs, 
 
 I thought of thee, I thought of thee, 
 
 It is the miller's daughter, 
 
 It was not in the winter, 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 I will love her no more — 'tis a waste of the h 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies, 
 
 I would not care to see thee — thou, 
 
 339 
 
 PAGi? 
 
 56 
 
 91 
 
 188 
 
 179 
 
 210 
 
 48 
 
 21 
 
 137 
 
 21 I 
 
 271 
 
 231 
 
 270 
 
 140 
 
 19 
 
 330 
 315 
 244 
 280 
 287 
 
 47 
 26 
 238 
 277 
 194 
 289 
 
 235 
 246 
 275 
 227 
 220 
 241 
 S4 
 29s 
 
340 
 
 HALF- HOURS WTTIl THE POETS 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 Lady, wouldst thou heiress be, 
 
 Let nie not to the marriage of true minds, 
 
 Lift up the curtains of tiiine eves, 
 
 Like the violet which, alone, 
 
 Listen from the forest boughs, . 
 
 Love in my bosom, like a bee. 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes, . 
 
 Love is the blossom where there blows, , 
 
 Love knoweth every form of air. 
 
 Love me, sweet, with all thou art, . 
 
 Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay. 
 
 Madam, as you pass us by, 
 
 Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
 
 Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve, 
 
 Merry Margaret, ..... 
 
 My dear and only love, I pray. 
 
 My dear, good night ! the moon is down, . 
 
 My love and I for kisses played, 
 
 My love is a lady of gentle line, 
 
 My mother bids me bind my hair. 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his, 
 
 Not much for sordid golden dross I care, 
 
 Now, azure as the crystal air. 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, 
 
 Of all the torments, all the cares. 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, . 
 
 Oh, fair and stately maid, whose eyes, 
 
 Oh, fairest of the rural maids ! ... 
 
 Oh, forbear to bid me slight her, 
 
 Oil, waly, waly up the bank, 
 
 Oh, yes — so well, so tenderly, 
 
 O, if thou knevv-st how thou thyself dost harm 
 
 PAGR 
 
 226 
 
 40 
 
 80 
 
 219 
 
 28 
 
 32 
 
 63 
 24.2 
 266 
 260 
 
 335 
 
 253 
 
 174 
 
 9 
 
 89 
 
 294 
 
 79 
 217 
 139 
 
 24 
 
 331 
 
 304 
 67 
 
 121 
 
 158 
 233 
 199 
 123 
 
 86 
 1S7 
 
 57 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 On a day, alack tlie day ! . 
 
 O Nancy ! wilt thou go with me, . 
 
 One happy year has fled. Sail, .... 
 
 One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under, 
 
 O, never say that I was false of heart. 
 
 One word is too often profaned, ... 
 
 O sight too dearly bought, .... 
 
 O ! sing unto my roundelay, . , 
 
 O take me to your arms, love, .... 
 
 Pack clouds awaj*^, and welcome day, , 
 Phoebus, arise !....... 
 
 Pure as a passion felt for stars. 
 
 See with what simplicity, . . . , . 
 
 Send home my long-strayed eyes to me, 
 
 Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pall 
 
 Set me where as the sun doth parch the green, 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love, .... 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair, .... 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 
 
 She is not fair to outward view. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight. 
 
 Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part. 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile, . 
 
 Stars of the summer night ! . . . . 
 
 Strange ! that one lightly whispered tone. 
 
 Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, 
 
 Sweet is the woodbine's fragrant twine,. . 
 
 Take heed of loving me, . , . . , 
 
 Take, oh, take those lips away, 
 Tell her I love her — love her for those eyes, 
 Tell me no more how fair she is, . . . 
 
 Fell me not of a face that's fair, , . 
 
 341 
 
 PAGE 
 
 39 
 
 13-? 
 
 •io3 
 38 
 42 
 
 ^13 
 60 
 
 168 
 
 76 
 
 5« 
 291 
 
 106 
 
 328 
 
 69 
 
 65 
 163 
 216 
 
 195 
 162 
 
 36 
 161 
 
 256 
 262 
 
 75 
 175 
 
 51 
 
 37 
 240 
 
 71 
 104 
 
342 
 
 nALF-IIOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, . 
 
 Tell me, what's my love like ? 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 
 
 The dew no more siiall weep. 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river. 
 
 The kiss, with so much strife, 
 
 The lark now leaves his watery nest. 
 
 The laughing Hours before her feet. 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
 
 The moon is muffled in a cloud. 
 
 The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill, 
 
 There be none of beauty's daughters, 
 
 There is a garden in her face. 
 
 The rising moon has hid the stars 
 
 There's kames o' hinnie 'tween my hive's lips, 
 
 The shape alone let others prize. 
 
 The smiling morn, the breathing spring 
 
 The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben-Lomond 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing. 
 
 The violet loves a sunny bank, . 
 
 Though young no more, we still would dream. 
 
 Though when I loved thee thou wert fair, . 
 
 Thou, who didst never see the light. 
 
 Thy braes were bonny. Yarrow stream, 
 
 'Tis not a cheek that boasts the ruby's glow, , 
 
 To all you ladies now at land, , 
 
 To fix her, 'twere a task as vain, 
 
 Tune on, my pipe, the praises of my love, 
 
 Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, do I sing, . 
 Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 
 Whar hae ye been a' day, .... 
 Whence comes my love ? O lu-art, disclose, 
 When Delia on the plain appears. 
 
 PAGR 
 
 99 
 
 82 
 
 94 
 212 
 
 60 
 
 81 
 326 
 122 
 313 
 257 
 196 
 
 61 
 251 
 189 
 
 131 
 
 125 
 177 
 185 
 309 
 263 
 118 
 88 
 
 147 
 160 
 112 
 129 
 30 
 
 33 
 
 ' 68 
 35 
 
 »43 
 18 
 
 127 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 When I upon thy bosom lean, , 
 
 When other friends are round thee, 
 
 When stars are in the quiet skies, . 
 
 When the lamp is shattered. 
 
 When we two parted, ..... 
 
 Where Hudson's wave, o'er silvery sands, . 
 Where shall the lover rest, .... 
 
 While on these lovely looks I gaze. 
 
 Whoe'er she be, ...... 
 
 Who has robbed the ocean cave. 
 
 Year after year unto her feet, 
 
 Ye banks and braes, and streams around. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing, 
 
 Yes, call me by my pet name! Let me hear, 
 
 ** Yes!" I answered you last night. 
 
 Ye tradeful merchants ! that with weary toil. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night. 
 
 Your picture smiles as first it smiled. 
 
 343 
 
 PAGB 
 141 
 230 
 
 214 
 193 
 229 
 166 
 119 
 
 95 
 
 274 
 156 
 159 
 
 77 
 
 269 
 
 26<S 
 
 23 
 
 45 
 
 234 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS, 
 
 AkiiNSide, Mark ...... Page 131 
 
 Dr. Akenside was born at Newcastle-on-Tyne, England, on November 
 9, 1721, and was educated at the University of Edinburgh. He took 
 his degree of Doctor of Medicine at the University of Leyden, May 
 16, 1744. He was a Fellow of the Royal Society j Cambridge con- 
 ferred on him the degree of M. D. ; he became Physician to the 
 St. Thomas's Hospital, and afterwards to the Queen ; and was a 
 Fellow of the College of Physicians. He wrote numerous medical 
 essays, but is chiefly known as the author of the *' Pleasures of the 
 Imagination." He died June 23, 1770. 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey . . . . .335 
 
 Thomas Bailey ALoaiCH was born at Portsmouth, in New Hampshire, 
 in 1836, and was educated for the mercantile profession. This he 
 has abandoned for general literature. He has published several books 
 of Tales and Poems, and is a contributor to the various magazines 
 and journals. 
 
 Allison, Richard . . . . . . 61 
 
 Of Richard Allison we. can learn nothing. The poem quoted is 
 taken from "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke," 1606. 
 
 Anonymous ....... 84 
 
 There are two pcems of unknown authorship in this collection. Of one 
 of these, "Helen of Kirkconnell," there are several versions. We have 
 selected that which we think to be the most correct. " Waly, waly !" 
 is more modern than the other poem j and it has been asserted to have 
 for its heroine Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of the second Marquis of 
 Douglass. The allusions in the second and fifth stanzas are not, how- 
 ever, consistent with the story of the Marchioness. Our version is from 
 the "Tea-uble Miscellany," 17x4. 
 
 Arnold, George ....... 330 
 
 Geokge Arnold was born in the city of New York, on June 04, 1834, 
 and received his education at home, under the direction of his 
 parents, who were persons of refined and cultivated tastes. His boy- 
 hood was passed in Southern Illinois, but he returned to New York 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 345 
 
 before arriving at manhood, and there engaged in literature, about 
 1856. He has been connected editorially with the press, and has 
 contributed largely to the journals and magazines, his productions 
 being principally poems, tales, and sketches of humorous or ideal 
 chaia-ter. He uied in 1865. 
 
 Atterbury, Francis ..... Page 120 
 
 Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, was born at Newport- Pagnel, 
 in Buckinghamshire, England, on March 6, 1662, and was educated 
 at Christ Church College, Oxford, where he took the degree of Mas- 
 ter of Arts, in 1687. He was appointed one of the chaplains-in- 
 ordinary to William and Mary. He early engaged in leligious con- 
 troversial literature, and one of his pamphlets on the High-Church 
 side provoked the ire of Burnet. The lower House of Con\ocation, 
 in whose behalf he wrote, sent a commendatory letter to Oxford on 
 his behalf, which obtained for him the degree of Doctor of Divinity. 
 In 1700 he was made Archdeacon of Totness, and was appointed by 
 gueen Anne, in 1702, one of her chaplains j in 1704, Dean of Car- 
 lisle; in 1707, Canon Residentiary of Exeter 5 and in 1709, Preacher 
 of the Rolls Chapel. In 1710, he was unanimously chosen Prolocu- 
 tor of the lower House of Convocation. In 1712 he was made Dean 
 of Christ Church; and in 171 3, Bishop of Rochester, and Dean of 
 Westminster. In August, 1722, he was arrested and committed to 
 the Tower, on suspicion of being concerned in a plot in favor of the 
 Pretender. A bill of pains and penalties was passed in his case, May 
 a7th, 1722—3; and on the i8th of June, he embarked on board the 
 Aldborough man-of-war, and was landed at Calais the Friday follow- 
 ing. He resided at Paris until his death, which occurred February 
 17, 1731- 
 
 Aytoun, Sir Robert ...... 47 
 
 Robert Aytoun was born at Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1 590. He was 
 knighted, and made Gentleman of the Bedchamber by Charles the 
 First, and afterwards private secretary to the ^ueen. He died in 
 1638. 
 
 Barnefield, Richard ...... 43 
 
 Of Richard Barnefield little is known, except that his writings ap- 
 peared between 1594 and 1598. The poem we have quoted from 
 him was for a long time, and is frequently still, erroneoudy attrib- 
 uted to Shakspeare. 
 
 Blamire, Susanna . . . . . 145 
 
 Susanna Blamire was a Scotchwoman, born in 1747, who wrote sev- 
 eral very clever dialect poems. She died in 17^4. 
 
34 6 HALF- nouns WITH THE POETS. 
 Crlnnan, Joseph Page 3t6 
 
 Joseph Brennan was born in the county Donegal, Ireland, on Novcrr 
 ber 17, 1828, but when a child was taken to the city of Cork, where 
 he received a rudimentary education at a" private school, and was for 
 a short period at Maynooth College. In 1848 he left Cork for Dub- 
 lin. His writings there in the Iriih Felon coming to the notice of 
 government, he was arrested and imprisoned. On his release he 
 edited for a time the Irishman. Engaged in a revolutionary attempt 
 in the county Waterford, which failed, he escaped to New York in 
 1849, where he became connected with the press. In 1S51 he re- 
 moved to New Orleans, where he was a writer for the Delta for five 
 years. An attack of yellow fever in 1853 injured his eyes, and he 
 became nearly blind. He came North, and contributed to various 
 journals and magazines. In 1854 he returned to New Orleans. In 
 1857 he left the Delta, and started a daily paper, but died on the 
 27th of May of the same year, of consumption. 
 
 Breton, Nicholas ...... 26 
 
 Nicholas Breton was born in 1555, but in what part of England is 
 unknown He wrote tales and poems, one volume of these being 
 under the title of " The Works of a Young Wit.'''' He died in 
 1624. 
 
 Brome, Alexander . . . . . .104 
 
 Alexander Brome was born in London in 1620, and was an attorney 
 of some repute for his satirical powers. He wrote several plays, and 
 a translation of Horace. He died in 1666. 
 
 Brooks, Maria . . . . . . .197 
 
 Maria Brooks, whose maiden name was Cowen, was born at Medford, 
 in Massachusetts, in 1795. She was married at an early age to Mr. 
 Brooks, a Boston merchant, who left her a widow, at the age of 
 twenty-eight. She then went to reside with a relative in the island 
 of Cuba, where she wrote her poem of " Zophiel," the first canto of 
 which was published in Boston, in 1825. This poem, which is now 
 out of print and almost forgotten, excited at the time no small degree 
 of sensation. Southey, in the Doctor, in speaking of its author, 
 styles her "the most impassioned and most imaginative of all poet- 
 esses." She died at Malanzas, November 11. 1845. 
 
 Browne, William ..... 68 
 
 William Browne was born at Tavistock, in Devonshire, in 1590; 
 educated at Exeter College, Oxford; and then entered for the stud) 
 of law at the Inner Temple. In November, 1624, he was made 
 Master of Arts bv Oxford. He is supposed to have died at Otter, in 
 Devonshire, during the winter of i64<;. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 347 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth B. . . . Page 266' 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Barrett was born in London, in 1809, At the 
 very early age of ten years, she contributed to the periodicals of the 
 day. In 1826 she published her first volume, •' An Essay on Mind, 
 and other Poems," being then only in her seventeenth year. In 1644 
 she wrote "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" in the incredible space of 
 twelve hours. In 1846 she married Robert Browning (the poet), and 
 accompanied him to Italy, where they resided until her death, which 
 occurred unexpectedly on the 29th of June, 1861. Mrs. Browning 
 was a very highly gifted writer. Ar. eminent author has called her 
 the " Female Shakespeare of England." Female poets hold a more 
 distinguished place in English literature at fhis day than in any 
 previous period in history. Among these Mrs. Browning has no supe- 
 rior, and few if any equals. 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen , . . . .199 
 
 William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, in Massachusetts, 
 on November 3d, 1794. His earliest productions were translations 
 from the Latin poets, published in the newspaper at Northampton 
 when he was ten years of age 5 and *' The Embargo,'" a political satire 
 directed at Jefferson, which appeared at Boston in 1808. He entered 
 Williams College at sixteen years of age, but only remained two 
 years, leaving in order to enter on the profession of the law, having 
 been called to the bar in 18 15. His poem of ** Thanatopsis" ap- 
 peared in 18 16, but was said to have been written three years before. 
 He abandoned the law for literature, and went to New York, where 
 he has since resided. He took editorial charge of the E-vening Post 
 in 1826, and has maintained his position in that paper up to the 
 present time. 
 
 Bllwer-Lytton, Sir Edward Lytton . . . 237 
 
 Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, the well-known novelist, was 
 born in Norfolk, England, in 1805, and received his education at 
 Cambridge. He has been long a member of Parliament, and is promi- 
 nent in the politics of Great Britain. He has published, in poetry, 
 " The New Timon," a not very successful satire j one or two volumes 
 of" miscellaneous poems, and several plays, most of which hold pos- 
 session of the stage. He died in 1873. 
 
 Bulwer-Lytton, Edward Robert . . . ,324 
 
 Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton, the son of the novelist, Bulwer- 
 Lytton, was born in 1831. He is in training as a diplomatist and 
 statesman, and usually writes under the name of " Owen Meredith." 
 
 Burns, Robert , . . . . . .154 
 
 Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, on January 25. 1759. 
 From the obscurest station he rose to be the poet of his native land, 
 
348 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 and to have a hold on the affections of his people the most enduring. 
 During his life, however, his abilities brought him no more than a 
 bare competence. He died on July 22, 1796. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon, Baron . . . Page 192 
 
 Lord Bvron was born in London, on January 22, 1788, and educated 
 at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1807 he published his juvenile 
 poems, under the title of " Hours of Idleness." A sharp and caustic, 
 but not altogether unjust notice of these, in the Edinburgh Rc-viciv, 
 excited the anger of the author, and the consequence was *' English 
 Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which appeared in 1809. He trav- 
 elled over Europe, and on his return published the first part of" Childe 
 Harold's Pilgrimage," which at once made him famous. After the 
 publication of various and numerous poems, and passing a troubled 
 and stormy life, he died on April 19, 1824, at Missolonghi, Greece, 
 whither he had gone to assist the Greeks in their struggle for inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas . . . . . ,181 
 
 Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, Scotland, on July 27, 1777, 
 and was educated at the University of Glasgow, of which he was after- 
 wards thrice annually elected Lord Rector. During his life he was 
 editor of Colburn's Monthly MagazinCy and also of the Alctropolitan 
 Magazine. He was also the originator of the University of London, 
 and the author of various prose works, more or less popular. He died 
 on the 8th of June, 1844. His chiefest poem, "The Pleasures of 
 Hope," was in its time overrated. It is impossible to overrate some 
 of his lyrics. They are, and will probably continue to be, master- 
 pieces of their kind. 
 
 Carew, Thomas . . . . . . . 55 
 
 Thomas Carew was born — the year is not certain — in Gloucestershire, 
 and educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. He was made 
 Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and Server in Ordinary to King 
 Charles the First, and died about 1639. 
 
 Cartwright, William . . . . . . 83 
 
 William Cartwright was born at Cirencester, in England, in 1611. 
 He was ordained, and received, in 1642, an appointment in the 
 church of Salisbury. In 1643 he was Junljr Proctor, and Reader 
 in Metaphysics, at Oxford. He died that year, of malignant fever. 
 An edition of his " Comedies, tragi-Comedies, and other Poems,' 
 was published in 1647, and again in 1651. 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas . . . . . .151 
 
 Thomas Chatterton was born at Bristol, England, November 20, 
 175a, and had an imperfect education at Colston's Charity School. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 349 
 
 He commenced to write both poetry and prose when a little over 
 eleven years of age. He was bound apprentice to an attorney, July 
 1st, 1767. In 1768, on the occasion of finishing the new bridge at 
 Bristol, there appeared, in Felix Farley's Bristol Journal^ an account 
 of the ceremonies on opening the old bridge, purporting to be from 
 an ancient MS. This was traced to Chatterton. He pretended that 
 this and other manuscripts were found in Mr. Canynge's coffer, an 
 old chest kept over the north porcli of Redcliffe church. From 
 time to time he produced a series of poems, purporting to come from 
 this source, all of which were forgeries. In 1770 he left the service 
 of Lambert, the attorney, and went to London. After struggling 
 there in various ways, he committed suicide, August 24, 1770. 
 
 Clapp, Kenry (the younger) .... Page 283 
 Henry Clapp, Jr., was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, in 1814. 
 With the particulars of his life we i»re not acquainted. He has 
 been before the public, as author and lecturer, for many years; and, 
 connected at times with most of the leading journals, and a constant 
 contributor to the abler magazines, he has left a deep mark upon the 
 literature of the country. He is at present the dramatic critic of a 
 New York weekly of large circulation and strong influence. 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley . . . , . .216 
 
 Hartley Coleridge, the eldest son of the famous poet, was born at 
 Clevedon, near Bristol, on September 19, 1796, and was educated at 
 Merton. College, Cambridge. He afterwards became a Fellow of 
 Oriel College. The Fellowship he forfeited in a year by intemper- 
 ance. He went to London, where he became a popular contributor 
 to the various journals and magazines. He died January 6, 1849. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor . . . . .170 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, in Devon- 
 shire, England,, October 21, 1772, and educated at Christ's Hospital, 
 and at Jesus College, Cambridge. He engaged in literature, travelled 
 for a while in Europe, wrote for the daily press, and published a 
 number of works on various subjects. He was one of the ten Royal 
 Associates selected at the incorporation of the Royal Society of Liter- 
 ature in 1825. He died July 25, 1834. 
 
 Constable, Henry . , . . . . 34 
 
 Of Henry Constabi e little is known, except that he was contemporary 
 with Nicholas Breton. The date of his birth and death cannot be cer- 
 tainly ascertained. 
 
 Cooke, John Esten . . , . , .318 
 
 John Esten Cooke, the brother of the author of " Florence Vane," w;is 
 born in Winchester, Frederic county, in Virginia, November 3, 1830. 
 
350 HALF-UOURS WITU TUB POETS. 
 
 He was admitted to the bar, and divided his time between law and liter- 
 ature. He is the author of numerous successrul novels — the first of 
 which, " Leather Stocking and Silk," appeared in 1S53, followed by 
 " The Virginian Comedians" in the following year ; ** The Youth of 
 Jetferson," " Ellie, or the Human Comedy," " Greenway Court," and 
 " Henry St. John, Gentleman, of the Flower of Hundreds." 
 
 Cooke, Philip Pendleton .... Page 287 
 
 Phjlip Pendleton Cooke was born at the Stone House, Martinsburg, in 
 Virginia, 0::tober 26th, 18 16, and received his education at Princeton 
 College, New Jersey. He returned to Virginia to live the life of a 
 country gentleman, dabbling in literature as an amusement alone. He 
 wrote both tales and poems, all displaying extraordinary ability ; and in 
 1847 published his " Froissart Ballads." He died in January, 1850. 
 
 Cowley, Abraham . . . . . .100 
 
 Abraham Cowley was born in London in 161 8, and educated at West- 
 minster School, and at Cambridge and Oxford. He was appointed 
 Secretary to the Earl of St. Albans, and went v/ith him to the Conti- 
 nent, returning thence in 1656. In 1657 he received the degree of 
 Doctor of Medicine at Oxford. He returned to France on the death 
 of Cromwell, and remained there until the Restoration. He died at 
 the Porch House, Chertsey, in Surrey, in 1 667. 
 
 Crashaw, Richard ... ... 94 
 
 Richard Crashaw was educated at Cambridge, where he became a Fe'.Iow, 
 but in 1 64.4. he was ejected from his Fellowship by the Earl of Man- 
 chester, under authority of Parliament, for refusing to subscribe to the 
 Covenant. He afterwards went abroad, and embraced the Roman 
 Catholic religion. . He became Secretary to a Cardinal at Rome, and 
 obtained the office of Canon in the church at Loretto, in 1650, where 
 he shortly afterwards died. His poems were first printed by Thomas 
 Car, in 1 646, during Crashaw's exile. 
 
 Cunningham, Allan . . , , . .189 
 
 Allan Cunningham was born at Blackwood, on Nithside, December 7th, 
 1784. He was taken from school at eleven years of age, to be made a 
 mason, and became a good workman ; but his literary taste led him to 
 London in 18 10, where, in 1814, he became superintendent of the 
 sculptor Chantrey's studio. He wrote several works that survive. He 
 died in 1842. 
 
 Danyell, Samuel . . . , , . * 32 
 
 Samuel Danyell, the son of a teacher of music, was born near Taunton, 
 
 in Somersetshire, in 1562, and received his education at Magdalen Hall, 
 
 Oxford. He was patronized by the Countess of Pembroke, and others 
 
 of the nobility, particularly the Earl of Southampton j and had the 
 
INDEX OF AUTIIOES. 551 
 
 manliness to address a laudatory poem to the latter upon his aowntaii. 
 He was made Gentleman Extraordinary to King James, and afterwards 
 Groom of the Privy Chamber to the Queen. He died on his farm at 
 Beckington, in Someirsetshire, in October, 1619. His wife was Juslina, 
 the sister of John Florio, the author cf an Italian Dictionary celebrated 
 in its day. 
 
 Davenant, Sir William .... Page 81 
 
 Sir William Davenant, the son of a vintner, who kept the Crown Inn 
 at Oxford, was born in the latter part of February, 1 605—6. He was 
 educated partly at Lincoln College, Oxford, but took no degree. Early 
 in life he became a page of the Duchess of Richmond, but losing this 
 place, turned his attention to literature, and became a successful drama- 
 tist. This secured him the patronage and influence of the Earl of Dorset 
 and others, and he succeeded Jonson as Poet Laureate, in 1638. Ac- 
 cused to the Parliament of endeavoring to weaken its authority over the 
 army, he was arrested, and, though bailed, was obliged to leave for 
 France. He returned, and was appointed Lieutenant-general of Ord- 
 nance to the Marquis of Newcastle j and for his conduct at the siege of 
 Gloucester, in 1643, was knighted by the King. He went into exile in 
 France before the failure of the Royal cause. In 1650, at the instance 
 of the Queen, he set sail for Virginia, but was taken by a Parliamentary 
 ship, and sent prisoner to the Isle of Wight. From thence he was 
 removed to the Tower, but his life was saved by powerful private inter- 
 position — some say by John Milton. If so, he returned the favor, for 
 it was owing to his influence that Milton was saved at the Restoration. 
 On the return of the King, Davenant devoted himself principally to 
 dramatic affairs. He died at Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, on April 7th, 166S. 
 
 Davis, Thomas Osborne . . . . .281 
 
 Thomas Osborne Davis was born at Mallow, in the county of Cork, Ire- 
 land, in the year 18 14, and was educated at Trinity College, Dublin. 
 It was not until he was nearly thirty years of age that he appeared as a 
 poet. The political events of the day, and the necessity of national 
 poetry in the Nation, the journal under his editorial care, brought forth 
 a series of poems, filled with fire, pathos, and energy, though without 
 the perfect skill of the artist. He died September 16, 1845. 
 
 Dermody, Thomas . . . , . .175 
 
 Thomas Dermody was born at Ennis, in the county Clare, Ireland, in 
 
 1774. He v/ent to Dublin when a boy, and entered the service of a 
 
355? UALF-nOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 bookseller. While there, his writings attracted the attention of persons 
 of" condition, and he was patronized by the Countess of Moira, wno 
 piace'd him under the tuition of the Rev. Hugh Boyd. At the age ot 
 fifteen he produced a voli«me of poems, which were promising. But he 
 grew precociously dissipated and reckless, and was soon abandoned by his 
 new friends. He died July 15, 1802, at Sydenham Common, and was 
 buried at Lewisham, where Sir James Bland Burgess gave him a 
 monument. 
 
 DiBDiN, Charles Page 140 
 
 Charles Dibdin was born at Southampton, England, in 1745, and ap- 
 peared as an actor in 1762, firstly in the provinces, and afterwards at 
 London. He wrote successful plays, and over twelve hundred songs, to 
 most of which he set the music. He died in 18 14. 
 
 Dibdin, Thomas ....... 168 
 
 Thomas Dibdin, son of Charles, the sailor bard, was born in London, in 
 1 77 1. He was apprenticed to an upholsterer from his sixteenth to his 
 twentieth year. He then joined a troop of strolling players; and after- 
 wards wrote successfully for the stage during many years. Some of his 
 pieces are still occasionally played. He died on September 16th, 1841. 
 
 Donne, John ....... 50 
 
 John Donne, the son of an eminent merchant of Welsh descent, was born 
 in London, in 1573, and vvas educated partly at Oxford, and partly at 
 Trinity College, Cambridge. He was with the Earl of Essex in his 
 expedition against Cadiz ; and travelled for some years in the south of 
 Europe. On his leturn to England he was made Secretary to Sir Tho- 
 mas Egerton, Lord Keeper of the Great Se.^l. He made a stolen match, 
 in I 602, with Anna, daughter of Sir George Moore, Chancellor of the . 
 Garter. This involved the loss of his position, imprisonment, and a 
 tedious and ruinous lav/suit. By the interposition of powerful friends, a 
 reconciliation between himself and his father-in-law was finally effected. 
 He was afterwards made a Master of Arts by both Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge. About 161 1 he entered into holy orders, and filled various 
 clerical positions respectably. He died on March 31st, 1631, of con- 
 sumption. His poems were first printed complete in one volume by 
 Tonson, 1719. 
 
 Dorset, Charles Sackville, Earl of . . . 112 
 
 Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born January 24, 1637, and 
 
 educated privately. He was chosen member of Parliament' for East 
 
 \ 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 353 
 
 Grinsted, immediately after the Restoration, and became cne of th- 
 favorites of Charles the Second. In 1665, he was at sea during the 
 sea-fight wherein the Dutch admiral, Opdam, was blown up, and 
 thirty ships of the enemy taken and destroyed. It was just previous 
 to this engagement that his celebrated song, " To all you Ladies," 
 is said to have been composed. He was tnen made Gentleman of 
 the Bedchamber, and, in 1675, created Earl of Middlesex, having 
 previously inherited the former Earl's fortune. In 1667, on the 
 death of his father, he became Earl of Dorset. He opposed the course 
 of James the Second, and voted for an acknowledgment of the claims 
 of the Prince and Princess of Orange. He became a favorite with 
 William the Third, who made him Lord Chamberlain of the House- 
 hold, and, in 1691, Knight of the Garter. During the absence of 
 the King, he was four times placed on the Regency. He died 
 January 19th, 1705-6. 
 
 Drake, Jojeph Rodman .... Page 203 
 
 Dr. Drake was born in New York, on August 7th, 1795. He received 
 his education at Columbia College, and chose the practice of medicine 
 as a profession. He died of consumption, in September, 1820. He 
 gave great promise, not so much in his "Culprit Fay," or "Ameri- 
 can Flag," his popular efforts, as in other minor pieces, which dis- 
 played pathos, tenderness, and fcrce, in a great degree. 
 
 Drayton, Michael . . ... • . 36 
 
 Michael Drayton was born at Atherston, in Leicestershire about 1563. 
 He was the son of a respectable butcher. Though a student for a 
 time at Oxford, it is thought that he completed his education at Cam- 
 bridge, under the patronage of Henry Goodere, and others. He was 
 one of the esquires attending Sir Walter Aston, when the latter was 
 created Knight of the Bath, but does not seem to have attained court 
 preferment. He died in 1631. His " Poly-Olbion" is a singular and 
 remarkable production. His " Nymphidia" is considered by many to 
 be masterly throughout. His " Ballad of Agincourt" is exceedingly 
 spirited. 
 
 Drummond, William . . . . , . 58 
 
 William Drummond. was born at Hawthornden, Mid-Lothian, on 
 December 13th, 1585. He was the son of Sir John Drummond, and 
 was educated at the University of Edinburgh, where he received the 
 degree of Master of Arts. He studied the civil law at Bruges, in 
 France, and in 1611 returned to Scotland. He soon abandoned the 
 profession of law for the charms of the Muses. Losing the lady of 
 his love by death, a short while before the day fixed for their mar- 
 riage, he at once went abroad again, and travelled over Europe during 
 eight years. In 1630 he married Elizabeth Logan, in whom he saw 
 a resemblance to his first love, to whose memory he had remained 
 
354 nALF-UOURS WITH TUB POETS, 
 
 faithful. He died December 4th, 1649. In addition to his Poems, 
 he wrote a History of the Five Jameses, folio, first printed in London, 
 in 1655. His complete works were fist published at Edinburgh, by 
 Watson, in 171 1. 
 
 Drvden, John ...... Page I08 
 
 John Dryden was born on the 9th of August, 1631, at Aldwinckle, in 
 Northamptonshire, England, and educated firstly at Westminster, and 
 then at Cambridge. He entered upon liis literary career early, and 
 soon became involved in politics, wherein his course was erratic and 
 censurable. His works are numerous, and he is considered as one of 
 the greatest of English poets. He died on May ist, 1700, and was 
 buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument was erected to his 
 memory by the Duke of Buckingham. 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo . . . '. . 233 
 
 Ralph W. Emerson was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1803, and 
 educated at Harvard College. In 1829 he was ordained, but aban- 
 doned the pulpit, in consequence of a change of religious views. He 
 is known better as a writer of the *' Dial" school, which he feads, than 
 as a poet. 
 
 England, Elizabeth Tudor, Oueen of . . . 17 
 
 Elizabeth Tudor, afterwards famous as " the Virgin Queen," was born 
 September 7, 1533, and ascended the throne in 1558. She was able, 
 brilliant, vain, and cruel 5 advancing the power of the realm, and ad- 
 ministering public affairs with credit and success. She died March 
 24, 1603. 
 
 English, Thomas Dunn . . . . .294 
 
 Thomas Dunn English was born at Philadelphia, on June 29th, 18 19. 
 He received the degree of Doctor of Medicine from the University of 
 Pennsylvania in 1839, and was railed to the bar in 1842. He has 
 written novels, poems, plays, and miscellaneous works. His ballad 
 ** Ben Bolt," and his Revolutionary Ballads, most of which last weie 
 published in Harper's Magazine, are best known. He has also min- 
 gled in politics, but has held no official position, with the exception of 
 having served two terms recently in the New Jersey Legislature. He 
 is connected with two New York journals, as editor. 
 
 Rtherege, Sir George . . . . . .ill 
 
 Sir George Etherege w.is born near London, about 1 636, and educated 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 355 
 
 at Cambridge. He travelled awhile in Europe, and studied law, but 
 forsook that profession for literature. In 1664 he published a success- 
 ful comedy — "The Comical Revenge, or Love in a Tub j" in 1668, 
 "She Would if She Could;" and in 1676, "The Man of Mode." 
 He died after 1688, but the exact year is uncertain. 
 
 Fletcher, Giles ...... Page 63 
 
 Giles Fletcher was born about 1588. He was the younger brother of 
 Phineas Fletcher, the author of "The Purple Island," the son of Giles 
 Fletcher, author of "The Russe Commonwealth," and cousin of John 
 Fletcher, the dramatist. He was educated at Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, and took orders. He was incumbent for a while of the living 
 of Alderton, in Suffolk, where he died in 1623. 
 
 Fletcher, John ....... 54 
 
 John Fletcher, the coadjutor of Beaumont, was born in Northampton- 
 shire, England, in 1576, and educated at Cambridge. He died of the 
 plague, in 1625. 
 
 Graham, of Cartmore . . . . . • ^37 
 
 This Graham was a Scotchman, who was born in 1735, ^"^ ^^^^ '" 
 1797, Beyond this, little is known of him. 
 
 Greene, Robert . . . . . . . 30 
 
 Robert Greene was born at Norwich, in 1560 (but some writers fix 
 the date ten years previously), and was educated at St. John's College, 
 Cambridge. He travelled on the Continent j and after his return, in 
 1583, received the degree of Master of Arts from Cambridge. He 
 wrote stories, treatises, and poems, attaining fair success in each depart- 
 ment of literature. He died on September 3d, 1592. 
 
 Habington, William . . . . . . 80 
 
 William Habington, who is called by Wood " a very accomplished 
 gentleman," was born at Hendlip, in Worcestershire, in 1605, and 
 educated at St. Omers and Paris. He died on November 30th, 1654. 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene . . . . . .205 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck was born at Guilford, in Connecticut, in August, 
 1795 J but removed, when eighteen years old, to New York, which 
 has since been his residence. His lyrics, " Marco Bozzaris," " Burns," 
 and " Red Jacket," are well known, and on these mainly his pretensions 
 rest. His works were first published in 1827, a more complete edition 
 in 1836, and another in 1847. He died at Gui.ford, in 1867. 
 
356 HALF- nouns wirn the poets. 
 
 [Iarrington, John ..... Page i8 
 
 John Harrington was born in 1534, but in what part of England is un- 
 known. He was imprisoned in the Tower on account of a correspond- 
 ence with the Princess Elizabeth, who rewarded him for his fidelity, on 
 her accession to the throne. He died in 1582. 
 
 Hayne, Pavl H 526 
 
 Paul H. Havne was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1831. He 
 has been for some time cojinected with the press, and has contributed 
 to several of the magazines. His collected works we.e published in 
 1855. 
 
 Herrick, Robert . . . . . . . 72 
 
 Robert Herkick was born at Cheapside, London, in 1591, and educated 
 at Cambridge. He took orders, and became Vicar of Dean Prior, in 
 Devonshire. He lost his living by the civil war, but regained it on 
 the Restoration. He was probably near eighty when he died, but the 
 year of his death is not fixed. 
 
 Heywood, Thomas ...... 7^ 
 
 L'.ttle is known of Heywood, except that he was a good linguist, and 
 wrote 2,23 plays, of which twenty-four are now extant. He wrote 
 from 1596 to 1640, and probably died during the latter year, 
 year after. 
 
 the 
 
 Hlll, Aarov . . . . . , .123 
 
 Aaron Hill v/as born in the Strand, London, on February 10th, 1684-5. 
 When a boy he went on a visit to his relative, Lord Paget, then Am- 
 bassador at Constantinople. The latter gave the young adventurer a 
 tutor; and after travelling with him over Europe, brought him home 
 in 171 3. Young Hill travelled afterwards as a tutor in Europe; and 
 returning home, became the manager of a theatre, wrote several suc- 
 cessful plays, and engaged in various speculations, mostly unsucceisful. 
 He died February 8th, 1749-50. He was a voluminous writer, and 
 by some of his cotemporaries was placed above Pope. His writings 
 are now as unjustly obscure, as they were formerly undeservedly pre- 
 eminent. 
 
 Hoffman, Charles Fenno ..... 240 
 
 Charles Fknno Hoffman was born in New York, in 1S06, and was 
 educated at Columbia College, New York, where he received a Mas- 
 ter's degree. He was admitted to the bar three ye.-.rs after leaving 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 357 
 
 college, but abandoned law for literature. He was the author of 
 several popular novels j and a complete collection of his poems was 
 published in 1845. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell .... Page 262 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes was born August 29th, 1809, at Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, and was educated at Harvard College. He received 
 the degree of Doctor of Medicine in 1836. In 1838 he was madt 
 Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth Medical College; 
 and in 1847, Parkman Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Har- 
 vard. In addition to his poems, he has published successful hooks of 
 essays, and several medical works. He is one of the constant contrib 
 utors to the Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 Hood, Thomas . . . . . 225 
 
 Tho.mas Hood, humorist and poet, was born in London, in 17Q8. H- was 
 the son of a bookseller of the firm of Vernor, Hood & Sharpe. His life, 
 like that of most modern literary men, was very barren of incident. 
 There is, therefore, little to relate, save the ebb and flow of health and 
 strength. His first literary venture was undertaken during the time 
 he attended school, being the revision for the press of a new edition 
 in French of " Paul et Virginie." At the age of twenty-three he be- 
 came sub editor of the London Magazine, the ownership ot which had 
 passed into the hands of some of his friends. On May 5th, 1824, he 
 married Miss Reynolds, daughter of the head writing-master at Christ 
 Hospital. The marriage was a very happy one, Mrs. Hood being a ten- 
 der and attentive wife, unwearied in the cares which her husband's 
 precarious health demanded. Prolonged illness brought on straitened 
 circumstances, and application was made to Sir Robert Peel to place 
 him on the pension list. This was done at once, and the pension con- 
 tinued to his wife and family after his death, which occurred on the 3d 
 of May, 1845. 
 
 Hunter, Anne . . . . . .139 
 
 Anne Home, who was a sister of Sir Everard Home, was born in 1742, 
 and was known in her day as the author of several clever poems. She 
 married the celebrated surgeon, Hunter. She died in London, in 1821. 
 
 Ide,A. M 304 
 
 Mr. Ide is the editor of the Taunton Gazette^ and was born in Massachu- 
 setts, in 1825. He has written poems for various periodicals, and 
 managed his journal with ability. He was at one time postmaste-x 
 of his town. 
 
 Jonson, Ben ..*..... 53 
 
 Ben Jonson (" O rare Ben Jonson !" as his tombstone has it) was born in 
 Warwickshire, on June nth, 1574. After receiving a partial educa- 
 tion at the College School of Westminster, he was removed by hi 
 
358 IIALF-IIOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 stepfather, and made to work at the latter's trade, which was that of 
 a bricklayer. He ultimately entered at Cambridge, where he did not 
 long remain, but became an actor and writer of plays. He served also 
 for a while as a soldier in the Low Countries. In 1598, the success 
 of "Every Man in his Humour" decided his career. In 1619, Oxford 
 made him a Master of Arts; and on the death of Danyell, he was 
 created Poet Laureate. He died in London, on Auj;ust 6th, 1637. 
 His works are voluminous. 
 
 Keats, John ...... Pagb 209 
 
 John Keats was born at Moorfields, London, in 1796, and was appren- 
 ticed to a surgeon, at an early age. Evincing literary talent, he was 
 introduced, by the gentleman who had been his schoolmaster, to Leigh 
 Hunt, who brought him before the public. A volume of his poems 
 was issued in 1817, and after this " Endymion" appeared. The savage 
 attack upon this by the ^arrerly Rciieiv was said to have brought on 
 his death; but this was an error. He published a third volume after- 
 wards, containing some clever effusions. He died at Rome, whither he 
 had gone on account of ill health, on February 24th, 1821. 
 
 King, Henry, Bishop of Chichester . . 71 
 
 Henry King was born in 1591, and was educated at Christ Church 
 College, Oxford, where he took his degree of A. M. He was appointed 
 Chaplain to James the First, and in 1638 was made Dean of Rochester. 
 In 1641 he was created Bishop of Chichester. He died in 1669. He 
 was author of several volumes of Sermons, a Poetic Version of the 
 Psilms, and a volume of Poems. 
 
 Lapraik, John . . . . . . .141 
 
 John Lapraik's time of birth is not certain, but it was somewhere be- 
 tween 1738 and 1742. He met with misfortunes by the failure of 
 the Ayr Bank, which forced him to sell his property near Muirkirk. 
 It was during this time of trouble that he ^jomposed his song, "Matri- 
 monial Happiness." Lapraik was the friend and correspondent of 
 Burns, and died in 1807. 
 
 LE-iDEN, John 179 
 
 John Leyden was born at Dcnholm, in Roxburghshire, Scotland, on 
 September 8th, 1775, and educated at the University of Edinburgh. 
 He took orders in the Presbyterian Church, but failed as a preacher. 
 He then commenced the study of medicine, and was made an assistant- 
 surgeon in the East India Company's service, in 1802. While in 
 India he was promoted to tlie grade of surgeon ; then made Professor 
 of Hindustani in Fort William College; next, the Judge of the Twen- 
 t\'-four Pargunnahs of Calcutta; and, in 18 10, was appointed Assay- 
 master of the Calcutta Mint. He accompanied Lord Minto in his ex- 
 pedition against Java, and died there, August 28th, 1816. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 359 
 
 LoDGEj Thomas ...... Paoe 28 
 
 The year of Lodge's birth, set down as 1556, is not certainly known, but 
 he was educated at Trinity College, Oxford, where he became servitor 
 in 1573. He was a student at law at Lincoln's Inn in 1584, then be- 
 came an actor, and at length, after studying medicine en the Continent, 
 took his Doctor's degree at Avignon. He wrote various novels, plays, 
 and miscellaneous productions, and died in 1625, at London, of the 
 plague, while engaged in the practice of medicine. 
 
 Logan, John . . . . . . .147 
 
 John Logan was born at Soutra, in Mid-Lothian, Scotland, about 1748, 
 and was educated at the University of Edinburgh. Pie was private 
 tutor to Mr., afterward Sir John Sinclair. His tragedy of " Runni- 
 mede," refused license by the Chamberlain, was brought out in Edin- 
 burgh in 1784. He was ordained minister of South Leith in 1773, 
 but left that position in 1786, and went to London. He died Deceiii- 
 ber 28th, 1788. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth . . . .251 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, February 
 27th, 1807, and was educated at Bowdoin College. He was made 
 Professor of Modern Languages in Bowdoin, in 1826, and travelled 
 over Europe for nearly fcur years, to fit himself for his professorship. 
 In 1835 he succeeded Mr. Ticknor as Professor of Modern Languages 
 and Literature in Harvard College, which he held for a number of 
 years. After a few years he resigned, and was succeeded by Lowell. 
 Besides poems, he has written novels, travels, and reviews, and attained 
 a high reputation as the head of the American poets, 
 
 Lovelace, Richard ...... 99 
 
 Richard Lovelace was bcrn at Walbridge, iri Kent, England, in 161 8, 
 and educated at Oxford. He was imprisoned and banished for his 
 attachment to the Royal cause ; and, while absent, commanded a regi- 
 ment in the French army. In this service he was wounded, and re- 
 turned to England, where he was imprisoned again, but at length 
 released. During his absence, the lady to whom he addressed his love 
 poems — his " Lucasta" and " Althea,"— believing him to have been 
 killed, married another. He died in London, in want, during 1658. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell ...... 303 
 
 James Russell Lowell was born at Boston, in 18 19, was educated at 
 Harvard College, and afterwards admitted to the bar. He is at present 
 a Professor at Cambridge, Massachusetts, and is a constant contributor 
 to the Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 Lylye, John ....... 25 
 
 John Lylye was born in Kent, England, during 1553, and educated at 
 
360 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Magdalen College, Oxford, where he took hii Master's degree, in 1575. 
 He was the author of the celebrated " Euphues, or Anatomy of Wit," 
 and of several pla)S, and died about i6oo. 
 
 LvTTELTON, George, Baron .... Page 127 
 
 Gf-ORGE Lyttelton was born in Worcestershire, England, January 17, 
 1708-9, and educated at Christ Church College, Oxford. He travelled 
 for a time in Europe, and on his rctarn became a member of Pailia- 
 ment. In 1744 he was made one of the Lords of the Treasury j in 
 1754, Cofferer to the Hous_"hold, and Privy Councillor j and in 1755, 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer. In 1757 he was created Baron Lyttel- 
 ton, of Frankley. He died August zad, 1773. 
 
 Macneil, Hector . . . . . .143 
 
 Hector M'Neill, was born at Rosebank, near Roslin, Scotland, in 1746. 
 He went, when a young man, to St. Christopher, and there entered on 
 a mercantile life, with good prospects j but an act of imprudence cost 
 him his situation, and he became much reduced in circumstances. He 
 returned to Scotland at the age of forty. He now used his literary 
 abilities to eke out a subsistence, though but a scanty one j publishing 
 several volumes, one of these a novel of moderate merit, and two of 
 them poems — "Scotland's Skaith," and *' The Waes o' Man" — that 
 have retained provincial distinction. He also edited for a time the 
 Scots Magazine. He died on March I5tli, 1 8 18. 
 
 Mallet, David . . . . . . .125 
 
 David Mallet was born about 1700, and is supposed to have been a 
 native of Perthshire, Scotland. He was educated at the University of 
 Edinburgh, and became tutor to the sons of the Duke of Montrose. 
 He was at one time Secretary to the Prince of Wales. He wrote 
 various plays, which were produced between 1731 and 1763 in Lon- 
 don, some successfully, and others not. In 1763 he was made Keeper 
 of the Book of Entries for Ships in the Port of London. He died in 
 April, 1765. 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher ...... 20 
 
 Christopher Marlowe was born at Canterbury, in Kent, during i56i, 
 and educated at Bennet College, Cambridge, where he was made Mas- 
 ter of Arts in 1587. He wrote tragedies and plays, and became an 
 actor, but left the stage, after having broken his leg. He was slain in 
 a street brawl, at Deptford, in May, 1593. 
 
 Marvel, Andrew .... . . 106 
 
 Andrew Marvel was born at Hull, England, during 1620, and probably 
 educated under the supervision of his father, who was Master of the 
 Grammar School there. He was a vigorous and effective satirist during 
 the days of the Commonwealth, and a strong opponent of the Court 
 party. He died in 1678. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 361 
 
 MiCKLE, William Julius .... Page 135 
 
 William Julius Mickle was born at Langholm, Dumfriesshire, Septem- 
 ber a9th, 1734. His translation of the " Lusiad" of Camoens appeared 
 in 1775. if^ 1780 he was made a member of the Royal Academy of 
 Lisbon. He was Secretary to Commodore Johnston, in command of 
 ^ the Romney^ and afterwards appointed joint agent for the prizes taken. 
 He thus acquired a competence, married, and settled at Wheatley, near 
 Oxford, where he died, October 25th, 1789. 
 
 Montrose, James Graham, Marquis of . . . 89 
 
 James Graham, of Montrose, was born in Scotland, in 161 2, and suc- 
 ceeded his father, as fifth Earl, when he was but fourteen. He was 
 married soon after, and travelled abroad until 1633. •'^^ ^°°^ ground 
 at first with those who opposed the Church party in Scotland, and was 
 a leading actor in the preparation of the National Covenant. He after- 
 wards went over to the King's party, and was arrested and imprisoned ; 
 but upon the occasion of some concessions made by Charles, in 1642, 
 he was released. In 1644 he was created Marquis, and made Captain- 
 General, and Commander-in-chief for Scotland. In this capacity he 
 won a series of battles, and was successful until he met with Lesley, 
 who defeated him at Philiphaugh, September 13th, 1645. ^" ^^^ 
 King's surrender he capitulated, and was permitted to escape to Nor- 
 way, which he did on September 3d, 1646. He was offered the posts 
 of General of Scots in France, Lieutenant-general in the French army, 
 and Captain of Gens d'armes, but refused. On the death of Charles 
 the First, his son commissioned Montrose to invade Scotland. The 
 Marquis dispatched some of his troops here in September, 1649, and 
 joined them in the following March. In the first battle his forces 
 were routed, and himself captured. He was treated with great indig- 
 nity, and on May 21st, 1650, was hanged on a gibbet thirty feet high, 
 and his body afterwards quartered. He received his fate with such 
 firmness and dignity as to excite even the pity of his enemies. 
 
 Moore, Thomas . . . . . . .183 
 
 Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, on May 28th, 1780, and educated 
 at Trinity College, Dublin. In 1803 he was made Registrar to the 
 Admiralty, at Bermuda 5 but the place not suiting his inclinations, he 
 returned to England in 1804. He has written two plays, with ques- 
 tionable success, and several miscellaneous works, but his reputation 
 depends upon his poems. He died on February 25th, 1852. 
 
 Morris, George P. . . . . . .229 
 
 George P. Morris was born in Philadelphia, in the year 1801. He 
 commenced his literary career at an early age; and in 1 823, in con- 
 nection with Woodworth, established the Nctu York Mirror. He was 
 for a long while connected with Willis in the publication of the Heme. 
 
.^6: 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Journal. He has writt.n several successful plays, and divers popular 
 tales, but is better known as a song-writL-r. His " Woodman, spare 
 that Tree !" is one of the few popular American songs. He died in 
 • 1864 
 
 Motherwell, William ..... Page 220 
 
 William Motherwell was born at Glasgow, Scotland, on October 13th, 
 1797. He published several successful volumes, wrote spirited ballads, 
 edited two or three provincial magazines, and attained great distinction 
 as an antiquary. He died on November ist, 1835. 
 
 Norton, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah . . .260 
 
 Mrs. Norton is a granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and second 
 
 daughter of Thomas Sheridan, and was born in London, in what year 
 
 we are not informed. She married with the Hon. G. C. Norton, a 
 
 brother of Lord Grantley, but the union has proved unhappy. 
 
 Osgood, Frances S. . . . . . ,2^0 
 
 Franxes S. Locke was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 18 12, and com- 
 menced to write at an early age. In 1834 she was married to Mr. S. 
 S. Osgood, the artist. She published various volumes of her poems 
 from time to time, all of which had fair success. She died in New 
 York, on May 12th, 1850. 
 
 Oxford Edward Vere, Earl of . . , . 19 
 
 Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, was born in 1562. He was one of the 
 favourites at the court of Elizabeth, married a daughter of Lord Bur- 
 leigh, was connected with Leicester's expedition to the Netherlands, 
 and took part in the defeat of the Spanish Armada. He wrote a 
 number of comedies that were highly praised by cotemporary critics, 
 but none of these are extant. He died in 1604. 
 
 Pattison, William . . . . . .126 
 
 William Pattison was born at Peasmarsh, near Rye, in the county of 
 Sussex, England, in 1706. He was educated partially at Sidney Col- 
 lege, Cambridge. He died, in great distress, July nth, 1727. 
 
 Pkrcy, Thomas . . . . . . .133 
 
 Bishop Percy was born at Bridgenorth, in Shropshire, England, in 1728, 
 and educated at Christ Church College, Oxford. He received th.' 
 degree of Master of Arts in 1753, and was appointed Chaplain to the 
 King. In 177S he was made Dean of Carlisle j and in 1782, Bishop 
 of Dromorc, in Ireland. He died during 181 1. 
 
 Pinkney, Edward Co.\tz . . . . .231 
 
 Edward Coate Pinkney, the son of a former American minister to Eng- 
 land, was burn in London, at the Embassy, in October, 1802. He 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. ^6^ 
 
 received a partial education at the College of St. Mary's, Baltimore, 
 and then entered the Navy as a midshipman. He continued in the 
 service nine years, but resigned his position on the death of his father 
 In 1824 he vv^as admitted to the bar. In the profession of Izv/ Is 
 failed, and also failed in an attempt to enter the naval service o 
 Mexico. In 1826 he was appointed a Professor in the University 
 Maryland} but his constitution w^as broken, and after lingering throug» 
 a weary year or two, he died, April nth, 1828. 
 
 PoE, Edgar Allan ..... Page 277 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in January, 181 1. 
 He was partially educated at a school in England, and partly at the 
 University of Virginia, but never completed his education. He was 
 for a short period a cadet at West Point, went abroad for a year on a 
 Quixotic expedition, and for a time was a private soldier in the Army, 
 but he deserted before his time of service expired. He passed a varied, 
 but miserable life, and died of delirium tremens, in a hospital in Bal- 
 timore, on October 7th, 1849. 
 
 Prentice, George D. . . . . . •235 
 
 George D. Prentice was born at Preston, in Connecticut, in the year 
 1804, and was educated at Brown University, Providence, He has 
 been for many yeais the editor of the Louis'ville yournal, in Ken- 
 tuckv. lie died in Louisville, J n. 22, 1870. 
 
 Proctor, Bryan Waller . . . . .217 
 
 Bryan Waller Proctor, better known as " Barry Cornwall," was born 
 in London, about 1796. He was educated at Harrow, and is a barris- 
 ter, enjoying a fair practice. He is, or was, Commissioner of Lunacy. 
 
 Prior, Matthew . . . . . . .122 
 
 Matthew Prior was born at Winborne, in Dorsetshire, England, July 
 2ist, 1664, and educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. In 1691 
 he was made Secretary to the Earl of Berkeley, Ambassador and Pleni- 
 potentiary at the Congress of the Hague, and afterwards Gentleman of 
 the Bedchamber. In 1697, he was Secretary to the English Plenipo- 
 tentiary at the treaty of Ryswick, and the same year was made Secre- 
 tary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. In 1698 he was Secretary 
 of Legation at Paris, and filled afterwards other diplomatic and official 
 positions. In 1700 he was made Master of Arts by mandamus. He 
 was member of Parliament in 1701. In August, 171 3, he was ap- 
 pointed Ambassador to Paris, and on his return to England was arrested, 
 March 25th, 17 1 5, by order of the House of Commons, on a charge 
 of high treason. In 1 717, he w^as specially excepted from the act of 
 grace passed by Parliament; but was finally discharged, a ruined roan. 
 He died September i8th, 1721. 
 
3^4 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter ..... Page 21 
 
 Walter Raleigh was born at Hayes, in Devonshire, England, during 
 1552, and educated at Oriel College, Oxford. His liL* was a succes- 
 sion of achievements, explorations, intrigues, and troubles. In 1569, 
 hu" went to France with an expedition in aid of the Hu-uenuts, served 
 there for five years,' and subsequently in the Netherlands, under the 
 Prince of Orange. He next went with Sir Humphrey Gilbert on a 
 voyage to America, from whence he returned in 1579. In 1580, he 
 commanded a company of the royal troops in Ireland, against the Earl 
 of Desmond. Three years afterwards he was introduced at court, 
 wherj he became a favourite of Elizabeth. He was knighted, made 
 Captain of the Guard, Seneschal of the county of Cornwall, and Lord 
 Warden of the Stannaries, with a grant of i2,ooo acres from the 
 forfeited estates of the Earl of Desmond, and a patent for licensing 
 the vendors of v/ine in England. In I5'>4, he obtained a patent au- 
 thorizing to hold forever any territories he might acquire in America. 
 In 1585 he landed in Virginia. From this voyage tobacco was first 
 brought, and the potato plant introduced into England. From this 
 time forth he was engaged in many stormy adventures j but having 
 lost the favor of James the First, he was convicted of high treason, 
 and, it is generally thought, unjustly, in 1603. He was reprieved, and 
 remained a close prisoner in the Tower for thirteen years. In 1615, 
 he was released conditionally, to open a mine in Guiana. On this 
 voyage he had an encounter with the Spaniards, was unsuccessful in 
 finding the mine, and, his crew mutinying, was obliged to return to 
 England. Here the brutal pedant. King James, caused him to be 
 executed under the old sentence, on October 28th, 1618. 
 
 Rochester, John Wilmot, Earl of . . .119 
 
 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, was born at Ditchley, near Woodstock, 
 in Oxfordshire, England, on April loth, 1647, and was educated at 
 Oxford, where he was made Master of Arts, in 1661. He travelled 
 in France and Italy, and on his return was made Gentleman of the 
 Bedchamber to Charles the Second, and Comptroller of Woodstock 
 Park. In 1665 he went to sea with the Earl of Sandwich, and dis- 
 tinguished himself in that and the following year. He was witcy, 
 profligate, and abandoned. He died July .*6th, 1680. 
 
 Rogers, Samuel . . . . . . 161 
 
 Samuel Rogers was bcyn in London, in 1762, and, like his father, was 
 a banker. He published little but liis pcems. He died during 18^5. 
 
 Russell, Thomas . . . . . . .160 
 
 Thomas Russell was born at Bridport, in Dorsetshire, England, about 
 1762, and educated at the Grammar School there, and at Winchester. 
 In 1780 he was elected Fellow of New College, Oxford. He died at 
 Bristol, on July 51st, 1788. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 ^.6' 
 
 :S ARGENT, EpES ...... Page 289 
 
 Epes Sargent was born at Gloucester, Massachusetts, in 18 16, and was 
 partly educated at Harvard College. He became connected with the 
 press at an early age, has written plays, school-books, juvenile works, 
 and poems. He is now a resident of Boston. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter . . . . . ,165 
 
 Sir Walter Scott was born August 15th, 1771, and entered the pro- 
 fession of the law, May 17th, 1786. His first poem of note wa.« 
 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," which appeared in 1805, and wa.' 
 followed by others in rapid succession. The appearance of Byron's 
 poems, and their rapid popularity, induced him to forsake that path of 
 literature for another, in which he achieved still greater success. His 
 novel of " Waverley" appeared in 18 14, and created a sensation. It 
 was followed by others, some of which surpass it. At first the author 
 was unknown ; and although suspected by many, it was not until aiter 
 several years that he threw off the mask. He died on September 
 2ist, 1832. I 
 
 Sedley, Sir Charles . . . . . .116 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley was born at Aylesford, in Kent, during 1639, and 
 partially educated at Wadham College, Oxford. He was a courtier, 
 and afterwards a member of Parliament, taking sides with the Prince 
 of Orange during the Revolution. He died in 1701. 
 
 Shakspeare, William . , , . . . 37 
 
 William Shakspeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwickshire. 
 
 April 23d, I.564. He removed to London in 1587, became an actor, 
 
 and one of the proprietors of the theatre. He retired to the country 
 
 in 1 61 2, and died April 23d, 161 6. 
 
 Shaw, John ........ 182 
 
 Dr. John Shaw was born in Annapolis, Maryland, May 4th, 1778 j edu- 
 cated at St. John's College, Annapolis ; received his medical education 
 from the University of Pennsylvania and that of Edinburgh, at the 
 latter of which he took his Doctor's degree. He was Secretary to 
 General Eaton at Tunis j went with Lord Selkirk to Lake St. Clair, 
 where the latter desired to found a colony j and after wandering for 
 some time, settled at Annapolis, and commenced the practice of his 
 profession. In 1807, he married and removed to Baltimore. He died 
 January loth, i8og. 
 
366 HALF-nOUIiS WITH THE POETS 
 
 Srelley, Percy Bysshe ..... Page 2IC 
 Percy Bysshe Shklley was born at Horsham, in Su.^sex, England, on 
 August 4th, 179a, and educated at Universit)' College, Oxford. He 
 wrote several atheistical and other works, and some of the most highly 
 imaginative poems in the language. He was drowned off Leghori 
 Italy, July S»h, 18 21. 
 
 Shepherd, Nathaniel G. . . . . '33^ 
 
 Nathaniel G. Shepherd was born in New York, in 1836; and is 
 known as a contributor, in both prose and poetry, to various leading 
 journaLs. He died Ma}-, 1869. 
 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley Butler . . .150 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sherioan was born at Dublin, Ireland, in September, 
 1 75 1, and educated at Trinity College, Dublin, He wrote some of 
 the most celebrated comedies, farces, operas, and dramas in the lan- 
 guage, all of which yet hold possession of the stage. He also shone 
 as a politician, and was elected in 1780 to Parliament, where he fur- 
 ther distinguished himself. He was for a time one of the proprietors 
 of Drun,' Lane Theatre, from which, on his second marriage, in 1795, 
 he retired to a small estate in Surrey. There he remained until 179S, 
 when he returned to London to bring out two of his plays, translations 
 and amplifications from Kotzebue — "The Stranger," and " Pizarro." 
 He died oq July 7th, 18 16. 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip ....... 24 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney was born at Penshurst, in Kent, England, on Novem- 
 ber 29th, 1554, and educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He travelled 
 in Europe from I 572 to 1575. In 1576 he was Special Ambassador 
 to the court of Vienna. It is asserted that in 1585 he was offered, 
 and declined, the crown of Poland. That year he was made Governor 
 of Flushing. He was killed in battle at Zutphen, in the Low Coun- 
 tries, September 22d, 1586. He wrote a series of poems, and nume- 
 rous other works, including "Arcadia," and the "Defence of Poesie." 
 
 Skelton, John ....... 9 
 
 John Skklton was born in Cumberland, England, about 1463, and edu- 
 cated at Oxf)rd, where he took the laurel crown f)r poetry, in 1489. 
 He took orde.;, and became Rector of Dysse, in Norfolk; but was 
 finally suspended on account of the immoral tendency of his writini;s. 
 He died on June 2ist, 1529. 
 
 Smollett, Tobias 429 
 
 Tobias Smollett was born at Dalquhurn, in Dumbartonshire, Scotland, 
 in 1720. He became a surgeon, but was better known as a novelist. 
 He received llie degree of Doctor ot Mcdirinc about 1751 : from i/sc to 
 1763 he was edilor of the Critical Review. He wroe a popular History 
 CI PLnRland, translated Don Quixote and Gil Bias, and produced several 
 standard novels. Ho died October 2(}ih. 1771. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. Z^7 
 
 SpenseRj Edmund ...... Page 23 
 
 Edmund Spenser was born in London, of obscure parents, and was edu- 
 cated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. He failed in his attempt to 
 obtain a fellowship there, being beaten by his competitor, Andrews, 
 who was afterwards Bishop of Winchester. Patronized by Sir Philip 
 Sidney, on account of his Faa-y ^^eene, he was received at court, and 
 created Poet Laureate. Lord Burleigh was his constant enemy, and 
 for a time prevented his preferment. He was, however, sent abroad 
 on public service, and afterwards made Secretary to Lord Grey, of 
 Wilton, while the latter was Deputy in Ireland. His latter years were 
 unfortunate, and he died in 1598. Many of his works are lost. 
 
 Stanley, Thomas . . . . . . .118 
 
 Thomas Stanley was born at Camberlow Green, in Hertfordshire, in 
 1625, and educated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. He travelled 
 abroad for some time, wrote a rather famous " History of Philosophy," 
 edited .^schylus, and other Greek poets, and died in 1678. 
 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence . . . . 328 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman was born at Hartford, Ct., on October 1st, 
 1833. He began journalism in his twentieth year. Is a popular contrib- 
 utor to the leading magazines. In 1859 he wrote his satirical poem, 
 "The Diam .nd Wedding." and has s nee j-ub-ished several volumes 
 of po_-iry. 
 
 Sterling, William Alexander, Earl of . . . 57 
 
 William Alexander was born at Menstrie, in Scotland, in 1580. He 
 travelled for a time with the Duke of Argyle ; and on his return, and 
 afterward, published several tragedies and poems. In 161 3 he was 
 appointed one of the Gentlemen Ushers to Prince Charles, and 
 knighted. In 1626, he was made Secretary of State for Scotland, 
 and in 1633, created Earl of Sterling, by patent. He died in 1640. 
 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry . . . . 313 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddaku was born at Hi', gham, Mass., July, 1825. 
 Since 1835 he has resided in New York. In 1848 he became a contrib- 
 utor to the magazines and newspapers, and since then has engaged 
 largely in literary pursuits. He has published several volumes of 
 poetry, and also revised, enlarged, and very much improved Gris- 
 wold's '"Poets and Poetry of Aoaerica" and "The Female Poets of 
 America " 
 
 Strode, William ....... 79 
 
 William Strode was born in 1599, and educated at Oxford. He took 
 orders, and became a Canon of Christ Church College. He wrote 
 orations, sermons, poems, and plays j of the latter, one only is pre- 
 served. He died in 1644. 
 
368 
 
 HALF- HOURS WITH THE POETS. 
 
 Suckling, Sir John ..... Page 91 
 
 Sir John Suckling was born at Witham, in Middlesex, in 161 3. He is 
 said to have spoken Latin at five ycirs of age, and to have written it at 
 nine — which is almost too absurd to be repeated. One of his biog- 
 raphers says, quite innocently — " If this circumstance be true, it wculJ 
 sejm that he had learned Latin from his nurse, nor ever heard any 
 other language, for it is not to be supposed that he could speak Latin 
 at five in consequence of study." He became Comptroller of the 
 Household to Charles the First. When the civil war broke out, he 
 raised and headed a troop of horse, at a great expense; but neither he 
 nor his troop did much nor effective service. He died on March 7th, 
 1 641, of a fever. His productions are notable, though marked with 
 the coarseness and sensuality of the timej and among them, his "Bal- 
 lad on a Wedding" is justly celebrated. 
 
 Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of . . . . 14 
 
 The Earl of Surrey was the son of the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Treas- 
 urer of England, and the grandson of another duke wlio had held the 
 same position. He received an excellent education at Cardinal Wol- 
 sey's College, at Oxford, and was among the foremost wits and gallants 
 of his time. It is said of him, that the celebrated Cornelius Agrippa, 
 with whom he had an acquaintance, showed him, in his celebrated 
 magic glass, his love, Geraldine, reclining on a couch, sick, and reading 
 by a wax taper one of her lover's sonnets. The Earl served in the 
 Army, distinguishing himself at the battle of Flodden ; but afterwards 
 failed, in the expedition to Boulogne, where he held the position of 
 field-marshal. This failure ended his military career, and lost him the 
 favour of King Henry. He was finally tried, and convicted of high 
 treason, though on the most frivolous grounds, and was beheaded on 
 Tower-HUi, on January I9i:h, 1546-7. His " Geraldine" was Lady 
 Elizabeth Fitzgerald, second daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of 
 Kildare, and afterwards third wife of Edwara Clinton, Earl of Lincoln. 
 His "Songes and Sonnettes" were first collected along with those of 
 Sir Thomas Wyat, the elder, and others, and published by Tottell, in 
 London, 1557. 
 
 SILVESTER, Joshua . . . . . . 35 
 
 Joshua Sylvester was born in 1563. He was a merchant, but became 
 known to ^ueen Elizabeth through his wit, and was a favourite with 
 bcr and her successor. From some cause not clearly stated, he was 
 obliged to leave England during the reign of James the First, and died 
 in HoUand, September 28th, 1618. 
 
 Tannahill, Robert . . . . . .177 
 
 Robert Tannahill was born June 3d, 1774, at Paisley, Scotland, where 
 he worked at the trade of a weaver. He died May lyih, 1810. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 369 
 
 Taylor, James Bayard ..... Page 307 
 
 James Bayard Taylor was born January nth, 1825, at Kennet Square, 
 Chester county, Pennsylvania. He left for Europe in 18-14, and trav- 
 elled a-foot over the Continent. Since that time he has travelled over 
 half the globe, and published several popular volumes of travels. Hit- 
 reputation will rest more on his poetry, however, than his prose. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred . . . . . .272 
 
 Alfred Tennyson was born at Somerset, in Lincolnshire, England, in 
 18 10, and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He was made 
 Poet Laureate on the death of Wordsworth, and Oxford has given him 
 the degree of Doctor of the Civil Law. He is known alone by his 
 poems, of which he has published several volumes j and may be said 
 to have founded a new school of poetry. 
 
 Thomson, James . . . . . , .124 
 
 James Thomson was born at Ednam, near Kelso, in Roxburghshire, Scot- 
 land, September nth, 1700, and was educated partly at a school in 
 Jedburgh, and partly at the University of Edinburgh. He published 
 his "Winter," in 1726, in London, where its reception was highly fa- 
 vourable. Between that and 1730, the remainder of the poems making 
 up "The Seasons" were published. He failed in tragedy — his " Sopho- 
 nisba" meeting with bad success at Drury Lane. He travelled in Eu- 
 rope as tutor to the Hon. Charles Talbot, son of the Chancellor, and 
 on his return was made Secretary of the Briefs. A posthumous tragedy, 
 called " Coriolanus," was produced in 1749. He died August 27th, 
 1748. 
 
 V'ere, Aubrey de . . . . . . .285 
 
 AujjREY Thomas de Vere is the third son of Sir Aubrey de Vere, the 
 author of "Julian the Apostate," and other works, and was born 
 January loth, 18 14. He has published two different volumes of 
 poetry. The family were originally Irish, and named Hunt; bu£ the 
 father of our poet assumed the arms and surnam.e of De Vere in 1832, 
 by letters-patent. 
 
 Wallace, William Ross . . . . .291 
 
 William Ross Wallace was born in Kentucky, in 1818, and educated, 
 
 we believe, at an Indiana College. He has bpen admitted tc the bar, 
 
370 nALF-nouRS with tub poets. 
 
 but is a literary man by profession. Some of his lyrics arc exceedingly 
 noble, and will live. 
 
 Waller, Edmund ...... Page 82 
 
 Edmund Waller was born at Coleshill,in Hertfordshire, England, March 
 3d, 1605, and educated at Eton, and King's College, Cambridge. He 
 was chosen member of Parliament at eighteen years of age, and ban- 
 ished in 1643, for being engaged in a plot for the king's restoration, but 
 was at length permitted to return. He served in Parliament during 
 the reigns of Charles the Second and James the Second, being elected 
 to the first Parliament of the latter sovereign when in his eightieth 
 year. He died October 21st, 1687. He enjoyed successively the favor 
 of James I., Charles I., Cromwell, Charles II., and James II. 
 
 Walsh, William . . . . . . .121 
 
 William Walsh, the correspondent and friend of Pope, was born at 
 Abberley, in Worcestershire, England, in 1663, and educated at Ox- 
 ford. He sat several times in Parliament. 
 
 Whittler, John Greenleaf . . . , • 257 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier was born at Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 
 1808. He commenced writing for the journals at an early age, and 
 at twenty-one became an editor. He has written a great number of 
 poems, mostly on American subjects and the live topics of the day, 
 together with several crose volumes. 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel P. . . . . . .242 
 
 Nathaniel P. Willis was born at Portland, in Maine, January zcth, 
 1807, and was educated at Yale College, New Haven. He is well 
 known as a playwright, novelist, tale-writer, post, and editor. He 
 was connected with General Morris, until the death of the latter, in 
 the publication of the Home Journal^ He died in 1867. 
 
 Wither, George ....... 65 
 
 George Wither was born at Bentworth, near Alton, in Hampshire, 
 England, on June nth, 1588, and was educated at Magdalen College, 
 Oxford. He studied law at Lincoln's Inn, but, like many of his con- 
 temporaries, abandoned his profession for literature. He sided with the 
 Parliament in the Civil War, and obtained the rank of Major. Crom- 
 well made him Major-General of Horse and Foot in the county of 
 Surrey. After the Restoration he was committed to the Tower, on 
 account of a seditious publication, and remained imprisoned for thfee 
 years. He died on May 2d, 1667. 
 
 Wordsworth, William . . . . . .162 
 
 William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, Eng- 
 land, on April 7th, 1770, and was educated at St. John's College, 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 37^ 
 
 Cambridge. He received the degree of Doctor of Laws from Oxford, 
 in 1839 J and after the death of Southey, was made Poet Laureate. 
 He died in 1849. 
 
 WoTTON, Sir Henry ..... Page 45 
 
 Henry Wotton was born in Kent, England, March 30th, 1568, and 
 educated at New and at Queen's College, Oxford, where he took his 
 Master's degree in 1588. He travelled several years, and then entered 
 the Earl of Essex's service. He was Ambassador to Venice under 
 James the First, but finally took orders and became Provost of Eton, 
 dying as such, during 1639. 
 
 Wyat, Sir Thomas . . . . . .y 11 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat, the elder, was born at Allington Castle, in Kent, 
 and educated at Cambridge. He was a favourite with Henry the 
 Eighth, and was celebrated for his wit and good companionship. It 
 was said of him that he caused the Reformation by a joke, and the fall 
 of Wolsey by a seasonable story. He lost the favour of the King at 
 one time, probably from a too great intimacy with Anna Boleyn, but, 
 after suffering imprisonment, regained his former position. He was sent 
 to conduct the Ambassador of Charles the Fifth from Falmouth to 
 London ; and in his eagerness to perform the duty acceptably, over- 
 heated himself, and caught a fever, from which he died in 1541, in 
 the thirty-eighth year of his age. Besides his songs and sonnets, he 
 translated parts of Virgil, and made a version of David's Psalms. Tb< 
 latter is not now extant 
 
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