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CONTENTS. 
 
 Dedication 
 
 Preface . 
 
 Book I. . 
 
 Book II. . 
 
 Book III. 
 
 Book IV. 
 
 Notes . . 
 
 Index of Writers 
 
 Index of Pirst Links 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 5 
 
 7 
 
 II 
 
 116 
 
 330 
 345 
 348 
 
Ets rhv \€ifi(S}va KaBiffmSg 
 aipofievos 'dypev/x avtied&p 
 
TO 
 
 POET LAUREATE. 
 
 This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man 
 with whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region 
 of English literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the 
 noble gifts of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the 
 noblest and the rarest, — just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. 
 It would have been, hence, a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate 
 what I have endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three 
 centuries to Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any 
 human tokens of love and reverence ; and I desire, therefore, to 
 place before it a name united with his by associations which, whilst 
 Poetry retains her hold on the minds of Englishmen, are not likely 
 to be forgotten. 
 
 Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of 
 Treryn Dinas, led me to begin the work ; and it has been completed 
 under your advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have 
 thus a second reason : and to this I may add, the homage which is 
 your right as Poet, and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard 
 I rate at no common value. 
 
 Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may 
 be found by m.any a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleas- 
 ure ; a source of animation to friends when they meet ; and able to 
 sweeten solitude itself with best society, — with the companionship 
 of the wise and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see. 
 
6 DEDICA riON, 
 
 and the music only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a 
 
 storehouse of delight to Labour and to Poverty, — if it teaches those 
 
 indifferent to the Poets to love them, and those who love them to 
 
 love them more, the a*m and the desire entertained in framing it will 
 
 be fully accomplished. 
 
 F. T. P. 
 
 •May, 1861- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the 
 attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and 
 Songs in our language, by writers not living, — and none beside 
 the best. Many familiar verses will hence be met with ; many also 
 which should be familiar : — the Editor will regard as his fittest 
 readers those who love Poetry so well, that he can offer them noth- 
 ing not already known and valued. 
 
 The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition 
 of Lyrical Poetry ; but he has found the task of practical decision 
 increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work, 
 whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been 
 here held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some 
 single thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, 
 narrative, descriptive, and didactic poems, — unless accompanied by 
 rapidity of movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion, 
 — have been excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very 
 unfrequent instances where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, 
 with what is strictly personal, occasional, and religious, has been 
 considered foreign to the idea of the book. Blank verse and the 
 ten-syllable couplet, with all pieces markedly dramatic, have been 
 rejected as alien from what is commonly understood by Song, and 
 rarely conforming to Lyrical conditions in treatment. But it is not 
 anticipated, nor is it possible, that all readers shall think the line 
 accurately drawn. Some poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and 
 Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be 
 claimed with perhaps equal justice for a narrative or descriptive 
 selection : whilst with reference especially to Ballads and Sonnets, 
 the Editor can only state that he has taken his utmost pains to 
 decide without caprice or partiality. 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable 
 to question ; — what degree of merit should give rank among the 
 Best. That a Poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius, — that 
 it shall reach a perfection commensurate with its aim, — that we 
 should require finish in proportion to brevity, — that passion, 
 colour, and originality cannot atone for serious imperfections in 
 clearness, unity, or truth, — that a few good lines do not make a good 
 poem, that popular estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than 
 as a compass, — above all, that Excellence should be looked for 
 rather in the Whole than in the Parts, — such and other such 
 canons have been always steadily regarded. He may however add 
 that the pieces chosen, and a far larger number rejected, have been 
 carefully and repeatedly considered ; and that he has been aided 
 throughout by two friends of independent and exercised judgment, 
 besides the distinguished person addressed in the Dedication. It 
 is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been freed from 
 that one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions : — but 
 for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible. 
 
 Chalmers*' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible 
 poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different 
 periods, have been twice systematically read through : and it is 
 hence improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are 
 due to oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few 
 instances (specified in the notes) where a stanza has been omitted. 
 The omissions have been risked only when the piece could be thus 
 brought to a closer lyrical unity : and, as essentially opposed to this 
 unity, extracts, obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, 
 the purpose of the book has appeared to justify the choice of the 
 most poetical version, wherever more than one exists ; and much 
 labour has been given to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, 
 and punctuation, to the greatest advantage. 
 
 In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been 
 attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of 
 thought and cultivation so various and so opposed during these three 
 centuries of Poetry, that a rapid passage between Old and New, like 
 rapid alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will 
 always be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The 
 poems have been therefore distributed into Books corresponding. 
 
PREFACE. 9 
 
 I to the ninety years closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 
 1800, IV to the half century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets 
 who more or less give each portion its distinctive character, they 
 might be called the Books of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and 
 Wordsworth. The volume, in this respect, so far as the limitations 
 of its range allow, accurately reflects the natural growth and evolu- 
 tion of our Poetry. A rigidly chronological sequence, however, 
 rather fits a collection aiming at instruction than at pleasure, and 
 the Wisdom which comes through Pleasure: — within each book 
 the pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or 
 subject. And it is hoped that the contents of this Anthology will 
 thus be found to present a certain unity, ' as episodes,' in the noble 
 language of Shelley, ' to that great Poem which all poets, like the co- 
 operating thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the 
 beginning of the world.' 
 
 As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add with- 
 out egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular 
 Fame more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a 
 criticism, would confine judgments on Poetry to ' the selected few 
 of many generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation 
 without some gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it : 
 and if no verses by certain writers who show less strength than 
 sweetness, or more thought than mastery in expression, are printed 
 in this volume, it shoul-d not be imagined that they have been ex- 
 cluded without much hesitation and regret, — far less that they have 
 been slighted. Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers 
 now silent, few have been honoured with the name Poet, and have 
 not possessed a skill in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness 
 of feeling, or seriousness in reflection, which render their works, 
 although never perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence 
 here required, — better worth reading than much of what fills the 
 scanty hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for 
 pleasure in any of its more elevated and permanent forms. And it 
 this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are we 
 indebted to the best ! Like the fabled fountain of the Azores, but 
 with a more various power, the magic of this Art can confer on each 
 period of life its appropriate blessing : on early years Experience, 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 on maturity Calm, on age Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures] 
 * more golden than gold/ leading us in higher and healthier ways 
 than those of the world, and interpreting to us the lessons of Na- 
 ture. But she speaks best for herself. Her true accents, it the plan 
 has been executed with success, may be heard throughout the fol- 
 lowing pages : — wherever the Poets of England are honoured 
 wherever the dominant language of the world is spoken, it is hopec 
 that they will find fit audience. 
 
 During the years since this book was first published, not a few 
 poems have appeared to the Editor, or have been suggested, as fit 
 candidates for insertion. A few of these were then unprinted : somt 
 have owed their claim to reconsideration : most, to the opportunity" 
 of studying our rare early writers, which the excellent reprints of 
 Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, and others, have afforded. 
 To have added all these pieces, however, — even if accompanied by 
 a few erasements, — would have given both a cumbrous enlargement 
 and a novel aspect to the selection. Under the advice and assist- 
 ance, therefore, of the distinguished Friend to whom gratitude is 
 due from all readers who have found, or may hereafter find here the 
 pleasure and profit which it is the aim of Poetry to give, the very 
 best only of the poems gathered in this after-harvest have been 
 admitted. And in this gleaning the original limit by which the book 
 was confined to those no longer living has been retained, and noth- 
 ing added from those poets whose loss, — too early even when they 
 were taken in the fulness of their days, — the English-speaking 
 world has had to deplore since i86l. 
 
 December, i 
 
THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 
 
 I. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Spring, the sweet Spring, is the 3'ears pleasant king; 
 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, 
 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
 
 The palm and may make country houses gay, 
 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 
 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay. 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. 
 
 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet^ 
 Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, 
 In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
 Spring ! the sweet Spring ! 
 
 T. Nash. 
 
 II. 
 
 SUMMONS TO LOVE. 
 
 Phoebus, 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 ! 
 
i2 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 Give life to this dark world which lieth dead ; 
 
 Spread forth thy golden hair 
 
 In larger locks than thou wast wont before, 
 
 And emperor-like decore 
 
 With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 
 
 Chase hence the ugly night 
 
 Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. 
 
 — This is that happy morn, 
 That day, long-wished day 
 Of all my life so dark, 
 
 (if cruel stars have not my ruin sworn 
 
 And fates my hopes betray), 
 
 Which, purely white, deserves 
 
 An everlasting diamond should it mark. 
 
 This is the morn should bring unto this grove 
 
 My Love, to hear and recompense my love. 
 
 Fair King, who all preserves, 
 
 But show thy blushing beams, 
 
 And thou two sweeter eyes 
 
 Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 
 
 Did once thy heart surprize. 
 
 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 shun his flaming wheels : 
 The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue. 
 The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ; 
 Here is the pleasant place — 
 And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! 
 
 W. Drummond of Hawihorna 
 
TIME AND LOVE, 13 
 
 III. 
 
 TIME AND LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
 The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age ; 
 When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, 
 And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 
 
 When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
 Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
 And the firm soil win of the watery main, 
 Increasing store with loss, and loss with store ; 
 
 When I have seen such interchange of state. 
 Or state itself confounded to decay, 
 Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — 
 That Time will come and take my Love away : 
 
 — This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
 But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 rv. 
 
 2. 
 
 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea.. 
 But sad mortality o'ersways their power, 
 How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea. 
 Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 
 
 O how shall summer's honey breath hold out 
 Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
 When rocks impregnable are not so stout 
 Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? 
 
 O fearful meditation ! where, alack ! 
 Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 
 Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, 
 Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 
 
 O I none, unless this miracle have might, 
 That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 
 
 W, Shakespeare. 
 
14 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Come live with me and be my Love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
 And all the craggy mountains yield. 
 
 There will we sit upon the rocks 
 And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 There will I make thee beds of roses 
 And a thousand fragrant posies, 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
 Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull. 
 Fair lined slippers for the cold. 
 With buckles of the purest gold. 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds 
 With coral clasps and amber studs: 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Come live with me and be my Love. 
 
 Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
 As precious as the gods do eat, 
 Shall on an ivory table be 
 Prepared each day for thee and me. 
 
 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. 
 
 C. Marlowe. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth 
 Cannot live together : 
 
A MADRIGAL. \% 
 
 Youth is full of pleasance, 
 Age is full of care ; 
 Youth like summer morn, 
 Age like winter weather, 
 Youth like summer brave, 
 Age like winter bare : 
 Youth is full of sport, 
 Age's breath is short, 
 Youth is nimble, Age is lame : 
 Youth is hot and bold, 
 Age is weak and cold, 
 Youth is wild, and Age is tame : — 
 Age, I do abhor thee, 
 Youth, I do adore thee ; 
 O ! my Love, my Love is young \ 
 Age, I do defy thee — 
 O sweet shepherd, hie thee, 
 For methinks thou stay'st too long, 
 • W. Shakespeare. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Under the greenwood tree 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat — 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither ■ 
 Here shall we see 
 No enemy 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Who doth ambition shun 
 And loves to live i' the sun, 
 Seeking the food he eats 
 And pleased with what he gets — 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 W. Shakespeare^ 
 
BOOK FIRST. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It was a lover and his lass 
 
 With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino? 
 That o'er the green cornfield did pass 
 In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
 When birds do sing hey ding a ding : 
 
 Sweet lovers love the Spring. 
 
 Between the acres of the rye 
 
 These pretty country folks would lie : 
 
 This carol they began that hour, 
 How that life was but a flower : 
 
 And therefore take the present time 
 
 With a hey and a ho and a hey-nonino ! 
 For love is crowned with the prime 
 In spring time, the only pretty ring time. 
 When birds do sing hey ding a ding : 
 Sweet lovers love the Spring. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 IX. 
 
 PRESENT IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Absence, hear thou my protestation 
 Against thy strength, 
 Distance, and length ; 
 Do what thou canst for alteration : 
 For hearts of truest mettle 
 Absence doth join, and Time doth settle. 
 
 Who loves a mistress of such quality, 
 He soon hath found 
 Affection's ground 
 Beyond time, place, and all mortality. 
 To hearts that cannot vary 
 Absence is present, Time doth tarry. 
 
 By absence this good means I gain. 
 That I can catch her, 
 Where none can watch her, 
 
ABSENCE. 17 
 
 In some close corner of my brain : 
 There I embrace and kiss lier ; 
 And so I both enjoy and miss her. 
 Ation, 
 
 X. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
 Upon the hours and times 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 nought 
 Save, where you are, how happy you make those ; 
 
 So true a fool is love, that in your will. 
 Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XI. 
 
 How like a winter hath my absence been 
 From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! ' 
 
 What freezings have I felt, what dark days seeis, 
 What old December's bareness everywhere ! 
 
 And yet this time removed was summer's time: 
 The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, 
 Bearing the wanton burden of the prime 
 Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease : 
 
 Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me 
 But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit; 
 For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
 And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 
 
i8 BOOK FIRS7. 
 
 Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, 
 That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XII. 
 A CONSOLATION. 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 
 I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate ; 
 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 
 Featured like him, like him with friends possest, 
 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
 With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 
 Haply I think on Thee — and then my state. 
 Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
 
 For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings 
 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XIII. 
 THE UNCHANGEABLE. 
 
 O NEVER say that I was false of heart, 
 Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify : 
 As easy might I from myself depart 
 As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie ; 
 
 That is my home of love ; if I have ranged. 
 Like him that travels, I return again, 
 Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, 
 So that myself bring water for my stain. 
 
 Never believe, though in my nature reign'd 
 All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood. 
 That it could so preposterously be stain'd 
 To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 
 
DIAPHENIA. 19 
 
 For nothing this wide universe I call, 
 Save thou, my rose : in it thou art my all. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 XIV. 
 
 To me, fair Friend, you never can be old. 
 For as you were when first your eye I eyed 
 Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 
 Have from the forests shook three summers' pride ; 
 
 Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned 
 In process of the season have I seen, 
 Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, 
 Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. 
 
 Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, 
 
 Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ; 
 
 So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 
 
 Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived : 
 
 For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, — 
 Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. 
 
 W. Shakespe^we. 
 XV. 
 
 DIAPHENIA. 
 
 DiAPHENiA like the daffadowndilly, 
 
 White as the sun, fair as the lily, 
 Heigh ho, how I do love thee ! 
 
 I do love thee as my lambs 
 
 Are beloved of their dams ; 
 How blest were I if thou would'st prove me 
 
 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. 
 
20 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 
 As the birds do love the spring, 
 Or the bees their careful king : 
 
 Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me I 
 
 H. Comtabk, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere 
 Where all imperial glory shines, 
 Of selfsame colour is her hair 
 Whether unfolded, or in twines: 
 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
 Resembling heaven by every wink ; 
 The Gods do fear whenas they glow. 
 And I do tremble when I think 
 
 Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 
 That beautifies Aurora's face, 
 Or like the silver crimson shroud 
 That Phcebus' smiling looks doth grace 
 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Her lips are like two budded roses 
 Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh. 
 Within which bounds she balm encloses 
 A-pt to entice a deity : 
 
 Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Her neck is like a stately tower 
 Where Love himself imprisoned lies, 
 To watch for glances every hour 
 From her divine and sacred eyes : 
 
 Heigh ho, for Rosaline ! 
 Her paps are centres of delight. 
 Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, 
 Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
 
COLIN. 21 
 
 To feed perfection with the same : 
 Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
 With marble white, with sapphire blue 
 Her body every way is fed, 
 Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : 
 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 Nature herself her shaj^e admires ; 
 The Gods arc wounded in her sight ; 
 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
 And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
 
 Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Then muse not. Nymphs, though I bemoan 
 The absence of fair Rosaline, 
 Since for a fair there's fairer none, 
 Nor for her virtues so divine : 
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ; 
 Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that she were mine ' 
 
 T. Lodge, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 COLIN. 
 
 Beauty sat bathing by a spring 
 
 Where fairest shades did hide her ; 
 The winds blew calm, the birds did sing. 
 
 The cool streams ran beside her. 
 My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye 
 
 To see what was forbidden : 
 But better memory said, fie ! 
 
 So vain desire was chidden : — 
 
 Hey nonny nonny O 1 
 Hey nonny nonny! 
 
 Into a slumber then I fell, 
 
 When fond imagination 
 Seemed to see, but could not tell 
 
 Her feature or her fashion. 
 But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile, 
 
22 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 And sometimes fall a-weeping, 
 So I awaked, as wise this while 
 As when I fell a-sleeping : — 
 
 Hey nonny nonny O ! 
 Hey nonny nonny ! 
 
 The Shepherd Tonic, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
 Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
 Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
 And summer's lease hath all too short a date : 
 
 Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
 
 And often is his gold complexion dimm'd : 
 
 And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
 
 By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd. 
 
 But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
 Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
 Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, 
 When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
 
 So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
 * So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time 
 I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 
 And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
 In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; 
 
 Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best 
 Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
 I see their antique pen would have exprest 
 Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 
 
 So all. their praises are but prophecies 
 Of this our time, all, you prefiguring; 
 
LOVE'S PERJURIES. 23 
 
 And for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
 They had not skill enough your worth to sing : 
 
 For we, which now behold these present days, 
 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise, 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XX. 
 
 LOVE'S PERJURIES. 
 
 On 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. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 XXI. 
 
 A SUPPLICATION. 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 
 Of such a truth as I have meant; 
 My great travail so gladly spent. 
 
 Forget not yet ! 
 Forget not yet when first began 
 The weary life ye know, since whan 
 
24 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 The suit, the service none tell can ; 
 
 Forget not yet! 
 Forget not yet the great assays, 
 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 ! 
 
 Forget not then thine own approved 
 The which so long hath thee so loved, 
 Whose steadfast faith yet never moved — 
 
 Forget not this ! Sir T. Wycd. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 TO AURORA. 
 
 O IF thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm. 
 And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest ; 
 Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast 
 And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. 
 
 O if thy pride did not our joys controul. 
 What world of loving wonders should'st thou see ! 
 For if I saw thee once transform "'d 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 should'st 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. 
 
 W. Alexander, Earl of Sterlini 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 
A DITTY. 25 
 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or bends with 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 bark 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken 
 
 Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom : ^ 
 
 If this be error, and upon me proved, 
 
 1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A DITTY. 
 
 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
 By just exchange one for another 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 him his thoughts and senses guides: 
 He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
 I cherish his because in me it bides : 
 
 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 Sir p. Sidney. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. 
 
 Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 
 And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
 Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swair. 
 Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love. 
 
 Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 
 And you, my Love, as humble and as low 
 
BOOK FIRST. 
 
 As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
 Whereso'er you were, v/ith 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 wax'd blind, and till the world were done 
 
 Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, 
 W*^reso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. 
 
 y. Sylvester. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
 "O stay and hear ! your true-love's coming 
 
 That can ^ng both high and low ; 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting — 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; 
 Present mirth hath present laughter; 
 
 What's to come is still unsure : 
 In delay there lies no plenty, — 
 Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 
 
 Youth's a stuff will not endure. 
 
 VV. Shakespeare, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 When icicles hang by the wall 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
 
 And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
 And milk comes frozen home in pail; 
 
 When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, 
 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl 
 Tuwhoo ! 
 
 Tuwhit ! tuwhoo ! A merry note ! 
 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
REMEMBRANCE. 27 
 
 When all around the wind doth blow, 
 
 And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
 And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
 
 And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; 
 When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl — 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl 
 
 Tuwhoo ! 
 Tuwhit ! tuwhoo ! A merry note ! 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
 W, Shakespeare, 
 XXVIII. 
 
 That time of year thou may'st in me behold 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
 Bare iTiin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
 
 In me thou seest the twilight of such day 
 As after sunset fadeth in the w^est. 
 Which by and by black night doth take away, 
 Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
 
 In me thou seest the glowing of such fire. 
 That on the ashes of his youth doth lie 
 As the deathbed whereon it must expire, 
 Consumed with that which it was nourished by : 
 
 — This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. 
 To love that well which thou must leave ere lon^. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; 
 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
 For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
 And weep afresh love's long-si nce-cancell'd woe. 
 And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. 
 
28 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
 Which I new pay as if not paid before : 
 
 - — But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
 All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XXX. 
 
 REVOLUTIONS. 
 
 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 
 So do our mmutes hasten to their end ; 
 Each changing place with that which goes before, 
 In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
 
 Nativity once in tiie main of light 
 
 Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, 
 
 Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, 
 
 And Tim.e that gave, doth now his gift confound. 
 
 Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 
 And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; 
 Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 
 And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 
 
 And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stan'^ 
 Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing 
 And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : 
 The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing, 
 My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
 
 For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? 
 And for that riches where is my deserving? 
 The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 
 And so my patent back again is swerving. 
 
 Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing. 
 Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; 
 
THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION, 29 
 
 So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, 
 Comes home again, on better judgment making. 
 
 Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter ; 
 In sleep, a king ; but waking, no such matter. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION. 
 
 They that have power to hurt, and will do none. 
 That do not do the thing they most do show. 
 Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
 Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, — 
 
 They rightly do inherit Heaven^s graces. 
 And husband nature's riches from expense ; 
 They are the lords and owners of their faces, 
 Others, but stewards of their excellence. 
 
 The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
 Though to itself it only live and die ; 
 But if that flower with base infection meet, 
 The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 
 
 For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds : 
 Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE LOVER'S APPEAL. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! for shame, 
 To save thee from the blame 
 Of all my grief and grame. 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 Say nay ! say nay 1 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 That hath loved thee so long 
 In wealth and woe among : 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 
30 BOCK FIRST, 
 
 As for to leave me thus? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 That hath given thee my heart 
 Never for to depart 
 Neither for pain nor smart : 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 And have no more pity 
 Of him that loveth thee ? 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 Sir T. Wyat 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 As it fell upon a day 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 
 Sitting in a pleasant shade 
 
 Which a grove of myrtles made, 
 
 Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 
 
 Trees did grow and plants did spring, 
 
 Every thing did banish moan 
 
 Save the nightingale alone. 
 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 
 Lean'd her breast against a thorn. 
 
 And there sung the dolefullest ditty 
 
 That to hear it was 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. 
 
 — Ah, thought I, thou mournst in vain. 
 
MADRIGAL. 
 
 None takes pity on thy pain : 
 
 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, 
 
 Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer the<? ; 
 
 King Pandion, he is dead, 
 
 All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 
 
 All thy fellow birds do sing 
 
 Careless of thy sorrowing : 
 
 Even so, poor bird, like thee 
 
 None alive will pity me. 
 
 R. Barnefield. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Nignt, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born. 
 Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; 
 With dark forgetting of my care return. 
 
 And let the day be time enough to mourn 
 The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth : 
 Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
 Without the torment of the night's untruth. 
 
 Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
 To model forth the passions of the morrow ; 
 Never let rising Sun approve you liars 
 To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow : 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
 S. Daniel. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 Take O take those lips away 
 That so sweetly were forsworn, 
 And those eyes, the break of day. 
 Lights that do mislead the morn : 
 But my kisses bring again, 
 
 Bring again — 
 Seals of love, but seaFd in vain, 
 
 SeaPd in vain ! 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
12 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 LOVE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Since 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 for ever, 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 kneeling by his bed of death, 
 And innocence is closing up his eyes, 
 
 — Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over 
 From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! 
 
 M. Drayton. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 TO HIS LUTE. 
 
 My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
 With thy green mother in some shady grove, 
 When immelodious winds but made thee move, 
 And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. 
 
 Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve: 
 Which wont in such harmonious strains to flov.% 
 Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above, 
 What art thou but a harbinger of woe.'' 
 
 Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, 
 But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear ; 
 Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear ; 
 For which be silent as in woods before : 
 
 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
 Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. 
 
 W. Drummond, 
 
BLIND LOVE. 33 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 BLIND LOVE. 
 
 O ME ! what eyes hath love put in my head 
 Which have no correspondence with true sight: 
 Or if they have, where is my judgment fled 
 That censures falsely what they see aright? 
 
 If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, 
 What means the world to say it is not so? 
 If it be not, then love doth well denote 
 Love's eye is not so true as all men's : No, 
 
 How can it? O how can love's eye be true, 
 That is so vex'd with watching and with tears? 
 No marvel then though I mistake my view : 
 The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 
 
 O cunning Love ! with tears thou keep'st me blind; 
 Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find ! 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XL. 
 
 THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 While that the sun with his beams hot 
 Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain, 
 Philon the shepherd, late forgot, 
 Sitting beside a crystal fountain. 
 
 In shadow of a green oak tree 
 
 Upon his pipe this song play'd he : 
 Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 
 Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ; ' 
 Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 
 
 So long as I was in your sight 
 I was your heart, your soul, and treasure ; 
 And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd 
 Burning in flames beyond all measure : 
 
 — Three days endured your love to me. 
 
 And it was lost in other three ! 
 Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue LovCj 
 
34 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ,- 
 Your mind is light, soon lost for new lovCc 
 
 Another ShejDherd you did see 
 To whom your heart was soon enchained ; 
 Full soon your love was leapt from me, 
 Full soon my place he had obtained. 
 Soon came a third, your love to win, 
 And we were out and he was in. 
 Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 
 Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ; 
 Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 
 
 Sure you have made me passing glad 
 That you your mind so soon removed, 
 Before that I the leisure had 
 To choose you for my best belovdd : 
 For all your love was past and done 
 Two days before it was begun : — 
 Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 
 LTntrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love; 
 Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 
 
 Ano7t. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 A RENUNCIATION. 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond, 
 Or that their love were firm, not fickle stili, 
 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? 
 
MADRIGAL. 35 
 
 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 ! 
 
 E. Vere, Earl of Oxford. 
 XLII. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 
 Thy tooth is not so keen 
 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 
 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky. 
 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remember'd not. 
 Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; 
 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 W. Shakespeare^ 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 My thoughts hold mortal strife ; 
 
 I do detest my life, 
 
 And with lamenting cries 
 
 Peace to my soul to bring 
 
 Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize : 
 
36 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 — But he, grim grinning King^ 
 Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize, 
 Late having decked with beauty^'s rose his tomb, 
 Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. 
 
 W. Drummond, 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 DIRGE OF LOVE. 
 
 Come away, come away, Death, 
 And in sad cypres let me be laid ; 
 Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
 I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
 My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 
 O prepare it ! 
 My part of death no one so true ' 
 Did share it. 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet 
 On my black cofiin let there be strown ; 
 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save, 
 
 Lay me, O where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave, 
 To weep there. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 FIDELE. 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 
 Nor the furious winter''s rages ; 
 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
 
 Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 
 
 Golden lads and girls all must, 
 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.- 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
 
A SEA DIRGE. 37 
 
 To thee the reed is as the oak: 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 AH follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the lightning flash 
 
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
 
 Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 
 Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: 
 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XLVI. 
 A SEA DIRGE. 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies : 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange ; 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
 Hark ! now I hear them, — 
 
 Ding, dong, Bell. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 A LAND DIRGE. 
 
 Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 
 Since o'er shady groves they hover 
 And with leaves and flowers do cover 
 The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
 Call unto his funeral dole 
 The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole 
 To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm 
 And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ; 
 But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, 
 For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 
 
 y. Webster, 
 
38 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 POST MORTEM. 
 
 If Thou survive my well-contented day 
 
 When that churl Death my bones with dust shall covei 
 
 And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 
 
 These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover ; 
 
 Compare them with the bettering of the time, 
 And though they be outstripped by every pen. 
 Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme 
 Exceeded by the height of happier men. 
 
 O then vouchsafe me but this loving- thought — 
 ' Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age, 
 A dearer birth than this his love had brought. 
 To march in ranks of better equipage : 
 
 But since he died, and poets better prove, 
 Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH. 
 
 No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
 Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
 Give warning to the world, that I am fled 
 From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ; 
 
 Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
 The hand that writ it ; for I love you so, 
 That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot 
 If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
 
 O if, I say, you look upon this verse 
 When I perhaps compounded am with clay, 
 Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, 
 But let your love even with my life decay ; 
 
 Lest the wise world should look into your moan. 
 And mock you with me after I am gone. 
 
 W, Shakespeare. 
 
CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 39 
 
 L. 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 Tell me where is Fancy bred, 
 Or in the heart, or in the head? 
 How begot, how nourished? 
 Reply, reply. 
 
 It is engender'd in the eyes. 
 With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies 
 In the cradle where it lies : 
 Let us all ring fancy's knell; 
 I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 
 — Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 LL 
 
 CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 
 
 At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 
 
 His mother's doves, 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 ; 
 
 AH these did my Campaspe win ; 
 
 At last he set her both his eyes — 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 O Love ! has she done this to thee? 
 
 What shall, alas ! become of me? 
 y.Lylye. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, 
 
 With night we banish sorrow ; 
 Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft 
 
 To give my Love good-morrow ! 
 
40 BOOK FIRS7 . 
 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind 
 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
 Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 
 To give my Love good-morrow ; 
 To give my Love good-morrow 
 Notes from them both Fll borrow. 
 
 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 ! 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
 You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
 Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; 
 To give my Love good-morrow 
 Sing birds in every furrow ! 
 
 T. Heywood. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 PROTHALAMION. 
 
 Calm was the day, and through the trembling ail 
 Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play — 
 A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
 Hot Titan's beams, which then did ghster fair; 
 When I (whom sullen care, 
 Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 
 In princes' court, and expectation vain 
 Of idle hopes, which still do fly away 
 Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain), 
 Walk'd forth to ease my pain 
 Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames ; 
 Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, 
 Was painted all with variable flowers. 
 And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems 
 Fit to deck maidens' bowers. 
 And crown their paramours 
 Against the bridal day, which is not long : 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
PR THALAMION. 4 1 
 
 There in a meadow by the river's side 
 A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy^ 
 All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
 With goodly greenish locks all loose untied 
 As each had been a bride ; 
 And each one had a little wicker basket 
 Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously. 
 In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, 
 And with fine fingers cropt full feateously 
 The tender stalks on high. 
 Of every sort which in that meadow grew 
 They gathered some ; the violet, pallid blue, 
 The little daisy that at evening closes, 
 The virgin lily and the primrose true : 
 With store of vermeil roses, 
 To deck their bridegrooms' posies 
 Against the bridal day, which was not long : 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 With that I saw two swans of goodly hue 
 Come softly swimming down along the lee ; 
 Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; 
 The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew 
 Did never whiter show. 
 Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be 
 For love of Leda, whiter did appear ; 
 Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, 
 Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; 
 So purely white they were 
 
 That even the gentle stream, the which them barej 
 Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare, 
 To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
 Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 
 And mar their beauties bright 
 That shone as Heaven's light 
 Against their bridal day, which was not long ; 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fili, 
 
^2 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 Ran all in haste to see that silver brood 
 As they came floating on the crystal flood ; 
 Whom when they saw, they stood amazdd still 
 Their wondering eyes to fill ; 
 Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair 
 Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem 
 Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
 Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team ; 
 For sure they did not seem 
 To be begot of any earthly seed, 
 But rather angels, or of angels^ breed ; 
 Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, 
 In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 
 The earth did fresh array; 
 So fresh they seem'd as day, 
 Even as their bridal day, which was not long : 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
 Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 
 That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 
 All which upon those goodly birds they threw 
 And all the waves did strew, 
 That like old Peneus' waters they did seem 
 When down along by pleasant Tempers shore 
 Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream. 
 That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, 
 Like a bride's chamber-floor. 
 
 Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound 
 Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, 
 The which presenting all in trim array, 
 Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd ; 
 Whilst one did sing this lay 
 Prepared against that day, 
 Against their bridal day, which was not long : 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song." 
 
 * Ye gentle birds ! the w.orld's fair ornament. 
 And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 
 
PROTHALAMION. 43 
 
 Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 
 
 Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content 
 
 Of your love's complement ; 
 
 And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, 
 
 With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, 
 
 Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove . 
 
 All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 
 
 For ever to assoil. 
 
 Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord. 
 
 And blessed plenty wait upon your board ; 
 
 And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound. 
 
 That fruitful issue may to you afford 
 
 Which may your foes confound, 
 
 And make your joys redound 
 
 Upon your bridal day, which is not long : 
 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song.' 
 
 So ended she ; and all the rest around 
 To her redoubled that her undersong, 
 Which said their bridal day should not be long : 
 And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground 
 Their accents did resound. 
 So forth those joyous birds did pass along 
 Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low, 
 As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue, 
 Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 
 Making his stream run slow. 
 And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
 'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 
 The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
 The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, 
 Did on those two attend. 
 And their best service lend 
 Against their wedding day, which was not long: 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 At length they all to merry London came, 
 To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
 ,\at to me gave this life's first native source. 
 
44 BOOK FIRSi. 
 
 Though from another place I take my name, 
 
 An house of ancient fame : 
 
 There when they came whereas those bricky towers 
 
 The which on Thames broad aged back do ride, 
 
 Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 
 
 There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide, 
 
 Till they decayed through pride ; 
 
 Next whereunto there stands a stately place, 
 
 Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace 
 
 Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, 
 
 Whose want too well now feels my friendless case; 
 
 But ah ! here fits not well 
 
 Old woes, but joys to tell 
 
 Against the bridal day, which is not long : 
 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 
 
 Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder. 
 
 Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder, 
 
 And Hercules' two pillars standing near 
 
 Did make to quake and fear : 
 
 Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! 
 
 That fillest England with thy triumph's fame 
 
 Joy have thou of thy noble victory, 
 
 And endless happiness of thine own name 
 
 That promiseth the same ; 
 
 That through thy prowess and victorious arms 
 
 Thy country may be freed from foreign harms, 
 
 And great Eliza's glorious name may ring 
 
 Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms 
 
 Which some brave Muse may sing 
 
 To ages following. 
 
 Upon the bridal day, which is not long : 
 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song« 
 
 From those high towers this noble lord issuing 
 Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair 
 In th' ocean billows he hath bathdd fair. 
 Descended to the river's open viewing 
 
THE HAPPY HEART, 45 
 
 With a great train ensuing. 
 Above the rest were goodly to be seen 
 Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature. 
 Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 
 With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature 
 Fit for so goodly stature, 
 
 That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight 
 Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright; 
 They two, forth pacing to the river's side, 
 Received those two fair brides, their love's delight ; 
 Which, at th' appointed tide, 
 Each one did make his bride 
 Against their bridal day, which is not long : 
 Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
 
 E. Spenser, 
 LIV. 
 
 THE HAPPY HEART. 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 
 
 O sweet content ! 
 Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 
 
 O punishment ! 
 Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexdd 
 To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? 
 O sweet content ! O sweet O sweet content ! 
 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
 
 Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
 Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 
 
 Canst drink the waters of the crispdd spring? 
 
 O sweet content ! 
 Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? 
 
 O punishment! 
 Then he that patiently want's burden bears 
 No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
 O sweet content ! O sweet O sweet content 1 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
 Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
 Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 
 
 T. Dekker. 
 
46 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 LV. 
 
 This life, which seems so fair, 
 Is hke a bubble blown up in the air 
 By sporting children's breath, 
 Who chase it every where 
 And strive who can most motion it bequeath. 
 And though it sometimes seem of its own might 
 Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there, 
 And firm to hover in that empty height, 
 That only is because it is so light. 
 — But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; 
 For when 'tis most admired, in a thought, 
 Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. 
 
 W. Drummond. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 SOUL AND BODY. 
 
 Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
 FooPd by those rebel powers that thee array, 
 Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 
 Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
 
 Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
 Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
 Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
 Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's end ? 
 
 Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss. 
 And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 
 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
 Within be fed, without be rich no more : — 
 
 So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, 
 And death once dead, there's no more dying then. 
 
 VV. Shakespeare. 
 
 LVII. 
 LIFE. 
 
 The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man 
 Less than a span : 
 
THE LESSONS OF NATURE, 47 
 
 In his conception wretched, from the womb 
 
 So to the tomb ; 
 Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years 
 
 With cares and fears. 
 Who then to frail mortality shall trust, 
 But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 
 
 Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, 
 
 What life is best? 
 Courts are but only superficial schools 
 
 To dandle fools : 
 The rural parts are turned into a den 
 
 Of savage men : 
 And where's a city from foul vice so free. 
 But may be termM the worst of all the three ? 
 
 Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, 
 
 Or pains his head ; 
 Those that live single, take it for a curse, 
 
 Or do things worse : 
 Some would have children : those that have them, moan 
 
 Or wish them gone : 
 What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, 
 But single thraldom, or a double strife? 
 
 Our own affections still at home to please 
 
 Is a disease : 
 To cross the seas to any foreign soil, 
 
 Peril and toil : 
 Wars with their noise affright us ; when they cease 
 
 We are worse in peace ; — 
 What then remains, but that we still should cry 
 For being born, or, being born, to die? 
 
 Lord Bacon. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 THE LESSONS OF NATURE. 
 
 Of this fair volume which we World do name 
 If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
 
48 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom rare : 
 
 Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, 
 His providence extending everywhere, 
 His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 
 In every page, no period of the same. 
 
 But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
 Well pleased with coloured vellum, leaves of gold, 
 Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best. 
 On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 
 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
 It is some picture on the margin wrought. 
 
 W. Drummond. 
 LIX. 
 
 Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move? 
 Is this the justice which on Earth we find ? 
 Ts this that firm decree which all doth bind? 
 Are these your influences, Powers above ? 
 
 Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind, 
 Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove 
 Arid they who thee, poor idol Virtue ! love, 
 Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind. 
 
 Ah ! if a Providence doth sway this all, 
 
 Why should best minds groan under most distress? 
 
 Or why should pride humility make thrall, 
 
 And injuries the innocent oppress? 
 
 Heavens ! hinder, stop this fate ; or grant a time 
 When good may have, as well as bad, their prime I 
 
 W. Drummond, 
 LX. 
 
 THE WORLD'S WAY. 
 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry — 
 As, to behold desert a beggar born. 
 And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity. 
 And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
 
SAINT JOHN BAPTIST. 49 
 
 And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 
 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
 And right perfection wrongfully disgraced. 
 And strength by limping sway disabled, 
 
 And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
 And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill. 
 And simple truth miscalFd simplicity, 
 And captive Good attending captain 111 : — 
 
 — Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, 
 Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 LXI. 
 
 SAINT JOHN BAPTIST. 
 
 The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King 
 Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, 
 Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
 Which he more harmless found than man, and mild 
 
 His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, 
 With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ; 
 Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing 
 Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. 
 
 There burst he forth : All ye whose hopes rely 
 On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn, 
 Repent, repent, and from old errors turn ! 
 
 — Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? 
 
 Only the echoes, which he made relent. 
 Rung from their flinty caves. Repent ! Repent^ 
 
 W. Drummond, 
 
THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 
 
 This is the month, and this the happy morn 
 Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King 
 Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
 Our great redemption from above did bring ; 
 For so the holy sages once did sing 
 That he our deadly forfeit should release. 
 And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 
 
 That glorious Form, that Light unsufiferable, 
 
 And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty 
 
 Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table 
 
 To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
 
 He laid aside ; and, here with us to be 
 
 Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 
 
 And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 
 
 Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
 
 Afford a present to the Infant God? 
 
 Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain 
 
 To welcome him to this his new abode, 
 
 Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, 
 
 Hath took no print of the approaching light, 
 
 And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons 
 
 See how from far, upon the eastern road, 
 The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet; 
 O run, prevent them with thy humble ode 
 And lay it Jowly at his blessed feet ; 
 
HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. . 51 
 
 Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 
 
 And join thy voice unto the angel quire 
 
 From out his secret altar touched with hallow'd fire. 
 
 THE HYMN. 
 
 It was the winter wild 
 
 While the heaven-born Child 
 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; 
 
 Nature in awe to him 
 
 Had doffd her gaudy trim, 
 
 With her great Master so to sympathize : 
 
 It was no season then for her 
 
 To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 
 
 Only with speeches fair 
 
 She woos the gentle air 
 
 To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; 
 
 And on her naked shame» 
 
 Pollute with sinful blame. 
 
 The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; 
 
 Confounded, that her Makers eyes 
 
 Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
 
 But he, her fears to cease, 
 
 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 
 
 She, crownM with olive green, came softly sliding 
 
 Down through the turning sphere 
 
 His ready harbinger, 
 
 With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; 
 
 And waving wide her myrtle wand, 
 
 She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 
 
 No war, or battle's sound 
 
 Was heard the world around : 
 
 The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; 
 
 The hooked chariot stood 
 
 Unstain'd with hostile blood ; 
 
 The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 
 
 And kings sat still with awful eye, 
 
 As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 
 
52 . BOOK SECOND. 
 
 But peaceful was the night 
 
 Wherein the Prince of Light 
 
 His reign of peace upon the earth began: 
 
 The winds, with wonder whist, 
 
 Smoothly the waters kist 
 
 Whispering new joys to the mild ocean — 
 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmdd wave. 
 
 The stars, with deep amaze, 
 
 Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, 
 
 Bending one way their precious influence; 
 
 And will not take their flight 
 
 For all the morning light, 
 
 Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence ; 
 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow 
 
 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 
 
 And though the shady gloom 
 
 Had given day her room. 
 
 The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
 
 And hid his head for shame, 
 
 As his inferior flame 
 
 The new-enlighten'd world no more should need ; 
 
 He saw a greater Sun appear 
 
 Than his bright throne, or burning axle tree could bear 
 
 The shepherds on the lawn 
 
 Or ere the point of dawn 
 
 Sate simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
 
 Full little thought they than 
 
 That the mighty Pan 
 
 Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep 
 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keepi 
 
 When such music sweet 
 
 Their hearts and ears did greet 
 
 As never was by mortal fmger strook — 
 
 Divinely-warbled voice 
 
HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 53 
 
 Answering the stringed noise, 
 
 As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
 
 The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
 
 With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 
 
 Nature that heard such sound 
 
 Beneath the hollow round 
 
 Of Cynthia's seat the aery region thrilling, 
 
 Now was almost won 
 
 To think her part was done, 
 
 And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
 
 She knew such harmony alone 
 
 Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 
 
 At last surrounds their sight 
 
 A globe of circular light 
 
 That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd ; 
 
 The helmed Cherubim 
 
 And sworded Seraphim 
 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, 
 
 Harping in loud and solemn quire 
 
 With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir, 
 
 Such music (as 'tis said) 
 
 Before was never made 
 
 But when of old the sons of morning sung, 
 
 While the Creator great 
 
 His constellations set 
 
 And the well-balanced world on hinges hung ; 
 
 And cast the dark foundations deep, 
 
 And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 
 
 Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 
 
 Once bless our human ears, 
 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so ; ^ 
 
 And let your silver chime 
 
 Move in melodious time ; 
 
 And let the base of heaven's deep organ blow ; 
 
 And with your ninefold harmony 
 
 Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. 
 
54 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 For if such holy song 
 
 Enwrap our fancy long, 
 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; 
 
 And speckled vanity 
 
 Will sicken soon and die, 
 
 And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; 
 
 And Hell itself will pass away, 
 
 And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 
 
 Yea, Truth and Justice then 
 
 Will down return to men, 
 
 Orb'd in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 
 
 Mercy will sit between 
 
 Throned in celestial sheen, 
 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 
 
 And Heaven, as at some festival, 
 
 Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 
 
 But wisest Fate says No ; 
 
 This must not yet be so; 
 
 The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 
 
 That on the bitter cross 
 
 Must redeem our loss ; 
 
 So both himself and us to glorify : 
 
 Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep 
 
 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep. 
 
 With such a horrid clang 
 
 As on mount Sinai rang 
 
 While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake : 
 
 The aged Earth aghast 
 
 With terrour of that blast 
 
 Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 
 
 When, at the world's last session, 
 
 The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. 
 
 And then at last our bliss 
 
 Full and perfect is, 
 
 But now begins ; for from this happy day 
 
 The old Dragon, under ground 
 
HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 55 
 
 In straiter limits bound, 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 
 And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
 Swindges the scaly horrour of his folded tail. 
 
 The oracles are dumb ; 
 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 
 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving : 
 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 
 Can no more divine, 
 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving : 
 
 No nightly trance or breathed spell 
 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 
 
 The lonely mountains o'er 
 
 And the resounding shore 
 
 A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 
 
 From haunted spring and dale 
 
 Edged with poplar pale 
 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 
 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
 
 The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 
 
 In consecrated earth 
 
 And on the holy hearth 
 
 The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint ; 
 
 In urns, and altars round 
 
 A drear and dying sound 
 
 Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; 
 
 And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
 
 While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. 
 
 Peor and Baalim 
 
 Forsake their temples dim, 
 
 With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ; 
 
 And mooned Ashtaroth 
 
 Heaven's queen and mother both. 
 
 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
 
 The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn. 
 
 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 
 
56 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 And sullen Moloch, fled, 
 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 
 His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 
 They call the grisly king, 
 
 In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast 
 
 Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 
 In Memphian grove, or green. 
 
 Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud \ 
 
 Nor can he be at rest 
 
 Within his sacred chest ; 
 
 Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; 
 
 In vain with timbrelPd anthems dark 
 
 The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. 
 
 He feels from Juda's land 
 
 The dreaded infant's hand ; 
 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
 
 Nor all the gods beside 
 
 Longer dare abide. 
 
 Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
 
 Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 
 
 Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 
 
 So, when the sun in bed 
 
 Curtain'd with cloudy red 
 
 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
 
 The flocking shadows pale 
 
 Troop to the infernal jail, 
 
 Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave ; 
 
 And the yellow-skirted fays 
 
 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 
 
 But see, the Virgin blest 
 
 Hath laid her Babe to rest ; 
 
 Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: 
 
 Heaven's youngest-teemdd star 
 
SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 57 
 
 Hath fixed her polished car, 
 
 Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. 
 
 J, Milton. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. 
 
 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony 
 
 This universal frame began : 
 When Nature underneath a heap 
 
 Of jarring atoms lay 
 And could not heave her head, 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 
 Arise, ye more than dead ! 
 Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry 
 In order to their stations leap. 
 
 And Music's power obey. 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
 
 This universal frame began : 
 
 From harmony to harmony 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
 The diapason closing full in Man, 
 
 What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 
 When Jubal struck the chorded shell 
 His listening brethren stood around. 
 And, wondering, on their faces fell 
 To worship that celestial sound. 
 Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
 Within the hollow of that shell 
 That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
 What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 
 
 The trumpet's loud clangor 
 
 Excites us to arms, 
 With shrill notes of anger 
 
 And mortal alarms. 
 The double double double beat 
 
58 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Of the thundering drum 
 
 Cries ' Hark ! the foes come ; 
 
 Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat ! ' 
 
 The soft complaining flute 
 In dying notes discovers 
 The woes of hopeless lovers, 
 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 
 
 Sharp violins proclaim 
 Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
 Fury, frantic indignation, 
 Depth of pains, and height of passion 
 
 For the fair disdainful dame. 
 
 But oh ! what art can teach, 
 What human voice can reach 
 
 The sacred organ's praise? 
 Notes inspiring holy love, 
 Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
 
 To mend the choirs above. 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race, 
 And trees uprooted left their place 
 
 Sequacious of the lyre : 
 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher j 
 When to her Organ vocal breath was given 
 An Angel heard, and straight appeared — 
 
 Mistaking Earth for Heaven ! 
 
 Grand Chorus. 
 
 As from the power of sacred lays 
 
 The spheres began to move, 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blest above ; 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
 The dead shall live, the living die. 
 And Music shall untune the sky. 
 
 J, Dryden, 
 
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PI EM ONI. 59 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. 
 
 Avenge, O Lord ! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old 
 When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones 
 
 Forget not : In thy book record their groans 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolPd 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 
 To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 
 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 
 The triple tyrant, that from these may grow 
 
 A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, 
 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN 
 FROM IRELAND. 
 
 The forward youth that would appear, 
 Must now forsake his Muses dear, 
 
 Nor in the shadows sing 
 
 His numbers languishing. 
 
 'Tis time to leave the books in dust. 
 And oil the unused armour's rust, 
 
 Removing from the wall 
 
 The corslet of the hall. 
 
 So restless Cromwell could not cease 
 In the inglorious arts of peace, 
 
 But through adventurous war 
 
 Urged his active star : 
 
 And like the three-fork'd lightning first, 
 Breaking the clouds where it was nurst. 
 
60 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Did thorough his own side, 
 His fiery way divide : 
 
 For 'tis all one to courage high 
 
 The emulous, or enemy; 
 
 And with such, to enclose 
 Is more than to oppose. 
 
 Then burning through the air he went 
 And palaces and temples rent ; 
 And Caesar's head at last 
 Did through his laurels blast. 
 
 'Tis madness to resist or blame 
 The face of angry heaven's flame ; 
 And if we would speak true, 
 Much to the Man is due 
 
 Who, from his private gardens, where 
 He lived reserved and austere 
 (As if his highest plot 
 To plant the bergamot) 
 
 Could by industrious valour climb 
 To ruin the great work of time. 
 
 And cast the Kingdoms old 
 
 Into another mould. 
 
 Though Justice against Fate complain, 
 And plead the ancient Rights in vain — 
 But those do hold or break 
 As men are strong or weak. 
 
 Nature, that hateth emptiness, 
 Allows of penetration less. 
 
 And therefore must make room 
 Where greater spirits come. 
 
 What field of all the civil war 
 Where his were not the deepest scar? 
 
 And Hampton shows what part 
 
 He had of wiser art. 
 
HORATIAN ODE. 61 
 
 Where, twining subtle fears with hope. 
 He wove a net of such a scope 
 
 That Charles himself might chase 
 
 To Carisbrook'S narrow case ; 
 
 That thence the Royal actor borne 
 The tragic scaffold might adorn : 
 
 While round the armed bands 
 
 Did clap their bloody hands : 
 
 He nothing common did or mean 
 Upon that memorable scene, 
 
 But with his keener eye 
 
 The axe's edge did try ; 
 
 Nor caird the Gods, with vulgar spite, 
 To vindicate his helpless right ; 
 
 But bow'd his comely head 
 
 Down, as upon a bed. 
 
 — This was that memorable hour 
 Which first assured the forced power : 
 
 So when they did design 
 
 The Capitol's first line, 
 
 A Bleeding Head, where they begun, 
 Did fright the architects to run ; 
 
 And yet in that the State 
 
 Foresaw its happy fate ! 
 
 And now the Irish are ashamed 
 
 To see themselves in one year tamed i 
 
 So much one man can do 
 
 That does both act and know. 
 
 They can affirm his praises best. 
 And have, though overcome, confest 
 
 How good he is, how just 
 
 And fit for highest trust ; 
 
 Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
 But still in the Republic's hand — 
 
62 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 How fit he is to sway 
 That can so well obey ! 
 
 He to the Commons' feet presents 
 A Kingdom for his first year's rents, 
 And (what he may) forbears 
 His fame, to make it theirs : 
 
 And has his sword and spoils ungirt 
 To lay them at the Public's skirt. 
 
 So when the falcon high 
 
 Falls heavy from the sky, 
 
 She, having kill'd, no more does search 
 But on the next green bough to perch, 
 Where, when he first does lure. 
 The falconer has her sure. 
 
 — What may not then our Isle presume 
 While victory his crest does plume? 
 What may not others fear 
 If thus he crowns each year ! 
 
 As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, 
 To Italy an Hannibal, 
 
 And to all states not free 
 
 Shall climacteric be. 
 
 The Pict no shelter now shall find 
 Within his parti-colour'd mind, 
 But from this valour, sad 
 Shrink underneath the plaid — ^ 
 
 Happy, if in the tufted brake 
 The English hunter him mistake, 
 
 Nor lay his hounds in near 
 
 The Caledonian deer. 
 
 But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son, 
 
 March indefatigably on ; 
 And for the last effect 
 Still keep the sword erect : 
 
L YCIDAS. 63 
 
 Besides the force it has to fright 
 The spirits of the shady night, 
 
 The same arts that did gain 
 
 A power, must it maintain. 
 
 A. Mar veil, 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel. 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
 And with forced fingers rude 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear 
 Compels me to disturb your seasoh due : 
 For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
 Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : 
 Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 
 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring. 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string ; 
 Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
 So may some gentle Muse 
 With lucky words favour my destined urn ; 
 And as he passes, turn 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
 
 For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
 Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill- 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
 Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, 
 We drove a-field, and both together heard 
 What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, 
 
64 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Fattening our flocks with the fresh dews of night ; 
 
 Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright. 
 
 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel 
 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
 
 Temper'd to the oaten flute ; 
 
 Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 
 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long ; 
 
 And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 
 
 But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
 Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
 . Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine overgrown, 
 And all their echoes, mourn : 
 The willows and the hazel copses green 
 Shall now no more be seen 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays : — 
 As kilUng as the canker to the rose, 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear 
 When first the white-thorn blows ; 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 
 
 Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
 Ay me ! I fondly dream — 
 
 Had ye been there — for what could that have done? 
 What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore 
 The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 
 Whom universal nature did lament, 
 When by the "rout that made the hideous roar 
 His gory visage down the stream, was sent, 
 Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 
 
 Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
 To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade 
 
LYCIDAS. 65 
 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
 
 Were it not better done, as others use, 
 
 To sport with Amar3-llis in the shade, 
 
 Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 
 
 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
 
 (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 
 To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
 
 Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 
 
 And slits the thin-spun life. ' But not the praise' 
 
 Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; 
 
 ' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies : 
 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
 
 Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' 
 
 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood 
 Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds I 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
 But now my oat proceeds. 
 And listens to the herald of the sea 
 That came in Neptune's plea ; 
 He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, 
 What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? 
 And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
 That blows from off each beaked promontory: 
 They knew not of his story ; 
 And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ,• 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark 
 Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 
66 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe : 
 
 * Ah ! who hath reft ' quoth he ' my dearest pledge ! ' 
 Last came, and last did go 
 The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 
 He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
 
 * How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
 Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 
 Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! 
 Of other care they little reckoning make 
 Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
 
 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
 
 A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least 
 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
 
 What recks it them? What need they? They are spec 
 
 And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 
 
 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, I 
 
 But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw 
 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : 
 
 Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 
 
 — But that two-handed engine at the door 
 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' 
 
 Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
 ■ Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks 
 On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks ; 
 Throw hither all your quaint enameird eyes 
 That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers 
 
L YCIDAS. 67 
 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 
 Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
 
 The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, 
 
 The glowing violet, 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-cittired woodbine*, 
 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
 
 And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
 
 Bid amarantus all his beauty shed, 
 
 And daffodillies fill their cups with tears 
 
 To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 
 
 For, so to interpose a little ease. 
 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; 
 
 Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
 
 Wash far away, — where'er thy bones are hurPd, 
 
 Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides 
 
 Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, 
 
 Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
 
 Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
 
 Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
 
 Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 
 
 Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold, 
 
 — Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth ; 
 
 — And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 
 
 Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 
 For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
 So .sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed. 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head 
 And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 
 Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves ; 
 Where, other groves and other streams along. 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the saints above 
 
68 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
 That sing, and singing, in their glory move, 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; 
 Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore 
 In' thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
 
 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, 
 While the still morn went out with sandals gray; 
 He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
 And now the sun had stretchM out all the hills, 
 And now was dropt into the western bay : 
 At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue : 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABCEY. 
 
 Mortality, behold and fear 
 
 What a change of flesh is here I 
 
 Think how many royal bones 
 
 Sleep within these heaps of stones ; 
 
 Here they lie, had realms and lands, 
 
 Who now want strength to stir their hands. 
 
 Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust 
 
 They preach, ' In greatness is no trust.' 
 
 Here's an acre sown indeed 
 
 With the richest royallest seed 
 
 That the earth did e'er suck in 
 
 Since the first man died for sin : 
 
 Here the bones of birth have cried 
 
 * Though gods tliey were, as men they diefd!' 
 
 Here are sands, ignoble things, 
 
 Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings : 
 
 Here's a world of pomp and state 
 
 Buried In dust, once dead by fate. 
 
 F. Beawnont. 
 
THE LAST CONQUEROR, 69 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 THE LAST CONQUEROR. 
 
 Victorious men of earth, no more 
 
 Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 
 Though you bind-in every shore 
 
 And your triumphs reach as far 
 As night or day, 
 
 Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey 
 And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
 Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 
 
 Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 
 
 Each able to undo mankind. 
 Death's servile emissaries are ; 
 
 Nor to these alone confined. 
 He hath at will 
 
 More quaint and subtle ways to kill; 
 A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
 Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 
 
 J. Shirley, 
 LXIX. 
 
 DEATH THE LEVELLER. 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 There is no armour against fate ; 
 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
 Sceptre and Crown 
 Must tumble clown. 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill : 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
 They tame but one another still : 
 Early or late 
 They stoop to fate, 
 
70 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 And must give up their murmuring breath 
 When they, pale captives, creep to death. 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow ; 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 Upon Death's purple altar now 
 
 See where the victor-victim bleeds : 
 Your heads must come 
 To the cold tomb ; 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 
 
 J. Shirley, 
 
 LXX. 
 
 WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY 
 
 Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms, 
 
 Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, 
 
 If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
 
 Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
 
 He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 
 And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 
 Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 
 
 Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower ; 
 
 The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 
 
 The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
 
 Went to the ground : and the repeated air 
 Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE, 71 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest he returning chide, — 
 Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? 
 I fondly ask : — But Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies ; God doth not need 
 Either man's work, or his own gifts : who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : His state 
 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest : — 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. 
 
 J. Milton, 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 How happy is he born and taught 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 Whose armour is his honest thought 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are, 
 Whose soul IS still prepared for death, 
 Not tied unto the world with care 
 Of public fame, or private breath ; 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth raise 
 Or vice ; Who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 
 
 Who hath his life from rumours freed, 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
 Nor ruin make accusers great ; 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a well-chosen book or friend ; 
 
72 BOOK SECOND. y 
 
 — This man is freed from servile bands 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 Sir H. Wotton. 
 
 LXXIIT. 
 
 THE NOBLE NATURE. 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 
 
 In bulk, doth make Man better be ; 
 
 Or standing long an oak, three hundred year. 
 
 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
 A lily of a day 
 Is fairer far in May, 
 Although it fall and die that night — 
 It was the plant and flower of Light. 
 
 In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
 
 And in short measures life may perfect be. 
 
 B, y 0)1 son, 
 LXXIV. 
 
 THE GIFTS OF GOD. 
 
 When God at first made Man, 
 Having a glass of blessings standing by ; 
 Let us (said he) pour on him all we can : 
 Let the workPs riches, which dispersed lie, 
 
 Contract into a span. 
 
 So strength first made a way ; 
 Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure 
 When almost all was out, God made a stay. 
 Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure. 
 
 Rest in the bottom lay. 
 
 For if I should (said he) 
 Bestow this jewel also on my creature. 
 He would adore my gifts instead of me, 
 And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature 
 
 So both should losers be. 
 
THE RETREAT. 73 
 
 Yet let him keep the rest, 
 But keep them with repining restlessness : 
 Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
 If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
 
 May toss him to my breast. 
 
 G. Herbert. 
 
 LXXV. 
 THE RETREAT. 
 
 Happy those early days, when I 
 
 Shined in my Angel-infancy ! 
 Before I understood this place 
 Appointed for my second race, 
 Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
 But a white, celestial thought ; 
 When yet I had not walk'd above 
 A mile or two from my first Love, 
 And looking back, at that short space 
 Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; 
 When on some gilded cloud or flower 
 ' My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 
 And in those weaker glories spy 
 Some shadows of eternity ; 
 Before I taught my tongue to wound 
 My conscience with a sinful sound. 
 Or had the black art to dispense 
 A several sin to every sense. 
 But felt through all this fleshly dress 
 Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
 
 O how I long to travel back. 
 And tread again that ancient track ! 
 That I might once more reach that plain, 
 Where first I left my glorious train ; 
 From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees 
 That shady City of Palm trees ! 
 But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
 Is drunk, and staggers in the way : — 
 
74 ' BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Some men a forward motion love, 
 But I by backward steps would move ; 
 And when this dust falls to the urn, 
 In that state I came, return. 
 
 H. Vaughan, 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, 
 Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire, 
 Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
 Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 
 
 From the hard season gaining ? Time will run 
 On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire 
 The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
 The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 
 
 What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 
 Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
 To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice 
 
 Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? 
 
 He who of those delights can judge, and spare 
 
 To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 TO CYRIACK, SKINNER. 
 
 Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench 
 Of British Themis, with no mean applause 
 Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, 
 Which others at their bar so often wrench ; 
 
 To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 
 
 In mirth, that after no repenting draws ; 
 
 Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 
 
 And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 
 
 To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
 Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 
 For other things mild Heaven a time ordains. 
 
HYMN TO DIANA. 75 
 
 And disapproves that care, though wise in show. 
 That with superfluous burden loads the day, 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 HYMN TO DIANA. 
 
 Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, 
 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep. 
 Seated in thy silver chair 
 
 State in wonted manner keep : 
 Hesperus entreats thy light, 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Earth, let not thy envious shade 
 
 Dare itself to interpose ; 
 Cynthia's shining orb was made 
 
 Heaven to clear when day did close : 
 Bless us then with wished sight. 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart 
 
 And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 
 Space to breathe, how short soever: 
 Thou that mak'st a day of night, 
 Goddess excellently bright ! 
 B. Jonson, 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS. 
 
 Whoe'er she be, 
 
 That not impossible She 
 
 That shall command my heart and me ; 
 
 Where'er she lie, 
 
 Lock'd up from mortal eye 
 
 In shady leaves of destiny : 
 
76 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 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 sliine : 
 
 — Meet you her, my Wishes, 
 
 Bespeak her to my blisses, 
 
 And be ye calPd, my absent kisses. 
 
 I wish her beauty 
 
 That owes not all its duty 
 
 To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : 
 
 Something more than 
 
 TafFata or tissue can. 
 
 Or rampant feather, pr 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 give down to the wings of night. 
 
 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: 
 
THE GREAT ADVENTURER. 77 
 
 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, say, ' 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. 
 
 •Tis 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. 
 
 R. Crashaw. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 THE GREAT ADVENTURER. 
 
 Over the mountains 
 And over the waves. 
 Under the fountains 
 And under the graves; 
 Under floods that are deepest. 
 Which Neptune obey; 
 Over rocks that are steepest 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
78 BOOK SECOND, 
 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the glow-worm to lie ; 
 
 Where there is no space 
 
 For receipt of a fly ; 
 
 Where the midge dares not venture* 
 
 Lest herself fast she lay ; 
 
 If love come, he will enter 
 
 And soon find out his way. 
 
 You may esteem him 
 
 A child for his might ; 
 
 Or you may deem him 
 
 A coward from his flight : 
 
 But if she whom love doth honour 
 
 Be conceal'd from the day, 
 
 Set a thousand guards upon her. 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Some think to lose him 
 By having him confined ; 
 And some do suppose him, 
 Poor thing, to be blind ; 
 But if ne'er so close ye wall him. 
 Do the best that you may, 
 Blind love, if so ye call him. 
 Will find out his way. 
 
 You may train, the eagle 
 To stoop -J your fist ; 
 Or you may inveigle 
 The phoenix of the east ; 
 The lioness, ye may move her 
 To give o'er her prey; 
 But you'll ne'er stop a lover : 
 He will find out his way. 
 
 Anon. 
 LXXXI. 
 
 CHILD AND MAIDEN. 
 
 Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 
 As unconcern'd as when 
 
COUNSEL TO GIRLS, 79 
 
 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 conceaPd in thine. 
 But as your charms insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest, 
 So love as unperceived did fly, 
 
 And centerM in my breast. 
 
 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 
 Employ'd the utmost of his art — 
 
 To make a beauty, she. 
 
 Sir C. Sedley, 
 LXXXII. 
 
 COUNSEL TO GIRLS. 
 
 Gather ye rose-buds while ye may. 
 
 Old Time is still a-flying : 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
 
 To-morrow will be dying. 
 
 The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, 
 
 The higher he's a getting 
 The sooner will his race be run. 
 
 And nearer he's to setting. 
 
 That age is best which is the first, 
 When youth and blood are warmer; 
 
80 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 But being spent, the worse, and worst 
 Times, still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time ; 
 
 And while ye may, go marry : 
 For having lost but once your prime, 
 
 You may for ever tarry. 
 
 R. Herrick. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 
 
 Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase, 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 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 Honour more. 
 
 Colonel L( Velacs, 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 ELIZABETH OF BOHEML . 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night, 
 
 Which poorly satisfy our eyes 
 More by your number than your lig t, 
 
 You common people of the skies, 
 Wha. 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? 
 
TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. SI 
 
 Ye curious chanters of the wood 
 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 
 Thinking your passions understood 
 
 By your weak accents ; what's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice doth 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 were not design'd 
 Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? 
 
 Sir H. Wotton. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. 
 
 Daughter to that good earl, once President 
 Of England's council and her treasury, 
 Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, 
 And left them both, more in himself content, 
 
 Till the sad breaking of that Darliament 
 
 Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
 
 At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty, 
 
 Kill'd with report that old man eloquent ; — 
 
 Though later born than to have known the days 
 Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, 
 Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; 
 
 So well your words his noble virtues praise. 
 That all both judge you to relate them true, 
 And to possess them, honour'd Margaret. 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 
 
 It is not Beauty I demand, 
 A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 
 Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, 
 Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair: 
 
82 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Tell me not of your starry eyes, 
 Your lips that seem on roses fed, 
 Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, 
 Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed : — 
 
 A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks 
 Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 
 A breath that softer music speaks 
 Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. 
 
 These are but gauds : nay what are lips ? 
 Coral beneath the ocean-stream, 
 Whose brink when your adventurer slips 
 Full oft he perisheth on them. 
 
 And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
 That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? 
 Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft. 
 Do Greece or Ilium any good? 
 
 Eyes can with baleful ardour burn ; 
 Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; 
 There's many a white hand holds an urn 
 With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 
 
 For crystal brows there's nought within ; 
 They are but empty cells for pride ; 
 He who the Syren's hair would win 
 Is mostly strangled in the tide. 
 
 Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 
 A tender heart, a loyal mind 
 Which with temptation I would trust. 
 Yet never link'd with error find, — 
 
 One in whose gentle bosom I 
 Could pour my secret heart of woes. 
 Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly 
 That hides his murmurs in the rose, — « 
 
 My earthly Comforter ! whose love 
 So indefeasible might be 
 
THE TRUE BEAUTY. 83 
 
 That, when my spirit wonn'd above, 
 Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 
 
 Anon, 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 THE TRUE BEAUTY. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 
 
 Or a coral lip admires, 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
 
 Gentle 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. 
 
 T. Carew. 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 TO DIANEME. 
 
 Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 
 Which starlike 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 wantons with the lovesick 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. 
 
 R, Hej-rick. 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Go, lovely Rose ! 
 Tell her, that wastes her time and me. 
 
 That now she knows. 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
BOOK SECOND. 
 
 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! 
 . E. Waller. 
 
 xc. 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
 
 And ril not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine ; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee 
 As giving it a hope that there 
 
 It could not withered be ; 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe 
 
 And senf St it back to me ; 
 Since when it grows, and smells, I swear^ 
 
 Not of itself but thee ! 
 
 B. Jo7ison, 
 
THE POETRY OF DRESS, ^^ 
 
 XCI. 
 CHERRY-RIPE. 
 
 There is a garden in her face 
 
 Wliere roses and white HUes blow; 
 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 enclose 
 
 Of orient pearl a double row, 
 Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
 
 They look like rose-buds fiird with snow ; 
 Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
 Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 
 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
 
 All that approach with eye or hand 
 These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
 — Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry! 
 
 Anon, 
 
 XCII. 
 
 THE POETRY OF DRESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 A SWEET disorder in the dress 
 Kindles in clothes a wantonness : — 
 A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
 Into a fine distraction, — 
 An erring lace, which here and there 
 Enthrals the crimson stomacher, — 
 A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
 Ribbands to flow confusedly, — 
 A winning wave, deserving note. 
 In the tempestuous petticoat, — 
 
86 BOOK SECOND, 
 
 A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
 I see a wild civility, — 
 Do more bewitch me, than when art 
 Is too precise in every j^art. 
 
 R, Herrick, 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Whenas in silks my Julia goes 
 
 Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows 
 
 That liquefaction of her clothes. 
 
 Next, when I cast mine eyes and see 
 That brave vibration each way free ; 
 O how that glittering taketh me ! 
 
 R. Herrick, 
 
 XCIV. 
 3- 
 
 My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, 
 It doth so well become her : 
 
 For every season she hath dressings fit. 
 For Winter, Spring, and Summer. 
 No beauty she doth miss 
 When all her robes are on : 
 But Beauty's self she is 
 When all her robes are gone. 
 Anon, 
 
 xcv. 
 
 ON A GIRDLE. 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 
 Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
 No monarch but would give his crown 
 His arms might do what this has done. 
 
 It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
 The pale which held that lovely deer : 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my lover 
 Did all within this circle move. 
 
TO ANTHEA. 87 
 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good, and all thafs fair: 
 Give me but what this ribband bound, 
 Take all the rest the Sun goes round. 
 
 E. Waller, 
 XCVI. 
 
 TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMxMAND HIM 
 ANY THING. 
 
 Bid me to live, and I will live 
 
 Thy Protestant to be : 
 Or bid me love, and I will give 
 
 A loving heart to thee. 
 
 A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 
 
 A heart as sound and free 
 As in the whole world thou canst find. 
 
 That heart Fll give to thee. 
 
 Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, 
 
 To honour 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 having none, yet I will keep 
 
 A heart to weep for thee. 
 
 Bid me despair, and Fll 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. 
 
 R. Herrick. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Love not me for comely grace, 
 For my pleasing eye or face, 
 
88 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Nor for any outward part, 
 No, nor for my constant heart, — 
 For those may fail, or turn to ill, 
 So thou and I shall sever : 
 Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
 And love me still, but know not why — « 
 So hast thou the same reason still 
 To dote upon me ever ! 
 
 Anon, 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Not, Celia, that I juster am 
 
 Or better than the rest ; 
 For I would change each hour, like them. 
 
 Were not my heart at rest. 
 
 But I am tied to very thee 
 By every thought I have ; 
 
 Thy face I only care to see, 
 Thy heart I only crave. 
 
 All that in woman is adored 
 
 In thy dear self I find — 
 For the whole sex can but afford 
 
 The handsome and the kind. ' 
 
 Why then should I seek further store, 
 
 And still make love anew? 
 
 When change itself can give no more, 
 
 'Tis easy to be true. 
 
 Sir C. Sedley. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates, 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair 
 
 And fetter'd to her eye, 
 
TO ALT HE A FROM PRISON, 89 
 
 The Gods that wanton in the air 
 Know no such Uberty. 
 
 When flowing cups run swiftly round 
 
 With no allaying Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
 When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
 
 When healths and draughts go free — - 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When, linnet-like confined, I 
 
 With shriller throat shall sing: 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty 
 
 And glories of my King ; 
 When I shall voice aloud how good 
 
 He is, how great should be, 
 Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage : 
 If I have freedom in my love 
 
 And in my soul am free, 
 
 Angels alone, that soar above, 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Colonel Lovelace, 
 
 C. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS. 
 
 If to be absent were to be 
 Away from thee ; 
 Or that when I am gone ^ 
 You or I were alone ; 
 Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
 Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. 
 
90 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Though seas and land betwixt us both, 
 Our faith and troth, 
 Like separated souls, 
 All time and space controls : 
 Above the highest sphere we meet 
 Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. 
 
 So then we do anticipate 
 Our after-fate, 
 And are alive i' the skies, 
 If thus our lips and eyes 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. 
 
 Colonel Lovelace. 
 
 CI. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER. 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 
 
 Prythee, why so pale? 
 Will, if looking well can't move her, 
 
 Looking ill prevail? 
 
 Prythee, why so pale? 
 
 Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 
 
 Prythee, why so mute ? 
 Will, when speaking well can't win her, 
 
 Saying nothing do't? 
 
 Prythee, why so mute? , , 
 
 Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 
 
 This cannot take her ; 
 If of herself she will not love. 
 
 Nothing can make her : 
 
 The D—1 take her! 
 
 Sir J. Suckling, 
 
 CII. 
 
 "* A SUPPLICATION. 
 
 Awake, awake, my Lyre ! 
 And tell thy silent master's humble tale 
 
THE MANLY HEART, 91 
 
 In sounds that may prevail ; 
 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
 Though so exalted she 
 And I so lovvh' be 
 Tell her, such diflferent 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 trembling make. 
 
 Now all thy forces try ; 
 
 Now all thy charms apply ; 
 Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 
 
 Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 
 Is useless here, since thou art only found 
 
 To cure, but not to wound, 
 And she to wound, but not to cure. 
 
 Too weak too wilt thou prove 
 
 My passion to remove ; 
 Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. 
 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
 For thou canst never tell my humble tale 
 In sounds that will prevail, 
 Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
 All thy vain mirth lay by, 
 Bid thy strings silent lie, 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. 
 
 A. Cowley. 
 
 cm. 
 
 THE MANLY HEART. 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair, 
 
 Die because a woman's fair? 
 
 Or my cheeks make pale 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? 
 
92 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be 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 pelican, 
 If she be not so to me 
 What care I how kind she be? 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or her merit's value known 
 Make me quite forget mine own? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may gain her name of Best ; 
 If she seem 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 
 Who without them dare to woo ; 
 And unless that mind I see, 
 What care I though 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? 
 G. Wither^ 
 CIV. 
 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights^ 
 As short as are the nights 
 
TO A LOCK OF HAIR. 93 
 
 Wherein you spend your folly : 
 
 There's nought in this life sweet 
 
 If man were wise to see't, 
 
 But only melancholy, 
 
 O sweetest Melancholy I 
 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
 A look that's fastened to the ground, 
 A tongue chain'd up without a sound! 
 Fountain heads and pathless groves, 
 Places which pale passion loves ! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly housed save bats and owls 1 
 A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
 These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
 Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; 
 Nothing's so dainty stveet as lovely melancholy. 
 
 J. Fletcher, 
 
 cv. 
 
 TO A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright 
 As in that well -rememberM night 
 When first thy niystic braid was wove, 
 And first my Agnes whisper'd love. 
 
 Since then how often hast thou prest 
 The torrid zone of this wild breast. 
 Whose Vv^rath and hate have sworn to dwell 
 With the first sin that peopled hell ; 
 A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, 
 Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! 
 
 if such clime thou canst endure 
 Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure. 
 What conquest o'er each erring thought 
 Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought! 
 
 1 had not wander'd far and wide 
 With such an angel for my guide : 
 
94 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me 
 If she had Uved, and hved to love me. 
 
 Not then this world's wild joys had been 
 To me one savage hunting scene, 
 My sole delight the headlong race 
 And frantic hurry of the chase ; 
 To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 
 Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey. 
 Then — from the carcass turn away ! 
 Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, 
 And soothed each wound which pride inflamed : 
 Yes, God and man might now approve me 
 If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me I 
 
 Sir W, Scott. 
 
 , CVI. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN BRIDE. 
 
 WALY waly up the bank, 
 And waly waly down the brae, 
 
 And waly waly yon burn-side 
 
 Where I and my Love wont to gae! 
 
 1 leant my back unto an aik, 
 
 I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
 But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, 
 Sae my true Love did lichtly me. 
 
 O waly waly, but love be bonny 
 
 A little time while it is new ; 
 But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld 
 
 And fades awa' like morning dew. 
 O wherefore should I busk my head ? 
 
 Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
 For my true Love has me forsook, 
 
 And says he'll never loe me mair. 
 
 Now Arthur-seat sail be my bed ; 
 
 The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me : 
 Saint Anton's well sail be my drink. 
 
 Since my true Love has forsaken me. 
 
FAIR HELEN, 95 
 
 Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw 
 And shake the green leaves aff the tree ? 
 
 gentle Death, when wilt thou come? 
 For of my life I am wearie. 
 
 'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, 
 
 Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 
 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry^ 
 
 But my Love 's heart grown cauld to me. 
 When we came in by Glasgow town 
 
 We were a comely sight to see ; 
 My Love was clad in the black velvet, 
 
 And I mysell in cramasie. 
 
 But had I wist, before I kist. 
 
 That love had been sae ill to win ; 
 
 1 had lockt my heart in a case of gowd 
 And pinn'd it with a siller pin. 
 
 And, O ! if my young babe were born, 
 
 And set upon the nurse's knee, 
 And I mysell were dead and gane, 
 
 And the green grass growing over me ! 
 
 Anon, 
 
 CVII. 
 
 FAIR HELEN. 
 
 I WISH I were where Heleji lies ; 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 O that I were where Helen lies 
 On fair Kirconnell lea ! 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot, 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
 And died to succour me ! 
 
 think na but my heart was sair 
 
 When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair ! 
 
 1 laid her down wi' meikle care 
 
 On fair Kirconnell lea. 
 
96 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 As I went down the water-side. 
 None but my foe to be my guide,. 
 None but my foe to be my guide, 
 On fair Kirconnell lea ; 
 
 I lighted down my sword to draw, 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 I hacked him in pieces sma\ 
 
 For her sake that died for ma. 
 
 O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
 ril make a garland of thy hair 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair 
 Until the day I die. 
 
 O 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 roe!' 
 
 Helen fair I O Helen chaste! 
 If I were with thee, I were blest, 
 Where thou lies low and takes thy resi 
 
 On fair Kirconnell lea. 
 
 1 wish my grave were growing green, 
 A winding-sheet drawn ower my een. 
 And I in Helen's arms lying, 
 
 On fair Kirconnell lea. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies : 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 And I am weary of the skies, 
 Since my Love died for me. 
 Anon. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 THE TWA CORBIES. 
 
 As I was walking all alane 
 
 I heard twa corbies making a mane ; 
 
 The tane unto the t'other say, 
 
 * Where sail we gang and dine today? ' 
 
TO BLOSSOMS. 92 
 
 •^ — In behint yon auld fail dj'ke, 
 I wot there lies a new-slain Knight; 
 And naebody kens that he lies there, 
 But his hawk, his hound, and lady fain 
 
 * His hound is to the hunting gane, 
 His hawk to fetch the wild fowl hame, 
 His. lady's ta''en another mate, 
 
 So we may mak our dinner sweet. 
 
 * Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, 
 And ni pick out his bonny blue een : 
 Wr ae lock o' his gowden hair 
 
 We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 
 
 * Mony a one for liim makes mane, 
 But nane sail ken where he is gane ; 
 O'er his white banes, when they are bare* 
 The wind sail blaw for evermair.' 
 
 Anon. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 TO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 
 Why do ye fall so fast? 
 
 Your date is not so past, 
 But you may stay yet here awhile 
 
 To blush and gently smile. 
 And go at last. 
 
 What, were ye born to be 
 
 An hour or half's delight, 
 
 And so to bid good-night? 
 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 
 
 Merely to show your worth, 
 And lose you quite. 
 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we 
 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne'er so brave : 
 
98 . BOOK SECOND. 
 
 And after they have shown their pridt* 
 Like you, awhile, they glide 
 
 Into the grave. 
 
 R. Herrich. 
 
 ex. 
 
 TO DAFFODILS. 
 
 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 
 You haste away so soon : 
 As yet the early-rising Sun 
 
 Has not attain'd his noon. 
 
 Stay, stay, 
 Until the hasting day 
 
 Has run 
 But to the even-song ; 
 And, having pray'd together, we 
 
 Will go with you along. 
 We have short time to stay, as you, 
 We have as short a Spring; 
 As quick a growth to meet decay 
 As you, or any thing. 
 
 We die, 
 As your hours do, and dry 
 
 Away 
 Like to the Summer's rain ; 
 Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
 Ne'er to be found again. 
 
 R, Herrich, 
 
 CXI. 
 
 THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 
 And their incessant labours see 
 Crown'd from some single herb or tree, 
 Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
 
THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN, 99 
 
 While all the flowers and trees do clos^ 
 To weave the garlands of Repose. 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 And Innocence thy sister dear? 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men : 
 Your sacred plants, if here below. 
 Only among the plants will grow : 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name : 
 Little, alas, they know or heed 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat 
 Love hither makes his best retreat : 
 The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race : 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so 
 Only that she might laurel grow: 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
 The nectarine and curio s peach 
 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 
 Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
 Withdraws into its happiness ; 
 
100 BOOK SECQND. 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 Does straight its own resemblance find; 
 Yet it creates, transcending these, 
 Far other worlds, and other seas ; 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside 
 My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
 Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
 And, till prepared for longer flight. 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy Garden-state 
 While man there walk'd without a mate i 
 After a place so pure and sweet. 
 What other help could yet be meet I 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two paradises are in one, 
 To live in Paradise alone. 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drevy 
 Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
 And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we. 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers ! 
 
 A. Marvell. 
 CXII. 
 
 UALLEGRO. 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
 
 In Stygian cave forlorn 
 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! 
 
r ALLEGRO. lOJ 
 
 Find out some uncouth cell 
 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings 
 And the night-raven sings ; 
 
 There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks 
 As ragged as thy locks, 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
 
 But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 
 In heaven yclepM Euphrosyne, 
 And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
 Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
 With two sister Graces more 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
 Or whether (as some sager sing) 
 The frolic wind that breathes the spring 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
 As he met her once a-Maying — 
 There on beds of violets blue 
 And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew 
 Fiird her with thee, a daughter fair, ^ 
 
 So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 
 
 Haste -thee. Nymph, and bring with thea 
 Jest, and youthful jollity, 
 Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. 
 Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 
 Such as hang on Hebe's check. 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
 And Laughter holding both his sides:-* 
 Come, and trip it as you go 
 On the light fantastic toe ; 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
 And if I give thee honour due 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 
 To live with her, and live with thee 
 In unre proved pleasures free ; 
 To hear the lark begin his flight 
 And singing startle the dull night 
 
102 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
 And at my window bid good-morrow 
 Through the sweet-briar, or the vine. 
 Or the twisted eglantine : 
 While the cock with lively din 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill. 
 Sometime walking, not unseen, 
 By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
 Right against the eastern gate 
 Where the great Sun begins his state 
 Robed in flames and amber light, 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures ; 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
 Where perhaps some Beauty lies. 
 The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 
 
L' ALLEGRO. 103 
 
 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 Of herbs, and other country messes 
 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses : 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 Or, if the earlier season lead, 
 To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 
 
 Sometimes with secure delight 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 When the merry bells ring round, 
 And the jocund rebecks sound 
 To many a youth and many a maid. 
 Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; 
 \nd young and old come forth to play 
 On a sun-shine holy-day. 
 Till the live-long day-light fail : 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
 With stories told of many a feat, 
 How faery Mab the junkets eat ; 
 She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said ; 
 And he, by friar's lantern led ; 
 Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 
 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 
 His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
 That ten day-labourers couM not end ; 
 Then lies him down the lubber fiend. 
 And, stretched out all the chimney's length, 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; 
 And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
 £;re the first cock his matin rings. 
 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
 By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 
 
 Tower'd cities please us then 
 And the busy hum of men, 
 
104 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
 
 In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 
 Of wit or arms, while both contend 
 
 To win her grace, whom all commend. 
 
 There let Hymen oft appear 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 
 With mask, and antique pageantry ; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 
 Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 And ever against eating cares 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs 
 Married to immortal verse, 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
 In notes, with many a winding bout 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
 The melting voice through mazes running. 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
 From golden slumber, on a bed 
 Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
 His half-regain'd Eurydice. 
 
 These delights if thou canst give, 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 J. Milton, 
 
JL PENSEROSO, 105 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
 How little you bestead 
 
 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
 Dwell in some idle brain, 
 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess 
 As thick and numberless 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
 Or likest hovering dreams 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
 
 But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, 
 Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 To hit the sense of human sight, 
 And therefore to our weaker view 
 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
 Black, but such as in esteem 
 Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
 Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove 
 To set her beauty's praise above 
 The sea nymphs, and their powers offended. 
 Yet thou art higher far descended : 
 Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore. 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 
 Such mixture was not held a stain : 
 Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
 
 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure. 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
 All in a robe of darkest grain 
 Flowing with majestic train. 
 And sable stole of cypres lawn 
 
106 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn : 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
 With even step, and musing gait, 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
 There, held in holy passion still, 
 Forget thyself to marble, till 
 With a sad leaden downward cast 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
 And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 
 And hears the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing : 
 And add to these retired Leisure 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : — 
 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing 
 Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 
 The cherub Contemplation ; 
 And the mute Silence hist along, 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song 
 In her sweetest saddest plight, 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 
 — Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
 Most musical, most melancholy! 
 Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
 And missing thee, I walk unseen 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green. 
 To behold the wandering Moon 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd. 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 107 
 
 1 hear the far-off curfeu sound 
 
 Over some wide-water'd shore, 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar: 
 
 Or, if the air will not permit, 
 
 Some still removed place will fit. 
 
 Where glowing embers through the rooir 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 Or the belman's drowsy charm 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
 
 Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
 Where I may oft out-watch the Bear 
 With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 What worlds or what vast regions hold 
 The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
 And of those demons that are found 
 In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
 Whose power hath a true consent 
 With planet, or with element. 
 Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
 In scepter'd pall come sweeping by. 
 Presenting Thebes, or Pelops"" line. 
 Or the tale of Troy divine ; 
 Or what (though rare) of later age 
 Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 
 
 But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
 Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
 Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek 
 And made Hell grant what Love did seek! 
 Or call up him that left half-told 
 The story of Cambuscan bold. 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 
108 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 And who had Canace to wife 
 That own'd the virtuous ring and glass \ . 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass 
 On which the Tartar king did ride : 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung 
 Of turneys, and of trophies hung, 
 Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale careerj 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
 Not tricked and frounced as she was wont 
 With the Attic Boy to hunt. 
 But kercheft in a comely cloud 
 While rocking winds are piping loud, 
 Or usher'd with a shower still, 
 When the gust hath blown his fill, 
 Ending on the rustling leaves 
 With minute drops from off the eaves. 
 And when the sun begins to fling 
 His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
 To arched walks of twilight groves, 
 And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
 Of pine, or monumental oak. 
 Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 
 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt 
 Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
 There in close covert by some brook 
 Where no profaner eye may look. 
 Hide me from day's garish eye, 
 While the bee with honey'd thigh 
 That at her flowery work doth sing, 
 And the waters murmuring, 
 With such concert as they keep 
 Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep ; 
 And let some strange mysterious dream 
 Wave at his wings in aery stream 
 Of lively portraiture display'd, 
 
SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. 109 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid : 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by some spirit to mortals good. 
 
 Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale. 
 And love the high-embowed roof, 
 With antique pillars massy proof, 
 And storied windows richly dight 
 Casting a dim religious light : 
 There let the pealing organ blow 
 To the full-voiced quire below 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my weary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 The hairy gown and mossy cell 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 
 Of every star that heaven doth show, 
 And every herb that sips the dew ; 
 Till old experience do attain 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 
 These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
 y. Milton. 
 
 CXIV. 
 SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 
 In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
 From a small boat that row'd along 
 The listening winds received this song. 
 * What should we do but sing His praise 
 That led us through the watery maze 
 
110 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Where He the huge sea monsters wracks, 
 That lift the deep upon their backs. 
 Unto an isle so long unknown, 
 And yet far kinder than our own? 
 He lands us on a grassy stage, 
 Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage t 
 He gave us this eternal spring 
 Which here enamels everything, 
 And sends the fowls to us in care 
 On daily visits through the air. 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright 
 Like golden lamps in a green night. 
 And does in the pomegranates close 
 Jevv^els more rich than Ormus shows : 
 He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
 And throws the melons at our feet ; 
 But apples plants of such a price, 
 No tree could ever bear them twice. 
 With cedars chosen by his hand 
 From Lebanon he stores the land ; 
 And makes the hollow seas that roar 
 Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
 He cast (of which we rather boast) 
 The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound His name. 
 O let our voice His praise exalt 
 Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
 Which then perhaps rebounding may 
 Echo beyond the Mexique bay ! ' 
 — Thus sung they in the English boat 
 A holy and a cheerful note : 
 And all the way, to guide their chime, 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 
 
 A. Marvek2, 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. Ill 
 
 cxv. 
 
 AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. 
 
 Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, 
 Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse! 
 Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ 
 Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce 
 And to our high-raised phantasy present 
 That undisturbed Song of pure concent 
 Aye sung before the sapph ire-colour d throne 
 
 To Him that sits thereon. 
 With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
 Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 
 Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow ; 
 And the Cherubic host in thousand quires 
 Touch their immortal harps of golden wires. 
 With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms 
 
 Hymns devout and holy psalms 
 
 Singing everlastingly : 
 That we on earth, with undiscording voice 
 May rightly answer that melodious noise ; 
 As once we did, till disproportion'd sin 
 Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din 
 Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
 To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd 
 In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
 In first obedience, and their state of good. 
 O may we soon again renev/ that Song, 
 And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long 
 To his celestial concert us unite, 
 To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light! 
 
 J. Milton. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 LEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 
 
 'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son — 
 Aloft in awful state 
 
112 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 The godlike hero sate 
 
 On his imperial throne ; 
 
 His valiant peers were placed around, 
 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound 
 
 (So should desert in arms be crownM) ; 
 
 The lovely Thais by his side 
 
 Sate like a blooming eastern bride 
 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride : — ' 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 
 None but the brave 
 
 None but the brave 
 
 None but the brave deserves the fair! 
 
 Timotheus placed on high 
 Amid the tuneful quire 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove 
 Who left his blissful seats above — 
 Such is the power of mighty love ! 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode 
 When he to fair Olympia prest, 
 And while he sought her snowy breast ; 
 Then round her slender waist he curPd, 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world 
 ■ — The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ! 
 A present deity ! they shout around : 
 A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ! 
 With ravish'd ears 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god ; 
 Affects to nod 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung : 
 Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 113 
 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! 
 
 Flush'd with a purple grace 
 
 He shows his honest face : 
 
 Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes ! 
 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
 
 Rich the treasure 
 
 Sweet the pleasure, 
 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
 Fought all his battles o'er again. 
 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! 
 The master saw the madness rise, 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 And while he Heaven and Earth defied 
 Changed his hand and check'd his pride. 
 He chose a mournful Muse 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He sung Darius great and good, 
 By too severe a fate 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 Fallen from his high estate. 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 Deserted, at his utmost need, 
 By those his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 — V/ith downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
 Revolving in his alter'd soul 
 The various turns of Chance below ; 
 And now and then a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smiled to see 
 That love was in the next degree ; 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
 
114 BOOR SECOND. 
 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures 
 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
 
 Honour but an empty bubble, 
 
 Never ending, still beginning ; 
 
 Fighting still, and still destroying; 
 
 If the world be worth thy winningj 
 
 Think, O think, it worth enjoying: 
 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee ! 
 
 • — The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 
 Gazed on the fair 
 
 Who caused his care, 
 
 And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and lookM, 
 
 Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 
 
 At length with love and wine at once opprest 
 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon hei breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder 
 And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head : 
 As awaked from the dead 
 And amazed he stares around. 
 Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries. 
 See the Furies arise ! 
 See the snakes that they rear 
 How they hiss in their hair, 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
 Behold a ghastly band 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain 
 And unburied remain 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST, ]15 
 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 
 Give the vengeance due 
 
 To the valiant crew ! 
 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
 
 How they point to the Persian abodes 
 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
 
 — The princes applaud with a furious joy : 
 
 And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 
 Thais led the way 
 
 To light him to his prey, 
 
 And like another Helen, fired another Troy! 
 
 — Thus, long ago, 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
 
 And sounding lyre 
 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 
 The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 
 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before 
 
 — Let old Timotheus yield the prize 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down ! 
 
 J. Dryden» 
 
THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM 
 VICISSITUDE. 
 
 Now the golden Morn aloft 
 
 Waves her dew-bespangled wing, 
 With vermeil cheek and whisper soft 
 
 She woos the tardy Spring : 
 Till April starts, and calls around 
 The sleeping fragrance from the ground, 
 And lightly o'er the living scene 
 Scatters his freshest, tenclerest green. 
 
 New-born flocks, in rustic dance, 
 Frisking ply their feeble feet ; 
 
 Forgetful of their wintry trance 
 The birds his presence greet : 
 
 But chief, the sky-lark warbles high 
 
 His trembling thrilling ecstasy ; 
 
 And lessening from the dazzled sightj 
 
 Melts into air and liquid light. 
 
 Yesterday the sullen year 
 
 Saw the snowy whirlwind fly ; 
 Mute was the music of the air, 
 
 . The herd stood drooping by; 
 Their raptures now that wildly flow 
 No yesterday nor morrow know ^ 
 'Tis Man alone that joy descries 
 With forward and reverted eyes. 
 
THE QUIET LIFE. 117 
 
 Smiles on past Misfortune's brow 
 
 Soft Reflection's hand can trace, 
 And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw 
 
 A melancholy grace ; 
 While Hope prolongs our happier hour, 
 Or deepest shades, that dimly lour 
 And blacken round our weary way, 
 Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 
 
 Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, 
 
 See a kindred Grief pursue ; 
 Behind the steps that Misery treads 
 
 Approaching Comfort view ; 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
 Chastised by sabler tints of woe. 
 And blended form, with artful strife, 
 The strength and harmony of life. 
 
 See the wretch that long has tost 
 
 On the thorny bed of pain, 
 At length repair his vigour lost 
 
 And breathe and walk again : 
 The meanest floweret of the vale 
 The simplest note that swells the gale 
 The common sun, the air, the skies. 
 To him are openii.^ Paradise. 
 
 T. Gray, 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 THE QUIET LIFE. 
 
 Happy the man, whose wish and care 
 A few paternal acres bound. 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
 Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
 In winter, fire. 
 
118 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Blest, who can unconcernedly find 
 Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
 Together mix'd ; sweet recreation, 
 And innocence, which most does please 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 
 
 Thus unlamented let me die ; 
 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 
 Tell where I lie. 
 A. Pope. 
 CXIX. 
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 SAY what is that thing calPd Light, 
 Which I must ne'er enjoy ; 
 
 What are the blessings of the sight, 
 O tell your poor blind boy ! 
 
 You talk of wondrous things you see^ 
 You say the sun shines bright ; 
 
 1 feel him warm, but how can he 
 
 Or make it dav or night? 
 
 My day or night myself I make 
 Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
 
 And could I ever keep awake 
 With me 'twere always day. 
 
 With heavy sighs I often hear 
 You mourn my hapless woe ; 
 
 But sure with patience I can bear 
 A loss I ne'er can know. 
 
 Then let not what I cannot have 
 My cheer of mind destroy : 
 
 Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
 Although a poor blind boy. 
 
 C. Gibber, 
 
ON A FAVOURITE CAT. 119 
 
 cxx. 
 
 ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF 
 GOLD FISHES. 
 
 'TwAS on a lofty vase's side 
 Where China's gayest art had dyed 
 The azure flowers that blow, 
 Demurest of the tabby kind 
 The pensive Selima, reclined, 
 Gazed on the lake below. 
 
 Her conscious tail her joy declared : 
 The fair round face, the snowy beard, 
 The velvet of her paws, 
 Her coat that with the tortoise vies, 
 Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes — ■ 
 She saw, and purr'd applause. 
 
 Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide 
 Two angel forms were seen to glide, 
 The Genii of the stream : 
 Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
 Through richest purple, to the view 
 Betray'd a golden gleam. 
 
 The hapless Nymph with wonder saw : 
 
 A whisker first, and then a claw 
 
 With many an ardent wish 
 
 She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize — * 
 
 What female heart can gold despise? 
 
 What Cat's averse to Fish? 
 
 Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
 Again she stretch'd, again she bent, 
 Nor knew the gulf between — 
 Malignant Fate sat by and smiled — 
 The slippery verge her feet beguiled ; 
 She tumbled headlong in ! 
 
 Eight times emerging from the flood 
 She mew'd to every watery God 
 
120 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Some speedy aid to send : — 
 No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, 
 Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard — 
 A favourite has no friend ! 
 
 From hence, ye Beauties ! undeceived 
 Know one false step is ne'er retrieved. 
 And be with caution bold : 
 Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
 And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, 
 Nor all that glisters, gold ! 
 
 T. Gray. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY. 
 
 Timely blossom, Infant fair, 
 Fondling of a happy pair. 
 Every morn and every night 
 Their solicitous delight, 
 Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
 Pleasing, without skill to please 
 Little gossip, blithe and hale, 
 Tattling many a broken tale, 
 Singing many a tuneless song, 
 Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
 Simple maiden, void of art, 
 Babbling out the very heart, 
 Yet abandoned to thy will, 
 Yet imagining no ill. 
 Yet too innocent to blush ; 
 Like the linnet in the bush 
 To the mother-linnet's note 
 Moduling her slender throat ; 
 Chirping forth thy petty joys. 
 Wanton in the change of toys, 
 Like the linnet green, in May 
 Flitting to each bloomy spray; 
 Wearied then and glad of rest, 
 Like the linnet in the nest : — 
 
RULE BRIIANNIA. 121 
 
 This thy present happy lot 
 
 This, in time will be forgot : 
 
 Other pleasures, other cares, 
 
 Ever-busy Time prepares ; 
 And thou shalt in thy daughter see, 
 This picture, once, resembled thee. 
 
 A. Philips. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 RULE BRITANNIA. 
 
 When Britain first at Heaven's command 
 
 Arose from out the azure main, 
 This was the charter of her land, 
 
 And guardian angels sung the strain : 
 Rule Britannia ! Britannia rules the waves ! 
 Britons never shall be slaves. 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee 
 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
 Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free 
 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tam^ , 
 
 All their attempts to bend thee down 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
 
 And work their woe and thy renown. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
 All thine shall be the subject main. 
 
 And every shore it circles thine ! 
 
 The Muses, still with Freedom found. 
 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
 Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd 
 
f22 , BOOK THIRD. 
 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair : — 
 Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! 
 Britons never shall be slaves ! 
 
 J. ThomseTt, 
 CXXIII. 
 
 THE BARD. 
 Pindaric Ode. 
 
 * Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! 
 
 Confusion on thy banners wait ! 
 Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing 
 
 They mock the air with idle state. 
 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail 
 Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 
 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
 From Cambria's curse, frorn Cambria's tears!' 
 — Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 
 
 Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
 
 He wound with toilsome march his long array : — 
 Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; 
 
 * To arms ! ' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance, 
 
 On a rock, whose haughty brow 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 
 Robed in the sable garb of woe 
 With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; 
 (Loose his beard and hoary hair 
 Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) 
 And with a master's hand and prophet's fire 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : 
 
 * Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave 
 
 Sio:hs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! 
 O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they wave, 
 
 Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 
 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
 To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 
 
 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
 That hush'd the stormy main : 
 
THE BARD. . 123 
 
 Brave Urien sleeps upon hiis craggy bed . 
 
 Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 
 Modred, whose magic song 
 Made Iiuge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head 
 
 On dreary Arvon's shore they lie 
 Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale : 
 Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; 
 
 The famished eagle screams, and passes by. 
 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 
 
 Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
 Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. 
 
 Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
 No more I weep ; They do not sleep ; 
 
 On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
 I see them sit ; They linger yet. 
 
 Avengers of their native land : 
 With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 
 
 ' Weave the warp and weave the woof 
 
 The winding-sheet of Edward's race : 
 Give ample room and verge enough 
 
 The characters of hell to trace. 
 Mark the year and mark the night 
 When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
 The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, 
 Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
 
 She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs 
 That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate. 
 
 From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
 The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! 
 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined. 
 And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 
 
 ' Mighty victor, mighty lord, 
 
 Lov/ on his funeral couch he lies ! 
 No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
 
 A tear to grace his obsequies. 
 Is the sable warrior fled ? 
 
124 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
 The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? 
 — Gone to salute the rising morn. 
 Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 
 
 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
 In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes : 
 
 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : 
 Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
 That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey. 
 
 ' Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
 The rich repast prepare ; 
 
 Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
 Close by the regal chair 
 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 
 A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
 Heard ye the din of battle bray. 
 
 Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 
 
 Long years of havock urge their destined course, 
 And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. 
 
 Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
 With many a foul and midnight murder fed. 
 
 Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, 
 And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! 
 Above, below, the rose of snow. 
 
 Twined with her blushing foe, we spread ; 
 The bristled boar in infant-gore 
 
 Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
 Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 
 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom 
 
 * Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
 
 (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;) 
 Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
 
 (The web is wove ; The work is done ;) 
 Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn 
 Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
 In yon bright track that fires the western skies 
 They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
 
THE BARD. 125 
 
 But O ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 
 Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 
 
 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 
 Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soull 
 
 No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : — 
 
 All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue^. hail 1 
 
 ' Girt with many a baron bold 
 Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 
 
 And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
 In bearded majesty, appear. 
 In the midst a form divine ! 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line : 
 Her lien-port, her awe-commanding face 
 Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
 What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 
 
 What strains of vocal transport round her play? 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 
 
 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings. 
 Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings, 
 
 * The verse adorn again 
 
 Fierce War and faithful Love 
 And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. 
 
 In buskin'd measures move 
 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
 With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
 A voice as of the cherub-choir 
 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear, , 
 
 And distant warblings lessen on my ear 
 That lost in long futurity expire. 
 Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud 
 
 Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? 
 To-morrow he repairs the golden flood 
 
 And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
 Enough f^r me : with joy I see 
 
 The different doom our fates assign : 
 Be thine Despair and sceptred Care ; 
 
126 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 To triumph and to die are mine.' 
 — He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 
 
 T. Gray. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI. 
 
 How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
 By all their Country's wishes blest ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
 Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
 There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray. 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 
 
 W. Collins, 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 LAMENT FOR CULLODEN. 
 
 The lovely lass o' Inverness, 
 Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
 For e'en and morn she cries, Alas ! 
 And aye the saut tear blin's her ee : 
 Drumossie moor — Drumossie day — 
 A waefu' day it was to me ! 
 For there I lost my father dear, 
 My father dear, and brethren three. 
 
 Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay. 
 Their graves are growing green to see : 
 And l3y them lies the dearest lad 
 That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
 Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 
 A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
 
LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. 127 
 
 For mony a heart thou hast made sair 
 
 hine or t] 
 R. Burns. 
 
 That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 
 
 cxxvi. 
 LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. 
 
 I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, 
 
 Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day ; 
 But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, 
 
 Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; 
 Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 
 
 In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, 
 Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ; 
 
 At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; 
 
 But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. 
 
 Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! 
 
 The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, 
 
 The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 
 
 We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking ; 
 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 J. Elliott. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, 
 When first on them I met my lover ; 
 Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, 
 When now thy waves his body cover ! 
 
i28 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 For ever 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 ; 
 He promised me a little page 
 To squire me to his father's towers ; 
 He promised me a wedding-ring, — 
 The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ; — 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 
 
 Sweet were his words when last we met ; 
 My passion I as freely told him ; 
 Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
 That I should never more beliold 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 thro' Yarrow. 
 
 His mother from the window look'd 
 With all the longing of a mother ; 
 His little sister weeping walk'd 
 The green-wood path to meet her brother ; 
 They sought him east, they sought him west. 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night, 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 
 
 No longer from thy window look — 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 
 Alas, thou hast no more a brother! 
 No longer seek him east or west 
 And search no more the forest thorough ; 
 For, wandering in the night so dark, 
 He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow- 
 
WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW. 129 
 
 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 Pll 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, 
 
 J. Logan. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW 
 
 Down in yon garden sweet and gay 
 
 Where bonnie grows the lily, 
 I heard a fair maid sighing say 
 
 ' My wish be wi' sweet Willie I 
 
 * Willie's rare, and Willie's fair, 
 
 And Willie's wondrous bonny ; 
 And Willie hecht to marry me 
 Gin e'er he married ony. 
 
 * O gentle wind, that bloweth souths 
 
 From where my Love repaireth, 
 Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth 
 And tell me how he fareth ! 
 
 *0 tell sweet Willie to come doun 
 
 And hear the mavis singing. 
 And see the birds on ilka bush 
 
 And leaves around them hinging. 
 
 * The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast 
 
 And gentle throat sae narrow ; 
 
 There's sport eneuch for gentlemen 
 
 On Leader haughs and Yarrow. 
 
 * O Leader haughs are wide and braid 
 
 And Yarrow haughs are bonny ; 
 There Willie hecht to marry me 
 If e'er he married ony. 
 
130 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 * But Willie's gone, whom I thought on. 
 
 And does not hear me weeping ; 
 Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e 
 When other maids" are sleeping. 
 
 * Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid. 
 
 The night I'll mak' it narrow, 
 For a' the live-lang winter night 
 I lie twined o' my marrow. 
 
 * O came ye by yon water-side ? 
 
 Pou'd you the rose or lily ? 
 Oi came you by yon meadow green, 
 Or saw you my sweet Willie ? ' 
 
 She sought him up, she sought him dowu. 
 
 She sought him braid and narrow ; 
 Syne, in the cleaving of a craig, 
 She found him drown'd in Yarrow! 
 
 Anon. 
 CXXIX. 
 
 LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 
 
 Toll for the Brave ! 
 The brave that are no more ! 
 All sunk beneath the wave 
 Fast by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave 
 Whose courage well was tried. 
 Had made the vessel heel 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
 And she was overset ; 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
 His last sea-fight is fought, 
 His work of glory done. 
 
BLACK-EYED SUSAN. I31 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 No tempest gave the shock; 
 She sprang no fatal leak, 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath, 
 His fingers held the pen, 
 When Kempenfelt went down 
 With twice four hundred ^nen. 
 
 • Weigh the vessel up 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 And mingle with our cup 
 The tear that England owes , 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound, 
 
 And she may float again 
 
 Full charged with England's thundei. 
 
 And plough the distant main : 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone, 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 W. Cowper, 
 
 cxxx. 
 BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 When black-eyed Susan came aboard ; 
 
 'O! where shall I my tme-love find? 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew. 
 
 William, who high upon the yard 
 
 Rock'd with the billow to and fro, 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard 
 
 He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below : 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands . 
 And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 
 
132 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
 
 If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, 
 And drops at once into her nest : — 
 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 * O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 
 
 We only part to meet again. • 
 
 Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 ' Believe not what the landmen say 
 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: 
 
 They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. 
 In every port a mistress find : 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 
 
 For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 ' If to fair India's coast we sail. 
 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 
 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view 
 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 ' Though battle call me from thy arms 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
 
 Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms 
 William shall to" his Dear return. 
 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 
 No longer must she stay aboard ; 
 
 They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. 
 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; 
 
 'Adieu !' she cries ; and waved her lily hand. 
 
 7. Gay, 
 
SALLY LN OUR ALLEY. 133 
 
 cxxxi. 
 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 
 
 There's none like pretty Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There is no lady in the land 
 
 Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage-nets 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
 Her mother she sells laces long 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em : 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When she is by, I leave my work, 
 
 I love her so sincerely ; 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely — 
 But let him bang his bellyful, 
 
 I'll bear it all for Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that's in the week 
 
 I dearly love but one day — 
 And that's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 A Saturday and Monday ; 
 For then I'm drest all in my best 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church, 
 And often am I blamed 
 
134 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Because I leave him in the lurch 
 As soon as text is named ; 
 
 I leave the church in sermon-time 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When Christmas comes about again 
 
 O then I shall have money; 
 I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 
 
 I'll give it to my honey : 
 I would it were ten thousand pounds, 
 
 I'd give it all to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master and the neighbours all 
 
 Make game of me and Sally, 
 And, but for her, I'd better be 
 
 A slave and row a galley ; 
 But when my seven long years are out 
 
 O then I'll marry Sally, — 
 O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 
 
 But not in our alley ! 
 
 H. Carey, 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 
 And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
 That I may drink before I go 
 
 A service to my bonnie lassie : 
 The boat rocks at the pier of Leit-h, 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry, 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar, 
 
IF DOUGHTY DEEDS. 135 
 
 The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
 But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 
 
 It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 R. Burns, 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 If 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, Lover 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take 
 Tho' 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. 
 If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, 
 
 These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
 Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, 
 
 That voice that nane can match. 
 
 But if fond love thy heart can gain, 
 
 I never broke a vow ; 
 Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, 
 
 I never 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 ! 
 
136 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care Pll take, 
 
 Tho' ne''er another trow me. 
 
 Grahavi of Gartmore, 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade. 
 
 Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 
 
 Silent and chaste she steals along. 
 
 Far from the world's gay busy throng : 
 
 With gentle yet prevailing force. 
 
 Intent upon her destined course ; 
 
 Graceful and useful all she does, 
 
 Blessing and blest where'er she goes ,* 
 
 Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, 
 
 And Heaven reflected in her face. 
 
 W. Cowper, 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile — 
 Tho' 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 controul 
 
 Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee i 
 
FOR EVER. 13? 
 
 And may the secret of thy soul 
 Remain within its sanctuary ! 
 
 S. Rogers. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prov'e 
 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. 
 
 J, Thomson. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 The 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 play. 
 
 My lyre I tune, my voice I raise. 
 But with my numbers mix my sighs ; 
 And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
 I fix ray soul on Cloe's eyes. 
 
138 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Fair Cloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 
 I sung, and gazed ; I play'd, and trembled: 
 And Venus to the Loves around 
 RemarkM how ill we all dissembled. 
 
 M. Prior. 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly 
 And finds too late that men betray, — 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
 What art can wash her guilt away? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 To hide her shame from every eye. 
 To give repentance to her lover 
 And wring his bosom, is — to die. 
 
 O. Goldsmith. 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o** bonnie Doon 
 How can ye bloom sae fair ! 
 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
 And I sae fu' o' care ! 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
 That sings upon the bough ; 
 
 Thou minds me o^ the happy days 
 When my fause Luve was true. 
 
 ThouUl break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 
 To see the woodbine twine. 
 
 And ilka bird sang o' its love ; 
 And sae did I o' mine. 
 
 • Wi' lightsome heart I puVl a rose, 
 
 Frae aif its thorny tree ; 
 
 And my fause luver staw the rose, 
 
 But left the thorn wi^ me. 
 
 R. Burns, 
 
THE PROGRESS OE POESY. 139 
 
 CXL. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 A Pindaric Ode. 
 
 Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake, 
 And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. 
 From Helicon's harmonfous springs 
 
 A thousand rills their mazy progress take : 
 The laughing flowers that round them blow 
 Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
 Now the rich stream of Music winds along 
 Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 
 Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign ; 
 Now rolling down the steep amain 
 Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : 
 The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar 
 
 O Sovereign of the willing soul. 
 Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, 
 Enchanting shell ! the sullen Cares 
 
 And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 
 On Thracia's hills the Lord of War 
 Has curb'd the fury of his car 
 And- dropt his thirsty lance at thy command. 
 Perching on the sceptred hand 
 Of Jove, thy magic lulls the featherM king 
 With rufiled plumes, and flagging wing : 
 Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie 
 The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. 
 
 Thee the voice, the dance, obey 
 Tempered to thy warbled lay. 
 O'er Idalia's velvet-green 
 The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
 On Cytherea's day, 
 
 With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
 Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
 Now pursuing, now retreating, 
 Now in circling troops they meet: 
 
140 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 To brisk notes in cadence beating 
 
 Glance their many-twinkling feet- 
 Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare i 
 
 Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay : 
 With arms sublime that float upon the air 
 
 In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
 O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 
 The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. 
 
 Man's feeble race what ills await ! 
 Labour, and Penury, the racks of I^ain, 
 Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, 
 
 And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate f 
 The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
 And justify the laws of Jove. 
 Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? 
 Night, and all her sickly dews, 
 Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry 
 He gives to range the dreary sky : 
 Till down the eastern cliffs afar 
 Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of wan 
 
 In climes beyond the solar road 
 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, 
 The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 
 
 To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
 And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
 Of Chili's boundless forests laid. 
 She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat 
 In loose numbers wildly sweet 
 Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. 
 Her track, where'er the Goddess roves. 
 Glory pursue, and generous Shame, 
 Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. 
 
 Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, 
 Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep. 
 Fields that cool Ilissus laves 
 Or where Maeander's amber waves 
 In lingering lab'rinths creep. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 141 
 
 How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
 Mute, but to the voice of anguish ! 
 Where each old poetic mountain 
 
 Inspiration breathed around ; 
 Every shade and hallow'd fountain 
 
 Murmur'd deep a solemn sound : 
 Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evij hour 
 
 Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. 
 Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, 
 
 And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
 When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
 They sought, O Albion ! next, thy sea-encircled coast 
 
 Far from the sun and summer-gale 
 In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid. 
 What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 
 
 To him the mighty Mother did unveil 
 Her awful face : the dauntless Child 
 Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. 
 This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear 
 Richly paint the vernal year : 
 Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy ! 
 This can unlock the gates of Joy ; 
 Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 
 Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. 
 
 Nor second He, that rode sublime 
 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy 
 The secrets of the Abyss to spy : 
 
 He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time : 
 The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze 
 Where Angels tremble while they gaze. 
 He saw ; but blasted with excess of light. 
 Closed his eyes in endless night. 
 Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car 
 Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear 
 Two coursers of ethereal race 
 With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. 
 
142 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
 Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 
 
 But ah ! 'tis heard no more 
 
 O ! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit 
 Wakes thee now! Tho' he inherit 
 Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 
 
 That the Theban Eagle bear, 
 Sailing with supreme dominion 
 
 Thro' the azure deep of air : 
 Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
 
 Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray 
 With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun : 
 
 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
 Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate 
 Beneath the Good how far — but far above the Great. 
 
 T. Gray. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 THE PASSIONS. 
 
 An Ode for Music. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung, 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
 Throng'd around her magic cell 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined : 
 'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
 Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
 From the supporting myrtles round 
 They snatch'd her instruments of sound. 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
 Each, for Madness ruled the hour, 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 
THE PASSIONS. 143 
 
 First Fear his hand, its skill to try. 
 
 Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 
 And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 
 
 E'en at the sound himself had made. 
 
 Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 
 
 In lightnings ownM his secret stings ; 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre 
 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woeful measures wan Despair — 
 
 Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 
 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
 
 What was thy delighted measure ? 
 Still it whisper'd promised pleasure 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale 
 She caird on Echo still through all the song ; 
 
 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair, - 
 
 And longer had she sung : — but with a frown 
 
 Revenge impatient rose : 
 He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ; 
 
 And with a withering look 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 
 
 And ever and anon he beat 
 
 The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
 And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
 
 Dejected Pity at his side 
 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
 Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien. 
 While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. 
 
144 BOOK THIRD. "^^H 
 
 Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd: fl 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
 Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ; 
 
 An i now it courted Love, now raving calPd on Hate. 
 
 With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, 
 
 Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 
 
 And from her wild sequestered seat, 
 
 In notes by distance made more sweet, 
 
 Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
 
 And dashing soft from rocks around 
 
 Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, 
 
 Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 
 But O ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
 
 Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
 ' Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. 
 
 The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known ! 
 The oak-crownM Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen 
 
 Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen 
 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 
 
 And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 He, with viny crown advancing. 
 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: 
 But soon he saw the brisk awaKening viol 
 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: 
 They would have thought who heard the strain 
 
 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids 
 
 Amidst the festal-sounding shades 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing; 
 While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings. 
 
ODE ON THE SPRING. 145 
 
 Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; 
 And he, amidst liis frolic play, 
 A.S if he would the charming air repay 
 ^dook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 
 
 O Music 1 sphere-descended maid, 
 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 
 Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 
 Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 
 As in that loved Athenian bower 
 You learnM an all-commanding power, 
 Thy mimic soul, O nymph endearM! 
 Can well recall what then it heard. 
 Where is thy native simple heart 
 Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 
 Arise, as in that elder time. 
 Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders, in that god-like age. 
 Fill thy recording Sister's page ; — 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
 Thy humblest reed could more prevail 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
 Than all which charms this laggard age^, 
 E'en all at once together found 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound : — 
 O bid our vain endeavours cease : 
 Revive the just designs of Greece : 
 Return in all thy simple state ! 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 
 
 W. Collins. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear. 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 
146 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 The Attic warbler pours her throat 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 The untaught harmony of Spring : 
 While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
 Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
 Their gathered fragrance fling. 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader, browner shade, 
 Where'er the rude and moss grown beecb 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade, 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardour of the Crowd, 
 How low, how little are the Proud, 
 How indigent the Great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose : 
 Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 The insect youth are on the wing, 
 Eager to taste the honied spring 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
 Some show their gaily-gilded trim 
 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of Man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter thro' life's little day. 
 In Fortune's varying colours drest : 
 Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance 
 Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest 
 
THE POPLAR FIELD, 147 
 
 Methinks I hear in accents low 
 
 The sportive kind reply : 
 Poor moralist ! and what art thou? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 
 No painted plumage to display : 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 
 
 We frolic while 'tis May. 
 
 T. Gray. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 THE POPLAR FIELD. 
 
 The poplars are feird, farewell to the shade 
 And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
 The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
 Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew s 
 And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
 And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat 
 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; 
 And the scene where his melody charm'd me before 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
 And 1 must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
 With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
 
 ^Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
 To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
 Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see 
 Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 
 
 W. Cowper, 
 
148 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 TO A FIELD MOUSE. 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cowVin^ tim'rous beastie, 
 
 what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 
 1 wad be laith to rin and chase thee 
 Wi' murdVing pattle ! 
 
 I'm truly sorry mane's dominion 
 Has broken nature's social union, 
 And justifies that ill opinion 
 Which makes thee startle 
 At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 
 And fellow-mortal ! 
 
 I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
 
 What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
 
 A daimen icker in a thrave 
 
 'S a sma' request : 
 
 I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 
 
 And never miss't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' : 
 And naething, now, to big a new ane, 
 O' foggage green ! 
 
 And bleak December's winds ensuin' 
 Baith snell and keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste 
 
 And weary winter comin' fast, 
 
 And cozie here, beneath the blast, 
 
 Thou thought to dwell, 
 
 Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
 
 Out thro' thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble 
 Has cost thee m.ony a weary nibble ! 
 Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble 
 
A WISH. 149 
 
 But house or hald, 
 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble 
 
 And cranreuch cauld? 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane 
 In proving foresight may be vain : 
 The best laid schemes o' mice and men 
 Gang aft a-gley, 
 
 And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 
 For promised joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
 
 The present only toucheth thee : 
 
 But, och ! I backward cast my e'e 
 
 On prospects drear ! 
 
 And forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess and fear. 
 
 R. Burns. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
 A willowy brook that turns a mill, 
 With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet-gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village-church among the trees. 
 Where first our marriage-vows were given.; 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
 And point with taper spire to Heaven. 
 
 S. Rogers. 
 
150 BOOK THIRD, 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 
 
 iMay hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear 
 
 Like thy own solemn springs, 
 
 Thy springs, and dying gales ; 
 
 O Nymph reserved, — while now the bright-hair'd sun 
 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 
 
 With brede ethereal wove, 
 
 O'erhang his wavy bed. 
 
 Now air is hush'd, save where the weaVeyed bat 
 With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing. 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 
 As oft he rises midst the twilight path, 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum, — 
 
 Now teach me, maid composed. 
 
 To breathe some soften'd strain 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
 May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 
 
 As musing slow I hail 
 
 Thy genial loved return. 
 
 For when thy folding-star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
 
 The fragrant Hours, and Elves ' 
 
 Who slept in buds the day, 
 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still 
 
 The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene \ 
 Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 
 
 Whose walls more awful nod 
 
 By thy religious gleams. 
 
GJ^AY'S ELEGY. 151 
 
 Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
 
 That, from the mountain's side, 
 
 Views wilds and swelling floods. 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; 
 And hears their simple bell ; and marks o'er all 
 
 Th}' dewy fingers draw 
 
 The gradual dusky veil. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont. 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 
 
 While Summer loves to sport 
 
 Beneath thy lingering light ; 
 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. 
 
 Affrights thy shrinking train 
 
 And rudely rends thy robes ; 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 
 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own. 
 
 And love thy favourite name ! 
 
 W. ColUns. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
 Molest her ancient solitary reio^n. 
 
\ 
 
 152 BOOK THIRD, 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke \ 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the Poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave 
 Await alike th' inevitable hour : — 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vauij 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath .? 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death.? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
GRAY'S ELEGY. 153 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the hving lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
 Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 The dark unfathomM caves of ocean bear : 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
154 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 
 
 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
 Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. 
 Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 
 
 One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. 
 Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 
 
 The next with dirges due in sad array 
 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 
 
MARY MORIS ON. 155 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
 A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 
 He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, 
 
 He gainM from Heaven, 'twas all he wished, a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 T. Gray, 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 Mary, at thy window be, 
 
 It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see 
 That make the miser's treasure poor : 
 How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen when to the trembling string 
 The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
 
 1 sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
 Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 
 I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
 *Ye are na Mary Morison.' 
 
156 BOOK THIRD, 
 
 O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? 
 Or canst thou break th?t heart of his^ 
 Whase only faut is loving thee? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 The thought o' Mary Monson. 
 
 R. Burns, 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 BONNIE LESLEY. 
 
 O SAW ye bonnie Lesley 
 
 As she gaed o'er the border? 
 
 She's gane, like Alexander, 
 
 To spread her conquests farther. 
 
 To see her is to love her, 
 And love but her for ever ; 
 
 For nature made her what she is, 
 And ne'er made sic anither 1 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
 Thy subjects we, before thee; 
 
 Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 The deil he could na scaith thee. 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
 And say ' I canna wrang thee ! ' 
 
 The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 
 
 Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
 Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely 
 
 That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 
 
 Return again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie ! 
 That we may brag we hae a lass 
 
 There's nane again sae bonnie. 
 R. Burns. 
 
HIGHLAND MARY. 157 
 
 CL. 
 
 O MY Luve's like a red, red rose 
 
 That's newly sprung in June : 
 
 my Luve's like the melodie 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 
 
 So deep in luve am I : 
 And I will luve thee still, my dear^ 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry : 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
 
 1 will luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 
 
 And fare thee weel a while ! 
 And I will come again, my Luve, 
 ■ The' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 R. Burns. 
 CLI. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes. 
 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 For there I took the last fa re weel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
 As underneath their fragrant shade 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours on angel wings 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
158 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Wr mony a vow and lockM embrace 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender; 
 And pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But, O ! 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 ! 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 R. Bums, 
 
 CLII. 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 
 And a' the warld to rest are gane. 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, 
 While my gudeman lies sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; 
 But saving a croun he had naething else beside : 
 To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea ; 
 And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 
 
 He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, 
 When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; 
 My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea — 
 And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. 
 
 My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; 
 I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; 
 Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e 
 Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me 1 
 
DUNCAN GRAY, 159 
 
 My heart it said nay ; I looked for Jamie back ; 
 But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; 
 His ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee? 
 Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me ? 
 
 My father urgit sair : my mother didna speak ; 
 But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break j 
 They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart w-as at the sea ; 
 Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 
 
 I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
 When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, 
 I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he^ 
 Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee. 
 
 sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; 
 We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away: 
 
 1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; 
 And why was I born to say, Wae's me ! 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
 I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; 
 But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be. 
 For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. 
 
 Lady A. Lindsay. 
 CLIII. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY. 
 
 Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 On blythe Yule night when we were fou- 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't : 
 Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
 Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
 Cart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't I 
 
 Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 
 Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig ; 
 Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
 Grat his een baith bleert and blin', 
 Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn ! 
 
IbO BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Time and chance are but a tide. 
 Slighted love is sair to bide ; 
 Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
 For a haughty hizzie dee ? 
 She may gae to — France for me i 
 
 How it comes let doctors tell. 
 Meg grew sick — as he grew heal ; 
 Something in her bosom wrings, 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 And O, her een, they spak sic things! 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace ; 
 Maggie's was a piteous case ; . 
 Duncan could na be her death, 
 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
 Now they're crouse and canty baith : 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! 
 
 R. Burns, 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? 
 
 And are ye sure he's weel? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark? 
 
 Ye jades, lay by your wheel ; 
 Is this the time to spin a thread. 
 
 When Colin's at the door? 
 Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 For there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudeman's awa^ 
 
 And gie to me my bigonet, 
 My bishop's satin gown ; 
 
 For I maun tell the baillie's wife 
 That Colin's in the town. 
 
THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 161 
 
 My Turkey slippers maun gae on. 
 
 My stockins pearly blue ; 
 It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 
 Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 
 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 Gie little Kate her button gown 
 
 And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 Its a' to please my ain gudeman, 
 
 For he's been long awa. 
 
 There's twa fat hens upo' the coop 
 
 Been fed this month and mair ; 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 
 
 That Colin weel may fare ; 
 And spread the table neat and clean, 
 
 Gar ill^"'thing look braw, 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared 
 
 When he was far awa ? 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 
 
 His breath like caller air ; 
 His very foot has music in't 
 
 As he comes up the stair — 
 And will I see his face again? 
 
 And will I hear him speak? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet! 
 
 If Colin's weel, and weel content, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave : 
 And gin I live to keep him sae, 
 
 I'm blest aboon the lave : 
 And will I see his face again, 
 
 And will I hear him speak? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 
162 ■ BOOK THIRD. 
 
 For there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 W. J. Mickle, 
 
 CLV. 
 
 JEAN. 
 
 Of a' the airts 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. 
 
 O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
 
 Amang the leafy trees ; 
 Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 
 
 Bring hame the laden bees ; 
 And bring the lassie back to me 
 
 That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
 Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae charming is my Jean. 
 
 What sighs and vows amang the knowes 
 Hae pass'd atween us twa ! 
 
 How fond to meet, how wae to part 
 That night she gaed awa ! 
 
JOHN ANDERSON. 163 
 
 The Powers aboon can only ken 
 
 To whom the heart is seen, 
 That nane can be sae dear to me 
 As my sweet lovely Jean ! 
 
 R. Burns, 
 CLVI. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON. 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 When we were first acquent 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is bald, John, 
 Your locks are like the snow ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 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. 
 
 R. Burns. 
 CLVII. 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 
 I'm wearing awa', Jean, 
 
 Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, 
 
 I'm wearing awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, 
 Your task's ended noo, Jean, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
f64 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
 She was baith guid and fair, Jean; 
 O we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal ! 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 
 And angels wait on me 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean; 
 
 We'll meet and aye be fain 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Lady Nairn. 
 CLVIII. 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
 - COLLEGE. 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 
 
 That crown the watVy glade, 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding way : 
 
 Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah fields beloved in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow. 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth. 
 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
ETON COLLEGE. 165 
 
 Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race 
 Disporting on thy margent green 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace ; 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 
 The captive linnet which enthral? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 
 
 While some on earnest business bent 
 
 Their murmuring labours ply 
 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty : 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 They hear a voice in every wind 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed, 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue, 
 Wild Wit, Invention ever new, 
 And lively Cheer, of Vigour born; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light 
 
 That fly th' approach of morn. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom 
 
 The little victims play ! 
 No sense have they of ills to come 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 Yet see how all around 'em wait 
 The ministers of human fate 
 
160 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah shew them where in ambush stand 
 To seize their prey, the murderous band! 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall the fury Passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame that sculks behind ; 
 Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
 Or Jealousy with rankling tooth 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart, 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 
 
 Then whirl the wretch from high 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice 
 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 The stings of falsehood those shall try 
 And hard Unkindness' altered eye, 
 That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
 And moody Madness laughing wild 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath 
 
 A griesly troop are seen, 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their Queen : 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
 That every labouring sinew strains, 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
 Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand. 
 
 And slow-consuming Age. 
 
 To each his sufferings : all are men, 
 Condemn'd alike to groan ; 
 
HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 16/ 
 
 The tender for another's pain, 
 
 Th' unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate-, 
 Since sorrow never comes too late, 
 And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
 Thought would destroy their paradise ! 
 No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. 
 
 T. Gray. 
 CLIX. 
 
 HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 
 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 
 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 
 
 When first thy Sire to send on earth 
 
 Virtue, his darling child, design'd. 
 To thee he gave the heavenly birth 
 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stern rugged Nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore : 
 What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
 And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe 
 
 Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 
 
 Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
 Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse, and with them go 
 The summer Friend, the flattering Foe ; 
 "By vain Prosperity received 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again believed 
 
 Wisdom in sable garb arrayM 
 
 Immersed in rapturous thought profound. 
 
168 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 And Melancholy, silent maid, 
 
 With leaden eye, that loves the ground, 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
 Warm Charity, the general friend, 
 With Justice, to herself severe, 
 And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 
 
 O, gently on thy supplianfs head 
 
 Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! 
 Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad. 
 
 Not circled with the vengeful band 
 (As by the impious thou art seen) 
 With thundering voice, and threatening mien, 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 
 
 Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear, 
 
 Thy milder influence impart, 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 
 To soften, not to wound my heart. 
 The generous spark extinct revive. 
 Teach me to love and to forgive, 
 Exact my own defects to scan. 
 What others are to feel, and know myself a Man, 
 
 T. Gray. 
 CLX. 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OP ALEXANDER SELKIRK, 
 
 I AM monarch of all I survey ; 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 From the centre all round to the sea 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 Solitude ! where are the charms 
 That sages have seen in thy face? 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 1 am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone, 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech; 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 
THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 169 
 
 The beasts that roam over the plain 
 My form with indifference see ; 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, Friendship, and Love 
 Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
 O had I the wings of a dove 
 How soon would I taste you again' 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 In the ways of religion and truth, 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more : 
 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me? 
 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 ..How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 Compared with the speed of its flight, 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
 When I think of my own native land 
 In a moment I seem to be there ; 
 But alas ! recollection at hand 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the seafowl is gone to her nest, 
 The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 And mercy, encouraging thought! 
 Gives even afiliction a grace 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 W. Cowper, 
 
170 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 TO MARY UNWIN. 
 
 Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, 
 
 Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew. 
 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
 
 And undebased by praise of meaner things, 
 
 That ere through age or woe I shed my wings 
 I may record thy worth with honour due, 
 In verse as musical as thou art true 
 And that immortalizes whom it sings : — 
 
 But thou hast little need. There is a Book 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
 
 A chronicle of actions just and bright — 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine ; 
 And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. 
 
 W. Cowper, 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past 
 Since first our sky was overcast ; 
 Ah would that this might be the last! 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow — 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still. 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 My Mary ! 
 
TO THE SAME. 171 
 
 But well thou playMst the housewife's part, 
 And all thy threads with magic art 
 Have wound themselves about this heart, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 Like language uttered in a dream ; 
 Yet me they charm, whatever the theme, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright. 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For could I view nor them nor thee. 
 What sight worth seeing could I see? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st 
 That now at every step thou mov'st 
 Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know 
 How oft the sadness that I show 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 
 With much resemblance of the past 
 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last — 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 W. Cowper, 
 
172 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN. 
 
 Why, Damon, with the forward day 
 Dost thou thy little spot survey, 
 From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 
 Pursue the progress of the year, 
 What winds arise, what rains descend, 
 When thou before that year shalt end? 
 
 What do thy noontide walks avail, 
 To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, 
 Then wantonly to death decree 
 An insect usefuller than thee? 
 Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 
 As low, as earthy, and as blind. 
 
 Vain wretch ! canst thou expect to see 
 The downy peach make court to thee? 
 Or that thy sense shall ever meet 
 The bean-flower''s deep-embosom'd sweet 
 Exhaling with an evening blast? 
 Thy evenings then will all be past ! 
 
 Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green 
 (For vanity's in little seen), 
 All must be left when Death appears. 
 In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 
 Nor one of all thy plants that grow 
 But Rosemary will with thee go. 
 
 G. Sewell. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 In the downhill of life, when I find Pm decliningj 
 
 May my lot no less fortunate be 
 Then a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining. 
 
 And a cot that o''erlooks the wide sea ; 
 
TO-MORROW. 173 
 
 With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, 
 
 While I carol away idle sorrow, 
 And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn 
 
 Look forward with hope for to-morrow. 
 
 With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, 
 
 As the sun-shine or rain may prevail ; 
 And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, 
 
 With a barn for the use of the flail : 
 A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, 
 
 And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; 
 I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, 
 
 Nor what honours await him to-morrow. 
 
 From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely 
 
 Secured by a neighbouring hill ; 
 And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly 
 
 By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
 And while peace and plenty I find at my board, 
 
 With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, 
 With my friends may I share what to-day may afford, 
 
 And let them spread the table to-morrow. 
 
 And when I at last must throw off this frail covering 
 
 Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, 
 On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, 
 
 Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 
 But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey. 
 
 And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; 
 As this old worn-out stuff, which is thread-bare to-day, 
 
 May become everlasting to-morrow. 
 
 — Collins, 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art. 
 But know that thou and I must part; 
 And when, or how, or where we met 
 I own to me's a secret yet. 
 
 Life ! we've been long together 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 
 
174 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
 
 Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 
 
 — Then steal away, give little warning, 
 
 Choose thine own time ; 
 Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 
 
 Bid me Good Morning. 
 
 A, L, Barbauld. 
 
THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 
 
 J3oo{t JFourt{)> 
 
 CLXVJ. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the reahns of gold 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 
 — Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 Or like stout Cortez — when with eagle eyes 
 
 He stared at the Pacific, and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 7. Keats, 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 ODE ON THE POETS. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Have ye souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regions new? 
 
 — Yes, and those of heaven commune 
 With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
 
176 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 With the noise of fountains wonderous 
 And the parle of voices thunderous ; 
 With the whisper of heaven's trees 
 And one another, in soft ease 
 Seated on Elysian lawns 
 Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
 Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
 Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
 And the rose herself has got 
 Perfume which on earth is not ; 
 Where the nightingale doth sing 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
 But divine melodious truth ; 
 Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
 Tales and golden histories 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 Thus ye live on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again ; 
 And the souls ye left behind you 
 Teach us, here, the way to find you 
 Where your other souls are joying, 
 Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
 Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
 To mortals, of their little week ; 
 Of their sorrows and delights ; 
 Of their passions and their spites ; 
 Of their glory and their shame ; 
 What doth strengthen and what maim : 
 Thus ye teach us, every day. 
 Wisdom, though fled far away. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Ye have souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regions new ? 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
LOVE, 177 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are 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 ruin'd 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 listen'd to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 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 play'd 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 woo'd 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
178 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 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 listen^ with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossM 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, 
 V This miserable Knight I 
 
 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 claspM 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 ; 
 
 — His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of al] the ditty, 
 
ALL FOR LOVE. 179 
 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity 1 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thriird 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'cherish'd long! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blush'd with love, and virgin shame ; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she steppM 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, look'd up. 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 '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 calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 CLXIX. 
 
 ALL FOR LOVE. 
 
 O TALK not to me of a name great in story; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
 
180 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkle^i? 
 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — 
 What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 
 
 Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 
 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 O Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 
 Would grace a summer-queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton-Hall 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A Maiden on the castle-wall 
 
 Was singing merrily : 
 *0 Brignall Banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen.' 
 
 • If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 
 To leave both tower and town, 
 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we 
 That dwell by dale and down. 
 
 And if thou canst that riddle read, 
 As read full well you may, 
 
THE OUTLAW. 181 
 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May.' 
 Yet sung she ' Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen. 
 
 * I read you by your bugle-horn 
 
 And by your palfrey good, 
 I read you for a ranger sworn 
 To keep the king's greenwood.' 
 
 * A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light ; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn, 
 
 And mine at dead of night.' 
 Yet sung she ' Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are ga}' ; 
 I would I were with Edmund there 
 
 To reign his Queen of May ! 
 
 * With burnish'd brand and musketoon 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a bold Dragoon, 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum.' 
 *I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear ; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 And O ! though Brignall banks be fair 
 
 And Greta woods be gay, 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May! 
 
 * Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, • 
 
 A nameless death I'll die ! 
 The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 
 
 Were better mate than I ! 
 And when Fm with my comrades met 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough 
 
182 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 What once we were we all forget, 
 Nor think what we are now.' 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 Would grace a summer-queen. 
 
 Sir W. Scott. 
 CLXXI. 
 
 There 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 lull'd winds seem dreaming; 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep, 
 Whose breast is gently heaving 
 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 So the spirit bows before the^ 
 To listen and adore thee , 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 CLXXII. 
 
 LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 
 
 I ARISE from dreams of Thee 
 In the jfirst 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! 
 
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 183 
 
 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 ! 
 
 O lift me from the grass ! 
 ' Idle, 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 at last. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meets in her aspect and her eyes, 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less 
 Had half impaired the nameless grace 
 Which waves in every raven tress 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek and o'er that brow 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent. 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
184 ' BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CLxxrv. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 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. 
 
 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 plann'd 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 Witli something of an angel-light. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 CLXXV. 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 
 
 As many maidens be ; 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me. 
 
THE LOST LOVE. . 185 
 
 then I saw her eye was bright, 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold, 
 
 To mine they ne'er reply, 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 
 The love-light in her eve : 
 Her very frowns are fairer far 
 Than smiles of other maidens are. 
 
 H. Colerid^t, 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 1 FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burthen 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. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 THE LOST LOVE. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove ; 
 A maid whom there were none to praise. 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half-hidden from the eye ! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and O ! 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
186 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 I travell'd among unknown men 
 
 In lands beyond the sea ; 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time, for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd 
 
 The bowers where Lucy play'd ; 
 And thine too is the last green field 
 That Lucy^s eyes survey'd. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
 Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown : 
 This child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 • Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The girl, in rock and plain 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing powei 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 ' She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm. 
 
THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. 183 
 
 And her's the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 * The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; for her the willow bend; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 E'en in the motions of the storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 * The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 *And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell.' 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done -= 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 CLXXX. 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seem'd a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees ; 
 RoU'd round in earth's diurnal course 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees ! 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
188 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 
 Cries ' Boatman, do not tarry ! 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound 
 To row us o'er the ferry ! ' 
 
 * Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle 
 This dark and stormy water ? ' 
 
 * O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 *And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we've fled together, 
 For should he find us in the glen. 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 * His horsemen hard behind us ride — 
 Should they our steps discover, 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 When they have slain her lover? ' 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight 
 ' I'll go, my chief, I'm ready : 
 It is not for your silver bright. 
 But for your winsome lady : — 
 
 * And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 In danger shall not tarry ; 
 
 So though the waves are raging white 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry.' 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 The water-wraith was shrieking; 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 Adown the glen rode armed men, 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
yOCK C HAZELDEAN. 189 
 
 * O haste thee, haste ! ' the lady cries, 
 
 * Though tempests round us gather ; 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father.' 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 When, O ! too strong for human hand 
 The tempest gather'd o'er her. 
 
 And still they row'd amidst the roar 
 Of waters fast prevailing : 
 Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, — 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
 For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade 
 His child he did discover : — 
 One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 * Come back ! come back ! ' he cried in grief 
 
 * Across this stormy water : 
 
 And ril forgive your Highland chief, 
 My daughter ! — O my daughter ! ' 
 
 'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore, 
 
 Return or aid preventing : 
 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 T. Campbell, 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. 
 
 * Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride : 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen' — 
 Burt aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
190 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 * Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale ; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen' — ■ 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 * A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair, 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
 And you the foremost o* them a' 
 
 Shall ride our forest-queen ' — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide. 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 
 
 And dame and knight are there : 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 
 
 The ladie was not seen ! 
 She's o'er the border, and a^va' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 Sir W. Scott. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 FREEDOM AND LOVE. 
 
 How delicious is the winning 
 Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
 When two mutual hearts are sighing 
 For the knot there's no untying ! 
 
 Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, 
 Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; 
 Other smiles may make you fickle, 
 Tears for other charms may tricklCc 
 
LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 191 
 
 Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
 Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
 Longest stays, when sorest chidden ; 
 Laughs and flies, wheti press'd and bidden. 
 
 Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
 Bind its odour to the lily. 
 Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
 Then bind Love to last for ever. 
 
 Love's a fire that needs renewal 
 
 Of fresh beauty for its fuel : 
 
 Love's wing moults when caged and captured. 
 
 Only free, he soars enraptured. 
 
 Can you keep the bee from ranging 
 Or the ringdove's neck from changing? 
 No ! nor fetter'd Love from dying 
 In the knot there's no untying. 
 
 T. Campbell. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 The winds of heaven mix for ever 
 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 disdain'd 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 ? 
 
 P. B. Shelley, 
 
192 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 ECHOES. 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes 
 To Music at night 
 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
 And far away o'er lawns and 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. 
 
 T. Moore. 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 
 
 The sun has left the lea, 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower. 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who trill'd all day, 
 
 Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 The village maid steals through the shade 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear 5 
 
 To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 
 The star of Love, all stars above, 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
 
TO THE EVENING STAR. 19j 
 
 And high and low the influence know- 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 Sir W. Scott. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, 
 Companion of retiring day, 
 Why at the closing gates of heaven 
 Beloved Star, dost thou delay? 
 
 So fair thy pensile beauty burns 
 When soft the tear of twilight flows ; 
 So Oue thy plighted love returns 
 To c^,ambers brighter than the rose ; 
 
 To PeacJ^., to Pleasure, and to Love 
 So kind a ^z^ar thou seem'st to be, 
 Sure some en^^mour'd orb above 
 Descends and burns to meet with thee I 
 
 Thine is the breathing, blushing hout 
 When all unheavenly passions fly. 
 Chased by the soul-subduing power 
 Of Love's delicious witchery. 
 
 O ! sacred to the fall of day 
 Queen of propitious stars, appear, 
 And early rise, and long delay 
 When Caroline herself is here ! 
 
 Shine on her chosen green resort 
 Whose trees the sunward summit crowQj 
 And wanton flowers, that well may court 
 An angel's feet to tread them down : — 
 
 Shine on her sweetly scented road 
 Thou star of evening's purple dome, 
 That lead'st the nightingale abroad. 
 And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 
 
194 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath 
 Embalms the soft exhaling dew, 
 Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 
 To kiss the cheek of rosy hue : — 
 
 Where, winnowM by the gentle air 
 Her silken tresses darkly flow 
 And fall upon her bror/ so fair, 
 Like shadows on the mountain snow. 
 
 Thus, ever thus, at day's decline 
 In converse sweet to wander far — 
 O bring with thee my Caroline, 
 And thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! 
 
 T. Ca77ipbelL 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 TO THE NIGHT. 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
 
 Spirit of Night ! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave 
 Where all the long and lone daylight 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 
 Swift by thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 
 
 Star-inwrought ! 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
 Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 
 Come, long-sought ! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee ; 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gonCj 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
 Lingering like an unloved guest, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee. 
 
TO A DISTANT FRIEND. 195 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried 
 
 Would'st thou rne? 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
 Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 
 Shall I nestle near thy side? 
 Would'st thou me? — And I replied 
 
 No, not thee ! 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead, 
 
 Soon, too soon — 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight, 
 
 Come soon, soon ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 TO A DISTANT FRIEND. 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair? 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing care — 
 The mind^s least generous wish a mendicant 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 
 
 Speak ! — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
 Be left more "desolate, more dreary cold 
 
 Than a forsaken birds-nest fiird with snow 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know I 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
190 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 cxc. 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 
 Half broken-hearted, 
 
 To sever for years, 
 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold* 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this ! 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 Sunk chill on my brow; 
 It felt like the warning 
 Of what I feel 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 mCj, 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder cc mes o'er me — 
 Why wert thou so dear? 
 They know not I knew thee 
 Who knew thee too well : 
 Long, long shall I rue thee 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met •■ 
 
 In silence I grieve 
 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 
 How should I greet thee? — « 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 Lord Byrffts, 
 
HAPPY INSENSIBILITY. 197 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 HAPPY INSENSIBILITY, 
 
 In a drear-nighted December 
 
 Too happy, happy Tree 
 
 Thy branches ne'er remember 
 
 Their green felicity : 
 
 The north cannot undo them 
 
 With a sleety whistle through them. 
 
 Nor frozen thawings glue them 
 
 From budding at the prime. 
 
 In a drear-nighted December 
 Too happy, happy Brook 
 Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
 Apollo's summer look ; 
 But with a sweet forgetting 
 They stay their crystal fretting. 
 Never, never petting 
 About the frozen time. 
 
 Ah would 'twere so with many 
 A gentle girl and boy ! 
 But were there ever any 
 Writhed not at passed joy? 
 To know the change and feel it, 
 When there is none to heal it 
 Nor numbed sense to steal it — 
 Was never said in rhyme. 
 
 J. Keats, 
 
 CXCII. 
 
 Where 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, 
 
198 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Where early violets die 
 Under the willow. 
 
 Eleu loro 
 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, 
 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 falsehearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
 
 Ere life be parted : 
 Shame and dishonour sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCL 199 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCL 
 
 * O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 
 Alone and palely loitering? 
 The sedge has withered from the lake, 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 *0 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 
 
 So hagorard and so woe-begone ? 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 ' I see a lily on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever-dew, 
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
 
 Fast withereth too.' 
 
 * I met a lady in the meads, 
 
 Full beautiful — a fairy's child. 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 * I made a garland for her head, 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 
 She looked at me as she did love, 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 * I set her on my pacing steed 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long, 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A fairy's song. 
 
 * She found me roots of relish sweet, 
 
 And honey wild and manna-dew. 
 And sure in language strange she said 
 ' I love thee true.' 
 
 ' She took me to her elfin grot, 
 And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, 
 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 With kisses four. 
 
200 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 * And there she lulled me asleep, 
 
 And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 * I saw pale kings and princes too, 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 
 They cried — ' La belle Dame sans Merci 
 Hath thee in thrall ! ' 
 
 * I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 And I awoke and found me here 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 * And this is why I sojourn here 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 ^ Though the sedge is wither'd from the lak€ 
 
 And no birds sing.' 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 cxciv. 
 THE ROVER. 
 
 * A WEARY lot 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. 
 
 * The morn is merry June, I trow. 
 
 The rose is budding fain ; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again.' 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake 
 
 Upon the river shore. 
 
THE FLIGHT OF LOVE. 20i 
 
 He gave the bridle-reins a shake, 
 Said ' Adieu for evermore 
 My Love ! 
 And adieu for evermore.' 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
 CXCV. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF LOVE. 
 
 When the lamp is shattered 
 The light in the dust lies dead — 
 When the cloud is scatter'd, 
 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 hearfs echoes render 
 
 No song when the spirit is mute — 
 
 No song but sad dirges, 
 
 Like the wind through a ruin'd 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 possesst. 
 
 O Love ! who bevvailest 
 
 The frailty of all things here, 
 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bitr? 
 
 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. 
 
202 BOOK FOUR TIT. 
 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 
 Leave thee naked to laughter, 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 
 
 And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
 And love, in life's extremity 
 
 Can lend an hour of cheering. 
 Disease had been in Mary's bower 
 
 And slow decay from mourning, 
 Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower 
 
 To watch her Love's returning. 
 
 All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 
 
 Her form decay'd by pining, 
 Till through her wasted hand, at night, 
 
 You saw the taper shining. 
 By fits a sultry hectic hue 
 
 Across her cheek was flying ; 
 By fits so ashy pale she grew 
 
 Her maidens thought her dying. 
 
 Yet keenest powers to see and hear 
 
 Seem'd in her frame residing ; 
 Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear 
 
 She heard her lover's riding ; 
 Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd 
 
 She knew and waved to greet him, 
 And o'er the battlement did bend 
 
 As on the wing to meet him. 
 
 He came — he pass'd — an heedless gaze 
 As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
 
 Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 
 Lost in his courser's prancing — 
 
THE MAID OF NEW PA TH. 203 
 
 The castle-arch, whose hollow tone 
 
 Returns each whisper spoken, 
 Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 
 
 Which told her heart was broken. 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 
 
 Earl March looked on his dying child, 
 
 And smit with grief to view her — 
 The youth, he cried, whom I exiled 
 
 Shall be restored to woo her. 
 
 She's at the window many an hour 
 
 His coming to discover : 
 And he look'd up to Ellen's bower 
 
 And she look'd on her lover — 
 
 But ah! so pale, he knew her not, 
 
 Though her smile on him was dwelling — 
 
 And am I then forgot — forgot ? 
 It broke the heart of Ellen. 
 
 In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, 
 
 Her cheek is cold as ashes ; 
 Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 
 
 To lift their silken lashes. 
 
 T. Campbell. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 Bright Star ! would I were steadfast as thou art — 
 Not in 'one splendour hung aloft the night, 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
 Like nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
 
 The moving waters at their priestlike 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 : — 
 
204 , BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 PillowM upon my fair Love's ripening breast 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ; 
 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 
 
 J. Keats, 
 CXCIX. 
 
 THE TERROR OF DEATH. 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
 Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 
 Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain ; 
 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, " 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance: 
 
 And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! 
 That I shall never look upon thee more. 
 Never have relish in the fairy power 
 Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 
 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 cc. 
 
 DESIDERIA. 
 
 Surprized by joy — impatient as the wind — 
 I turn'd to share the transport — O with whom 
 But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb, 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
 
 Love, faithful love recalPd thee to my mind — 
 But how could I forget thee ? through what power 
 Even for the least division of an hour 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 
ELEGY OA/ THYRZA. 20S 
 
 To my most grievous loss? — That thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 
 To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye ; 
 And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air 
 To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there 
 And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky ! 
 
 Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear 
 When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear; 
 And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, 
 I think, O my Love ! 'tis tliy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls 
 Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. 
 
 T. Moore. 
 
 ecu. 
 ELEGY ON THYRZA. 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And forms so soft and charms so rare 
 
 Too soon returned to Earth! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow 
 
 So I behold them not : 
 
206 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 
 That what I loved and long must love 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell 
 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last, 
 
 As fervently as thou 
 Who didst not change through all the past 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow : 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lours 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep , 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have passM away 
 I might have watch'd through long decaj 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd 
 
 The leaves must drop away. 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that followed such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 
ONE WORD. Z01 
 
 « 
 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last, 
 
 Extinguished, not decay'd; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept if I could weep, 
 
 My tears might well be shed 
 To think I was not near, to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed : 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain. 
 
 Though thou hast left me free, 
 The loveliest things that still remain 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Returns again to me, 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught except its living years. 
 
 Lord ByroK. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdain'd 
 
 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. 
 
 I can give not what men call love; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 
208 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCIV. 
 GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK. 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan Conuil. 
 Come away, come away, 
 
 Hark to the summons! 
 Come in your war-array, 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountains so rocky; 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlocky. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 True heart that wears one. 
 Come every steel blade, and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd, 
 
 The flock without shelter; 
 Leave the corpse uninterrM, 
 
 The bride at the altar ; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer. 
 
 Leave nets and barges : 
 Come with your fighting gear. 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come, when 
 
 Forests are rended, 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 
 Navies are stranded : 
 
A WET SHEET AiVD A FLOWING SEA. 209 
 
 Faster come, faster come, 
 
 Faster and faster, 
 Chief, vassal, page and groom, 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come ; 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 
 
 Forward each man set ! 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 
 
 Sir W. ScciC:. 
 
 CCV. 
 
 A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast 
 Anv^. fills the white and rustling sail 
 
 And bends the gallant mast ; 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 While like the eagle free 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 O for a soft and gentle wind ! 
 
 I hear a fair one cry ; 
 But give to me the snoring breeze 
 
 And white waves heaving high ; 
 And white waves heaving high, my ladsj 
 
 The good ship tight and free — 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There's tempest in yon horndd moon, 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud ; 
 But hark the music, mariners ! 
 
 The wind is piping loud ; 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys. 
 
210 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 The lightning flashes free — 
 While the hollow oak our palace is. 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 A, Cunningharti. 
 
 CCVI. 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 
 
 That guard our native seas ! 
 
 Whose flag has braved, a thousand yearsj 
 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe : 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame. 
 
 And Ocean was their grave : 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks 
 
 No towers along the steep ; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain waveSr 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak 
 
 She quells the floods below — 
 
 As they roar on the shore, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long^ 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 211 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrilic burn ; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name, 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow; 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more. 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 T. Campbell, 
 
 cc\ni. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the glorious day''s renown, 
 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 
 All the miorht of Denmark's crown. 
 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line : 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime: 
 
 As they drifted on their path 
 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 
 And her van the fleeter rush'd 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 
 * Hearts of oak !' our captains cried, when each gun 
 
212 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again again ! again ! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; — 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom \ -^ 
 
 Then ceased — and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail ; 
 
 Or in conflagration pale 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the* victor then 
 
 As he haiPd them o'er the wave, 
 
 ' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer but to save : — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring: 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet. 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our King.' 
 
 Then Denmark blest our chief 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 From- her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day; 
 
 While the sun looked smiling bright 
 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight, 
 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise! 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 By the festal cities' blaze. 
 Whilst the wine cup shines in light; 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
 
ODE TO DUTY, 213 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep 
 Full many a fathom deep 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore ! 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true, 
 
 On the deck of fame that died 
 
 With the gallant good Riou : 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave ! T. Campbell. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Stern Daughter of the voice of God ! 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 From vain temptations dost set free, 
 And calmest the weary strife of frail humanity I 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot, 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 O ! if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright 
 And happy will our nature be 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 
214 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet find that other strength, according to their need* 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried, 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 I supplicate for thy controul, 
 But in the quietness of thought: 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 I feel the weight of chance desires : 
 My hopes no more must change their name ; 
 I long for a repose which ever is the same. 
 
 Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead^s most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; 
 And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh anc 
 strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 O let my weakness have an end ! 
 ' Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live. 
 
 W, Wordsworth* 
 
ON THE CASTLE OF CHlLLON, 215 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art — 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of Thee alone can bind ; 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consigned, 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, 
 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 
 By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 
 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 ccx. 
 ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND. 
 
 1802. 
 
 Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea, 
 One of the Mountains, each a mighty voice: 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
 They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
 
 There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
 Thou foughf St against him, — but hast vainly striven : 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left 
 For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
216 BOOK FOURTB, 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
 
 REPUBLIC. 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
 And was the safeguard of the West ; the worth 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 Venice, the eldest child of liberty. 
 
 She was a maiden city, bright and free ; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 And when she took unto herself a mate, 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 
 And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 When her long life hath reachM its final day : 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade 
 Of that which once was great has passM away. 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 LONDON, MDCCCII. 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, 
 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest ; 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
 No grandeur now in Nature or in book 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 W, Wordsworth, 
 
THE SAME. 217 
 
 CCXIII. * 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
 
 ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; 
 
 So didst thou travel on life''s common way 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 W. WordswortA, 
 
 CCXIV. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great nations ; how ennobling thoughts depart 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 
 
 1 had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 
 But when I think of thee, and what thou art, 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 
 And I by my affection was beguiled : 
 
 What wonder if a Po^t now and then. 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 
 W. WordsTvoriK 
 
218 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 ccxv. 
 
 HOHENLINDEN. 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 
 When the drum beat at dead of night 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neigh'd 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
 Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven ; 
 And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 . But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of staindd snow ; 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Few, few shall part, where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 T. Campbell. 
 
AFTER BLENHEIM. 219 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 AFTER BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was a summer evening, 
 
 Old Kaspar's work was done, 
 And he before his cottage door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun ; 
 And by him sported on the green 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 
 Roll something large and round 
 Which he beside the rivulet 
 
 In playing there had found ; 
 He came to ask what he had found 
 That was so large and smooth and round. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy 
 
 Who stood expectant by ; 
 And then the old man shook his head, 
 
 And with a natural sigh 
 
 * 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 
 ' Who fell in the great victory.' 
 
 ' I find them in the garden, 
 
 For there's many here about ; 
 And often when I go to plough 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out. 
 For many thousand men,' said he, 
 
 * Were slain in that great victory.' 
 
 *Now tell us what 'twas all about,' 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries ; 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
 ' Now tell us all about the war, 
 And what they fought each other for.' 
 
 *It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 
 ' Who put the French to rout ; 
 
220 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 But what they fought each other for 
 
 I could not well make out. 
 But everybody said/ quoth he, 
 
 * That Hwas a famous victory. 
 
 * My father lived at Blenheim then, 
 
 Yon little stream hard by ; 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 
 
 And he was forced to fly : 
 So with his wife and child he fled, 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 *With fire and sword the country round 
 Was wasted far and wide, 
 
 And many a childing mother then 
 And newborn baby died : 
 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 * They say it was a shocking sight 
 
 After the field was won ; 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun : 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 * Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene ; ' 
 
 * Why 'twas a very wicked thing ! ' 
 
 Said little Wilhelmine ; 
 *Nay . . nay . . my little girl,' quoth he, 
 
 * It was a famous victory. 
 
 * And every body praised the Duke 
 
 Who this great fight did win.' 
 *But what good came of it at last.-*' 
 
 Quoth little Peterkin : — 
 *Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 
 
 * But 'twas a famous victory.' 
 
 R. Southey, 
 
PRO PATRIA MORI. 221 
 
 CCXVII. 
 
 PRO PATRIA MORI. 
 
 When he who adores thee has left but the name 
 
 Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
 O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 
 
 Of a life that for thee was resigned ! 
 Yes, weep, and how^ever my foes may condemn. 
 
 Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
 For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 
 
 I have been but too faithful to thee. 
 
 With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 
 
 Every thought of my reason was thine : 
 In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 
 
 Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
 O ; blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 
 
 The days of thy glory to see ; 
 But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 
 
 Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 
 
 T. Afoore. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
 AT CORUNNA. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 
 As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; 
 Not a soldier discharged, his farewell shot 
 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
 
 Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
222 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — «= 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 C. Wolfe. 
 
 CCXIX. 
 
 SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, 
 An old man dwells, a little man, 
 I've heard he once was tall. 
 Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
 A running huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 And hill and valley rang with glee, 
 When Echo bandied round and round 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
SIMON LEE. 223 
 
 In those proud days he little cared 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 He reel'd and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out. 
 
 He dearly loves their voices. 
 
 But O the heavy change ! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty : 
 
 His master's dead, and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick, 
 
 His body dwindled and awry 
 
 Rests upon ancles swoln and thick; 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
 He has no son, he has no child ; 
 
 His wife, an aged woman. 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village common. 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay. 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heatb 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 But what avails the land to them 
 Which he can till no longer? 
 
224 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Oft, working by her husband's side, 
 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
 'Tis little, very little, all 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store 
 
 As he to you will tell, 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 Do his weak ancles swell. 
 
 My gentle reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 O gentle reader ! you would find 
 
 A tale in everything. 
 
 What more I have to say is short. 
 
 And you must kindly take it: 
 
 It is no tale ; but, should you think, 
 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This old man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand ; 
 So vain was his endeavour 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have work'd for ever. 
 
 * You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool,' to him I said; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my proffer'd aid. 
 
. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 225 
 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I sever'd. 
 At which the poor old man so long 
 And vainly had endeavoured. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought. 
 And thanks and praises seem'd to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — -Pve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 Ala » ! the gratitude of men 
 Has oftener left me mourning. 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions 
 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women : 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I. paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
 Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
 Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces. 
 
226 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have left me. 
 And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 C Lamb. 
 
 CCXXI. 
 THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 
 Against the wind was cleaving, 
 Her trembling pennant still look'd back • 
 
 To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
 So loth we part from all we love, 
 
 From all the links that bind us ; 
 So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 
 
 To those we've left behind us ! 
 
 When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 
 
 We talk with joyous seeming — 
 ' With smiles that might as well be tears, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
 While memory brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twined us, 
 O, sweet's the cup that circles then 
 
 To those we've left behind us ! 
 
 And when in other climes, we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting, 
 Where all looks flowery wild and sweet; 
 
 And nought but love is wanting ; 
 We think how great had been our bliss 
 
 If Heaven had but assign'd us 
 To live and die in scenes like this, 
 
 With some we've left behind us I 
 
 As travellers oft look back at eve 
 
 When eastward darkly going. 
 To gaze upon that light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing, — 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. ZZI 
 
 So, when the close of pleasure's day 
 
 To gloom, hath near consigned us, 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that's left behind us. 
 
 T. Moore. 
 
 CCXXII. 
 
 T YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay ; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so 
 
 fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; 
 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of 
 
 rest ; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,'' 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. 
 
 O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene, — 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, 
 So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 CCXXIII. 
 
 A LESSON. 
 
 There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
 
 That shrinks like many more from cold and rain. 
 
228 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And the first moment that the sun may shine. 
 Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm. 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm 
 In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, 
 And recognized it, though an alter'd form. 
 Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
 And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 
 
 I stopped and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
 ' It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold ; 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 ' The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ; 
 It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
 Stiff" in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,' 
 And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 
 
 To be a prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth, 
 A miser's pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 O Man ! that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not! 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
 CCXXIV. 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember 
 The house where I was born, 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away, 
 
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. 229 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The roses, red and white. 
 The violets, and the hly-cups — 
 Those flowers made of hght ! 
 The lilacs where the robin built, 
 And where my brother set 
 ' The laburnum on his birthday, — 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky : 
 
 It was a childish ignorance. 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm farther off from Heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 T. Hood. 
 
 ccxxv. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 The eyes that shone, 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 
230 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me^ 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so link'd together 
 I've seen around me fall 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled, 
 Whose garlands dead, 
 And all but he departed ! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me; 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 T. Moore. 
 
 CCXXVI. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 
 
 Spirit of Delight ! 
 Wherefore hast thou left me now 
 
 Many a day and night? 
 Many a weary night and day 
 'Tis since thou art fled away. 
 
 How shall ever one like me 
 Win thee back again ? 
 
 With the joyous and the free 
 Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
 
 Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
 
 All but those who need thee not. 
 
 As a lizard with the shade 
 Of a trembling leaf, 
 
INVOCATION. 231 
 
 Thou with sorrow art dismayM ; 
 
 Even the sighs of grief 
 Reproach thee, that thou art not near, 
 And reproach thou wilt not hear. 
 
 Let me set my mournful ditty 
 
 To a merry measure ; — 
 Thou wilt never come for pity, 
 
 Thou wilt come for pleasure ; — 
 Pity then will cut away 
 Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 
 
 I love all that thou lovest, 
 
 Spirit of Delight ! 
 The fresh Earth in new leaves drest ' 
 
 And the starry night ; 
 Autumn evening, and the morn 
 When the golden mists are born. 
 
 I love snow and all the forms 
 
 Of the radiant frost ; 
 I love waves, and winds, and storms, 
 
 Everything almost 
 Which is Nature's, and may be 
 Untainted by man's misery. 
 
 I love tranquil solitude, 
 
 And such society 
 As is quiet, wise, and good ; 
 
 Between thee and me 
 What diff'rence? but thou dost possess 
 The things I seek, not love them less. 
 
 I love Love — though he has wings, 
 
 And like light can flee. 
 But above all other things, 
 
 Spirit, I love thee — 
 Thou art love and life ! O come ! 
 Make once more my heart thy home \ 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
232 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CCXXVII. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is dear. 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent light : 
 The breath of the moist air is light 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one delight — 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods' — 
 The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 
 
 I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 With green and purple sea-weeds strewn ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown : 
 I sit upon the sands alone ; 
 The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measured motion — 
 How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. 
 
 Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
 Nor peace within nor calm around, 
 Nor that Content surpassing wealth 
 The sage in meditation found, 
 And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ; 
 Others I see whom these surround — 
 Smiling they live, and call hfe pleasure ; 
 o me that cup has been dealt in another measurCo 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are ; 
 I could lie down like a tired child, 
 And weep away the life of care 
 Which I have borne, and yet must bear. 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
 
THE SCHOLAR. 233 
 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 
 P. B. Shelley, 
 CCXXVIII. 
 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 My days among the Dead are past; 
 
 Around me I behold, 
 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
 
 The mighty minds of old : 
 
 My never failing friends are they. 
 
 With whom I conyerse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe, 
 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them 
 
 I live in long-past years, 
 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
 
 Partake their hopes and fears. 
 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 
 Instruction with an humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the Dead ; anon 
 My place with them will be, 
 And 1 with them shall travel on 
 Through all Futurity ; 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 E. Southey, 
 CCXXIX. 
 
 THE MERMAID TAVERN. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone 
 What Elysium have ye known. 
 
234 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 Have ye tippled drink more fine 
 Than mine host's Canary wine? 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 Of Venison? O generous food ! 
 Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
 Would, with his Maid Marian, 
 Sup and bowse from horn and can. 
 
 I have heard that on a day 
 
 Mine host's signboard flew away 
 
 Nobody knew whither, till 
 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 
 To a sheepskin gave the story — 
 
 Said he saw you in your glory 
 
 Underneath a new-old Sign 
 
 Sipping beverage divine, 
 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac ! 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone 
 What Elysium have ye known — 
 Happy field or mossy cavern — 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 
 J, Keats. 
 
 CCXXX. 
 THE PRIDE OF YOUTH. 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
 
 Walking so early ; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 * Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
 When shall I marry me?' 
 
 — * When six braw gentlemen 
 Kirkward shall carry ye.' 
 
THE BRIDGE OF Sicm. 235 
 
 *Who makes the bridal bed, 
 
 Birdie, say truly?' 
 — * Tlie gray-lieaded sexton 
 
 That delves the grave duly. 
 
 * The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Shall light thee steady ; 
 The owl from the steeple sing 
 
 Welcome, proud lady.' 
 
 Sir W. Scott. 
 
 CCXXXI. 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 One more Unfortunate 
 Weary of breath 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Chpne to her death ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements ; 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing ; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing. 
 
 Touch her not scornfully; 
 Think of her mournfully. 
 Gently and humanly ; 
 Not of the stains of her — 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny 
 Rash and undutiful : 
 
236 BOOK FOURTR. 
 
 Past all dishonour, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers. 
 One of Eve's family — 
 Wipe those poor lips of herS 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb, 
 Her fair auburn tresses ; 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 Where was her home? 
 
 Who was her father? 
 Who was her mother? 
 Had she a sister? 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, than all other? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 O! it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full. 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feelings had changed : 
 Love, by harsh evidence. 
 Thrown from its eminence ^ 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 So far in the river, 
 With many a light 
 
THE BRIDGE OF Slcm. 231 
 
 From window and casement, 
 From garret to basement, 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver f 
 But not the dark arch, 
 Or the black flowing river : 
 Mad from life's history, 
 Glad to death's mystery 
 Swift to be hurrd — 
 Any where, any where 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly. 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran, 
 Over the brink of it, — ■ 
 Picture it, think of it, 
 Dissolute Man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 Decently, kindly, 
 Smooth and compose themj 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Thro' muddy impurity. 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fix'd on futurity. 
 
238 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 Spurred by contumely 
 Cold inhumanity 
 Bm"ning insanity 
 Into her rest. 
 
 — Cross her hands humbly 
 As if praying dumbly, 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Owning her weakness. 
 Her evil behaviour, 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 Her sins to her Saviour! 
 
 T. Hood, 
 
 CCXXXII. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 O SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom ! 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year, 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
 
 Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
 That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 Will this unteach us to complain? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less? 
 And thou, who tell'st me to forget. 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
HESTER. 23^ 
 
 ccxxxm. 
 HESTER. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 
 Their place ye may not well supply. 
 Though ye among a thousand try 
 
 With vain endeavour. 
 A month or more hath she been dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed 
 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 
 Of pride and joy no common rate 
 
 That flushed her spirit : 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call : if 'twas not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied 
 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule 
 Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
 But she was trained in Nature's schooJ, 
 
 Nature had blest her. 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. 
 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore, 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
 
 Some summer morning — 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 
 A sweet fore-warning? 
 C. Lamb. 
 
240 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CCXXXIV. 
 
 CORONACH. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The fount reappearing 
 
 From the raindrops shall borrow, 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary, 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. ■ 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are serest, 
 But our flower was in flushing 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber. 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber! 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 Like the bubble on the fountain. 
 
 Thou art gone ; and for ever ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
 ccxxxv. 
 THE DEATH BED. 
 
 We watch'd her breathing thro' the nigh^ 
 Her breathing soft and low. 
 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seem'd to speak, 
 So slowly moved about, 
 
ROSABELLE. 241 
 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad 
 
 And chill with early showers, 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 T. Hood, 
 
 CCXXXVI. 
 
 ROSABELLE. 
 
 O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay ! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 *Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew. 
 
 And, gentle lady, deign to stay 1 
 Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth today. 
 
 ' The blackening wave is edged with white ; 
 
 To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh 
 
 * Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ; 
 
 Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch ; 
 Why cross the gloomy firth today?' 
 
 •'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 
 Tonight at Roslin leads the balli 
 But that my lady-mother there 
 
 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
242 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 • 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
 
 But that my sire tlie wine will chide 
 If 'tis not fiird by Rosabelle/ 
 
 — O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
 
 ■Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
 And redder than the bright moonbeam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
 It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 
 
 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak. 
 And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncofiin'd lie, 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
 Sheath'd in his iron panoply. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire within, around. 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
 
 And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold, 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle I 
 
 And each Saint Clair was buried there 
 With candle, with book, and with knell ; 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 Sir W. Scott. 
 
ON AN INFANT DYING, 243 
 
 CCXXXVII. 
 
 ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORiN. 
 
 I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 
 
 A curious frame of Nature's work ; 
 
 A flowTet crushed in the bud 
 
 A nameless piece of Babyhood 
 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 
 
 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: 
 
 So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
 
 For darker closets of the tomb ! 
 
 She did but ope an eye, and put 
 
 A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 
 
 For the long dark : ne'er more to see 
 
 Through glasses of mortality. 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 
 What thy errand here below? 
 
 Shall we say, that Nature blind 
 
 Check'd her hand, and changed her mind 
 
 Just when she had exactly wrought 
 
 A finished pattern without fault? 
 
 Could she flag, or could she tire. 
 
 Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 
 
 That should thy little limbs have quickened? 
 
 Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 
 
 Life of health, and days mature : 
 
 Woman's self in miniature ! 
 
 Limbs so fair, they might supply 
 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 
 The sculptor to make Beauty by. 
 
 Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 
 
 That babe or mother, one must die ; 
 
 So in mercy left the stock 
 
 And cut the branch ; to save the shock 
 
 Of young years widow'd, and the pain 
 
 When Single State comes back again 
 
244 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 To the lone man who, reft of wife, 
 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life? 
 
 The economy of Heaven is dark, 
 
 And wisest clerks have missM the mark 
 
 Why human buds, like this, should fall 
 
 More brief than fly ephemeral 
 
 That has his day ; while shrivelPd crones 
 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 
 
 And crabbed use the conscience sears 
 
 In sinners of an hundred years. 
 
 — Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 
 
 Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss : 
 
 Rites, which custom does impose, 
 
 Silver bells, and baby clothes ; 
 
 Coral redder than those lips 
 
 Which pale death did late eclipse ; 
 
 Music framed for infants' glee, 
 
 Whistle never tuned for thee ; 
 
 Though thou wanfst not, thou shalt have them, 
 
 Loving hearts were they which gave them. 
 
 Let not one be missing ; nurse, 
 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 
 Why should kings and nobles have 
 
 Pictured trophies to their grave, 
 
 And we, churls, to thee deny 
 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to lie — 
 
 A more harmless vanity ? 
 
 C. Lamb, 
 
 CCXXXVIII. 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead! 
 O find me, prosperous or undone I 
 Or if the grave be now thy bed. 
 Why am I ignorant of the same 
 
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET, 245 
 
 That Pmay rest; and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 
 No tidings of an only child — 
 To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
 And be for evermore beguiled 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
 I catch at them., and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this ? 
 
 He was among the prime in worth, 
 An object beauteous to behold ; 
 Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 If things ensued that wanted grace 
 As hath been said, they were not base ; 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the young one dream 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power is in his wildest scream 
 Heard by his mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess ; 
 Years to a mother bring distress ; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffer''d long 
 From that ill thought ; and being blind 
 Said ' Pride shall help me in my wrong; 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 As ever breathed : ' and that is true ; 
 I've wet my path with tears like dew. 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
 O ! do not dread thy mother's door, 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 J now can see with better eyes ; 
 
246 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And worldly grandeur I despise 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan 
 Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the lion's den ; 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep 
 Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for ghosts : but none will force 
 Their way to me ; 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 For surely then I should have sight 
 Of him I wait for day and night 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to shake me as they pass; 
 I question things, and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 If any chance to heave a sigh 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 
HUNTING SONG. 247 
 
 Some tidings that my woes may end ! 
 I have no other earthly friend. 
 
 W. Wordsworik, 
 
 CCXXXIX. 
 
 HUNTING SONG. 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 On the mountain dawns the day ; 
 
 All the jolly chase is here 
 
 With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 
 
 Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 
 Merrily merrily mingle they, 
 
 * Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 The mist has left the mountain gray, 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, 
 
 And foresters have busy been 
 
 To track the buck in thicket green ; 
 
 Now we come to chant our lay 
 
 * Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 To the greenwood haste away ; 
 We can show you where he lies, 
 Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
 We can show the marks he made 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 
 You shall see him brought to bay ; 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
 
 Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
 
 Run a course as well as we ; 
 
 Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 
 
 Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ; 
 
248 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 CCXL. 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
 Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond. 
 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 
 
 — 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 
 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
 
 Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
 
 All independent of the leafy Spring. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine. 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 CCXLI. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit 1 
 
 Bird thou never wert. 
 That from heaven, or near it 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest ; 
 
 Like a cloud of fire 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest. 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest 
 
TO A SKYLARK. 249 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
 Thou dost float and run, 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven 
 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight : 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere, 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare. 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. 
 
 What thou art we know not ; 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought. 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 In a palace tower, 
 
250 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 
 
 Like a rose embower'd 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflowerM, 
 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awaken'd flowers. 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 I have never heard 
 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal 
 
 Or triumphal chaunt 
 Match'd with thine, would be all 
 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
 
 What shapes of sky or plain? 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 Languor cannot be : 
 
THE GREEN LINNET. 251 
 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 
 
 We look before and after 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear; 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now I 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCXLII. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
 
252 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 In this sequester^'d nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
 And flowers and birds once more to greet, 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I mark'd, the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 Thou, Linnet! in thy green array 
 Presiding Spirit here today 
 Dost lead the revels of the May, 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers 
 Make all one band of paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers 
 Art sole in thy employment ; 
 A Life, a Presence like the air. 
 Scattering thy gladness without care, 
 Too blest with any one to pair, 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 Behold him perch'd in ecstasies 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There, where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 
 A brother of the dancing leaves ; 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
 Pours forth his song in gushes, 
 As. if by that exulting strain 
 He mock'd and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to fei^n 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
TO THE CUCKOO. 253 
 
 CCXLIII. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice : 
 
 Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear ; 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 1 listened to ; that Cry 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still long'd for, never seen! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, fairy place 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 W. Words7vorth, 
 
254 BOOK FOUR TIT. 
 
 CCXLIV. 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
 But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
 , In some melodious plot 
 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvdd earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
 
 Dance, and ProvenQal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 . Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs; 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 255 
 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
 And haply the Oueen-Moon is on her throne, 
 Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 
 But here there is no light 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
 Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Caird him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for hcmC; 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
256 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
 Up the hill-side ; and now His buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep? 
 
 J. Keats, 
 
 CCXLV. 
 
 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
 
 Sept. 3, 1802. 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This City now doth like a garment wear 
 
 The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky, 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 
 In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCXLVI. 
 
 OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. 
 
 I MET a traveller from an antique land 
 
 Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
 
 Stand in the desert. Near them on the sancl 
 
NEIDPA Th. 257 
 
 Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown 
 A.nd wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
 Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, 
 The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed ; 
 And on the pedestal these words appear : 
 * My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCXLVII. 
 
 OMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY 
 OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803. 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! O the unworthy lord ! 
 Whom mens despite of heart could so far please 
 And love of havoc (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word 
 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 
 A brotherhood of venerable trees. 
 
 Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these 
 
 Beg^ar'd and outraged ! — Many hearts deplored 
 
 The fate of those old trees ; and oft with pain 
 
 The traveller at this day will stop and gaze 
 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed ; 
 
 For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays. 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
 . W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCXLVIII. 
 
 ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 
 — The lovely cottage in the guardian nook 
 
258 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 
 But covet not the abode — O do not sigh 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 Intruders who would tear from Nature's book 
 This precious leaf with harsh impiety : 
 
 — Think what the home would be if it were thine, 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, doo 
 . The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be. touch'd would melt away ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNAID. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 . Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 And these gray rocks, this household lawn, 
 These trees — a veil just half withdrawn, 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmur near the silent lake, 
 This little bay, a quiet road 
 That holds in shelter thy abode ; 
 In truth together ye do seem 
 Like something fashion'd in a dream ; 
 Such forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 But O fair Creature ! in the light 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 I neither know thee nor thy peers : 
 And yet my eyes are fill'd with tearSo 
 
TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL, 2S9 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away ; 
 For never saw I mien or face 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scatterM like a random seed, 
 Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress. 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread, 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ; 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brookM, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life I 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 O happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
 A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 Thou art to me but as a wave ' 
 Of the wild sea : and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could. 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 
260 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see \ 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father, anything to thee. 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 
 Hath led me to this lonely place ; 
 
 Joy have 1 had ; and going hence 
 
 I bear away my recompense. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 
 Then why should I be loth to stir ? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past. 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part; 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old 
 
 As fair before me shall behold 
 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
 
 And Thee, the spirit of them all ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth^ 
 
 CCL. 
 
 THE EEAPER 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 O listen ! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 
THE REVERIE OE POOR SUSAN. 261 
 
 No sweeter voice was eveV .leard 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings? 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of today? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 TRat has been, and may be again ! 
 
 Whatever the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; 
 I listenM till I had my fill : 
 And as I mounted up the hill 
 The music in my heart I bore 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
 CCLI. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
 Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale 
 Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
262 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade 
 The mist and tlie river, the hill and the shade ; 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes \ 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 CCLII. 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. 
 
 Ariel to Miranda : — Take 
 
 This slave of music, for the sake 
 
 Of him, who is the slave of thee ; 
 
 And teach it all the harmony •• 
 
 In which thou canst, and only thou. 
 
 Make the delighted spirit glow. 
 
 Till joy denies itself again 
 
 And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 
 
 For by permission and command 
 
 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
 
 Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
 
 Of more than ever can be spoken ; 
 
 Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
 
 From life to life must still pursue 
 
 Your happiness, for thus alone 
 
 Can Ariel ever find his own ; 
 
 From Prosperous enchanted cell, 
 
 As the mighty verses tell. 
 
 To the throne of Naples he 
 
 Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 
 
 Flitting on, your prow before. 
 
 Like a living meteor. 
 
 When you die, the silent Moon 
 
 In her interlunar swoon 
 
 Is not sadder in her cell 
 
 Than deserted Ariel ; 
 
 When you live again on earth, 
 
 Like an unseen Star of birth 
 
 Ariel guides you o'er the sea 
 
 Of life from your nativity : 
 
TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. 263 
 
 Many changes have been rung 
 
 Since Ferdinand and you begun 
 
 Your course of love, and Ariel still 
 
 Has track'd your steps and served your will. 
 
 Now in humbler, happier lot, 
 
 This is all rememberM not ; 
 
 And now, Alas ! the poor sprite is 
 
 Imprison 'd for some fault of his 
 
 In a body like a grave — 
 
 From you he only dares to crave 
 
 For his service and his sorrow 
 
 A smile today, a song tomorrow. 
 
 The artist who this idol wrought 
 
 To echo all harmonious thought, 
 
 Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 
 
 The woods were in their winter sleep, 
 
 Rocked in that repose divine 
 
 On the wind-swept Apennine ; 
 
 And dreaming, some of autumn past. 
 
 And some of spring aiDproaching fast. 
 
 And some of April buds and showers. 
 
 And some of songs in July bowers, 
 
 And all of love ; and so this tree, — 
 
 O that such our death may be ! — 
 
 Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 
 
 To live in happier form again : 
 
 From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, 
 
 The artist wrought this loved Guitar ; 
 
 And taught it justly to reply 
 
 To all who question skilfully 
 
 In language gentle as thine own; 
 
 Whispering in enamour'd tone 
 
 Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 
 
 And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 
 
 — For it had learnt all harmonies 
 
 Of the plains and of the skies, 
 
 Of the forests and the mountains, 
 
264 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And the many-voiced fountains ; 
 The clearest echoes of the hills, 
 The softest notes of falling rills, 
 The melodies of birds and bees, 
 The murmuring of summer seas, 
 And pattering rain, and breathing dew 
 And airs of evening ; and it knew 
 That seldom-heard mysterious sound 
 Which, driven on its diurnal round. 
 As it floats through boundless day. 
 Our world enkindles on its way : 
 — All this it knows, but will not tell 
 To those who cannot question well 
 The spirit that inhabits it; 
 It talks according to the wit 
 Of its companions ; and no more 
 Is heard than has been felt before 
 By those who tempt it to betray 
 These secrets of an elder day. 
 But, sweetly as its answers will 
 Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
 It keeps its highest holiest tone 
 For our beloved Friend alone. 
 
 P. B. Shelley, 
 
 CCLIII. 
 
 THE DAFFODILS. 
 
 I wander'd lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden daifodils, 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretch'd in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 
TO THE DAISY. 26.'? 
 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 
 
 A Poet could not but be gay 
 
 In such a jocund company ! 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought; 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLIV. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be. 
 
 Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee 
 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming commonplace 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace 
 
 Which love makes for thee I 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit and play with similes, 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising ; 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure, of lowly port ; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court 
 
266 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 
 Staring to threaten and defy, 
 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over, 
 The shape will vanish, and behold! 
 A silver shield with boss of gold 
 That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
 
 In fight to cover. 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star, 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last 
 When all my reveries are past 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
 
 Sweet silent Creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
 CCLV. 
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN. 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
ODE TO WINTER. 267 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
 Until they think warm days will never cease ; 
 For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 
 
 Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store ? 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
 
 And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
 
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
 
 Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
 Think not of them, — thou hast thy music too, 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 Among the river-sallows borne aloft 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly boura ; 
 Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft 
 The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 CCLVI. 
 
 ODE TO WINTER. 
 
 Get'inany^ Dece77iber, 1800. 
 
 When first the fiery-mantled Sun 
 His heavenly race began to run, 
 
268 ' BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Round the earth and ocean blue 
 
 His children four the Seasons flew : — 
 
 First, in green apparel dancing, 
 The young Spring smiled with angel-grace ; 
 
 Rosy Summer, next advancing, 
 RushVl into her sire's embrace — 
 Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 
 
 For ever nearest to his smiles, 
 On Calpe's olive-shaded steep 
 
 Or India's citron-cover'd isles. 
 More remote, and buxom-brown, 
 
 The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne, 
 A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 
 
 A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
 
 But howling Winter fled afar 
 To hills that prop the polar star ; 
 And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
 With barren darkness at his side 
 Round the shore where loud Lofoden 
 
 Whirls to death the roaring whale. 
 Round the hall where Runic Odin 
 
 Howls his war-song to the gale — 
 Save when adown the ravaged globe 
 
 He travels on his native storm. 
 Deflowering Nature's grassy robe 
 
 And trampling on her faded form ; 
 Till light's returning Lord assume 
 
 The shaft that drives him to his northern field. 
 Of power to pierce his raven plume 
 
 And crystal-cover'd shield. 
 
 O sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
 The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
 When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye 
 Implores thy dreadful deity — 
 Archangel ! Power of desolation ! 
 
 Fast descending as thou art, 
 Say, hath mortal invocation 
 
YARROiV UN VISITED. 269 
 
 Spells to touch thy stony heart : 
 Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, 
 And gently rule the ruin'd year ; 
 Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare 
 Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear : 
 To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
 
 Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, 
 And gently on the orphan head 
 
 Of Innocence descend. 
 
 But chiefly spare, O king of clouds, 
 The sailor on his airy shrouds, 
 When wrecks and beacons strew the steep 
 And spectres walk along the deep. 
 Milder yet thy snowy breezes 
 
 Pour on yonder tented shores, 
 Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 
 
 Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
 O winds of Winter ! list ye there 
 
 To many a deep and dying groan ? 
 Or start, ye demons of the midnight air. 
 
 At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? 
 Alas ! e'en your unhallow'd breath 
 
 May spare the victim fallen low ; 
 But Man will ask no truce to death, 
 
 No bounds to human woe. 
 
 T. Campbell, 
 
 CCLVII. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 1803. 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelPd, 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travelPd ; 
 And when we came by Clovenford, 
 Then said my ' winsome Marrow,' 
 
270 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 *Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow.' 
 
 ' Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 
 Who have been buying, selling, 
 
 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own, 
 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow, 
 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 * There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 Both lying right before us ; 
 
 And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
 There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land 
 Made blythe with plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 * What's Yarrow but a river bare 
 That glides the dark hills under ? 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 As worthy of your wonder.' 
 
 — Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn 
 My true-love sigh'd for sorrow. 
 And look'd me in the face, to think 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 * O green,' said I, ' are Yarrow's holms. 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path and open strath 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 * Let beeves and home-bred kine partake^ 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 
YARROW VISITED. 271 
 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 We will not see them ; will not go 
 Today, nor yet tomorrow ; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 ' Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ; 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own, 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past. 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 ' If care with freezing years should come 
 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, ♦ 
 
 And yet be melancholy ; 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow 
 
 That earth has something yet to show, 
 
 The bonny Holms of Yarrow ! ' 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLVIII. 
 YARROW VISITED. 
 
 September, 1814. 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherish'd 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream, 
 
 An image that hath perish'd? 
 
 O that some minstrel's harp were near 
 
 To utter notes of gladness 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
272 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary^s Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The water-Wraith ascended thrice, 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy lovers. 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And pity sanctifies the verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love? 
 
 Bare witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou that didst appear so fair 
 To fond imagination 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
I 
 
 VARROIV VISITED. 275 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 A softness still and holy : 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature, 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And rising from those lofty groves 
 
 Behold a ruin hoary, 
 
 The shatter"d front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renown'd in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom. 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in, 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength, 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of studious ease and generous cares, 
 
 And every chaste affection ! 
 
 How sweet on this autumnal day 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
 
 And on my true-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my own? 
 
 ^Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
 
 A ray of Fancy still survives — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure : 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
274 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 The vapours linger round the heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought ! which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me, to heighten joy 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 W. Wordsworth,, 
 
 CCLIX. 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 Best and Brightest, come away, 
 Fairer far than this fair day. 
 Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 
 Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
 To the rough year just awake 
 In its cradle on the brake. 
 The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
 Through the winter wandering, 
 Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 
 To hoar February born ; 
 Bending from Heaven, in- azure mirth, 
 It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, 
 And smiled upon the silent sea, 
 And bade the frozen streams be free. 
 And waked to music all their fountains, 
 And breathed upon the frozen mountainSc 
 And like a prophetess of May 
 Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, 
 Making the wintry world appear 
 Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear. 
 
 Away, away, from men and towns, 
 To the wild wood and the downs — 
 To the silent wilderness 
 Where the soul need not repress 
 Its music, lest it should not find 
 
THE RECOLLECTION. 275 
 
 An echo in another's mind, 
 While the touch of Nature's art 
 Harmonizes heart to heart. 
 
 Radiant Sister of the Day 
 Awake ! arise .' and come away ! 
 To the wild woods and the plains, 
 To the pools where winter rains 
 Image all their roof of leaves, 
 Where the pine its garland weaves 
 Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 
 Round stems that never kiss the sun. 
 Where the lawns and pastures be 
 And the sandhills of the sea, 
 Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
 The daisy-star that never sets, 
 And wind-flowers and violets 
 Which yet join not scent to hue 
 Crown the pale year weak and new ; 
 When the night is left behind 
 In the deep east, dim and blind, 
 And the blue noon is over us, 
 And the multitudinous 
 Billows murmur at our feet, 
 Where the earth and ocean meet, 
 And all things seem only one 
 In the universal Sun. p. B. Shelley 
 
 CCLX. 
 
 THE RECOLLECTION. 
 
 Now the last day of many days 
 All beautiful and bright as thou, 
 The loveliest and the last, is dead. 
 Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 
 Up, do thy wonted work ! come, trace 
 The epitaph of glory fled. 
 
276 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 For now the Earth has changed its face, 
 A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 
 
 We wandered to the Pine Forest 
 
 That skirts the Ocean's foam ; 
 The lightest wind was in its nest, 
 
 Tlie tempest in its home. 
 The whispering waves were half asleep- 
 
 The clouds were gone to play, 
 And on the bosom of the deep 
 
 The smile of Heaven lay ; 
 It seem'd as if the hour were one 
 
 Sent from beyond the skies 
 Which scattered from above the sun 
 
 A light of Paradise ! 
 
 We paused amid the pines that stood 
 
 The giants of the ^Yaste, 
 Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 
 
 As serpents interlaced, — 
 And soothed by every azure breath 
 
 That under heaven is blown 
 To harmonies and hues beneath, 
 
 As tender as its own : 
 Now all the tree-tops lay asleep 
 
 Like green waves on the sea, 
 As still as in the silent deep 
 
 The ocean-woods may be. 
 
 How calm it was ! — the silence there 
 
 By such a chain was bound, 
 That even the busy woodpecker 
 
 Made stiller by her sound 
 The inviolable quietness ; 
 
 The breath of peace we drew 
 With its soft motion made not less 
 
 The calm that round us grew. 
 There seem'd from the remotest seat 
 • Of the wide mountain waste , 
 
THE RECOLLECTION-. ZT, 
 
 To the soft flower beneath our feet 
 
 A magic circle traced, 
 A spirit interfused around, 
 
 A thrilling silent life ; 
 To momentary peace it bound 
 
 Our mortal nature's strife ; — 
 And still I felt the centre of 
 
 The magic circle there 
 Was one fair Form that fiird with love 
 
 The lifeless atmosphere. 
 
 We paused beside the pools that lie 
 
 Under the forest bough ; 
 Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky 
 
 Gulf 'd in a world below ; 
 A firmament of purple light 
 
 Which in the dark earth lay, 
 More boundless than the depth of night 
 
 And purer than the day — 
 In which the lovely forests grew 
 
 As in the upper air, 
 More perfect both in shape and hue 
 
 Than any spreading there. 
 There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, 
 
 And through the dark green wood 
 The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
 
 Out of a speckled cloud. 
 Sweet views which in our world above 
 
 Can never well be seen 
 Were imaged by the water's love 
 
 Of that fair forest green : 
 And all was interfused beneath 
 
 With an Elysian glow. 
 An atmosphere without a breath, 
 
 A softer day below. 
 
 Like one beloved, the scene had lent 
 
 To the dark water's breast 
 Its every leaf and lineament 
 
278 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 With more than truth exprest; 
 Until an envious wind crept by, 
 
 Like an unwelcome thought 
 Which from the mind's too faithful eye 
 
 Blots one dear image out. 
 — Though Thou art ever fair and kind, 
 
 The forests ever green, 
 Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 
 
 Than calm in waters seen ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXI. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 
 Listen ! the mighty being is awake, 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here. 
 If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 
 And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXII. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary labourer free ! 
 If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love, 
 
DATVR HORA QUIETI. 279 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies, 
 Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
 Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 
 
 And songs when toil is done, 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 
 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews, 
 Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
 Their remembrancer in Heaven 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art, 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
 T. Campbell, 
 
 CCLXIII. 
 
 DATUR HORA QUIETI. 
 
 The sun upon the lake is low. 
 
 The wild birds hush their song. 
 The hills have evening's deepest glow, 
 
 Yet Leonard tarries long. 
 Now all whom varied toil and care 
 
 From home and love divide, 
 In the calm sunset may repair 
 
 Each to the loved one's side. 
 
 The noble dame on turret high, 
 
 Who waits her gallant knight. 
 Looks to the western beam to spy 
 
 The flash of armour bright. 
 The village maid, with hand on brow 
 
 The level ray to shade. 
 Upon the footpath watches now 
 
 For Colin's darkening plaid. 
 
 Now to their mates the wild swans row 
 
 By day they swam apart, 
 And to the thicket wanders slow 
 
 The hind beside the hart. 
 
280 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 , The woodlark at his partner's side 
 
 Twitters his closing song — 
 All meet whom day and care divide, 
 But Leonard tarries long ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 Art thou pale for weariness 
 Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth. 
 
 Wandering companionless 
 Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
 And ever-changing, like a joyless eye 
 That finds no object worth its constancy? 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXV. 
 
 A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her Love 
 
 Upon a wintry bough ; 
 The frozen wind crept on above, 
 
 The freezing stream below. 
 
 There was no leaf upon the forest bare. 
 
 No flower upon the ground, 
 And little motion in the air 
 
 Except the mill-wheel's sound. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXVI. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
 
 I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie 
 Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cr}'. 
 
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 281 
 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXVII. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw 
 By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw ; 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
 
 Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 
 'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 
 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 
 
 My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 
 And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 
 
 * Stay — stay with us ! — rest ! — thou art weary and worn ! ' — 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — 
 
 But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 T. Campbell. 
 
282 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CCLXVIII. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 I DREAMED that as I wander'd by the way 
 
 Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 
 
 And gentle odours led my steps astray, 
 Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 
 
 Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
 
 Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
 , Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 
 
 But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream. 
 
 There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 
 
 Daisies, those pearPd Arcturi of the earth, 
 The constellated flower that never sets ; 
 
 Faint oxlips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
 The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 
 Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 
 When the low. wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 
 
 And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine. 
 
 Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd'May, 
 
 And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
 Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 
 
 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 
 
 With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; 
 
 And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, 
 
 Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. 
 
 And nearer to the river's trembling edge 
 
 There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, 
 And starry river-buds among the sedge. 
 
 And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 
 Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
 
 With moonlight beams of their own watery light ; 
 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 
 As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 
 
 r 
 
 Methought that of these visionary flowers 
 I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
 
THE INNER VISION 283 
 
 That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
 
 Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
 Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 
 
 Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 
 I hasten^ to the spot whence I had come 
 That I might there present it — O! to whom ? 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXIX. 
 
 THE INNER VISION. 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 While a fair region round the Traveller lies 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 — If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way — 
 
 Whatever the senses take or may refuse, — 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXX. 
 
 THE REALM OF FANCY. 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam ! 
 
 Pleasure never is at home : 
 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 
 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 
 
 Then let winged Fancy wander 
 
 Through the thought still spread beyond her; 
 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
 
 She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 
284 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 
 
 And the enjoying of the Spring 
 
 Fades as does its blossoming : 
 
 Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too 
 
 Blushing through the mist and dew 
 
 Cloys with tasting : What do then? 
 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 
 The sear faggot blazes bright, 
 
 Spirit of a winter's night ; 
 
 When the soundless earth is muffled, 
 
 And the caked snow is shuffled 
 
 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 
 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 
 To banish Even from her sky. 
 
 — Sit thee there, and send abroad 
 
 With a mind self-overawed 
 
 Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her! 
 
 She has vassals to attend her ; 
 
 She will bring, in spite of frost, 
 
 Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 
 
 She will bring thee, all together, 
 
 All delights of summer weather ; 
 
 All the buds and bells of May 
 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 
 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 
 
 With a still, mysterious stealth ; 
 
 She will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup, 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it ; — thou shalt hear 
 
 Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
 
 Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
 
 And in the same moment — hark ! 
 
 'Tis the early April lark, 
 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 
THE REALM OF FANCY. 285 
 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 The daisy and the marigold ; 
 White-plumed lilies, and the first 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 
 Shaded hyacinth, alway 
 Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
 And every leaf, and every flower 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
 Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
 And the snake all winter-thin 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
 Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see 
 Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
 When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
 Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
 Then the hurry and alarm 
 When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering 
 While the autumn breezes sing. 
 
 O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 Everything is spoilt by use : 
 Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
 Too much gazed at? Where's the maid 
 Whose lip mature is ever new? 
 Where's the eye, however blue. 
 Doth not weary? Where's the face 
 One would meet in every place? 
 Where's the voice, however soft, 
 One would hear so very oft? 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
 Let then winged Fancy find 
 Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
 Ere the God of Torment taught her 
 How to frown and how to chide ; 
 
286 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 With a waist and with a side 
 
 White as Hebe's, when her zone 
 
 Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
 
 Fell her kirtle to her feet 
 
 While she held the goblet sweet, 
 
 And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
 
 Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 
 
 Quickly break her prison-string. 
 
 And such joys as these she'll bring : 
 
 — Let the winged Fancy roam ! 
 
 Pleasure never is at home. 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 CCLXXI. 
 
 HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE. 
 
 Life of Life ! Thy lips enkindle 
 With their love the breath between them ; 
 
 And thy smiles before they dwindle 
 
 Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 
 
 In those looks, where whoso gazes 
 
 Faints, entangled in their mazes'. 
 
 Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning 
 
 Through the veil which seems to hide them, 
 
 As the radiant lines of morning 
 
 Through thin clouds, ere they divide them ; 
 
 And this atmosphere divinest 
 
 Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 
 
 Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; 
 
 But thy voice sounds low and tender 
 Like the fairest, for it folds thee 
 
 From the sight, that liquid splendour; 
 And all feel, yet see thee never, — 
 As I feel now, lost for ever ! 
 
 Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest 
 ' Its dim shapes are clad with brightness^ 
 
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 287 
 
 And the souls of whom thou lovest 
 
 Walk upon the winds with lightness 
 Till they fail, as I am failing, 
 Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXXII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes 
 While in a grove I sat reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What Man has made of Man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bowPT 
 The periwinkle traiPd its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure — 
 But the least motion which they made 
 It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What Man has made of Man ? 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
288 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CCLXXIII. 
 
 RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate 
 Her father took another mate ; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted child, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill, 
 In thoughtless freedom bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw, 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seem'd to live ; her thoughts her own ; 
 
 Herself her own delight : 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay, 
 
 She pass'd her time ; and in this way 
 
 Grew up to woman's height. 
 
 There came a youth from Georgia's shore — 
 
 A military casque he wore 
 
 With splendid feathers drest ; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees ; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung % 
 But no ! he spake the English tongue 
 And bore a soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek. 
 In finest tones the youth could speak: 
 — While he was yet a boy 
 
RUTH. 289 
 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 And streams that murmur as they run 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought ; 
 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 
 Of pleasure and of fear ; 
 
 Such tales as, told to any maid 
 
 By such a youth, in the green shade, 
 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls, a happy rout ! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long ; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 Of intermingling hues ; 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers, ' 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 Erom morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the Magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 The cypress and her spire ; 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake 
 
290 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 And then he said, ' How sweet it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 In sunshine or in shade 
 
 To wander with an easy mind, 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade ! 
 
 What days and what bright years ! Ah mfe 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with Thee 
 
 So passM in quiet bliss ; 
 
 And all the while,' said he, ' to know 
 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 
 On such an earth as this ! ' 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love, 
 ' For there,' said he, ' are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties, 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with m€ 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be. 
 
 Our shed at night to rear ; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer ! 
 
 Beloved Ruth ! ' — No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear : 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 *And now, as fitting is and right. 
 We in the church our faith will plight* 
 
RUTIf. 29] 
 
 A husband and a wife.' 
 Even so they did ; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 DeHghted all the while to think 
 That, on those lonesome floods 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 And with his dancing crest 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high. 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 The beauteous forms of Nature wrought. 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those favoured bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 
292 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 For passions link'd to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately and undeceived 
 Those wild men\s vices he received. 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impair'd, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feign'd delight 
 Had woo'd the maiden, day and night, 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 What could he less than love a maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature play'd- 
 So kind and so forlorn ? 
 
 Sometimes most earnestly he said, 
 ' O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain 
 Encompass'd me on every side 
 When I, in confidence and pride, 
 Had cross'd the Atlantic main. 
 
 Before me shone a glorious world 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurPd 
 To music suddenly : 
 I lookM upon those hills and plains, 
 And seem'd as if let loose from chains 
 To live at liberty ! 
 
 No more of this — for now, by thee. 
 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free, 
 
RUTH. 293 
 
 With nobler zeal I burn ; 
 My soul from darkness is released 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 The morning doth return.' 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone ; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, ^ 
 They stirrM him now no more ; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wish'd to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared. 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore : 
 But, when they thither came, the youth 
 Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had 
 
 That she in half a year was mad 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 
 And there exulting in her wrongs, 
 
 Among the music of her songs 
 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew. 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 — They all were with her in her cell ; 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth tliree seasons thus had lain, 
 There came a respite to her pain ; 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 But of the vagrant none took thought ; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again: 
 The master-current of her brain 
 
294 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Ran permahent and free ; 
 And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The vernal leaves — she loved them still, 
 
 Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 
 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A barn her Winter bed supplies ; 
 But, till the warmth of Summer skies 
 And Summer days is gone, 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 • And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day, 
 
 Be broken down and old. 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 
 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food 
 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 
 Repairs to a road-side ; 
 
 And there she begs at one steep place, 
 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
 Or thrown away : but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers ; 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stock; 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Ouantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passM her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 
THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 29b 
 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 Such small machinery as she turnM 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, 
 A young and happy child ! 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallow'd mould 
 Thy corpse shall buried be ; 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 And all the congregation sing 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXXIV. 
 
 ^VRITTEN in the EUGANEAN HILLS, 
 NORTH ITALY. 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 
 In the deep wide sea of misery, 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan, 
 Never thus could voyage on 
 Day and night, and night and day. 
 Drifting on his dreary way, 
 With the solid darkness black 
 Closing round his vessel's track ; 
 Whilst above, the sunless sky 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 
 And behind the tempest fleet 
 Hurries on with lightning feet. 
 Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 
 And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 Weltering through eternity ; 
 And the dim low line before 
 Of a dark and distant shore 
 Still recedes, as ever still 
 Longing with divided will. 
 
296 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 But no power to seek or shun, 
 He is ever drifted on 
 O'er the unreposing wave, 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
 Ay, many flowering islands lie 
 
 In the waters of wide agony ; 
 
 To such a one this morn was led 
 
 My bark, by soft winds piloted. 
 
 — 'Mid the mountains Euganean 
 
 I stood listening to the paean 
 
 With which the legion'd rooks did hail 
 
 The Sun's uprise majestical : 
 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
 Through the dewy mist they soar 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 Bursts, and then, — as clouds of even 
 Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie 
 In the unfathomable sky, — 
 So their plumes of purple grain 
 Starr'd with drops of golden rain 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
 As in silent multitudes 
 On the morning's fitful gale 
 Through the broken mist they sail ; 
 And the vapours cloven and gleaming 
 Follow down the dark steep streaming, 
 Till all is bright, and clear, and still 
 Round the solitary hill. 
 
 Beneath is spread like a green sea 
 The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
 Bounded by the vaporous air, 
 Islanded by cities fair ; 
 Underneath day's azure eyes, 
 Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, — 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 Amphitrite's destined halls, 
 Which her hoary sire now paves 
 
THE EU GAME AN HILLS. 297 
 
 With his bhie and beaming waves. 
 Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 
 Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 
 On the level quivering line 
 Of the waters crystalline ; 
 And before that chasm of light, 
 As within a furnace bright, 
 Column, tower, and dome, and spire. 
 Shine like obelisks of fire. 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 From the altar of dark ocean 
 To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 From the marble shrines did rise 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 
 
 Sun-girt City ! thou hast been 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen; 
 Now is come a darker day, 
 And thou soon must be his prey. 
 If the power that raised thee here 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 
 A less drear ruin then than now 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 Stooping to the slave of slaves 
 From thy throne among the waves, 
 Wilt thou be, — when the sea-mew 
 Flies, as once before it flew. 
 O'er thine isles depopulate. 
 And all is in its ancient state. 
 Save where many a palace-gate 
 With green sea-flowers overgrown 
 Like a rock of ocean's own, 
 Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 The fisher on his watery way 
 Wandering at the close of day, 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 
298 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore, 
 Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 
 Lead a rapid masque of death 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
 Noon descends around me now: 
 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, 
 When a soft and purple mist 
 Like a vaporous amethyst, 
 Or an air-dissolved star 
 Mingling light and fragrance, far 
 From the curved horizon's bound 
 To the point of heaven's profound. 
 Fills the overflowing sky ; 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 Underneath ; the leaves unsodden 
 Where the infant frost has trodden 
 With his morning-winged feet 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
 And the red and golden vines 
 Piercing with their trellised lines 
 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; 
 The dun and bladed grass no less, 
 Pointing from this hoary tower 
 In the windless air ; the flower 
 Glimmering at ray feet ; the line 
 Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 
 In the south dimly islanded ; 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 High between the clouds and sun ; 
 And of living things each one ; 
 And my spirit, which so long 
 Darken'd this swift stream of song, — 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 By the glory of the sky ; 
 Be it love, light, harmony. 
 Odour, or the soul of all 
 
The euganean hills. %% 
 
 Which from heaven like dew doth fall. 
 Or the mind which feeds this verse 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 
 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
 
 Leading the infantine moon 
 
 And that one star, which to her 
 
 Almost seems to minister 
 
 Half the crimson light she brings 
 
 From the sunset's radiant springs : 
 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 
 
 (Which like winged winds had borne 
 
 To that silent isle, which lies 
 
 'Mid rememberd agonies, 
 
 The frail bark of this lone being), 
 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 
 
 And its ancient pilot. Pain, 
 
 Sits beside the helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 
 
 In the sea of life and agony : 
 
 Other spirits float and flee 
 
 O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps. 
 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
 
 With folding wings they waiting sit 
 
 For my bark, to pilot it 
 
 To some calm and blooming cove, 
 
 Where for me, and those I love. 
 
 May a windless bower be built. 
 
 Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 
 
 In a dell 'mid lawny hills 
 
 Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 
 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 
 Of old forests echoing round. 
 
 And the light and smell divine 
 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shinCo 
 
 — We may live so happy there, 
 
 That the spirits of the air 
 
300 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Envying us, may even entice 
 
 To our healing paradise 
 
 The polluting multitude ; 
 
 But their rage would be subdued 
 
 By that clime divine and calm, 
 
 And the winds whose wings rain balm 
 
 On the uplifted soul, and leaves 
 
 Under which the bright sea heaves ; 
 
 While each breathless interval 
 
 In their whisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 With its own deep melodies ; 
 
 And the Love which heals all strife 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life, 
 
 All things in that sweet abode 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood. 
 
 They, not it, would change ; and soon 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 
 Would repent its envy vain, 
 
 And the Earth grow young ag".in ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXXV. 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 
 
 O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 The winded seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With living hues and odours plain and hill : 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
 Destroyer and Preserver ; Hear, O hear ! 
 
ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 301 
 
 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 
 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed 
 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 
 
 Angels of rain and lightning ; there are spread 
 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
 
 Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
 
 Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 
 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 
 Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear! 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay 
 Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
 And tremble and despoil themselves : O hear ! 
 
 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 
 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 
 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 
 Than Thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
 
 As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 
 
 Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven 
 
^02 BOOK I^OURTH. 
 
 As thus with thee in prayer in m^ sore need. 
 
 Hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 
 1 fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chained and bow'd 
 One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
 My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
 Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ; 
 And, by the incantation of this verse, 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguishM hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
 Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
 The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXXVI. 
 
 NATURE AND THE POET. 
 
 Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by 
 Sir George Beaimiont. 
 
 I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
 Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
 Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there ; 
 It trembled, but it never passed away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep. 
 No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
 
NATURE AND THE POET. 303 
 
 Ah ! then if mine had been the painter^s hand 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
 The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 
 
 Such picture would I at that time have made ; 
 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 
 A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the friend 
 
 If he had lived, of him whom I deplore. 
 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate work! — yet wise and well, 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
 
 That hulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 
 
 1 love to see the look with which it braves, 
 
304 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 — Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time — 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here : — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 W. Wot'dsworth, 
 
 CCLXXVII. 
 
 THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 On a Poet's lips I slept 
 
 Dreaming like a love-adept 
 
 In the sound his breathing kept ; 
 
 Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 
 
 But feeds on the aerial kisses 
 
 Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses- 
 
 He will watch from dawn to gloom 
 
 The lake-reflected sun illume 
 
 The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 
 
 Nor heed nor see what things tliey be — 
 But from these create he can 
 Forms more real than living Man, 
 
 Nurslings of Immortality ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXXVIII. 
 
 The World is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours 
 
R'ING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL. 305 
 
 And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! Td rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton l^low his wreathed horn. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 CCLXXIX. 
 
 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE, 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 
 (Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense 
 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence ! 
 
 — Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more : — 
 
 So doem'd the man who fashionVl for the sense 
 
 These ufty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 "Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Linsfering and wandering on as loth to die — 
 Uke thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 "That they were born for immortality. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXXX. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Beth were mine ! Life went a-maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 IVhen I was young? — Ah, woful when ! 
 Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! 
 
306 BOOK FObRTH. 
 
 This breathing house not built with hands. 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands 
 How lightly then it flashM along : 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weatheL 
 When Youth and I lived in't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is fiovver-like ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 O ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old ! 
 Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, 
 Which tells me, Youth^s no longer here \ 
 
 Youth ! for years so many and sweet 
 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 
 It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolPd : — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise hast now put on 
 To make believe that thou art gone ? 
 
 1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooping gait, this altered size : 
 But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!" 
 Life is but Thought : so think I will 
 That Youth and I are housemates still. 
 
 Dew-Drops are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 
 When we are old : 
 — That only serves to make us grieve 
 
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS, 307 
 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest 
 That may not rudely be dismist, 
 Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 6". T. Coleridge, 
 CCLXXXI, 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 
 Ll^prose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said 
 ' The will of God be done ! ' 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he. 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass 
 And by the steaming rills 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 ' Our work,' said I, ' was well begun ; 
 Then, from thy breast what thought. 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 So sad a sigh has brought ? ' 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 * Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 
 A day like this, which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 • And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colours, and no other, 
 Were in the sky that April morn 
 
 Of this the very brother. i 
 
508 'BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 * With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 
 And coming to the church, stopp'd short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 * Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 
 And then she sang : — she would have beer. 
 A very nightingale. . 
 
 * Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more — 
 
 For so it seem'd, — than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 * And turning from her grave, I met 
 Beside the churchyard yew 
 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 * A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 * No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripp'd with foot so free ; 
 She seem'd as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 * There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 
 I look'd at her, and look'd again : 
 And did not wish her mine ! ' 
 
 — Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
 
 Methinks I see him stand 
 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 309 
 
 CCLXXXII. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A Conversation. 
 
 We talkM with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 ' Now, Matthew ! ' said I, ' let us matclr 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon. 
 
 * Or of the church-clock and the chimo 
 Sing here beneath the shade 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made ! ' 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 The gray-hair'd man of glee : 
 
 ' No check, no stay, this Streamlet tears, 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 ' And here, on this delightful day 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 ' My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 My heart is idly stirr'd, 
 
31C BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days 1 heard. 
 
 * Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 
 Mourns less for what Age takes away. 
 Than what it leaves behind^ 
 
 ' The blackbird amid leafy trees — 
 The lark above the hill 
 Let loose their carols when they please. 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 * With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : 
 
 * But we are press'd by heavy laws ; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 ' If there be one who need bemoan 
 Tlis kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own, 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 ' My days, my friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved. 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved.' 
 
 ' Now both himself and me he wrongSj 
 The man who thus complains ! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains : 
 
 ' And Matthew, for thy children dead 
 
 ril be a son to thee ! " 
 
 At this he grasped my hand and said^ 
 
 * Alas ! that cannot bQ,' 
 
THE RIVER OF LIFE. 311 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And ere we came to Leonard's Rock 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 And the bewilderd chimes. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXXXIII. 
 
 THE RIVER OF LIFE. 
 
 The more we live, more brief appear 
 
 Our life's succeeding stages : 
 A day to childhood seems a year, 
 
 And years like passing ages. 
 
 The gladsome current of our youth 
 
 Ere passion yet disorders, 
 Steals lingering like a river smooth 
 
 Along its grassy borders. 
 
 But as the careworn cheek grows wan, 
 
 And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
 Ye Stars, that measure life to man, 
 
 Why seem your courses quicker ? 
 
 When joys have lost their bloom and breath 
 
 And life itself is vapid. 
 Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 
 
 Feel we its tide more rapid.? 
 
 It may be strange — yet who would change 
 
 Time's course to slower speeding. 
 When one by one our friends have gone 
 
 And left our bosoms bleeding? 
 
 Heaven gives our years of fading strength 
 
 Indemnifying fleetness ; 
 And those of youth, a seeming length, 
 
 Proportion'd to their sweetness. 
 
 T. Campbell. 
 
312 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 CCLXXXIV. 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS. 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ; 
 There are four seasons in the mind of Man : 
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
 
 He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
 Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he love? 
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
 Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
 He furleth close ; contented so to look 
 On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook : — 
 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
 Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 CCLXXXV. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 O World ! O Life ! O Time ! 
 On whose last steps I climb, 
 
 Trembling at that where I had stood before ; 
 When will return the glory of your prime ? 
 No more — O never more ! 
 
 Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight : 
 
 Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
 Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
 No more — O never more ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CCLXXXVI. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my life began. 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 313 
 
 So is it now I am a man, 
 
 So be it when I shall grow old 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man : 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXXXVII. 
 
 )DE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight 
 To me did seem 
 Appareird in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it has been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoever I may. 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more! 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair ; ' ' " 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor''s sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, - 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : 
 
314 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou child of joy 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning 
 
 This sweet May morning ; 
 And the children are pulling 
 
 On every side 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 
 
 1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 
 — But there's a tree, of many, one, 
 A single field which I have look'd upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting 
 And Cometh from afar ; 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 315 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness 
 And not in utter nakedness 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy, 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind 
 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 
 And this hath now his heart. 
 And unto this he frames his song: 
 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
316 BOOK FOURTH, 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his ' humorous stage' 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy souPs immensity ; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find ; 
 Thou, over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthj^ to be blest, 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTAIJTY. 317 
 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: 
 — Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things 
 Fallings from us, vanishings, 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized : 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour 
 
 Nor man nor boy 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither ; 
 Can in a moment travel thither — 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore, 
 Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We, in thought, will join your throng 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 Ye that through your hearts today 
 
318 BOOK FOURTH. "- 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May \ 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind, 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which having been must ever be, 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering, 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Forbode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway ; 
 
 I love the brooks which down their channels fret 
 
 Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won, 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII. 
 
 Music, when soft voices die. 
 Vibrates in the memory — 
 Odours, when sweet violets sicken. 
 Live within the sense they quicken* 
 
THE FAIRY LIFE. 319 
 
 Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
 Are heapM for the beloved's bed ; 
 And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 P. B. Shelley, 
 
 CCLXXXIX. 
 
 THE FAIRY LIFE. 
 I. 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 
 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
 
 There I couch, when owls do cry: 
 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 
 After summer merrily. 
 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands, 
 
 And then take hands : 
 Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd 
 
 The wild waves whist, 
 Foot it featly here and there ; 
 And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. 
 Hark, hark ! 
 
 Bow-wow. 
 The watch-dogs bark : 
 
 Bow-wow. 
 Hark, hark ! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticleer 
 Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 
 
 W. Shakespeare, 
 
 CCXC. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Come, Sleep : O Sleep ! the certain knot of peacCj 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
 
320 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 
 Of those fierce darts Despair at' me doth throw: 
 
 make in me those civil wars to cease ; 
 
 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
 A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, 
 A rosy garland and a weary head : 
 And if these things, as being thine in right, 
 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
 
 Sir P. Sidney. 
 
 CCXCI. 
 
 A SONG FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Weep you no more, sad fountains : — 
 
 What need you flow so fast? 
 Look how the snowy mountains 
 
 Heaven's sun doth gently waste ! 
 But my Sun's heavenly eyes 
 View not your weeping, 
 That now lies sleeping 
 Softly, now softly lies, 
 Sleeping. 
 
 Sleep is a reconciling, 
 
 A rest that peace begets : — 
 Doth not the sun rise smiling, 
 When fair at evii he sets? 
 
 — Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes! 
 Melt not in weeping ! 
 While She lies sleeping 
 Softly, now softly lies, 
 Sleeping ! 
 
 Anon. 
 CCXCII. 
 
 LOVE TRIUMPHANT. 
 
 E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, 
 
 That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, 
 
CORINNA'S MAYING. 32! 
 
 And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks, 
 Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, 
 Where in a greater current they conjoin : 
 
 So I my Best-Beloved's am; so He is mine. 
 
 E'en so we met ; and after long pursuit, 
 
 E'en so we join'd ; we both became entire ; 
 
 No need for either to renew a suit, 
 
 For I was flax and he was flames of fire : 
 Our firm-united souls did more than twine : 
 
 So I my Best-Beloved's am ; so He is mine. 
 
 If all those glittering Monarchs that command 
 The servile quarters of this earthly ball, 
 
 Shoulv^ tender, in exchange, their shares of land, 
 I w luld not change my fortunes for them all i 
 Theiv" wealth is but a counter to my coin : 
 
 The world's but theirs ; but my Beloved's mine. 
 
 F. Quarles. 
 
 CCXCIII. 
 
 CORINNA'S MAYING. 
 
 Get up, get up for shame ! The blooming morn 
 Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
 
 See how Aurora throws her fair 
 
 Fresh-quilted colours through the air : 
 
 Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see 
 
 The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
 Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east. 
 Above an hour since ; yet you not drest, 
 
 Nay ! not so much as out of bed? 
 
 When all the birds have matins said, 
 
 And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, 
 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in, — 
 Whenas a thousand virgins on this day, 
 Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 
 
 Rise ; and put on your foliage, and be seen 
 
 To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green 
 
322 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 
 For jewels for your gown, or hair : 
 
 Fear not ; the leaves will strew 
 
 Gems in abundance upon you : 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
 Against you come, some orient pearls unwept : 
 
 Come, and receive them while the light 
 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: 
 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 
 
 Retires himself, or else stands still 
 Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying 
 Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, mark 
 How each field turns a street ; each street a park 
 
 Made green, and trimm'd with trees : see how 
 
 Devotion gives each house a bough 
 
 Or branch : each porch, each door, ere this, 
 
 An ark, a tabernacle is, 
 Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 
 Can such delights be in the street, 
 
 And open fields, and we not see't? 
 
 Come, we'll abroad : and let's obey 
 
 The proclamation made for May : 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 
 But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. 
 
 There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day, 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
 
 A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
 
 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
 
 Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream, 
 
 Before that we have left to dream : 
 And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth. 
 And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 
 
 Many a green-gown has been given ; 
 
 Many a kiss, both odd and even : 
 
 Many a glance, too, has been sent 
 
A VISION. 323 
 
 From out the eye, love's firmament : 
 Many a jest told of the keys betraying 
 This night, and locks pick'd : — Yet we^-e not a Maying. 
 
 — Come, let us go, while we are in our prime ; 
 And take the harmless folly of the time ! 
 
 We shall grow old apace, and die 
 
 Before we know our liberty. 
 
 Our life is short ; and our days run 
 
 As fast away as does the sun : — - 
 And as a vapour, or a drop of rain 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found again : 
 
 So when or you or I are made 
 
 A fabje, song, or fleeting shade ; 
 
 All love, all liking, all delight 
 
 Lies drown'd with us in endless night. 
 Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
 ComC; my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying. 
 
 R. Herrick, 
 
 CCXCIV. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 I SAW Eternity the other night. 
 
 Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 
 
 All calm, as it was bright : — 
 And round beneath it. Time, in hours, days, years, 
 
 Driven by the spheres. 
 Like a vast shadow moved ; in which the World 
 
 And all her train were hurl'd. 
 
 X H. Vaughan. 
 
 ccxcv. 
 
 THE SONG OF DAVID. 
 
 He sang of God, the mighty source 
 Of all things, the stupendous force 
 
 On which all strength depends : 
 From Whose right arm, beneath Whose ?yesc 
 All period, power, and enterprize 
 
 Commences, reigns, and endso 
 
324 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 The world, the clustering spheres He made 
 The glorious light, the soothing shade, 
 
 Dale, champaign, grove and hill : 
 The multitudinous abyss, 
 Where secresy remains in bliss, 
 
 And wisdom hides her skill. 
 
 Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said 
 
 To Moses : while Earth heard in dread, 
 
 And, smitten to the heart. 
 At once, above, beneath, around, 
 All Nature, without voice or sound, 
 
 Replied, ' O Lord, THOU ART.' 
 
 C. Smart. 
 
 CCXCVI. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 When I think on the happy days 
 I spent wi' you, my dearie : 
 
 And now what lands between us lie^ 
 How can I be but eerie ! 
 
 How slow ye move, ye heavy hours^ 
 As ye were wae and weary ! 
 
 It was na sae ye glinted by 
 When I was wi' my dearie. 
 Anon. 
 
 CCXCVII. 
 
 THE SHRUBBERY. 
 
 O HAPPY shades ! to me unblest 1 
 Friendly to peace, but not to me I 
 
 How ill the scene that offers rest, 
 And heart that cannot rest, agree \ 
 
 This glassy stream, that spreading pine. 
 Those alders quivering to the breeze. 
 
 Might soothe a soul less hurt than minCj, 
 And please, if anything could please. 
 
THE CASTAWAY. 325 
 
 But fixM unalterable Care 
 
 Foregoes not what she feels within, 
 Shows the same sadness everywhere, 
 
 And slights the season and the scene. 
 
 For all that pleased in wood or law 
 
 While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, 
 
 Her animating smile withdrawn, 
 Has lost its beauties and its powers. 
 
 The saint or moralist should tread 
 
 This moss-grown alley, musing, slow ; 
 They seek like me the secret shade, 
 
 But not, like me, to nourish woe ! 
 
 Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste 
 
 Alike admonish not to roam ; 
 These tell me of enjoyments past. 
 
 And those of sorrows yet to come. 
 
 W. Cowper, 
 
 CCXCVIII. 
 
 THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky, 
 
 The Atlantic billows roard, 
 When such a destined wretch as I, 
 
 Wash'd headlong from on board. 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 His floating home for ever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast 
 
 Than he with whom he went, 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast 
 
 With warmer wishes sent. 
 He loved them both, but both in vain, 
 Nor him beheld, nor her again. 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay ; 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline. 
 
 Or courage die away ; 
 
326 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 But waged with death a lasting strife, 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted : nor his friends had faiPd 
 To check the vessel's course, 
 
 But so the furious blast prevailed, 
 That, pitiless perforce, 
 
 They left their outcast mate behind, 
 
 And scudded still before the wind. 
 
 Some succour yet they could afford ; 
 
 And such as storms allow, 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord. 
 
 Delayed not to bestow. 
 But he (they knew) nor ship nor shorOj 
 Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
 Their haste himself condemn. 
 
 Aware that flight, in such a sea, 
 Alone could rescue them ; 
 
 Yet bitter felt it still to die 
 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, self-upheld ; 
 And so long he, with unspent power, 
 
 His destiny repelPd; 
 And ever, as the minutes flew, 
 Entreated help, or cried ' Adieu ! ' 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 His comrades, who before 
 
 Had heard his voice in every blast, 
 Could catch the sound no more ; 
 
 For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
 
 The stifling wave, and then he sank. 
 
 No poet wept him ; but the page 
 
 Of narrative sincere. 
 That tells his name, his worth, his agCj 
 
 Is wet with Anson's tear : 
 
INFANT JOY. 327 
 
 And tears by bards or heroes shed 
 
 Alike immortalize the dead. 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream, 
 
 Descanting on his fate, 
 To give the melancholy theme 
 
 A more enduring date : 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 Its semblance in another's case. 
 
 No voice divine the storm allay'd, 
 
 No light propitious shone, 
 When, snatch'd from all effectual aid. 
 
 We perishM, each alone : 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. 
 
 W. Cowper. 
 CCXCIX. 
 
 INFANT JOY. 
 
 ' I HAVE no name ; 
 
 I am but two days old.' 
 
 — What shall I call thee ? 
 * I happy am ; 
 
 Joy is my name.' 
 
 — Sweet joy befall thee ! 
 
 Pretty joy ! 
 
 Sweet joy, but two days old ; 
 
 Sweet joy I call thee : 
 
 Thou dost smile : 
 
 I sing the while, 
 
 Sweet joy befall thee ! 
 
 W. Blake. 
 
 ccc. 
 TO MARY. 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be : 
 
328 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 It never through my mind had past 
 The time would e'er be o'er, 
 
 And I on thee should look my last, 
 And thou shouldst smile no more ! 
 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook 
 
 That I must look in vain ! 
 But when I speak — thou dost not say. 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 
 And now I feel, as well I may, 
 
 Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art. 
 
 All cold and all serene — 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 And where thy smiles have been ! 
 While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own ; 
 But there I lay thee in thy grave — 
 
 And I am now alone ! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 
 
 In thinking too of thee : 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before. 
 As fancy never could have drawn. 
 
 And never can restore ! 
 
 C. Wolfg. 
 
 ccci. 
 
 THE TROSACHS. 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone. 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 
THE TROSACHS. 329 
 
 Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 
 Untouched, unbreathed-upon : — Thrice happy quest, 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 (October's workmanship to rival May), 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest! 
 
 W. Wordsworth, 
 
NOTES. 
 
 (1861-1884.) 
 
 Summary of Book First. 
 
 The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the substance 
 of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry VIII. to Shake- 
 speare midway through the reign of James I., and Drummond who carried on 
 the early manner to a still later period. There is here a wide range of style; — 
 from simplicity expressed in a language hardly yet broken-in to verse, — through 
 the pastoral fancies and Italian conceits of the strictly Elizabethan time, — to 
 the passionate reality of Shakespeare : yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. 
 Few readers can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the single- 
 hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts : — nor less, the limitation of subject 
 to the many phases of one passion, which then characterized our lyrical poetry, 
 — unless when, as in especial with Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love' is 
 tempered by a spirit of sterner reflection. 
 
 It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in the 
 main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its restriction to Lyri- 
 cal Poetry) a strictly representative or historical Anthology has not been aimed 
 at. Great Excellence, in human art as in human character, has from the be- 
 ginning of things been even more uniform than Mediocrity, by virtue of the 
 closeness of its approach to Nature : — and so far as the standard of Excellence 
 kept in view has been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme 
 or temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, w^ll be found 
 throughout : — something neither modern nor ancient, but true in all ages, and 
 like the works of Creation, perfect as on the first day. 
 
 Page II, No. II. Rouse Memno?is mother : Awaken the Dawn from the dark 
 Earth and the clouds where she is resting. This is one of that limited class of 
 early mythes w'hich may be reasonably interpreted as representations of natural 
 phenomena. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon (the East), 
 and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and Sky during the last hours 
 of Night). She leaves him every morning in renewed youth, to prepare the 
 way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst Tithonus remains in perpetual old age and 
 grayness. 
 
 Page 12, No. II,, line 20. by Peneiis' stream : Phoebus loved the Nymph 
 Daphne whom he met by the river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. 
 
 Page 12, No. II., line 24. Amphion's lyre : He was said to have built the walls 
 of Thebes to the sound of his music. 
 
 Page 12, No. II., line 32. Night like a drunkard reels : Compare Romeo and 
 Juliet, Act II., Scene 3: ' The grey-eyed morn smiles' Sec. — It should be added 
 that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been omitted in 
 this Poem. 
 
K^OTES, 33 J 
 
 Page 13, No. IV. Times chest: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up 
 past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III., Scene 3. ' Time hath a wallet at his 
 back ' &c. In the Arcadia, chest is used to signify tomb. 
 
 Page 14, No. V. A fine example of the highwrought and conventional Eliza- 
 bethan Pastoralism, which it would be unreasonable to criticize on the ground 
 of the unshephei-dlike or unreal character of some images suggested. Stanza 6 
 was perhaps inserted by Izaak Walton. 
 
 Page 16, No. IX. This Poem, with XXV. and XCIV., is taken from Davison's 
 '' Rhapsody,' first published in 1602. One stanza has been here omitted, in ac- 
 cordance with the principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in 
 XL\'., LXXXVII., C, CXXVIII., CLX., CLXV., CCXXVII., CCXCII., CCXCIV., ccxcv. 
 The more serious abbreviation by which it has been attempted to bring Cra- 
 shaw's ' Wishes ' and Shelley's ' Euganean Hills ' within the limits of stricter 
 lyrical unity, is commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers 
 acquainted with the original pieces. 
 
 Page 19, No. XV. This charming little poem, truly ' old and plain, and dally- 
 ing with the innocence of love ' like that spoken of in Twelfth Night, is taken, 
 with v., XVII., XX., XXXIV., and XL., from the most characteristic collection of 
 Elizabeth's reign, ' England's Helicon,' first published in 1600. 
 
 Page 20, No. XVI. Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more 
 than one picture by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure 
 in its Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to ' the Islands of 
 Terceras and the Canaries ; ' and he seems to have caught, in those southern 
 seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked the almost contemporary 
 Art of Venice, — the glory and the glow of Veronese, or Titian, or Tintoret, 
 when he most resembles Titian, and all but surpasses him. 
 
 The clear (line i) is the crystaUine or outermost heaven of the old cosmogra- 
 phy. For a fair there's fairer none : If you desire a Beauty, there is none more 
 beautiful than Rosaline. 
 
 Page 22, No. XVIII. that fair thou owest : that beauty thou ownest. 
 
 Page 25, XXIII. the star Whose worth's unknowti, although his height betaken : 
 apparently. Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his angular altitude 
 from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon used by astrologers has been 
 determ.ined. 
 
 Page 25, XXIV. This lovely song appears, as here given, in Puttenham's 
 ' Arte of English Poesie,' 1589. A longer and inferior form was published in the 
 ' Arcadia ' of 1590 : but Puttenham's prefatory words clearly assign his version 
 to Sidney's own authorship. 
 
 Page 27, No. XXVII. keel : skim. 
 
 Page 28, No. XXIX. expense : loss. 
 , Page 28, No. XXX. Nativity once in the main of light : when a star has risen 
 ' and entered on the full stream of light ; — another of the astrological phrases no 
 , longer familiar. Crooked eclipses : as coming athwart the Sun's apparent 
 I course. 
 
 Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and the ' Lucrece,' said finely 
 
 I of Shakespeare : ' Shakespeare could not have written an Epic ; he would have 
 
 died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality of nature is exemplified equally 
 
 in his Sonnets. The copious selection here given (which from the wealth of the 
 
 i material, required greater consideration than any other portion of the Editor's 
 
332 NOTES. 
 
 task), — contains many that will not be fully felt and understood without some 
 earnestness of thought on the reader's part. But he is not likely to regret the 
 labour. 
 
 Page 29, No. xxxr. tcpon misprisicn growing : either, granted in error, or, on 
 the growth of contempt. 
 
 Page 29, No. XXXII. With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's ' Give 
 me that man That is not passion's slave ' &c. Shakespeare's writings show the 
 deepest sensitiveness to passion : — hence the attraction he felt in the contrasting 
 effects of apathy. 
 
 Page 29, No. XXXIII. grame : sorrow. Renaissance influences long impeded 
 the return of English poets to the charming realism of this and a few other poems 
 by Wyat. 
 
 Page 31, No. XXXIV. Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela, 
 
 Page 32, No. XXXVIII. ramage : confused noise. 
 
 Page 33, No. XXXIX. censures : judges. 
 
 Page 33, No. XL. Judging by its style, this beautiful example of old simplicity 
 and feehng may, perhaps, be referred to the earlier years of Elizabeth. Late for- 
 got : lately. 
 
 Page 34, No. XLI. haggards : the least tameable hawks. 
 
 Page 36, No. XLIV. cypres or Cyprus, — used by the old writers for crape; 
 whether from the French crespe or from the Island. Its accidental similarity in 
 spelling to cypress has, here and in Milton's Penseroso, probably confused read- 
 ers. 
 
 Page 37, Nos. XLVI., XLVII. ' I never saw anything like this funeral dirge,* 
 says Charles Lamb, ' except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned 
 father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the earth, 
 earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve itself into 
 the element which it contemplates.' 
 
 Page 39, No. LI. crystal : fairness. 
 
 Page 40, No. LIII. This ' Sppusal Verse 'was written in honour of the Ladies 
 Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset, Nowhere has Spenser more emphatically 
 displayed himself as the very Poet of Beauty: The Renaissance impulse in Eng- 
 land is here seen at its highest and purest. 
 
 The genius of Spenser, like Chaucer's, does itself justice only in poems of 
 some length. Hence it is impossible to represent it in this volume by other 
 pieces of equal merit, but of impracticable dimensions. And the same applies 
 to such poems as The Ancient Mari7ier and Adonais. 
 
 Page 41, No. LIII., line 9. feateonsly : elegantly. 
 
 Page 43, No. LIII., line 29. shend : put out. 
 
 Page 44, No. LIII., line 16. a noble peer : Robert Devereux, second Lord 
 Essex, then at the height of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz : hence the 
 allusion following to the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient legend. 
 Line 28. Eliza : Elizabeth. 
 
 Page 45, No. LIII., line 7. twins of Jove : the stars Castor and Pollux. 
 Line 8. baldric, belt; the zodiac. 
 
 Page 46, No. LVII. A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry ; — that written 
 by thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Wotton's, LXXll., is another, 
 Jeremy Taylor, Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have left similar 
 specimens. 
 
NOTES. 333 
 
 Summary of Book Second. 
 
 This^ division, embracing the latter eighty years of the Seventeenth Century, 
 contains the close of our Early poetical style and the commencement of the 
 Modern. In Dryden we see the first master of the new : in Milton, whose 
 genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in the former book, — the crown and 
 consummation of the early period. Their splendid Odes are far in advance of 
 any prior attempts, Spenser's excepted: they exhibit that wider and grander 
 range which years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on 
 Poetry. Our Muses now give expression to political feeling, to religious thought, 
 to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such as Marvell, Herbert, and 
 Wotton : whilst in Marvell and Milton, again, we find noble attempts, hitherto 
 rare in our literature, at pure description of nature, destined in our own age to 
 be continued and equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although 
 before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and after- 
 wards by levity and an artificial tone, — produced in Herrick and Waller some 
 charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan : until in the courtly 
 compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself, and lie almost dormant for the 
 hundred years between the days of Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns 
 and Cowper. — That the change from our early style to the modern brought with 
 it at first a loss of nature and simplicity is undeniable : yet the far bolder and 
 wider scope which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts 
 then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results have been no 
 slight compensation. 
 
 Page 52, No. LXII,, line 4. whist: hushed. Line 28. than: obsolete for 
 then. Line 29. Pan : used here for the Lord of all. 
 
 Page 55, No. LXII., line 23. Lars and Leviures : household gods and spirits 
 of relations dead. Flamens (line 26) Roman priests. That ttaice-batter d god 
 (line 31) Dagon. 
 
 Page 56, No. LXII., line 9. Osiris, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, per- 
 haps by confusion with Apis, figured as a bull), was torn to pieces by Typho 
 and embalmed after death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in Syria 
 and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, may 
 have originally signified the annual death of the Sun or the Year under the 
 influences of the winter darkness. Horns, the son of Osiris, as the New Year, 
 in his turn overcomes Typho. Line 11. nnshower' d gra.ss: as watered by the 
 Nile only. Line 36. youngest-teemed : last-born. 
 
 Page 57, No. LXII., line 4. Bright-harness d : armoured. 
 
 Page 59, No. LXIV. The Late Massacre : the Vaudois persecution, carried 
 on in 1655 by the Duke of Savoy. This ' collect in verse,' as it has been justly 
 named, is the most mighty Sonnet in any language known to the Editor. 
 Readers should observe that it is constructed on the original Italian or Pro- 
 vencal model. This form, in a language such as ours, not affluent in rhyme, 
 presents great difficulties ; the rhymes are apt to be forced, or the substance 
 commonplace. But, when successfully handled, it has a unity and a beauty of 
 effect which place the strict Sonnet above the less compact and less lyrical sys- 
 tems adopted by Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and other Elizabethan poets. 
 
 Page 59, No. LXV. Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650, and Marvell 
 
334 NOTES. 
 
 probably wrote his lines soon after, whilst living at Nunappleton in the Fairfax 
 household. It is hence not surprising that (stanzas 21-24) he should have 
 been deceived by Cromwell's professed submissiveness to the Parliament which, 
 when it declined to register his decrees, he expelled by armed violence : — one 
 despotism, by natural law, replacing another. The poet's insight has, however, 
 truly prophesied that result in his last two lines. 
 
 This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in Mil- 
 ton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is occasionally obscure 
 from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The meaning of stanza 5 is 
 • rivalry or hostihty are the same to a lofty spirit, and limitation more hateful 
 than opposition.' The allusion in stanza 11 is to the old physical doctrines of 
 the nonexistence of a vacuum and the impenetrability of matter: — in stanza 
 17 to the omen traditionally connected with the fourvdafion of the Capitol at 
 Rome. The ancient belief that certain years in life complete natural periods 
 and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is introduced in stanza 26 by the 
 word climacteric. 
 
 Lycidas. The person lamented is Milton's college contemporary Edward 
 King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from Chester to Ireland. 
 
 Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian Greeks 
 settled in Sicily : but the conventional use of it, exhibited more magnificently in 
 Lycidas than in any other pastoral, is apparently of Roman origin. Milton, 
 employing the noble freedom of a great artist, has here united ancient my- 
 thology, with what may be called the modern mythology of Camus and Saint 
 Peter, — to direct Christian images. Yet the poem, if it gains in historical 
 interest, suffers in poetry by the harsh intrusion of the writer's narrow and vio- 
 lent theological politics. — The metrical structure of this glorious elegy is partly 
 derived from Italian models. 
 
 Page 63, No. LXVI., line 19. Sisters of the sacred well : the Muses, said to 
 frequent the Pierian Spring at the foot of Mount Olympus. 
 
 Page 64, No. LXVI., line 26. Mona : Anglesea, called by the Welsh poets 
 Ynys Dywell, or the Dark Island, from its dense forests. Deva (line 27) the 
 Dee: a river which may have derived its magical character from Celtic tradi- 
 tions : it was long the boundary of Briton and English. — These places are 
 introduced, as being near the scene of the shipwreck. Orpheus (line 30) was 
 torn to pieces by Thracian women. 
 
 Page 65, No. LXVI. Amaryllis and Neaera (lines 3, 4) names used here for 
 the love-idols of poets: as Damoetas previously for a shepherd. Line 10. the 
 blind Fwy : Atropos, fabled to cut the thread of life. Arethuse (line 20) 
 and Miucius : Sicilian and Italian waters here alluded to as synonymous with 
 the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and Vergil. Line 23. oat: pipe, used here 
 \Sks. (ZoWvci^' oaten stop,X\WQ. i. No. CXLVI,, for Song. Line 31. Hippotades : 
 Aeolus, god of the winds. Panope (line 34) a Nereid. Certain names of local 
 deities in the Hellenic mythology render some feature in the natural landscape, 
 which the Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight and 
 feeling. Paiiope seems to express the boundlessness of the ocean-horizon when 
 seen from a height, as compared with the limited horizon of the land in hilly 
 countries such as Greece or Asia Minor. 
 
 Page 66, No LXVI., line i. Camus: the Cam; put for King's University, 
 The sanguine fiower (line 4) the Hyacinth of the ancients; probably our Iris, 
 
NOTES. 335 
 
 The pilot (line 7) Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the Church 
 on earth, to foretell 'the ruin of our corrupted clergy,' as Milton regarded 
 them, 'then in their height' under Laud's primacy. Line 22. scrannel: 
 screeching; apparently Milton's coinage (Masson). Line 26. the wolf: the 
 Puritans of the time were excited to alarm and persecution by a few conver- 
 sions to Roman Catholicism which had recently occurred. Alpheus (line 30) 
 a stream in Southern Greece, supposed to flow under seas to join the Arethuse. 
 Siaart star (line 36) : the Dogstar, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in 
 ancient times occurred soon after midsummer. 
 
 Page 67, No. LXVI., line 2. rathe : early. Line 19. 7?ioist vows : either tearful 
 prayers, or prayers for one at sea. Bellerus (line 20) a giant, apparently created 
 here by Milton to personify Belerium, the ancient title of the Land's End. The 
 great Visioji : — the story was that the Archangel Michael had appeared on the 
 rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on him 
 to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity Lycidas, if his body has 
 drifted into the troubled waters off the Land's End. Finisterre being the land 
 due south of Marazion, two places in that district (then through our trade with 
 Corunna probably less unfamiliar to English ears), are named, — Najnancos 
 now Mujio in Galicia, Bayona north of the Minho, or perhaps a fortified rock 
 (one of the Cies islands) not unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of 
 Vigo Bay. Line 30. ore : rays of golden light. 
 
 Page 68, No. LXVI., line 11. Doric lay : Sicilian, pastoral. 
 
 Page 70, No. LXX. The assault was an attack on London expected in 1642, 
 when the troops of Charles I. reached Brentford. ' Written on his door ' was 
 in the original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in Aldersgate Street. 
 
 Line 20. The Emathian Conqueror : When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) 
 and the citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pin- 
 dar to be spared. Line 23. the repeated air Of sad Electra s poet : Plutarch has 
 a tale that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a proposal to 
 demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on the comm.anders by 
 hearing part of a chorus from the Electra of Euripides sung at a feast. There 
 is however no apparent congruity between the lines quoted (167, 168 Ed. Din- 
 dorf) and the result ascribed to them. 
 
 Page 72, No. I.XXIII. This high-toned and lovely Madrigal is quite in the 
 style, and worthy of, the 'pure Simonides.' 
 
 Page 73, No. LXXV. These beautiful verses should be compared with 
 Wordsworth's great Ode, No. CCLXXXVll. — In imaginative intensity, Vaughan 
 stands beside his contemporary Marvell : — See Nos. CXI. and CCXCIV. 
 
 Page 74, No. LXXVI. Favonius : the spring wind. 
 
 Page 74, No. LXXVII. Themis : the goddess of justice. Skinner was grand- 
 son by his mother to Sir E. Coke; — hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley, 
 Miltoti's allusion to the bench. Line 26. Sweden was then at war with Poland, 
 and France with the Spanish Netherlands. 
 
 Page 76, No. LXXIX., line 22. Sydenian showers : either in allusion to the 
 . conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself as a model of 'gentleness ' 
 in spirit and demeanour. 
 
 Page 80, No. LXXXIV. Elizabeth of Boheinia : Daughter to James L, and 
 ancestor to Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant 
 And courtly compUment. 
 
336 NOTES. 
 
 Page 8i, No. LXXXV. Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards 
 Earl of Marlborough, who died March, 1629, coincidently with the dissolution 
 of the third Pariiament of Charles' reign. Hence Milton poetically compares 
 his dea*h to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after Philip's victory in 328 
 B.C. 
 
 Page 81, No. LXXXVI. Archbishop Trench has kindly informed the Editor 
 that this graceful poem is an imitation of early style by G. Darley: published 
 cir. 1847. 
 
 Page 88, No. XCIX. From Prison : to which his active support of Charles L 
 twice brought the high-spirited writer. 
 
 Page 89, No. XCIX., line i. Gods: thus in the original; Lovelace, in his 
 fanciful way, making here a mythological allusion. Birds, commonly substi- 
 tuted, is without authority. 
 
 Page 93, No. cv. Inserted in Book IL as written in the character of a Sol- 
 dier of Fortune in the Seventeenth Century. 
 
 Page 94, No. cvi. Walywaly : an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the 
 pronunciation of which are preserved in the word caterwaul. Brae, hillside : 
 biu-n, brook : busk, adorn. Saint Anton's Well : at the foot of Arthur's Seat by 
 Edinburgh. Cramasie, crimson. 
 
 Page 95, No. CVII. burd, maiden. 
 
 Page 96, No. CVIII. corbies, crows: fail, turf: hause, neck: theek, thatch. — 
 If not in their origin, in their present form this and the two preceding poems 
 appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and have therefore been placed- in 
 Book II. 
 
 Page 98, No. CXI. The remark quoted in the note to No. XLVII. applies 
 equally to these truly wonderful verses, which, like ' Lycidas,' may be regarded 
 as a test of any reader's insight into the most poetical aspects of Poetry. The 
 general differences between them are vast : but in imaginative intensity Mar- 
 veil and Shelley are closely related. — This poem is printed as a translation in 
 Marvell's works: but the original Latin is obviously his own. The most sti ik- 
 ing verses in it, here quoted as the book is rare, answer more or less to stanzas 
 
 £ and 6 : — 
 
 Alma Quies. teneo te! et te, germana Quietis, 
 
 Simplicitas ! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes 
 
 Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra: 
 
 Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe 
 
 Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra. ' 
 
 L Allegro and // Penseroso. It is a striking proof of Milton's astonishing 
 power, that these, the earliest pure Descriptive Lyrics in our language, should 
 still remain the best in a style which so many great poets have since at- 
 tempted. The Bright and the Thoughtful aspects of Nature and of Life are 
 their subjects : but each is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed 
 Classical and Italian manner. — With that of L' Allegro may be compared a 
 similar mythe in the first Section of the first Book of S. Marmion's graceful 
 Cupid and Psyche, 1637. 
 
 Page loi. No. cxii., line 32. the mountain nymph; compare Wordsworth's 
 Sonnet, No. ccx. Line 20 (page 102) is in apposition to the preceding, by a 
 syntactical license not uncommon with Milton. 
 
 Page 102, No. cxil., line 38. Cynosure : the Pole Star. 
 
NOTES. 337 
 
 Page 103, No. CXII., line 3. Corydon, Thyrsis, etc. : Shepherd names from the 
 old Idylls. Rebeck (line 14) an elementary form of violin. 
 
 Page 104, No. CXII., line 14. Jonson's learned sock : His somewhat pedantic 
 comedies exhibit one of the less fortunate results of the Renaissance movement. 
 Line 28. Lydian ai?s : used here to express a light and festive style of ancient 
 music. The ' Lydian Mode,' one of the seven original Greek Scales, is nearly 
 i ientical with our ' Major.' 
 
 Page 105, No. CXIII., l^ne 3. bestead : avail. Line 19. starr'd Ethiop queen : 
 C\ ssiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and thence translated amongst 
 the constellations. 
 
 Page 106, No. CXIII., line 24. Cynthia: the Moon: Milton seems here to 
 have transferred to her chariot the dragons anciently assigned to Demeter and 
 to Media. 
 
 Page 107, No. CXIII., line 15. Herines, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer 
 of the Nv^o-Platonist school. Line 26. Tliebes, etc.: subjects of Athenian Trag- 
 edy. Buskin' d (line 29) tragic, in opposition to sock above. Lins 31. AIu- 
 saeus : a pcet in mythology. Line 36. him that left half-told : Chaucer, in his 
 incomplete ' .Squire's Tale.' 
 
 Page 108, No. CXIII., line 5. great bards: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are 
 here intended. Line 12. frounced : curled. The Attic Boy (line 13) Cephalus. 
 
 Page 109, No. v'XiV. Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by 
 the government of Charles L 
 
 Page no, No. CXIV., lines 17, 18. But apples, etc. A fine example of Mar- 
 veil's imaginative hyberbole. 
 
 Page III, No. CXV., line 6. concent : harmony. 
 
 Summary of Book Third. 
 
 It is more difficult to characterize the English Poetry of the Eighteenth Cen- 
 tury than that of any other. For it was an age not only of spontaneous transi- 
 tion, but of bold experiment: it includes not only such divergences of thought 
 as distinguish the ' Rape of the Lock ' from the ' Parish Register,' but such vast 
 contemporaneous differences as lie between Pope and Collins, Burns and 
 Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace three leading moods or tendencies : — the 
 aspects of courtly or educated life represented by Pope and carried to exhaus- 
 tion by his followers ; the poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a culti- 
 vated, and at the same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and 
 Gray: — lastly, the study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural 
 description, begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the 
 north, and established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. 
 Great varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim : poets could not 
 always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart ; and the union 
 of conventional and of common language, exhibited most conspicuously by 
 Burns, has given- a tone to the poetry of that century which is better explained 
 by reference to its historical origin than by naming it artificial. There is, again, 
 a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict sense manly, 
 excellence in many of the writers : — nor can that period be justly termed tame 
 and wanting in originalitv, which produced poems such as Pope's Satires, Gray's 
 Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey, tlie songs of Burns and Cowper 
 
338 NOTES. 
 
 In truth Poetry at this, as at all times, was a more or less unconscious mirror 
 of the genius of the age : and the reasoned and scientific spirit of Enquiry 
 which made the Eighteenth Century the turning-time in European civihzation is 
 reflected faithfully in its verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of 
 Newton as markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of 
 Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here 
 be sufficient. 
 
 The Bard. In 1757, when this splendid ode was completed, so very little had 
 been printed, whether in Wales or in England, in regard to Welsh poetry, that 
 it is hard to discover whence Gray drew his Cymric allusions. The fabled 
 massacre of the Bards (shown to be wholly groundless in Stephens' Literature 
 of the Kymry) appears first in the family history of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir 
 (cir. 1600), not published till 1773 ; but the story seems to have passed in MS. 
 to Carte's History, whence it may have been taken by Gray. The references to 
 high-born Hoel and jo/^ Llewellyn (line 28) ; to Cadwallo and Urien (lines 29, 
 30), may, similarly, have been derived from the 'Specimens' of early Welsh 
 poetry, by the Rev. E. Evans : — as, although not published till 1764, the MS., 
 we learn from a letter to Dr. Wharton, was in Gray's hands by July 1760, and 
 may have reached him by 1757, the date when he first received Macpherson's 
 earliest specimens of Gaelic poetry, which he criticizes, with Evans' extracts in 
 the above-noticed letter. Yet even then it is doubtful whether Gray (of whose 
 acquaintance with Welsh we have no evidence), must not have been aided by 
 some Welsh scholar. He is one of the poets least likely to scatter epithets at 
 random : ' soft ' or gentle is the epithet emphatically and specially given to 
 Llewelyn in contemporary Welsh poetry, and is hence here used with particular 
 propriety. Yet, without such assistance as we have suggested, Gray could 
 hardly have selected the epithet, although applied to the King (page 141-3) 
 among a crowd of others, in Llygad Gwr's Ode, printed by Evans. — After 
 lamenting his ::omrades (stanzas 2, 3) the Bard prophesies the fate of Edward 
 H. and tL3 conquests of Edward HI. (4) : his death and that of the Black 
 Prince (5) : of Richard II., with the Wars of York and Lancaster, the murder 
 of Henry VI., {the meek usurper^ and of Edward V. and his brother (6). He 
 turns to the glory and prosperity following the accession of the Tudors (7), 
 through Elizabeth's reign (8) : and concludes with a vision of the poetry of 
 Shakespeare and Milton. 
 
 Page 122, No. CXXIII., line 16. Glo'ster: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to 
 Edward. Mortimer, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales. High-borti Hoel, 
 soft Lleivellyn (line 31) ; the Dissertatio de Bardis of Evans names the first as 
 son to the King Owain Gwynedd : — Llewelyn, last King of Noith Wales, was 
 murdered 1282. Line 32, Cadwallo : Cadwallon (died 631) and Urien Reged 
 (early kings of Gwynedd and Cumbria respectively) are mentioned by Evans 
 (page 78) as bards none of whose poetry is extant. 
 
 Page 123, No. CXXIII., line 3. Modred : Evans supplies no data for this name, 
 which Gray (it has been supposed) uses for Merlin (Myrddin Wyllt), held 
 prophet as well as poet, to whom is reasonably ascribed the beautiful Afallenau 
 Ode, as given in the ' Black Book of Caermarthen ' (Skene). Line 5. Arvon : 
 the shores of Carnarvonshire ooposite Anglesey. Whether intentionally or 
 through ignorance of the real dates, Gray here represents the Bard as speaking 
 
NOTES. 339 
 
 of these poets, all of earlier days, Llewelyn excepted, as his own contemporaries 
 iit the close of the Thirteenth Century. 
 
 Gray, whose penetrating and powerful genius rendered him in many ways an 
 initiator in advance of his age, is probably the first of our poets who made some 
 acquaintance with the rich and admirable poetry in which Wales ft-om the Sixth 
 Century has been fertile, — before and since his time so barbarously neglected, 
 not in England only. Hence it has been thought worth while here to enter into 
 a little detail upon his Cymric allusions. 
 
 Line 27. She-wolf: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward IL 
 
 Page 124, No. CXXIIL, line 20. Towers fif yidius : the Tower of London, 
 built in part, accoi'ding to tradition, by Julius Caesar. Line 26. bristled boar : 
 the badge of Richard IIL Line 32. Half of thy heart : Queen Eleanor died 
 soon after the conquest of Wales. 
 
 Page 125, No. CXXIII., line 5. Arthur : Henry VH. named his eldest son 
 thus, in deference to British feeling and legend. 
 
 Page 126, No. CXXV. The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, 
 Drumossie. 
 
 Page 127, No. CXXVI. lilting, singing blithely : loaiiing, broad lane: bughts, 
 pens : scorning, rallying: dowie, dreary : daffin' and gabbin , joking and chatting: 
 Icglin, milkpail : shearing, reaping: (5fl;?i/5/i?7'i-, sheaf-binders : lyart, grizzled: 
 rimkled, wrinkled: fleeching, cozxin^: gloaming, twilight: bogle, ghost: dool, 
 sorrow. 
 
 Page 129, No. CXXVlll. The Editor has found no authoritative text of this 
 poem, in his judgment superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. 
 Part is probably not later than the Seventeeth Century : in other stanzas a more 
 modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan s poem (cxxvil.) 
 exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old verses. — Hecht, 
 promised: the obsolete /z/^/^^*.- mavis, \}axw%\\\ ilka, every: lav' rock, \ax\i'. haughs, 
 valley-meadows: /w/«^^, parted from : marrow, xmXe: sy7ie,\\\ev\. 
 
 Page 130, No. CXXIX. The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a 
 partial careening in Portsmouth Harbour, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 
 1782. The total loss was believed to be nearly 1000 souls. — This, again, might 
 be called one of our trial-pieces, in regard to taste. The reader who feels the 
 vigour of description and the force of pathos underlying Cowper's bare and 
 truly Greek simplicity of phrase, may assure himself j-^ valde profecisse in poetry. 
 
 Page 133, No. CXXXI. A little masterpiece in a very difficult style : Catullus 
 himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness, simplicity and 
 humour it is worthy of the Ancients; and even more so, from the completeness 
 and unity of the picture presented. 
 
 Page 137, CXXXVI. Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of 
 the poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet he 
 touched little which he did not beautify ; and this song, with ' Rule Britannia ' 
 and a few others, must make us regret that he did not more seriously apply 
 himself to lyrical writing. 
 
 Page 139, No. CXL., line i. Aeolian lyre : the Greeks ascribed the origin of 
 their Lyrical Poetry to the Colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor. Thracias hills 
 (line 17) supposed a favourite resort of Mars. Feather d ki??g (line 21) the 
 Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by Pindar in a passage here imitated 
 by Gray. Idalia (line 27) in Cyprus, where Cytherea (Venus) was especially 
 worshipped. 
 
340 NOTES. 
 
 Page 140, CXL., line 20. Hyperioti : the Sun. Stanzas 6-8 allude to Poets ol 
 the Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England. 
 
 Page 142, No. CXL., line 9. Theban Eagle : Pindar. 
 
 Page 144, No. CXLI., line 23. chaste-eyed Queen : Diana. 
 
 Page 146, No. CXLII. Attic warbler : the nightingale. 
 
 Page 148, No. CXLIV. sleekit, sleek: bickering brattle, flittering flight: laitfi, 
 loth : pattle, ploughstaff : whyles, at times: a daime?t icker, a corn-ear now and 
 then : thrave, shock : lave, rest: foggage, aftergrass : snell, biting: bi^t hald, with- 
 out dwelling-place : thole, bear: cranreuch, hoarfrost: thy lane, alone: a-gley, 
 off the right line, awry. 
 
 Page 151, No. CXLVII. Perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language. 
 
 Page 155, No. CXLVm. stoure, dust-storm : braw, smart. 
 
 Page 156, No. CXLIX. scaith, hurt: tetif, guard: steer, molest. 
 
 Page 157, No. CLI. drunilie, muddy : birk, birch. 
 
 Page 159, No. CLII. greet, cry: daurna, dare not. — There can hardly exist a 
 poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this : nor, except Sappho, has 
 any Poetess known to the Editor equalled it in excellence. 
 
 Page 159, No. CLIII. foil, merry with drink: coost, carried: unco skeigh, very 
 proud: gart, forced: abeigh, aside: Ailsa craig, a rock in the Firth of Clyde: 
 grat his ee7i bleert, cried till his eyes were bleared: lowpin, leaping: linn, water- 
 fall: sair, sore: smoor'd, smothered: crouse and cajity, blythe and gay. 
 
 Page 160, No. CLIV. Burns justly named this 'one of the most beautiful 
 songs in the Scots or any other language.' One verse, interpolated by Beattie, 
 is here omitted : — it contains two good lines, but is quite out of harmony with 
 the original poem. Bigonet, little cap ; probably altered from beguinette : thraw, 
 twist : caller, fresh. 
 
 Page 162, No. CLV. airts, quarters : row, roll: shaw, small wood in a hollow, 
 spinney : knowes, knolls. 
 
 Page 163, No. CLVI. jo, sweetheart: brent, smooth ; pow, head. 
 
 Page 163, No. CLVII. leal, faithful: fain, happy. 
 
 Page 164, No. CLVlll. Henry VI. founded Eton. 
 
 Page 170, No. CLXI. The Editor knows no Sonnet more remarkable than 
 this, which, with CLXII., records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose affec- 
 tionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radi- 
 cally wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal grace and a more 
 perfect finish ; Shakespeare's more passion ; Milton's stand supreme in stateli- 
 ness ; Wordsworth's in depth and delicac}''. But Cowper's unites with an 
 exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the ancients would have called 
 Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving and ingenuous 
 nature. — There is much mannerism, much that is unimportant or of now 
 exhausted interest in his poems : but where he is great, it is with that elemen- 
 tary greatness which rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is 
 our highest master in simple pathos. 
 
 Page 172, No. CLXIII. fancied greeti : cherished garden. 
 
 Page 172, No. CLXIV. Very little except his surname appears recoverable 
 with regard to the author of this truly noble poem, which appeared in the 
 * Scripscrapologia, or Collins' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts,' with three or fourj 
 other pieces of merit. Birmingham, 1804. It should be noted as exhibiting aj 
 rare excellence, — the climax of simple sublimity. ' 
 
 I 
 
NOTES. 341 
 
 It is a lesson of great instructiveness to examine the essential qualities which 
 give high poetical rank to lyrics such as ' To-morrow ' or ' Sally in our Alley,' 
 when compared with poems written (if the phrase may be allowed) in keys so 
 different as the. subtle sweetness of Shelley, the grandeur of Gray and Milton, 
 or the delightful Pastoralism of the Elizabethan verse. Intelligent readers \\\\] 
 gain lience a clear understanding of the vast imaginative range of Poetry; — 
 through what wide oscillations the mind and the taste of a nation may pass ; — 
 how many are the roads which Truth and Nature open to Excellence. 
 
 Summary of Book Fourth. 
 
 It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, that the 
 pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of Excellence, ren- 
 der this Book by far the longest, were with very few exceptions composed during 
 the first thirty years of the nineteenth century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly 
 be given for the strangely sudden appearance of individual genius : that, how- 
 ever, which assigns the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry to 
 an impulse from the France of the first Republic and Empire appears to the 
 Editor inadequate. The first French Revolution was rather, in his opinion, one 
 result, and in itself far from the most important, of that wider and more potent 
 spirit which through enquiry and attempt, through strength and weakness, 
 sweeps mankind round the circles (not, as some fondly dream, of Advance, 
 but) of gradual Transformation: and it is to this that we must tracgi the litera- 
 ture of modern Europe. But, without more detailed discussion on the motive 
 causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats, and Shelley, we may observe 
 that these Poets, with others, carried to further perfection the later tendencies 
 of the Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Pas- 
 sion and Character in every sphere, and impassioned love of Nature: — that, 
 whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art made since the Restora- 
 tion, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked 
 the best Elizabethan writers: — that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they 
 added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narra- 
 tive, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the 
 Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger and wiser Humanity, — 
 hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable even by predecessors of not 
 inferior individual genius. In a word, the Nation which, after the Greeks in 
 their glory, has been the most gifted of all nations for Poetry, expressed in 
 licse men the highest strength and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted 
 ^ " age to itself — hence the many phases of thought and style they present: — 
 ympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without 
 . iincifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as 
 jvith the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely propor- 
 ionate to Strength: — and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and 
 o delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely. 
 
 Page 175, No. CLXVI. stout Cortez : History requires here Balboa : (A. T.) 
 t may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer the 'pure serene' of the 
 riginal, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the youthful poet; 
 -he must be ' a Greek himself,' as Shelley finely said of Keats, 
 
342; NOTES. 
 
 Page 179, No. CLXIX. The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems. 
 
 Page 180, No. CLXX. This poem, with CCXXXVI., exemplifies the peculiar skill 
 with which Scott employs proper names: — nor is there a surer sign of high 
 poetical genius. 
 
 Page 197, No. cxcr. The Editor in this and in other instances has risked the 
 addition (or the change) of a Title, that the aim of the verses following may be 
 grasped more clearly and immediately. 
 
 Page 203, No. CXCVIII. nature's Eremite : like a solitary thing in Nature. — 
 This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a poet deserving the title ' marvellous 
 boy' in a much higher sense than Chatterton. If the fulfilment may ever safely 
 be prophesied from the promise, England appears to have lost in Keats one 
 whose gifts in Poetry have rarely been surpassed. Shakespeare, Milton, and 
 Wordsworth, had their lives been closed at twenty-five, would (so far as we 
 know) have left poems of less excellence and hope than the youth who, from 
 the petty school and the London surgery, passed at once to a place with them 
 of 'high collateral glory.' 
 
 Page 205, No. CCI. It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so 
 little in this sweet and genuinely national style. 
 
 Page 205, No. ecu. A masterly example of Piyron's command of strong thought 
 and close reasoning in verse : —as the next is equally characteristic of Shelley's 
 wayward intensity, and CCIV. of the dramatic power, the vital identification oi 
 the poet with other times and characters, in which Scott is second only to Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Page 215, No. CCIX. Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke 
 of Savoy in Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of hiji 
 country against the tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during the first 
 half of the Seventeenth Century, — This noble Sonnet is worthy to stand neai 
 Milton's on the Vaudois massacre. 
 
 Page 215, No. CCX. Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon 
 in 1800: Venice in 1797 (CCXI.). 
 
 Page 218, No. CCXV. This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Aus' 
 trians under Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest neat 
 Munich. Hohen Emdcn means High Limetrees. 
 
 Page 221, No. CCXVIII. After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J, 
 Moore retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst cover- 
 ing the embarcation of his troops. His tomb, built by Ney, bears this inscrip- 
 tion — -'John Moore, leader of the English armies, slain in battle, 1809.' 
 
 Page 233, No. CCXXIX. The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare 
 Ben Jonson, and other choice spirits of that age. 
 
 Page 234, No. CCXXX, Maisie : Mary. — Scott has given us nothing more 
 complete and lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramati< 
 power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less 
 any conscious analysis of feeling attempted : — the pathetic meaning is left to b« 
 suggested by the mere presentment of the situation. A narrow criticism has 
 often named this, which may be called the Homeric manner, superficial, fronc 
 its apparent simple facility; but first rate excellence in it (as shown here, irr 
 CXCVI., CLVI., and CXXIX.) is in truth one of the least common triumphs of 
 Poetry. — This stvle should be compared with what is not less perfect in its way, 
 the searching out of inner feeling, the expression of hidden meanings, the reve* 
 
NOTES. 343 
 
 lation of the heart of Nature and of the Soul within the Soul, — the analytical 
 method, in short, — most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shel- 
 ley. 
 
 Page 240, No. CCXXXIV. correi : covert on a hillside. Cumber : trouble. 
 
 Page 253, CCXLIII. This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an 
 exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank amongst the 
 many masterpieces of its illustrious Author. 
 
 Page 262, No. CCLII. interlunar swoon : interval of the Moon's invisibility. 
 
 Page 268, No. CCLVI. Calpe : Gibraltar. Lofode^i : the Maelsti-om whirlpool 
 off the N.W. coast of Norway. 
 
 Page 269, No. CCLVII. This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by 
 Hamilton on the subject better treated in CXXVII. and CXXVIII. 
 
 Page 282, No CCLXVIII. Arcturi : seemingly used for northern stars. — And 
 wild roses, &>€. Our language has no line modulated with more subtle^sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 Page 285, No. CCLXX. Ceres' daughter : Proserpine. God of Torment : Pluto. 
 
 Page 286, No. CCLXXI. This impassioned address expresses Shelley's most 
 rapt imaginations, and is the direct modern representative of the feeling which 
 led the Greeks to the worship of Nature. 
 
 Page 295, No. CCLXXIV. The leading idea of this beautiful description of a 
 day's landscape in Italy appears to be, — On the voyage of life are many mo- 
 ments of pleasure, given by the sight of Nature, who has power to heal even the 
 worldliness and the uncharity of man. 
 
 Page 296, No. CCLXXIV., line 36. Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean. 
 
 Page 301, No. CCLXXV., line 7. Maenad : a frenzied Nymph, attendant on 
 Dionysos in the Greek mythology. Line 25. Plants under water sympathize 
 with the seasons of the land, and hence with the winds which affect them. 
 
 Page 302, No. CCLXXVI. Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of 
 Wordsworth's brother John. This poem should be compared with Shelley's 
 following it. Each is the most complete expression of the innermost spirit oi 
 his art given by these great Poets : — of that Idea which, as in the case of the 
 true Painter, (to quote the words of Reynolds,) ' subsists only in the mind : 
 The sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it : it is an idea residing 
 in the breast of the artist, which he is always labouring to impart, and which he 
 dies at last without imparting.' 
 
 Page 304, No. CCLXXVI. the Kind : the human race. 
 
 Page 305, No. CCLXXVIII. Proteus represented the everlasting changes, united 
 with ever- recurrent sameness, of the Sea. 
 
 Page 305, No. CCLXXIX., the royal Saint : Henry VI. 
 
 Page 313, No. CCLXXXVII. The single absolutely first-rate Ode (among Odes 
 on the great scale) known to the Editor (for Shelley's Adonais is an Elegy), pro- 
 duced in this century: — and, like Adonais, the poet's greatest achievement. 
 
 Page 320, No. CCXC, line i. prease : press. Sidney's poetry is singularly 
 unequal; his short life, his frequent absorption in public employment, hindered 
 doubtless the development of his genius. His great contemporary fame, second 
 only, it appears, to Spenser's, has been hence obscured. At times he is heavy 
 and even prosaic; his simplicity is rude and bare; his verse unmelodious. 
 These, however, are the 'defects of his merits.' In a certain depth and chiv- 
 alry of feeling, — in the rare and noble quality of disinterestedness (to put it in 
 
344 NOTES. 
 
 one word), — he has no superior, hardly perhaps an equal, amongst our Poets; 
 and after or beside Shakespeare's Sonnets, his Astrophel and Stella, in the 
 Editor's judgment, offers the most intense and powerful picture of the passion 
 of love in the whole range of our poetry. 
 
 Page 320, No. CCXCI. From W.J. Linton's 'Rare Poems' (1883): a selec- 
 tion containing many pieces which deserve the epithet for their beauty not less 
 than for their unfamiliarity. This gracious lyric appeared in one of the Eliza- 
 bethan song-books. 
 
 Page 320, No. CCXCII. With better taste, and less diffuseness, Quarles might 
 (one would think) have retained more of that high place which he held in 
 popular estimate among his contemporaries. • 
 
 Page 321, No. CCXCIII. A masterpiece of humour, grace, and gentle feeling, 
 all, with Herrick's unfailing art, kept precisely within the peculiar key which he 
 chose, — or Nature for him, — in his Pastorals. Line 18. the god unshorn: Im- 
 berbis Apollo. 
 
 Page 322, No. CCXCIII., line 12. heads : prayers. 
 
 Page 323, No. CCXCIV. : see note on LXXV. 
 
 Page 322, No. CCXCV. This magnificent song occurs in the long poem which 
 Smart is reported to have written whilst confined as a madman. 
 
 Page 324, No. CCXCVI. Burns himself, despite two attempts, failed to improve 
 this little absolute masterpiece of music, tenderness, and simplicity: — this 'Ro- 
 mance of a life ' in eight lines. It has a rival in quality in CCXCIX. 
 
 Page 324, No. CCXCVII. Written in 1773, towards the beginning of Cowper's 
 second attack of melancholy madness — a time when he altogether gave up 
 prayer, saying, ' For him to implore mercy would only anger God the more.' 
 Yet, had he given it up when sane, it would have been ' major insania. ' 
 
 Page 325, No. CCXCVIII. Cowper's last original poem, founded upon a story 
 told in Anson's ' Voyages.' It was written March, 1799; he died April, 1800. 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS, 
 
 WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH. 
 
 Alexander, William (1580 — 1640) xxii. 
 
 Anon: — IX, xvii, xl, lxxx, lxxxvi, xci, xciv, xcvii, cvi, cvh, cviii 
 CXXVIII, ccxci, ccxcvi. 
 
 Bacon, Francis (1561 — 1626) lvii. 
 
 Barbauld, Anna Laetitia (1743 — 1825) CLXV. 
 
 Barnefield, Richard (i6th Century) XXXIV. 
 
 Beaumont, Francis (1586 — 1616) lxvii. 
 
 Blake, William (1757 — 1827) ccxcix. 
 
 Burns, Robert (1759— 1796) cxxv, cxxxii, cxxxix, cxliv, cxlviii, cxlix 
 
 CL, CLI, CLIII, CLV, CLVI. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon Noel (1788 — 1824) CLXix, CLXXI, CLXXiii, cxc, ecu, 
 
 CCIX, CCXXII, CCXXXII. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas (1777 — 1844) clxxxi, clxxxiii, clxxxvh, cxcvii, ccvi. 
 
 CCVII, CCXV, CCLVI, CCLXII, CCLXVII, CCLXXXIII. 
 
 Carew, Thomas (1589 — 1639) Lxxxvil. 
 
 Carey, Henry ( 1743) cxxxi. 
 
 Gibber, Colley (1671 — 1757) cxix, 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley (1796 — 1849) clxxv. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772 — 1834) CLXViii, CCLXXX. 
 
 Collins, WiUiam (1720 — 1756) cxxiv, cxli, cxlvl 
 
 Collins, (i8th Century) CLXiv. 
 
 Constable, Henry (156- ? — 1604 ?) xv. 
 Cowley, Abraham (1618— 1667) cii. 
 
 COWPER, William (173I— 1800) CXXIX, CXXXIV, CXLIII, CLX, CLXI, CLXII 
 
 ccxcvii, ccxcvni. 
 Crashaw, Richard (1615 ? — 1652) LXXIX. 
 Cunningham, Allan (1784— 1842) ccv. 
 
 Daniel, Samuel (1562 — 1619) xxxv. 
 
 Dekker, Thomas ( 1638 ?) LIV. 
 
 Drayton, Michael (1563— 1631) xxxvii. 
 
 Drummond, William (1585 — 1649) ii> XXXVIII, XLIII, LV, LVIII, LIX, LXI. 
 
 Dryden, John (1631 — 1700) Lxiii, cxvi. 
 
 Elliott, Jane (i8th Century) cxxvi. 
 
 Fletcher, John (1576— 1625) civ. 
 
346 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 Gay, John (1688 — 1732) cxxx. 
 Goldsmith, Oliver (1728 — 1774) cxxxviii. 
 
 Graham, (1735 — 1797) cxxxiii. 
 
 Gray, Thomas (1716 — 1771) cxvn, cxx, cxxni, cxl, cxlii, cxlvii, clviii, 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Herbert, George (1593 — 1632) lxxiv. 
 
 HERRICK, Robert (159I — 1674?) LXXXn, LXXXVIII, XCII, XCIII, xcvi, cix, 
 
 ex, ccxcni, 
 
 Heywood, Thomas ( 1649?) LH. 
 
 Hood, Thomas (1798 — 1845) CCXXIV, CCXXXI, CCXXXV. 
 
 JoNSON, Ben (1574— 1637) Lxxni, Lxxvin, xc. 
 
 Keats, John (1795 — 1821) clxvi, clxvh, cxci, cxciii, cxcvki, cxcix, 
 
 CCXXIX, CCXLIV, CCLV, CCLXX, CCLXXXIV. 
 
 Lamb, Charles (1775—1835) ccxx, ccxxxiii, ccxxxvil. 
 
 Lindsay, Anne (1750 — 1825) clii. 
 
 Lodge, Thomas (1556 — 1625) xvi. 
 
 Logan, John (1748 — 1788) cxxvii. 
 
 Lovelace, Richard (1618 — 1658) Lxxxiii, xcix, C. 
 
 Lylye, John (1554 — 1600) LI. 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher (1562 — 1593) v. 
 
 Marvell, Andrew (1620 — 1678) LXV, CXI, CXIV. 
 
 MrcKLE, William Juhus (1734 — 1788) CLiv. 
 
 Milton, John (1608 — 1674) lxii, lxiv, lxvi, lxx, lxxi, lxxvi, lxxvii, 
 
 LXXXV, CXII, CXIII, cxv. 
 Moore, Thomas (1780— 1852) clxxxv, cci, ccxvii, ccxxi, ccxxv. 
 
 Nairn, Carolina (1766 — 1845) clvii. 
 Nash, Thomas (1567 — 1601 ?) i. 
 
 Philips, Ambrose (1671 — 1749) cxxi. 
 Pope, Alexander (1688 — 1744) cxviii. 
 Prior, Matthew (1664— 1721) cxxxvii. 
 
 Quarles, Francis (1592 — 1644) CCXCIV. 
 
 Rogers, Samuel (1762— 1&55) cxxxv, CXLV. 
 
 Scott, Walter (1771 — 1832) cv, clxx, clxxxit, clxxxvi, cxcii, cxciv, 
 
 CXCVI, CCIV, CCXXX, CCXXXIV, CCXXXVI, ccxxxix, cclxiii. 
 Sedley, Charles (1639 — 1701) Lxxxi, xcviii. 
 
 Sewell, George ( 1726) CLXiii. 
 
 Shakespeare, William (1564 — 1616) iii, iv, vi, vii, viii, x, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, 
 
 XVIII, XIX, XX, XXIII, XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII, XXIX, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXVI 
 XXXIX, XLII, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVIII, XLIX, L, LVI, LX, CCLXXXIX. 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS. 347 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792— 1822) CLXxn, clxxvi, clxxxiv, clxxxviii, 
 
 CXCV, CCIII, CCXXVI, CCXXVII, CCXLI, CCXLVI, CCLII, CCLIX, CCLX, CCLXIV, 
 CCLXV, CCLXVIII, CCLXXI, CCLXXIV, CCLXXV, CCLXXVII, CCLXXXV, 
 
 ccLxxxvin. 
 Shirley, James (1596 — 1666) Lxvni, LXix. 
 Sidney, Philip (1554 — 1586) xxiv, ccxc. 
 Smart, Christopher (1722— 1770) CCXCV. 
 SOUTHEY, Robert (1774— 1843) CCXVI, CCXXVIII. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund (1553 — 1598-9) liii. 
 Suckling, John (1608-9 — 1641) ci, 
 Sylvester, Joshua (1563— 1618) xxv. 
 
 Thomson, James (1700— 1748) cxxii, cxxxv. 
 
 Vaughan, Henry (1621 — 1695) Lxxv, ccxciv, 
 Vere, Edward (1534— 1604) XLI. 
 
 Waller, Edmund (1605 — 1687) Lxxxix, xcv. 
 
 Webster, John ( 1638 ?) XLVii. 
 
 Wither, George (1588 — 1667) cin. 
 
 Wolfe, Charles (1791 — 1823) ccxviii, ccc. 
 
 Wordsworth, William (1770 — 1850) clxxiv, clxxvii, clxxviii, clxxix, 
 
 CLXXX, CLXXXIX, CC, CCVIII, CCX, CCXI, CCXII, CCXIII, CCXIV, CCXIX, CCXXIil, 
 CCXXXVIII, CCXL, CCXLII, CCXLIII, CCXLV, CCXLVII, CCXLVIII, CCXLIX, CCL, 
 CCLI, CCLIII, CCLIV, CCLVII, CCLVIII, CCLXI, CCLXVI, CCLXIX, CCLXXII, 
 CCLXXIII, CCLXXVI, CCLXXVIII, CCLXXIX, CCLXXXI, CCLXXXII, CCLXXXVI, 
 CCLXXXVII, CCCI. 
 
 WOTTON, Henry (1563 — 1639) LXXII, LXXXIV. 
 
 Wyat, Thomas (1503 — 1542) xxi, xxxill. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PA6B 
 
 Abserice, hear thou my protestation i6 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highlands bound i88 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 280 
 
 Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 78 
 
 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 192 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd 131 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights 177 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true 160 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 271 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 205 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus 29 
 
 Ariel to Miranda : — Take 262 
 
 Art thou pale for weariness 280 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers 45 
 
 As it fell upon a day 30 
 
 As I was walking all alane 96 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal 187 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 226 
 
 A sweet disorder in the dress 85 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears 261 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 205 
 
 Avenge, O Lord ! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones 59 
 
 Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake 139 
 
 Awake, awake, my Lyre 90 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid 200 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 209 
 
 A widow bird sate mourning for her Love 280 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 175 
 
 Beauty sat bathing by a spring 2I 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 260 
 
 Being your slave, what should I do but tend 17 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 251 
 
 Best and Brightest, come away 274 ' 
 
 Bid me to live, and I will live 87 
 
 Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy iii 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind 35 
 
 Bright Star ! would I were steadfast as thou art 203 
 
INDEX OF FIRST FINES. 349 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Call for the robin red-breast and the wren 37 
 
 Calm was the day, and through the trembling air 40 
 
 Captain, or Colonel, or Kniglit in arms 70 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night 31 
 
 Come away, come away, Death 36 
 
 Come live with me and be my Love 14 
 
 ComeSLeep: O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace 319 
 
 Come unto these yellow sands 319 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth 14 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 39 
 
 Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench 74 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power 167 
 
 Daughter to that good earl, once President , . 81 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! O the unworthy lord 257 
 
 Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly 19 
 
 Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move 48 
 
 Down in yon garden sweet and gay 129 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes 84 
 
 Duncan Gray cam here to woo 159 
 
 Earl March look'd on his dying child 203 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair 256 
 
 E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks 320 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind 215 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky 248 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam 2B3 
 
 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 98 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree ' . 97 
 
 Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing 28 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 36 
 
 For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove 137 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 23 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year 312 
 
 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony 57 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 269 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies 37 
 
 Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 79 
 
 Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even 193 
 
 Get up, get up for shame ! The blooming morn 321 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 134 
 
 Go, lovely Rose ■ . . . 83 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit 248 
 
 Happy the man, whose wish and care . . . •. 117 
 
 Happy those early days, when I 73 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek o . . 85 
 
350 INDEX OF FiRST LINES. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 He is gone on the mountain 240 
 
 He sang of God, the mighty source 323 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights . 92 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy 100 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys 105 
 
 How delicious is the winning igo 
 
 How happy is he born and taught 71 
 
 How like a winter hath my absence been 17 
 
 How sleep the Brave who sink to rest . , 126 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes . . . 192 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze 98 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey 168 
 
 I arise from dreams of Thee 182 
 
 I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 282 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 185 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions 225 
 
 I have no name 327 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes 287 
 
 I met a traveller from an antique land 256 
 
 I remember, I remember . 228 
 
 I saw Eternity the other nighty 323 
 
 I saw where in the shroud did lurk 243 
 
 I travell'd among unknown men 186 
 
 I wander'd lonely as a cloud 264 
 
 I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile 302 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies , 95 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 150 
 
 If doughty deeds my lady please .... 135 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died .... 327 
 
 If Thou survive my well-contented day .... 38 
 
 If to be absent were to be 89 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond 34 
 
 I'm wearing awa', Jean 163 
 
 In a drear-nighted December 197 
 
 In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining 17: 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan 22a 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 278 
 
 It is not Beauty I demand 81 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 72 
 
 It was a lover and his lass 16 
 
 It was a summer evening 219 
 
 I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking 127 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John , 163 
 
 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son 74 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 24 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art 17, 
 
 
INDEX OF FIRST IINES. 351 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Life of Life f Thy lips enkindle 286 
 
 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore 28 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere 20 
 
 Love not me for comely grace 87 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours 145 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 295 
 
 Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings 17c 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour 217 
 
 Mine be a cot beside tlie hill 149 
 
 Mortality, behold and fear 68 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 283 
 
 Much have I travell'd in tlie realms of gold 175 
 
 Music, when soft voices die 318 
 
 My heart aclies, and a drowsy numbness pains 25 
 
 My days among the Dead are past , 233 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 312 
 
 My love in her attire doth shew lier wit 86 
 
 My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 32 
 
 My thoughts hold mortal strife 35 
 
 My true-love hatli my heart, and I have his 25 
 
 No longer mourn for me when I am dead 38 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 221 
 
 Not, Celia, that I juster am 88 
 
 Now the golden Morn aloft 116 
 
 Now the last day of many days 275 
 
 O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 253 
 
 O Brignall banks are wild and fair 180 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 216 
 
 O happy shades 1 to me unblest ! 324 
 
 O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm 24 
 
 O listen, listen, ladies gay 240 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see 202 
 
 O Mary, at thy window be . . _. = 155 
 
 O me ! what eyes hath love put in my head 33 
 
 O Mistress mine, where are you roaming » . . . . 26 
 
 O my Luve's like a red, red rose 157 
 
 O never say that I was false of heart 18 
 
 O saw ye bonnie Lesley 156 
 
 O say what is that thing call'd Light 118 
 
 O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 238 
 
 O talk not to me of a name great in story 179 
 
 O waly waly up the bank 94 
 
 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 199 
 
 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 300 
 
 O World ! O Life ! O Time 312 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky . , , 323 
 
352 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 133 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 162 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 211 
 
 Of this fair volume which we World do name 47 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 229 
 
 On a day, alack the day 23 
 
 On a Poet's lips I slept 304 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low 218 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 216 
 
 One more Unfortunate „ 235 
 
 One word is too often profaned 207 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd 281 
 
 Over the mountains -j-j 
 
 Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day 39 
 
 Phoebus, arise 11 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 208 
 
 Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth 46 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood 234 
 
 Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair 75 
 
 Rarely, rarely, comest thou 230 
 
 Ruin seize thee, ruthless King 122 
 
 Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness . » 266 
 
 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day 22 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair ^ 91 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways .... 185 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 184 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 183 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 184 
 
 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea 13 
 
 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part 32 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile 136 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone 233 
 
 Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king 11 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee , 278 
 
 Stern Daughter of the voice of God 213 
 
 Surprized by joy — impatient as the wind , . <. 204 
 
 Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 83 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower . . . <, 258 
 
 Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade 136 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave 194 
 
 Take O take those lips away ..,. 7 .-.■.... = .. . 31 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense ..„.., 305 
 
 Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind .,.-,.... 80 
 
 Tell me where is Fancy bred . i ,....,,...,.. . 39 
 
INDEX OF FIRST FINES. 353 
 
 PAGE 
 
 That time of year thou may'st in me behold 27 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 86 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 151 
 
 The forward youth that would appear 59 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 191 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 69 
 
 Tlie last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King 49 
 
 The lovely lass o' Inverness 126 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure 137 
 
 The more we live, more brief appear 311 
 
 The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 147 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear ; 232 
 
 The sun upon the lake is low 279 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past 170 
 
 The World is too much with us ; late and soon , . . . . 304 
 
 The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man 46 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 182 
 
 There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine 227 
 
 There is a garden in her face 85 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 227 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass 328 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream ........ 313 
 
 They that have power to hurt, and will do none .... 29 
 
 This is the month, and this the happy morn 50 
 
 This Life, which seems so fair 46 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower 186 
 
 Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream 127 
 
 Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright 93 
 
 Timely blossom, Infant fair 120 
 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry 48 
 
 Toll for the Brave . . . 130 
 
 To me, fair Friend, you never can be old 19 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won iii 
 
 'Twas on a lofty vase's side 119 
 
 Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea 215 
 
 Under the greenwood tree 15 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying , 305 
 
 Victorious men of earth, no more c . 69 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay . 247 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie 148 
 
 Were I as base as is the lowly plain 25 
 
 We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 309 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 307 
 
 We watch'd her breathing thro' the night 240 
 
 Weep you no more, sad fountains 320 
 
 Whenas in silks my Julia goes c ,.,..... . 86 
 
354 INDEX OF FIRST II NFS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 When Britain first at Heaven's command 121 
 
 When first the fiery-mantled Sun 267 
 
 When God at first made Man 
 
 72 
 
 When he who adores thee has left but the name 221 
 
 When icicles hang by the wall 26 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent ' 70 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 217 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 204 
 
 When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 13 
 
 When I think on the happy days 324 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes . 18 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time 22 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to foKy 138 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 88 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 239 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young 142 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate , 288 
 
 When the lamp is shatter'd 201 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame 158 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 27 
 
 When we two parted > . 196 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son , , 244 
 
 Where shall the lover rest 197 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I , . . 319 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 109 
 
 While that the sun with his beams hot 33 
 
 Whoe'er she be 75 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant ', . . 195 
 
 Why, Damon, with the forward day 172 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover 90 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie 189 
 
 With little here to do or see 265 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 138 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon I57 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 164 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 21G 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye . 257 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 63 
 
 Vou meaner beauties of the night c • • 80 
 
 741 
 
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