THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 * at 
 >*V j-y v* 


 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM 
 
 A COLLECTION OF SOME OF THE BEST 
 SPECIMENS 
 
 VERS DE SOCIETE AND VERS D'OCCASION 
 
 IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 
 BY DECEASED AUTHORS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER 
 
 " Jay tevlement faict icy un ai#as drjlfurs, ffy nyantfovrny du 
 mien yue U filet it let lier." MICHSL DK MONTAIGN. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 
 
 1884
 
 STACK ANNEX 
 
 IH5 
 
 
 " THESE pieces commonly go under the title of poetical 
 amusements; but these amusements have sometimes gained 
 as much reputation to their authors, as works of a more 
 serious nature. 
 
 " It is surprising how much the mind is entertained and 
 enlivened by these little poetical compositions, as they turn 
 upon subjects of gallantry, satire, tenderness, politeness, and 
 everything, in short, that concerns life, and the affairs of the 
 
 world." 
 
 PLINY TO Tuscus.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE VERY REVEREND THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 DEAR MR. DEAN: 
 
 You have given me great pleasure in allowing me to 
 dedicate this little work to yourself. I hesitated to ask the 
 favor, because the book might seem to be of too trifling 
 a character, to be connected with so venerable a name ; 
 but then I remembered your universal appreciation of every 
 branch of our literature, and also the kindly interest which 
 you took in the scheme when I first mentioned it to you. 
 
 I trust that the principle of my selection will meet your 
 approval. I feel sure you will make allowance for many 
 shortcomings, and will charitably believe that the Editor 
 tried to do his best. 
 
 I am, 
 
 Dear Mr. Dean, 
 Yours very faithfully, 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 So many collections of favorite poetical pieces 
 have appeared of late years, appealing to nearly 
 every variety of taste, that some apology may seem 
 due to the public for adding another volume to the 
 number already in existence. 
 
 But although there have been sentimental, hu- 
 morous, lyrical, descriptive, and devotional col- 
 lections, there is another kind of poetry which was 
 more in vogue in the reign of Queen Anne, and 
 indeed in Ante-Reform-Bill times, than it is at the 
 present day ; a species of poetry which, in its more 
 restricted form, bears somewhat the same relation 
 to the poetry of lofty imagination and deep feeling, 
 that the Dresden China Shepherds and Shepherd- 
 esses of the last century do to the sculpture of 
 Donatello and Michael Angelo ; namely, smoothly 
 written vers de socitte, where a boudoir decorum is, 
 or ought always to be, preserved ; where senti- 
 ment never surges into passion, and where humor 
 never overflows into boisterous merriment. The 
 Editor is not aware that a collection of this peculiar 
 species of exquisitely rounded and polished verse,
 
 v i PREFACE. 
 
 which, for want of a better title, he has called 
 Lyra Elegantiarum, has ever yet been offered to 
 the public. 
 
 Hitherto this kind of poetry has remained diffi- 
 cult of access to the majority of ordinary readers, 
 because its most finished specimens have often lain 
 scattered among masses of verse, more ambitious 
 in aim, but frequently far less worthy of preserva- 
 tion. It seems only reasonable, then, that those 
 people who delight in this lighter kind of verse 
 should be enabled to study their favorite pieces in 
 a single volume. 
 
 In commencing his task the Editor's first endea- 
 vor was to frame a correct definition of vers de 
 societe and vers d '0Kasi0n,\viih sufficient clearness to 
 guide him in making his selection, and he has been 
 desirous of giving them their broadest signification. 
 His second endeavor was to choose those pieces 
 which most completely reached this ideal standard. 
 But it will be easily understood that no exact line 
 of demarcation can in all cases be maintained, and 
 that such verse frequently approximates closely to 
 other kindred species of poetry, such as the song, 
 the parody, the epigram, and even the riddle. 
 
 Lest any reader who may not be familiar with 
 this description of poetry should be misled by the 
 adoption of the French title, which the absence of 
 any precise English equivalent renders necessary, 
 it may be as well to observe, that vers de societe 
 need by no means be confined to topics of artificial
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 life. Subjects of the most exalted, and of the 
 most trivial character, may be treated with equal 
 success, provided the manner of their treatment is 
 in accordance with the following characteristics, 
 which the Editor ventures to submit as expressive 
 of his own ideas on this subject. In his judgment 
 genuine vers de societe and vers d* occasion should be 
 short, elegant, refined, and fanciful, not seldom 
 distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often 
 playful. The tone should not be pitched high ; it 
 should be idiomatic, and rather in the conversa- 
 tional key ; the rhythm should be crisp and spark- 
 ling, and the rhyme frequent and never forced, 
 while the entire poem should be marked by taste- 
 ful moderation, high finish, and completeness ; for, 
 however trival the subject-matter may be, indeed 
 rather in proportion to its triviality, subordination 
 to the rules of composition and perfection of ex- 
 ecution should be strictly enforced. The defini- 
 tion may be further illustrated by a few examples 
 of pieces which, from the absence of some of the 
 foregoing qualities, or from the excess of others, 
 cannot be properly classed as vers de societe, though 
 they may bear a certain generic resemblance to 
 that species of poetry. The ballad of "John 
 Gilpin," for instance is too broadly and simply 
 humorous ; Swift's " Lines on the Death of Marl- 
 borough," and Byron's " Windsor Poetics," are too 
 savage and truculent ; Cowper's " My Mary " is 
 far too pathetic ; Herrick's lyrics to " Blossoms "
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 and " Daffodils " are too elevated ; " Sally in our 
 Alley " is too homely, and too entirely simple and 
 natural ; while the " Rape of the Lock," which 
 would otherwise be one of the finest specimens of 
 vers de societe in any language, must be excluded on 
 account of its length, which renders it much too 
 important. 
 
 Every piece which has been selected for this 
 volume cannot be expected to exhibit all the char- 
 acteristics above enumerated, but the two quali- 
 ties of brevity and buoyancy are absolutely essen- 
 tial. The poem may be tinctured with a well-bred 
 philosophy, it may be gay and gallant, it may be 
 playfully malicious or tenderly ironical, it may dis- 
 play lively banter, and it may be sarcastically face- 
 tious ; it may even, considering it merely as a work 
 of art, be pagan in its philosophy, or trifling in its 
 tone^ but it must never be ponderous or common- 
 place. 
 
 Having thus fixed upon a definition, the Editor 
 proceeded to put it to a practical use, by submit- 
 ting it as a touchstone to the various pieces which 
 came under his notice. In the first place it is 
 scarcely necessary to say that all poetry of a strictly 
 religious character, on account of the singleness 
 and earnestness of its tone, is inadmissible in a 
 collection where jest and earnest are inextricably 
 intermingled. All pieces of quasi fashionable jingle 
 have been excluded, because they are usually pre- 
 tentious and vulgar. Some of our best writers of
 
 PREFA CE. i x 
 
 vers de sorietf: are not merely tinged with coarseness, 
 they seem to revel in it, and often show much ra- 
 ciness in their revelry, but they are hardly ever 
 vulgar. Vulgarity appears to be a rock on which 
 so many would-be writers of this species of verse 
 have suffered, and will continue to suffer, ship- 
 wreck. 
 
 Fables, prologues, rhymed anecdotes, and pieces 
 of purely ephemeral interest, such as satirical or po- 
 litical squibs, have been generally avoided, as well 
 as those specimens which expand into real song or 
 crystallize into mere epigram, though in these 
 cases, as already observed, the border line is often 
 extremely difficult of definition. Riddles, para- 
 doxes, and punning couplets are for the most part 
 omitted ; not as some readers may suppose, be- 
 cause they are contemptible, for nothing is con- 
 temptible that is really good of its kind ; but be- 
 cause they do not, strictly speaking, come within 
 the scope of this work. The few which are insert- 
 ed possesses a breadth of feeling, or a delicacy of 
 treatment, which elevate them beyond the range 
 of mere epigram, riddle, and parody. 
 
 Some epitaphs have been admitted, their epi- 
 grammatic character rendering them more elegant 
 and ingenious than solemn or affecting ; and a few 
 pieces of gracefully turned nonsense will be found 
 towards the end of the volume, of which " The 
 Broken Dish " may be cited as a fair specimen. 
 Mr. Hood was very happy in this kind of compo-
 
 x PREFACE. 
 
 sition, where a conceit is built up on some pointed 
 absurdity. 
 
 The chief merit of vers de societe is, that it should 
 seem to be entirely spontaneous ; when the reader 
 says to himself, " I could have written that, and 
 easily, too," he pays the poet the highest possible 
 compliment. At the same time it is right to ob- 
 serve, that this absence of effort, as recognized in 
 most works of real excellence, is only apparent ; 
 the writing of vers de societe is a difficult accom- 
 plishment, and no one has fully succeeded in it 
 without possessing a certain gift of irony, which is 
 not only a much rarer quality than humor, or even 
 wit, but is altogether less commonly met with than 
 is sometimes imagined. At the same time this 
 description of poetry seems so easy to write that a 
 long catalogue of authors, both famous and ob- 
 scure, have attempted it, but in the great majority 
 of cases with very indifferent success. This fre- 
 quent liability to failure will excite less surprise if 
 it be borne in mind that the possession of the true 
 poetic faculty is not sufficient of itself to guarantee 
 capacity for this inferior branch of the art of ver- 
 sification. The writer of vers de societe, in order to 
 be genuinely successful, must not only be more or 
 less of a poet, but he must also be a man of the 
 world, in the most liberal sense of the expression ; 
 he must have mixed throughout his life with the 
 most refined and cultivated members of his species, 
 not merely as an idle bystander, but as a busy actor
 
 PREFACE. x i 
 
 in the throng. A professed poet, however exalted 
 his faculty, will seldom write the best vers de sodete, 
 just because writing is the business of his life ; for 
 it appears to be an essential characteristic of these 
 brilliant trifles, that they should be thrown off in 
 the leisure moments of men whose lives are de- 
 voted to graver pursuits. Swift was an ardent po- 
 litician ; Prior a zealous ambassador ; Suckling, 
 Praed, and Landor were essentially men of action ; 
 even Cowper was no recluse, but a man of the 
 world, forced by mental suffering into a state of 
 modified seclusion. Indeed, it may be affirmed 
 of most of the authors quoted in this volume and 
 it is curious to see what a large proportion of them 
 are men of a certain social position that they 
 submitted their intellects to the monotonous grind- 
 stone of worldly business, and that their poetical 
 compositions were like the sparks which fly off and 
 prove the generous quality of the metal thus ap- 
 plied ; and it must be remembered, to pursue the 
 simile, that but for the dull grindstone, however 
 finely tempered the metal might be, there would 
 be no sparks at all ; in other words, the writer of 
 vers de sodet'e needs perpetual contact with the 
 world. 
 
 The Editor trusts that he has gathered together 
 nearly all the vers de soticte of real merit in the 
 English language, at the same time he almost 
 hopes that the cultivated reader will find hardly 
 anything altogether unknown to him. The Editor
 
 x ii PREFACE. 
 
 is of opinion that verse of real excellence and 
 buoyancy is seldom long lost sight of; in other 
 words, that an unknown piece of vers de sodete 
 probably does not deserve to become better known. 
 The contents of the volume have been selected 
 and winnowed from an enormous mass of inferior 
 verse of the same kind, the great bulk of which 
 did not appear of sufficient merit to deserve in- 
 sertion. 
 
 Many pieces, however, have been pondered over, 
 and at last discarded with regret. Several indeed 
 have been found, whose rejection was especially 
 tantalizing, because, though otherwise perfect spe- 
 cimens, their aim and execution was just above the 
 range of vers de sodete. Thus, " The Milkmaid's 
 Song," commencing 
 
 " Come live with me, and be my love," 
 
 appears to be too highly poetical for admission 
 into this collection, while the less beautiful, but 
 almost as charming, " Reply," has been admitted, 
 because it is depressed to the requisite level by 
 the tinge of worldly satire which runs through it. 
 Something of the same kind may be said of Wal- 
 ler's " Lines to a Rose," and his " Lines to a 
 Girdle," and on this account only the last will be 
 found here. 
 
 Isaac D'Israeli, in his Miscellanies, has some 
 interesting remarks on vers de sodete, " The pas- 
 sions of the poet," he says, " may form the subjects
 
 PREFACE. x iii 
 
 of his verse. It is in his writings he delineates 
 himself ; he reflects his tastes, his desires, his hu- 
 mors, his amours, and even his defects. In other 
 poems the poet disappears under the feigned char- 
 acter he assumes ; here alone he speaks, here he 
 acts. He makes a confidant of the reader, inte- 
 rests him in his hopes, and his sorrows. We ad- 
 mire the poet, and conclude with esteeming the 
 man. In these effusions the lover may not un- 
 successfully urge his complaints. They may form 
 a compliment for a patron or a congratulation for 
 an artist, a vow of friendship or a hymn of grati- 
 tude ... It must not be supposed that because 
 these productions are concise they have therefore, 
 the more facility ; we must not consider the genius 
 of a poet diminutive because his pieces are so, nor 
 must we call them, as a fine sonnet has been called, 
 a difficult trifle. A circle may be very small, yet 
 it may be as mathematically beautiful and perfect 
 as a larger one. To such compositions we may 
 apply the observation of an ancient critic, that 
 though a little thing gives perfection, yet perfec- 
 tion is not a little thing. 
 
 " The poet to succeed in these hazardous pieces 
 must be alike polished by an intercourse with the 
 world, as with the studies of taste, to whom labor 
 is negligence, refinement a science, and art a 
 nature. Genius will not always be sufficient to 
 impart that grace of amenity which seems pecu- 
 liar to those who are accustomed to elegant
 
 XJV PREFACE. 
 
 society. . . . These productions are more the effu- 
 sions of taste than genius, and it is not sufficient 
 that the poet is inspired by the Muse, he must also 
 suffer his concise page to be polished by the hand 
 of the Graces." 
 
 A reviewer in The Times newspaper has made 
 the following noteworthy remarks on the subject 
 of vers de societe, more especially of a certain kind : 
 " It is the poetry of men who belong to society, 
 who have a keen sympathy with the lightsome tone 
 and airy jesting of fashion ; who are not disturbed 
 by the flippances of small talk, but on the contrary, 
 can see the gracefulness of which it is capable, 
 and who, nevertheless, amid all this froth of society, 
 feel that there are depths in our nature, which even 
 in the gayety of drawing-rooms cannot be forgotten. 
 Theirs is the poetry of bitter-sweet, of sentiment 
 that breaks into humor, and of solemn thought, 
 which, lest it should be too solemn, plunges into 
 laughter ; it is in an especial sense the verse of so- 
 ciety. When society ceases to be simple it be- 
 comes sceptical. Nor are we utterly to condemn 
 this sceptical temper as a sign of corruption. It 
 is assumed in self-defence, and becomes a neces- 
 sity of rapid conversation. When society becomes 
 refined, it begins to dread the exhibition of strong 
 feeling, no matter whether real or simulated. If 
 real, it disturbs the level of conversation and of 
 manners if simulated, so much the worse. In 
 such an atmosphere, emotion takes refuge in jest,
 
 PREFA CE. xv 
 
 and passion hides itself in scepticism of passion : 
 we are not going to wear our hearts upon our 
 sleeves, rather than that we shall pretend to have 
 no heart at all ; and if, perchance, a bit of it should 
 peep out, we shall hide it again as quickly as pos- 
 sible, and laugh at the exposure as a good joke 
 
 In the poets who represent this social mood there 
 is a delicious piquancy, and the way they play at 
 bo-peep with their feelings makes them a class by 
 themselves." 
 
 Suckling and Herrick, Swift and Prior, Cowper, 
 Landor, and Thomas Moore, and Praed and Thack- 
 eray, may be considered the representative men 
 in this branch of literature. 
 
 Unfortunately, the copyright of Mr. Thackeray's 
 poems has become the property of his publishers, 
 and they have declined to allow any extracts from 
 his works to be printed here ; but the Editor has 
 given a list in the table of contents of those pieces 
 of vers de societe by which he thinks Mr. Thackeray 
 will hereafter be honorably remembered. 
 
 Thanks are due to the other proprietors of the 
 respective copyright pieces, for their courtesy and 
 liberality in allowing their insertion. 
 
 This collection has been arranged more or less 
 chronologically, but to give it variety, the works 
 of contemporary writers have been mixed, and 
 where two authors have written on the same sub- 
 ject, though at different epochs, it has been thought 
 interesting to bring them side by side. For this
 
 xvi PREFACE. 
 
 reason the epitaphs, epigrams, political squibs, and 
 convival pieces, etc., have been kept together, and 
 occur at intervals throughout the volume. 
 
 The collection has been restricted to the writ- 
 ings of deceased authors, and as this kind of me- 
 trical composition is little cultivated at the present 
 day, the Editor hopes that his book will not much 
 suffer in consequence, although he regrets that 
 the rule which he has laid down prevents his giv- 
 ing specimens from the writings of Messrs. Brown- 
 ing and Tennyson, of Lord Houghton, of Messrs. 
 C. S. Calverly, George Cayley, Mortimer Collins, 
 and Planche', and of Dr. O. W. Holmes, the Ame- 
 rican poet, and perhaps the best living writer of 
 this species of verse ; and of some others who have 
 written anonymously. 
 
 Much difficulty has been encountered in fixing 
 the correct reading of several of the poems, which 
 varies in different collections ; and wherever the 
 Editor has felt a doubt about the authorship of a 
 poem, he has preferred leaving the question open. 
 
 He has taken great care to make the selection 
 as complete as possible, still he trusts to the indul- 
 gence of his readers for any omissions or errors 
 which it may exhibit. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 To MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. 
 
 MERRY Margaret, 
 
 As Midsummer flower, 
 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of the tower; 
 
 With solace and gladness, 
 
 Much mirth and no madness 
 
 All good and no badness ; 
 
 So joyously, 
 
 So maidenly, 
 
 So womanly, 
 
 Her demeaning, 
 
 In everything, 
 
 Far, far passing, 
 
 That I can indite, 
 
 Or suffice to write 
 
 Of merry Margaret, 
 
 As Midsummer flower, 
 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of the tower ; 
 
 As patient and as still, 
 
 And as full of good will, 
 
 As fair Isiphil, 
 
 Coliander, 
 
 Sweet Pomander, 
 
 Good Cassander; 
 
 Steadfast of thought, 
 
 Well made, well wrought. 
 
 Far may be sought,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Ere you can find 
 
 So courteous, so kind, 
 
 As merry Margaret 
 
 This Midsummer flower, 
 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of the tower. 
 
 John Skelton. 
 
 THE ONE HE WOULD LOVE. 
 
 A FACE that should content me wondrous well 
 Should not be fat, but lovely to behold ; 
 
 Of lively look, all grief for to repel 
 
 With right good grace, so would I that it should 
 
 Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; 
 Her tress also should be of crisped gold. 
 
 With wit, and these, perchance, I might be tried, 
 
 And knit again with knot that should not slide. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 " WHO is it that this dark night 
 Underneath my window plaineth ? " 
 
 It is one who from thy sight 
 Being (ah !) exiled, disdaineth 
 
 Every other vulgar light. 
 
 " Why, alas ! and are you he ? 
 
 Are not yet these fancies changed ? " 
 Dear, when you find change in me, 
 
 Though from me you be estranged, 
 Let my change to ruin be. 
 
 " What if you new beauties see ? 
 
 Will not they stir new affection ? " 
 I will think they pictures be 
 
 (Image-like of saint perfection) 
 Poorly counterfeiting thee.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Peace ! I think that some give ear, 
 Come, no more, lest I get anger." 
 
 Bliss ! I will my bliss forbear, 
 Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; 
 
 But my soul shall harbor there. 
 
 " Well, begone: begone, I say, 
 
 Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you." 
 O ! unjust is Fortune's sway, 
 
 Which can make me thus to leave you, 
 And from louts to run away ! 
 
 Sir Philip Sydney. 
 
 IV. 
 
 LOVE is a sickness full of woes, 
 
 All remedies refusing ; 
 A plant that most with cutting grows, 
 Most barren with best using. 
 
 Why so ? 
 
 More we enjoy it, more it dies, 
 If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Love is a torment of the mind, 
 
 A tempest everlasting ; 
 And Jove hath made it of a kind 
 Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
 
 Why so? 
 
 More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
 If not enjoy d, it sighing cries 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Sarmiel Daniel. 
 
 v. 
 A DITTY. 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his, 
 By just exchange one to the other given: 
 
 I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
 There never was a better bargain driven: 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 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 Philip Sydtuy. 
 
 VL 
 
 MY flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, 
 My rams speed not, all is amiss : 
 Love is dying, Faith's defying, 
 Heart's denying, causer of this. 
 All my merry jigs are quite forgot, 
 All my lady's love is lost, God wot: 
 Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, 
 There a nay is placed without remove. 
 One silly cross wrought all my loss ; 
 
 O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame ! 
 For now I see inconstancy 
 
 More in women than in men remain. 
 
 In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, 
 Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall ; 
 Heart is bleeding, all help needing, 
 (O cruel speeding !) fraughted with gall. 
 My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, 
 My wether's bell rings doleful knell ; 
 My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd, 
 Plays not at all, but seems afraid ; 
 With sighs so deep procures to weep, 
 
 In howling wise, to see my doleful plight 
 How sighs resound through heartless ground, 
 
 Like a thousand vanquish 'd men in bloody fight ! 
 
 Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, 
 Green plants bring not forth ; they die ; 
 Herbs stand weeping, flocks all sleeping, 
 Nymphs back peeping fearfully: 
 Ail our pleasure known to us poor swains, 
 All our merry meetings on the plains, 
 All our evening sport from us is fled, 
 All our Love is lost, for Love is dead.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 5 
 
 Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was 
 For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan ; 
 
 Poor Coridon must live alone; 
 Other help for him I see that there is none. 
 
 William Shakespere. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A RENUNCIATION. 
 
 IF women could be fair, and yet not fond, 
 Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, 
 
 I would not marvel that they make men bond 
 By 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 I 
 
 Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, 
 
 And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? 
 
 Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, 
 To pass the time when nothing else can please, 
 
 And train them to our lure, with subtle oath, 
 Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; 
 
 And then we say when we their fancy try, 
 
 To play with fools, O what a fool was I ! 
 
 Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 HAPPY AS A SHEPHERD. 
 
 AH ! what is love ! It is a pretty thing, 
 As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, 
 
 And sweeter, too ; 
 
 For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, 
 And cares can make the sweetest loves to frown : 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 
 If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 His flocks are folded; he comes home at night 
 As merry as a king in his delight, 
 
 And merrier, too; 
 
 For kings bethink them what the State require, 
 Where shepherds careless carol by the fire; 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
 
 His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat, 
 
 And blither too ; 
 
 For kings have often tremors when they sup, 
 Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup : 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
 As doth the king upon his bed of down, 
 
 More sounder, too ; 
 
 For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, 
 Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill : 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe 
 As doth the king at every tide or syth, 
 
 And blither, too ; 
 
 For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, 
 W r here shepherds laugh, and love upon the land; 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 Robert Greene, 
 
 IX. 
 
 PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. 
 
 IN the merry month of May, 
 In a morn by break of day, 
 With a troop of damsels playing, 
 Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, 
 When anon by a woodside, 
 Where as May was in his pride, 
 I espied, all alone, 
 Phillida and Corydon. 
 
 Much ado there was, God wot ! 
 He would love, and she would not ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 She said, never man was true : 
 
 He says, none was false to you. 
 
 He said, he had loved her long: 
 
 She says, Love should have no wrong. 
 
 Corydon would kiss her then, 
 She says, maids must kiss no men, 
 Till they do for good and all. 
 Then she made the shepherd call 
 All the heavens to witness, truth 
 Never loved a truer youth. 
 
 Thus with many a pretty oath, 
 Yea, and nay, and faith and troth ! 
 Such as silly shepherds use 
 When they will not love abuse ; 
 Love, which had been long deluded, 
 Was with kisses sweet concluded : 
 And Phillida, with garlands gay, 
 Was made the lady of the May. 
 
 Nicholas Breton. 
 
 x. 
 
 SEND back my long-stray'd eyes to me, 
 Which, O 1 too long have dwelt on thee : 
 But if from you they've learnt such ill, 
 
 To sweetly smile, 
 
 And then beguile, 
 Keep the deceivers, keep them still. 
 
 Send home my harmless heart again, 
 Which no unworthy thought could stain ; 
 But if it has been taught by thine 
 
 To forfeit both 
 
 Its word and oath, 
 Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine. 
 
 Yet send me back my heart and eyes, 
 
 For I'll know all thy falsities; 
 
 That I one day may laugh, when thou 
 
 Shalt grieve and mourn 
 
 Of one the scorn, 
 Who proves as false as thou art now. 
 
 John Donne.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 XI. 
 
 WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 
 
 I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, 
 Thine be the grief as is the blame ; 
 Thou art not what thou wast before, 
 What reason I should be the same ? 
 He that can love unloved again, 
 Hath better store of love than brain : 
 God send me love my debts to pay, 
 While unthrifts fool their love away ! 
 
 Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, 
 
 If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
 Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, 
 I might perchance have yet been thine. 
 But thou thy freedom didst recall, 
 That if thou might elsewhere inthrall 
 And then how could I but disdain 
 A captive's captive to remain ? 
 
 When new desires had conquer'd thee, 
 And changed the object of thy will, 
 It had been lethargy in me, 
 
 Not constancy to love thee still. 
 
 Yea, it had been a sin to go 
 
 And prostitute affection so, 
 
 Since we are taught no prayers to say 
 
 To such as must to others pray. 
 
 Yet do thou glory in thy choice, 
 
 Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
 I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice 
 To see him gain what I have lost ; 
 The height of my disdain shall be 
 To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
 To love thee still, but go no more 
 A-begging to a beggar's door. 
 
 Sir Robert Ay ton.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 XII. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 WHEN slumber first unclouds my brain, 
 
 And thought is free, 
 And sense refresh'd renews her reign, 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
 When next in prayer to God above 
 
 I bend my knee, 
 Then when I pray for those I love, 
 
 I pray for thee. 
 
 And when the duties of the day 
 
 Demand of me 
 To rise and journey on life's way, 
 
 I work for thee, 
 
 Or if, perchance, I sing some lay, 
 
 Whate'er it be ; 
 All that the idle verses say, 
 
 They say of thee. 
 
 If of an eye whose liquid light 
 
 Gleams like the sea, 
 They sing, or tresses brown and bright, 
 
 They sing of thee. 
 
 And if a weary mood, or sad, 
 
 Possesses me, 
 One thought can all times make me glad,- 
 
 The thought of thee. 
 
 And when once more upon my bed, 
 
 Full wearily, 
 In sweet repose I lay my head, 
 
 I dream of thee. 
 
 In short, one only wish I have, 
 
 To live for thee ; 
 Or gladly if one pang 'twould save, 
 
 I'd die for thee. 
 
 Unknown.
 
 10 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 SINCE first I saw your face I resolved 
 
 To honor and renown you ; 
 If now I be disdain'd, I wish 
 
 My heart had never known you. 
 What ? I that loved, and you that liked 
 
 Shall we begin to wrangle ? 
 No, no, no, my heart is fast, 
 
 And cannot disentangle 1 
 
 If I admire or praise you too much, 
 
 That fault you may forgive me; 
 Or if my hands had stray'd to touch, 
 
 Then justly might you leave me. 
 I ask'd you leave, you bade me love, 
 
 Is't now a time to chide me ? 
 No, no, no, I'll love you still, 
 
 What fortune e'er betide me. 
 
 The sun, whose beams most glorious are, 
 
 Rejecteth no beholder ; 
 And thy sweet beauty, past compare, 
 
 Made my poor eyes the bolder. 
 Where beauty moves, and wit delights, 
 
 And signs of kindness bind me, 
 There, oh ! there, where'er I go, 
 
 I leave my heart behind me. 
 
 Unknown, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 As at noon Dulcina rested 
 
 In her sweet and shady bower, 
 Came a shepherd, and requested 
 In her lap to sleep an hour. 
 But from her look 
 A wound he took 
 So deep, that for a further boon 
 The nymph he prays, 
 Whereto she says, 
 " Forego me now, come to me soon.'
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But in vain she did conjure him 
 
 To depart her presence so; 
 Having a thousand tongues to allure him, 
 And but one to bid him go : 
 Where lips invite, 
 And eyes delight, 
 
 And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June, 
 Persuade delay; 
 What boots she say, 
 " Forego me now, come to me soon." 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 xv. 
 
 O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ? 
 O stay and hear ! your true love's coming, 
 
 That can sing both high and low; 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 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. 
 
 William Shakspere 
 xvr. 
 
 I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 
 
 And I might have gone near to love thee ; 
 
 Had I not found the slightest prayer 
 That lips could speak had power to move thee : 
 
 But I can let thee now alone, 
 
 As worthy to be loved by none. 
 
 I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find 
 
 Thee such an unthrift of 'thy sweets, 
 Thy favors are but like the wind, 
 
 That kisses everything it meets : 
 And since thou canst with more than one 
 Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
 Arm'd with her briars, how sweet her smell I 
 
 But pluck'd, and strain'd through ruder hands, 
 Her sweets no longer with her dwell ; 
 
 But scent and beauty both are gone, 
 
 And leaves fall from her, one by one. 
 
 Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, 
 When thou hast handled been awhile, 
 
 Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; 
 And I will sigh, while some will smile, 
 
 To see thy love for more than one 
 
 Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 
 
 Sir fiobert Ayton. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A STOLEN Kiss. 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 
 
 Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; 
 And free access unto that sweet lip lies, 
 
 From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. 
 Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal 
 
 From those two melting rubies one poor kiss ; 
 None sees the theft that would the theft reveal, 
 
 Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss ; 
 Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, 
 
 There would be little sign I would do so ; 
 Why then should I this robbery delay ? 
 
 O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! 
 Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, 
 And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 To CELIA. 
 
 DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honoring thee 
 As giving it a hope that there 
 
 It could not wither'd be : 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe 
 
 And sent'st it back to me ; 
 Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 
 
 Not of itself, but thee ! 
 
 Ben jfonson. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 
 AMARYLLIS I did woo, 
 And I courted Phillis too; 
 Daphne for her love I chose, 
 Chloris, for that damask rose 
 In her cheek, I held so dear, 
 Yea, a thousand liked well near ; 
 And in love with all together, 
 Feared the enjoying either : 
 'Cause to be of one possess'd, 
 Barr'd the hope of all the rest. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 xx. 
 
 CHARTS. 
 Her Triumph. 
 
 SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, 
 
 Wherein my lady rideth ! 
 Each that draws is a swan or a dove. 
 
 And well the car Love guideth. 
 As she goes all hearts do duty 
 Unto her beauty ; 
 
 And enamour'd, do wish, as they might 
 But enjoy such a sight, 
 That they still were to run by her side, 
 Through swords, through seas, whither she would 
 
 ride.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
 All that Love's world compriseth ! 
 
 Do but look on her, she is bright 
 As Love's star when it riseth ! 
 
 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 
 
 Than words that soothe her ! 
 
 And from her arch'd brows, such a grace 
 
 Sheds itself through her face, 
 
 As alone there triumphs to the life 
 
 All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
 Before rude hands have touch'd it ? 
 
 Have you mark'd but the fall o' the sno 
 Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 
 
 Have you felt the wool of the beaver? 
 
 Or swan's down ever ? 
 
 Or have smell'd o' the bud of the briar ? 
 
 Or the 'nard in the fire ? 
 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
 
 O so white ? O so soft 1 O so sweet is she ! 
 
 Ben Jonson, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 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. 
 
 Thomas Carew.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 15 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A LOVER of late was I, 
 
 For Cupid would have it so ; 
 (The boy that had never an eye 
 
 As every man doth know. ) 
 I sigh'd, and sobb'd, and cried " alas," 
 For her that laugh' d and call'd me ass. 
 
 Then knew not I what to do, 
 
 When I saw it was in vain 
 A lady so coy to woo, 
 
 Who gave'me the ass so plain ; 
 Yet would I her ass freely be, 
 So she would help, and bear with me. 
 
 An' I were as fair as she, 
 
 Or she were as kind as me, 
 What pair could have made, as we 
 
 So pretty a sympathy : 
 I was as kind as she was fair ; 
 But for all this we could not pair. 
 
 Pair with her that will for me ! 
 
 With her I will never pair 
 That cunningly can be coy, 
 
 For being a'little fair 
 The ass I'll leave to her disdain ; 
 And now I am myself again. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 FAIN would I, Chloris, ere I die, 
 Bequeath you such a legacy, 
 That you might say, when I am gone, 
 None'hath the like : my heart alone 
 Were the best gift I could bestow, 
 But that's already yours, you know : 
 So that till you my heart resign, 
 Or fill with yours the place of mine, 
 And by that grace my store renew, 
 I shall have nought worth giving you
 
 1 6 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Whose breast has all the wealth I have, 
 Save a faint carcass and a grave. 
 But had I as many hearts as hairs, 
 As many loves as love hath fears, 
 As many lives as years have hours, 
 They should be all and only yours. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE WILLOW TREE. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 How now, shepherd, what means that ? 
 Why that willow in thy hat ? 
 Why thy scarfs of red and yellow, 
 Turn'd to branches of green willow ? 
 
 CUDDY. 
 
 They are changed, and so am I ; 
 Sorrows live, but pleasures die: 
 Phi His hath forsaken me, 
 Which makes me wear the willow-tree. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 Phillis ! she that loved thee long ? 
 Is she the lass hath done thee wrong ? 
 She that loved thee long and best, 
 Is her love turn'd to a jest ? 
 
 CUDDY. 
 
 She that long true love profest, 
 She hath robb'd my heart of rest : 
 For she a new love loves, not me ; 
 Which makes me wear the willow-tree. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 Come then, shepherd, let us join, 
 Since thy hap is like to mine : 
 For the maid I thought most true, 
 She hath also bid adieu.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 17 
 
 CUDDY. 
 
 Thy hard hap doth mine appease, 
 Company doth sorrow ease : 
 Yet, Phillis, shall I pine for thee, 
 And still must wear the willow-tree. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 Shepherd, be advised by me, 
 Cast off grief and willow-tree ; 
 For thy griefs bring her content, 
 She is pleased if thou lament. 
 
 CUDDY. 
 
 Herdsman, I'll be ruled by thee, 
 There lie grief and willow-tree ; 
 Henceforth I will do as they, 
 And love a new love every day. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE INQUIRY. 
 
 AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd 
 
 Love and my sighs, thus intertalk'd : 
 
 " Tell me," said I, in deep distress, 
 
 " Where may I find my shepherdess ? " 
 
 " Thou fool,'" said Love, " know'st thou not this, 
 
 In everything that's good, she is ? 
 
 In yonder tulip go and seek, 
 
 There thou may'st find her lip, her cheek ; 
 
 In yon enamell'd pansy by, 
 There thou shalt have her curious eye ; 
 In bloom of peach, in rosy bud, 
 There wave the streamers of her blood ; 
 In brightest lilies that there stand, 
 The emblems of her whiter hand ; 
 In yonder rising hill there smell 
 Such sweets as in her bosom dwell "; 
 " Tis true," said I. And thereupon 
 I went to pluck them one by one, 
 To make of parts an union : 
 But on u sudden all was gone.
 
 IS LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 With that I stopt. Said Love, " these be, 
 Fond man, resemblances of thee ; 
 And as these flowers, thy joy shall die, 
 E'en in the twinkling of an eye ; 
 And all thy hopes of her shall wither. 
 Like these short sweets thus knit together." 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MISTRESS ELIZA 
 WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF AMARILLIS. 
 
 (H.) MY dearest love, since thou wilt go, 
 And leave me here behind thee ; 
 For love or pity, let me know 
 The place where I may find thee. 
 
 (A) In country meadows, pearl'd with dew, 
 
 And set about with lilies ; 
 There, filling maunds with cowslips, you 
 May find your Amarillis. 
 
 (H.) What have the meads to do with thee, 
 
 Or with thy youthful hours ? 
 Live thou at Court, where thou may'st be 
 The queen of men not flowers. 
 
 Let country wenches make 'em fine 
 
 With posies, since 'tis fitter 
 For thee with richest gems to shine, 
 
 And like the stars to glitter. 
 
 (A.) You set too high a rate upon 
 
 A shepherdess so homely. 
 (H.) Believe it, dearest, there's not one 
 
 I* th' Court that's half so comely. 
 
 I prithee stay. (A.) I must away; 
 Let's kiss first, then we'll sever ; 
 (A MHO.) And tho' we bid adieu to-day, 
 We shall not part for ever. 
 
 Robert Herrick.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 ASK me why I send you here 
 
 This firstling of the infant year; 
 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 
 This primrose all bepearl'd with dew ; 
 
 I straight will whisper in your ears, 
 
 The sweets of love are wash'd with tears; 
 
 Ask me why this flower doth show 
 
 So yellow, green, and sickly too; 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak, 
 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ; 
 
 I must tell you, these discover 
 
 What doubts and fears are in a lover. 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. 
 
 " SHEPHERD, what's love ? I pray thee, tell ! " 
 
 It is that fountain, and that well, 
 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; 
 
 It is, perhaps, that passing bell 
 
 That tolls us all to heaven or hell ; 
 
 And this is love, as I heard tell. 
 
 " Yet, what is love ? I pray thee, say ! " 
 It is a work on holiday : 
 It is December match'd with May, 
 When lusty woods, in fresh array, 
 Hear, ten months after, of the play; 
 And this is love, as I hear say. 
 
 " Yet, what is love ? good shepherd, saine ! " 
 
 It is a sunshine mix'd with rain ; 
 
 It is a tooth-ache, or like pain ; 
 
 It is a game where none doth gain, 
 
 The lass saith, No, and would full fain ! 
 
 A.nd this is love, as I hear saine.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray ? " 
 
 It is a " yea," it is a " nay," 
 
 A pretty kind of sporting fray; 
 
 It is a thing will soon away ; 
 
 Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may, 
 
 And this is love, as I hear say. 
 
 " Yet, what is love ? good shepherd, show ! " 
 
 A thing that creeps, it cannot go, 
 
 A prize that passeth to and fro, 
 
 A thing for one, a thing for moe ; 
 
 And he that proves shall find it so ; 
 
 And, shepherd, this is love I trow. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 To His MISTRESS OBJECTING TO His NKITHER TOYING 
 NOR TAKING. 
 
 You say I love not, 'cause I do not play. 
 Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. 
 You blame me, too, because I can't devise 
 Some sport to please those babies in your eyes; 
 By Love's religion, I must here confess it, 
 The most I love, when I the least express it, 
 Some griefs find tongues ; full casks are ever found 
 To give, if any, yet but little sound. 
 Deep waters noiseless are ; and this we know, 
 That chiding streams betray small depth below. 
 So when Love speechless is, she doth express 
 A depth in love, and that depth bottomless. 
 Now since my love is tongueless, know me such, 
 Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 ASK me no more where Jove bestows, 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties, orient deep, 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 2 l 
 
 Ask me no more whither do stray 
 The golden atoms of the day ; 
 For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth haste 
 The nightingale when May is past ; 
 For in your sweet dividing throat 
 She winters and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more where those stars light, 
 That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
 For in your eyes they sit, and there 
 Fixed become, as in their sphere. 
 
 Ask me no more if east or west, 
 The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
 For unto you at last she flies, 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies ! 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 XXXI. 
 
 JULIA'S BED. 
 
 SEE'ST thou that cloud as silver clear, 
 Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere ? 
 Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES. 
 
 WHEN as 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 ; 
 Oh how that glittering taketh me ! 
 
 Robert Herrick.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 XXXIII. 
 
 DELIGHT IN DISORDER. 
 
 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 
 
 Enthralls the crimson stomacher ; 
 
 A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
 
 Ribbons to flow confusedly ; 
 
 A winning wave, deserving note, 
 
 In the tempestuous petticoat ; 
 
 A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
 
 I see a wild civility ; 
 
 Do more bewitch me, than when art 
 
 Is too precise in every part. 
 
 Robert Ilerrick. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 MY Love in her attire doth show 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. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 CHERRY RIPE. 
 
 THERE is a garden in her face 
 
 Where roses and white lilies 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.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Those cherries fairly do enclose 
 
 Of orient pearls a double row, 
 Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
 
 They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow ; 
 Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 
 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand 
 Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 
 
 All that approach with eye or hand 
 These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 THE CARELESS LOVER. 
 
 NEVER believe me if I love, 
 
 Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove, 
 
 And yet in faith I lie, I do, 
 
 And she's extremely handsome too. 
 
 She's fair, she's wondrous fair, 
 But I care not who knows it, 
 Ere I die for love, I fairly will forego it. 
 
 This heat of hope, or cold of fear, 
 My foolish heart could never bear : 
 One sigh imprison'd ruins more 
 Than earthquakes have done heretofore. 
 
 When I am hungry I do eat, 
 And cut no fingers 'stead of meat ; 
 Nor with much gazing on her face, 
 Do e'er rise hungry from the place. 
 
 A gentle round, fill'd to the brink, 
 To this and t'other friend I drink ; 
 And if 'tis named another's health, 
 I never make it hers by stealth. 
 
 Black Fryars to me, and old Whitehall, 
 Is even as much as is the fall 
 Of fountains or a pathless grove, 
 And nourishes as much my love.
 
 24 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I visit, talk, do business, play, 
 And, for a need, laugh out a day ; 
 Who does not thus in Cupid's school, 
 He makes not love, but plays the fool : 
 
 She's fair, she's wondrous fair, 
 But I care not who knows it, 
 Ere I die for love, I fairly will forego it. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 xxxvir. 
 
 WHY so pale and wan. fond lover ? 
 
 Prithee why so pale ? 
 Will, when looking well can't move her, 
 
 Looking ill prevail ? 
 
 Prithee why so pale ? 
 
 Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 
 
 Prithee why so mute ? 
 Will, when speaking well can't win her, 
 
 Saying nothing do't? 
 
 Prithee 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 devil take her 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be pined 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 25 
 
 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 virtue 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 
 
 \Vho without them dare to woo: 
 And unless that mind I see. 
 What care I tho' great she be ? 
 
 Great or good, or kind or fair, 
 
 I will ne'er the more despair ; 
 
 If she love me, this believe, 
 
 I will die ere she shall grieve 
 
 If she slight me when I woo 
 
 I can scorn and let her go 
 
 For if she be not for me, 
 What care I for whom she be ? 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 THE NIGHT PIECE. To JULIA. 
 
 HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
 The shooting stars attend thee ; 
 
 And the elves also, 
 
 Whose little eyes glow, 
 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
 
 26 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 No will-o-the-wisp mis-light thee, 
 Nor snake nor slow worm bite thee 
 
 But on, on thy way, 
 
 Not making a stay, 
 Since ghost there's none to affright the. 
 
 Let not the dark thee cumber ; 
 
 What tho' the moon do slumber, 
 The stars of the night 
 Will lend thee their light, 
 
 Like tapers clear, without number. 
 
 Then Julia, let me woo thee, 
 Thus, thus to come unto thee; 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silv'ry feet, 
 My soul I'll pour unto thee. 
 
 Robert Her rick. 
 
 XL. 
 To THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. 
 
 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 
 
 But being spent, the worse, and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time, 
 And while you may, go marry: 
 
 For having lost but once your prime, 
 You may forever tarry. 
 
 Robert Herrick.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 XLI. 
 
 THE HEADACHE. 
 
 MY head doth ache, 
 O, Sappho ! take 
 
 Thy fillet, 
 And bind the pain ! 
 Or bring some bane 
 
 To kill it. 
 
 But less that part 
 Than my poor heart, 
 
 Now is sick: 
 One kiss from thee 
 Will counsel be, 
 
 And physic. 
 
 Robert fferrtck. 
 
 XLII. 
 THE SIEGE. 
 
 'Tis now, since I sat down before 
 
 That foolish fort, a heart, 
 (Time strangely spent !) a year, and more; 
 
 And still I did my part. 
 
 Made my approaches, from her hand 
 
 Unto her lip did rise ; 
 And did already understand 
 
 The language of her eyes. 
 
 Proceeding on with no less art, 
 
 My tongue was engineer; 
 I thought to undermine the heart 
 
 By whispering in the ear. 
 
 When this did nothing, I brought down 
 
 Great canon-oaths, and shot 
 A thousand thousand to the town, 
 
 And still it yielded not.
 
 2 8 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I then resolved to starve the place, 
 
 . By cutting off all kisses, 
 Praising and gazing on her face, 
 And all such little blisses. 
 
 To draw her out, and from her strength, 
 
 I drew all batteries in : 
 And brought myself to lie at length, 
 As if no siege had been. 
 
 When I had done what man could do, 
 And thought the place my own, 
 
 The enemy lay quiet too, 
 And smiled at all was done. 
 
 I sent to know from whence, and where, 
 
 These hopes, and this relief? 
 A spy informed, Honour was there, 
 
 And did command in chief. 
 
 March, march (quoth I), the word straight give, 
 Let's lose no time, but leave her : 
 
 That giant upon air will live, 
 And hold it out forever. 
 
 To such a place our camp remove 
 
 As will no siege abide ; 
 I hate a fool that starves her love, 
 
 Only to feed her pride. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 A RING PRESENTED TO JULIA. 
 
 JULIA, I bring 
 
 To thee this ring, 
 Made for thy finger fit ; 
 
 To shew by this, 
 
 That our love is, 
 Or should be, like to it. 
 
 Close tho' it be, 
 The joint is free;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 29 
 
 So when love's yoke is on, 
 
 It must not gall, 
 
 Or fret at all 
 With hard oppression. 
 
 But it must play 
 
 Still either way, 
 And be, too, such a yoke 
 
 As not too wide, 
 
 To overslide ; 
 Or be so straight to choke. 
 
 So we, who bear 
 
 This beam, must rear 
 Ourselves to such a height 
 
 As that the stay 
 
 Of either may 
 Create the burthen light. 
 
 And as this round 
 
 Is no where found 
 To flaw, or else to sever; 
 
 So let our love 
 
 As endless prove, 
 And pure as gold forever. 
 
 Robert Herrick, 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 I PR'YTHEE send me back my heart, 
 
 Since I cannot have thine; 
 For if from yours you will not part, 
 
 Why then shouldst thou have mine ? 
 
 Yet now I think on't, let it lie ; 
 ' To find it, were in vain : 
 For thou'st a thief in either eye 
 Would steal it back again. 
 
 Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
 And yet not lodge together ? 
 
 O love ! where is thy sympathy, 
 If thus our breasts you sever ?
 
 30 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But love is such a mystery 
 
 I cannot find it out; 
 For when I think I'm best resolved, 
 
 I then am in most doubt. 
 
 Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 
 
 I will no longer pine; 
 For I'll believe I have her heart, 
 
 As much as she has mine. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 XLV. 
 
 To LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 
 
 TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of your 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 ! 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 XLVI. 
 A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. 
 
 I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been, 
 Where I the rarest things have seen ; 
 
 O things without compare ! 
 Such sights again cannot be found 
 In any place on English ground, 
 
 Be it at wake, or fair. 
 
 At Charing Cross, hard bv the way 
 Where we (thou knowstjdo sell our hay,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 There is a house with stairs ; 
 And there did I see coming down 
 Such folks as are not in our town, 
 
 Forty at least, in pairs. 
 
 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, 
 (His beard no bigger, tho', than mine) 
 
 Walk'd on before the rest ; 
 Our landlord looks like nothing to him: 
 The king, God bless him ! 'twould undo him, 
 
 Should he go still so drest. 
 
 But wot you what ? The youth was going 
 To made an end of all his wooing; 
 
 The parson for him staid : 
 Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
 He did not so much wish all past, 
 
 Perchance, as did the maid. 
 
 The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, 
 For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce : 
 No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
 So round, so soft, so plump as she, 
 
 Nor half so full of juice. 
 
 Her finger was so small, the ring 
 Would not stay on which they did bring; 
 
 It was too wide a peck : 
 And to say truth (for out it must) 
 It look'd like the great collar (just) 
 
 About our young colt's neck. 
 
 Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
 Like little mice, stole in and out, 
 
 As if they fear'd the light : 
 But O ! she dances such a way ! 
 No sun upon an Easter-day 
 
 Is half so fine a sight. 
 
 Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
 No daisy makes comparison ; 
 
 Who sees them is undone ; 
 For streaks of red were mingled there, 
 Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 
 
 The side that's next the sun.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
 Compar'd to that was next her chin, 
 
 Some bee had stung it newly ; 
 But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze, 
 
 Than on the sun in July. 
 
 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
 Thou'd'st swear her teeth her words did break 
 
 That they might passage get ; 
 But she so handled still the matter, 
 They came as good as ours, or bettei, 
 
 And are not spent a whit. 
 
 Passion o' me ! how I run on ! 
 
 There's that that would be thought upon 
 
 I trow, besides the bride : 
 The business of the kitchen's great, 
 For it is fit that men should eat ; 
 
 Nor was it there denied. 
 
 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
 March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band. 
 
 Presented, and away. 
 
 When all the meat was on the table, 
 What man of knife, or teeth, was able 
 
 To stay to be entreated ? 
 And this the very reason was, 
 Before the parson could say grace, 
 
 The company were seated. 
 
 Now hats fly off, and youth carouse ; 
 Healths first go round, and then the house. 
 
 The bride's come thick and thick ; 
 And when 'twas named another's health, 
 Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, 
 
 And who could help it, Dick ? 
 
 O' th' sudden up they rise and dance ; 
 Then sit again, and sigh, and glance ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. -j-j 
 
 Then dance again, and kiss. 
 Thus several ways the time did pass, 
 Till every woman wish'd her place, 
 
 And every man wish'd his. 
 
 By this time all were stol'n aside 
 To counsel and undress the bride ; 
 
 But that he must not know : 
 But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, 
 And did not mean to stay behind 
 
 Above an hour or so. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 XLVII. 
 SONG AFTER A WEDDING. 
 
 THE danger is over, the battle is past, 
 The nymph had her fears, but she ventured at last; 
 She tried the encounter, and when it was done, 
 She smiled at her folly, and own'd she had won. 
 By her eyes we discover the bride has been pleased, 
 Her blushes become her, her passion is eased ; 
 She dissembles her joy, and affects to look down ; 
 If she sighs, 'tis for sorrow 'tis ended so soon. 
 
 Appear all ye virgins, both aged and young, 
 All you, who have carried that burthen too long, 
 Who have lost precious time, and you who are losing, 
 Betray'd by your fears between doubting and choosing ; 
 Draw nearer, and learn what will settle your mind : 
 You'll find yourselves happy when once you are kind. 
 Do but wisely resolve in sweet venture to run, 
 You'll feel the loss little and much to be won. 
 
 Thomas Southern*. 
 
 
 
 XLVII r. 
 
 To MR. THOMAS SOUTHERNE, 
 On his Birthday, 1742. 
 
 RESIGN'D to live, prepared to die, 
 With not one sin. but poetry, 
 This day Tom's fair account has run 
 (Without a blot) to eighty-one.
 
 34 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays 
 
 A table, with a cloth of bays ; 
 
 And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, 
 
 Presents her harp still to his fingers. 
 
 The feast, his towering genius marks 
 
 In yonder wild goose and the larks I 
 
 The mushrooms show his wit was sudden ! 
 
 And for his judgment, lo a pudden ! 
 
 Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, 
 
 And grace, although a bard, devout. 
 
 May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise 
 
 The price of prologues and of plays, 
 
 Be every birthday more a winner, 
 
 Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner ; 
 
 Walk to his grave without reproach, 
 
 And scorn a rascal and a coach 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 LOVE AND DEBT. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 THERE'S one request I make to Him 
 
 Who sits the clouds above : 
 That I were fairly out of debt, 
 
 As I am out of love. 
 
 Then for to dance, to drink, and sing, 
 
 I should be very willing ; 
 I should not owe one lass a kiss, 
 
 Nor any rogue one shilling. 
 
 'Tis only being in love, or debt, 
 
 That robs us of our rest, 
 And he that is quite out of both, 
 
 Of all the world is blest. 
 
 He sees the golden age, wherein 
 All things were free and common : 
 
 He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest 
 And fears nor man nor woman. 
 
 Sir John Suckling.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 35 
 
 L. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. 
 
 IF all the world and love were young, 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
 Then pretty pleasures might me move, 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold 
 When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, 
 And Philomel becometh dumb ; 
 The rest complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall, 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies ; 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
 Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, 
 All these in me no means can move, 
 To come to thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, and love still breed, 
 Had joys no date, and age no need; 
 Then these delights my mind might move, 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 Li. 
 
 OUT upon it, I have loved 
 Three whole days together ; 
 
 And am like to love three more, 
 If it prove fine weather.
 
 36 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Time shall moult away his wings, 
 
 Ere he shall discover. 
 In the whole wide world again 
 
 Such a constant lover. 
 
 But the spite on't is, no praise 
 
 Is due at all to me ; 
 Love with me had made no stays 
 
 Had it any been but she. 
 
 Had it any been but she, 
 
 And that very face, 
 There had been at least, ere this, 
 
 A dozen in her place ! 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 Lil. 
 
 To CHLOE, WHO WISHED HERSELF YOUNG ENOUGH 
 FOR ME. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 CHLOE, why wish you that your years 
 
 Would backwards run, till they meet mine 
 
 That perfect likeness, which endears 
 Things unto things, might us combine ? 
 
 Our ages so in date agree, 
 
 That twins do differ more than we. 
 
 There are two births : the one when light 
 First strikes the new awakened sense ; 
 
 The other, when two souls unite, 
 
 And we must count our life from thence : 
 
 When you loved me, and I loved you, 
 Then both of us were born anew. 
 
 Love then to us did new souls give, 
 
 And in those souls did plant new powers; 
 
 Since when another life we live, 
 
 The breath we breathe is his, not ours ; 
 
 Love makes those young, whom age doth chill, 
 
 And whom he finds young, keeps young still. 
 
 And now since you and I are such, 
 
 Tell me what's yours and what is mine ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, 
 
 Do, like our souls, in one combine ; 
 So by this, I as well may be 
 Too old for you, as you for me. 
 
 William. Cartwright. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 THE MERIT OF INCONSTANCY. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 WHY dost thou say I am forsworn, 
 
 Since thine I vow'd to be ? 
 Lady, it is already morn ; 
 
 It was last night I swore to thee 
 
 That fond impossibility. 
 
 Yet have I loved thee well, and long; 
 A tedious twelve-hours' space ! 
 
 I should all other beauties wrong, 
 And rob thee of a new embrace, 
 Did I still doat upon that face. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 LOVE not me for comely grace, 
 For my pleasing eye or face, 
 Nor for any outward part, 
 No, nor for my constant heart, 
 For these may fail, or turn to ill, 
 
 So thou and I shall sever : 
 Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, 
 And love me still, but know not why 
 So hast thou the same reason still 
 To doat upon me ever ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 LV. 
 
 To LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 IF to be absent were to be 
 Away from thee ; 
 
 37
 
 38 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Or that when I am gone 
 You or I were alone ; 
 Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
 Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. 
 
 Though seas and land betwixt us both, 
 
 Our faith and troth, 
 Like separated souls, 
 All time and space controls : 
 Above the highest sphere we meet 
 Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet. 
 
 So then we do anticipate 
 
 Our after-fate, 
 And are alive i' the skies, 
 If thus our lips and eyes 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 WERT thou yet fairer in thy feature, 
 Which lies not in the power of nature ; 
 Or hadst thou in thine eyes more darts 
 Than ever Cupid shot at hearts ; 
 Yet if they were not thrown at me, 
 I would not cast a thought on thee. 
 
 I'd rather marry a disease, 
 
 Than court the thing I could not please : 
 
 She that would cherish my desires, 
 
 Must meet my flame with equal fires : 
 
 What pleasure is there in a kiss 
 
 To him that doubts the heart's not his ? 
 
 I love thee not because thou'rt fair, 
 
 Softer than down, smoother than air ; 
 
 Nor for the Cupids that do lie 
 
 In either corner of thine eye : 
 
 Would'st thou then know what it might be ? 
 
 Tis I love thee 'cause thou lov'st me. 
 
 Unknown.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 39 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, 
 Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure, 
 Nor for that old morality, 
 Do I love her 'cause she loves me. 
 Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair, 
 Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her. 
 Something there is moves me to love, and I 
 Do know I love, but know not how, nor why. 
 
 Alexander Brome. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 THE PEREMPTORY LOVER. 
 
 'TlS not your beauty nor your wit 
 
 That can my heart obtain, 
 For they could never conquer yet 
 
 Either my breast or brain ; 
 For if you'll not prove kind to me, 
 
 And true as heretofore, 
 Henceforth I'll scorn your slave to be, 
 
 And doat on you no more. 
 
 Think not my fancy to o'ercome 
 
 By proving thus unkind ; 
 No smoothed sigh, nor smiling frown, 
 
 Can satisfy my mind. 
 Pray let Platonics play such pranks, 
 
 Such follies I deride ; 
 For love at least I will have thanks, 
 
 And something else beside ! 
 
 Then open-hearted be with me, 
 
 As I shall be with you, 
 And let our actions be as free 
 
 As virtue will allow. 
 If you'll prove loving, I'll prove kind, 
 
 If true, I'll constant be 
 If Fortune chance to change your mind, 
 I'll turn as soon as ye.
 
 40 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Since our affections, well ye know, 
 
 In equal terms do stand, 
 'Tis in your power to love or no 
 
 Mine's likewise in my hand. 
 Dispense with your austerity, 
 
 Inconstancy abhor, 
 Or, by great Cupid's deity, 
 
 I'll never love you more. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 I PR'YTHEE leave this peevish fashion, 
 Don't desire to be high-prized, 
 
 Love's a princely, noble passion, 
 And doth scorn to be despised. 
 
 Tho' we say you're fair, you know 
 
 We your beauty do bestow, 
 
 For our fancy makes you so. 
 
 Don't be proud 'cause we adore you, 
 
 We do't only for our pleasure ; 
 And those parts in which you glory, 
 We, by fancy, weigh and measure. 
 When for Deities you go, 
 For Angels, or for Queens, pray know 
 'Tis our own fancy makes you so 1 
 
 Don't suppose your majesty 
 
 By tyranny's best signified, 
 And your angelic natures be 
 
 Distinguished only by your pride. 
 Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, 
 And pride makes angels devils below, 
 And your pride may make you so ! 
 
 Alexander Brome. 
 
 LX. 
 
 UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. 
 
 KNOW Celia (since thou art so proud) 
 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown : 
 
 Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd 
 Of common beauties, lived unknown 
 
 Had not my verse exhaled thy name, 
 
 And with it impt the wings of Fame.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 41 
 
 That killing power is none of thine ! 
 
 I gave it to thy voice and eyes : 
 Thy sweets, thy graces 'all are mine : 
 
 Thou art my star shinest in my skies; 
 Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere 
 Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. 
 
 Tempt me with such affrights no more, 
 
 Lest what I made I uncreate ; 
 Let fools thy mystic forms adore, 
 
 I'll know thee in thy mortal state. 
 Wise poets, that wrap Truth in tales, 
 Know her themselves thro' all her veils. 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 To DIANEME. 
 
 SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes 
 Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies ; 
 Nor be you proud, that you can see 
 All hearts your captives, yours yet free : 
 Be you not proud of that rich hair, 
 Which wantons with the love-sick air 
 Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
 Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
 Will last to be a precious stone 
 When all your world of beauty's gone. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 LOVE in her sunny eyes does basking play ; 
 
 Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; 
 Love does on both her lips for ever stray, 
 
 And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : 
 In all her outward parts Love's always seen ; 
 
 But oh ! he never went within. 
 
 Abraham Cowley.
 
 42 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 To CARNATIONS. 
 
 STAY while ye will, or go, 
 
 And leave no scent behind ye : 
 Yet trust me, I shall know 
 
 The place where I may find ye. 
 
 Within my Lucia's cheek, 
 
 (Whose livery ye wear) 
 Play ye at hide or seek, 
 
 I'm sure to find ye there. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 THE PRESENT MOMENT. 
 
 ALL my past life is mine no more, 
 
 The flying hours are gone ; 
 Like transitory dreams given o'er, 
 Whose images are kept in store 
 
 By memory alone. 
 
 The time that is to come, is not ; 
 
 How, then, can it be mine ? 
 The present moment's all my lot, 
 And that, as fast as it is got, 
 Phillis, is only thine. 
 
 Then talk not of inconstancy, 
 
 False hearts, and broken vows ; 
 If I, by miracle, can be 
 This live-long minute true to thee, 
 
 Tis all that heaven allows ! 
 
 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED. 
 
 WHILE on those lovely looks I gaze, 
 
 And see a wretch pursuing, 
 In raptures of a bless'd amaze, 
 
 His pleasing, happy ruin;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 'Tis not for pity that I move ; 
 
 His fate is too aspiring, 
 Whose heart, broke with a load of love, 
 
 Dies, wishing and admiring. 
 
 But if this murder you'd forego, 
 
 Your slave from death removing I 
 Let me your art of charming know, 
 
 Or learn you mine of loving. 
 But, whether life or death betide, 
 
 In love 'tis equal measure ; 
 The victor lives with empty pride, 
 
 The vanquish'd dies with pleasure. 
 
 yohn Wtlmot, Earl of Rochester. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 PHILLIS, men say that all my vows 
 
 Are to thy fortune paid ; 
 Alas ! my heart he little knows, 
 
 Who thinks my love a trade. 
 
 Were I of all these woods the lord, 
 
 One berry from thy hand 
 More real pleasure would afford 
 
 Than all my large command. 
 
 My humble love has learn'd to live 
 
 On what the nicest maid, 
 Without a conscious blush, may give 
 
 Beneath the myrtle shade. 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley. 
 
 LXVI I. 
 
 'Tis not your saying that you love 
 
 Can ease me of my smart ; 
 Your actions must your words approve, 
 
 Or else you break my heart. 
 
 In vain you bid my passions cease, 
 And ease my troubled breast ; 
 
 Your love alone must give me peace- 
 Restore my wonted rest. 
 
 43
 
 44 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But if I fail your heart to move, 
 
 Or 'tis not yours to give, 
 I cannot, will not cease to love, 
 
 But I will cease to live. 
 
 Aphra Behn. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 AH, Chloris ! could I now but sit 
 
 As unconcern'd as when 
 Your infant beauty could beget 
 
 No happiness or pain! 
 When I this dawning did 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 conceal'd in thine. 
 But as your charms insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest, 
 So love as unperceived did fly, 
 
 And center'd in my breast. 
 
 My passion with your beauty grew, 
 
 While Cupid at my heart, 
 Still as his mother favor'd 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 Charles Sedley. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 YE happy swains, whose hearts are free 
 
 From Love's imperial chain, 
 Take warning, and be taught by me, 
 
 T' avoid th' enchanting pain. 
 Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks 
 
 Fierce winds to blossoms prove 
 To careless seamen, hidden rocks 
 
 To human quiet, love.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. ^ 
 
 Then fly the Fair, if bliss you prize ; 
 
 The snake's beneath the flower: 
 Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, 
 
 And tasted quiet more ? 
 How faithless is the lover's joy ! 
 
 How constant is his care ! 
 The kind with falsehood do destroy, 
 
 The cruel with despair. 
 
 Sir George Etherege. 
 LXX. 
 
 To CELIA. 
 
 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 Charles Sedley* 
 LXXT. 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 IT is not, Celia, in your power 
 
 To say how long our love will last; 
 It may be we, within this hour, 
 
 May lose those joys we now do taste: 
 The blessed, who immortal be, 
 From change of love are only free.
 
 46 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then, since we mortal lovers are, 
 Ask not how long our love will last; 
 
 But, while it does, let us take care 
 Each minute be with pleasure past. 
 
 Were it not madness to deny 
 
 To live, because we're sure to die ? 
 
 Fear not, though love and beauty fail, 
 My reason shall my heart direct: 
 
 Your kindness now shall then prevail, 
 And passion turn into respect. 
 
 Celia, at worst, you'll in the end 
 
 But change a lover for a friend. 
 
 Sir George Etherege. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 OF ENGLISH VERSE. 
 
 POETS may boast, as safely vain, 
 Their works shall with the world remain; 
 Both bound together, live or die, 
 The verses and the prophecy. 
 
 But who can hope his line should long 
 Last in a daily changing tongue ? 
 While they are new, envy prevails; 
 And, as that dies, our language fails. 
 
 When architects have done their part, 
 The matter may betray their art : 
 Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, 
 Soon brings a well-built palace down. 
 
 Poets, that lasting marble seek, 
 Must carve in Latin or in Greek : 
 We write in sand : our language grows, 
 And, like the tide, our work o'erflows. 
 
 Chaucer his sense can only boast, 
 The glory of his numbers lost 1 
 Years have defaced his matchless strain, 
 And yet he did not sing in vain ! 
 
 The beauties which adorn'd that age, 
 The shining subjects of his page, 
 Hoping they should immortal prove, 
 Rewarded with success his love.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 This was the generous poet's scope ; 
 And all an English pen can hope ; 
 To make the fair approve his flame, 
 That can so far extend their name. 
 
 Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate. 
 If it arrive but at the date 
 Of fading beauty ; if it prove 
 But as long-lived as present love. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
 THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND DAPHNE 
 APPLIED. 
 
 THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train, 
 Fair Sachanssa loved, but loved in vain : 
 Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy ; 
 Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy ! 
 With numbers he the flying nymph pursues ; 
 With numbers, such as Phcebus' self might use ! 
 Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads, 
 O'er craggy mountains, and thro' flowery meads ; 
 Invoked to testify the lover's care, 
 Or form some image of his cruel fair. 
 Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer, 
 O'er these he fled ; and now approaching near, 
 Had reached the nymph with his harmonious lay, 
 Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. 
 Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain, 
 Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : 
 All, but the nymph who should redress his wrong, 
 Attend his passion, and approve his song, 
 Like Phcebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, 
 He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
 PHYLLIS, for shame ! let us improve, 
 
 A thousand different ways, 
 These few short moments snatch'd by love 
 
 From many tedious days. 
 
 47
 
 4 3 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 If you want courage to despise 
 The censure of the grave, 
 
 Tho' Love's a tyrant in your eyes, 
 Your heart is' but a slave. 
 
 My love is full of noble pride ; 
 
 Nor can it e'er submit 
 To let that fop, Discretion, ride 
 
 In triumph over it. 
 
 False friends I have, as well as you, 
 
 Who daily counsel me 
 Fame and Ambition to pursue, 
 
 And leave off loving thee. 
 
 But when the least regard I show 
 To fools who thus advise, 
 
 May I be dull enough to grow 
 Most miserably wise ! 
 
 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 
 
 To CHLORIS SINGING A SONG OF His 
 COMPOSING. 
 
 CHLORIS ! yourself you so excel, 
 
 When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, 
 That, like a spirit, with this spell 
 
 Of my own teaching, I am caught, 
 
 That eagle's fate and mine are one, 
 
 Which, on the shaft that made him die, 
 
 Espied a feather of his own, 
 
 Wherewith he wont to soar so high. 
 
 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, 
 Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, 
 
 Not for reflection of his face, 
 
 But of his voice, the boy had burn'd. 
 
 Edmund Waller
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 49 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 DORINDO'S sparkling wit and eyes. 
 
 United, cast too fierce a light, 
 Which blazes high, but quickly dies ; 
 
 Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. 
 
 Love is a calmer, gentler joy : 
 
 Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace; 
 
 Her Cupid is a blackguard boy, 
 That runs his link full in your face. 
 
 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 
 
 LXXVI I. 
 
 WRITTEN AT SEA, THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, THE NIGHT 
 BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 To all you ladies now on land, 
 
 We men at sea indite ; 
 But first would have you understand 
 
 How hard it is to write : 
 The muses now, and Neptune too, 
 We must implore to write to you. 
 
 With a fa la, la, la, la. 
 
 For tho' the muses should prove kind, 
 
 And fill our empty brain ; 
 Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 
 
 To wave the azure main, 
 Our paper, pen, and ink, and we 
 Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
 
 Then, if we write not by each post, 
 
 Think not we are unkind ; 
 Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 
 
 By Dutchmen or by wind ; 
 Our tears we'll send a speedier way: 
 The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
 
 The king with wonder and surprise, 
 Will swear the seas grow bold ;
 
 r LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Because the tides will higher rise 
 
 Than e'er they did of old : 
 But let him know it is our tears 
 Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
 
 Should foggy Opdam chance to know 
 
 Our sad and dismal story, 
 The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 
 
 And quit their fort at Goree ; 
 For what resistance can they find 
 From men who've left their hearts behind ? 
 
 Let wind and weather do its worst, 
 
 Be you to us but kind ; 
 Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 
 
 No sorrow we shall find : 
 'Tis then no matter how things go, 
 Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
 
 To pass our tedious hours away, 
 
 We throw a merry main : 
 Or else at serious ombre play ; 
 
 But why should we in vain 
 Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
 We were undone when we left you. 
 
 But now our fears tempestuous grow, 
 
 And cast our hopes away ; 
 Whilst you, regardless of our wo, 
 
 Sit careless at a play : 
 Perhaps permit some happier man 
 
 To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
 
 When any mournful tune you hear, 
 
 That dies in every note,' 
 As if it sigh'd with each man's care 
 
 For being so remote ; 
 Think then how often love we've made 
 To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 
 
 In justice, you cannot refuse 
 
 To think of our distress, 
 When we for hopes of honor lose 
 
 Our certain happiness ; 
 All these designs are but to prove 
 Ourselves more worthy of your love.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. $i 
 
 And now we've told you all our loves, 
 
 And likewise all our fears, 
 In hopes this declaration moves 
 
 Some pity for our tears ; 
 Let's hear of no inconstancy, 
 We have too much of that at sea. 
 With a fa la, la, la, la. 
 
 Charles Sackuille, Earl of Dorset. 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 To ALTHEA, FROM PRISOH. 
 
 WHEN Love with unconfmed wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates, 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair 
 
 And fettered to her eye, 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 \Vhen 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 a hermitage :
 
 5 2 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free, 
 Angels alone, that soar above, 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 LOYALTY CONFINED. 
 
 ( Written when a prisoner in the Tower, during CromwelPi 
 usurpation.) 
 
 BEAT on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow ; 
 
 Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof ; 
 Your incivility doth plainly show 
 
 That innocence is tempest proof ; 
 Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; 
 Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. 
 
 That which the world miscalls a jail, 
 
 A private closet is to me ; 
 Whilst a good conscience is my bail, 
 And innocence my liberty: 
 Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, 
 Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 
 
 Here sin, for want of food, must starve 
 Where tempting objects are not seen; 
 
 And these strong walls do only serve 
 To keep rogues out, not keep me in. 
 
 Malice is now grown charitable, sure : 
 
 I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure. 
 
 And whilst I wish to be retired, 
 
 Into this private room I'm turn'd; 
 As if their wisdom had conspired 
 
 The salamander should be burn'd. 
 Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish, 
 I am condemned to suffer what I wish. 
 
 The cynic hugs his poverty, 
 
 The pelican her wilderness; 
 And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 
 
 Naked on frozen Caucasus. 
 Contentment feels no smart ; stoics, we see, 
 Make torments easy by their apathy.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 53 
 
 I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, 
 
 Like some high-prized margarite ; 
 Or like the great Mogul or Pope, 
 
 I'm cloister'd up from public sight. 
 Retiredness is a part of majesty, 
 And thus, proud Sultan! I am great as thee. 
 
 These manacles upon my arm 
 
 I, as my mistress' favors, wear ; 
 And for to keep my ankles warm, 
 
 I have some iron shackles there. 
 These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 
 Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel, 
 
 So he that struck at Jason's life, 
 
 Thinking to make his purpose sure, 
 By a malicious friendly knife 
 
 Did only wound him to his cure : 
 Malice, we see, wants wit ; for what is meant 
 Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event. 
 
 Altho' I cannot see my king 
 
 Neither in person nor in coin ! 
 Yet contemplation is a thing 
 
 That renders that I have not, mine. 
 My king from me no adamant can part, 
 Whom I do wear engraven in my heart. 
 
 Have you not heard the nightingale, 
 
 A prisoner close kept in a cage, 
 How she doth chaunt her wonted tale, 
 
 In that her narrow hermitage ? 
 Even then her melody doth plainly prove 
 Her bars are trees, her cage a pleasant grove. 
 
 My soul is free as ambient air, 
 
 Which doth my outward parts include ; 
 
 Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 
 T' accompany my solitude. 
 
 What tho' they do with chains my body bind, 
 
 My king alone can captivate my mind. 
 
 I am that bird whom they combine 
 
 Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
 And tho' they may my corpse confine, 
 Yet, maugre that, my soul is free :
 
 54 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing, 
 Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 
 
 Arthur Lord Capel. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 MARTIAL, the things that do attain 
 
 The happy life be these, I find 
 The riches left, not got with pain ; 
 
 The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, 
 
 The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ; 
 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 Without disease, the healthful life ; 
 
 The household of continuance ; 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 
 
 True wisdom join'd with simpleness ; 
 The night discharged of all care, 
 
 Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate ; 
 
 Such sleep as may beguile the night ; 
 Contented with thine own estate, 
 
 Nor wish for death, nor fear his might. 
 
 Earl of Surrey. 
 
 LXXX I. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content: 
 The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 
 
 Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent 
 The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown : 
 
 Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 
 
 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 
 
 The homely house that harbours quiet rest, 
 The cottage that affords no pride or care, 
 
 The mean that 'grees with country music best, 
 The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare. 
 
 Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ; 
 
 A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 
 
 Robert Greene.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 LXXXII. 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 WELL then ; I now do plainly see 
 This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; 
 The very honey of all earthly joy 
 
 Does of all meats the soonest cloy ; 
 
 And they, methinks, deserve my pity, 
 Who for it can endure the stings, 
 The crowd, and buz, and murmurings 
 
 Of this great hive, the city. 
 
 Ah, yet, ere I descend to th* grave, 
 May I a small house and large garden have ! 
 And a few friends, and many books ; both true, 
 
 Both wise, and both delightful too! 
 
 And, since love ne'er will from me flee, 
 A mistress moderately fair, 
 And good as guardian-angels are, 
 
 Only beloved, and loving me ! 
 
 O, fountains ! when in you shall I 
 Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy ? 
 O fields ! O woods ! when, when shall I be made 
 
 The happy tenant of your shade ? 
 
 Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood ; 
 Where all the riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 
 
 Pride and ambition here 
 Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear ; 
 Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter 
 
 And nought but Echo flatter. 
 
 The gods, when they descended, hither 
 From Heaven did always choose their way ; 
 And therefore we may boldly say 
 
 That 'tis the way too thither. 
 
 How happy here should I, 
 And one dear She, live, and embracing die ! 
 She, who is all the world, and can exclude 
 
 In deserts solitude. 
 
 55
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I should have then this only fear 
 Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
 Should hither throng to live like me, 
 
 And so make a city here. 
 
 Abraham Ccnvley. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 THE ANGLER'S WISH. 
 
 I IN these flowery meads would be ; 
 
 These crystal streams should solace me ; 
 
 To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 
 
 I with my angle would rejoice ; 
 
 Sit here, and see the turtle dove 
 Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; 
 
 Or on that bank feel the west wind 
 Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind 
 To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
 And then wash'd off by April showers; 
 
 Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; 
 
 There, see a blackbird feed her young, 
 
 Or, a laverock build her nest : 
 
 Here, give my weary spirits rest, 
 
 And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 
 
 Earth, or what poor mortals love : 
 
 Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise 
 Of princes' courts, I would rejoice. 
 
 Or, with my Bryan and a book, 
 Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 
 There sit with him, and eat my meat, 
 There see the sun both rise and set, 
 There bid good morning to each day, 
 There meditate my time away, 
 
 And angle on : and beg to have 
 
 A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 
 
 Isaak Walton
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 THE CONTENTED MAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
 
 Hours, days, and years slide soft away 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
 
 Together mix'd, sweet recreation 
 And innocence, which most doth 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. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 LXXXV. 
 
 PHILLIS UNWILLING. 
 
 A CHOIR of bright beauties in spring did appear, 
 
 To choose a May-lady to govern the year ; 
 
 All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green, 
 
 The garland was given, and Phillis was queen: 
 
 But Phillis refused it, and sighing did say. 
 
 I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away. 
 
 While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore, 
 The graces are banish'd, and love is no more : 
 The soft god of pleasure, that wann'd our desires, 
 Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires; 
 And vows that himself and his mother will mourn 
 Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Forbear your addresses, and court us no more, 
 For we will perform what the deity swore : 
 But if you dare think of deserving our charms, 
 Away with your sheep-hooks, and take to your arms ; 
 The laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn, 
 When Pan and his son, and fair Syrinx, return. 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 TELL me no more I am deceived, 
 
 That Chloe's false and common; 
 I always knew (at least believed) 
 
 She was a very woman : 
 As such I liked, as such caress'd, 
 She still was constant when possess'd 
 
 She could do more for no man. 
 
 But O ! her thoughts on others ran ; 
 
 And that you think a hard thing ! 
 Perhaps she fancied you the man ; 
 
 And what care I one farthing? 
 You think she's false I'm sure she's kind, 
 I take her face, and you her mind, 
 
 Who has the better bargain ? 
 
 William Congreve. 
 
 FORTUNE. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 FORTUNE, that, with malicious joy, 
 Does man her slave oppress, 
 
 Proud of her office to destroy, 
 Is seldom pleased to bless : 
 
 Still various and unconstant still, 
 But with an inclination to be ill, 
 
 Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, 
 
 And makes a lottery of life. 
 I can enjoy her while she's kind ; 
 But when she dances in the wind,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And shakes her wings and will not stay, 
 I puff the prostitute away : 
 
 The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign'd : 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
 And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm. 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 FAIR Amoret is gone astray, 
 
 Pursue, and seek her, every lover; 
 
 I'll tell the signs by which you may 
 The wandering shepherdess discover. 
 
 Coquet and coy at once her air, 
 
 Both studied, tho' both seem neglected ; 
 
 Careless she is, with artful care, 
 Affecting to seem unaffected. 
 
 With skill her eyes dart every glance, 
 
 Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them -, 
 
 For she'd persuade they wound by chance, 
 Though certain aim and art direct them. 
 
 She likes herself, yet others hates 
 
 For that which in herself she prizes ; 
 
 And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
 She is the thing that she despises. 
 
 William Congreve. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO 
 
 A BAND, a Bob-wig and a Feather, 
 Attack'd a lady's heart together. 
 The Band, in a most learned plea, 
 Made up of deep philosophy, 
 Told her, if she would please to wed 
 A reverend beard, and take, instead 
 
 Of vigorous youth, 
 
 Old solemn truth, 
 With books and morals, into bed, 
 How happy she would be. 
 
 S3
 
 6} LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The Bob, he talked of management, 
 What wondrous blessings heaven sent 
 On care, and pains, and industry : 
 And truly he must be so free 
 To own he thought your airy beaux, 
 With powder'd wigs, and dancii g shoes, 
 Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
 But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 
 
 He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, 
 
 And that to be the dearest wife 
 
 Of one, who labor'd all his life 
 
 To make a mine of gold his own, 
 
 And not spend sixpence when he'd done, 
 
 Was heaven upon earth. 
 
 When these two blades had done, d'ye see, 
 The Feather (as it might be me) 
 Steps out, sir, from behind the screen, 
 With such an air and such a mien 
 " Look you, old gentleman," in short, 
 Hs quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. 
 
 It proved such sunshine weather, 
 That you must know, at the first beck 
 The lady leapt about his neck, 
 
 And off they went together 1 
 
 Sir John Vanbrugh. 
 xc. 
 
 A PAIR WELL MATCHED. 
 
 FAIR Iris I love, and hourly I die, 
 But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye ; 
 She's fickle and false, and there we agree, 
 For I am as false and as fickle as she ; 
 We neither believe what either can say, 
 And neither believing, we neither betray. 
 
 Tis civil to swear, and to say things of course; 
 We mean not the taking for better or worse : 
 When present we love ; and when absent agree; 
 I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me : 
 The legend of Love no couple can find, 
 So easy to part, or so equally joined. 
 
 John Dryden.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 6l 
 
 XCI. 
 
 THE BAG OF THE BEE. 
 
 ABOUT the sweet bag of a bee, 
 
 Two Cupids fell at odds ; 
 And whose the pretty prize should be, 
 
 They vow'd to ask the gods. 
 
 Which Venus hearing, thither came, 
 
 And for their boldness stript them ; 
 And taking thence from each his flame, 
 
 With rods of myrtle whipt them. 
 
 Which done, to still their wanton cries, 
 When quiet grown she'd seen them, 
 She kist, and wiped their dove-like eyes ; 
 And gave the bag between them. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 XCI I. 
 
 CUPID MISTAKEN. 
 
 As after noon, one summer's day, 
 
 Venus stood bathing in a river ; 
 Cupid a-shooting went that way, 
 
 New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver. 
 
 With skill he chose his sharpest dart : 
 With all his might his bow he drew : 
 
 Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 
 The too-well-guided arrow flew. 
 
 I faint ! I die ! the goddess cried : 
 
 cruel, could'st thou find none other 
 To wreck thy spleen on : Parricide ! 
 
 Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. 
 
 Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak ; 
 
 " Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye : 
 Alas ! how easy my mistake ? 
 
 1 took you for your likeness, Chloe." 
 
 Matthew Prior.
 
 62 LYRA ELEGANT1ARUM. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 THE QUESTION TO LISETTA. 
 
 WHAT nymph should I admire or trust, 
 But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just ? 
 What nymph should I desire to see, 
 But her who leaves the plain for me, 
 To whom should I compose the lay, 
 But her who listens when I play ? 
 To whom in song repeat my cares, 
 But her who in my sorrow shares ? 
 For whom should I the garland make, 
 But her who joys the gift to take, 
 And boasts she wears it for my sake ? 
 In love am I not fully blest ? 
 Lisetta, prythee tell the rest. 
 
 LISETTA'S REPLY. 
 
 Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, 
 Deserves to be your only care ; 
 But, when she and you to-day 
 Far into the wood did stray, 
 And I happen'd to pass by; 
 Which way did you cast your eve ? 
 But, when your cares to her you sing, 
 You dare not tell her whence they spring; 
 Does it not more afflict your heart, 
 That in those cares she bears a part ? 
 When you the flowers for Chloe twine, 
 Why do you to her garland join 
 The meanest bud that falls from mine ? 
 Simplest of swains ! the world may see, 
 Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 XCIV. 
 DAMON AND CUPID. 
 
 THE sun was now withdrawn, 
 The shepherds home were sped ; 
 
 The moon wide o'er the lawn 
 Her silver mantle spread ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 63 
 
 When Damon stay'd behind, 
 
 And saunter'd in the grove. 
 " Will ne'er a nymph be kind, 
 
 And give me love for love ? 
 
 " O ! those were golden hours, 
 
 When Love, devoid of cares, 
 In all Arcadia's bowers 
 
 Lodg'd nymphs and swains by pairs ; 
 But now from wood and plain 
 
 Flies every sprightly lass; 
 No joys for me remain, 
 
 In shades, or on the grass." 
 
 The winged boy draws near ; 
 
 And thus the swain reproves : 
 " While Beauty revell'd here, 
 
 My game lay in the groves ; 
 At Court I never fail 
 
 To scatter round my arrows ; 
 Men fall as thick as hail, 
 
 And maidens love like sparrows. 
 
 " Then, swain, if me you need, 
 
 Straight lay your sheep-hook down ; 
 Throw by your oaten reed, 
 
 And haste away to town. 
 So well I'm known at Court, 
 
 None ask where Cupid dwells; 
 But readily resort 
 
 To Bellendens or Lepells." 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 XCV. 
 ANSWER TO CHLOE JEALOUS. 
 
 DEAR Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face ! 
 
 Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd : 
 Prythee quit this caprice ; and, as old Falstaff says, 
 
 Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. 
 
 How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy 
 The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping ? 
 
 Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy : 
 More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping
 
 64 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ, 
 
 Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong : 
 
 You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit ; 
 Ods life 1 must one swear to the truth of a song ? 
 
 What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows 
 The difference there is betwixt nature and art : 
 
 I court others in verse but I love thee in prose ; 
 And they have my whimsies but thou hast my heart 
 
 The God of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun, 
 How after his journeys he sets up his rest : 
 
 If at morning o'er Earth 'tis his fancy to run ; 
 At night he declines on his Thetis' breast. 
 
 So when I am wearied with wandering all day ; 
 
 To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : 
 No matter what beauties I saw in my way : 
 
 They were but my visits, but thou art my home. 
 
 Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war ; 
 
 And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; 
 For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, 
 
 As he was a poet sublimer then me. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 PHYLLIDA, that loved to dream 
 In the grove, or by the stream ; 
 
 Sigh'd on velvet pillow. 
 What, alas ! should fill her head, 
 But a fountain, or a mead, 
 
 Water and a willow ? 
 
 Love in cities never dwells, 
 He delights in rural cells 
 
 Which sweet woodbine covers. 
 What are your assemblies then? 
 There, 'tis true, we see more men ; 
 
 But much fewer lovers. 
 
 O, how changed the prospect grows ! 
 Flock and herds to fops and beaux, 
 Coxcombs without number !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 65 
 
 Moon and stars that shone so bright, 
 To the torch and waxen light, 
 And whole nights at ombre. 
 
 Pleasant as it is to hear 
 Scandal tickling in our ear, 
 
 E'en of our own mothers : 
 In the chit-chat of the day, 
 To us is paid, when we're away, 
 
 What we lent to others. 
 
 Though the favorite Toast I reign ; 
 Wine, they say, that prompts the vain, 
 
 Heightens defamation. 
 Must I live 'twixt spite and fear, 
 Every day grow handsomer, 
 
 And lose my reputation ? 
 
 Thus the fair to sighs gave way, 
 Her empty purse beside her lay. 
 
 Nymph, ah ! cease thy sorrow. 
 Though curst Fortune frown to-night, 
 This odious town can give delight, 
 
 If you win to-morrow. 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 THE FEMALE PHAETON. 
 
 THUS Kitty, beautiful and young, 
 And wild as colt untamed, 
 Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung, 
 With little rage inflamed : 
 
 Inflamed with rage at sad restraint, 
 Which wise mamma ordain'd, 
 
 And sorely vex'd to play the saint, 
 Whilst wit and beauty reign'd. 
 
 " Shall I thumb holy books, confined 
 
 With Abigails, forsaken? 
 Kitty's for other things design'd, 
 
 Or I am much mistaken.
 
 66 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Must Lady Jenny frisk about, 
 And visit with her cousins ? 
 
 At balls must she make all the rout, 
 And bring home hearts by dozens ? 
 
 What has she, better, pray, than I ? 
 
 What hidden charms to boast, 
 That all mankind for her should die, 
 
 Whilst I am scarce a toast ? 
 
 Dearest mamma, for once let me, 
 Unchain'd, my fortune try; 
 I'll have my Earl as well as she, 
 Or know the reason why. 
 
 I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, 
 
 Make all her lovers fall : 
 They'll grieve I was not loosed before ; 
 
 She, I was loosed at all ! " 
 
 Fondness prevail'd mamma gave way : 
 
 Kitty, at heart's desire, 
 Obtain'd the chariot for a day 
 
 And set the world on fire. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 To E. F. 
 
 No doubt thy little bosom beats 
 When sounds a wedding bell ; 
 
 No doubt it pants to taste the sweets 
 That song and stories tell. 
 
 Awhile in shade content to lie, 
 
 Prolong life's morning dream, 
 While others rise at the first fly 
 That glitters on the stream. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 xcix. 
 
 False tho' she be to me and love. 
 
 I'll ne'er pursue revenge ; 
 For still the charmer I approve, 
 
 Tho' I deplore her change.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 67 
 
 In hours of bliss we oft have met, 
 
 They could not always last; 
 And tho' the present I regret, 
 I'm grateful for the past. 
 
 William Congreve. 
 
 c. 
 HER RIGHT NAME. 
 
 As Nancy at her toilet sat, 
 
 Admiring this, and blaming that ; 
 
 " Tell me," she said ; "but tell me true ; 
 
 The nymph who could your heart subdue, 
 
 What sort of charms does she posset ? " 
 
 " Absolve me, Fair One : I'll confess 
 
 With pleasure," I replied. " Her hair, 
 
 In ringlets rather dark than fair, 
 
 Does down her ivory bosom roll, 
 
 And, hiding half, adorns the whole. 
 
 In her high forehead's fair half-round 
 
 Love sits in open triumph crown'd : 
 
 He in the dimple of her chin, 
 
 In private state, by friends is seen. 
 
 Her eyes are neither black, nor gray ; 
 
 Nor fierce, nor feeble is their ray ; 
 
 Their dubious lustre seems to show 
 
 Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. 
 
 Her lips no living bard I weet, 
 
 May say, how red, how round, how sweet : 
 
 Old Homer only could indite 
 
 Their vagrant grace and soft delight : 
 
 They stand recorded in his book, 
 
 When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke " 
 
 The gipsy, turning to her glass, 
 
 Too plainly show'd she knew the face : 
 
 " And which am I most like," she said, 
 
 " Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid ?" 
 
 Matthew Prir. 
 
 CI. 
 
 THE DESPAIRING LOVER. 
 
 AH, the poor shepherd's mournful fate, 
 
 When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish., 
 
 To bear the scornful fair one's hate, 
 Nor dare disclose his anguish.
 
 68 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Yet eager looks and dying sighs, 
 
 My secret soul discover ; 
 While rapture trembling through mine eyes, 
 
 Reveals how much I love her. 
 The tender glance, the reddening cheek 
 
 O'erspread with rising blushes, 
 A thousand various ways they speak, 
 
 A thousand various wishes. 
 
 For O ! that form so heavenly fair, 
 
 Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, 
 That artless blush and modest air, 
 
 So fatally beguiling ! 
 Tho' every look and every grace, 
 
 So charm where'er I view thee ; 
 Till death o'ertake me in the chase, 
 
 Still will my hopes pursue thee : 
 Then when my tedious hours are past, 
 
 Be this last blessing given, 
 Low at thy feet to breathe my last, 
 
 And die in sight of heaven. 
 
 William Hamilton. 
 
 THE GARLAND. 
 
 The pride of every grove I chose, 
 The violet sweet, and lily fair, 
 
 The dappled pink, and blushing rose, 
 To deck my charming Chloe's hair. 
 
 At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place 
 Upon her brow the various wreath ; 
 
 The flowers less blooming than her face, 
 The scent less fragrant than her breath. 
 
 The flowers she wore along the day ; 
 
 And every nymph and shepherd said, 
 That in her hair they looked more gay, 
 
 Than glowing in their native bed. 
 
 Undrest at evening, when she found 
 Their odours lost, their colours past; 
 
 She changed her look, and on the ground 
 Her garland and her eye she cast.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 69 
 
 That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, 
 
 As any muse's tongue could speak ; 
 When from its lid a pearly tear 
 
 Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 
 
 Dissembling what I knew too well, 
 " My love, my life," said I, " explain 
 
 This change of humor : pr'ythee tell : 
 That falling tear what does it mean ? " 
 
 She sigh'd : she smiled : and to the flowers 
 
 Pointing, the lovely moralist said: 
 " See ! friend, in some few fleeting hours, 
 
 See yonder, what a change is made. 
 
 " Ah me, the blooming pride of May, 
 
 And that of Beauty are but one ; 
 At morn both flourish bright and gay, 
 
 Both fade at evening, pale and gone. 
 
 " At morn poor Stella danced and sung ; 
 
 The amorous youth around her bow'd ; 
 At night her fatal knell was rung ; 
 
 I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud. 
 
 " Such as she is, who died to-day ; 
 
 Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow : 
 Go, Damon, bid thy muse display 
 
 The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow." 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 cm. 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 Addressed to Congreve. 
 
 AT length, by so much importunity press'd, 
 Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast. 
 The stupid indifference so often you blame, 
 Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame ; 
 I am not as cold as a virgin in lead, 
 Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head; 
 I know but too well how old Time flies along, 
 That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.
 
 7 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy 
 Long years of repentance for moments of joy. 
 
 ! was there a man but where shall I find 
 Good sense and good nature so equally join'd ? 
 Would value his pleasures, contribute to mine ; 
 Not meanly would boast, and not grossly design ; 
 Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain, 
 
 For I would have the power, but not give the pain. 
 
 No pedant, yet learned ; no rake-helly gay, 
 Or laughing because he has nothing to say ; 
 To all my whole sex obliging and free, 
 Yet never be loving to any but me ; 
 In public preserve the decorum that's just, 
 And show in his eye he is true to his trust; 
 Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow, 
 But not fulsomely forward, or foppishly low. 
 
 But when the long hours of public are past, 
 And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last, 
 May every fond pleasure the moment endear ; 
 Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear ! 
 Forgetting or scorning the aim of the crowd, 
 He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud, 
 Till, lost in the joy, we confess that we live, 
 And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive. 
 
 And that my delight may be solidly fix'd, 
 
 Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd, 
 
 In whose tender bosom my soul may confide, 
 
 Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide. 
 
 For such a dear lover as here I describe, 
 
 No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe ; 
 
 But till this astonishing creature I know, 
 
 As I long have lived chaste, I will keep myself so. 
 
 1 never will share with the wanton coquet, 
 Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit, 
 
 The toasters and songsters may try all their art, 
 
 But never shall enter the pass of my heart. 
 
 I loathe the mere rake, the drest fopling despise: 
 
 Before such pursuers the chaste virgin flies : 
 
 And as Ovid so sweetly in parable told, 
 
 We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold. 
 
 Lady Mary W. Montague.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 THE merchant, to secure his treasure, 
 
 Conveys it in a borrow'd name : 
 Euphelia serves to grace my measure 
 
 But Chloe is my real flame. 
 
 My softest verse, my darling lyre 
 
 Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; 
 When Chloe 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 while I sing Euphelia's praise, 
 
 I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. 
 
 Fair Chloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 
 I sung, and gazed : I play'd and trembled ; 
 
 And Venus to the Loves around 
 Remark'd how ill we all dissembled. 
 
 Matthew Prior, 
 
 cv. 
 
 IN vain you tell your parting lover, 
 You wish fair winds may waft him over, 
 Alas, what winds can happy prove 
 That bear me far from what I love ? 
 Alas, what dangers on the main 
 Can equal those that I sustain, 
 From slighted vows, and cold disdain ? 
 
 Be gentle, and in pity choose 
 
 To wish the wildest tempest loose ; 
 
 That, thrown again upon the coast 
 
 Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost, 
 
 I may once more repeat my pain ; 
 
 Once more in dying notes complain 
 
 Of slighted vows, and cold disdain. 
 
 Matthew Prior.
 
 7 3 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 ON MRS. A. H. AT A CONCERT. 
 
 LOOK where my dear Hamilla smiles, 
 
 Hamilla ! heavenly charmer ; 
 See how with all their arts and smiles 
 
 The Loves and Graces arm her. 
 A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks, 
 
 Fair seats of youthful pleasures ; 
 There love in smiling language speaks, 
 
 There spreads his rosy treasures. 
 
 O, fairest maid, I own thy power, 
 
 I gaze, I sigh, I languish, 
 Yet ever, ever will adore, 
 
 And triumph in my anguish. 
 But ease, O charmer, ease my care, 
 
 And let my torments move thee ; 
 As thou art fairest of the fair, 
 
 So I the dearest love thee. 
 
 William Crawford. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 MRS. FRANCES HARRIS' PETITION. 
 Written in the year 1701. 
 
 To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland. 
 
 The humble petition of Frances Harris, who must 
 
 starve, and die a maid, if it miscarries. 
 Humbly sheweth, 
 
 That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, 
 because I was cold, 
 
 And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and six- 
 pence, besides farthings, in money and gold : 
 
 So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night, 
 
 I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right. 
 
 Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, 
 
 Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very 
 small stock, 
 
 I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock.
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 73 
 
 So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, 
 
 my smock was unript, 
 
 And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt : 
 Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed : 
 And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my 
 
 stupid head ! 
 
 So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light: 
 But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, law ! I thought I 
 
 should have sunk outright 
 " Lawk, madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?" "Indeed," 
 
 says I, " never worse . 
 
 But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse ? 
 " Lawk, help me ! " said Mary, " I never stirr'd out of this 
 
 place : " 
 " Nay," said I, " I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a 
 
 plain case." 
 
 So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm : 
 However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself 
 
 no harm. 
 
 So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, 
 But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. 
 So I was a-dreamed, methought, that I went and search'd 
 
 the folks round, 
 And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's box, tied in a rag the money 
 
 was found, 
 
 So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing : 
 Then my dame Wadger came : and she, you know, is thick 
 
 of hearing : 
 " Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, " do you know 
 
 what a loss I have had ? " 
 
 " Nay," said she, " my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad ; 
 For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail." 
 " Pugh ! " said I, " but that's not the business that I ail." 
 Says Gary, says he, " I've been a servant this five-and- 
 
 twenty years come spring, 
 
 And in all the places Hived I never heard of such a thing." 
 " Yes," says the Steward, " I remember, when I was at my 
 
 Lady Shrewsbury's, 
 
 Such a thing as this happened, just about the time of goose- 
 berries." 
 So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of 
 
 grief, 
 (Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a 
 
 thief,)
 
 74 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about : 
 " Mrs. Dukes," said I, " here's an ugly accident has happen'd 
 
 out: 
 
 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse ; 
 But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 
 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes 
 
 a great hole in my wages : 
 
 Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. 
 Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands, 
 That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without 
 
 hands." 
 " The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), " if ever I 
 
 saw't ! " 
 So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had call'd her all to 
 
 naught. 
 
 So you know, what could I say to her any more ? 
 I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. 
 Well ; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning 
 
 man : 
 "No," said I, "'Tis the same thing, the chaplain will be 
 
 here anon." 
 So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my 
 
 sweetheart, 
 Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his 
 
 part 
 So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I 
 
 blunder'cl, 
 " Parson," said I, " can you cast a nativity when a body's 
 
 plunder'd ? " 
 (Now you must know, he hates to be called parson, like the 
 
 devil.) 
 " Truly," says he, " Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be 
 
 more civil ; 
 
 If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see ; 
 V'ou are no text for my handling ; so take that from me: 
 I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to 
 
 know." 
 " Law ! " said I, " don't be angry, I am sure I never thought 
 
 you so : 
 
 You know I honor the cloth ; I design to be a parson's wife, 
 I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life." 
 With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who 
 
 should say , 
 " Now you may go hang yourself for me ! " and so went away.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 75 
 
 Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, " Law! " said I, 
 
 " what shall I do ? 
 
 I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too ! " 
 Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't 
 
 cry, 
 I'll give 'you something towards your loss ; " and, says my 
 
 Lady, " so will I." 
 "O, but," said I, ''what if, after all, the chaplain won't 
 
 come to ? " 
 
 For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,) I must peti- 
 tion you. 
 The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' 
 
 protection, 
 
 And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection ; 
 And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' 
 
 letter, 
 With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, 
 
 a better : 
 
 And then your poor petitioner both night and day, 
 Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade,) as in duty bound, shall 
 
 ever pray. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 WHEN thy beauty appears 
 In its graces and airs, 
 
 All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky ; 
 At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, 
 
 So strangely you dazzle my eye 1 
 
 But when, without art, 
 
 Your kind thought you impart, 
 
 When your love runs in blushes thro' every vein, 
 When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, 
 
 Then I know you're a womrfn again. 
 
 There's a passion and pride 
 In our sex, she replied, 
 
 And this, might I gratify both, I would do: 
 Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 
 
 But still be a woman to you. 
 
 Thomas Parnell.
 
 7 6 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1718. 
 
 STELLA this day is thirty-four, 
 (We shan't dispute a year or more :) 
 However, Stella, be not troubled ; 
 Altho' thy size and years are doubled 
 Since first I saw thee at sixteen, 
 The brightest virgin on the green ; 
 So little is thy form declined ; 
 Made up so largely in thy mind. 
 
 O, would it please the gods to split 
 Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit ! 
 No age could furnish out a pair 
 Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; 
 With half the lustre of your eyes, 
 With half your wit, your years, and size. 
 And then, before it grew too late, 
 How should I beg of gentle fate 
 (That either nymph might have her swain) 
 To split my worship too in twain. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 ex. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720. 
 
 ALL travellers at first incline 
 Where'er they see the fairest sign ; 
 And, if they find the chamber neat, 
 And like the liquor and the meat, 
 Will call again, and recommend 
 The Angel Inn to every friend. 
 What though the painting grows decay'd, 
 The House will never lose its trade : 
 Nay, tho' the treacherous tapster, Thomas, 
 Hangs a new angel two doors from us, 
 As fine as dauber's hands can make it, 
 In hopes that strangers may mistake it, 
 We think it both a shame and sin 
 To quit the true old Angel Inn.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Now this is Stella's case in fact ; 
 An angel's face, a little crack'd; 
 (Could poets, or could painters fix. 
 How angels iook at thirty-six :) 
 This drew us in at first to find 
 In such a form an angel's mind ; 
 And every virtue now supplies 
 The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. 
 See at her levee crowding swains, 
 Whom Stella freely entertains 
 With breeding, humour, wit, and sense, 
 And puts them but to small expense ; 
 Their mind so plentifully fills, 
 And makes such reasonable bills, 
 So little gets for what she gives, 
 We really wonder how she lives ! 
 And had her stock been less, no doubt 
 She must have long ago run out. 
 
 Then who can think we'll quit the place, 
 When Doll hangs out a newer face; 
 Or stop and light at Chloe's head, 
 With scraps and leavings to be fed ? 
 
 Then, Chloe, still go on to prate 
 Of thirty-six, and thirty-eight ; 
 Pursue your trade of scandal-picking, 
 Your hints, that Stella is no chicken; 
 Your innuendos, when you tell us 
 That Stella loves to talk with fellows : 
 And let me warn you to believe 
 A truth, for which your soul should grieve ; 
 That should you live to see the day 
 When Stella s locks must all be grey, 
 When age must print a furrow'd trace 
 On every feature of her face ; 
 That you, and all your senseless tribe, 
 Could art, or time, or nature bribe 
 To make you look like beauty's queen, 
 And hold'for ever at fifteen ; 
 No bloom of youth can ever blind 
 The cracks and wrinkles of your mind ; 
 All men of sense will pass your door, 
 And crowd to Stella's at fourscore. 
 
 Jonathan Swift, 
 
 77
 
 78 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1724. 
 
 As, when a beauteous nymph decays, 
 
 We say, she's past her dancing days; 
 
 So poets lose their feet by time, 
 
 And can no longer dance in rhyme. 
 
 Your annual bard had rather chose 
 
 To celebrate your birth in prose : 
 
 Yet merry folks, who want by chance 
 
 A pair to make a country dance, 
 
 Call the old housekeeper, and get her 
 
 To fill a place, for want of better : 
 
 While Sheridan is off the hooks, 
 
 And friend Delany at his books, 
 
 That Stella may avoid disgrace, 
 
 Once more the Dean supplies their place. 
 
 Beauty and wit, too sad a truth ! 
 Have always been confined to youth; 
 The god of wit, and beauty's queen, 
 He twenty-one, and she fifteen. 
 No poet ever sweetly sung, 
 Unless he were, like 'Phoebus, young; 
 Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, 
 Unless, like Venus, in her prime. 
 At fifty-six, if this be true, 
 Am I a poet fit for you ? 
 Or, at the age of forty-three, 
 Are you a subject fit for me ? 
 Adieu ! bright wit, and radiant eyes, 
 You must be grave and I be wise. 
 Our fate in vain we would oppose : 
 But I'll be still your friend in prose ; 
 Esteem and friendship to express, 
 Will not require poetic dress : 
 And, if the Muse deny her aid 
 To have them sung, they may be said. 
 
 But, Stella, say, what evil tongue 
 Reports you are no longer young ; 
 That Time sits, with his scythe to mow 
 Where erst sat Cupid with his bow ; 
 That half your locks are turn'd to grey ? 
 I'll ne'er believe a word they say.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. jg 
 
 Tis true, but let it not be known, 
 My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown. 
 For Nature, always in the right, 
 To your decay adapts my sight ; 
 And wrinkles undistinguish'd pass, 
 For I'm ashamed to use a glass ; 
 And till I see them with these eyes, 
 Whoever says you have them, lies. 
 Nu length of time can make you quit 
 Honour and virtue, sense and wit ; 
 Thus you may still be young to me. 
 While I can better hear than see, 
 O ne'er may Fortune show her spite, 
 To make me deaf, and mend my sight. 
 
 Jonathan Swift, 
 CXI I. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, MARCH 13, 1726. 
 
 THIS day, whate'er the Fates decree, 
 Shall still be kept with joy by me: 
 This day then let us not be told 
 That you are sick, and I grown old ; 
 Nor think on our approaching ills, 
 And talk of spectacles and pills; 
 To-morrow will be time enough 
 To hear such mortifying stuff. 
 Yet, since from reason may be brought 
 A better and more pleasing thought, 
 Which can in spite of all decays 
 Support a few remaining days, 
 From not the gravest of divines 
 Accept for once some serious lines. 
 
 Altho' we now can form no more 
 Long schemes of life, as heretofore ; 
 Yet you, while time is running fast, 
 Can look with joy on what is past. 
 
 Were future happiness and pain 
 A mere contrivance of the brain, 
 As atheists argue, to entice 
 And fit their proselytes for vice, 
 (The only comfort they propose, 
 To have companions in their woes)
 
 8o LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Grant this the case ; yet sure 'tis hard 
 That virtue, styled its own reward, 
 And by all sages understood 
 To be the chief of human good, 
 Should acting die, nor leave behind 
 Some lasting pleasure in the mind, 
 Which, by remembrance, will assuage 
 Grief, sickness, poverty, and age ; 
 And strongly shoot a radiant dart 
 To shine thro' life's declining part. 
 Say, Stella, feel you no content, 
 Reflecting on a life well spent? 
 Your skilful hand employ'd to save 
 Despairing wretches from the grave ; 
 And then supporting with your store 
 Those whom you dragg'd from death before : 
 So Providence on mortals waits, 
 Preserving what it first creates : 
 Your generous boldness to defend 
 An innocent and absent friend ; 
 That courage which can make you just 
 To merit humbled in the dust ; 
 The detestation you express 
 For vice in all its glittering dress; 
 That patience under torturing pain, 
 Where stubborn stoics would complain : 
 Must these like empty shadows pass, 
 Or forms reflected from a glass ? 
 Or mere chimaeras in the mind, 
 That fly, and leave no marks behind? 
 Does not the body thrive and grow 
 By food of twenty years ago ? 
 And, had it not been still supplied, 
 It must a thousand times have died. 
 Then who with reason can maintain 
 That no effects of food remain ? 
 And is not virtue in mankind 
 The nutriment that feeds the mind ; 
 Upheld by each good action past, 
 And still continued by the last ? 
 Then, who with reason can pretend 
 That all effects of virtue end ? 
 Believe me Stella, when you show 
 That true contempt for things below,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 8 1 
 
 Nor prize your life for other ends 
 Than merely to oblige your friends, 
 Your former actions claim their part, 
 And join to fortify your heart. 
 For virtue in her daily race, 
 Like Janus, bears a double face , 
 Looks back with joy where she has gone, 
 And therefore goes with courage on. 
 She at your sickly couch will wait, 
 And guide you to a better state. 
 
 O then, whatever Heaven intends, 
 Take pity on your pitying friends ! 
 Nor let your ills affect your mind, 
 To fancy they can be unkind. 
 Me, surely me, you ought to spare, 
 Who gladly would your sufferings share, 
 Or give my scrap of life to you, 
 And think it far beneath your due ; 
 You, to whose care so oft I owe 
 That I'm alive to tell you so. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 To MRS. THRALE ON HER COMPLETING HER THIRTY- 
 FIFTH YEAR. 
 
 OFT in danger, yet alive, 
 We are come to thirty-five ; 
 Long may better years arrive, 
 Better years than thirty-five ! 
 Could philosophers contrive 
 Life to stop at thirty-five, 
 Time his hours should never drive 
 O'er the bounds of thirty-five. 
 High to soar and deep to dive, 
 Nature gives at thirty-five. 
 Ladies, stock and tend your hive, 
 Trifle not at thirty-five ; 
 For, howe'er we boast and strive, 
 Life declines from thirty-five. 
 He that ever hopes to thrive 
 Must begin by thirty-five ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And all who wisely wish to wive 
 Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 cxiv. 
 
 WlNIFREDA. 
 
 AWAY, let nought to love displeasing, 
 
 My Winifreda, move your care ; 
 Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, 
 
 Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 
 
 What tho' no grants of royal donors 
 With pompous titles grace our blood; 
 
 We'll shine in more substantial honours, 
 And to be noble we'll be good. 
 
 Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
 Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke : 
 
 And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
 How they respect such little folk. 
 
 What tho' from fortune's lavish bounty 
 
 No mighty treasures we possess; 
 We'll find within our pittance plenty, 
 
 And be content without excess. 
 
 Still shall each returning season 
 
 Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
 For we will live a life of reason, 
 
 And that's the only life to live. 
 
 Thro' age and youth in love excelling, 
 We'll hand in hand together tread, 
 
 Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
 And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed. 
 
 How shall I love the pretty creatures, 
 
 While round my knees they fondly clung ; 
 
 To see them look their mother's features, 
 To hear them lisp their mother's tongue.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 83 
 
 And when with envy time transported, 
 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
 You'll in your girls again be courted, 
 
 And I'll go wooing in my boys. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 A MAN may live thrice Nestor's life, 
 
 Thrice wander out Ulysses' race, 
 Yet never find Ulysses' wife ; 
 
 Such change hath chanced in this case ! 
 Less age will serve than Paris had, 
 
 Small pain (if none be small enow) 
 To find good store of Helen's trade : 
 
 Such sap the root doth yield the bough ! 
 For one good wife, Ulysses slew 
 
 A worthy knot of gentle blood : 
 For one ill wife, Greece overthrew 
 
 The town of Troy. Sith bad and good 
 Bring mischief, Lord let be thy will 
 To keep me free from either ill ! 
 
 Unknown, 
 
 THI<: JOYS OF WEDLOCK. 
 
 How blest has my time been ! what joys have I known, 
 Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! 
 So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 
 That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 
 
 Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, 
 Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
 How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see, 
 And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 
 
 To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen, 
 In revels all day with the nymphs on the green; 
 Tho' painful iny absence, my doubts she beguiles, 
 And meets me at night with complaisance and smiles. 
 
 What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, 
 Her wit and pood humour bloom all the year through ; 
 Time still, as .he flies, adds increase to her truth, 
 And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
 
 84 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
 And cheat with false vows, the too credulous fair; 
 In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam ! 
 To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
 
 Edward Moore. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 ON THE MARRIAGE ACT. 
 
 THE fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride; 
 For richness like raiment their nakedness hide ; 
 The slave that is needy must starve all his life, 
 In a bachelor's plight, without mistress or wife. 
 
 In good days of yore they ne'er troubled their heads 
 In settling of jointures, or making of deeds; 
 But Adam and Eve, when they first enter'd course, 
 E'en took one another for better or worse. 
 
 Then pr'ythee, dear Chloe, ne'er aim to be great, 
 Let love be the jointure, don't mind the estate ; 
 You can never be poor who have all of these charms : 
 And I shall be rich when I've you in my arms. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 To His WIFE WITH A KNIFE ON THE FOURTEENTH AN- 
 NIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH HAPPENED 
 TO BE HER BIRTH-DAY AND NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 A KNIFE, dear girl, cuts love, they say 
 Mere modish love perhaps it may ; 
 For any tool of any kind 
 Can separate what was never join'd. 
 The knife that cuts our love in two 
 Will have much tougher work to do: 
 Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit 
 Down to the vulgar size of merit; 
 To level yours with common taste, 
 Must cut a world of sense to waste ; 
 And from your single beauty's store, 
 Clip what would dizen out a score.
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 85 
 
 The selfsame blade from me must sever 
 
 Sensation, judgment, sight for ever 1 
 
 All memory of endearments past, 
 
 All hope of comforts long to last, 
 
 All that makes fourteen years with you 
 
 A summer and a short one too: 
 
 All that affection feels and fears, 
 
 When hours, without you, seem like years. 
 
 'Till that be done, and I'd as soon 
 
 Believe this knife would clip the moon, 
 
 Accept my present undeterr'd, 
 
 And leave their proverbs to the herd. 
 
 If in a kiss delicious treat! 
 
 Your lips acknowledge the receipt ; 
 
 Love, fond of such substantial fare, 
 
 And proud to play the glutton there, 
 
 All thoughts of cutting will disdain, 
 
 Save only " cut and come again." 
 
 Samuel Bishop. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 To His WIFE ON THE SIXTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF HER 
 WEDDING-DAY, WITH A RING. 
 
 " THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed," 
 So sixteen years ago I said 
 Behold another ring! "for what?" 
 To wed thee o'er again why not ? 
 
 With the first ring I married youth, 
 Grace, beauty, innocence and truth; 
 Taste long admired, sense long rever'd, 
 And all my Molly then appear'd. 
 
 If she, by merit since disclosed, 
 Prove twice the woman I supposed, 
 I plead that double merit now, 
 To justify a double vow. 
 
 Here then to-day, with faith as sure ; 
 With ardour as intense and pure, 
 As when amidst the rites divine 
 I took thy troth, and plighted mine,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, 
 A token and a pledge I bring ; 
 With this I wed, till death us part, 
 Thy riper virtues to my heart; 
 These virtues which, before untried, 
 The wife has added to the bride; 
 Those virtues, whose progressive claim, 
 Endearing wedlock's very name, 
 My soul enjoys, my song approves, 
 For conscience' sake as well as love's. 
 
 For why ? They teach me hour by hour 
 Honor's high thought, affection's power, 
 Discretion's deed. Sound judgment's sentence, 
 And teach me all things but repentance. 
 
 Samuel Bishop. 
 
 cxx. 
 ON MARRIAGE. 
 
 How happy a thing were a wedding, 
 
 And a 'bedding, 
 If a man might purchase a wife 
 
 For a twelvemonth and a day ; 
 But to live with her all a man's life, 
 
 Forever and for aye, 
 Till she grow as grey as a cat, 
 Good faith, Mr. Parson, excuse me from that ! 
 
 Thomas Flatman. 
 
 THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED WHETHER HAMILTON'S 
 BAWN SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR A 
 MALT-HOUSE. (1729.) 
 
 THUS spoke to my lady the knight full of care : 
 " Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. 
 This Hamilton's Bawn, whilst it sticks on my hand, 
 I lose by the house what I get by the land ; 
 But how to dispose of it to the best bidder, 
 For a barrack or malt-house, we now must consider. 
 
 First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house, 
 Here I have computed the profit will fall t'us ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 87 
 
 There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain, 
 I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain ; 
 A handsome addition for wine and good cheer, 
 Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year : 
 With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored ; 
 No little scrub joint shall come on to my board: 
 And you and the clean no more shall combine 
 To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ; 
 Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin 
 A stone and a quarter of beef from my sirloin. 
 If I make it a barrack, the Crown is my tenant ; 
 My clear, I have ponder'd again and again on't ; 
 In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent, 
 Whatever they give me I must be content, 
 Or join with the Court in every debate ; 
 And rather than that I would lose my estate." 
 
 Thus ended the knight : thus began his meek wife ; 
 *' It must and it shall be a barrack, my life. 
 I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes 
 But a rabble of tenants and rusty dull Rums. 
 With parsons what lady can keep herself clean? 
 I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the dean. 
 But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, 
 The captain, I'm sure, will always come here ; 
 I then shall not value his deanship a straw, 
 For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe ; 
 Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert, 
 Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert ; 
 That men of his coat should be minding their prayers, 
 And not among ladies to give themselves airs." 
 
 Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; 
 The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. 
 
 But Hannah, who listen'd to all that was past, 
 And could not endure so vulgar a taste, 
 As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd, 
 Cried, " Madam, why surely my master's possess'd. 
 Sir Arthur the maltster ! How fine it will sound ! 
 I'd rather the bawn were sunk underground. 
 But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good, 
 When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. 
 And now my dream's out ; for I was adream'd 
 That I saw a huge rat ; O dear, how I scream'd ! 
 And after, methought I had lost my new shoes ; 
 And Molly, she said, 1 should hear some ill news.
 
 gg LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Dear Madam, had you but the spirit to tease, 
 You might have a barrack whenever you please ; 
 And, madam, I always believed you so stout, 
 That for twenty denials you would not give out 
 If I had a husband like him, I ///rtest, 
 Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest; 
 And rather than come in the same pair of sheets 
 \Vith such a cross man, I would lie in the streets: 
 But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent, 
 And worry him out, till he gives his consent. 
 Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, 
 An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink: 
 For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, 
 I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain. 
 I fancy already a barrack contrived 
 At Hamilton's Bawn, and the troop is arrived; 
 Of this, to be sure, Sir Arthur has warning, 
 And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. 
 Now see when they meet how their honours behave, 
 4 Noble captain, your servant ' ' Sir Arthur your slave ; ' 
 ' You honour me much ' ' The honour is mine ' 
 ' 'Twas a sad rainy night ' ' But the morning is fine.' 
 ' Pray how does my lady ? ' ' My wife's at your service, 
 ' I think I have seen her picture by Jervis.' 
 ' tiood morrow, good captain ' ' I'll wait on you down ' 
 ' You shan't stir a foot' ' You'll think me a clown ' 
 ' For all the world, captain' ' Not half an inch farther ' 
 ' You must be obey'd ' Your servant, Sir Arthur ; 
 My humble respects to my lady unknown ' 
 ' I hope you will use my house as your own.' " 
 
 "Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate, 
 Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate." 
 " Pray, madam, be quiet : what was it I said ? 
 You had like to have put it quite out of my head. 
 
 Next day, to be sure, the captain will come 
 At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum ; 
 Now, madam, observe how he marches in state ; 
 The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate ; 
 Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, 
 Tantara, tantara ; while all the bovs halloo. 
 See now comes the captain all daubed with gold lace; 
 O, la ! the sweet gentleman, look in his face ; 
 And see how he rides like a lord of the land, 
 With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 8 9 
 
 And his horse, the dear creter, it prances and rears, 
 
 With ribands in knots at its tail and its ears ; 
 
 At last comes the troop, by the word of command, 
 
 Drawn up in our Court, when the captain cries, Stand ! 
 
 Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen, 
 
 (For sure I had dizen'd you out like a queen) ; 
 
 The captain, to show he is proud of the favour, 
 
 Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver. 
 
 (His beaver is cock'd; pray, madam, mark that, 
 
 For a captain of horse never takes off his hat ; 
 
 Because he has never a hand that is idle, 
 
 For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle ;) 
 
 Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, 
 
 As a compliment due to a lady so fair ; 
 
 (How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt) 
 
 Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the hilt. 
 
 Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin : 
 
 'Pray, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in.' 
 
 The captain salutes you with congee profound, 
 
 And your ladyship curtsies half way to the ground. 
 
 ' Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us ; 
 
 I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us. 
 
 And captain, you'll do us the favor to stay, 
 
 And take a short dinner here with us to-day ; 
 
 You're heartily welcome ; but as for good cheer, 
 
 You come in the very worst time of the year. 
 
 If I had expected so worthy a guest ' 
 
 ' Lord, madam ! your ladyship sure is in jest ; 
 
 You banter me, madam, the kingdom must grant ' 
 
 ' You officers, captain, are so complaisant.' " 
 
 " Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody coming ! " 
 
 " No, madam, 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. 
 
 To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story) 
 
 The captain at dinner appears in his glory ; 
 
 The dean and the doctor have humbled their pride, 
 
 For the captain's entreated to sit by your side ; 
 
 And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first, 
 
 The parsons for envy are ready to burst ; 
 
 The servants amazed are scarce ever able 
 
 To keep off their eyes as they wait at the table 
 
 And Molly and I have thrust in our nose 
 
 To peep at the captain in all his fine clo'es ; 
 
 Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man, 
 
 Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran j
 
 (p LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And ' Madam,' says he, ' if such dinners you give, 
 You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live ; 
 I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose, 
 But the devil's as welcome wherever he goes; 
 
 , they bid us reform and repent, 
 
 j5 ut z s by their lo'oks they never keep Lent ; 
 Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid 
 You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid ; 
 I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand 
 In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band ; ' 
 (For the dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny, 
 That the captain supposed he was curate to Jinny) 
 ' Whenever you see a cassock and gown, 
 A hundred to one but it covers a clown ; 
 Observe how a parson comes into a room, 
 
 , he hobbles as bad as my groom ; 
 
 A scholard, when just from his college broke loose, 
 
 Can hardly tell how to cry Bo to a goose ; 
 
 Your JV<n>ids, and Blutiirks, and Omurs, and stuff, 
 
 By , they don't signify this pinch of snuff. 
 
 To give a young gentleman right education, 
 The Army's the only good school in the nation ; 
 My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool, 
 But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school ; 
 I never could take to my book for the blood o' me, 
 And the puppy confess'd he expected no good of me. 
 He caught me one morning coquetting his wife, 
 And he maul'd me ; I ne'er was so maul'd in my life; 
 So I took to the road, and, what's very odd, 
 
 The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G . 
 
 Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say, 
 But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day.' 
 
 " Never since I was born did I hear so much wit, 
 And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split. 
 So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the dean, 
 As who should say, A T ow, am I skinny and lean ? 
 But he durst not so much as once open his lips, 
 And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips." 
 
 Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, 
 Till she heard the dean call, " Will your ladyship walk? " 
 Her ladyship answers, " I'm just coming down," 
 Then turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, 
 Altho' it was plain in her heart she was glad, 
 Cried, " Hussy, why sure the wench has gone mad;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 How could these chimeras get into your brains! 
 Come hither, and take this old gown for your pains. 
 But the dean, if this secret should come to his ears, 
 "Will never have done with his jibes and his jeers. 
 For your life not a word of the matter, I charge ye, 
 Give' me but a barrack ; a fig for the clergy." 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 To MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT. 
 Sent on her Birth- Day. 
 
 O BE thou blest with all that heaven can send, 
 
 Long health, long youth, long pleasure and a friend? 
 
 Not with those toys the female race admire, 
 
 Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. 
 
 Not as the world its petty slaves rewards, 
 
 A youth of frolics, an old age of cards ; 
 
 Fair to no purpose, artful to no end ; 
 
 Young without lovers, old without a friend ; 
 
 A fop their passion, but their prize a sot ; 
 
 Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot ! 
 
 Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, 
 And the gay conscience of a life well spent, 
 Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, 
 Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face ; 
 Let day improve on day, and year on year, 
 Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear ; 
 Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, 
 In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy ; 
 Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb, 
 And wake to raptures in a life to come ! 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 CXXII I. 
 
 PR'YTHEE, Chloe, not so fast, 
 Let's not run and wed in haste ; 
 We've a thousand things to do, 
 You must fly, and I pursue ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 You must frown, and I must sigh ; 
 I entreat, and you deny, 
 Stay if I am never crost, 
 Half the pleasure will be lost. 
 
 Be, or seem to be severe, 
 Give me reason to despair ; 
 Fondness will my wishes cloy, 
 Make me careless of the joy. 
 Lovers may, of course, complain 
 Of their trouble, and their pain ; 
 But if pain and trouble cease, 
 Love without it will not please. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 cxxiv. 
 DR. DELANY'S VILLA. 
 
 WOULD you that Delville I describe ? 
 Believe me, sir, I will not gibe : 
 For who could be satirical, 
 Upon a thing so very small ? 
 
 You scarce upon the borders enter, 
 Before you're at the very centre. 
 A single crow can make it night, 
 When o'er your farm she takes her flight: 
 Yet in this narrow compass, we 
 Observe a vast variety ; 
 Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, 
 Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs, 
 And hills, and dales, and woods and fields, 
 And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields; 
 All to your haggard brought so cheap in, 
 Without the mowing or the reaping : 
 A razor, tho' to say't I'm loath. 
 Would shave you and your meadows both. 
 
 Tho' small's the farm, yet here's a house 
 Full large to entertain a mouse ; 
 But where a rat is dreaded more 
 Than savage Caledonian boar ; 
 For, if it's enter'd by a rat, 
 There is no room to bring a cat
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 93 
 
 A little rivulet seems to steal 
 Down thro' a thing you call a vale, 
 Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, 
 Like rain along a blade of leek : 
 And this you call your sweet meander. 
 Which might be suck'd up by a gander, 
 Could he but force his nether bill 
 To scoop the channel of the rill. 
 For sure you'd make a mighty clutter. 
 Were it as big as city gutter. 
 
 Next come I to your kitchen garden, 
 Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; 
 And round this garden is a walk, 
 No longer than a tailor's chalk ; 
 Thus I compare what space is in it, 
 A snail creeps round it in a minute. 
 One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze 
 Up thro' a tuft you call your trees ; 
 And, once a year, a single rose 
 Peeps from the bud, but never blows ; 
 In vain then you expect its bloom ! 
 It cannot blow for want of room. 
 
 In short, in all your boasted seat, 
 There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. 
 
 Dr. Thomas Sheridan. 
 
 ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH- YARD OF 
 CASTLENOCK. 
 
 WHOEVER pleaseth to enquire 
 Why yonder steeple wants a spire, 
 The grey old fellow, poet Joe, 
 The philosophic cause will show. 
 Once on a time, a western blast 
 At least twelve inches overcast, 
 Reckoning roof, weathercock and ill, 
 Which came with a prodigious fall, 
 And tumbling topsy-turvy round, 
 Lit with its bottom on the ground,
 
 
 94 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 
 For by the laws of gravitation 
 It fell'into its proper station. 
 
 This is the little strutting pile 
 You see just by the churchyard stile : 
 The walls in tumbling gave a knock, 
 And thus the steeple gave a shock : 
 From whence the neighboring farmer calls, 
 The steeple, Knock : the Vicar, Walls. 
 
 The vicar once a week creeps in, 
 Sits with his knees up to his chin ; 
 1 [ere cons his note, and takes a whet, 
 Till the small ragged flock is met. 
 
 A traveller who by did pass, 
 Observed the roof behind the grass, 
 On tiptoe stood and rear'd his snout, 
 And saw the parson creeping out ; 
 Was much surprised to see a crow 
 Venture to build his nest so low. 
 
 A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought 
 The crib was down, the blackbird caught 
 A third, who lost his way by night, 
 Was forced for safety to alight, 
 And stepping o'er the fabric-roof, 
 His horse had like to spoil his hoof. 
 Warburton took it in his noddle, 
 This building was design'd a model 
 Or of a pigeon-house, or oven, 
 To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in. 
 Then Mrs. Johnson gave her verdict, 
 And every one was pleased that heard it. 
 All that you make this stir about 
 Is but a still which wants a spout, 
 The Rev. Ur. Raymond guess'd 
 More probably than all the rest ; 
 He said, but that it wanted room, 
 It might have been a pigmy's tomb. 
 The doctor's family came by, 
 And little miss began to cry, 
 Give me that house in my own hand ! 
 Then madam bade the chariot stand, 
 Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, 
 Pray reach that thing here to the child ; 
 That thing, I mean, among the kale, 
 And here's to buy a pot of ale.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 95 
 
 The clerk said to her, in a heat, 
 What, sell my master's country seat, 
 Where he comes every week from town, 
 He would not sell it for a crown ? 
 Poh, fellow, keep not such a pother. 
 In half-an-hour thou'lt make another. 
 Says Nancy, I can make for miss 
 A finer house ten times than this, 
 The Dean will give me willow-sticks, 
 And Joe my apron full of bricks. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 CXXVT. 
 A RONDELAY. 
 
 MAN is for woman made, 
 And woman made for man : 
 
 As the spur is for the jade, 
 
 As the scabbard for the blade, 
 As for liquor is the can, 
 
 So man's for woman made, 
 And woman made for man. 
 
 As the sceptre to be sway'd, 
 As to night the serenade, 
 As for pudding is the pan, 
 As to cool us is the fan, 
 So man's for woman made. 
 And woman made for man. 
 
 Be she widow, wife, or maid, 
 Be she wanton, be she staid, 
 Be she well or ill array'd, 
 * * * 
 
 So man's for woman made, 
 And woman made for man. 
 
 Peter A. Moiteux.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 THE BRACELET. 
 
 WHY I tie about thy wrist, 
 Julia, this my silken twist, 
 For what other reason is't 
 
 But to show thee how, in part, 
 
 Thou my pretty captive art ? 
 
 But thy bond-slave is my heart. 
 
 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, 
 Snap the thread, and thou art free, 
 But 'tis otherwise with me : 
 
 I am bound, and fast bound, so 
 That from thee I cannot go : 
 If I could I would not so ! 
 
 
 Thomas Herrick. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 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 dear. 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my love 
 Did all within this circle move ! 
 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; 
 Give me but what this riband bound, 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round. 
 
 Edmund Waller.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 97 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 To A GLOVE. 
 
 Go, virgin kid, with lambent kiss, 
 
 Salute a virgin's hand ; 
 Go. senseless thing, and reap a bliss 
 
 Thou dost not understand: 
 Go, for in thee, methinks, I find 
 
 (Though 'tis not half so bright) 
 An emblem of her beauteous mind, 
 
 By nature clad in white. 
 
 Securely thou may'st touch the fair, 
 
 Whom few securely can ; 
 May'st press her breast, her lip, her hair, 
 
 Or wanton with her fan : 
 May'st coach it with her to and fro, 
 
 From masquerade to plays ; 
 Ah ! couldst thou hither come and go, 
 
 To tell me what she says 1 
 
 Go then, and when the morning cold 
 
 Shall nip her lily arm, 
 Do thou (oh, might I be so bold!) 
 
 With kisses make it warm. 
 But when thy glossy beauty's o'er, 
 
 When all thy charms are gone, 
 Return to me, I'll love thee more 
 
 Than e'er I yet have done. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 SUSAN'S COMPLAINT AND REMEDY. 
 
 _ 
 
 As down in the meadows I chanced to pass, 
 O ! there I beheld a young beautiful lass : 
 Her age, I am sure, it was scarcely fifteen ; 
 And she on her head wore a garland of green : 
 Her lips were like rubies ; and as for her eyes, 
 They sparkled like diamonds, or stars in the skies 
 And, as for her voice, it was charming and clear, 
 As sadly she sung for the loss of her dear.
 
 gg LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Why does my loved Billy prove false and unkind, 
 Ah ! why does he change, like the wavering wind, 
 From one that is loyal in every degree ? 
 Ah ! why does he change to another from me ? 
 Of does he take pleasure to torture me so? 
 Or does he delight in my sad overthrow? 
 Susannah will always prove true to her trust, 
 Tis pity, loved Billy should be so unjust. 
 
 In the meadows as we were a making of hay, 
 There, there did we pass the soft minutes away; 
 
 then was I kiss'd, as I sat on his knee, 
 No man in the world was so loving as he. 
 
 And as he went forth to hoe, harrow, and plough, 
 
 1 milk'd him sweet syllabubs under my cow ; 
 O then I was kiss'd, as I sat on his knee, 
 No man in the world was so loving as he. 
 
 But now he has left me, and Fanny, the fair, 
 Employs all his wishes, his thoughts, and his care ; 
 And he kisses her lips, and she sits on his knee, 
 As he says all the soft things he once said to me. 
 But if she believe him, the false-hearted swain 
 Will leave her, and then she with me may complain. 
 For nought is more certain (believe, silly Sue), 
 Who once has been faithless, can never be true." 
 
 She finished her song, and rose up to be gone, 
 When over the meadow came jolly young John ; 
 Who told her that she was the joy of his life, 
 And, if she'd consent, he would make her his wife; 
 She could not refuse him, to church so they went, 
 Young Billy's forgot, and young Susan's content. 
 Most men are like Billy, most women like Sue ; 
 If men will be false, why should women be true ? 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CXXXL 
 
 ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS. HOWE 
 
 WHAT is Prudery ? Tis a beldam, 
 Seen with wit and beauty seldom. 
 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows. 
 'Tis (no 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows.
 
 99 
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 'Tis a virgin hard of feature, 
 Old, and void of all good-nature ; 
 Lean and fretful ; would seem wise ; 
 Yet plays the fool before she dies, 
 'Tis an ugly envious shrew 
 That rails at dear Lepell and you. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 WHAT is PRUDENCE? 
 
 PRUDENCE, Sir William, is a jewel 
 Is clothes, and meat, and drink, and fuel ! 
 Prudence ! for man the very best of wives, 
 Whom bards have seldom met with in their lives ; 
 Which certes does account for in some measure, 
 Their grievous want of worldly treasure, 
 On which the greatest blockheads make their brags, 
 And sheweth why we see, instead of lace 
 About the poet's back, with little grace, 
 Those fluttering, French-like followers call'd rags. 
 
 Prudence, a sweet obliging, curtsying lass, 
 Fit through this hypocritic world to pass 1 
 Who kept at first a little peddling shop, 
 Swept her own room, twirled her own mop, 
 Wash'd her own clothes, caught her own fleas, 
 And rose to fame and fortune by degrees ; 
 Who, when she enter'd other people's houses, 
 'Till spoke to was as silent as a mouse is ; 
 And of opinions tho' possess'd a store, 
 She left them with her pattens at the door. 
 
 John Wo! cot. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 SONG BY A PERSON OF QUALITY. 
 
 I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking, 
 Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, 
 What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation, 
 By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation ?
 
 00 LYRA ELEGANT1ARUM. 
 
 Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober replv : 
 See the heart without motion, though Celia pass by ! 
 Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows, 
 Give the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. 
 
 When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refined, 
 I am forced to applaud witli the rest of mankind ; 
 Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire ; 
 Every word I attend ; but I only admire. 
 
 Pruclentia as vainly would put in her claim, 
 Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim : 
 'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes ; 
 Those stars of the world are too good for the skies. 
 
 But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair, 
 Her wit so genteel, without art, without care ; 
 When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain, 
 The leapings, the achings, return all again. 
 
 O wonderful creature ! a woman of reason ! 
 Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season ! 
 When so easy to guess who this angel should be, 
 Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she ? 
 
 Lord Peterborough. 
 
 THE LOVER'S CHOICE. 
 
 you, Damon, covet to possess 
 The nymph that sparkles in her dress ; 
 Would rustling silks and hoops invade, 
 And clasp an armful of brocade. 
 
 Such raise the price of your delight 
 Who purchase both their red and white, 
 And, pirate-like surprise your heart 
 With colors of adulterate art. 
 
 Me, Damon, me the maid enchants 
 Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints ; 
 A modest blush adorns her face, 
 Her air an unaffected grace.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. IOI 
 
 No art she knows, or seeks to know ; 
 No charm to wealthy pride will owe ; 
 No gems, no gold she needs to wear ; 
 She shines intrinsically fair. 
 
 William Bedingfield. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 AMYNTA. 
 
 MY sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. 
 
 O, what had my youth with ambition to do ? 
 Why left I Amynta ? why broke I my vow ? 
 O, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, 
 And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! 
 O, fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
 A love so well founded, a passion so true 1 
 
 Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
 Poor Shepherd, Amynta can no more be thine ; 
 Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, 
 The moments neglected return not again. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Elliot. 
 
 cxxxvr. 
 
 STREPHON, when you see me fly, 
 Why should that your fear create ? 
 
 Maids may be as often shy, 
 Out of love, as out of hate : 
 
 When from you I fly away, 
 
 'Tis because I fear to stay. 
 
 Did I out of hatred run 
 
 Less would be my pain and care ; 
 
 But the youth I love to shun ! 
 Who could such a trial bear? 
 
 Who, that such a swain did see, 
 
 Who could love, and fly, like me.
 
 102 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 Cruel duty bids me go ; 
 
 Gentle love commands my stay; 
 Duty still to love a foe ; 
 
 Shall I this or that obey? 
 Duty frowns, and Cupid smiles, 
 That defends, and this beguiles. 
 
 Ever by this crystal stream, 
 
 I could sit and see thee sigh, 
 Ravish'd with this pleasing dream, 
 
 O, 'tis worse than death to fly ! 
 But the danger is so great, 
 Fear gives wings instead of feet. 
 
 If you love me, Strephon, leave me; 
 
 If you stay, I am undone ; 
 O, you may with ease deceive me; 
 
 Pr'ythee, charming boy, begone : 
 The gods decree, that we must part ; 
 They have my vow, but you my heart. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 WHAT is A WOMAN LIKE? 
 
 A WOMAN is like to but stay 
 What a woman is like, who can say ? 
 There is no living with or without one 
 
 Love bites like a fly, 
 
 Now an ear, now an eye, 
 Buz, buz, always buzzing about one, 
 
 When she's tender and kind 
 
 She is like, to my mind, 
 (And Fanny was so, I remember), 
 
 She's like to O dear ! 
 
 She's as good, very near, 
 As a ripe melting peach in September. 
 
 If she laugh, and she chat, 
 
 Play, joke, and all that, 
 And with smiles and good humor she meet me, 
 
 She's like a rich dish 
 
 Of venison or fish, 
 That cries from the table, Come eat me !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But she'll plague you, and vex you, 
 Distract and perplex you ; 
 False-hearted and ranging, 
 Unsettled and changing, 
 What then do you think, she is like ? 
 
 Like a sand ? like a rock ? 
 
 Like a wheel ? like a clock? 
 Ay, a clock^hat is always at strike. 
 Her head's like the island folks tell on, 
 Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on ; 
 Her heart's like a lemon so nice 
 She carves for each lover a slice ; 
 
 In truth she's to me, 
 
 Like the wind, like the sea, 
 Whose raging will hearken to no man; 
 
 Like a mill, like a pill, 
 
 Like a flail, like a whale, 
 
 Like an ass, like a glass 
 Whose image is constant to no man ; 
 
 Like a shower, like a flower, 
 
 Like a fly, like a pie, 
 
 Like a pea, like a flea, 
 
 Like a thief, like in brief, 
 She's like nothing on earth but a woman ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 cxxxvnr. 
 
 THE TOWN AND COUNTRY MOUSE. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 ONCE on a time, so runs the fable, 
 A country mouse, right hospitable, 
 Received a town mouse at his board, 
 Just as a farmer might a lord. 
 A frugal mouse, upon the whole, 
 Yet loved his friend, and had a soul, 
 Knew what was handsome, and could do't, 
 On just occasion, " conte qite coute" 
 He brought him bacon, nothing lean, 
 Pudding, that might have pleased a Dean ; 
 Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make, 
 But wish'd it Stilton for his sake ; 
 
 103
 
 104 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Yet, to his guest though no ways sparing, 
 
 He ate himself the rind and paring. 
 
 Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, 
 
 But show'd his breeding and his wit ; 
 
 He did his best to seem to eat, 
 
 And cried, " I vow, you're mighty neat. 
 
 " But Lord, my friend, this savage scene ! 
 
 " For God's sake, come and live with men : 
 
 " Consider, mice, like men, must die, 
 
 " Both small and great, both you and I ; 
 
 " Then spend your life in joy and sport, 
 
 " (This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court)." 
 
 The veriest hermit in the nation 
 
 May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. 
 
 Away they came, through thick and thin, 
 
 To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn : 
 
 ( 'Twas on the night of a debate, 
 
 When all their Lordships had sat late). 
 
 Behold the place, where if a poet 
 Shined in description, he might show it ; 
 Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls, 
 And tips with silver all the walls ; 
 Palladian walls, Venetian doors, 
 Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors : 
 But let it, in a word, be said, 
 The moon was up, and men a-bed, 
 The napkins white, the carpet red : 
 The guests withdrawn had left the treat, 
 And down the mice sat, t$te-a-tte. 
 
 Our courtier walks from dish to dish, 
 Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ; 
 Tells all their names, lays down the law, 
 " Que fa est bon ! Ah gmitez fa ! 
 " That jelly's rich, this Malmsey's healing, 
 ' Pray dip your whiskers, and your tail in." 
 Was ever such a happy swain ? 
 He stuffs, and swills, and stuffs again. 
 " I'm quite asham'd 'tis mighty rude 
 " To eat so much but all's so good. 
 ' I have a thousand thanks to give 
 " My Lord alone knows how to live." 
 No sooner said, than from the hall 
 Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all : 
 "A rat, a rat ! clap to the door"
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 105 
 
 The cat comes bouncing on the floor. 
 
 O for the heart of Homer's mice, 
 
 Or gods to save them in a trice I 
 
 " An't please your honor," quoth the peasant, 
 
 " This same dessert is not so pleasant ; 
 
 " Give me again my hollow tree, 
 
 " A crust of bread, and liberty ! " 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 THE ENTAIL. 
 
 IN a fair summer's radiant morn 
 A Butterfly, divinely born, 
 Whose lineage dated from the mud 
 Of Noah's or Deucalion's flood, 
 Long hovering round a perfumed lawn, 
 By various gusts of odour drawn, 
 At last establish'd his repose 
 On the rich bosom of a Rose. 
 
 The palace pleased the lordly guest ; 
 What insect owned a prouder nest? 
 The dewy leaves luxurious shed 
 Their balmy odours o'er his head, 
 And with their silken tap'stry fold 
 His limbs enthroned on central gold, 
 He thinks the thorns embattled round 
 To guard his lovely castle's mound, 
 And all the bushes' wide domain 
 Subservient to his fancied reign. 
 
 Such ample blessings swell'd the Fly, 
 Yet in his mind's capacious eye, 
 He roll'd the change of mortal things ; 
 The common fate of Flies and Kings. 
 With grief he saw how lands and honors 
 Are apt to slide to various owners ; 
 Where Mowbrays dwelt, now grocers dwell, 
 And how Cits buy what Barons sell. 
 " Great Phoebus, Patriarch of my line, 
 Avert such shame from sons of thine ! 
 To them confirm these roofs," he said ; 
 And then he swore an oath so dread,
 
 I06 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The stoutest wasp that wears a sword 
 Had trembled to have heard the word I 
 " If Law can rivet down Entails, 
 These manors ne'er shall pass to Snails, 
 I swear" and then he smote his ermine 
 " These towers were never built for vermin." 
 
 A Caterpillar grovell'd near, 
 
 A subtle slow Conveyancer, 
 
 Who, summoned, waddles, with his quill 
 
 To draw the haughty Insect's will. 
 
 None but his heirs must own the spot, 
 
 Begotten, or to be begot ; 
 
 Each leaf he binds, each bud he ties 
 
 To eggs of eggs of Butterflies. 
 
 When lo ! how Fortune loves to tease . 
 Those who would dictate her decrees I 
 A wanton boy was passing by ; 
 The wanton child beheld the Fly 
 And eager ran to seize the prey 
 But, too impetuous in his play, 
 Crush'd the proud tenant of an hour, 
 And swept away the Mansion-flower. 
 
 Horace Walfole, Earl of Orford. 
 
 ON A HALFPENNY WHICH A YOUNG LADY GAVE A BEG- 
 GAR, AND WHICH THE AUTHOR REDEEMED FOR 
 
 HALF-A-CROWN. 
 
 DEAR little, pretty, favourite ore, 
 
 That once increased Gloriana's store; 
 
 That lay within her bosom blest, 
 
 Gods might have envied thee thy rest ! 
 
 I've read, imperial Jove of old 
 
 For love transform'd himself to gold : 
 
 And why for a more lovely lass 
 
 May he not now have lurk'd in brass ? 
 
 O, rather than from her he'd part 
 
 He'd shut that charitable heart, 
 
 That heart whose goodness nothing less 
 
 Than his vast power could dispossess.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 107 
 
 From Gloriana's gentle touch 
 Thy mighty value now is such, 
 That thou to me art worth alone 
 More than his medals are to Sloane. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 I LATELY vow'd, but 'twas in haste, 
 
 That I no more would court 
 The joys that seem when they are past 
 
 As dull as they are short. 
 
 I oft to hate my mistress swear, 
 
 But soon my weakness find ; 
 I make my oaths when she's severe, 
 
 But break them when she's kind. 
 
 John Oldmixon. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 ON BEAU NASH'S PICTURE AT BATH, WHICH ONCE STOOD 
 BETWEEN THE BUSTS OF NEWTON AND POPE. 
 
 THIS picture placed these busts between, 
 
 Gives satire its full strength; 
 Wisdom and wit are seldom seen, 
 
 But folly at full length. 
 
 Mrs. Jane Brereton. 
 
 CXLI 1 1. 
 
 ON THE ABOVE LINES. 
 
 IMMORTAL Newton never spoke 
 More truth than here you'll find ; 
 
 Nor Pope himself ere penn'd a joke, 
 Severer on mankind. 
 
 Philip Stanhofe, Earl of Chesterfield.
 
 IoS LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 ADVICE TO A LADY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 ASSES' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before, 
 
 Then sleep for an hour or two, and no more. 
 
 At nine stretch your arms, and oh ! think when alone 
 
 There's no pleasure in bed. Mar)' bring me my gown : 
 
 Slip on that ere you rise ; let your caution be such.; 
 
 Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much; 
 
 Your pinners set right, your twitcher tied on, 
 
 Your prayers at an end, and your breakfast quite done, 
 
 Retire to'some author improving and gay, 
 
 And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day. 
 
 At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the year, 
 
 The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear; 
 
 But mark in the meadows the ruin of time ; 
 
 Take the hint, and let life be improved in its prime. 
 
 Return not in haste, nor of dressing take heed; 
 
 For beauty, like yours, no assistance can need. 
 
 With an appetite thus down to dinner you sit, 
 
 Where the chief of the feast is the flow of your wit : 
 
 Let this be indulged, and let laughter go round ; 
 
 As it pleases your mind to your health 'twill redound. 
 
 After dinner two glasses at least, I approve ; 
 
 Name the first to the King, and the last to your love : 
 
 Thus cheerful, with wisdom, with innocence, gay, 
 
 And calm with your joys, gently glide through the day. 
 
 The dews of the evening most carefully shun ; 
 
 Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun. 
 
 Then in chat, or at play, with a dance, or a song. 
 
 Let the night, like the day, pass with pleasure along. 
 
 All cares, but of love, banish far from your mind; 
 
 And those you may end, when you please to be kind. 
 
 Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 ON LORD ISLAY'S GARDEN AT WHITTON ON HOUNSLOVJ 
 HEATH. 
 
 OLD ISLAY, to show his fine delicate taste, 
 
 In improving his garden purloin'd from the waste ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 109 
 
 Bade his gard'ner one morning lay open his views, 
 By cutting a couple of grand avenues. 
 No particular prospect his Lordship intended, 
 But left it to chance how his walks should be ended, 
 With transport and joy he perceiv'd his first view end 
 In a favorite prospect a church that was ruin'd ; 
 But alas I what a sight did the next cut exhibit, 
 At the end of the walk hung a rogue on a gibbet! 
 He beheld it and wept, for it caused him to muse on 
 Full many a Campbell that died with his shoes on. 
 All amazed and aghast at the ominous scene, 
 He ordered it quick to be closed up again, 
 With a clump of Scotch fir trees by way of a screen. 
 Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfidd. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 ON A WOMAN OF FASHION. 
 
 " THEN, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat, 
 And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under my hat, 
 Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark, 
 And, follow'd by John, take the dust in High Park. 
 In the way I am met by some smart macaroni, 
 Who rides by my side on a little bay pony 
 No sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide, 
 But as taper and slim as the ponies they ride; 
 Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider. 
 Dear sweet little creatures, both pony and rider ! 
 
 " But sometimes, when hotter, I order my chaise, 
 And manage, myself, my two little greys : 
 Sure never was seen two such sweet little ponies, 
 Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies, 
 And to give them this title I'm sure isn't wrong, 
 Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long. 
 
 " In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, 
 You know was the fashion before you left town, 
 The thing's well enough, when allowance is made, 
 For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade, 
 But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords 
 To those noisy impertinent creatures call'd birds, 
 Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, 
 Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen.
 
 I0 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Yet, though 'tis too rural to come near the mark, 
 We all herd in one walk, and that, nearest the park, 
 There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket, 
 The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and footmen at cricket. 
 I must though in justice, declare that the grass, 
 Which worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace, 
 In a little time more will be brown and as flat 
 As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat. 
 Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees 
 We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees, 
 With a small pretty band in each seat of the walk, 
 To play little tunes and enliven our talk." 
 
 Thomas Tickell. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 LAST Sunday at St. James's prayers, 
 
 The prince and princess by, 
 I, drest in all my whalebone airs, 
 
 Sat in a closet nigh. 
 I bow'd my knees, I held my book, 
 
 Read all the answers o'er ; 
 But was perverted by a look, 
 
 Which pierced me from the door. 
 High thoughts of Heaven I came to use, 
 
 With the devoutest care; 
 Which gay young Strephon made me lose, 
 
 And all the raptures there. 
 He stood to hand me to my chair, 
 
 And bow'd with courtly grace; 
 But whisper'd love into my ear, 
 
 Too warm for that grave place. 
 " Love, love," said he, " by all adored, 
 
 My tender heart has won." 
 But I grew peevish at the word, 
 
 And bade he would be gone. 
 He went quite out of sight, while I 
 
 A kinder answer meant; 
 Nor did I for my sins that day 
 
 By half so much repent. 
 
 Unknown.
 
 L YRA ELEGA NTIA R UM. 1 1 1 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 THE RETALIATION. 
 
 OF old, when Scarron his companions invited, 
 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 
 
 If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, 
 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings a good dish: 
 
 Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 
 Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; 
 
 Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; 
 
 And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour ; 
 
 Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
 
 And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain : 
 
 Our Garrick a salad, for in him we see 
 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
 
 That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb ; 
 
 That Rickey's a capon ; and, by the same rule, 
 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool. 
 
 At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
 Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
 Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
 Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 
 
 Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
 Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth; 
 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
 At least in six weeks I could not find them out; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them, 
 That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them, 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote : 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining : 
 Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge disobedient; 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
 
 I, 2 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, Sir, 
 To cat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; 
 The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
 His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
 Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas, he had none : 
 What was good was sponianeous, his faults were his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at, 
 Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
 What spirits were his, what wit and what whim, 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
 In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; 
 15ut, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
 The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not what they are. 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
 And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
 I. ike a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, 
 Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
 Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
 Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
 Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks. 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. 
 Come, ar.d dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. n-j 
 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 
 Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture ; 
 
 Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; 
 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 
 
 New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, 
 
 No countryman living their tricks to discover : 
 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can ? 
 An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, contest without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; 
 Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art ; 
 Like an ill-judging beauty his colors he spread, 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting : 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting ; 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day ; 
 Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick; 
 He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, 
 For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, ' 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grows callous, almost to disease, 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind : 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, 
 What a commerce was yours,while you got and you gave, 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
 When he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraisedl 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 To act as an angel, and mix with the skies ! 
 Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
 Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 And Beamonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 
 And Slander itself must allow him good-nature : 
 He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper : 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
 
 , 4 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
 
 I answer no, no, for he always was wiser. 
 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no ! 
 
 Then what was his failing ? Come, tell it, and burn ye, 
 
 He was, could he help it? a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind : 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand : 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 
 Still born to improve us in every part, 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearim;; 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
 Ife shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 COME, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear, 
 In your holiday suits, with your lasses appear ; 
 The happiest of folk, are the guiltless and free, 
 And who are so guiltless, so happy, as we ? 
 
 We harbor no passions, by luxury taught, 
 
 We practice no arts, with hypocrisy fraught ; 
 
 What we think in our hearts, you may read in our eyes; 
 
 For knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise. 
 
 By mode and caprice are the city dames led, 
 
 But we, as the children of nature are bred ; 
 
 By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd, 
 
 For the roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast 
 
 That giant, Ambition, we never can dread ; 
 Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head ; 
 Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door, 
 They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor. 
 
 When love has possess'd us, that love we reveal : 
 .ike the flocks that we feed are the passions we feel ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 115 
 
 So harmless and simple we sport, and we play, 
 And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray. 
 
 David Gar rick. 
 
 CL. 
 
 YE fair marrried dames, who so often deplore 
 That a lover once blest is a lover no more ; 
 Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught 
 That prudence must cherish what beauty has caught. 
 
 The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of your eye, 
 Your roses and lilies may make the men sigh; 
 ]!ut roses and lilies, and sighs pass away, 
 And passion will die as your beauties decay. 
 
 Use the man that you wed like your fav'rite guitar, 
 Though music in both, they are both apt to jar ; 
 How tuneful and soft from a delicate touch, 
 Is'ot handled too roughly, or play'd on too much ! 
 
 The sparrow and linnet will feed from your hand, 
 Grow tame at your kindness, and come at command ; 
 Exert with your husband the same happy skill : 
 For hearts, like young birds, may be tamed at your will. 
 
 Be gay and good-humored, complying and kind, 
 Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind ; 
 Tis thus that a wife may her conquests improve, 
 And Hymen shall rivet the fetters of Love. 
 
 David Garrick. 
 
 CLT. 
 
 Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes 
 
 My heart your own declare; 
 But for love's sake let it suffice 
 
 You reign triumphant there. 
 
 Forbear your utmost power to try, 
 
 Nor further urge your sway ; 
 Press not for what I must deny, 
 
 For fear I should obey.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Could all your arts successful prove, 
 
 Would you a maid undo, 
 Whose greatest failing is her love. 
 
 And that her love for you? 
 
 Say, would you use that very power 
 You from her fondness claim, 
 
 To ruin in one fatal hour 
 A life of spotless fame ? 
 
 Resolve not then to do an ill, 
 
 Because perhaps you may ; 
 But rather use your utmost skill 
 
 To save me, than betray. 
 
 Be you yourself my virtue's guard ; 
 
 Defend, and not pursue ; 
 Since 'tis a task for me too hard 
 
 To strive with love and you. 
 
 Soame Jenyiis. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 
 
 THANKS, my Lord, for your venison for finer or fatter 
 
 Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter : 
 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
 
 The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; 
 
 Though my stomach was sharp,! could scarce help regretting 
 
 To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
 
 I had thought, in my chambers, to place it in view, 
 
 To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu 
 
 As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, 
 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
 
 But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
 
 They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in. 
 
 But hold let me pause don't I hear you pronounce 
 
 This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ; 
 
 Well, suppose it a bounce sure a poet may try, 
 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 But, my Lord, it's no bounce I protest in my turn, 
 It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 117 
 
 To go on with my tale as I gazed on the haunch 
 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch 
 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 
 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose 
 
 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : 
 
 But in parting with these, I was puzzled again, 
 
 With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. 
 
 There's H d, and C y, and H rth, and II ff, 
 
 I think they love venison I know they love beef: 
 
 There's my countryman Higgins O, let him alone, 
 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
 
 But hang it to poets, who seldom can eat, 
 
 Your very good mutton's a very good treat; 
 
 Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt 
 
 It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 
 
 While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, 
 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, enter'd: 
 
 An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was lie, 
 
 And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. 
 
 " What have we got here ? why this is good eating ! 
 
 Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting ? " 
 
 " Why, whose should it be ?" cried I, with a flounce ; 
 
 " I get these things often ; " but that was a bounce : 
 
 " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
 
 Are pleased to be kind but I hate ostentation." 
 
 " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 
 
 " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : " 
 
 " To-morrow you'll take a poor dinner with me ; 
 
 No words I insist on't precisely at three : 
 
 We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there ; 
 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare, 
 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
 
 We wanted this venison to make out the dinner, 
 
 What say you a pasty it shall and it must; 
 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 
 Here, porter, this venison with me to Mile-End ; 
 
 No stirring, I beg my dear friend my dear friend ! " 
 
 Thus snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind, 
 
 And the porter and eatables followed behind, 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself; " 
 Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
 
 I [g LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
 Tho' clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife ; 
 So next day, in due splendor to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
 (A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine) 
 Mv friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
 " For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale; 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty ; 
 The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew 
 They both of them merry, and authors like you; 
 The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; 
 Some think he writes Cinna he owns to Panurge." 
 While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
 They entered, and dinner was served as they came. 
 
 At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, 
 At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; 
 At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot; 
 In the middle a place where the pasty was not. 
 Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian 
 So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily round ; 
 But what vex'd me most, was that hang'd Scottish rogue, 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue, 
 And " madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
 Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, 
 But I've ate of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst." 
 "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
 " I could dine on th-s tripe seven days in a week: 
 I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; 
 But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all." 
 
 ' O-oh," quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a Vice, 
 He s keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
 There's a pasty " " a pasty ! " repeated the Jew ; 
 
 1 I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 
 " What the de'il, mon. a pasty," re-echo'd the Scot ; 
 Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
 " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
 " We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 119 
 
 While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 
 
 With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ! 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
 
 Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night ! 
 
 But we quickly found out for who could mistake her 
 
 That she came with some terrible news from the baker ; 
 
 And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven ! 
 
 Sad Philomel thus but let similes drop 
 
 And, now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
 
 To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labor misplaced, 
 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste ; _ 
 
 You've got an odd something a kind of discerning 
 
 A relish a taste sicken'd over by learning ; 
 
 At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
 
 That you think very slightly of all that's your own: 
 
 So, perhaps, in your habit of thinking amiss, 
 
 You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 I LATELY thought no man alive 
 Could e'er improve past forty-five, 
 
 And ventured to assert it. 
 The observation was not new, 
 But seemed to me so just and true 
 
 That none could controvert it. 
 
 " No, sir," said Johnson, " 'tis not so ; 
 Tis your mistake, and I can show 
 
 An instance, if you doubt it. 
 You, who perhaps are forty-eight, 
 May still improve, 'tis not too late ; 
 
 I wish you'd set about it." 
 
 Encouraged thus to mend my faults, 
 I turn'd his counsel in my thoughts 
 
 Which way I could apply it ; 
 Genius I knew w'as past my reach, 
 For who can learn what none can teach ? 
 
 And wit I could not buy it.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIAKUM. 
 
 Then come, my friends, and try your skill ; 
 You may improve me if you will, 
 
 (.Sly books are at a distance) : 
 With you I'll live and learn, and then 
 Instead of books I shall read men, 
 
 So lend me your assistance. 
 
 Dear Knight of Plympton, teach me how 
 To suffer with unclouded brow, 
 
 And smile serene as thine, 
 The jest uncouth and truth severe ; 
 Like thee to turn mv deafest ear, 
 
 And calmly drink my wine. 
 
 Thou say'st not only skill is gain'd, 
 But genius, too. may be attain'd, 
 
 By studious imitation ; 
 Thy temper mild, thy genius fine, 
 I'll study till I make them mine 
 
 By constant meditation. 
 
 The art of pleasing teach me, Garrick, 
 Thou who reverses! odes Pindarick 
 
 A second time read o'er; 
 O could we read thee backwards too, 
 Last thirty years thou shouldst review, 
 
 And charm us thirty more. 
 
 If I have thoughts and can't express 'em, 
 Gibbons shall teach me how to dress 'em, 
 
 In terms select and terse; 
 Jones, teach me modesty and Greek ; 
 Smith, how to think ; Burke, how to speak ; 
 
 And Beauclerk, to converse. 
 
 Let Johnson teach me how to place 
 In fairest light each borrow'd grace, 
 
 From him I'll learn to write : 
 Copy his free and easy style, 
 And from the roughness of his file 
 
 Grow, like himself, polite. 
 
 Dr. Barnard of Killuloe.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 WHEN Molly smiles beneath her cow, 
 I feel my heart I can't tell how ; 
 When Molly is on Sunday drest, 
 On Sundays I can take no rest. 
 
 What can I do ? on worky days 
 I leave my work on her to gaze. 
 What shall I say ? At sermons, I 
 Forget the text when Molly's by. 
 
 Good master curate, teach me how 
 
 To mind your preaching, and my plough : 
 
 And if for this you'll raise a spell, 
 
 A good fat goose shall thank you well. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CLV. 
 ROBIN'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 DID ever swain a nymph adore, 
 
 As I ungrateful Nanny do ? 
 Was ever shepherd's heart so sore, 
 
 Or ever broken heart so true ? 
 My cheeks are swell'd with tears, but she 
 Has never wet a cheek for me. 
 
 If Nanny call'd, did e'er I stay ? 
 
 Or linger, when she bid me run ! 
 She only had the word to say, 
 
 And all she wish'd was quickly done. 
 I always think of her, but she 
 Does ne'er bestow a thought on me. 
 
 To let her cows my clover taste, 
 Have I not rose by break of day ? 
 
 Did ever Nanny's heifers fast, 
 If Robin in his barn had hay ? 
 
 Though to my fields they welcome were, 
 
 I ne'er was welcome yet to her.
 
 ,22 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 If ever Nanny lost a sheep, 
 
 Then cheerfully I gave her two ; 
 
 And I her lambs did safely keep, 
 Within my folds, in frost and snow. 
 
 Have they not there from cold been free ? 
 
 But Nanny still is cold to me. 
 
 When Nanny to the well did come, 
 'Twas I that did her pitchers fill ; 
 
 Full as they were I brought them home : 
 Her corn I carried to the mill. 
 
 My back did bear the sack, but she 
 
 Will never bear the sight of me. 
 
 To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, 
 I'm sure they always had the best : 
 
 Within this week her pigeous have 
 Ate up a peck of pease, at least : 
 
 Her little pigeons kiss, but she 
 
 Will never take a kiss from me. 
 
 Must Robin always Nanny woo, 
 And Nanny still on Robin frown ? 
 
 Alas, poor wretch ! what shall I do, 
 If Nanny does not love me soon ? 
 
 If no relief to me she'll bring, 
 
 I'll hang me in her apron-string. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 YE nymph and ye swains, from the groves and the plains, 
 
 Attend my complaints, and give ear to my strains; 
 
 No lover in story, or ancient or new, 
 
 Has suffered so much for a passion so true. 
 
 The nymph I adore's neither cruel, nor kind, 
 To love seems averse, to my friendship inclined. 
 She smiles when I'm gay, when I sigh she looks grave, 
 She admits me her friend, she denies me her slave. 
 
 I tell her I'm dying, she asks what I ail : 
 
 I fall at her feet, but, alas,' t won't avail : 
 
 She wonders, why trembling, I sigh and complain, 
 
 And pities my case, tho' she laughs at my pain.
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 123 
 
 A bosom so frozen, what lover can bear ? 
 O say, O ye Powers, shall I hope or despair ? 
 Shall I fly to a warmer, or kinder than she, 
 Who'll as soon ease my pain, or as soon set me free 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 THE days of our happiness gliding away, 
 A year seems a moment, and ages a day ; 
 But Fortune converting our smiles into tears, 
 What an age a diminutive moment appears ! 
 
 Ah, Fortune ! possess'd of so fickle a name, 
 
 Why only in this art thou ever the same ? 
 
 O, change ! and bid moments of pleasure move slow, 
 
 And give eagle-plumes to the moments of woe ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 WITH leaden foot Time creeps along, 
 
 While Delia is away, 
 With her, nor plaintive was the song, 
 
 Nor tedious was the day, 
 
 Ah ! envious power ! reverse my doom, 
 
 Now double thy career ; 
 Strain every nerve, stretch every plume, 
 
 And rest them when she's here. 
 
 Richard Jago. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 WRITTEN AT AN INN. 
 
 To thee, fair freedom ! I retire, 
 
 From flattery, feasting, dice and din ; 
 
 Nor art thou found in domes much higher 
 Than the lone cot or humble Inn. 
 
 'Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
 
 And every health which I begin, 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
 
 For Freedom crowns it, at an Inn.
 
 124 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
 1 fly from falsehood's specious grin; 
 
 Freedom I love, and form I hate, 
 And choose my lodgings at an Inn. 
 
 Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 
 
 Which lacqueys else might hope to win; 
 
 It buys what Courts have not in store, 
 It buys me Freedom, at an Inn. 
 
 And now once more I shape my way 
 
 Through rain or shine, through thick or thin, 
 
 Secure to meet, at close of day, 
 With kind reception at an Inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, 
 Where'er his stages may have been, 
 
 May sigh to think how oft he found 
 The warmest welcome at an Inn. 
 
 William Shenstonf. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 As t'other day o'er the green meadow T pass'd, 
 A swain overtook me, and held my hand fast ; 
 Then cried, my dear Lucy, thou cause of my care, 
 How long must thy faithful young Thyrsis despair ? 
 To grant my petition, no longer be shy ; 
 But frowning, I answer'd, " O fie, shepherd, fie." 
 
 He told me his fondness like time should endure, . 
 That beauty which kindled his flame 'twould secure : 
 That all my sweet charms were for homage design'd, 
 And youth was the season to love and be kind : 
 Lord, what could I say, I could hardly deny, 
 And faintly I uttered, " O, fie, shepherd, fie." 
 
 He swore with a kiss, that he could not refrain, 
 I told him 'twas rude, but he kissed me again ; 
 My conduct, ye fair ones, in question ne'er call, 
 Nor think I did wrong, I did nothing at all ! 
 Resolved to resist, yet inclined to comply, 
 I leave it for you to say, " fie, shepherd, fie." 
 
 Unknown.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 125 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 YOUNG Colin protests I'm his joy and delight ; 
 He's ever unhappy when I'm from his sight : 
 He wants to be with me wherever I go ; 
 The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so. 
 
 His pleasure all day is to sit by my side ; 
 He pipes and he sings, though I frown and I chide ; 
 I bid him depart : but he smiling, says " No." 
 The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so. 
 
 He often requests me his flame to relieve ; 
 I ask him what favor he hopes to receive : 
 His answer's a sigh, while in blushes I glow; 
 What mortal, beside him, would plague a maid so ? 
 
 This breast-knot he yesterday brought from the wake, 
 
 And softly entreated'l'd wear 't for his sake, 
 
 Such trifles are easy enough to bestow : 
 
 1 sure deserve more for his plaguing me so ! 
 
 lie hands me each eve from the cot to the plain, 
 And meets me each morn to conduct me again ; 
 But what's his intention I wish I could know. 
 For I'd rather be married than plagued by him so. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CLXI I. 
 
 Pious Selinda goes to prayers, 
 
 If I but ask her favor ; 
 And yet the silly fool's in tears, 
 
 If she believes I'll leave her, 
 Would I were free from this restraint, 
 
 Or else had hopes to win her : 
 Would she could make of me a saint, 
 
 Or I of her a sinner. 
 
 William Conor eve.
 
 I2 6 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE. 
 
 I SENT for Ratcliffe ; was so ill, 
 That other doctors gave me over : 
 
 He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, 
 And I was likely to recover. 
 
 But when the wit began to wheeze, 
 
 And wine had warmed the politician, 
 Cured yesterday of my disease, 
 I died last night of my physician. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 UNDERNEATH this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sydney's sister Pembroke's mother 
 Death, ere thou hast slain another, 
 Fair and wise and good as she, 
 Time shall throw his dart at thee. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 To LAURELS. 
 
 A FUNERAL stone, 
 Of verse, I covet none ; 
 But only crave 
 Or you that I may have 
 A sacred laurel springing from my grave, 
 
 Which being seen, 
 Blest with perpetual green, 
 
 May grow to be 
 Not so much call'd a tree, 
 As the eternal monument of me. 
 
 Robert Herrick.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 I2 7 
 
 UPON A LADY THAT DIED IN CHILD-BED, AND LEFT A 
 DAUGHTER BEHIND HER. 
 
 As gilly-flowers do but stay 
 
 To blow, and seed, and so away, 
 
 So you, sweet lady, sweet as May, 
 
 The garden's glory, lived awhile, 
 
 To lend the world your scent and smile: 
 
 But when your own fair print was set 
 
 Once in a virgin flosculet, 
 
 Sweet as yourself, and newly blown, 
 
 To give that life, resign'd your own; 
 
 But so, as still the mother's power 
 
 Lives in the pretty lady-flower. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 CLXVI I. 
 
 UPON THE DEATH OF SIR A. MORTON'S WIFE. 
 
 HE first deceased ; she, for a little, tried 
 To live without him, liked it not, and died. 
 
 Sir Henry IVotton. 
 
 FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention, 
 
 Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ; 
 
 For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention. 
 May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir. 
 
 Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; 
 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; 
 Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, 
 
 For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. 
 
 Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, 
 
 His virtues and vices were as other men's are; 
 
 High hope she conceived, and he smoother'd great fears, 
 In a life party-col or'd, half pleasure, half care.
 
 I2 g LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, 
 He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; 
 
 In public employments industrious and grave, 
 
 And alone with his friends, Lord ! how merry was he. 
 
 Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, 
 
 Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust , 
 
 And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, 
 He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. 
 
 This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere, 
 
 Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 
 It says that his relics collected lie here, 
 
 And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. 
 
 Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, 
 So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found ; 
 
 False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, 
 So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd. 
 
 If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, 
 To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; 
 
 And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, 
 He cares not yet, prithee, be kind to his fame. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CLXIX.. 
 
 ON HIMSELF. 
 
 To me 'tis given to die, to thee 'tis given 
 To live ; alas ! one moment sets us even ; 
 Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven ! 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 HEROES and kings I your distance keep, 
 In peace let one poor poet sleep, 
 Who never flatter'd folks like you: 
 Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. 
 
 Alexander Pope.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 129 
 
 CLXXI. 
 ON TWIN-SISTERS. 
 
 FAIR marble tell to future days 
 
 That here two virgin-sisters lie, 
 Whose life employ'd each tongue in praise, 
 
 Whose death gave tears to every eye. 
 In stature, beauty, years and fame, 
 
 Together as they grew, they shone ; 
 So much alike, so much the same, 
 
 That death mistook them both for one. 
 
 Unknown. 
 CLXXII. 
 
 WIND, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 
 Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid : 
 Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and interwine 
 With blushing roses and the clustering vine; 
 Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung, 
 Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung; 
 Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit 
 Among the Muses and the Graces writ. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CLXXI II. 
 
 GAILY I lived as ease and nature taught, 
 And spent my little life without a thought ; 
 And am annoyed that Death, that tyrant grim, 
 Should think of me, who never thought of him. 
 
 Unknown. 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 To my ninth decade I have totter'd on, 
 
 And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady , 
 
 She, who once led me where she would, is gone, 
 So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready. 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 ,.j LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH. 
 
 FRIENDS ! hear the words my wandering thoughts would 
 
 say, 
 
 And cast them into shape some other day ; 
 Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone, 
 And, shatter'd by the fall, I stand alone. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 EPITAPH IN CROYLAND ABBEY. 
 
 MAN'S life is like unto a winter's day, 
 Some break their fast and so depart away. 
 Others stay dinner, then depart full fed : 
 The longest age but sups and goes to bed. 
 O, reader, then behold and see, 
 As we are now, so thou must be ! 
 
 Unknown, 
 
 CLXXVI I. 
 
 To AN INFANT NEWLY BORN. 
 
 ON parent's knees, a naked new-born child, 
 Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled ; 
 So live, that sinking in thy long last sleep, 
 Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep. 
 
 Sir William Jones. . 
 
 CLYXVIII. 
 FEATHERS. 
 
 THERE falls with every wedding-chime 
 A feather from the wing of Time. 
 You pick it up , and say, " How fair 
 To look upon its colours are ! " 
 Another drops, day after day, 
 Unheeded ; not one word you say: 
 When bright and dusky are blown past, 
 Upon the hearse there nods the last. 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. i 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 To His SOUL. 
 
 POOR little, pretty fluttering thing, 
 
 Must we no longer live together ? 
 And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, 
 
 To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ? 
 
 Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly 
 
 Lie all neglected, all forgot : 
 And pensive, wavering, melancholy, 
 
 Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 O DEATH, thy certainty is such, 
 
 The thought of thee so fearful ; 
 That musing, I have wonder'd, much, 
 
 How men are ever cheerful. 
 
 Henry Luttrell. 
 
 CLXXX I. 
 
 MY muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled, 
 Sat up together many a night, no doubt ; 
 
 But now I've sent the poor old lass to bed, 
 Simply because my fire is going out. 
 
 George Colman, the Younger. 
 
 I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife ; 
 
 Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art ; 
 I warm'd both hands before the fire of life ; 
 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 Walter S. Landor
 
 132 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 ON ONE IN ILLNESS. 
 
 HEALTH, strength, and beauty, who would not resign, 
 
 And be neglected by the world, if you 
 Round his faint neck your loving arms would twine, 
 
 And bathe his aching brow with pity's dew ? 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 To ONE IN GRIEF. 
 
 AH ! do not drive off grief, but place your hand 
 
 Upon it gently ; it will then subside. 
 A wish is often more than a command, 
 
 Either of yours would do ; let one be tried. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 To fix her, 'twere a task as vain 
 To count the April drops of rain, 
 To sow in Afric's barren soil. 
 Or tempests hold within a toil. 
 
 I know it, friend, she's light as air, 
 False as the fowler's artful snare, 
 Inconstant as the passing wind, 
 As winter's dreary frost unkind. 
 
 She's such a miser too, in love. 
 It's joys she'll neither share nor prove ; 
 Though hundreds of gallants await 
 From her victorious eyes their fate. 
 
 Blushing at such inglorious reign, 
 I sometimes strive to break my chain ; 
 My reason summon to my aid, 
 Resolve no more to be betray'd. 
 
 Ah, friend ! 'tis but a short-lived trance, 
 Dispell'd by one enchanting glance ; 
 She need but look, and I confess 
 Those looks completely curse or bless.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 133 
 
 So soft, so elegant, so fair, 
 
 Sure something more than human's there; 
 
 I must submit, for strife is vain, 
 
 'Twas destiny that forged the chain. 
 
 Tobias Smollett, 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 KATE OF ABERDEEN. 
 
 THE silver moon's enamoured beam, 
 
 Steals softly thro' the night, 
 To wanton with the winding stream, 
 
 And kiss reflected light. 
 To beds of state go balmy sleep 
 
 ('Tis where you've seldom been), 
 May's Vigil while the shepherds keep 
 
 With Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Upon the green the virgins wait, 
 
 In rosy chaplets gay, 
 Till morn unbar her golden gate, 
 
 And give the promised May. 
 Methinks I hear the maids declare, 
 
 The promised May, when seen, 
 Not half so fragrant, half so fair, 
 
 As Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 
 
 We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
 The nested birds shall raise their throats, 
 
 And hail the maid of love : 
 And see the matin lark mistakes, 
 
 He quits the tufted green : 
 Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 
 
 Where midnight fairies rove, 
 Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, 
 
 Or tune the reed to love : 
 For see the rosy May draws nigh, 
 
 She claims a virgin Queen ; 
 And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 John Cunningham.
 
 134 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 How SPRINGS CAME FIRST. 
 
 THESE springs were maidens once that loved : 
 But lost to that they most approved : 
 My story tells, by Love they were 
 Turn'd to these springs which we see here : 
 The pretty whimperings that they make, 
 When of the banks their leaves they take, 
 Tell ye but this, thev are the same, 
 In no'thing changed but in their name. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 CLXXXVII I. 
 THE COUNTRY WEDDING. 
 
 WELL met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain 
 To a lovely young shepherdess crossing the plain ; 
 Why so much in haste ? now the month it was May 
 May I venture to ask you, fair maiden, which way ? 
 Then straight to this question the nymph did reply, 
 With a blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eyej 
 I came from the village, and homeward I go, 
 And now, gentle shepherd, pray why would you know ? 
 
 I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss, 
 
 If I tell you my reason for asking you this ; 
 
 I would see you safe home (now the swain was inlove !)- 
 
 Of such a companion if you would approve. 
 
 Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own, 
 
 But I see no great danger in going alone ; 
 
 Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free 
 
 For one as another, for you as for me. 
 
 No danger in going alone, it is true, 
 But yet a companion is pleasanter too ; 
 And if you could like (now the swain he took heart) 
 Such a sweetheart as me, why we never would part. 
 O that's a long word, said the shepherdess then, 
 I've often heard say there's no minding you men. 
 You'll say and unsay, and you'll flatter, tis true ! 
 Then to leave a young maiden's the first thing you do.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 135 
 
 O judge not so harshly, the shepherd replied, 
 To prove what I say I will make you my bride. 
 To-morrow the parson (well said, little swain ! ) 
 Shall join both our hands, and make one of us twain. 
 Then what the nymph answer'd to this isn't said, 
 The very next morn, to be sure, they were wed. 
 Sing hey-diddle, ho-diddle, hey-diddle-down 
 Now when shall we see such a wedding in town ? 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. 
 
 WHILE at the helm of State you ride, 
 Our nation's envy, and its pride ; 
 While foreign Courts with wonder gaze, 
 And curse those counsels that they praise ; 
 Would you not wonder, sir, to view 
 Your bard a greater man than you ? 
 Which that he is, you cannot doubt, 
 When you have read the sequel out. 
 
 You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, 
 Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, 
 No great analogy between 
 Greatness and happiness is seen. 
 If then, as it might follow straight, 
 Wretched to be, is to be great ; 
 Forbid it gods, that you should try 
 What 'tis to be so great as I ! 
 
 The family that dines the latest 
 Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; 
 But latest hours must surely fall 
 'Fore him who never dines at all. 
 Your taste in architect, you know, 
 Hath been admired by friend and foe ; 
 But can your earthly domes compare 
 With all my castles in the air ? 
 We're often taught, it doth behove us 
 To think those greater who're above us ; 
 Another instance of my glory, 
 Who live above you, twice two story ; 
 And from my garret can look down 
 On the whole street of Arlington.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Greatness by poets still is painted 
 With many followers acquainted : 
 This, too, doth in my favour speak ; 
 Your levee is but twice a week ; 
 From mine I can exclude but one day, 
 My door is quiet on a Sunday. 
 
 Nor in the manner of attendance, 
 
 Doth your great bard claim less ascendance, 
 
 Familiar you to admiration 
 
 May be approached by all the nation : 
 
 While I, like the Mogul in Indo, 
 
 Am never seen but at my window. 
 
 If with my greatness you're offended, 
 
 The fault is easily amended ; 
 
 For I'll come down, with wondrous ease, 
 
 Into whatever place you please. 
 
 I'm not ambitious ; little matters 
 
 Will serve us great, but humble creatures, 
 
 Suppose a secretary o' this isle, 
 Just to be doing with a while ; 
 Admiral, general, judge, or bishop : 
 Or I can foreign treaties dish up. 
 If the good genius of the nation 
 Should call me to negotiation, 
 Tuscan and French are in my head, 
 Latin I write, and Greek I read. 
 If you should ask, what pleases best ? 
 To get the most, and do the least ; 
 What fittest for ? you know, I'm sure, 
 I'm fittest for a sinecure. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 cxc. 
 To SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. 
 
 GREAT Sir, as on each levee day 
 I still attend you still you say 
 I'm busy now, to-morrow come ; 
 To-morrow, sir, you're not at home ; 
 So says your porter, and dare I 
 Give such a man as him the lie ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 137 
 
 In imitation, sir, of you, 
 
 I keep a mighty levee too : 
 
 Where my attendants, to their sorrow, 
 
 Are bid to come again to-morrow. 
 
 To-morrow they return, no doubt, 
 
 But then, like you, sir, I'm gone out. 
 
 So says my maid ; but they less civil 
 
 Give maid and master to the devil ; 
 
 And then with menaces depart. 
 
 Which could you hear would pierce your heart, 
 
 Good sir, do make my levee fly me, 
 
 Or tend your porter to deny me. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 THE LASS OF THE HILL. 
 
 ON the brow of a hill a young Shepherdess dwelt, 
 Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt : 
 For a few sober maxims still ran in her head 
 That 'twas better to earn, ere she ate her brown bread ; 
 That to rise with the lark was conducive to health, 
 And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth. 
 
 Now young Roger, who lived in the valley below, 
 Who at church and at market was reckoned a beau, 
 Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, 
 And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale 
 With his winning behaviour he melted her heart; 
 For quite artless herself, she suspected no art. 
 
 He had sigh'd and protested, had knelt and implored, 
 He could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord : 
 Then her eyes he commended in language well drest, 
 And enlarged on the torments that troubled his breast ; 
 Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind, 
 That in downright compassion to love she inclined. 
 
 But as soon as he'd melted the ice of her breast, 
 All the flames of his love in a moment had ceas'd, 
 And now he goes flaunting all over the dell, 
 And boasts of his conquest to Susan and Nell : 
 Tho' he sees her but seldom, he's always in haste, 
 And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest.
 
 138 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 All the day she goes sighing and hanging her head, 
 
 And her thoughts are so pestered, she scarce earns her bread : 
 
 The whole village cries shame when a milking she goes, 
 
 That so little affection she shows to the cows : 
 
 But she heeds not their railing, e'en let them rail on, 
 
 And a fig for the cows, now her sweetheart is gone 1 
 
 Take heed pretty virgins of Britain's fair Isle 
 
 Mow you venture your hearts for a look or a smile, 
 
 For Cupid is artful, and virgins are frail, 
 
 And you'll find a false Roger in every vale, 
 
 Who to court you and tempt you will try all his skill : 
 
 So remember the lass at the brow of the hill. 
 
 Miss Mary Jones. 
 
 CXCII. 
 
 ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF SIR ROBERT 
 WALPOLE. 
 
 SUCH were the lively eyes and rosy hue 
 Of Robin's face, when Robin first I knew, 
 The gay companion and the favourite guest, 
 Loved without awe, and without views caress'd. 
 His cheerful smile and open honest look 
 Added new graces to the truth he spoke. 
 Then every man found something to commend, 
 The pleasant neighbour, and the worthy friend 
 The generous master of a private house, 
 The tender father, and indulgent spouse. 
 
 The hardest censors at the worst believed, 
 His temper was too easily deceived 
 (A consequential ill goodnature draws, 
 A bad effect, but from a noble cause). 
 Whence then these clamours of a judging crowd ? 
 " Suspicious, griping, insolent, and proud 
 Rapacious, cruel, violent, and unjust ; 
 False to his friend, and traitor to his trust." 
 
 Lady Mary W. Montagu.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 139 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 To CELIA. 
 
 I HATE the town, and all its ways ; 
 
 Ridottos, operas, and plays; 
 
 The ball, the ring, the mall, the Court, 
 
 Wherever the beau monde resort; 
 
 "Where beauties lie in ambush for folks, 
 
 Earl Straffords and the Dukes of Norfolks; 
 
 All coffee-houses, and their praters, 
 
 All courts of justice and debaters ; 
 
 All taverns, and the sots within 'em; 
 
 All bubbles, and the rogues that skin 'em. 
 
 I hate all critics ; may they burn all, 
 
 From Bentley to the Grub-street Journal ; 
 
 All barbs, as Dennis hates a pun; 
 
 Those who have wit, and who have none. 
 
 All nobles of whatever station; 
 
 And all the parsons in the nation. 
 
 I hate the world crammed altogether, 
 
 From beggars, up, the Lord knows whither ! 
 
 Ask you then, Celia, if there be 
 
 The thing I love ? My charmer, thee. 
 
 Thee more than light, than life adore, 
 
 Thou dearest, sweetest creature, more 
 
 Than wildest raptures can express, 
 
 Than I can tell, or thou canst guess. 
 
 Then tho' I bear a gentle mind, 
 
 Let not my hatred of mankind 
 
 Wonder within my Celia move, 
 
 Since she possesses all I love. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 cxciv. 
 To THE SUNFLOWER. 
 
 HAIL ! pretty emblem of my fate ! 
 Sweet flower, you still on Phoebus wait ; 
 On him you look, and with him move, 
 By nature led and constant love.
 
 140 LYRA ELEGANT1ARUM. 
 
 Know, pretty flower, that I am he, 
 Who am in all so like to thee; 
 I, too, my fair one court, and where 
 She moves, my eyes I thither steer. 
 
 But, yet, this difference still I find, 
 The sun to you is always kind ; 
 Does always life and warmth bestow: 
 Ah ! would my fair one use me so ! 
 
 Ne'er would I wait till she arose 
 From her soft bed and sweet repose ; 
 But, leaving thee, dull plant, by night 
 I'd meet my Phillis with delight. 
 
 Robert Walpole, Earl of Orford. 
 
 cxcv. 
 THE SECRETARY. 
 
 WHILE with labo'r assiduous due pleasure I mix, 
 
 And in one day atone for the business of six, 
 
 In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night, 
 
 On my left-hand my Horace, a nymph on my right ; 
 
 No memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move, 
 
 That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love. 
 
 For her neither visits nor parties at tea, 
 
 Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee. 
 
 This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine, 
 
 To good or ill fortune the third we resign. 
 
 Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate, 
 
 I drive in my car in professional state. 
 
 So with Phia thro' Athens Pisistratus rode; 
 
 Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. 
 
 But why should I stories of Athens rehearse 
 
 Where people knew love, and were partial to verse, 
 
 Since none can with justice my pleasure oppose 
 
 In Holland half drowned in interest and prose ? 
 
 By Greece and past ages what need I be tried 
 
 When The Hague and the present are both on my side ; 
 
 And is it enough for the joys of the day 
 
 To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 141 
 
 When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow, 
 As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow, 
 That search all the province, you'll find no man dar is 
 So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is. 
 Hague, 1696 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 To MRS. CREWE. 
 
 WHERE the loveliest expression to features is join'd, 
 
 By Nature's most delicate pencil design'cl ; 
 
 Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art, 
 
 Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the heart ; 
 
 Where in manners, enchanting, no blemish we trace ; 
 
 But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face; 
 
 Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove 
 
 Defences unequal to shield us from love: 
 
 Then tell me, mysterious Enchanter, O tell ! 
 
 By what wonderful art, by what magical spell, 
 
 My heart is so fenced that for once I am wise, 
 
 And gaze without rapture on Amoret's eyes ; 
 
 That my wishes, which never were bounded before, 
 
 Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no more ? 
 
 Is it reason ? No, that my whole life will belie, 
 
 For who so at variance as reason and I ? 
 
 Ambition, that fills up each chink of my heart, 
 
 Nor allows any softer sensation a part ? 
 
 O, no ! for in this all the world must agree, 
 
 One folly was never sufficient for me. 
 
 Is my mind on distress too intensely employ'd 
 
 Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety cloy'd ? 
 
 For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain 
 
 Both slacken the springs of those nerves which they strain. 
 
 That I've felt each reverse that from Fortune can flow, 
 
 That I've tasted each bliss that the happiest know, 
 
 Has still been the whimsical fate of my life, 
 
 Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife : 
 
 But, tho' versed in extremes both of pleasure and pain, 
 
 I am still but too ready to feel them again. 
 
 If, then, for this once in my life, I am free, 
 
 And escape from the snares that catch wiser than me; 
 
 'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms; 
 
 For though brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that warms ;
 
 142 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze, 
 
 But feel not their warmth, tho' their splendour we praise, 
 
 So beauty our just admiration may claim, 
 
 But love, and love only, the heart can inflame ! 
 
 Rt. Honble. Charles James Fox. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE. 
 
 OFT you have ask'd me, Granville, why 
 
 Of late I heave the frequent sigh ? 
 
 Why, moping, melancholy, low, 
 
 From supper, commons, wine, I go ? 
 
 Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd; 
 
 By day no peace, by night no rest ? 
 
 Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew 
 
 A tale so tender, and so true 
 
 Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain, 
 
 My pen with freedom shall explain. 
 
 Say, Granville, do you not remember, 
 About the middle of November, 
 When Blenheim's hospitable lord 
 Received us at his cheerful board ; 
 How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled, 
 Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild ? 
 And mark'd you not, how many a glance 
 Across the table, shot by chance 
 From fair Eliza's graceful form, 
 Assail'd and took my heart by storm ? 
 And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal, 
 I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal ? 
 And how, when conversation's charms 
 Fresh vigor gave to love's alarms, 
 My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder, 
 When talking to her at the winder? 
 These facts premised, you can't but guess 
 The cause of my uneasiness, 
 For you have heard, as well as I ; 
 That she'll be married speedily ; 
 And then my grief more plain to tell 
 Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes, farewell !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 143 
 
 But still, tho' false the fleeting dream, 
 
 Indulge awhile the tender theme, 
 
 And hear, had fortune yet been kind, 
 
 How bright the prospect of the mind. 
 
 O ! had I had it in my power 
 
 To wed her with a suited dower 
 
 And proudly bear the beauteous maid 
 
 To Saltrum's venerable shade, 
 
 Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum. 
 
 Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em, 
 
 Then had I tasted bliss sincere, 
 
 And happy been from year to year. 
 
 How changed this scene ! for now, my Granville, 
 
 Another match is on the anvil. _ 
 
 And I, a widow'd dove, complain, 
 
 And feel no refuge from my pain 
 
 Save that of pitying Spencer's sister, 
 
 Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister. 
 
 The Rt. Honbk. George Canning. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 'Tis late, and I must haste away, 
 My usual hour of rest is near 
 And do you press me, youths, to stay 
 To stay and revel longer here ? 
 
 Then give me back the scorn of care 
 Which spirits light in health allow, 
 
 And give me back the dark brown hair 
 Which curl'd upon my even brow. 
 
 And give me back the sportive jest 
 
 Which once could midnight hours beguile; 
 
 The life that bounded in my breast, 
 And joyous youth's becoming smile: 
 
 And give me back the fervid soul 
 
 Which love inflamed with strange delight, 
 
 When erst I sorrow'd o'er the bowl 
 At Chloe's coy and wanton flight.
 
 I 4 4 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 'Tis late, and I must haste away, 
 
 My usual hour of rest is near 
 But give me these, and I will stay 
 
 Will stay till noon, and revel here ! 
 
 William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne. 
 CXCIX. 
 
 AN ODE TO THE EARL OF BATH. 
 
 GREAT Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er, 
 The Tories trust your word no more, 
 
 The Whigs no longer fear you ; 
 Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd, 
 No crowd of coaches fills your yard, 
 
 And scarce a soul comes near you. 
 
 Few now aspire to your good graces, 
 Scarce any sue to you for places, 
 
 Or come with their petition, 
 To tell how well they have deserved, 
 How long, how steadily they starved 
 
 For you, in opposition. 
 
 Expect to see that tribe no more, 
 Since all mankind perceive that power 
 
 Is lodged in other hands : 
 Sooner to Carteret now they'll go, 
 Or even (tho* that's excessive low) 
 
 To Wilmington or Sandys'. 
 
 With your obedient wife retire, 
 And sitting silent by the fire, 
 
 A sullen tete-h-tete. 
 Think over all you've done or said 
 And curse the hour that you were made 
 
 Unprofitably great. 
 
 With vapours there, and spleen o'ercast. 
 Reflect on all your actions past 
 
 With sorrow and contrition : 
 And there enjoy the thoughts that rise 
 From disappointed avarice, 
 
 From frustrated ambition.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 There soon you'll loudly, but in vain, 
 Of your deserting friends complain, 
 
 That visit you no more : 
 For in this country, 'tis a truth, 
 As known, as that love follows youth, 
 
 That friendship follows power. 
 
 Such is the calm of your retreat? 
 You thro' the dregs of life must sweat 
 
 Beneath this heavy load ; 
 And I'll attend you as I've done, 
 Only to help reflection on, 
 
 With now and then an ode. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 CC. 
 THE STATESMAN. 
 
 WHAT statesman, what hero, what king, 
 Whose name thro' the island is spread, 
 
 Will you choose, oh, my Clio, to sing, 
 Of all the great living, or dead ? 
 
 Go, my muse, from this place to Japan, 
 
 In search of a topic for rhyme ; 
 The great Earl of Bath is the man 
 
 Who deserves to employ your whole time. 
 
 But, howe'er, as the subject is nice, 
 And perhaps you're unfurnish'd with matter, 
 
 May it please you to take my advice, 
 That you mayn't be suspected to flatter. 
 
 When you touch on his Lordship's high birth, 
 
 Speak Latin as if you were tipsy, 
 Say, we all are the sons of the earth, 
 
 Et genus nonfecimus ipsi, 
 
 Proclaim him as rich as a Jew, 
 
 Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties ; 
 
 You may say, he is married that's true 
 Yet speak not a word of his Countess.
 
 146 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Leave a blank here and there in each page, 
 To enrol the fair deeds of his youth! 
 
 When you mention the acts of his age, 
 Leave a blank for his honour and truth. 
 
 Say he made a great monarch change hands; 
 
 He spake, and the minister fell; 
 Say he made a great statesman of Sandys ; 
 
 O that he had taught him to spell ! 
 
 Then enlarge on his cunning and wit, 
 Say how he harangued at the Fountain : 
 
 Say how the old Patriots were bit, 
 And a mouse was produced by a mountain. 
 
 Then say how he mark'd the new year 
 By increasing our taxes and stocks; 
 
 Then say how he changed to a Peer, 
 Fit companion for Edgcumbe and Fox. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 ADVICE TO THE MARQUIS OF ROCKINGHAM. 
 Upon a Late Occasion. 
 
 WELL may they, Wentworth, call thee young; 
 What, hear and feel ! sift right from wrong, 
 
 And to a wretch be kind ! 
 Old statesmen would reverse your plan, 
 Sink, in the minister, the man, 
 
 And be both deaf and blind. 
 
 If thus, my Lord, your heart o'erflows, 
 Know you, how many mighty foes 
 
 Such weakness will create you ? 
 Regard not what Fitzherbert says, 
 For though you gain each good 'man's praise, 
 
 We older folks shall hate you. 
 
 You should have sent, the other day, 
 Garrick, the player, with frowns away ; 
 
 Your smiles but made him bolder 
 Why would you hear his strange appeal, 
 Which dared to make a statesman feel ? 
 
 I would that you were older.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 147 
 
 You should be proud, and seem displeased, 
 Or you forever will be teased, 
 
 Your house with beggars haunted : 
 What, every suitor kindly used? 
 If wrong, their folly is excused, 
 
 If right, their suit is granted. 
 
 From pressing words of great and small 
 To free yourself, give hopes to all, 
 
 And fail nineteen in twenty : 
 What, wound my honour, break my word ? 
 You're young again, you may, my Lord, 
 
 Have precedents, in plenty ! 
 
 Indeed, young Statesman, 'twill not do, 
 Some other ways and means pursue, 
 
 More fitted to your station : 
 What from your boyish freaks can spring ? 
 Mere toys ! The favour of your king, 
 
 And love of all the nation. 
 
 David Garrick. 
 
 CCII. 
 
 To ANY MINISTER, OR GREAT MAN. 
 
 WHETHER you lead the patriot band, 
 Or in the class of courtiers stand, 
 
 Or prudently prefer 
 The middle course, with equal zeal 
 To serve both king and common-weal, 
 
 Your Grace, my Lord, or Sir I 
 
 Know, minister ! whate'er you plan, 
 Whate'er your politics, great man, 
 
 You must expect detraction; 
 Though of clean hand, and honest heart, 
 Your greatness must expect to smart 
 
 Beneath the rod of faction. 
 
 Like blockheads, eager in dispute, 
 The mob, that many-headed brute, 
 
 All bark and bawl together; 
 For continental measures some, 
 And some cry, keep your troops at home, 
 
 And some are pleased with neither.
 
 , 4 g LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Lo, a mititia guards the land! 
 Thousands applaud your saving hand, 
 
 And hail you their protector; 
 While thousands censure and defame, 
 And brand you with the hideous name 
 
 Of state-quack and projector. 
 
 Are active, vigorous means preferr'd 
 Lord, what harangues are hourly heard 
 
 Of wasted blood and treasure ! 
 Then all for enterprise and plot, 
 And, out on this unmeaning Scot I 
 
 If cautious in your measure. 
 
 Corruption's influence you despise ; 
 These lift your glory to the skies, 
 
 Those pluck your glory down : 
 So strangely different is the note 
 Of scoundrels that have right to vote, 
 
 And scoundrels that have none. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ccnr. 
 
 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE- 
 GRINDER. 
 FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 " KNEEDY knife-grinder I whither are you going ? 
 Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order 
 Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole in't, 
 
 So have your breeches 
 
 " Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, 
 Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
 Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, ' Knives and 
 
 Scissors to grind O ! ' 
 
 " Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives ? . 
 Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
 Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ? 
 
 Or the attorney ? 
 
 " Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or 
 Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? 
 Or roguish lawyer made vou lose your little 
 
 All in a lawsuit ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 149 
 
 (" Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) 
 Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
 Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 
 
 Pitiful story." 
 
 KNIFE-GRIN DE. 
 
 " Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir, 
 Only last night a-clrinking at the Chequers, 
 This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
 
 Torn in the scuffle. 
 
 " Constable came up for to take me into 
 Custody ; they took me before the Justice; 
 Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish 
 
 Stocks for a vagrant. 
 
 " I should be glad to drink your honor's health in 
 A pot of beer, if you would give me sixpence ; 
 But, for my part, I never love to meddle 
 
 With politics, sir." 
 
 FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 " /give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first 
 Wretch ! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeance 
 Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, 
 
 Spiritless outcast ! " 
 
 (Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and 
 exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and 
 universal philanthropy!) 
 
 Anti-Jacobin. 
 
 CCIV. 
 A POLITICAL DESPATCH. 
 
 IN matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch 
 Is giving too little and asking too much; 
 With equal advantage the French are content, 
 So we'll clap on Dutch bottoms a twenty per cent. 
 
 Twenty per cent., 
 
 Twenty per cent., 
 Nous frapperons Falck with twenty per cent. 
 
 The Right Hon. George Canning.
 
 150 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCV. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATION. 
 
 Part of Mr. Whitbread's speech on the trial of Lord MelviUe, 
 put into verse by Canning at the time it was delivered. 
 
 I'M like Archimedes for science and skill, 
 
 I'm like a young prince going straight up a hill; 
 
 I'm like (with respect to the fair be it said,) 
 
 I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed. 
 
 If you ask why the nth of June I remember, 
 
 Much better than April, or May, or November, 
 
 On that day, my Lords, with truth, I assure ye, 
 
 My sainted progenitor set up his brewery; 
 
 On that day, in the morn, he began brewing beer: 
 
 On that day, too, began his connubial career ; 
 
 On that day he received and he issued his bills; 
 
 On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills ; 
 
 On that day he died, having finished his summing, 
 
 And the angels all cried, " Here's old Whitbread a-coming ! " 
 
 So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh, 
 
 For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I ; 
 
 And still on that day, in the hottest of weather, 
 
 The whole Whitbread family dine all together. 
 
 So long as the beams of this house shall support 
 
 The roof which o'ershades this respectable court, 
 
 Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos : 
 
 So long as the sun shall shine in at those windows, 
 
 My name shall shine bright as my ancestor's shines, 
 
 Mine recorded in journals, his blazon'd on signs ! 
 
 The Right Hon. George Canning. 
 
 CCVI. 
 
 KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS. 
 Written after the late negotiation for a new ministry. 
 
 KING CRACK was the best of all possible kings, 
 
 (At least so his courtiers would swear to you gladly,) 
 
 But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things, 
 And; at last, took to worshipping images sadly.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. J 5I 
 
 Some broken-down idols, that long had been placed 
 In his Father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much, 
 
 That he knelt down and worshipp'd, tho' such was his 
 
 taste ! 
 They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch. 
 
 And these were the beautiful gods of King Crack ! 
 lint his People, disdaining to worship such things, 
 
 Cried aloud.one and all, " Come, your godships must pack 
 You'll not do for us, tho' you may do for Kings" 
 
 Then, trampling these images under their feet, 
 
 They sent Crack a petition, beginning " Great Caesar ! 
 
 We're willing to worship ; but only entreat 
 That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these 
 are." 
 
 "I'll try," says King Crack so they furnish'd him models 
 Of better shaped gods, but he sent them all back ; 
 
 Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of 
 
 noddles, 
 In short they were all much too godlike for Crack. 
 
 So he took to his darling old idols again, 
 
 And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, 
 In open defiance of gods and of men, 
 
 Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE PILOT THAT WEATHERED THE STORM. 
 
 IF hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep, 
 The sky if no longer dark tempests deform, 
 
 When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep ? 
 No here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm! 
 
 At the footstool of Power let flattery fawn ; 
 
 Let Faction her idol extol to the skies ; 
 To Virtue in humble retirement withdrawn, 
 
 Unblamed may the accents of gratitude rise !
 
 '52 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And shall not his memory to Britain be dear, 
 Whose example with envy all nations behold ? 
 
 A Statesman unbias'd by interest or fear, 
 By power uncorrupted, untainted by gold I 
 
 Who, when terror and doubt thro' the universe reigned, 
 
 When rapine and treason their standards unfurl 'd, 
 The hearts and the hopes of his country maintained, 
 And our kingdom preserved midst the wreck of the worldl 
 
 Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze, 
 
 While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine : 
 
 When he sinks into twilight with fondness we gaze, 
 And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline. 
 
 So, Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er, 
 Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall ; 
 
 Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore ; 
 Admired in thy zenith, but loved in thy fall. 
 
 O take them, for dangers by wisdom repell'd, 
 For evils by courage and constancy braved, 
 
 O take for thy throne by thy counsels upheld 
 The thanks of a people thy firmness has saved. 
 
 And oh ! if again the rude whirlwind should rise, 
 
 The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform ; 
 
 The regrets of the good and the fears of the wise, 
 Shall turn to the pilot that weather'd the storm. 
 
 Right Hon. George Canning. 
 
 MARS DISARMED BY LOVE. 
 
 AYE, bear it hence, thou blessed child, 
 
 Though dire the burthen be, 
 And hide it in the pathless wild, 
 
 Or drown it in the sea : 
 The ruthless murderer swears and prays ; 
 
 So let him swear and pray; 
 Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers, 
 
 And take the sword away.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM, 
 
 We've had enough of fleets and camps, 
 
 Guns, glories, odes, gazettes, 
 Triumphal arches, coloured lamps, 
 
 Huzzas and epaulettes ; 
 We could not bear upon our head 
 
 Another leaf of bay ; 
 That horrid Bonaparte's dead ; 
 
 Yes, take the sword away. 
 
 We're weary of the noisy boasts 
 
 That pleased our patriot throngs : 
 We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts, 
 
 And tame to Dibden's songs; 
 We're quite content to rule the wave, 
 
 Without a great display ; 
 We're known to be extremely brave ; 
 
 But take the sword away. 
 
 We give a shrug, when fife and drum 
 
 Play up a favorite air ; 
 We think our Barracks are become 
 
 More ugly than they were ; 
 We laugh to see the banners float ; 
 
 We loathe the charger's bray ; 
 We don't admire a scarlet coat; 
 
 Do take the sword away. 
 
 Let Portugal have rulers twain ; 
 
 Let Greece go on with none ; 
 Let Popery sink or swim in Spain, 
 
 While we enjoy the fun ; 
 Let Turkey tremble at the knout ; 
 
 Let Algiers lose her Dey ; 
 Let Paris turn her Bourbons out ; 
 
 Bah ! take the sword away. 
 
 Our honest friends in Parliament 
 
 Are looking vastly sad ; 
 Our farmers say with one consent 
 
 It's all immensely bad ; 
 There was a time for borrowing, 
 
 But now it's time to pay ; 
 A budget is a serious thing; 
 
 So take the sword away. 
 
 153
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And O, the bitter tears we wept, 
 
 In those our days of fame, 
 The dread, that o'er our heart-strings crept 
 
 With every post that came, 
 The home-affections, waged and lost 
 
 In every far-off fray, 
 The price that British glory cost I 
 
 Ah ! take the sword away. 
 
 We've plenty left to hoist the sail, 
 
 Or mount the dangerous breach ; 
 And Freedom breathes in every gale, 
 
 That wanders round our beach. 
 When duty bids us dare or die, 
 
 We'll fight another day : 
 But till we know a reason why, 
 
 Take, take the sword away. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 VERSES ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN His CHAIR 
 DURING ONE OF THE DEBATES OFTHE FIRST REFORMED 
 PARLIAMENT. 
 
 SLEEP, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair 
 
 If you mayn't in your bed, that you should in your chair; 
 
 Louder and longer still they grow, 
 
 Tory and Radical, Aye and No ; 
 
 Talking by night and talking by day ; 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker sleep while you may 1 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; slumber lies 
 
 Light and brief OH a Speaker's eyes. 
 
 Fielden or Finn in a minute or two 
 
 Some disorderly thing will do ; 
 
 Riot will chase repose away 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker sleep while you may ! 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men 
 Is the sleep that cometh but now and then, 
 Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill, 
 Sweet to the children that work in the mill. 
 You have more need of repose than they 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker sleep while you may !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon 
 Move to abolish the sun and the moon : 
 Hume will no doubt be taking the sense 
 Of the House on a question of sixteen pence. 
 Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker sleep while you may ! 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time, 
 
 "When loyalty was not quite a crime, 
 
 When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school, 
 
 And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool. 
 
 Lord, how principles pass away 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker sleep while you may ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 CCX. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE. 
 An Election Ballad. 
 
 As I sate down to breakfast in state, 
 At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring, 
 
 With Betty beside me to wait, 
 
 Came a rap that almost beat the door in. 
 
 I laid down my basin of tea, 
 
 And Betty ceased spreading the toast, 
 
 " As sure as a gun, sir," said she, 
 
 " That must be the knock of the Post." 
 
 A letter and free bring it here 
 
 I have no correspondent who franks. 
 No ! yes ! can it be ? Why my dear, 
 
 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. 
 " Dear sir, as I know you desire 
 
 That the Church should receive due protection, 
 I humbly presume to require 
 
 Your aid at the Cambridge election. 
 
 " It has lately been brought to my knowledge, 
 
 That the ministers fully design 
 To suppress each Cathedral and College, 
 
 And eject every learned divine.
 
 I 5 6 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 To assist this detestable scheme 
 
 Three nuncios from Rome are come over ; 
 They left Calais on Monday by steam, 
 
 And landed to dinner at Dover. 
 
 " An army of grim Cordeliers, 
 
 Well furnish'd with relics and vermin, 
 Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, 
 
 To effect what their chiefs may determine. 
 Lollards' tower, good authorities say, 
 
 Is again fitting up as a prison; 
 And a wood-merchant told me to-day 
 
 'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen. 
 
 " The finance-scheme of Canning contains 
 
 A new Easter-offering tax : 
 And he means to devote all the gains 
 
 To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. 
 Your living, so neat and compact 
 
 Pray, don't let the news give you pain ! 
 Is promised, I know for a fact, 
 
 To an olive-faced Padre from Spain." 
 
 I read, and I felt my heart bleed, 
 
 Sore wounded with horror and pity ; 
 So I flew, with all possible speed, 
 
 To our Protestant champion's committee^ 
 True gentlemen, kind and well bred ! 
 
 No fleering ! no distance ! no scorn ! 
 They asked after my wife who is dead, 
 
 And my children who never were born. 
 
 They then, like high-principled Tories, 
 
 Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, 
 And assailed him with scandalous stories, 
 
 Till the coach for the voters was ready, 
 That coach might be well called a casket 
 
 Of learning and brotherly love : 
 There were parsons in boot and in basket ; 
 
 There were parsons below and above. 
 
 There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair 
 Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches; 
 
 A smug chaplain of plausible air, 
 
 Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches.
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host, 
 
 Who, with arguments weighty as lead, 
 
 Proves six times a week in the Post 
 
 That flesh somehow differs from bread. 
 
 Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes 
 
 Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup; 
 Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows, 
 
 Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup ; 
 Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning, 
 
 And wiping away perspiration ; 
 Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning 
 
 The beast in St. John's Revelation. 
 
 A layman can scarce form a notion 
 
 Of our wonderful talk on the road ; 
 Of the learning, the wit, and devotion, 
 
 Which almost each syllable show'd : 
 Why divided allegiance agrees' 
 
 So ill with our free constitution ; 
 How Catholics swear as they please, 
 
 In hopes of the priest's absolution : 
 
 How the bishop of Norwich had barter'd 
 
 His faith for a legate's commission ; 
 How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr'd, 
 
 Had stooped to a base coalition ; 
 How Papists are cased from compassion 
 
 By bigotry, stronger than steel ; 
 How burning would soon come in fashion, 
 
 And how very bad it must feel. 
 
 We were all so much touched and excited 
 
 By a subject so direly sublime, 
 That the rules of politeness were slighted, 
 
 And we all of us talked at a time ; 
 And in tones, which each moment grew louder, 
 
 Told how we should dress for the show, 
 And where we should fasten the powder, 
 
 And if we should bellow or no. 
 
 Thus from subject to subject we ran, 
 And the journey pass'd pleasantly o'er, 
 
 Till at last Dr. Humdrum began : 
 From that time I remember no more. 
 
 '57
 
 158 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 At Ware he commenced his prelection, 
 
 In the dullest of clerical drones : 
 And when next I regained recollection 
 
 We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones, 
 
 Thomas, Lord Macaulay. 1827. 
 
 THE FATE OF A BROOM : AN ANTICIPATION. 
 
 Lo ! in Corruption's lumber-room, 
 
 The remnants of a wondrous broom ; 
 
 That walking, talking, oft was seen ; 
 
 Making stout promise to sweep clean ; 
 
 But evermore, at every push, 
 
 Proved but a stump without a brush. 
 
 Upon its handle-top, a sconce, 
 
 Like Brahma's, look'd four ways at once, 
 
 Pouring on King, Lords, Church, and rabble, 
 
 Long floods of favour-currying gabble ; 
 
 From four-fold mouth-piece always spinning 
 
 Projects of plausible beginning, 
 
 Whereof said sconce did ne'er intend 
 
 That any one should have an end ; 
 
 Yet still, by shifts and quaint inventions, 
 
 Got credit for its good intentions, 
 
 Adding no trifle to the store 
 
 Wherewith the devil paves his floor. 
 
 Worn out at last, found bare and scrubbish, 
 
 And thrown aside with other rubbish, 
 
 We'll e'en hand o'er the enchanted stick, 
 
 As a choice present for Old Nick, 
 
 To sweep, beyond the Stygian lake, 
 
 The pavement it has helped to make. 
 
 J. L. Peacock. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 IRELAND never was contented. 
 Say you so ? You are demented. 
 Ireland was contented when 
 All could use the sword and pen.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And when Tara rose so high 
 That her turrets split the sky, 
 And about her courts were seen 
 Liveried angels robed in green, 
 Wearing, by St. Patrick's bounty, 
 Emeralds big as half a county, 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 ON SOME ENCROACHMENTS ON THE RIVER. 
 
 " FOUR Scotchmen, by the name of Adams, 
 "Who keep their coaches for their madams," 
 Quoth John, in sulky mood, to Thomas, 
 " Have stole the very river from us." 
 
 O, Scotland ! long it has been said 
 Thy teeth are sharp for English bread ; 
 What ! seize our bread and water too, 
 And use us worse than jailors do ! 
 'Tis true 'tis hard ! 'tis hard 'tis true ! 
 
 Ye friends of George, and friends of James, 
 Envy us not our river Thames : 
 The Princess, fond of rawboned faces, 
 May give you all our posts and places; 
 Take all to gratify your pride, 
 But dip your oatmeal in the Clyde. 
 
 Unkncnun. 
 
 ccxiv. 
 THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID. 
 
 SOON as the day begins to waste, 
 Straight to the well-known door I haste, 
 
 And rapping there, I'm forced to stay 
 While Molly hides her work with care, 
 Adjusts her tucker and her hair, 
 
 And nimble Becky scours away. 
 
 Entering, I see in Molly's eyes 
 A sudden smiling joy arise, 
 
 As quickly check'd by virgin shame : 
 She drops a curtsey, steals a glance, 
 Receives a kiss, one step advance. 
 
 If such I love, am I to blame ?
 
 l6o LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I sit, and talk of twenty things, 
 
 Of South Sea Stock, or death of kings, 
 
 While only " Yes" or " No," says Molly; 
 As cautious she conceals her thoughts, 
 As others do their private faults : 
 
 Is this her prudence, or her folly ? 
 
 Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek, 
 I hang about her snowy neck, 
 
 And cry, " Farewell, my dearest Molly ! " 
 Yet still I hang and still I kiss, 
 Ye learned sages, say, is this 
 
 In me the effect of love, or folly ? 
 
 No both by sober reason move, 
 She prudence shows, and I true love 
 
 No charge of folly can be laid. 
 Then (till the marriage-rites proclaim'd 
 Shall join our hands) let us be named 
 
 The constant swain, and virtuous maid. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 You say you love, and twenty more 
 Have sigh'd, and said the same before. 
 And yet I swear, I can't tell how, 
 I ne'er believed a man till now. 
 
 'Tis strange that I should credit give 
 To words, who know that words deceive ; 
 And lay my better judgment by, 
 To trust my partial ear or eye! 
 
 'Tis ten to one I had denied 
 Your suit had you to-morrow tried; 
 But, faith! unthinkingly, to-day 
 My heedless heart has gone astray. 
 
 To bring it back would give me pain, 
 Perhaps the struggle, too were vain ; 
 I'm indolent, so he that gains 
 My heart, may keep it for his pains. 
 
 Unknown.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM 161 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 FAIR Hebe I left, with a cautious design, 
 
 To escape from her charms, and to drown Love in wine ; 
 
 I tried it, but found, when I came to depart, 
 
 The wine in my head, but still Love in my heart. 
 
 I repair'd to my Reason, entreating her aid, 
 
 Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd: 
 
 Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, 
 
 That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair. 
 
 
 
 That's a truth, replied I, I've no need to be taught, 
 I came for your counsel to find out a fault; 
 If that's all, quoth Reason, return as you came, 
 For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name. 
 
 Earl of De la Warre, 
 
 As I went to the wake that is held on the green, 
 I met with young Phoebe, as blithe as a queen ; 
 A form so Divine might an anchorite move, 
 And I found (tho' a clown) I was smitten with love: 
 So I ask'd for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied, 
 Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied. 
 
 Lovely Phoebe, says I, don't affect to be shy, 
 I vow I will ki?s you here's nobody by; 
 No matter for that, she replied, 'tis the'satne; 
 For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame; 
 So pray let me go, I shall surely be miss'd ; 
 Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kiss'd. 
 
 Lord bless me ! I cried, I'm surprised you refuse j 
 A few harmless kisses but serve to amuse ; 
 The month it is May, and the season for love, 
 So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove. 
 No, Damon, she cried, I must first be your wife, 
 You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life. 
 
 Well, come then, I cried, to the church let us go, 
 But after, dear Phoebe must never say " No."
 
 ,6 2 LYRA F.LEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Do you prove but true, (she replied,) you shall find 
 I'll ever be constant, good-humour'd, and kind. 
 So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says she won't, 
 And I kiss her so much, that I wonder she don't 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 ON LORD KING'S Mono (LABOR IPSE VOLUPTAS.) 
 
 'Tis not the splendour of the place, 
 The gilded coach, the purse, the mace ; 
 Nor all the pompous train of state, 
 With crowds that at your levee wait, 
 That make you happy, make you great. 
 But while mankind you strive to bless, 
 With all the talents you possess ; 
 While the chief pleasure you receive, 
 Arises from the joy you give : 
 This wins the heart, and conquers spite, 
 And makes the heavy burthen light. 
 For Pleasure, rightly understood, 
 Is only labour to be good. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ccxix. 
 
 To A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD ,1704. THE 
 AUTHOR THEN FORTY. 
 
 LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band 
 That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, 
 
 Were summoned by her high command, 
 To show their passions by their letters. 
 
 My pen amongst the rest I took, 
 
 Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 
 
 Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
 The power they have to be obey'd. 
 
 Nor quality, nor reputation, 
 
 Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 
 Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, 
 
 And I may write till she can spell.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 163 
 
 For, while she makes her silkworms' beds 
 
 With all the tender things I swear; 
 Whilst all the house my passion reads, 
 
 In papers round her baby's hair ; 
 
 She may receive and own my flame, 
 
 For, though the strictest prudes should know it, 
 She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 
 
 And I for an unhappy poet. 
 
 Then too, alas ! when she shall tear 
 
 The rhymes some younger rival sends; 
 She'll give me leave to write, I fear, 
 
 And we shall still continue friends. 
 
 For, as our different ages move, 
 
 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it !) 
 That I shall be past making love, 
 
 When she begins to comprehend it. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 AN ODE ON Miss HARRIET HANBURY, Six YEARS OLD. 
 
 WHY should I thus employ my time, 
 To paint those cheeks of rosy hue ? 
 
 Why should I search my brains for rhyme, 
 To sing those eyes of glossy blue ? 
 
 The power as yet is all in vain, 
 
 Thy numerous charms, and various graces : 
 
 They only serve to banish pain, 
 And light up joy in parents' faces. 
 
 But soon those eyes their strength shall feel ; 
 
 Those charms their powerful sway shall find : 
 Youth shall in crowds before you kneel, 
 
 And own your empire o'er mankind. 
 
 Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit, 
 And thousands court your wish'd-for arms ; 
 
 My Muse shall stretch her utmost wit, 
 To sing the victories of your charms.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost, 
 At least while verse like mine endures : 
 
 And future Hanburys shall boast, 
 
 Of verse like mine, of charms like yours. 
 
 A little vain we both may be, 
 
 Since scarce another house can show, 
 
 A poet, that can sing like me ; 
 
 A beauty, that can charm like you. 
 
 Sir Charles H, Williams. 
 
 CCXXI. 
 
 A SONG UPON Miss HARRIET HANBURY, ADDRESSED TO 
 THE REV. MR. BIRT. 
 
 DEAR Doctor of St. Mary's, 
 In the hundred of 'Bergavenny, 
 
 I've seen such a lass, 
 
 With a shape and a face, 
 As never was match'd by any. 
 
 Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty, 
 Has this girl of Ponty-Pool, Sir, 
 
 With eyes that would make 
 
 The toughest heart ache, 
 And the wisest man a fool, Sir. 
 
 At our fair t'other day she appear'd. Sir, 
 
 And the Welshmen all flock'd and view'd her ; 
 And all of them said, 
 She was fit t'have been made 
 A wife for Owen Tudor. 
 
 They would ne'er have been tired of gazing, 
 And so much her charms did please, Sir, 
 
 That all of them sat 
 
 Till their ale grew flat, 
 And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir. 
 
 How happy the lord of the manor, 
 That shall be of her possest, Sir ; 
 For all must agree, 
 Who my Harriet shall see, 
 She's a Harriet of the best, Sir.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 165 
 
 Then pray make a ballad about her ; 
 We know you have wit if you'd show it, 
 
 Then don't be ashamed, 
 
 You can never be blamed, 
 For a prophet is often a poet ! 
 
 But why don't you make one yourself, then ? 
 I suppose I by you shall be told, Sir, 
 
 This beautiful piece 
 
 Of Eve's flesh is my niece 
 And, besides, she's but five years old, Sir ! 
 
 But tho', my dear friend, she's no older, 
 In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir, 
 That this angel at five, 
 Will, if she's alive, 
 Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 CCXXII. 
 
 To MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM, ON RECEIVING FROM 
 HER A PURSE. 
 
 MY gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
 When I was young, and thou no more 
 
 Than plaything for a nurse, 
 I danced and fondled on my knee, 
 A kitten both in size and glee, 
 
 I thank thee for my purse. 
 
 Gold pays the worth of all things here ; 
 But not of love ; that gem's too dear 
 
 For richest rogues to win it ; 
 I therefore, as a proof of love, 
 Esteem thy present far above 
 
 The best things kept within it. 
 
 William Cowfer.
 
 1 66 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 CCXXIII. 
 
 SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLIX 
 
 MY pretty, budding, breathing flower, 
 
 Methinks, if I to-morrow 
 Could manage, just for half an hour, 
 
 Sir Joshua's brush to borrow, 
 I might immortalize a few 
 
 Of all the myriad graces 
 Which Time, while yet they all are new, 
 
 With newer still replaces. 
 
 I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes, 
 
 Their quick and earnest flashes ; 
 I'd paint the fringe that round them lies, 
 
 The fringe of long dark lashes ; 
 I'd draw with most fastidious care 
 
 One eyebrow, then the other, 
 And that fair forehead, broad and fair, 
 
 The forehead of your mother. 
 
 I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek 
 
 Where health in sunshine dances; 
 And oft the pouting lips, where speak 
 
 A thousand voiceless fancies ; 
 And the soft neck would keep me long, 
 
 The neck, more smooth and snowy 
 Than ever yet in schoolboy's song 
 
 Had Caroline or Chloe. 
 
 Nor less on those twin rounded arms 
 
 My new-found skill would linger, 
 Nor less upon the rosy charms 
 
 Of every tiny finger ; 
 Nor slight the small feet, little one, 
 
 So prematurely clever 
 That, though they neither walk nor run, 
 
 I think they'd jump for ever. 
 
 But then your odd endearing ways 
 What study e'er could catch them ? 
 
 Your aimless gestures, endless plays 
 What canvas e'er could match them ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. \(f] 
 
 Your lively leap of merriment, 
 
 Your murmur of petition, 
 Your serious silence of content, 
 
 Your laugh of recognition. 
 
 Here were a puzzling toil, indeed, 
 
 For Art's most fine creations ! 
 Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need, 
 
 To note your transformations, 
 No picture of your form or face, 
 
 Your waking or your sleeping, 
 But that which Love shall daily trace, 
 
 And trust to Memory's keeping. 
 
 Hereafter, when revolving years 
 
 Have made you tall and twenty, 
 And brought you blended hopes and fears, 
 
 And sighs and slaves in plenty, 
 May those who watch our little saint 
 
 Among her tasks and duties, 
 Feel all her virtues hard to paint, 
 
 As now we deem her beauties. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 CCXXIV. 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 THERE are some wishes that may start, 
 
 Nor cloud the brow, nor sting the heart. 
 
 Gladly then would I see how smiled 
 
 One who now fondles with her child ; 
 
 How smiled she but six years ago , 
 
 Herself a child, or nearly so. 
 
 Yes, let me bring before my sight 
 
 The silken tresses chained up tight, 
 
 The tiny fingers tipt with red 
 
 By tossing up the strawberry-bed ; 
 
 Half-open lips, long violet eyes, 
 
 A little rounder with surprise, 
 
 And then (her chin against her knee) 
 
 " Mamma ! who can that stranger be ? 
 
 How grave the smile he smiles on me ! " 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 1 68 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 To A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 THY smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays, 
 
 So beautiful approve thee, 
 So winning light are all thy ways, 
 
 I cannot choose but love thee. 
 Thy balmy breath upon my brow 
 
 Is like the summer air, 
 As o'er my cheek thou leanest now, 
 
 To plant a soft kiss there. 
 
 Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 
 
 Between the child and woman, 
 And thoughts and feelings more profound, 
 
 And other years are coming : 
 And thou shalt be more deeply fair, 
 
 More precious to the heart, 
 But never canst thou be again 
 
 That lovely thing thou art ! 
 
 And youth shall pass, with all the brood 
 
 Of fancy-fed affection ; 
 And grief shall come with womanhood, 
 
 And waken cold reflection 
 Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep, 
 
 O'er pleasures unreturning, 
 Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep 
 
 Unto the cares of morning. 
 
 Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 
 
 Of joyous expectation, 
 Ordain'd to bless the little one 
 
 The freshling of creation ! 
 
 Sidney Walker. 
 
 CCXXVI. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 A PRETTY task, Miss S , to ask 
 
 A Benedictine pen, 
 That cannot quite at freedom write 
 
 Like those of other men.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 169 
 
 No lover's plaint my Muse must paint 
 
 To fill this page's span, 
 But be correct and recollect 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Pray only think for pen and ink 
 
 How hard to get along, 
 That may not turn on words that burn 
 
 Or Love, the life of song ! 
 Nine Muses, if I chooses, I 
 
 May woo all in a clan, 
 But one Miss S 1 daren't address 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Scribblers unwed, with little head 
 
 May eke it out with heart, 
 And in their lays it often plays 
 
 A rare first-fiddle part. 
 They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, 
 
 But if /so began, 
 I have my fears about my ears 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Upon your cheek I may not speak, 
 
 Nor on your lip be warm, 
 I must be wise about your eyes, 
 
 And formal with your form, 
 Of all that sort of thing, in short, 
 
 On T. H. Bayly's plan, 
 I must not twine a single line 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 A watchman's part compels my heart 
 
 To keep you off its beat, 
 And I might dare as soon to swear 
 
 At you as at your feet. 
 I can't expire in passion's fire 
 
 As other poets can 
 My life (she's by) won't let me die 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Shut out from love, denied a dove, 
 
 Forbidden bow and dart, 
 Without a groan to call my own,
 
 I 7 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 With neither hand nor heart, 
 To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd 
 
 To flirt e'en with your fan, 
 Here end, as just a friend, I must 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 CCXXVII. 
 
 VALENTINE. 
 To the Honble. M. C. Stanhope. 
 
 HAIL, day of music, day of Love, 
 
 On earth below, in air above. 
 
 In air the turtle fondly moans, 
 
 The linnet pipes in joyous tones ; 
 
 On earth the postman toils along, 
 
 Bent double by huge bales of song, 
 
 Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye, 
 
 Blazes all Cupid's heraldry 
 
 Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows, 
 
 Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. 
 
 What nymph without wild hopes and fears 
 
 The double rap this morning hears ! 
 
 Unnumbered lasses, young and fair, 
 
 From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, 
 
 With cheeks high flush'd, and hearts loud beating, 
 
 Await the tender annual greeting. 
 
 The loveliest lass of all is mine 
 
 Good morrow to my Valentine ! 
 
 Good morrow, gentle child ! and then 
 
 Again good morrow, and again, 
 
 Good morrow following still good morrow, 
 
 Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. 
 
 And when the god to whom we pay 
 
 In jest our homages to-day 
 
 Shall come to claim, no more in jest, 
 
 His rightful empire o'er thy breast, 
 
 Benignant may his aspect be, 
 
 His yoke the truest liberty : 
 
 And if a tear his power confess, 
 
 Be it a tear of happiness. 
 
 It shall be so. The Muse displays 
 
 The future to her votary's gaze ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARVM. 171 
 
 Prophetic rage my bosom swells 
 I taste the cake I hear the bells ! 
 From Conduit Street the close array 
 Of chariots barricades the way 
 To where I see, with outstretch'd hand, 
 Majestic, thy great kinsman stand, 
 And half unbend his brow of pride, 
 As welcoming so fair a bride. 
 Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow, 
 Brighten St. George's portico : 
 Within I see the chancel's pale, 
 The orange flowers, the Brussels veil, 
 The page on which those fingers white, 
 Still trembling from the awful rite, 
 For the last time shall faintly trace 
 The name of Stanhope's noble race. 
 I see kind faces round thee pressing, 
 I hear kind voices whisper blessing ; 
 And with those voices mingles mine 
 All good attend my Valentine ! 
 
 Thomas, Lord Macaulay. 
 
 ccxxvnr. 
 NEIGHBOUR NELLY. 
 
 I'M in love with neighbour Nelly, 
 
 Though I know she's only ten, 
 While, alas, I'm eight-and -forty 
 
 And the marriedest of men ! 
 I've a wife who weighs me double, 
 
 I've three daughters, all with beaux'. 
 I've a son with noble whiskers, 
 
 Who at me turns up his nose 
 
 Though a square-toes, and a fogey, 
 
 Still I've sunshine in my heart: 
 Still I'm fond of cakes and marbles, 
 
 Can appreciate a tart 
 I can love my neighbour Nelly 
 
 Just as tho' I were a boy : 
 I could hand her nuts and apples 
 
 From my depths of corduroy.
 
 172 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 She is tall, and growing taller, 
 
 She is vigorous of limb : 
 (You should see her play at cricket 
 
 With her little brother Jim). 
 She has eyes as blue as damsons, 
 
 She has pounds of auburn curls, 
 She regrets the game of leapfrog 
 
 Is prohibited to girls. 
 
 I adore my neighbour Nelly, 
 
 I invite her in to tea : 
 And I let her nurse the baby 
 
 All her pretty ways to see. 
 Such a darling bud of woman, 
 
 Yet remote from any teens, 
 I have learnt from neighbour Nelly 
 
 What the girl's doll-instinct means. 
 
 Oh ! to see her with the baby ! 
 
 He adores her more than I, 
 How she choruses his crowing, 
 
 How she hushes every cry ! 
 How she loves to pit his dimples 
 
 With her light forefinger deep, 
 How she boasts to me in triumph 
 
 When she's got him off to sleep ! 
 
 We must part, my neighbour Nelly, 
 
 For the summers quickly flee ; 
 And your middle-aged admirer 
 
 Must supplanted quickly be. 
 Yet as jealous as a mother, 
 
 A distemper'd canker'd churl, 
 I look vainly for the setting 
 
 To be worthy such a pearl. 
 
 Robert B. Brough. 
 
 CCXXIX. 
 
 O THOU art the lad of my heart, Willy, 
 There's love, and there's life, and grace 
 
 There's a cheer in thy voice and thy bounding step, 
 And there's bliss in thy blithesome face ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But O, how my heart was tried, Willy, 
 
 For little I thought to see 
 That the lad who won the lasses all 
 
 Would ever be won by me. 
 
 Adown this path we came, Willy, 
 
 "Twas jusc at the hour of eve ; 
 And will he, or will he not, I thought, 
 
 My fluttering heart relieve ? 
 So oft we paused as we saimter'd on, 
 
 'Twas fear, and hope and fear ; 
 But here, at the wood, as we parting stood, 
 
 'Twas rapture his vows to hear ! 
 
 Of vows so soft thy vows, Willy ! 
 
 Who would not, like me, be proud ; 
 Sweet lark, with thy soaring, echoing song, 
 
 Come down from thy rosy cloud, 
 Come down to thy nest, and tell thy mate 
 
 But tell thy mate alone 
 Thou hast seen a maid whose heart of love 
 
 Is as merry and light as thy own. 
 
 W. Smyth. 
 
 ccxxx. 
 THE FAIR THIEF. 
 
 BEFORE the urchin well could go, 
 She stole the whiteness of the snow ; 
 And more, that whiteness to adorn, 
 She stole the blushes of the morn : 
 Stole all the sweets that ether sheds 
 On primrose buds or violet beds. 
 
 Still, to reveal her artful wiles, 
 She stole the Graces' silken smiles: 
 She stole Aurora's balmy breath, 
 And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth ; 
 The cherry, dipt in morning dew, 
 Gave moisture to her lips and hue. 
 
 These were her infant spoils, a store 
 To which, in time, she added more ; 
 
 173
 
 174 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen 
 Her air and love-commanding mien ; 
 Stole Juno's dignity, and stole 
 From Pallas sense to charm the soul. 
 
 Apollo's wit was next her prey, 
 Her next the beam that lights the day ; 
 She sung ; amazed the Syrens heard ; 
 And to assert their voice appear'd : 
 She play'd ; the Muses from the hill 
 Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill. 
 
 Great Jove approved her crimes and art ; 
 And t'other day she stole my heart. 
 If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, 
 Exert thy vengeance on this fair ; 
 To trial bring her stolen charms, 
 And let her prison be thy arms. 
 
 Earl of Egremont. 
 CCXXXI. 
 
 LOVE WHAT IT Is. 
 
 LOVE is a circle, that doth restless move 
 In the same sweet eternity of love. 
 
 Robert Her rick. 
 
 NEED. 
 
 WHO begs to die for fear of human need, 
 Wisheth his body, not his soul, good speed. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 CCLXXXIII. 
 THE ADVANTAGE OF FOREKNOWLEDGE, 
 
 IF man might know 
 
 The ill he must undergo, 
 
 And shun it so, 
 
 Then it were good to know :
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But if he undergo it, 
 Though he know it ? 
 What bools him know it, 
 He must undergo it 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 ccxxxiv. 
 
 TREASON doth never prosper What's the reason ? 
 If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason. 
 
 Sir John Harrington. 
 
 ccxxxv. 
 
 NONE, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair, 
 But love can hope when reason would despair. 
 
 George, Lord Lyttetton. 
 
 CCXXXVI. 
 
 To MADAME DE DAMAS LEARNING ENGLISH. 
 
 THOUGH British accents your attention fire, 
 You cannot learn so fast as we admire. 
 Scholars like you but slowly can improve, 
 For who would teach you but the verb " I love." 
 
 Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford. 
 
 CCXXXVI I. 
 
 As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
 So modest ease in beauty shines most bright, 
 Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall, 
 And she who means no mischief does it all. 
 
 Aaron Hill. 
 
 CCXXXVI 1 1. 
 
 I LOVED thee, beautiful and kind, 
 
 And plighted an eternal vow ; 
 So alter'd are thy face and mind, 
 
 'Twere perjury to love thee now. 
 
 Robert, Earl A T ugent. 
 
 '75
 
 ,-g LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCXXX1X. 
 
 IGNORANCE OF BOTANY. 
 
 I HARDLY know one flower that grows 
 
 On my small garden plot ; 
 Perhaps I may have seen a Rose, 
 
 And said, Forget-me-Not. 
 
 WalterS. Landor. 
 
 CCXL. 
 
 WHERE ARE SIGHS. 
 
 UNLESS my senses are more dull, 
 Sighs are become less plentiful. 
 Where are they all ? these many years 
 Only my own have reach'd my ears. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCXLI. 
 
 ON ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 HE pass'd thro' life's tempestuous night, 
 A brilliant, trembling, northern light ; 
 Thro' years to come he'll shine from far, 
 A fix'd unsetting, polar star. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 CCXLI I. 
 
 MY heart still hovering round about you 
 I thought I could not live without you : 
 But since we've been three months asunder, 
 How I lived -with you is the wonder. 
 
 Unknown.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 177 
 
 " 
 
 CCXLIII. 
 
 ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, Miss ELLEN TREE. 
 
 ON this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings, 
 The Tree will return her as good as she brings. 
 
 Henry Lutlrell. 
 
 CCXLIV. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY'S MILTON. 
 
 WITH virtue such as vours had Eve been arm'd. 
 In vain the fruit had blush'd, the serpent charm'd. 
 Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought, 
 Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CCXLV. 
 
 THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKING-GLASS TO 
 VENUS. 
 
 VENUS, take my votive glass ; 
 Since I am not what I was, 
 What from this day 1 shall be, 
 Venus, let me never see. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CCXLVI. 
 
 MYRTILLA, early on the lawn, 
 Steals roses from the blushing dawn; 
 But when Myrtilla sleeps till ten, 
 Aurora steals them back again ? 
 
 Unknown.
 
 I7 8 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCXLVII. 
 
 ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG PRESENTED BY MR. POPE TO 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES. 
 
 I AM His Highness' dog at Kew ; 
 Pray, tell me, sir, whose dog are you ? 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 CCXLVIII. 
 
 ON THE GREEK SCHOLAR GOTTFRIED HERMANN. 
 A Syllogism, with the Conclusion Suppressed. 
 
 THE Germans in Greek 
 Are sadly to seek ; 
 Not five in five-score 
 But ninety-five more ; 
 All save only Hermann, 
 And Hermann's a German. 
 
 Richard Person. 
 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 WHEN late I attempted your pity to move, 
 What made you so deaf to my prayers : 
 
 Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, 
 But why did you kick me down stairs ? 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ecu 
 
 JOB. 
 
 SLY Beelzebub took all occasions 
 To try Job's constancy and patience. 
 He took his honour, took his health ; 
 He took his children, took his wealth, 
 His servants, horses, oxen, cows, 
 But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 179 
 
 But Heaven, that brings out good for evil, 
 
 And loves to disappoint the devil, 
 
 Had predetermined to restore 
 
 Twofold all he had before ; 
 
 His servants, horses, oxen, cows 
 
 Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse ! 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 CCLI. 
 
 LORD Erskine, on woman presuming to rail, 
 Calls a wife " a tin canister tied to one's tail ; " 
 And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on, 
 Seems hurt at his Lordshp's degrading comparison. 
 But wherefore degrading ? consider'd aright, 
 A canister's polish'd, and useful, and bright: 
 And should dirt its original purity hide, 
 That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied. 
 
 Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
 CCLI I. 
 COLOGNE. 
 
 IN Koln, a town of monks and bones, 
 
 And pavement fang'd with murderous stones, 
 
 And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; 
 
 I counted two-and-seventy stenches, 
 
 All well defined, and several stinks ! 
 
 Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 
 
 The river Rhine, it is well known, 
 
 Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 
 But tell me, nymphs ! what power divine 
 Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 CCLI 1 1. 
 
 To SLEEP. 
 
 COME, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer, 
 And, tho' Death's image, to my couch repair; 
 How sweet, tho' lifeless, yet with life to lie, 
 And without dying, O, how sweet to die ! 
 
 John Wolcot.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 CCLIV. 
 
 To BEN JONSON. 
 
 AH Ben ! 
 , Say how or when 
 
 Shall we, thy guests, 
 Meet at those lyric feasts, 
 
 Made at the Sun, 
 The Dog, the Triple-Tim ; 
 Where we such clusters had, 
 As made us nobly wild, not mad f 
 
 And yet each verse of thine 
 Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. 
 
 My Ben ! 
 O come again, 
 Or send to us 
 Thy wits' great overplus ; 
 
 But teach us yet 
 Wisely to husband it, 
 Lest we that talent spend ; 
 And having once brought to an end 
 
 That precious stock, the store 
 Of such a wit, the world should have no more. 
 
 Robert Her rick. 
 
 CCLI. 
 
 UNDERNEATH a myrtle shade, 
 On a bank of roses laid, 
 Let me drink, and let me play, 
 Let me revel all the day. 
 
 Love, descending from his state, 
 On my festivals shall wait; 
 Love among my slaves shall shine, 
 And attend to fill me wine. 
 
 Swift as chariot-wheels we fly, 
 To the minute we must die; 
 Then we moulder in an urn, 
 Then we shall to dust return.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. i5l 
 
 Then in vain you'll 'noint my tomb 
 With your oils and your perfume ; 
 Rather let them now be mine, 
 Roses round my temples twine. 
 
 You who love me now I live, 
 Give me what you have to give ; 
 Let Elysium be my care, 
 When the Gods shall send me there. 
 
 John Oldmixon. 
 
 CCLVI 
 
 ON A FLY DRINKING OUT OF His CUP. 
 
 BUSY, curious, thirsty fly ! 
 Drink with me, and drink as I. 
 Freely welcome to my cup, 
 Couldst thou sip and sip it up : 
 Make the most of life you may ; 
 Life is short and wears away. 
 
 Both alike are mine and thine, 
 Hastening quick to their decline, 
 Thine's a summer, mine no more, 
 Though repeated to threescore. 
 Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
 Will appear as short as one ! 
 
 William Oldys. 
 
 CCLVI I. 
 
 THE Sages of old, 
 
 In prophecy told, 
 The cause of a nation's undoing ; 
 
 But our new English breed 
 
 No prophecies need, 
 For each one here seeks his own ruin. 
 
 With grumbling and jars, 
 
 We promote civil wars, 
 And preach up false tenets to many ; 
 
 We snarl, and we bite, 
 
 We rail, and we fight 
 For Religion, yet no man has any.
 
 182 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then him let's commend, 
 
 That is true to his friend, 
 And the Church, and the Senate would settle ; 
 
 Who delights not in blood, 
 
 But draws when he should, 
 And bravely stands brunt to the battle. 
 
 Who rails not at kings, 
 
 Nor at politick things, 
 Nor treason will speak when he's mellow: 
 
 But takes a full glass, 
 
 To his country's success ; 
 This, this is an honest, brave fellow. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCLVIII. 
 
 SAYS Plato, why should man be vain 
 
 Since Bounteous heaven has made him great ? 
 Why look with insolent disdain 
 
 On those undecked with wealth or state ? 
 Can splendid robes or beds of down, 
 
 Or costly gems to deck the fair, 
 Can all the glories of a crown 
 
 Give health, or ease the brow of care. 
 
 The sceptred king, the burthen'd slave, 
 
 The humble, and the haughty, die : 
 The rich, the poor, the base, the brave, 
 
 In dust without distinction lie ! 
 Go, search the tombs where monarchs rest, 
 
 Who once the greatest titles bore, 
 The wealth and glory they possessed, 
 
 And all their honors, are no more I 
 
 So glides the meteor through the sky, 
 
 And spreads along a glided tram - 
 But when its short lived beauties die, 
 
 Dissolves to common air again 
 So 'tis with us, my jovial souls ! 
 
 Let friendship feign while here we stay ; 
 Let's crown our jobs with flowing bowls. 
 
 When Jove us calls we must awav. 
 
 Unknown, 

 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 183 
 
 WITH an honest old friend and a merry old song, 
 And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long, 
 And laugh at the malice of those who repine 
 That they must drink porter whilst I can drink wine. 
 
 I envy no mortal tho' ever so great, 
 Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ; 
 But what I abhor and esteem as a curse, 
 Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse. 
 
 Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay, 
 Let us merrily pass life's remainder away ; 
 Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise, 
 For the more we are envied, the higher we rise. 
 
 Henry Carey. 
 
 CCLX, 
 CATO'S ADVICE. 
 
 WHAT Cato advises most certainly wise is, 
 Not always to labor, but sometimes to play, 
 
 To mingle sweet pleasure with thirst after treasure, 
 Indulging at night for the toils of the day : 
 
 And while the dull miser esteems himself wiser 
 His bags to increase, while his health does decay, 
 
 Our souls we enlighten, our fancy we brighten, 
 And pass the long evenings in pleasure away. 
 
 All cheerful and hearty, we set aside party, 
 
 With some tender fair the bright bumper is crown'd ; 
 
 Thus Bacchus invites us, and Venus delights us, 
 While care in an ocean of claret is drown'd. 
 
 See here's our physician, we know no ambition, 
 
 But where there's good wine and good company found; 
 
 Thus happy together, in spite of all weather, 
 
 'Tis sunshine and summer with us all the year round ! 
 
 Henry Carey.
 
 I$4 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCLXI. 
 
 GOOD OLD THINGS. 
 
 IN the days of my youth I've been frequently told, 
 
 That the best of good things are despised when they're old, 
 
 Yet I own, I'm so lost in the modes of this life, 
 
 As to prize an old friend, and to love an old wife ; 
 
 And the first of enjoyments, thro' life, has been mine, 
 
 To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 In this gay world, new fashions spring up every day, 
 
 And to make room for them, still the old must give way ; 
 
 A new fav'rite at Court will an old one displace, 
 
 And too oft an old friend will put on a new face : 
 
 Yet the pride, pomp, and splendour of courts I'd resign, 
 
 To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 With old England, by some folks, great faults have been 
 
 found, 
 Tho' they've since found much greater on New England's 
 
 ground, 
 
 And the thief a new region transportedly hails, 
 Quitting Old England's coast for a trip to New Wales : 
 But such transporting trips, pleased with home, I'd decline, 
 To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 By the bright golden sun, that gives birth to the day, 
 Tho' as old as the globe which he gilds with his ray, 
 And the moon, which, tho' new, every month, as v;e're told, 
 Is the same silver lamp near six thousand years old 
 Could the lamp of my life last while sun and moon shine, 
 I'd regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 Collins. 
 
 CCLXLIL 
 
 IF all be true that I do think, 
 There are five reasons we should drink; 
 Good wine a friend or being dry 
 Or lest we should be by and by 
 Or any other reason why. 
 
 Dr. Henry Aldrich.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 185 
 
 CCLXIII. 
 
 ON BREAKING A CHINA QUART-MUG BELONGING xc 
 THE SOCIETY OF LINCOLN COLLEGE, OXFORD 
 
 WHENE'ER the cruel hand of death 
 Untimely stops a favourite's breath. 
 Muses in plaintive numbers tell 
 How loved he lived how mourn'd he fell ; 
 Catullus wail'd his sparrow's fate, 
 And Gray immortalised his cat. 
 Thrice tuneful bards ! could I but chime so clever, 
 My quart, my honest quart, should live for ever. 
 
 How weak is all a mortal's power 
 T'avert the death-devoted hour ! 
 Nor can a shape, or beauty save 
 From the sure conquest of the grave. 
 In vain the butler's choicest care, 
 The master's wish, the bursar's prayer ! 
 
 For when life's lengthen'd to its longest span, 
 
 China itself must fall, as well as man. 
 
 Can I forget how oft my quart 
 
 Has soothed my care, and warm'd my heart ? 
 
 When barley lent its balmy aid, 
 
 And all its liquid charms display'd ! 
 
 When orange and the nut-brown toast 
 
 Swam mantling round the spicy coast ! 
 
 The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes, 
 
 Nor envied Jove the nectar of the skies. 
 
 The side-board, on that fatal day, 
 When you in glittering ruins lay, 
 Moum'd at thy loss in guggling tone 
 Decanters poured out their moan 
 A dimness hung on every glass 
 Joe wonder'd what the matter was 
 Corks, self-contracted, freed the frantic beer, 
 And sympathising tankards dropt a tear.
 
 ,86 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Where are the flowery wreaths that bound 
 In rosy rings thy chaplets round ? 
 The azure stars whose glittering rays 
 Promised a happier length of days ! 
 The trees that on thy border grew, 
 And blossom'd with eternal blue ! 
 Trees, stars, and. flowers are scatter'd on the floor, 
 And all thy brittle beauties are no more. 
 
 Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth, 
 Had Nottingham but given thee birth ! 
 Or had thy variegated side 
 Of Stafford's sable hue been dyed, 
 Thy stately fabric had been found, 
 Though tables tumbled on the ground. 
 
 The finest mould the soonest will decay; 
 
 Hear this, ye fair, for you yourselves are clay ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 THE COUNTRY WEDDING. 
 
 ALL you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Hall beer, 
 Or ever cried " roast-meat" for having been there, 
 To crown your good cheer, pray accept of a catch, 
 Now Harry and Betty have struck up a match ! 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 As things may fall out which nobody would guess, 
 So it happens that Harry should fall in with Bess : 
 May they prove to each other a mutual relief; 
 To their plenty of carrots, I wish 'em some beef ! 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 She had a great talent at roast-meat and boil'd, 
 And seldom it was that her pudding was spoil'd ; 
 Renown'd, too, for dumpling, and dripping-pan sop; 
 At handling a dish-clout, and twirling a mop. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 To kitchen-stuff only her thoughts did aspire, 
 Yet wit she'd enough to keep out of the fire : 
 And though in some things she was short of the fox, 
 It is said, she had twenty good pounds in her box. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 787 
 
 Now we've told you the bride's rare descent and estate, 
 'Tis fit that the bridegroom's good parts we relate 
 As honest a ploughman as e'er held a plough, 
 As trusty a carter as e'er cried, " Gee-ho! " 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down 1 
 
 So lovingly he with his cattle agreed, 
 That seldom a lash for his whip he had need : 
 When a man is so gentle and kind to his horse, 
 His wife may expect that he'll not use her worse. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 With industry he has collected the pence, 
 In thirty good pounds there's a great deal of sense, 
 And though he suspected ne'er was of a plot, 
 None yet in good-humor e'er called him a sot. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 For brewing we hardly shall meet with his fellow, 
 His beer is well hopt, clear, substantial, and mellow : 
 He brew'd the good liquor, she made the good cake, 
 And as they have brew'd even so let them bake. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 Your shoes he can cobble, she mend your old clothes, 
 And both are ingenious at darning of hose : 
 Then since he has gotten the length of her foot, 
 As they make their own bed, so pray let them go to't. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down 1 
 
 Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl, 
 Whilst rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal: 
 Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan, 
 Hit 'em each on the nose with the hose, if ye can. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 May her wheel and his plough be so happily sped, 
 With the best in the parish to hold up their head : 
 May he load his own wagon with butter and cheese, 
 Whilst she rides to market with turkeys and geese. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 May he be churchwarden, and yet come to church, 
 Nor when in his office take on him too much : 
 May she meet due respect, without scolding or strife, 
 And live to drink tea with the minister's wifcl 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down I
 
 I $8 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Rejoice ye good fellows that love a good bit, 
 To see thus united the tap and the spit ; 
 For as bread is the staff of man's life, so you know 
 Good drink is the switch makes it merrily go. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 Then drink to good neighborhood, plenty, and peace, 
 That our taxes may lessen, and weddings increase : 
 Let the high and the low, like good subjects, agree 
 Till the courtiers, for shame, grow as honest as we. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 Let conjugal love be the pride of each swain, 
 Let true-hearted maids have no cause to complain : 
 To the Church pay her dues, to their Majesties honour, 
 And homage and rent to the lord of the manor. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCLXV. 
 
 To hug yourself in perfect ease, 
 
 What could you wish for more than these ? 
 
 A healthy, clean, paternal seat. 
 
 Well shaded from the summer's heat : 
 
 A little parlour-stove, to hold 
 
 A constant fire from winter's cold ; 
 
 Where you may sit and think, and sing, 
 
 Far off from Court " God bless the King ! " 
 
 Safe from the harpies of the law, 
 From party rage, and great man's paw ; 
 Have few choice friends to your own taste, 
 A wife agreeable and chaste ; 
 
 An open, but yet cautious mind, 
 Where guilty cares no entrance find ; 
 Nor miser's fears, nor envy's spite, 
 To break the Sabbath of the night. 
 
 Plain equipage, and temperate meals, 
 Few tailor's, and no doctor's bills ; 
 Content to take, as Heaven shall please, 
 A longer or a shorter lease. 
 
 William Bedingfield.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCLXVI. 
 
 189 
 
 WHEN I'm dead, on my tomb-stone I hope they will say ; 
 
 Here lies an old fellow, the foe of all care ; 
 With the juice of the grape he would moisten his clay, 
 And, wherever he went, frolic follow'd him there. 
 With the young he would laugh, 
 With the old he would quaff, 
 
 And banish afar all traces of sorrow : 
 Old Jerome would say 
 " Though the sun sinks to-day, 
 It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow." 
 
 Tho' the snows of old age now may whiten his brow, 
 
 It never by gloom was a moment e'ercast ; 
 His age, like the sunset that gleams on us now, 
 
 Chased away with its brightness the clouds to the last 
 With the young he would laugh, 
 With the old he would quaff, 
 
 And banish afar all traces of sorrow : 
 Old Jerome would say 
 " Though the sun sinks to-day, 
 It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow." 
 
 Samuel Beazley. 
 
 CCLXVII. 
 
 THE TOPER'S APOLOGY. 
 
 I'M often ask'd by plodding souls, 
 
 And men of crafty tongue, 
 What joy I take in draining bowls, 
 
 And tippling all night long. 
 Now, tho' these cautious knaves I scorn, 
 
 For once I'll not disdain 
 To tell them why I sit till morn, 
 
 And fill my glass again : 
 
 'Tis by the glow my bumper gives 
 Life's picture's mellow made ; 
 
 The fading light cheu brightly lives, 
 And softly sinks the shade ;
 
 190 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Some happier tint still rises there 
 
 With every drop I drain 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 My Muse, too, when her wings are dry 
 
 No frolic flight will take ; 
 But round a bowl she'll dip and fly, 
 
 Like swallows round a lake. 
 Then if the nymph will have her share, 
 
 Before she'll bless her swain 
 Why that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 In life I've rung all changes too, 
 
 Run every pleasure down, 
 Tried all extremes of Fancy through, 
 
 And lived with half the town ; 
 For me there's nothing new or rare, 
 
 Till wine deceives my brain 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Then, many a lad I liked is dead, 
 
 And many a lass grown old ; 
 And as the lesson strikes my head, 
 
 My weary heart grows cold. 
 But wine, awhile, drives off despair, 
 
 Nay, bid's a hope remain 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state 
 
 In these convulsive days, 
 I can't endure the ruin'd fate 
 
 My sober eye surveys ; 
 But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare, 
 
 I see the gloom less plain 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 I find too when I stint my glass, 
 
 And sit with sober air, 
 I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass 
 
 Who treads the path of care ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. jg 
 
 Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear 
 
 Some coxcomb's fribbling strain 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too, 
 
 With different holds entwine ? 
 While nought but death can some undo, 
 
 There's some give way to wine, 
 With me the lighter head I wear 
 
 The lighter hangs the chain 
 And that I think a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 And now I'll tell, to end my song, 
 
 At what I most repine ; 
 This cursed war, or right or wrong, 
 
 Is war against all wine ; 
 Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare 
 
 As juice of France or Spain 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Captain Charles Morris, 
 
 CCLXVIII. 
 
 FAREWELL ! but whenever you welcome the hour, 
 That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
 Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too 
 And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
 His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
 Of the few that have brightened this pathway of pain, 
 But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw 
 Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. 
 
 And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
 
 To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, 
 
 Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
 
 My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night : 
 
 Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
 
 And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles 
 
 Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
 
 Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here !'
 
 1 9 2 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
 Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; 
 Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
 And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! 
 Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 CCLXIX. 
 
 THE SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 WITH deep affection, 
 And recollection, 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would, 
 In the days of childhood, 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 On this I ponder 
 Whene'er I wander, 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork, of thee ; 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand oil 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming 
 Full many a clime in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine, 
 While at a glib rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate 
 But all this music 
 
 Spoke nought like thine ; 
 For memory dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of the belfry knelling 
 
 Its bold notes free,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tolling 
 Old " Adrian's Mole " in, 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican, 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of N6tre Dame ; 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 
 Pealing solemnly ; 
 
 ! the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow 
 While on tower and kiosk O ! 
 In Saint Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets ; 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer 
 From the tapering summit 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 Such empty phantom 
 
 1 freely grant them ; 
 But there is an anthem 
 
 More dear to me, 
 'Tisthe bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 Frank Mahony,
 
 194 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 CCLXX. 
 
 To THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 MY boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here's a sigh to those that love me r 
 And a smile to those who hate ; 
 
 And whatever sky's above me, 
 Here's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me, 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were't the last drop in the. well, 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be peace with thine and mine, 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore . 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 CCLXXI. 
 
 IN his last binn Sir Peter lies, 
 
 Who knew not what it was to frown : 
 Death took him mellow, by surprise, 
 
 And in his cellar stopp'd him down. 
 Thro' all our land we could not boast 
 
 A knight more gay, more prompt than he, 
 To rise and fill a bumper toast, 
 
 And pass it round with three times three.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 195 
 
 None better knew the feast to sway, 
 
 Or keep mirth's boat in better trim ; 
 For nature had but little clay 
 
 Like that of which she moulded him. 
 The meanest guest that grac'd his board 
 
 Was there the freest of the free, 
 His bumper toast when Peter pour'd, 
 
 And pass'd it round with three times three. 
 
 He kept at true good humour's mark 
 
 The social flow of pleasure's tide : 
 He never made a brow look dark, 
 
 Nor caused a tear, but when he died. 
 No sorrow round his tomb should dwell : 
 
 More pleased his gay old ghost would be, 
 For funeral song, and passing bell, 
 
 To hear no sound but three times three. 
 
 Thomas L. Peacock. 
 
 CCLXXII. 
 
 FILL the goblet again ! for I never before 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core : 
 Let us drink ! who would not ? since, thro' life's varied round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 
 
 I have loved ! who has not ? but what heart can declare 
 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 I had friends ! who has not ? but what tongue will avow, 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are as faithful as thou ? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never can'st change; 
 Thou grow'st old who does not? but on earth what ap- 
 pears, 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
 We are jealous ! who's not ? thou hast no such alloy, 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
 
 196 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 There we find do we not ? in the flow of the soul, 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
 And misery's triumph commenc'd over mirth, 
 Hope was left, was she not ? but the goblet we kiss, 
 And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 CCLXXIII. 
 THE UPAS IN MARYBONE-LANE. 
 
 A TREE grew in Java, whose pestilent rind 
 A venom distill'd of the deadliest kind ; 
 The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw, 
 And who return'd safe, pleaded pardon by law. 
 
 Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale, 
 Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale : 
 How few the reward of their victory earn'.l, 
 For ninety-nine perish'd for one who return'd ! 
 
 Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer, 
 Remov'd it thro' Holland, and planted it here ; 
 'Tis now a stock plant, of the genus wolf's-bane, 
 And one of them blossoms in Marybone-lane. 
 
 The house that surrounds it stands first in a row, 
 Two doors, at right angles, swing open beiow ; 
 And the children of misery daily steal in, 
 And the poison they draw we denominate GIN. 
 
 There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy, 
 The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy, 
 The serving-maid slim, and the serving-man stout, 
 They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out. 
 
 Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth erect, 
 Apparently baffling its deadly effect; 
 But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives, 
 And ninety-nine perish for one who survives.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I 97 
 
 They cautious advance with slouch'd bonnet and hat, 
 They enter at this door, they go out at that ; 
 Some bear off their burthen with riotous glee, 
 But most sink, in sleep, at the foot of the tree. 
 
 Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart, 
 This compound of crime, at a guinea a quart ; 
 Let gin fetch, per bottle, the price of champagne, 
 And hew down the Upas in Marybone-lane. 
 
 James Smith. 
 
 CCLXXIV. 
 
 LINES SUNG AT THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES KEMBLE 
 WHEN HE RETIRED FROM THE STAGE. 
 
 FAREWELL! all good wishes go with him to-day, 
 Rich in name, rich in fame, he has play'd out the play. 
 Though the sock and the buskin for aye be removed 
 Still he serves in the train of the drama he loved. 
 We now who surround him, would make some amends 
 For past years of enjoyment we court him as friends. 
 Our chief, nobly born, genius crown'd, our zeal shares, 
 O, his coronet's hid by the laurel he wears. 
 
 Shall we never again see his spirit infuse 
 Life, life in the gay gallant forms of the Muse, 
 Through the lovers and heroes of Shakespeare he ran, 
 All the soul of a soldier, the heart of the man 
 Shall we never in Cyprus his spirit retrace, 
 See him stroll into Angiers with indolent gra 
 Or greet him in bonnet at fair Dunsinane 
 Or meet him in moonlight Verona again ! 
 
 Let the curtain come down. Let the scene pass away 
 There's an autumn when summer has squander'd her day : 
 \Ve sit by the fire when we can't by the lamp, 
 And re-people the banquet, re-soldier the camp. 
 O, nothing can rob us of memory's gold : 
 And though he quit the gorgeous, and we may grow old, 
 With our Shakespeare in hand, and bright forms in our brain, 
 We can dream up our Siddons and Kembles again. 
 
 y. Hamilton Reynolds.
 
 ijS LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCLXXV. 
 
 SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself, 
 They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, 
 They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, 
 But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 I sit at my table en grand seigneur, 
 
 And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor ; 
 
 Not only the pleasure itself of good living, 
 
 But also the pleasure of now and then giving : 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, 
 And how one ought never to think of one's-self, 
 How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking, 
 My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 LE DINER. 
 
 Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past, 
 
 And he who came first had to wait for the last ; 
 
 The oysters ere this had been in and been out ; 
 
 While I have been sitting and thinking about 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 A clear soup with eggs ; -viola tout ; of the fish 
 The Jiff ts de sole are a moderate dish 
 A la Orly, but you're for red mullet, you say: 
 By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 After oysters, Sauterne ; then Sherry ; Champagne, 
 Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 
 Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, 
 And tell to our ears in the sound that we love 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 199 
 
 I've the simplest of palates ; absurd it may be, 
 But I almost could dine on a poulet-au-riz, 
 Fish and soup and omelette and that but the deuce 
 There were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Kusse ! 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho I 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock, 
 Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc ; 
 St. Peray is exquisite ; but, if you please, 
 Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ' 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense 
 I've seen it observed by a writer of sense, 
 That the labouring classes could scarce live a day, 
 If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. 
 
 So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend, 
 Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend, 
 And so suppose now, while the things go away, 
 By way of a grace we all stand up and say 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 PARVENANT. 
 
 I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets, 
 When I look at the number of persons one meets, 
 Whate'er in the world the poor devils can do 
 Whose fathers and mothers can't give them a sous, 
 
 So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 I ride, and I drive, and I care not a d n, 
 
 The people look up and they ask who I am ; 
 And if I should chance to run over a cad, 
 I can pay for the damage, if ever so bad. 
 
 So useful it is to have money, -heigh-ho! 
 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 It was but this winter I came up to town, 
 And already I'm gaining a sort of renown ;
 
 30 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 Find my way to good houses without much ado, 
 Am beginning to see the nobility too. 
 
 So useful it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 O dear what a pity they ever should lose it, 
 
 Since they are the people who know how to use it ; 
 
 So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners ; 
 
 And yet, after all, it is we are the winners. 
 
 So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 It is all very well to be handsome and tall, 
 "Which certainly makes you look well at a ball, 
 It's all very well to be clever and witty, 
 But if you are poor, why it's only a pity. 
 
 So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 There's something undoubtedly in a fine air, 
 To know how to smile and be able to stare. 
 High breeding is something, but well bred or not, 
 In the end the one question is, what have you got ? 
 
 So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 And the angels in pink and the angels in blue, 
 In muslins and moires so lovely and new, 
 What is it they want, and so wish you to guess, 
 But if you have money, the answer is yes, 
 
 So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 Arthur If. Cloitgh. 
 
 CCLXXVI. 
 
 THE GOLDEN FARMER. 
 
 WHILE I'm blest with health and plenty, 
 Let me live a jolly, jolly dog ; 
 
 For as blythe as five-and-twenty, 
 Thro' the world I wish to jog
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 As for greater folks or richer, 
 
 While I pay both scot and lot, 
 And enjoy my friend and pitcher, 
 
 I've a kingdom in a cot 1 
 
 Flocks and herds in fields, all nigh too, 
 Corn and clover, beans and pease, 
 
 And in hen yard, pond and stye too, 
 Pigs and poultry, ducks and geese. 
 
 While my farm thus cuts a dash too, 
 
 Poor folks daily labouring on't, 
 Who plough, sow, and reap, and thrash too, 
 
 I'll be thrash' d if they shall want. 
 
 He who sticks his knife in roast meat, 
 
 And for numbers has to carve, 
 May the churl the whipping-post meet, 
 
 If he stuffs and lets them starve. 
 
 And when I, like Neighbour Squeezum, 
 Plot and scheme the poor to drain, 
 
 Or with Badger join, to fleece 'em, 
 Badger me for a rogue in grain. 
 
 He for that who tills and cultures, 
 
 Now may laugh, but when Old Scratch 
 
 Spreads his net for sharks and vultures, 
 What a swarm he'll have to catch ! 
 
 Heaps of grain then let them hoard up ; 
 Heaps of wealth while they count o'er, 
 
 All the treasures I have stored up 
 Are the Blessings of the Poor ! 
 
 Collins. 
 
 CCLXXVII. 
 
 RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND SINNER. 
 
 THE poor man's sins are glaring; 
 In the face of ghostly warning 
 
 He is caught in the fact 
 
 Of an overt act 
 Buying greens on Sunday morning.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The rich man's sins are hidden 
 In the pomp of wealth and station ; 
 
 And escape the sight 
 
 Of the children of light, 
 Who are wise in their generation. 
 
 The rich man has a kitchen, 
 And cooks to dress his dinner; 
 
 The poor who would roast 
 
 To the baker's must post, 
 And thus becomes a sinner. 
 
 The rich man has a cellar, 
 And a ready butler by him; 
 
 The poor must steer 
 
 For his pint of beer 
 Where the Saint can't choose but spy him. 
 
 The rich man's painted windows 
 Hide the concerts of the quality ; 
 
 The poor can but share 
 
 A crack'd fiddle in the air, 
 Which offends all sound morality. 
 
 The rich man is invisible 
 
 In the crowd of his gay society; 
 
 But the poor man's delight 
 
 Is a sore in the sight, 
 And a stench in the nose of piety. 
 
 Thomas L. Peacock. 
 
 CCLXXVIII. 
 
 THE Kiss. 
 
 AMONG thy fancies, tell me this, 
 What is the thing we call a kiss ? 
 I shall resolve you what it is. 
 
 It is a creature born and bred 
 Between the lips, all cherry-red, 
 By Love and warm desires fed, 
 
 And makes more soft the bridal bed.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 203 
 
 It is an active flame, that flies 
 First to the babies of the eyes, 
 And charms them there with lullabies, 
 
 And stills the bride, too, when she cries 
 
 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, 
 
 It frisks and flies, now here, now there, 
 
 Tis now far off, and then 'tis near, 
 
 And here, and there, and everywhere 
 
 Has it a speaking virtue ? Yes. 
 How speaks it, say ? Do you but this, 
 Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss ; 
 And this Love's sweetest language is. 
 
 Has it a body ? Aye, and wings, 
 With thousands rare encolourings ; 
 And as it flies, it gently sings, 
 
 Love honey yields, but never stings. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 CCLXXIX. 
 
 MY love and I for kisses play'd ; 
 
 She would keep stakes, I was content ; 
 But when I won she would be paid, 
 
 This made me ask her what she meant ; 
 Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, 
 Take your own kisses, give me mine again. 
 
 William Strode. 
 
 CCLXXX. 
 
 To A Kiss. 
 
 SOFT child of Love thou balmy bliss 
 Inform me, O delicious Kiss ! 
 Why thou so suddenly art gone, 
 Lost in the moment thou art won ? 
 Yet, go for wherefore should I sigh ? 
 On Delia's lip, with raptured eye, 
 On Delia's blushing lip, I see 
 A thousand full as sweet as thee ! 
 
 John Wolcot.
 
 204 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCLXXXI. 
 
 HER LIPS. 
 
 OFTEN I have heard it said 
 That her lips are ruby-red. 
 Little heed I what they say, 
 I have seen as red as they. 
 Ere she smiled on other men, 
 Real rubies were they then. 
 
 When she kiss'd me once in play, 
 Rubies were less bright than they, 
 And less bright were those that shone 
 In the palace of the Sun. 
 Will they be as bright again ? 
 Not if kiss'd by other men. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCLXXX1I. 
 
 ON A Kiss. 
 
 PHILOSOPHERS pretend to tell, 
 How like a hermit in his cell, 
 The soul within the brain does dwell : 
 But I, who am not half so wise, 
 Think I have seen't in Chloe's eyes, 
 Down to her lips from thence it stole, 
 And there I kiss'd her very soul. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCLXXXIII. 
 THE AUBURN LOCK. 
 
 COME, lovely lock of Julia's hair, 
 
 The gift of that bewitching fair, 
 
 Come, next my heart shall thou be laid, 
 
 Thou precious little auburn braid ! 
 
 Of Julia's charms, O sacred part, 
 
 Thou'st drank the pure stream of her heart ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Thou'st tended on my love's repose, 
 Thou'st kiss'd her ringers when she rose, 
 And, half concealing many a grace, 
 Giv'n added powers to that sweet face : 
 Oft, careless, o'er her shoulders flung, 
 Down her small waist redundant hung; 
 And oft thy wanton curls have press'd, 
 And dared to kiss her snow-white breast ! 
 High favor'd lock ! O, thou shall be 
 The dearest gift of life to me. 
 Come, next my heart shall thou be laid, 
 Delightful little auburn braid ! 
 And art Ihou mine ? and did my fair 
 Inlrusl thee to her lover's care ? 
 What streams of bliss wilt thou impart, 
 Who drank the stream of Julia's heart ! 
 O, thou shall be the healing power 
 To soothe me in misfortune's hour, 
 And oft, beneath my pillow laid, 
 My soul in dreams will ask thine aid. 
 Thou shall inspire wilh full delight 
 The fairest visions of the night ; 
 For thou, intrusive lock, hasl spread 
 And wantoned o'er my Julia's bed ; 
 Seen Ihe sweel languish of her eyes, 
 Heard all her wishes, all her sighs : 
 O, Ihou hast been divinely bless'd, 
 And pass'd whole nights on Julia's breast. 
 Come, then, dear lock of Julia's hair, 
 The gift of that enchanting fair. 
 Come, next my hearl shall Ihou be laid, 
 Delightful little auburn braid ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCLXXXIV. 
 
 THE JE NE SAIS Quoi. 
 
 YES, I'm in love, I feel it now, 
 And Celia has undone me : 
 
 And yet I swear I can't lell how 
 The pleasing pain stole on me. 
 
 205
 
 206 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 'Tis not her face which love creates, 
 
 For there no graces revel: 
 'Tis not her shape, for there the fates 
 
 Have rather been uncivil. 
 
 'Tis not her air, for sure in that 
 
 There's nothing more than common ; 
 And all her sense is only chat, 
 Like any other woman. 
 
 Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm ; 
 
 'Twas both, perhaps, or neither; 
 In short, 'twas that provoking charm 
 
 Of Celia altogether. 
 
 William Whitehead. 
 
 CCLXXXV. 
 
 MARIAN'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 SINCE truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue, 
 Adieu the cheerful pipe and song; 
 Adieu the dance at closing day, 
 And, ah, the happy morn of May. 
 
 How oft he told me I was fair, 
 And wove the garland for my hair ; 
 How oft for Marian stript the bower, 
 To fill my lap with every flower ! 
 
 No more his gifts of guile I'll wear, 
 But from my brow the chaplet tear ; 
 The crook he gave in pieces break, 
 And rend his ribbons from my neck. 
 
 How oft he vow'd a constant flame, 
 And carved on every oak my name ! 
 Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree 
 Is all that will remember me. 
 
 John Wolcot.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCLXXXVI, 
 SECRET LOVE. 
 
 I FEED a flame within, which so torments me, 
 That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me : 
 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, 
 That I had rather die, than once remove it 
 
 Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it, 
 My tongue does not betray, nor my eye show it : 
 No, sigh, and not a tear, my pain discloses, 
 For they fall silently like dew on roses. 
 
 Thus to prevent my love from being cruel, 
 My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel : 
 And while I suffer thus to give him quiet, 
 My faith rewards my love, though he deny it. 
 
 On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me ; 
 While I conceal my love, no frown can fright me : 
 To be more happy I dare not aspire ; 
 Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCLXXXVI I. 
 
 ON LADY MARGARET FORDYCE. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 MARK'D you her cheek of roseate hue ? 
 Mark'd you her eye of radiant blue ? 
 That eye, in liquid circles moving ! 
 That cheek, abash'd at man's approving ! 
 The one Love's arrows darting round, 
 The other blushing at the wound. 
 Did she not speak, did she not move, 
 Now Pallas, now the Queen of Love ? 
 
 Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
 207
 
 208 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII. 
 
 You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume 
 That you cherish a secret affection for me ? 
 
 When we see the flowers bud, don't we look for the bloom? 
 Then, sweetest ! attend while I answer to thee. 
 
 When we young men with pastimes the twilight beguile, 
 I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy : 
 
 And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, 
 You give me a glance ; but provokingly coy. 
 
 Last month, when wild strawberries, plucked in the grove, 
 Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung, 
 
 You gave me the choicest ; I hoped 'twas for love ; 
 And I told you my hopes while the nightingale sung. 
 
 Remember the viper : 'twas close at your feet, 
 How you started, and threw yourself into my arms : 
 
 Not a strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet 
 As the lips which I kiss'd, to subdue your alarms. 
 
 As I pull'd down the clusters of nuts for my fair, 
 
 What a blow I received from a strong-bending bough ; 
 
 Tho' Lucy and other gay lasses were there, 
 
 Not one of them show'd such compassion as you. 
 
 And was it compassion ? by Heaven 'twas more ! 
 
 A tell-tale betrays you; that blush on your cheek 
 There come, dearest maid, all your trifling give o'er, 
 
 And whisper what candour will teach you to speak. 
 
 Can you stain my fair honour with one broken vow ? 
 
 Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain ? 
 On truth's honest base let your tenderness grow ; 
 
 I swear to be faithful, again and again. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
 CCLXXXIX. 
 
 WHEN Cupids leave the Virgin's face, 
 That long have made her smiles their home ; 
 
 And saucy wrinkles seize their place, 
 Tho' never once desired to come. 
 
 'Tis vain the killing art to try, 
 
 The golden moments are gone by.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 When jetty locks are turned to grey, 
 That form'd such charms for lovers' hearts ; 
 
 When eyes are dim, and scarce can see, 
 That beam'd such fires, and threw such darts, 
 
 'Tis vain the killing art to try, 
 
 The golden moments are gone by. 
 
 Then wedlock, girls, should share your prime, 
 And Love should meet you with your swain ; 
 
 But should you yield your charms to time, 
 He gives you back but sighs again. 
 
 And tells you, with a scornful eye, 
 
 The golden moments are gone by. 
 
 John Wolcot. 
 
 I NE'ER could any lustre see 
 
 In eyes that would not look on me : 
 
 I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, 
 
 But where my own did hope to sip. 
 
 Has the maid who seeks my heart 
 
 Cheeks of rose untouch'd by art ? 
 
 I will own their colour true, 
 
 When yielding blushes aid their hue. 
 
 Is her hand so soft and pure ? 
 I must press it, to be sure ; 
 Nor can I e'en be certain then, 
 Till it grateful press again. 
 Must I with attentive eye, 
 Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
 I will do so when I see 
 That heaving bosom sigh for me. 
 
 Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
 CCXCI. 
 
 THE whistling boy that holds the plough, 
 Lured by the tale that soldiers tell, 
 
 Resolves to part, yet knows not how 
 To leave the land he loves so well : 
 
 He now rejects the thought, and now 
 Looks o'er the lea, and sighs, " Farewell ! " 
 
 209
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Farewell ! " the pensive maiden cries. 
 Who dreams of London, dreams awake, 
 
 But, when her favorite lad she spies, 
 With whom she loved her way to take, 
 
 Then doubts within her soul arise, 
 And equal hopes her bosom shake ! 
 
 Thus, like the boy, and like the maid, 
 
 I wish to go, yet tarry here ; 
 Am now resolved, and now afraid : 
 
 To minds disturb'd old views appear 
 In melancholy dreams array'd, 
 
 And, once indifferent, now are dear, 
 How shall I go my fate to learn ? 
 And O, how, taught, shall I return ? 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 CCXCIL 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 NE'ER were the Zephyrs known disclosing 
 More sweets, than when in Tempje's shades 
 
 They waved the lilies, where reposing 
 Sat four-and-twenty lovely maids. 
 
 Those lovely maids were call'd " the Hours," 
 The charge of Virtue's flock they kept ; 
 
 And each in turn employ'd her powers 
 To guard it while her sisters slept. 
 
 False Love, how simple souls thou cheatest ! 
 
 In myrtle bower that traitor near 
 Long watched an Hour the softest, sweetest 
 
 The evening Hour, to shepherds dear. 
 
 In tones so bland he praised her beauty, 
 Such melting airs his pipe could play ; 
 
 The thoughtless Hour forgot her duty, 
 And fled in Love's embrace away. 
 
 Meanwhile the foe was left unguarded ; 
 
 The wolf broke in, the lambs were slain ; 
 And now from Virtue's train discarded, 
 
 With tears her sisters speak their pain.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. j 
 
 Time flies, and still they weep ; for never 
 
 The fugitive can time restore ; 
 An Hour once fled, has fled for ever, 
 
 And all the rest shall smile no more ! 
 
 Matthew G. Lewis. 
 
 CCXCIII. 
 
 WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. 
 
 TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving, 
 
 On the ruin'd rampart grew, 
 Where, the sons of freedom braving, 
 
 Rome's imperial standards flew. 
 
 Warriors from the breach of danger 
 
 Pluck no longer laurels there ; 
 They but yield the passing stranger 
 
 Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 CCXCIV. 
 
 I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss, 
 
 Her hand that trembled and withdrew; 
 She bent her head before my kiss, 
 
 My heart was sure that hers was true. 
 Now I have told her I must part, 
 
 She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, 
 Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! 
 
 Hers never was the heart for you. 
 
 Walter S. Landor 
 
 ccxcv. 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed, 
 By every word and smile deceived. 
 
 Another man would hope no more; 
 Nor hope I what I hoped before : 
 
 But let not this last wish be vain; 
 Deceive, deceive me once again ! 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCXCVI. 
 
 A RING to me Cecilia sends 
 
 And what to show ? that we are friends 
 
 That she with favour reads my lays, 
 
 And sends a token of her praise; 
 
 Such as the nun, with heart of snow, 
 
 Alight on her Confessor bestow ; 
 
 Or which some favourite nymph would pay, 
 
 Upon her grandsire's natal day, 
 
 And to his trembling hand impart 
 
 The offering of a feeling heart. 
 
 And what shall I return the fair 
 
 And flattering nymph ? a verse ? a prayer ? 
 
 For were a Ring my present too, 
 
 I see the smile that must ensue; 
 
 The smile that pleases tho' it stings, 
 
 And says, " no more of giving rings: 
 
 Remember, thirty years are gone, 
 
 Old friend, since you presented one ! " 
 
 Well ! one there is, or one shall be, 
 To give a ring instead of me ; 
 And with it sacred vows for life 
 To love the fair the angel-wife : 
 In that one act may every grace, 
 And every blessing have their place 
 And give to future hours the bliss, 
 The charm of life, derived from this : 
 And when even love no more supplies 
 
 When weary nature sinks to rest ; 
 May brighter, steadier light arise, 
 
 And make the parting moment blest ? 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 CCXCVI I. 
 
 To IANTHE. 
 
 FROM you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
 Like little ripples down a sunny river ; 
 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, 
 Cut down, and up again as blythe as ever. 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 21$ 
 
 CCXCVIII. 
 PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 OFT I've implored the gods in vain, 
 
 And pray'd till I've been weary : 
 For once I'll seek my wish to gain 
 
 Of Oberon, the fairy. 
 
 Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, 
 
 Who lurk'st in woods unseen ; 
 And oft by Cynthia's silver light, 
 
 Trip'st gaily o'er the green; 
 
 If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, 
 
 As ancient stories tell ; 
 And for th' Athenian maid who loved, 
 
 Thou sought'st a wondrous spell ; 
 
 O, de : gn once more t'exert thy power, 
 
 Haply some herb or tree, 
 Sovereign as juice of western flower, 
 
 Conceals a balm for me. 
 
 I ask no kind return of love 
 
 No tempting charm to please ; 
 Far from the heart those gifts remove, 
 
 That sighs for peace and ease ! 
 
 Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know, 
 
 That, like the needle true, 
 Turns at the touch of joy or woe ; 
 
 But, turning, trembles too. 
 
 Far as distress the soul can wound, 
 
 Tis pain in each degree : 
 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound ; 
 
 Beyond is agony. 
 
 Then take this treacherous sense of mine, 
 
 Which dooms me still to smart ; 
 Which pleasure can to pain refine 
 
 To pain new pangs impart.
 
 214 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 O haste to shed the sovereign balm, 
 My shatter'd nerves new string : 
 
 And for my guest serenely calm, 
 The nymph Indifference bring! 
 
 At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 
 
 See Expectation fly ! 
 And Disappointment in the rear, 
 
 That blasts the promised joy. 
 
 The tear which pity taught to flow, 
 
 The eye shall then disown ; 
 The heart that melts for others' woe, 
 
 Shall then scarce feel its own. 
 
 The wounds which now each moment bleed, 
 
 Each moment then shall close; 
 And tranquil days shall still succeed 
 
 To nights of calm repose. 
 
 O Fairy Elf ! but grant me this, 
 
 This one kind comfort send ; 
 And so may never-fading bliss 
 
 Thy flowery paths attend ? 
 
 So may the glow-worm's glimmering light 
 
 Thy tiny footsteps lead 
 To some new region of delight, 
 
 Unknown to mortal tread 1 
 
 And be thy acorn goblet fill'd 
 With Heaven's ambrosial dew : 
 
 From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, 
 That shed fresh sweets for you ! 
 
 And what of life remains for me, 
 
 I'll pass in sober ease ; 
 Half-pleased, contented will I be, 
 
 Content but half to please. 
 
 Mrs. Fanny Greville. 

 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 CCXCIX. 
 
 THE DRAGON-FLY. 
 
 LIFE (priest and poet say) is but a dream; 
 I wish no happier one than to be laid 
 Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade, 
 
 Or wavy willow, by the running stream, 
 Brimful of moral, where the Dragon fly 
 Wanders as careless and content as I. 
 
 Thanks for this fancy, insect king, 
 Of purple crest and meshy wing. 
 Who, with indifference, givest up 
 The water-lily's golden cup, 
 To come again and overlook 
 What I am writing in my book. 
 Believe me, most who read the line 
 Will read with hornier eyes than thine : 
 And yet their souls shall live for ever, 
 And thine drop dead into the river ! 
 God pardon them, O insect king, 
 Who fancy so unjust a thing ! 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 ccc. 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 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 have been long together 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
 '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. Barbaiild,
 
 2l6 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace ; 
 
 How happy should I prove, 
 Might I supply that envied place 
 
 With never-fading love ! 
 There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye, 
 
 Involved in fragrance, burn and die. 
 
 Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find 
 
 More fragrant roses there, 
 I see thy withering head reclined 
 
 With envy and despair ; 
 One common fate we both must prove ; 
 You die with envy, I with love. 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 CCCII. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 Sent by a Yorkist Gentleman to his Lancastrian Mistress. 
 
 IF this fair rose offend thy sight, 
 
 Placed in thy bosom bare, 
 'Twill blush to find itself less white 
 
 And turn Lancastrian there. 
 
 But if thy ruby lip it spy, 
 As kiss it thou mayst deign, 
 
 With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, 
 And Yorkshire turn again. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 CCCIII. 
 
 To ASLEEP. 
 
 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 !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 217 
 
 Ah, now soft blushes linge her cheeks, 
 
 And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 
 Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
 
 What most I wish and fear to know. 
 
 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
 
 Her fair hands folded on her breast. 
 And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
 
 A seraph in the realms of rest ! 
 
 Sleep on secure ! above control, 
 
 Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee! 
 
 And may the secret of thy soul 
 Remain within its sanctuary ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 ccciv. 
 To A YOUNG LADY ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. 
 
 WHY need I say, Louisa dear ! 
 How glad I am to see you here, 
 
 A lovely convalescent; 
 Risen from the bed of pain and fear, 
 
 And feverish heat incessant. 
 
 The sunny showers, the dappled sky, 
 The little birds that warble high, 
 
 Their vernal loves commencing, 
 Will better welcome you than I 
 
 With their sweet influencing. 
 
 Believe me, while in bed you lay, 
 Your danger taught us all to pray : 
 
 You made us grow devouter ! 
 Each eye look'd up and seem'd to say, 
 
 How can we do without her ? 
 
 Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew 
 They had no need of such as you 
 
 In the place where you were going ; 
 This world has angels all too few, 
 
 And Heaven is overflowing 1 
 
 Samuel T, Coleridge.
 
 2i8 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCV. 
 
 To A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR 
 TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 DEAR child of nature, let them rail ! 
 There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbor and a hold ; 
 Where thou, a friend and wife, shalt see 
 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade, 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 
 A woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
 Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 
 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 But an old age serene and bright, 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 ON A TEAR. 
 
 OH ! that the chemist's magic art 
 
 Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 
 
 Long should it glitter near my heart, 
 A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
 
 The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
 Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye : 
 
 Then, trembling, left its coral cell 
 The spring of sensibility !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 2 lg 
 
 Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 
 
 In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; 
 More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
 
 Than any gem that gilds the mine. 
 
 Benign restorer of the soul ! 
 
 Who ever fly'st to bring r-elief, 
 When first we feel the rude control 
 
 Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 
 
 The sage's and the poet's theme, 
 
 In every clime, in every age; 
 Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream, 
 
 In Reason's philosophic page. 
 
 That very law which moulds a tear, 
 
 And bids it trickle from its source, 
 That law preserves the earth a sphere, 
 
 And guides the planets in their course. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 cccvn. 
 TEARS. 
 
 MINE fall, and yet a tear of hers 
 Would swell, not soothe their pain ; 
 
 Ah, if she look but at these tears 
 They do not fall in vain. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCVIII. 
 
 To . 
 
 Go you may call it madness, folly, 
 You shall not chase my gloom away ; 
 
 There's such a charm in melancholy, 
 I would not, if I could, be gay. 
 
 O, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
 That fills my bosom when I sigh, 
 
 You would not rob me of a treasure 
 Monarchs are too poor to buy. 
 
 Samuel Rogers.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCIX. 
 
 TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow 
 
 If not quite dim, yet rather so, 
 
 Yet yours from others they shall know 
 
 Twenty years hence. 
 
 Twenty years hence, tho' it may hap 
 That I be called to take a nap 
 In a cool cell where thunder clap 
 
 Was never heard. 
 
 There breathe but o'er my arch of grass 
 
 A not too-sadly sigh'd alas, 
 
 And I shall catch, ere you can pass, 
 
 That winged word. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 cccx. 
 
 FLY from the world, O Bessy, to me, 
 
 Thou wilt never find any sincerer ; 
 I'll give up the world, O Bessy, for thee, 
 
 I can never meet any that's dearer. 
 Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, 
 
 That our loves will be censured by many : 
 All, all have their follies, and who will deny 
 
 That ours is the sweetest of any ? 
 
 When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet, 
 
 Have we felt as if virtue forbid it ? 
 Have we felt as if Heaven denied them to meet? 
 
 No, rather, 'twas Heaven that did it. 
 So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip, 
 
 So little of wrong is there in it, 
 That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip, 
 
 And I'd kiss them away in a minute. 
 
 Then come to your love : O ! fly to his shed, 
 From a world which I know thou despisest ; 
 
 And slumber will hover as light o'er our head 
 As e'er on the couch of the wisest.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 221 
 
 And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven, 
 
 And thou, pretty innocent, fearest, 
 I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of Heaven, 
 
 'Tis only our lullaby, dearest. 
 
 And, O ! when we lie on our deathbed, my love, 
 
 Looking back on the scene of our errors, 
 A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above, 
 
 And death be disarm' d of his terrors. 
 And each to the other embracing will say, 
 
 " Farewell, let us hope we're forgiven." 
 Thy last fading glance will illumine the way, 
 
 And a kiss be our passport to heaven ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE 
 AND PISA. 
 
 O, TALK not to me of a name great in story ; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, tho' ever so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 
 '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 ? 
 
 O, 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 its spark led o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 Lord Byron.
 
 222 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM, 
 
 CCCXII. 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 IN the downhill of life when I find I'm declining, 
 
 May my fate no less fortunate be, 
 Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, 
 
 And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; 
 With an ambling pad pony to pace o'er the lawn, 
 
 While I carol away idle sorrow ; 
 And, blythe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, 
 
 Look forward with hope to To-morrow. 
 
 With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too, 
 
 As the sunshine 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 man wants to borrow, 
 I'll envy no nabob, his riches or fame, 
 
 Or what honours may wait 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 let me share what to-day may afford, 
 
 And Jet them spread the table To-morrow. 
 
 And when I, at last, must throw off this frail covering, 
 
 Which I've worn for threescore years and ten, 
 On the brink of the grave I'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 threadbare to-day, 
 
 May become Everlasting To-morrow. 
 
 Collins.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUAT. 
 CCCXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 cccxiv. 
 THE POPLAR FIELD 
 
 THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade, 
 And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; 
 The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
 Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; 
 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. 
 
 223
 
 224 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
 
 And I 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 ; 
 Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
 Have a being less durable even than he. 
 
 cccxv. 
 
 I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd 
 Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, 
 
 And I said, " if there's peace to be found in the world, 
 A heart that was humble might hope for it here ! " 
 
 It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around 
 
 In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
 Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 
 
 But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. 
 
 And, " here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd, 
 " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, 
 
 Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, 
 How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! 
 
 " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips 
 In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, 
 
 And to know that 1 sigh'd upon innocent lips, 
 
 Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine ! " 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 CCCXV I. 
 
 AH ! what avails the sceptred race, 
 
 Ah I what the form divine ! 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 LYRA ELEGANT1ARUM. 225 
 
 CCCXVII. 
 
 AN ITALIAN SONG. 
 
 DEAR is my little native vale. 
 
 The ringdove builds and murmurs there ; 
 Close to my cot she tells her tale 
 
 To every passing villager. 
 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
 And shells his nut at liberty. 
 
 In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, 
 That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
 
 I charm the fairy-footed hours 
 
 With my loved lute's romantic sound; 
 
 Or crowns of living laurel weave, 
 
 For those that win the race at eve. 
 
 The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
 
 The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
 The canzonet and roundelay 
 
 Sung in the silent green-wood shade ; 
 These simple joys, that never fail, 
 Shall bind me to my native vale. 
 
 Samuel Rogers, 
 
 CCCXVIII. 
 
 To his young Rose an old man said, 
 " You will be sweet when I am dead : 
 Where skies are brightest we shall meet, 
 And there will you be yet more sweet, 
 Leaving your winged company 
 To waste an idle thought on me." 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCXIX. 
 
 SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL. 
 
 IF I had but two little wings, 
 And were a little feathery bird, 
 
 To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
 But thoughts like these are idle things, 
 
 And I stay here.
 
 226 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But in my sleep to you I fly ; 
 I'm always with you in my sleep, 
 
 The world is all one's own. 
 But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
 
 All, all alone. 
 
 Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
 So I love to wake ere break of day : 
 
 For tho' my sleep be gone, 
 Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, 
 And still dreams on. 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 cccxx. 
 ROSES AND THORNS. 
 
 WHY do our joys depart 
 For cares to seize the heart ? 
 I know not. Nature says, 
 Obey ; and man obeys. 
 I see, and know not why 
 Thorns live and roses die. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCXXI. 
 
 While thou wert by 
 
 With laughing eye, 
 I felt the glow and song of spring ; 
 
 Now thou art gone 
 
 I sit alone, 
 Nor heed who smile nor hear who sing. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 CCCXXII. 
 
 THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. 
 To Lady Throckmorton. 
 
 MARIA I I have every good 
 For thee wish'd many a time, 
 
 Both sad, and in a cheerful mood, 
 But never yet in rhyme.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 227 
 
 To wish thee fairer is no need, 
 
 More prudent, or more sprightly, 
 Or more ingenious, or more freed 
 
 From temper-flaws unsightly. 
 
 What favour then not yet possess'd, 
 
 Can I for thee require, 
 In wedded love already bless'd 
 
 To thy whole heart's desire ? 
 
 None here is happy but in part : 
 
 Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
 There dwells some wish in every heart, 
 
 And doubtless one in thine. 
 
 That wish, on some fair future day, 
 
 Which Fate shall brightly gild, 
 ('Tis blameless, be it what it may) 
 
 I wish it all fulfill'd. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 cccxxin. 
 THE SHORTEST DAY. 
 
 THE day of brightest dawn (day soonest flown !) 
 Is that when we have met and you have gone. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 cccxxiv. 
 To A FAIR MAIDEN. 
 
 FAIR maiden ! when I look at thee 
 I wish I could be young and free ; 
 But both at once, Ah ! who could be ? 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 22 S LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCXXV. 
 
 To A LADY. 
 
 Tis not the lily brow I prize, 
 
 Nor roseate cheeks nor sunny eyes, 
 
 Enough of lilies and of roses ! 
 A thousand fold more dear to me 
 
 The look that gentle love discloses, 
 That Look which Love alone can see. 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 cccxxvi. 
 
 ONE year ago my path was green, 
 My footstep light, my brow serene; 
 Alas ! and could it have been so 
 One year ago ? 
 
 There is a love that is to last 
 When the hot days of youth are past : 
 Such love did a sweet maid bestow 
 One year ago. 
 
 I took a leaflet from her braid 
 And gave it to another maid. 
 Love ! broken should have been thy bow 
 One year ago. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 cccxxvir. 
 To HESTER SAVORY. 
 
 WHEN maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place we may not well supply, 
 Though we 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. 

 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 229 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 
 Of pride and joy no common rate 
 
 That flush'd 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 train'd in Nature's school, 
 
 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 forewarning ? 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 cccxxviir. 
 
 MY Lilla gave me yestermorn 
 A rose, methinks in Eden born, 
 And as she gave it, little elf ! 
 She blush'd like any rose herself. 
 Then said I, full of tenderness, 
 
 " Since this sweet rose I owe to you, 
 Dear girl, why may I not possess 
 
 The lovelier Rose that gave it too ? " 
 
 Unknown.
 
 270 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCXXIX. 
 
 MARGARET AND DORA. 
 
 MARGARET'S beauteous Grecian arts 
 
 Ne'er drew form completer, 
 Yet why, in my heart of hearts, 
 
 Hold I Dora's sweeter ? 
 
 Dora's eyes of heavenly blue 
 
 Pass all paintings' reach, 
 Ringdove's notes are discord to 
 The music of her speech. 
 
 Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, 
 
 And on canvas show it ; 
 But for perfect worship leave 
 
 Dora to her poet 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 cccxxx. 
 THE ADIEU. 
 
 MORAVIANS their minstrelsy bring 
 The death-bed with music to smooth ; 
 
 So you, lovely comforter, sing 
 My pangs of departure to soothe ! 
 
 You sing but mv silent adieu 
 A sorrow still teener will prove ; 
 
 You lose but one friend who loves you, 
 How many I lose whom I love ! 
 
 When we go from each pleasure refined, 
 Which the sense or the soul can receive 
 
 With no hope in our wanderings to find 
 One ray of the sunshine we leave : 
 
 An adieu should in utterance die, 
 
 Or if written, but faintly appear ; 
 Only heard thro' the burst of a sigh, 
 
 Only read thro' the blot of a tear ! 
 
 Honble. William R. Spencer.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 231 
 
 CCCXXXI. 
 
 DEAR FANNY. 
 
 " SHE has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool ; 
 
 She has wit, but you musn't be caught so: " 
 Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, 
 And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, 
 
 Dear Fanny, 
 Tis not the first time I have thought so. 
 
 " She is lovely then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 
 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season ; " 
 Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
 That Love reasons much better than Reason, 
 
 Dear Fanny ? 
 Love reasons much better than Reason. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 CCCXXXI I. 
 
 To LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 
 
 Too late I stay'd ! forgive the crime, 
 
 Unheeded flew the hours ; 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 
 
 That only treads on flowers 1 
 
 What eye with clear account remarks 
 
 The ebbing of his glass. 
 When all its sands are di'mond sparks, 
 
 That dazzle as they pass ? 
 
 Ah ! who to sober measurement 
 
 Time's happy swiftness brings, 
 
 When birds of Paradise have lent 
 
 Their plumage for his wings ? 
 
 Honble. William R. Spencer.
 
 232 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCXXXIII. 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 
 
 Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, 
 Of numerous charms possess'd, 
 
 A warm dispute once chanced to wage, 
 Whose temper was the best. 
 
 The worth of each had been complete 
 
 Had both alike been mild : 
 But one, altho' her smile was sweet, 
 
 Frown'd oftener than she smil'd. 
 
 And in her humour, when she frown'd, 
 Would raise her voice, and roar, 
 
 And shake with fury to the ground 
 The garland that she wore. 
 
 The other was of gentler cast, 
 
 From all such frenzy clear, 
 Her frowns were seldom known to last, 
 
 And never proved severe. 
 
 To poets of renown in song 
 The nymphs referred the cause, 
 
 And strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, 
 And gave misplac'd applause. 
 
 They gentle called, and kind and soft 
 
 The flippant and the scold, 
 And tho' she changed her mood so oft, 
 
 That failing left untold. 
 
 No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, 
 
 Or so resolved to err 
 In short, the charms her sister had 
 
 They lavish'd all on her. 
 
 Then thus the god, whom fondly they 
 
 Their great inspirer call, 
 Was heard, one genial summer's day, 
 
 To reprimand them all.
 
 233 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 " Since thus ye have combined," he said. 
 
 My fav'rite nymph to slight, 
 Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
 
 With June's undoubted right ; 
 
 The minx shall, for your folly's sake, 
 
 Still prove herself a shrew, 
 Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 
 
 And pinch your noses blue." 
 
 William Ccrwper, 
 
 cccxxxiv. 
 LOVE AND TIME. 
 
 'Tis said but whether true or not 
 
 Let bards declare who've seen 'em 
 That Love and Time have only got 
 
 One pair of wings between 'em. 
 In courtship's first delicious hour, 
 
 The boy full oft can spare them ; 
 So, loit'ring in his lady's bower, 
 
 He lets the greybeard wear them. 
 Then is Time's hour of play ; 
 O, how he flies, flies away ! 
 
 But short the moments, short as bright, 
 
 When he the wings can borrow ; 
 If Time to-day has had his flight, 
 
 Love takes his turn to-morrow. 
 Ah ! Time and Love, your change is then 
 
 The saddest and most trying, 
 When one begins to limp again, 
 
 And t'other takes to flying. 
 Then is Love's hour to stray ; 
 O, how he flies, flies away ! 
 
 But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, 
 
 And bless the silken fetter, 
 Who knows, the dear one, how to deal 
 
 With Love and Time much better. 
 So well she checks their wanderings, 
 
 So peacefully she pairs them,
 
 234 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings ; 
 And Time for ever wears them. 
 This is Time's holyday; 
 O, how he flies, flies away ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 cccxxxv. 
 EPITAPH UPON THE YEAR 1806. 
 
 'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses, 
 With the dust of dead ages to mix ; 
 
 Time's charnel for ever encloses 
 The year Eighteen hundred and six ! 
 
 Though many may question thy merit, 
 
 I duly thy dirge will perform, 
 Content, if thy heir but inherit 
 
 Thy portion of sunshine and storm I 
 
 My blame and my blessing thou sharest, 
 For black were thy moments in part, 
 
 But O ! thy fair days were the fairest 
 That ever have shone on my heart. 
 
 If thine was a gloom the completest 
 That death's darkest cypress could throw, 
 
 Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest 
 That life in full blossom could show ! 
 
 One hand gave the balmy corrector 
 Of ills which the other had brew'd ; 
 
 One draught of thy chalice of nectar 
 All tastes of thy bitters subdued. 
 
 Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses ! 
 
 With mine tears more precious will mix, 
 To hallow the midnight which closes, 
 
 The year Eighteen hundred and six. 
 
 Honble. William R. Spencer.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 23$ 
 
 CCCXXXVI. 
 MINERVA'S THIMBLE. 
 
 YOUNG Jessica sat all the day, 
 
 With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining ; 
 Her needle bright beside her lay, 
 
 So active once ! now idly shining. 
 Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts 
 
 That love and mischief are most nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
 The child, who with a magnet plays, 
 
 Well knowing all its arts, so wily, 
 The tempter near a needle lays, 
 
 And laughing, says, " we'll steal it slily." 
 The needle, having nought to do, 
 
 Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle, 
 Till closer, closer come the two, 
 
 And off, at length, elopes the needle. 
 
 Now, had this needle turn'd its eye 
 
 To some gay reticule's construction, 
 It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie, 
 
 Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. 
 Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, 
 
 Your snowy ringers must be nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 CCCXXXVII. 
 
 ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE RECORDED 
 IN THE BlOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA. 
 
 OH, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
 To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
 In vain, recorded in historic page, 
 They court the notice of a future age
 
 236 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 These twinkling, tiny lustres of the land 
 Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
 Lethaean gulfs receive them as they fall, 
 And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
 
 So when a child, as playful children use, 
 Has burn'd to tinder a stale last year's news, 
 The flame extinct, he views the roving fire 
 There goes my lady, and there goes the squire ! 
 There goes the parson, oh, illustrious spark ! 
 And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! 
 
 William Cowfer. 
 
 cccxxxvm. 
 
 GOOD-BYE AND HOW-D'YE-DO. 
 
 ONE day, Good-bye met How-d'ye-do, 
 
 Too close to shun saluting, 
 But soon the rival sisters flew, 
 
 From kissing, to disputing. 
 
 " Away," says How-d'ye-do, "your mien 
 
 Appalls my cheerful nature, 
 No name so sad as yours is seen 
 
 In sorrow's nomenclature. 
 
 " Whene'er I give one sunshine hour, 
 Your cloud comes o'er to shade it ; 
 
 Where'er I plant one bosom flower, 
 Your mildew drops to fade it. 
 
 " Ere How-d'ye-do has turned each tongue 
 
 To Hope's delightful measure, 
 Good-bye in Friendship's ear has rung 
 
 The knell of parting pleasure ! 
 
 " From sorrows past, my chemic skill 
 
 Draws smiles of consolation, 
 While you from present joys distil 
 
 The tears of separation." 
 
 Good-bye replied, " Your statement's true, 
 And well your cause you've pleaded : 
 
 But pray, who'd think of Hownd'ye-do, 
 Unless Good-bye preceded ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 237 
 
 " Without my prior influence 
 
 Could yours have ever flourish'd ? 
 And can your hand one flower dispense 
 
 But those my tears have nourish'd ? 
 
 " How oft, if at the Court of Love 
 
 Concealment be the fashion, 
 When How-d'ye-do has failed to move, 
 
 Good-bye reveals the passion ! 
 
 ' How oft, when Cupid's fires decline, 
 
 As every heart remembers, 
 One sigh of mine, and only mine, 
 
 Revives the dying embers ! 
 
 " Go, bid the timid lover choose, 
 
 And I'll resign my charter ; 
 If he, for ten kind How-d'ye-do's, 
 
 One kind Good-bye would barter ! 
 
 " From Love and friendship's kindred source 
 
 We both derive existence, 
 And they would both lose half their force, 
 
 Without our joint assistance. 
 
 " 'Tis well the world our merit knows, 
 
 Since time, there's no denying, 
 One-half in How-d'ye-doing goes, 
 
 And t'other in Good-byeing ! " 
 
 Honble. William R. Spencer. 
 
 CCCXXXIX. 
 
 WHEN Love came first to earth, the Spring 
 Spread rose-beds to receive him, 
 
 And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing 
 To Heaven, if she should leave him. 
 
 But Spring departing, saw his faith 
 Pledged to the next new comer 
 
 He revell'd in the warmer breath 
 And richer bowers of Summer.
 
 238 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights 
 
 An Archer for her lover, 
 And even in Winter's dark cold nights 
 
 A charm he could discover. 
 
 Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, 
 For this time were his reasons 
 
 In short, young love's a gallant boy, 
 That likes all times and seasons. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 CCCXL. 
 
 WHEN the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented, 
 (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends) 
 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
 
 And slipt in three blessings wife, children, and friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, 
 For justice divine could not compass her ends ; 
 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, 
 For earth becomes heaven with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, 
 The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 
 But the heart issues bills which are never protested 
 
 When drawn on the firm of Wife, Children, and Friends. 
 
 Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers, 
 The death-wounded tar who his colours defends, 
 
 Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
 
 How blest was his home with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 
 
 Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 
 With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
 
 For one happy day with wife, children, and friends, 
 
 Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, 
 Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends, 
 
 The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
 The bower where he sat with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, 
 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 
 
 No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 239 
 
 Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish 
 The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends, 
 
 O'er me wave the willow ! and long may it flourish 
 Bedewed with the tears of wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Let us drink for my song, growing graver and graver, 
 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 Let us drink pledge me high Love and Virtue shall flavour 
 
 The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Honble. William ft. Spencer. 
 
 CCCXLI. 
 
 THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN. 
 
 WHEN I was a maid, 
 
 Nor of lovers afraid, 
 My mother cried, " Girl, never listen to men." 
 
 Her lectures were long, 
 
 But I thought her quite wrong, 
 And said I, " Mother, whom should I listen to, then ? " 
 
 Now teaching, in turn, 
 
 What I never could learn, 
 I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ; 
 
 Men ever deceive, 
 
 Silly maidens believe, 
 And still 'tis the old story over again. 
 
 So humbly they woo, 
 
 What can poor maidens do 
 But keep them alive when they swear they must die ? 
 
 Ah ! who can forbear, 
 
 As they weep in despair, 
 Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry ? 
 
 Yet, wedded at last, 
 
 When the honeymoon's past, 
 The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain; 
 
 Our vanity's check'd, 
 
 And we ne'er can expect 
 They will tell us the old story over again. 
 
 James Kenry.
 
 2 4 LYRA ELEGANTIARUAf. 
 
 CCCXLII. 
 
 ROSE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 TELL me, perverse young year ! 
 Why is the morn so drear ? 
 
 Is there no flower to twine ? 
 Away, thou churl, away ! 
 'Tis Rose's natal day, 
 
 Reserve thy frowns for mine. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCXLIII. 
 THE GIRL OF CADIZ. 
 
 O, NEVER talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
 It has not been your lot to see, 
 
 Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
 Altho' her eyes" be not of blue, 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', 
 How far its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses ! 
 
 Prometheus-like from Heaven she stole 
 
 The fire that thro' those silken lashes 
 In darkest glances seems to roll, 
 
 From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
 And as along her bosom steal 
 
 In lengthened flow her raven tresses, 
 You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 
 
 And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
 
 Our English maids are long to woo, 
 
 And frigid even in possession ; 
 And if their charms be fair to view, 
 
 Their lips are slow at Love's confession ; 
 But, born beneath a brighter sun, 
 
 For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
 And who, when fondly, fairly won 
 
 Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The Spanish maid is no coquette, 
 
 Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
 And if she love, or if she hate, 
 
 Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
 Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold 
 
 Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
 And, tho' it will not bend to gold, 
 
 'Twill love you long, and love you dearly. 
 
 The Spanish girl that meets your love 
 
 Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial ; 
 For every thought is bent to prove 
 
 Her passion in the hour of trial. 
 When thronging foemen menace Spain 
 
 She dares the deed and shares the danger; 
 And should her lover press the plain, 
 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
 And when beneath the evening star, 
 
 She mingles in the gay Bolero ; 
 Or sings to her attuned guitar 
 
 Of Christian knight or Moorish hero; 
 Or counts her beads with fairy hand 
 
 Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper ; 
 Or joins devotion's choral band 
 
 To chant the sweet and hallow'd vesper : 
 
 In each her charms the heart must move 
 
 Of all who venture to behold her : 
 Then let not maids less fair reprove, 
 
 Because her bosom is not colder ; 
 Thro' many a clime 'tis mine to roam 
 
 Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
 But none abroad, and few at home, 
 
 May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 CCCXLIV. 
 
 THE time I've lost in wooing, 
 In watching and pursuing 
 
 The light that lies 
 
 In woman's eyes, 
 Has been my heart's undoing. 
 
 241
 
 242 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, 
 I scorn'd the lore she brought me, 
 
 My only books 
 
 Were woman's looks, 
 And folly's all they taught me. 
 
 Her smile when Beauty granted, 
 I hung with gaze enchanted, 
 
 Like him the sprite 
 
 Whom maids by night 
 Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
 Like him, too, Beauty won me ; 
 
 If once their ray 
 
 Was turn'd away, 
 O ! winds could not outrun me. 
 
 And are those follies going ? 
 And is my proud heart growing 
 
 Too cold or wise 
 
 For brilliant eyes 
 Again to set it glowing ? 
 No vain, alas ! th' endeavour 
 From bonds so sweet to sever ; 
 
 Poor Wisdom's chance 
 
 Against a glance 
 Is now as weak as ever. 
 
 Thomas Rloore. 
 
 CCCXLV. 
 
 THE grateful heart for all things blesses ; 
 
 Not only joy, but grief endears : 
 I love you for your few caresses, 
 
 I love you for your many tears. 
 
 Walter S. Lander, 
 
 LA PROMESSA SPOSA. 
 
 SLEEP, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep 
 You take away from others, keep : 
 A night, no distant one, will come 
 When those you took your slumbers from,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Generous ungenerous will confess 
 Their joy that you have slumber'd less, 
 And envy more than they condemn 
 The rival who avenges them. 
 
 Walter S. Landor, 
 
 CCCXLVI I. 
 
 O, say not that my heart is cold 
 
 To aught that once could warm it ; 
 That Nature's form, so dear of old, 
 
 No more has power to charm it ; 
 Or that the ungenerous world can chill 
 
 One glow of fond emotion 
 For those who made it dearer still, 
 
 And shared my wild devotion. 
 
 Still oft those solemn scenes I view 
 
 In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
 Oft look on those who loved them too 
 
 With Fancy's idle gladness ; 
 Again I long'd to view the light 
 
 In Nature's features glowing, 
 Again to tread the mountain's height, 
 
 And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 
 
 Stern Duty rose, and frowning flung 
 
 His leaden chain around me ; 
 With iron look and sullen tongue 
 
 He mutter'd as he bound me ; 
 " The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, 
 
 Unfit for toil the creature; 
 These for the free alone are given 
 
 But what have slaves with Nature ?" 
 
 Rev. Charles Wolfe. 
 
 CCCXLVI 1 1. 
 
 SYMPATHY IN SORROW. 
 
 THE maid I love ne'er thought of me 
 Amid the scenes of gaiety ; 
 But when her heart or mine sank low, 
 Ah, then it was no longer so. 
 
 243
 
 244 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 From the slant palm she raised her head, 
 And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fle 
 Angels ! some future day for this, 
 Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 To MR. HODGSON. 
 From on board the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 HUZZA ! Hodgson, we are going, 
 
 Our embargo's off at last ; 
 Favourable breezes blowing 
 
 Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 
 From aloft the signal's streaming, 
 Hark ! the farewell gun is fir'd ; 
 Sailors swearing, women screaming, 
 Tell us that our time's expir'd. 
 Here's a rascal 
 Come to task all, 
 Prying from the Custom-house ; 
 Trunks unpacking, 
 Cases cracking : 
 Not a corner for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
 Ere we sail on board the Packet. 
 
 Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 
 
 And all hands must ply the oar ; 
 Baggage from the quay is lowering, 
 
 We're impatient push from shore. 
 " Have a care ! that case holds liquor 
 
 Stop the boat I'm sick O lord ! " 
 " Sick, ma'am, hang it, you'll be sicker 
 Ere you've been an hour on board.". 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, 
 Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ; 
 Here entangling, 
 All are wrangling, 
 Stuck together close as wax,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 245 
 
 Such the general noise and racket, 
 Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the Captain, 
 
 Gallant Kidd commands the crew; 
 Passengers their berths are clapt in, 
 Some to grumble some to spew. 
 " Heyday ! call you that a cabin ? 
 
 Why 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
 Not enough to stow Queen Mab in 
 Who the deuce can harbour there ? " 
 " Who, sir ? plenty 
 Nobles twenty 
 Did at once my vessel fill." 
 " Did they ? Bacchus, 
 How you pack us 1 
 Would to Heaven they did so still : 
 Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 
 Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob ! where are you ? 
 
 Stretch'd along the deck like logs 
 Bear a hand you jolly tar, you ! 
 
 Here's a rope's-end for the dogs. 
 Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses 
 
 As the hatchway down he rolls, 
 Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
 Vomits forth and d s our souls. 
 " Here's a stanza 
 On Braganza 
 
 Help ! " " A couplet ? " " No, a cup 
 Of warm water " 
 " What's the matter ? " 
 " Zounds, my liver's coming up ; 
 I shall not survive the racket 
 Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Now at length we're off for Turkey, 
 
 Lord knows when we shall come back ! 
 Breezes foul and tempests murky 
 
 May unship us in a crack. 
 But, since life at most a jest is, 
 
 As philosophers allow, 
 Still to laugh by far the best is, 
 
 Then laugh on as I do now.
 
 246 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Laugh at all things, 
 Great and small things, 
 Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
 While we're quaffing, 
 Let's have laughing 
 Who the devil cares for more ? 
 Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
 Even on board the Lisbon Packet ? 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 CCCL. 
 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE. 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, 
 
 With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, 
 
 When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, 
 And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. 
 
 O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, 
 Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 
 
 'Twas the pride of my dairy, O, Barney M'Leary, 
 You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. 
 
 I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, 
 That such a misfortune should give her such pain, 
 
 A kiss then I gave her, before I did leave her, 
 She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 
 
 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, 
 Misfortunes will never come single, that's plain, 
 
 For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, 
 The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 
 
 Unknown. 
 CCCLI. 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 IN London I never know what I'd be at, 
 Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that ; 
 I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, 
 And Life seems a blessing too happy for man.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 247 
 
 But the Country, Lord help me ! sets all matters right, 
 So calm and composing from morning to night ; 
 Oh ! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen 
 But an ass on a common, a goose on a green. 
 
 In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope, 
 The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope ; 
 What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days? 
 It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. 
 
 In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, 
 To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ; 
 Or go crawling from window to window, to see 
 A pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree. 
 
 In London, if folks ill together are put, 
 A bore may be dropt. and a quiz may be cut; 
 \Ve change without end; and if lazy or ill, 
 All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. 
 
 In the country you're nail'd like a pale in the park, 
 To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark ; 
 And 'tis odds, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down, 
 You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town. 
 
 In London how easy we visit and meet, 
 Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat : 
 Our morning's a round of good-humour'd delight, 
 And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. 
 
 In the country, how sprightly ? our visits we make 
 Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake ; 
 With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, 
 And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog. 
 
 In London the spirits are cheerful and light, 
 All places are gay and all faces are bright ; 
 We've ever new joys, and reviv'd by each whim, 
 Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim. 
 
 But how gay is the country ! what summer delight 
 To be waiting for winter from morning to night! 
 Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee 
 To relish the sweet rural subjects we see.
 
 248 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 In town we've no use for the skies overhead, 
 For when the sun rises then we go to bed ; 
 And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon, 
 She shines out of season, like satin in June. 
 
 In the country these planets delightfully glare 
 Just to show us the object we want isn't there; 
 O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, 
 To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes ! 
 
 But 'tis in the country alone we can find 
 That happy resource, that relief of the mind, 
 When, drove to despair, our last effort we make, 
 And drag the old fishpond, for novelty's sake : 
 
 Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete 
 
 To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ; 
 
 But what is all that to that transport we feel 
 
 When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel? 
 
 I have heard tho', that love in a cottage is sweet. 
 When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet: 
 That's to come for as yet I, alas ! am a swain 
 Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. 
 
 Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees, 
 And chatter their transports in groves, if they please: 
 But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, 
 And for groves, O ! a good grove of chimneys for me. 
 
 In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, 
 The poor tortur'd victim mopes hopeless about ; 
 But in London, thank Heaven ! our peace is secure, 
 Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. 
 
 I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy, 
 
 That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye ; 
 
 But in London these devils so quick fly about, 
 
 That a new devil still drives an old devil out. 
 
 In town let me live then, in town let me die, 
 For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. 
 If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, 
 O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ! 
 
 Captain Charles Morris.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 CCCLII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 
 
 FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane, 
 
 My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain ; 
 
 At Christmas the family met there to dine 
 
 On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. 
 
 Our bark has now taken a contrary heel, 
 
 My wife has found out that the sea is genteel. 
 
 To Brighton we duly go scampering down, 
 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, 
 Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors, 
 Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind, 
 Our armchair and sofa, are all left behind. 
 We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window'd box, 
 That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks; 
 The sun hides his head, and the elements frown, 
 But nobody now spends his Chrismas in Town. 
 
 In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time, 
 
 The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme, 
 
 The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen, 
 
 We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen : 
 
 These pastimes gave oil to Time's round-about wheel, 
 
 Before we began to be growing genteel ; 
 
 'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown, 
 
 But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, 
 Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop ; 
 Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff, 
 Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the Cliff: 
 Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt, 
 With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt, 
 Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown, 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon, 
 And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon ; 
 My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot, 
 And there is not a lock in the house that will shut. 
 
 249
 
 25 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane, 
 And murmur in secret, " Oh, Billiter-lane ! " 
 But would not express what I think for a crown, 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, 
 His Majesty never invites me to dine ; 
 The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the pier, 
 Which makes me supsect that I'm nobody here. 
 If that be the case, why then welcome again 
 Twelfth-cake and snapdragon in Billiter-lane. 
 Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, 
 That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 James Smith. 
 
 LINES LEFT AT MR. THEODORE HOOK'S HOUSE IN 
 JUNE, 1834. 
 
 As Dick and I 
 
 Were a-sailing by 
 At Fulham bridge, I cock'd my eye, 
 
 And says I, "Add-zooksl 
 
 There's Theodore Hook's, 
 Whose Sayings and Doings make such pretty books. 
 
 " I wonder," says I, 
 
 Still keeping my eye 
 On the house, " if he's in I should like to try ; " 
 
 With his oar on his knee, 
 
 Says Dick, says he, 
 " Father, suppose you land and see 1 " 
 
 "What land and sea" 
 
 Says I to he. 
 " Together ! why, Dick, why how can that be ? " 
 
 And my comical son, 
 
 Who is fond of fun, 
 I thought would have split his sides at the pun. 
 
 So we rows to shore, 
 And knocks at the door 
 When William, a man I've seen often before,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 2 $l 
 
 Makes answer and says, 
 " Master's gone in a chaise 
 Call'd a homnibus, drawn by a couple of bays." 
 
 So I says then, 
 
 " Just lend me a pen : " 
 
 " I will, sir," says William, politest of men ; 
 So having no card, these poetical brayings, 
 Are the record I leave of my doings and sayings, 
 Richard H, Bar ham. 
 
 CCCLIV. 
 
 MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
 
 My fingers ache, my lips are dry : 
 O, if you felt the pain I feel ! 
 
 But O, who ever felt as I ! 
 No longer could I doubt him true, 
 
 All other men may use deceit ; 
 He always said my eyes were blue, 
 
 And often swore my lips were sweet. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCLV. 
 
 JENNY KISS'D ME. 
 
 JENNY kiss'd me when we met, 
 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
 Time, you thief ! who love to get 
 
 Sweets into your list, put that in. 
 Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; 
 
 Say that health and wealth have miss'd me ; 
 Say I'm growing old, but add 
 
 Jenny kissed me ! 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 CCCLVI. 
 
 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 SERENE and tranquil was the night, 
 The night that closed the summer day, 
 
 And brilliant was the moon and bright 
 And soft and tender was her ray.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 How like our loves, the husband cried, 
 
 As on his arm Louisa hung ; 
 Louisa was but just a bride, 
 
 And both were fond and both were young. 
 
 This moon how like our love, my dear, 
 He said, and clasp'd her round the waist, 
 
 'Tis pure and perfect and sincere, 
 Tender and true and warm and chaste. 
 
 Time flew the youthful pair again 
 
 Enjoyed at eve the stilly vale, 
 The moon still shone, but in her wane, 
 
 Her form less round, her face more pale. 
 
 This too is like our love my queen, 
 For tho' less radiant and less bright, 
 
 Yet still o'er all this sylvan scene 
 She sheds a mild and pleasing light. 
 
 Louisa gently bow'd her head, 
 
 And yet a sigh escap'd her breast, 
 Perhaps the fair one would have said, 
 She liked the first bright moon the best. 
 
 Unknown. 
 CCCLVII. 
 
 LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. 
 
 TELL me not of joy : there's none 
 Now my little sparrow's gone; 
 He, just as you 
 Would toy and woo, 
 He would chirp and flatter me, 
 He would hang the wing awhile, 
 Till at length he saw me smile, 
 Lord, how sullen he would be ! 
 
 He would catch a crumb, and then 
 Sporting let it go again, 
 He from my lip 
 Would moisture sip, 
 He would from my trencher feed, 
 Then would hop, and then would run, 
 And cry " Philip " when h' had done, 
 O whose heart can choose but bleed ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 2 53 
 
 O, how eager would he fight ! 
 And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite : 
 No morn did pass 
 But on my glass 
 He would sit, and mark, and do 
 What I did ; now ruffle all 
 His feathers o'er, now let'em fall, 
 And then straightway sleek'em too. 
 
 Whence will Cupid get his darts 
 Feather'd now to pierce our hearts ? 
 A wound he may, 
 Not love convey, 
 Now this faithful bird is gone. 
 O let mournful turtles join 
 With loving redbreasts, and combine 
 To sing dirges o'er his stone. 
 
 William Cartwright. 
 
 CCCLVIII. 
 ON THE DEATH OF MATZEL, A FAVOURITE BULLFINCH. 
 
 TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain, 
 To stop your tears, to hide your pain, 
 
 Or check your honest rage ; 
 Give sorrow and revenge their scope, 
 My present joy your future hope, 
 
 Lies murder'd in his cage. 
 
 Matzel's no more ! ye Graces, Loves, 
 Ye linnets, nightingales, and doves, 
 
 Attend th' untimely bier ; 
 Let every sorrow be express'd, 
 Beat with your wings each mournful breast, 
 
 And drop the nat'ral tear. 
 
 For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine, 
 Who loved thy tuneful notes, shall join 
 
 In thy funereal verse ; 
 My painful task shall be to write 
 Th' eternal dirge which they indite, 
 
 And hang it on thy hearse.
 
 254 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 In height of song, in beauty's pride, 
 By fell Grimalkin's claws he died 
 
 But vengeance shall have way. 
 On pains and tortures I'll refine ; 
 Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine 
 
 His nine will ill repay. 
 
 In vain I loved, in vain I mourn 
 My bird, who never to return, 
 
 Is fled to happier shades 
 Where Lesbia shall for him prepare 
 The place most charming and most fair 
 
 Of all the Elysian glades. 
 
 There shall thy notes in cypress grove 
 Soothe wretched ghosts that died for love ; 
 
 There shall thy plaintive strain 
 Lull impious Phaedra's endless grief, 
 To Procris yield some short relief, 
 
 And soften Dido's pain. 
 
 Till Proserpine by chance shall hear 
 Thy notes, and make thee all her care, 
 
 And love thee with my love ; 
 While each attendant's soul shall praise 
 The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays, 
 
 And all his songs approve. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF 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,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 Thomas Gray. 
 
 2 55
 
 256 LYRA ELEGANTIARVM. 
 
 CCCLX. 
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE. 
 
 TIME was when I was free as air, 
 The thistle's downy seed my fare, 
 
 My drink the morning dew ; 
 I perch'd at will on every spray, 
 My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
 
 My strains for ever new. 
 
 But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
 And form genteel, were all in vain, 
 
 And of a transient date ; 
 For caught, and caged, and starved to death, 
 In dying sighs my little breath 
 
 Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 
 
 Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
 And thanks for this effectual close 
 
 And cure of every ill ! 
 More cruelty could none express ; 
 And I, if you had shown me less, 
 
 Had been your prisoner still. 
 
 William Cowfer. 
 
 CCCLXI. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 
 
 THE greenhouse is my summer seat ; 
 My shrubs displaced from that retreat 
 
 Enjoy'd the open air ; 
 Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song 
 Had been their mutual solace long, 
 
 Lived happy prisoners there. 
 
 They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
 That nutter loose on golden wing, 
 
 And frolic where they list; 
 Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, 
 But that delight they never knew, 
 
 And therefore never miss'd.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But nature works in every breast, 
 Instinct is never quite suppress'd ; 
 
 And Dick felt some desires, 
 Which, after many an effort vain, 
 Instructed him at length to gain 
 
 A pass between his wires. 
 
 The open windows seem'd t' invite 
 The freeman to a farewell flight; 
 
 But Tom was still confined; 
 And Dick, although his way was clear, 
 Was much too generous and sincere, 
 
 To leave his friend behind. 
 
 For, settling on his grated roof, 
 
 He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof 
 
 That he desired no more; 
 Nor would forsake his cage at last 
 Till gently seized I shut him fast, 
 
 A prisoner as before. 
 
 O ye, who never knew the joys 
 Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, 
 
 Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
 Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
 A prison with a friend preferr'd 
 
 To liberty without. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 CCCLXII. 
 EPITAPH ON A HARE. 
 
 HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
 Nor swifter greyhound follow, 
 
 Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
 Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo. 
 
 Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
 Who, nurs'd with tender care, 
 
 And to domestic bounds confined, 
 Was still a wild Jack-hare. 
 
 Though duly from my hand he took 
 
 His pittance every night, 
 He did it with a jealous look, 
 
 And, when he could, would bite. 
 
 257
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 His diet was of wheaten bread, 
 And milk, and oats, and straw; 
 
 Thistles, or lettuces instead, 
 With sand to scour his maw. 
 
 On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd, 
 
 On pippins' russet peel, 
 And when his juicy salads fail'd, 
 
 Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well. 
 
 A Turkey carpet was his lawn, 
 
 Whereon he lov'd to bound, 
 To skip and gambol like a fawn, 
 
 And swing his rump around. 
 
 His frisking was at evening hours, 
 
 For then he lost his fear, 
 But most before approaching showers, 
 
 Or when a storm drew near. 
 
 Eight years and five round-rolling moons 
 
 He thus saw steal away, 
 Dozing out all his idle noons, 
 
 And every night at play. 
 
 I kept him for his humour's sake, 
 
 For he would oft beguile 
 My heart of thoughts that made it ache, 
 
 And force me to a smile. 
 
 But now beneath his walnut shade 
 
 He finds his long last home, 
 And waits, in snug concealment laid, 
 
 Till gentler Puss shall come. 
 
 He, still more aged, feels the shocks, 
 From which no care can save, 
 
 And, partner once of Tiney's box, 
 Must soon partake his grave. 
 
 William Ccrwper.
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 259 
 
 CCCLXIII. 
 
 To A KITTEN. 
 
 WANTON droll, whose harmless play 
 
 Beguiles the rustics' closing day, 
 
 When, drawn the evening fire about, 
 
 Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, 
 
 And child upon his three-foot stool, 
 
 Waiting till his supper cool ; 
 
 And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose 
 
 As bright the blazing faggot glows, 
 
 Who, bending to the friendly light, 
 
 Plies her task with busy sleight ; 
 
 Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, 
 
 Thus circled round with merry faces. 
 
 Backward coil'd and crouching low, 
 With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 
 The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
 Or thread or straw, that on the ground 
 Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
 Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
 Then onward stealing, fiercely spring 
 Upon the futile faithless thing. 
 Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, 
 Thy bo;.peep tail provokes thee still, 
 As oft beyond thy curving side 
 Its jetty tip is seen to glide; 
 And see ! the start, the jet, the bound, 
 The giddy scamper round and round, 
 With leap and toss and high curvet, 
 And many a whirling somerset. 
 
 The featest tumbler, stage bedight, 
 To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
 Who every limb and sinew strains 
 To do what costs thee little pains ; 
 For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
 Requite him oft with praises loud. 
 But, stopp'd awhile thy wanton play, 
 Applauses too thy pains repay ; 
 For now, beneath some urchin's hand 
 With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
 
 2bO LYRA ELEGANT1ARUM. 
 
 While many a stroke of kindness glides 
 Along thy back and tabby sides. 
 Dilated swells thy glossy fur 
 And loudly sings thy busy purr 
 As, timing well the equal sound, 
 Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, 
 And all their harmless claws disclose, 
 Like prickles of an early rose ; 
 While softly from thy whiskered cheek 
 Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 
 
 But not alone by cottage fire 
 Do rustics rude thy feats admire. 
 Even he, whose mood of gloomy ben 
 In lonely tower or prison pent, 
 Reviews the coil of former days, 
 And loathes the world and all its ways, 
 What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
 Hath roused him from his moody dream, 
 Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, 
 His heart of pride less fiercely beat, 
 And smiles, a link in thee to find, 
 That joins it still to living kind. 
 
 Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss ! 
 
 The magic power to charm us thus ? 
 
 Is it that in thy glaring eye 
 
 And rapid movements, we descry 
 
 Whilst we at ease, secure from ill, 
 
 The chimney corner snugly fill, 
 
 A lion darting on its prey, 
 
 A tiger at his ruthless play ? 
 
 Or is it that in thee we trace 
 
 With all thy varied wanton grace, 
 
 An emblem, view'd with kindred eye, 
 
 Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 
 
 Ah ! many a lightly sportive child, 
 
 Who hath like thee our wits beguiled. 
 
 To dull and sober manhood grown, 
 
 With strange recoil our hearts disown. 
 
 And so, poor kit ! must thou endure, 
 When thou becom'st a cat demure, 
 Full many a cuff and angry word, 
 Chas'd roughly from the tempting board.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 261 
 
 But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 
 
 So oft our favour'd playmate been, 
 
 Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, 
 
 When time hath spoil'd thee of our love. 
 
 Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat 
 
 A comelv, careful, mousing cat, 
 
 Whose dish is, for the public good, 
 
 Replenished oft with savoury food. 
 
 Nor, when thy span of life is past, 
 
 Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast, 
 
 But gently borne on good man's spade, 
 
 Beneath the decent sod be laid; 
 
 And children show with glistening eyes 
 
 The place where poor old pussy lies. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 CCCLXIV. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST. 
 
 TREAD lightly here, for here, 'tis said, 
 W r hen piping winds are hush'd around, 
 A small note wakes from underground, 
 
 Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
 
 No more in lone and leafless groves, 
 With ruffled wing and faded breast, 
 
 His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 
 Gone to the world where birds are blest ! 
 
 Where never cat glides o'er the green, 
 
 Or schoolboy's giant form is seen ; 
 
 But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring 
 
 Inspire their little souls to sing ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 CCCLXV. 
 
 THE COLUBRIAD. 
 
 CLOSE by the threshold of a door nail'd fast 
 
 Three kittens sat ; each kitten looked aghast. 
 
 I, passing swift and inattentive by, 
 
 At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; 
 
 Not much concerned to know what they did there; 
 
 Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.
 
 262 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 But presently a loud and furious hiss 
 
 Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, " What's this 
 
 When lo ! upon the threshold met my view, 
 
 With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 
 
 A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 
 
 Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, 
 
 Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 
 
 Who, never having seen, in field or house, 
 
 The like, sat still and silent as a mouse ; 
 
 Only projecting, with attention due, 
 
 Her whisker'd face, she asked him, " Who are you ? " 
 
 On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, 
 
 But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 
 
 With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, 
 
 To find the viper, but I found him not. 
 
 And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 
 
 Found only that he was not to be found. 
 
 But still the kittens, sitting as before, 
 
 Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 
 
 '* I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill 
 
 Has slipt between the door and door-sill ; 
 
 And if I make despatch, and follow hard, 
 
 No doubt but I shall find him in the yard: " 
 
 For long ere now it should have been rehears'd, 
 
 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
 
 E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat 
 
 His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat ; 
 
 As curious as the kittens erst had been 
 
 To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
 
 FilPd with heroic ardour at the sight, 
 
 And fearing every moment he would bite, 
 
 And rob our household of our only cat 
 
 That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
 
 With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, 
 
 And taught him never to come there no more. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 CCCLXVI. 
 
 THE JACKDAW. 
 
 THERE is a bird, who by his coat, 
 And by the hoarseness of his note, 
 Might be supposed a crow ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 A great frequenter of the church, 
 Where bishop-like he finds a perch, 
 And dormitory too. 
 
 Above the steeple shines a plate, 
 That turns and turns, to indicate 
 
 From what point blows the weather : 
 Look up your brains begin to swim, 
 'Tis in the clouds that pleases him, 
 
 He chooses it the rather. 
 
 Fond of the speculative height, 
 Thither he wings his airy flight, 
 
 And thence securely sees 
 The bustle and the rareeshow 
 That occupy mankind below, 
 
 Secure and at his ease. 
 
 You think, no doubt, he sits and muses, 
 On future broken bones and bruises, 
 
 If he should chance to fall. 
 No ; not a single thought like that 
 Employs his philosophic pate, 
 
 Or troubles it at all. 
 
 He sees that this great roundabout, 
 The world, with all its motley rout, 
 
 Church, army, physic, law, 
 Its customs and its businesses, 
 Is no concern at all of his, 
 
 And says what says he ? Caw. 
 
 Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 
 Much of the vanities of men ; 
 
 And, sick of having seen 'em, 
 Would cheerfully these limbs resign 
 For such a pair of wings as thine, 
 
 And such a head between 'em. 
 
 William Ccnufer.
 
 264 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCLXVII. 
 THE WALTZ. 
 
 BEHOLD with downcast eyes and modest glance, 
 In measur'd step, a well dress'd pair advance, 
 One hand on hers, the other on her hip, 
 (But licens'd not to neighbouring parts to slip) I 
 For thus the law's ordain'd by Baron Trip. 
 'Twas in such posture our first parents mov'd 
 When hand in hand thro' Eden's bowers they rov'd, 
 Ere yet the devil, with practice foul and false, 
 Turn'd their poor heads, and taught them how to waltz. 
 Rt. Honble. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
 CCCLXVIII. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 DEAR JOSEPH five and twenty years ago 
 Alas, how time escapes ! 'tis even so 
 With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, 
 And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
 A tedious hour and now we never meet ! 
 As some grave gentleman in Terence says 
 ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), 
 Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings 
 Strange fluctuation of all human things ! 
 True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, 
 But distance only cannot change the heart : 
 And, were I call'd to prove th' assertion true, 
 One proof should serve a reference tp you. 
 
 Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, 
 Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, 
 We find the friends we fancied we had won, 
 Though num'rous once, reduced to few or none ? 
 Can gold grow worthless, that has stood the touch ? 
 No ; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. 
 
 Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, 
 Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, 
 Dreading a negative, and overaw'd 
 Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 26$ 
 
 Go, fellow ! whither ? turning short about 
 Nay. Stay at home you're always going out. 
 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. 
 For what ? An please you, sir, to see a friend. 
 A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start 
 Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. 
 And fetch my cloak ; for, though the night be raw, 
 I'll see him too the first I ever saw. 
 
 I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, 
 And was his plaything often when a child ; 
 But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, 
 Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
 Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd, 
 His grief might prompt him with the speech he made ; 
 Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth, 
 The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. 
 Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, 
 Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 
 
 But not to moralize too much, and strain 
 To prove an evil, of which all complain, 
 (I hate long arguments verbosely spun), 
 One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
 Once on a time an emp'ror, a wise man, 
 No matter where, in China or Japan, 
 Decreed, that whosoever should offend 
 Against the well-known duties of a friend, 
 Convicted once should ever after wear 
 But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
 The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
 That all was naught within, and all found out 
 
 O happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
 Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
 Else could a law, like that which I relate, 
 Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
 Some few that I have known in days of old, 
 Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold ; 
 While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, 
 Might traverse England safely to and fro, 
 An honest man, close button'd to the chin, 
 Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. 
 
 William Cowper.
 
 266 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCLXIX. 
 
 CATHARINA. 
 Addressed to Miss Stapleton. 
 
 SHE came she is gone we have met 
 
 And meet perhaps never again ; 
 The sun of that moment is set, 
 
 And seems to have risen in vain. 
 Catharina has fled like a dream 
 
 (So vanishes pleasure, alas ! ) 
 But has left a regret and esteem, 
 
 That will not so suddenly pass. 
 
 The last ev'ning ramble we made, 
 
 Catharina, Maria, and I, 
 Our progress was often delay'd 
 
 By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
 We paus'd under many a tree, 
 
 And much she was charm'd with a tone 
 Less sweet to Maria and me, 
 
 Who so lately had witness 'd her own. 
 
 My numbers that day she had sung, 
 
 And gave them a grace so divine, 
 As only her musical tongue 
 
 Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
 The longer I heard, I esteem'd 
 
 The work of my fancy the more, 
 And e'en to myself never seem'd 
 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
 Though the pleasures of London exceed 
 
 In number the days of the year, 
 Catharina, did nothing impede, 
 
 Would feel herself happier here; 
 For the close-woven arches of limes 
 
 On the banks of our river, I know, 
 Are sweeter to her many times 
 
 Than aught that the city can show.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 So it is, when the mind is endued 
 
 With a well-judging taste from above ; 
 Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 
 
 'Tis nature alone that we love. 
 Th' achievements of art may amuse, 
 
 May even our wonder excite, 
 But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 
 
 A lasting, a sacred delight. 
 
 Since then in the rural recess 
 
 Catharina alone can rejoice, 
 May it still be her lot to possess 
 
 The scene of her sensible choice ! 
 To inhabit a mansion remote 
 
 From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
 And by Philomel's annual note 
 
 To measure the life that she leads. 
 
 With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 
 
 To wing all her moments at home ; 
 And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 
 
 As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
 She will have just the life she prefers, 
 
 With little to hope or to fear, 
 And ours would be pleasant as hers, 
 
 Might we view her enjoying it here. 
 
 William Coivper. 
 
 THE DESPAIRING LOVER. 
 
 DISTRACTED with care, 
 For Phillis the fair, 
 Since nothing can move her, 
 Poor Damon, her lover, 
 Resolves in despair 
 No longer to languish, 
 Nor bear so much anguish ; 
 But, mad with his love, 
 
 To a precipice goes, 
 Where a leap from above 
 
 Will soon finish his woes. 
 
 267
 
 2 63 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 When, in rage, he came there, 
 
 Beholding how steep 
 The sides did appear, 
 
 And the bottom how deep ; 
 His torments projecting, 
 And sadly reflecting 
 That a lover forsaken 
 
 A new lover may get ; 
 But a neck, when once broken, 
 
 Can never be set : 
 
 And that he could die 
 
 Whenever he would ; 
 But that he could live 
 
 But as long as he could ; 
 How grievous soever 
 
 The torment might grow, 
 He scorn'd to endeavour 
 
 To finish it so. 
 But bold, unconcern 'd, 
 
 At the thoughts of the pain, 
 He calmly return'd 
 
 To his cottage again. 
 
 William WalsA, 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, 
 While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; 
 A river ran mournfully murmuring by, 
 And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 
 
 " O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore ! " 
 " O, never was maid so deserted before ! " 
 "From life and its woes let us instantly fly, 
 And jump in together for company ! " 
 
 They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, 
 But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; 
 " How tiresome it is ! " said the fair with a sigh ; 
 So they sat down to rest them in company.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 269 
 
 They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; 
 How fair was her form, and how goodly his height ! 
 " One mournful embrace ; " sobb'd the youth, " ere we die ! " 
 So kissing and crying kept company. 
 
 " O, had I but lov'd such an angel as you ! " 
 "O, had but my swain been a quarter as true ! " 
 " To miss such perfection how blinded was I ! " 
 Sure now they were excellent company ! 
 
 At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, 
 " The weather is cold for a watery bier ; 
 When summer returns we may easily die, 
 Till then let us sorrow in company." 
 
 Reginald Heber. 
 
 CCCLXXII. 
 THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. 
 
 I THINK whatever mortals crave, 
 
 With impotent endeavour, 
 A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, 
 
 The world goes round for ever : 
 I think that life is not too long ; 
 
 And therefore I determine, 
 That many people read a song 
 
 Who will not read a sermon. 
 
 I think you've look'd through many hearts, 
 
 And mused on many actions, 
 And studied man's component parts, 
 
 And Nature's compound fractions : 
 I think you've pick'd up truths by bits 
 
 From foreigner and neighbour ; 
 I think the world has lost its wits, 
 
 And you have lost your labour. 
 
 I think the studies of the wise, 
 
 The hero's noisy quarrel, 
 The majesty of Woman's eyes, 
 
 The poet's cherish'd laurel,
 
 270 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And all that makes us lean or fat, 
 And all that charms or troubles, 
 
 This bubble is more bright than that, 
 But still they are all bubbles. 
 
 I think the thing you call Renown, 
 
 The unsubstantial vapour 
 For which the soldier burns a town, 
 
 The sonnetteer a taper, 
 Is like the mist which, as he flies, 
 
 The horseman leaves behind him ; 
 He cannot mark its wreaths arise, 
 
 Or if he does they blind him. 
 
 I think one nod of Mistress Chance 
 
 Makes creditors of debtors, 
 And shifts the funeral for the dance, 
 
 The sceptre for the fetters : 
 I think that Fortune's fayored guest 
 
 May live to gnaw the platters, 
 And he that wears the purple vest 
 
 May wear the rags and tatters. 
 
 I think the Tories love to buy 
 
 " Your Lordship's " and " your Grace's,* 
 By loathing common honesty, 
 
 And lauding commonplaces : 
 I think that some are very wise, 
 
 And some are very funny, 
 And some grow rich by telling lies, 
 
 And some by telling money. 
 
 I think the Whigs are wicked knaves 
 
 (And very like the Tories) 
 Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, 
 
 And ask the price of glories : 
 I think that many fret and fume 
 
 At what their friends are planning, 
 And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham 
 
 As much as Mr. Canning. 
 
 I think that friars and their hoods, 
 Their doctrines and their maggots, 
 
 Have lighted up too many feuds, 
 And far too many faggots :
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I think, while zealots fast and frown, 
 
 And fight for two or seven, 
 That there are fifty roads to Town, 
 
 And rather more to Heaven. 
 
 I think that, thanks to Paget's lance, 
 
 And thanks to Chester's learning, 
 The hearts that burn'd for fame in France 
 
 At home are safe from burning : 
 I think the Pope is on his back ; 
 
 And, though 'tis fun to shake him, 
 I think the Devil not so black 
 
 As many people make him. 
 
 I think that Love is like a play, 
 
 Where tears and smiles are blended, 
 Or like a faithless April day, 
 
 Whose shine with shower is ended : 
 Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough, 
 
 Like trade, exposed to losses, 
 And like a Highland plaid, all stuff, 
 
 And very full of crosses, 
 
 1 think the world, though dark it be, 
 
 Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
 Conceal'd in life's monotony, 
 
 For those who seek the treasure ; 
 One planet in a starless night, 
 
 One blossom on a briar, 
 One friend not quite a hypocrite, 
 
 One woman not a liar I 
 
 I think poor beggars court St. Giles, 
 
 Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; 
 And Death looks down with nods and smiles, 
 
 And makes the odds all even : 
 I think some die upon the field, 
 
 And some upon the billow, 
 And some are laid beneath a shield, 
 
 And some beneath a willow. 
 
 I think that very few have sigh'd 
 When Fate at last has found them, 
 
 Though bitter foes were by their side, 
 And barren moss around them :
 
 272 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I think that some have died of drought, 
 
 And some have died of drinking ; 
 I think that nought is worth a thought, 
 
 And I'm a fool for thinking ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 CCCLXXIII. 
 
 A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H. 
 
 'TWAS in heaven pronounced it was mutter'd in hell, 
 
 And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell 5 
 
 On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, 
 
 And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd. 
 
 'Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder. 
 
 Be seen in the light'ning, and heard in the thunder. 
 
 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, 
 
 Attends at his birth and awaits him in death : 
 
 Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, 
 
 Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth 
 
 In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, 
 
 But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 
 
 It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, 
 
 With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown 'd. 
 
 Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, 
 
 But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! 
 
 In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 
 
 Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd. 
 
 Twill not soften the heart ; and tho' deaf be the ear, 
 
 It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 
 
 Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, 
 
 Ah, breathe on it softly it dies in an hour. 
 
 Catherine Fanshawe. 
 CCCLXXIV. 
 CHARADE ON THE NAME OF THE POET CAMPBELL. 
 
 COME from my First, ay, come ; 
 
 The battle dawn is nigh ; 
 And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 
 
 Are calling thee to die ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIA.RUM. 
 
 Fight, as thy father fought ; 
 
 Fall, as thy father fell : 
 Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; 
 
 So, forward ! and farewell ! 
 
 Toll ye my Second, toll ; 
 
 Fling high the flambeau's light ; 
 And sing the hymn for a parted soul 
 
 Beneath the silent night ; 
 The helm upon his head, 
 
 The cross upon his breast, 
 Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed ; 
 
 Now take him to his rest ! 
 
 Call ye my Whole, go, call ; 
 
 The Lord of lute and lay ; 
 And let him greet the sable pall 
 
 With a noble song to-day: 
 Ay, call him by his name ; 
 
 No fitter hand may crave 
 To light the flame of a soldier's fame 
 
 On the turf of a soldier's grave ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 CCCLXXV. 
 
 WITH PETRARCH'S SONNETS. 
 
 BEHOLD what homage to his idol paid 
 
 The tuneful suppliant of Valclusa's shade. 
 
 His verses still the tender heart engage, 
 
 They charm'd a rude, and please a polish'd age: 
 
 Some are to nature and to passion true, 
 
 And all had been so, had he lived for you. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCLXXVI. 
 THE MAIDEN BLUSH. 
 
 So look the mornings, when the sun 
 Paints them with fresh vermilion ; 
 So cherries blush, and Catherine pears, 
 And apricots, in youthful years ; 
 
 273
 
 274 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 So corals look more lovely red, 
 And rubies lately polished ; 
 So purest diaper doth shine, 
 Stained by the beams of claret wine ; 
 As Julia looks, when she doth dress 
 Her either cheek with bashfulness. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 CCCLXXVII. 
 DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 
 
 SOOTH 'twere a pleasant life to lead, 
 
 With nothing in the world to do, 
 But just to blow a shepherd's reed, 
 
 The silent seasons thro' : 
 And just to drive a flock to feed, 
 
 Sheep, quiet, fond, and few 1 
 
 Pleasant to breathe beside a brook, 
 And count the bubbles, love-worlds, there; 
 
 To muse within some minstrel's book, 
 Or watch the haunted air ; 
 
 To slumber in some leafy nook, 
 Or idle anywhere. 
 
 And then, a draught of nature's wine, 
 A meal of summer's daintiest fruit; 
 
 To take the air with forms divine ; 
 Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute ; 
 
 Descending, if the night be fine, 
 In a star-parachute. 
 
 Give me to live with Love alone, 
 And let the world go dine and dress ; 
 
 For Love hath lowly haunts a stone 
 Holds something meant to bless. 
 
 If life's a flower, I choose my own 
 'Tis " Love in Idleness." 
 
 Laman Blanchard.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. , 
 
 CCCLXXVIII. 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 I ASKED my fair one happy day, 
 What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ; 
 Lalage, Nesera, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 Arethusa or Lucrece. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 
 
 " Beloved, what are names but air ? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me thine." 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 CCCLXXTX. 
 DESTINY UNCERTAIN. 
 
 GRACEFULLY shy is yon Gazelle : 
 And are those eyes, so clear, so mild, 
 Only to shine upon a wild 
 
 And be reflected in a shallow well ? 
 
 Ah ! who can tell ? 
 
 If she grows tamer, who shall pat 
 
 Her neck ? who wreathe the flowers around ? 
 Who give the name ? who pace the ground ? 
 Pondering these things a grave old Dervish sat, 
 
 And sigh'd, Ah ! who can tell ? 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCLXXX. 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 WHY write my name 'midst songs and flowers, 
 
 To meet the eye of lady gay ? 
 I have no voice for lady's bowers 
 
 For page like this no fitting lay.
 
 276 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Yet tho' my heart no more must bound 
 At witching call of sprightly joys, 
 
 Mine is the brow that never frown'd 
 On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes. 
 
 No though behind me now is clos'd 
 The youthful paradise of Love, 
 
 Yet can I bless, with soul compos'd, 
 The lingerers in that happy grove I 
 
 Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take ! 
 
 Where'er amid its charms you roam; 
 Or where, by western hill or lake, 
 
 You brighten a serener home. 
 
 And while the youthful lover's name 
 Here with the sister beauty's blends, 
 
 Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim, 
 That to their list would add a friend's ! 
 
 Francis, Lord Jeffrey. 
 
 CCCLXXXI. 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 THOU record of the votive throng, 
 That fondly seek this fairy shrine, 
 
 And pay the tribute of a song 
 
 Where worth and loveliness combine, 
 
 What boots that I, a vagrant wight 
 
 From clime to clime still wandering on, 
 
 Upon thy friendly page should write 
 Who'll think of me when I am gone ? 
 
 Go plough the wave, and sow the sand I 
 Throw seed to ev'ry wind that blows ; 
 
 Along the highway strew thy hand, 
 And fatten on the crop that grows. 
 
 For even thus the man that roams 
 
 On heedless hearts his feeling spends ; 
 
 Strange tenant of a thousand homes, 
 And friendless, with ten thousand friends I
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. z 
 
 Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace, 
 
 To ask in after times a thought ! 
 To say that here a resting-place 
 
 My wayworn heart has fondly sought. 
 
 So the poor pilgrim heedless strays, 
 Unmoved, thro' many a region fair ; 
 
 But at some shrine his tribute pays 
 To tell that he has worshipp'd there. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 CCCLXXXII. 
 
 BURN HAM-BEECHES. 
 
 A BARD, dear muse, unapt to sing, 
 
 Your friendly aid beseeches. 
 Help me to touch the lyric string, 
 
 In praise of Burnham-beeches. 
 
 What tho' my tributary lines 
 
 Be less like Pope's than Creech's, 
 
 The theme, if not the poet, shines, 
 So bright are Burnham-beeches. 
 
 O'er many a dell and upland walk, 
 
 Their silvan beauty reaches, 
 Of Birnam-wood let Scotland talk, 
 
 While we've our Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Oft do I linger, oft return, 
 
 (Say, who my taste impeaches) 
 
 Where holly, juniper, and fern, 
 Spring up round Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Tho' deep embower'd their shades among, 
 The owl at midnight screeches, 
 
 Birds of far merrier, sweeter song, 
 Enliven Burnham-beeches. 
 
 If " sermons be in stones," I'll bet 
 
 Our vicar, when he preaches, 
 He'd find it easier far to get 
 
 A hint from Burnham-beeches.
 
 278 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Their glossy rind here winter stains, 
 
 Here the hot solstice bleaches. 
 Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, graceful planes ! 
 
 Ye match not Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Gardens may boast a tempting show 
 Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches, 
 
 But daintiest truffles lurk below 
 The boughs of Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Poets and painters, hither hie, 
 
 Here ample room for each is 
 With pencil and with pen to try 
 
 His hand at Burnham-beeches. 
 
 When monks, by holy Church well schooled, 
 Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches, 
 Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled, 
 Then flourished Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Skirting the convent's walls of yore, 
 
 As yonder ruin teaches. 
 But shaven crown and cowl no more 
 
 Shall darken Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Here bards have mused, here lovers true 
 Have dealt in softest speeches, 
 
 While suns declined, and, parting, threw 
 Their gold o'er Burnham-beeches. 
 
 O ne'er may woodman's axe resound, 
 Nor tempest, making breaches 
 
 In the sweet shade that cools the ground 
 Beneath our Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Hold ! tho' I'd fain be jingling on, 
 My power no further reaches 
 
 Again that rhyme ? enough I've done, 
 Farewell to Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Henry Luttrell.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 CCCLXXXIir. 
 
 NETS AND CAGES. 
 
 COME, listen to my story, while 
 Your needle's task you ply ; 
 At what I sing some maids will smile, 
 
 While some, perhaps, may sigh. 
 Tho' Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames 
 
 Such florid songs as ours, 
 Yet Truth sometimes, like Eastern dames, 
 Can speak her thoughts by flowers. 
 Then listen, maids, come listen, while 
 
 Your needle's task you ply ; 
 At what I sing there's some may smile, 
 While some, perhaps, may sigh. 
 
 Young Chloe bent on catching Loves, 
 
 Such nets had learnt to frame, 
 That none, in all our vales and groves, 
 
 E'er caught so much small game : 
 But gentle Sue, less giv'n to roam, 
 
 While Chloe's nets were taking 
 Such lots of Loves, sat still at home, 
 
 One little Love-cage making. 
 
 Come, listen, maids, etc. 
 
 Much Chloe laugh'd at Susan's task ; 
 
 But mark how things went on : 
 These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask 
 
 Their name and age, were gone ! 
 So weak poor Chloe's nets were wove, 
 
 That, tho' she charm'd into them 
 New game each hour, the youngest Love 
 
 Was able to break through them, 
 
 Come, listen, maids, etc. 
 
 Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought 
 
 Of bars too strong to sever, 
 One Love with golden pinions caught, 
 
 And caged him there for ever : 
 
 279
 
 280 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Instructing, thereby, all coquettes, 
 
 What'er their looks or ages, 
 That, tho' 'tis pleasant weaving Nets, 
 'Tis wiser to make Cages. 
 Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile 
 
 The task your fingers ply, 
 May all who hear, like Susan smile, 
 And not, like Chloe, sigh ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 CCCLXXXIV. 
 
 OVER A COVERED SEAT IN THE FLOWER-GARDEN AT 
 HOLLAND HOUSE 
 
 Where the Author of the "Pleasures of Memory' 1 '' was accus- 
 tomed to sit, appear the following lines. 
 
 HERE Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell, 
 To me, those pleasures that he sang so well. 
 
 Lord Holland. 
 
 CCCLXXXV. 
 
 ON SAMUEL ROGERS' SEAT IN THE GARDEN AT HOLLAND 
 HOUSE. 
 
 How happily shelter'd is he who reposes 
 In this haunt of the poet, o'ershadow'd with roses, 
 While the sun is rejoicing, unclouded, on high, 
 And summer's full majesty reigns in the sky ! 
 
 Let me in, and be seated. I'll try if, thus placed, 
 I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste, 
 Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain, 
 Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain. 
 
 Well now I am fairly install'd in the bower, 
 How lovely the scene ! How propitious the hour I 
 The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs; 
 All is beauty around me ; but nothing occurs, 
 Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here and alone, 
 Not a line can I hit on, that Rogers would own, 
 Though my senses are ravish'd, my feelings in tune, 
 And Holland's my host, and the season is June.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The trial is ended. Nor garden, nor grove, 
 Though poets amid them may linger or rove, 
 Nor a seat e'en so hallow'd as this can impart 
 The fancy and fire that must spring from the heart. 
 So I rose, since the Muses continue to frown, 
 No more of a poet than when I sat down ; 
 While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can strike 
 Their lyre, at all times, in all places, alike. 
 
 Henry Luttrell. 
 
 CCCLXXXVI. 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 YEARS years ago, ere yet my dreams 
 
 Had been of being wise or witty, 
 Ere I had clone with writing themes, 
 
 Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; 
 Years years ago, while all my joy 
 
 Was in my fowling-piece and filly, 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lily. 
 
 I saw her at the County Ball : 
 
 There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
 Gave signal sweet in that old hall 
 
 Of hands across and down the middle, 
 Hers was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that set young hearts romancing ; 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 
 And then she danced O Heaven, her dancing ! 
 
 Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
 Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender 1 
 Her every look, her every smile, 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
 I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 
 And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. 
 
 She talk'd, of politics or prayers, 
 
 Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, 
 Of danglers or of dancing bears, 
 
 Of battles or the last new bonnets,
 
 282 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, 
 To me it matter'd not a tittle ; 
 
 If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 I might have thought they murmur'd Little. 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry June, 
 
 I love her with a loved eternal ; 
 I spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : 
 My mother laugh' d; I soon found out 
 
 That ancient ladies have no feeling: 
 My father frown'd ; but how should gout 
 
 See any happiness in kneeling ? 
 
 She was the daughter of a Dean, 
 
 Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
 She had one brother, just thirteen, 
 
 Whose colour was extremely hectic ; 
 Her grandmother for many a year 
 
 Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
 Her second cousin was a peer, 
 
 And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 
 
 But titles, and the three per cents., 
 
 And mortgages, and great relations. 
 And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, 
 
 Oh what are they to love's sensations ? 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks 
 
 Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses ; 
 He cares as little for the Stocks, 
 
 As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 
 
 She sketch'd ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 
 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; 
 
 She made the Catalani jealous : 
 She touch'd the organ ; I could stand 
 
 For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 
 
 She kept an album, too, at home, 
 
 Well fill'd with all an album's glories ; 
 
 Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 
 
 Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. '283 
 
 Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, 
 
 Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, 
 
 And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
 And recipes for elder-water. 
 
 And she was flatter'd, worhipp'd, bored; 
 
 Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted ; 
 Her poodle dog was quite adored, 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted; 
 She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, 
 
 As if the taxes were abolish'd; 
 She frown'd, and every look was sad, 
 
 As if the Opera were demolish'd. 
 
 She smiled on many, just for fun, 
 
 I knew that there was nothing in it; 
 I was the first the only one 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute. 
 I knew it, for she told me so, 
 
 In phrase which was divinely moulded; 
 She wrote a charming hand, and oh ! 
 
 How sweetly all her notes were folded 1 
 
 Our love was like most other loves ; 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 
 
 And " Fly not yet " upon the river; 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
 A miniature, a lock of hair, 
 
 The usual vows, and then we parted. 
 
 We parted ; months and years roll'd by; 
 
 We met again four summers after : 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 
 
 Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: 
 For in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 There had been many other lodgers ; 
 And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 
 
 But only Mrs. Something Rogers ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed.
 
 284 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCLXXXVII. 
 LOVE AND AGE. 
 
 I PLAY'Dwith you 'mid cowslips blowing, 
 
 When I was six and you were four ; 
 When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, 
 
 Were pleasures soon to please no more. 
 Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, 
 
 With little playmates, to and fro, 
 We wander'd hand in hand together ; 
 
 But that was sixty years ago 
 
 You grew a lovely roseate maiden, 
 
 And still our early love was strong; 
 Still with no care our days were laden, 
 
 They glided joyously along ; 
 And I did love you very dearly 
 
 How dearly, words want power to show ; 
 I thought your heart was touched as nearly; 
 
 But that was fifty years ago. 
 
 Then other lovers came around you, 
 
 Your beauty grew from year to year, 
 And many a splendid circle found you 
 
 The centre of its glittering sphere. 
 I saw you then, first vows forsaking, 
 
 On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; 
 O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, 
 
 But that was forty years ago. 
 
 And I lived on, to wed another: 
 
 No cause she gave me to repine ; 
 And when I heard you were a mother, 
 
 I did not wish the children mine. 
 My own young flock, in fair progression, 
 
 Made up a pleasant Christmas row : 
 My joy in them was past expression ; 
 
 But that was thirty years ago, 
 
 You grew a matron plump and comely, 
 You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; 
 
 My earthly lot was far more homely ; 
 But I too had my festal days.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 285 
 
 No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd 
 Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, 
 
 Than when my youngest child was christen'd : 
 But that was twenty years ago. 
 
 Time past. My eldest girl was married, 
 
 And I am now a grandsire grey ; 
 One pet of four years old I've carried 
 
 Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. 
 In our old fields of childish pleasure, 
 
 Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 
 She fills her basket's ample measure, 
 
 And that is not ten years ago. 
 
 But tho' first love's impassion'd blindness 
 
 Has pass'd away in colder light, 
 I still have thought of you with kindness, 
 
 And shall do, till our last good-night. 
 The ever-rolling silent hours 
 
 Will bring a time we shall not know, 
 When our young days of gathering flowers 
 
 Will be an hundred years ago. 
 
 Thomas L. Peacock. 
 
 CCCLXXXVIII. 
 
 A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, 
 
 " I'll build in this garden, the thought is divine F' 
 Her temple was built, and she now only wanted 
 
 An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. 
 She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 
 
 A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; 
 But so cold and so dull, that the youthful' adorer 
 
 Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 
 
 " O never," she cried, " could I think of enshrining 
 
 " An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim : 
 But yon little god, upon roses reclining, 
 
 We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him." 
 So the bargain wa~s struck : with the little god laden 
 
 She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove ; 
 " Farewell," said the sculptor, " you're net the first maiden 
 
 Who came but for Friendship and took away Love. 
 
 Thomas M^ore.
 
 286 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCLXXXIX. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Composed at Rotterdam. 
 
 I GAZE upon a city, 
 A city new and strange, 
 Down many a watery vista 
 My fancy takes a range ; 
 From side to side I saunter, 
 And wonder where I am ; 
 And cm you be in England, 
 And / at Rotterdam 1 
 
 Before me lie dark waters 
 In broad canals and deep, 
 Whereon the silver moonbeams 
 Sleep, restless in their sleep; 
 A sort of vulgar Venice 
 Reminds me where I am ; 
 Yes, yes, you are in England, 
 And I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 Tall houses with quaint gables, 
 Where frequent windows shine, 
 And quays that lead to bridges, 
 And trees in formal line, 
 And masts of spicy vessels 
 From western Surinam, 
 All tell me you're in England, 
 But I'm in Rotterdam. 
 
 Those sailors, how outlandish 
 The face and form of each ! 
 They deal in foreign gestures, 
 And use a foreign speech ; 
 A tongue not learn'd near Isis, 
 Or studied by the Cam, 
 Declares that you're in England, 
 And I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 And now across a market 
 My doubtful way I trace, 
 Where stands a solemn statue 
 The Genius of the place ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And to the great Erasmus, 
 I offer my salaam ; 
 Who tells me you're in England 
 But I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 The coffee-room is open 
 I mingle in its crowd, 
 The dominos are noisy 
 The hookahs raise a cloud ; 
 The flavour, none of Fearon's, 
 That mingles with my dram, 
 Reminds me you're in England, 
 And I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 Then here it goes, a bumper 
 The toast it shall be mine, 
 In schiedam, or in sherry, 
 Tokay, or hock of Rhine ; 
 It well deserves the brightest, 
 Where sunbeam ever swam 
 " The Girl I love in England " 
 I drink at Rotterdam ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 cccxc. 
 THE VICAR. 
 
 SOME years ago, ere time and taste 
 
 Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
 When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 
 
 And roads as little known as scurvy, 
 The man who lost his way, between 
 
 St Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
 Was always shown across the green, 
 
 And guided to the Parson's wicket 
 
 Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 
 
 Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
 Led the lorn traveller up the path, 
 
 Through clean-dipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
 And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 
 
 Upon the parlour steps collected, 
 Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to say 
 
 " Our master knows you you're expected." 
 
 287
 
 288 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 
 
 Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 
 The lady laid her knitting down, 
 
 Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ; 
 Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 
 
 Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
 He found a stable for his steed, 
 
 And welcome for himself, and dinner. 
 
 If, when he reached his journey's end, 
 
 And warm'd himself in Court or College, 
 He had not gain'd an honest friend 
 
 And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, 
 If he departed as he came, 
 
 With no new light on love and liquor, 
 Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 
 
 And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 
 
 His talk was like a stream, which runs 
 
 With rapid change from rocks to roses : 
 It slipt from politics to puns, 
 
 It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses ; 
 Beginning with the laws which keep 
 
 The planets in their radiant courses, 
 And ending with some precept deep 
 
 For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 
 
 He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 
 
 Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
 And when, by dint of page and line, 
 
 He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error, 
 The Baptist found him far too deep ; 
 
 The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow ; 
 And the lean Levite went to sleep, 
 
 And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 
 
 His sermon never said or show'd 
 
 That earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious 
 Without refreshment on the road 
 
 From Jerome, or from Athanasius : 
 And sure a righteous zeal inspired 
 
 The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them, 
 For all who understood admired, 
 
 And some who did not understand them.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 
 
 Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
 And sage remarks on chalk and clay, 
 
 And hints to noble Lords and nurses ; 
 True histories of last year's ghost, 
 
 Lines to a ringlet or a turban, 
 And trifles for the Morning Post, 
 
 And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 
 
 He did not think all mischief fair, 
 
 Although he had a knack of joking; 
 He did not make himself a bear 
 
 Although he had a taste for smoking ; 
 And when religious sects ran mad, 
 
 He held, in spite of all his learning, 
 That if a man's belief is bad, 
 
 It will not be improved by burning. 
 
 And he was kind, and loved to sit 
 
 In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, 
 And praise the farmer's homely wit, 
 
 And share the widow's homelier pottage : 
 At his approach complaint grew mild; 
 
 And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, 
 The clammy lips of fever smiled 
 
 The welcome which they could not utter. 
 
 He always had a tale for me 
 
 Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus ; 
 From him I learnt the rule of three, 
 
 Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Qua genus : 
 I used to singe his powder'd wig, 
 
 To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
 And make the puppy dance a jig, 
 
 When he began to quote Augustine. 
 
 Alack the change ! in vain I look 
 
 For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, 
 The level lawn, the trickling brook, 
 
 The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled : 
 The church is larger than before; 
 
 You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
 It holds three hundred people more, 
 
 And pews are fitted up for gentry. 
 
 289
 
 290 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Sit in the Vicar's seat : you'll hear 
 
 The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
 Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 
 
 Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 
 Where is the old man laid ? look down, 
 
 And construe on the slab before you, 
 " Hicjacet Gvlielmvs Brown, 
 
 Vir nulla non donandus lauru. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 cccxci. 
 
 FROM THE HON. HENRY To LADY EMMA . 
 
 PARIS, MARCH 30, 1832. 
 
 You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, 
 
 How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell ; 
 
 And the truth is, as truth you will have, my sweet railer, 
 
 There are two worthy persons I always feel loth 
 To take leave of at starting, my mistress and tailor, 
 
 As somehow one always has scenes with them both : 
 The Snip in ill-humour, the Syren in tears, 
 
 She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney, 
 Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, 
 
 A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey. 
 
 But, to come to the point, tho' you think, I daresay, 
 That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, 
 Ton honour you're wrong : such a mere bagatelle 
 
 As a pestilence, noflody, now-a-days, fears: 
 And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell, 
 
 To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers ; 
 This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of, 
 Which England is now for her sins, on the brink of, 
 This coinage of nobles, coin'd, all of them, badly, 
 And sure to bring counts to a discount most sadly. 
 
 Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation, 
 As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation ; 
 No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, 
 And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction, 
 Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of, 
 Two legs and a coronet all they consist of !
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 2 9 I 
 
 The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose 
 
 (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, 
 That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 
 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; 
 And Sir George even doubts, could he choose his disorder, 
 'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order, 
 
 This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma 
 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma ; 
 And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain 
 
 To've left idol mio without an addio, 
 Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan 
 
 I'll send you some news of Bellini's last trio. 
 
 N. B. Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out, 
 
 Things a tourist in Italy can't go without 
 
 Viz, a pair oigants gras, from old Houbigant's shop, 
 
 Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap, 
 
 Small presents for ladies, and nothing so wheedles 
 
 The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. 
 
 A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd, 
 
 To think one knows Latin, when one, perhaps, doesn't. 
 
 With some little book about heathen mythology, 
 
 Just large enough to refresh one's theology ; 
 
 Nothing on earth being half such a bore as 
 
 Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras. 
 
 Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, 
 
 And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls. 
 
 HENRY. 
 Thomas Moore, 
 
 cccxcir. 
 A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta 
 Vavasour in London. 
 
 You tell me you're promised a lover, 
 
 My own Araminta, next week; 
 Why cannot my fancy discover 
 
 The hue of his coat and his cheek ? 
 Alas ! if he look like another, 
 
 A vicar, a banker, a beau, 
 Be deaf to your father and mother, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No I "
 
 292 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 
 
 Taught us both how to sing and to speak, 
 And we loved one another with passion, 
 
 Before we had been there a week : 
 You gave me a ring for a token ; 
 
 I wear it wherever I go ; 
 I gave you a chain, is it broken ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 O think of our favourite cottage, 
 
 And think of our dear Lai I a Rookh ! 
 How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 
 
 And drank of the stream from the brook ; 
 How fondly our loving lips falter'd 
 
 " What further can grandeur bestow ? " 
 My heart is the same ; is yours alter'd ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Remember the thrilling romances 
 
 We read on the bank in the glen ; 
 Remember the suitors our fancies 
 
 Would picture for both of us then. 
 They wore the red cross on their shoulder, 
 
 They had vanquish'd and pardon 'd their foe 
 Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage 
 
 Drove off with your cousin Justine, 
 You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, 
 
 And whisper'd " How base she has been 1 " 
 You said you were sure it would kill you, 
 
 If ever your husband look'd so ; 
 And you will not apostatize, will you ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 When I heard I was going abroad, love, 
 
 I thought I was going to die ; 
 We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love, 
 
 We look'd arm in arm to the sky ; 
 And I said " when a foreign postillion 
 
 Has hurried me off to the Po, 
 Forget not Medora Trevilian : 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No 1 "
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 
 
 Reach far over valley and hill ; 
 I muse o'er your exquisite letters, 
 
 And feel that your heart is mine still ; 
 And he who would share it with me, love, 
 
 The richest of treasures below, 
 If he's not what Orlando should be, love, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 
 
 If he comes to you riding a cob, 
 If he talks of his baking or brewing, 
 
 If he puts up his feet on the hob, 
 If he ever drinks port after dinner, 
 
 If his brow or his breeding is low, 
 If he calls himself " Thompson " or " Skinner," 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No I " 
 
 If he studies the news in the papers 
 
 While you are preparing the tea, 
 If he talks of the damps or the vapours 
 
 While moonlight lies soft on the sea, 
 If he's sleepy, while you are capricious, 
 
 If he has not a musical "Oh ! " 
 If he does not call Werther delicious, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he ever sets foot in the City 
 
 Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 
 If he has not a heart full of pity, 
 
 If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
 If his lips are not redder than roses, 
 
 If his hands are not whiter than snow, 
 If he has not the model of noses, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he speaks of a tax or a duty, 
 
 If he does not look grand on his knees, 
 If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, 
 
 Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
 If he dotes not on desolate towers, 
 
 If he likes not to hear the blasts blow, 
 If he knows not the language of flowers, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No I " 
 
 293
 
 294 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 He must walk like a god of old story 
 
 Come down from the home of his rest , 
 He must smile like the sun in his glory 
 
 On the buds he loves ever the best; 
 And oh ! from its ivory portal 
 
 Like music his soft speech must flow ! 
 If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Don't listen to tales of his bounty, 
 
 Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
 Don't look at his seat in the county, 
 
 Don't calculate what he is worth ; 
 But give him a theme to write verse on, 
 
 And see if he turns out his toe ; 
 If he's only an excellent person, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 CCCXCIII. 
 THE POPLAR. 
 
 AY, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately, 
 On whose tender rind 'twas a little one then 
 
 We carved her initials ; though not very lately, 
 We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. 
 
 Yes, here is the G which proclaim'd Georgiana ; 
 
 Our heart's empress then ; see, 'tis grown all askew ; 
 And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a 
 
 Conviction it now looks much more like a Q. 
 
 This should be the great D, too, that once stood for Dobbin, 
 Her loved patronymic Ah ! can it be so ? 
 
 Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing 
 A D ? we'll be Deed if it isn't an O ! 
 
 Alas I how the soul sentimental it vexes, 
 
 That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown ; 
 Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes, 
 
 And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down ! 
 
 Richard H. Bar ham.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 395 
 
 CCCXCIV. 
 
 OUR BALL. 
 
 YOU'LL come to our Ball ; since we parted, 
 
 I've thought of you more than I'll say ; 
 Indeed, I was half broken-hearted 
 
 For a week, when they took you away. 
 Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 
 
 Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
 And echo'd the musical numbers 
 
 Which you used to sing to me then. 
 I know the romance, since it's over, 
 
 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ; 
 I know you're a terrible rover; 
 
 But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball 1 
 
 It's only a year, since, at College, 
 
 You put on your cap and your gown ; 
 But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, 
 
 And changed from the spur to the crown : 
 The voice that was best when it falter'd 
 
 Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
 And the smile that should never have alter'd 
 
 Dear Clarence it is not your own: 
 Your cravat is badly selected ; 
 
 Your coat don't become you at all ; 
 And why is your hair so neglected ? 
 
 You must have it curl'd for our Ball 
 
 I've often been out upon Haldon 
 
 To look for a covey with pup ; 
 I've often been over to Shaldon, 
 
 To see how your boat is laid up: 
 In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 
 
 I've ridden the filly you broke ; 
 And I've studied your sweet little Dante 
 
 In the shade of your favourite oak : 
 When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 
 
 I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
 And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, 
 
 Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.
 
 296 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 You'll find us all changed since you vanish'd ; 
 
 We've set up a National School ; 
 And waltzing is utterly banish'd, 
 
 And Ellen has married a fool ; 
 The Major is going to travel, 
 
 Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, 
 The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, 
 
 Papa is laid up with the gout ; 
 And Jane has gone on with her easels, 
 
 And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; 
 And Fanny is sick with the measles, 
 
 And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 
 
 You'll meet all your Beauties ; the Lily, 
 
 And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, 
 And Lucy, who made me so silly 
 
 At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; 
 Miss Manners, who always abused you 
 
 For talking so much about Hock, 
 And her sister, who often amused you 
 
 By raving of rebels and Rock ; 
 And something which surely would answer, 
 
 An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; 
 So, though you were seldom a dancer, 
 
 You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 
 
 But out on the World ! from the flowers 
 
 It shuts out the sunshine of truth : 
 It blights the green leaves in the bowers, 
 
 It makes an old age of our youth ; 
 And the flow of our feeling, once in it, 
 
 Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, 
 Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, 
 
 Grows harder by sudden degrees : 
 Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; 
 
 Sweet honey is turn'd into gall ; 
 Perhaps you have no recollection 
 
 That ever you danced at our Ball ! 
 
 You once could be pleased with our ballads, 
 
 To-day you have critical ears ; 
 You once could be charm'd with our salads 
 
 Alas ! you've been dining with Peers ; 
 You trifled and flirted with many, 
 
 You've forgotten the when and the how ;
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARVM. 
 
 297 
 
 There was one you liked better than any, 
 
 Perhaps you've forgotten her now. 
 But of those you remember most newly, 
 
 Of those who delight or enthrall, 
 None love you a quarter so truly 
 
 As some you will find at our Ball. 
 
 They tell me you've many who flatter, 
 
 Because of your wit and your song : 
 They tell me and what does it matter ? 
 
 You like to be praised by the throng: 
 They tell me you're shadow'd with laurel : 
 
 They tell me you're loved by a Blue : 
 They tell me you're sadly immoral 
 
 Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! 
 But to me, you are still what I found you, 
 
 Before you grew clever and tall ; 
 And you'll think of the spell that once bound you; 
 
 And you'll come won't you come ? to our Ball ! 
 
 Wintkrop M. Praed. 
 
 cccxcv. 
 BECAUSE. 
 
 SWEET Nea ! for your lovely sake 
 
 I weave these rambling numbers, 
 Because I've lain an hour awake, 
 
 And can't compose my slumbers; 
 Because your beauty's gentle light 
 
 Is round my pillow beaming, 
 And flings, I know not whv, to-night, 
 
 Some witchery o'er my dreaming 1 
 
 Because we've pa,ss'd some joyous days, 
 
 And danced some merry dances ; 
 Because we love old Beaumont's plays, 
 
 And old Froissart's romances! 
 Because whene'er I hear your words 
 
 Some pleasant feeling lingers ; 
 Because I think your heart has cords 
 
 That vibrate to your fingers.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Because you've got those long, soft curls, 
 
 I've sworn should deck my goddess ; 
 Because you're not, like other girls, 
 
 All bustle, blush, and boddice ! 
 Because your eyes are deep and blue, 
 
 Your fingers long and rosy ; 
 Because a little child and you 
 
 Would make one's home so cozy ! 
 
 Because your little tiny nose 
 
 Turns up so pert and funny ; 
 Because I know you choose your beaux 
 
 More for their mirth than money ; 
 Because I think you'd rather twirl 
 
 A waltz, with me to guide you, 
 Than talk small nonsense with an earl, 
 
 And a coronet beside you ! 
 
 Because you don't object to walk, 
 
 And are not given to fainting ; 
 Because you have not learnt to talk 
 
 Of flowers, and Poonah-painting ; 
 Because I think you'd scarce refuse 
 
 To sew one on a button ; 
 Because I know you'd sometimes choose 
 
 To dine on simple mutton 1 
 
 Because I think I'm just so weak 
 
 As, some of those fine morrows, 
 To ask you if you'll let me speak 
 
 My story and my sorrows ; 
 Because the rest's a simple thing, 
 
 A matter quickly over 
 A church a priest a sigh a ring 
 
 And a chaise and four to Dover. 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald. 
 
 CCCXCVI. 
 
 REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. 
 
 REASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say, 
 Went on a party of pleasure one day : 
 
 Folly play'd 
 
 Around the maid,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The bells of his cap rang merrily out ; 
 
 While Reason took 
 
 To this sermon-book 
 
 O ! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, 
 Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. 
 
 Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, 
 Turn'd for a moment to Reason's dull page, 
 
 Till Folly said, 
 
 " Look here, sweet maid ! " 
 The sight of his cap brought her back to herself, 
 
 While Reason read 
 
 His leaves of lead, 
 
 With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf ! 
 No, no one to mind him, poor sensible elf ! 
 
 Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap ; 
 Had he that on, he her heart might entrap 
 
 " There it is," 
 
 Quoth Folly, " old quiz ! " 
 (Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) 
 
 " Under the sun 
 
 There's no such fun, 
 
 As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, 
 Reason with my cap and bells on his head ! " 
 
 But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore. 
 That Beauty now liked him still less than before : 
 
 While Folly took 
 
 Old Reason's book, 
 And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton, 
 
 That Beauty vow'd 
 
 (Tho' not aloud) 
 
 She liked him still better in that than his own, 
 Yes, liked him still better in that than his own. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 CCCXCVII. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND His VISITORS. 
 
 ONCE on a time, when sunny May 
 Was kissing up the April showers, 
 
 I saw fair Childhood hard at play 
 Upon a bank of blushing flowers : 
 
 299
 
 300 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Happy he knew not whence or how, 
 And smiling, who could choose but love him ? 
 
 For not more glad than Childhood's brow, 
 Was the blue heaven that beam'd above him. 
 
 Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 
 
 That valley's green repose invaded ; 
 The brooks grew dry upon his path, 
 
 The birds were mute, the lilies faded. 
 But Time so swiftly wing'd his flight, 
 
 In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 
 That Childhood watch'd his paper kite, 
 
 And knew just nothing of the matter. 
 
 With curling lip and glancing eye 
 
 Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; 
 But Childhood's glance of purity 
 
 Had such a holy spell within it, 
 That the dark demon to the air 
 
 Spread forth again his baffled pinion, 
 And hid his envy and despair, 
 
 Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 
 
 Then stepp'd a gloomy phantom up, 
 
 Pale, cypress-crown'd, Night's awful daughter, 
 And proffer'd him a fearful cup 
 
 Full to the brim of bitter water : 
 Poor Childhood bade her tell her name ; 
 
 And when the beldame mutter' d " Sorrow," 
 He said, " Don't interrupt my game ; 
 
 I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 
 
 The Muse of Pindus thither came, 
 
 And woo'd him with the softest numbers 
 That ever scatter'd wealth and fame 
 
 Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
 Tho' sweet the music of the lay, 
 
 To Childhood it was all a riddle, 
 And " Oh," he cried, " do send away 
 
 That noisy woman with the fiddle 1 " 
 
 Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 
 
 And taught him, with most sage endeavour, 
 
 Why bubbles rise and acorns fall, 
 And why no toy may last forever.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 30 1 
 
 She talk'd of all the wondrous laws 
 
 Which Nature's open book discloses, 
 And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 
 
 Was fast asleep among the roses. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's dreams 
 
 Are all of earthly pain or pleasure, 
 Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, 
 
 Of cherish'd love, or hoarded treasure: 
 But to the couch where Childhood lies 
 
 A more delicious trance is given. 
 Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, 
 
 And glimpses of remember'd Heaven 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed, 
 
 CCCXCVIII. 
 
 I'D be a Butterfly born in a bower, 
 
 Where roses and lilies and violets meet , 
 Roving for ever from flower to flower, 
 
 And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet ! 
 I'd never languish for wealth, or for power ; 
 
 I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet : 
 I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower, 
 
 Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
 
 O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, 
 
 I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ; 
 
 Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, 
 They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
 
 Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, 
 Power, alas ! nought but misery brings ! 
 
 I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy, 
 
 Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings ? 
 
 What, though you tell me each gay little rover 
 
 Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day ! 
 Surely 't is better when summer is over 
 
 To die when all fair things are fading away. 
 Some in life's winter may toil to discover 
 
 Means of procuring a weary delay 
 I'd be a Butterfly ; living, a rover, 
 
 Dying when fair things are fading away ! 
 
 Thomas H. Bayly.
 
 3 02 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 CCCXCIX. 
 
 CHILDREN PLAYING IN A CHURCHYARD. 
 
 CHILDREN, keep up that harmless play, 
 Your kindred angels plainly say. 
 By God's authority, ye may. 
 
 Be prompt His holy word to hear, 
 It teaches you to banish fear ; 
 The lesson lies on all sides near. 
 
 Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad 
 In Nature's face will look more sad, 
 And ask, where are those smiles she had. 
 
 Ere many days the last will close, 
 
 Play on, play on ; for then (who knows ?) 
 
 Ye who play here may here repose. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 CCCC. 
 MY LITTLE COUSINS. 
 
 LAUGH on, fair Cousins, for to you 
 
 All life is joyous yet ; 
 Your hearts have all things to pursue, 
 
 And nothing to regret ; 
 And every flower to you is fair : 
 
 And every month is May : 
 You've not been introduced to Care, 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 Old Time will fling his clouds ere long 
 
 Upon those sunny eyes ; 
 The voice whose every word is song 
 
 Will set itself to sighs ; 
 Your quiet slumbers, hopes and fears 
 
 Will chase their rest away : 
 To-morrow you'll be shedding tears, 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day !
 
 LYRA ELEGANT/ARUM. 
 
 Oh yes, if any truth is found 
 
 In the dull schoolman's theme, 
 If friendship is an empty sound, 
 
 And love an idle dream, 
 If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue 
 
 Too soon on life's long way, 
 At least he'll run with you a league ; 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright 
 
 As childhood's hues depart ; 
 You may be lovelier to the sight 
 
 And dearer to the heart ; 
 You may be sinless still, and see 
 
 This earth still green and gay ; 
 But what you are you will not be : 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 O'er me have many winters crept 
 
 With less of grief than joy; 
 But I have learn'd, and toil'd and wept; 
 
 I am no more a boy ! 
 I've never had the gout, 'tis true ; 
 
 My hair is hardly grey ; 
 But now I cannot laugh like you : 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day 1 
 
 I used to have as glad a face. 
 
 As shadowless a brow : 
 I once could run as blithe a race 
 
 As you are running now ; 
 But never mind how I behave ! 
 
 Don't interrupt your play ; 
 And though I look so very grave, 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Pratd. 
 
 CCCCI. 
 THE EFFECTS OF AGE. 
 
 YES ; I write verses now and then, 
 But blunt and flaccid is my pen, 
 No longer talk'd of by young men 
 
 As rather clever ; 
 
 303
 
 304 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 In the last quarter are my eyes, 
 You see it by their form and size : 
 Is it not time then to be wise ? 
 
 Or now or never. 
 
 Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! 
 While Time allows the short reprieve, 
 Just look at me ! would you believe 
 
 'Twas once a lover? 
 
 I cannot clear the five-bar gate, 
 But, trying first its timbers state, 
 Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait 
 To trundle over. 
 
 Thro' gallopade I cannot swing 
 
 The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring : 
 
 I cannot say the tender thing, 
 
 Be it true or false, 
 
 And am beginning to opine 
 Those girls are only half-divine 
 Whose waists you wicked boys entwine 
 In giddy waltz. 
 
 I fear that arm above that shoulder, 
 I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
 Sedater, and no harm if colder, 
 
 And panting less. 
 
 Ah, people were not half so wild, 
 In former days, when, starchly mild, 
 Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled 
 
 The Brave Queen Bess. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 ccccii. 
 SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 TWELVE years ago I made a mock 
 Of filthy trades and traffics : 
 
 I wonder'd what they meant by stock ; 
 I wrote delightful sapphics :
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 
 I supp'd with Fates and Furies, 
 
 Twelve years ago I was a boy, 
 A happy boy, at Drury's. 
 
 Twelve years ago ! how many a thought 
 
 Of faded pains and pleasures 
 Those whisper'd syllables have brought 
 
 From Memory's hoarded treasures ! 
 The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 
 
 The glories and disgraces, 
 The voices of dear friends, the looks 
 
 Of old familiar faces ! 
 
 Kind Mater smiles again to me, 
 
 As bright as when we parted ; 
 I seem again the frank, the free, 
 
 Stout-limb'd, and simple-hearted I 
 Pursuing every idle dream, 
 
 And shunning every warning ; 
 With no hard work but Bovney stream, 
 
 No chill except Long Morning : 
 
 Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 
 
 That rattled like a rocket ; 
 Now hearing Wentworth's " Fourteen all ! " 
 
 And striking for the pocket ; 
 Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, 
 
 Now drinking from the pewter ; 
 Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, 
 
 Now laughing at my tutor. 
 
 Where are my friends ? I am alone ; 
 
 No playmate shares my beaker : 
 Some lie beneath the Churchyard stone, 
 
 And some before the Speaker ; 
 And some compose a tragedy, 
 
 And some compose a rondo; 
 And some draw swords for liberty. 
 
 And some draw pleas for John Doe. 
 
 Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 
 
 Without the fear of sessions ; 
 Charles Medlar loathed false quantities, 
 
 As much as false professions;
 
 306 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Now Mill keeps order in the land, 
 
 A magistrate pedantic ; 
 And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd 
 
 Beneath the wide Atlantic. 
 
 Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, 
 
 Does Dr. Martext's duty ; 
 And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, 
 
 Is married to a Beauty ; 
 And Darrell studies, week by week, 
 
 His Mant, and not his Manton ; 
 And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 
 
 Is very rich at Canton. 
 
 And I am eight-and-twenty now ; 
 
 The world's cold chains have bound me ; 
 And darker shades are on my brow, 
 
 And sadder scenes around me : 
 In Parliament I fill my seat, 
 
 With many other noodles ; 
 And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 
 
 And sip my hock at Boodle's. 
 
 But often, when the cares of life 
 
 Have set my temples aching. 
 When visions haunt me of a wife, 
 
 When duns await my waking, 
 When Lady Jane is in a pet, 
 
 Or Hobby in a hurry, 
 When Captain Hazard wins a bet, 
 
 Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, 
 
 For hours and hours I think and talk 
 
 Of each remembered hobby ; 
 I long to lounge in Poet's Walk, 
 
 To shiver in the lobby ; 
 I wish that I could run away 
 
 From House, and Court, and Levee, 
 Where bearded men appear to-day 
 
 Just Eton boys grown heavy, 
 
 That I could bask in childhood's sun 
 And dance o'er childhood's roses, 
 
 And find huge wealth in one pound one, 
 Vast wit in broken noses,
 
 307 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 
 And call the milk-maids Houris, 
 
 That I could be a boy again, 
 A happy boy, at Drury's. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 CCCCIII. 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 AH me ! those old familiar bounds I 
 That classic house, those classic grounds 
 
 My pensive thought recalls 1 
 What tender urchins now confine, 
 What little captives now repine, 
 
 Within yon irksome walls ? 
 
 Ay, that's the very house ! I know 
 Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! 
 
 Its chimneys in the rear I 
 And there's the iron rod so high, 
 That drew the thunder from the sky 
 
 And turn'd our table-beer ! 
 
 There I was birch'd ! there I was bred 1 
 There like a little Adam fed 
 
 From Learning's woeful tree I 
 The weary tasks I used to con ! 
 The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! 
 
 Most fruitless leaves to me ! 
 
 The summon'd class ! the awful bow ! 
 I wonder who is master now 
 
 And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
 How many ushers now employs, 
 How many maids to see the boys 
 
 Have nothing in their heads ! 
 
 And Mrs. S * * * ? Doth she abet 
 (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet 
 
 Some favour'd two or three, 
 The little Crichtons of the hour, 
 Her muffin-medals that devour, 
 
 And swill her prize bohea ?
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Ay, there's the playground ! there's the lime, 
 Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 
 
 So wildly I have read ! 
 Who sits there now, and skims the cream 
 Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 
 
 Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 
 
 Who struts the Randall of the walk 
 Who models tiny heads in chalk ? 
 
 Who scoops the light canoe? 
 What early genius buds apace ? 
 Where's Poynter ? Harris ? Bowers ? Chase ? 
 
 Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? 
 
 Alack ! they're gone a thousand ways ! 
 And some are serving in " the Greys," 
 
 And some have perished young ! 
 Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
 Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ; 
 
 And blithe Carew is hung ! 
 
 Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
 To savages at Owhyee ; 
 
 Poor Chase is with the worms! 
 All, all are gone the olden breed ! 
 New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 
 
 " And push us from our forms ! " 
 
 Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
 And leap, and skip, and mob about, 
 
 At play where we have play'd ! 
 Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine 
 Their crony arms ; some in the shine, 
 
 And some are in the shade 1 
 
 Lo there what mix'd conditions run ! 
 The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 
 
 And Fortune's favour'd care 
 The wealthy-born, for whom she hath 
 Mac-Adamised the future path 
 
 The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 
 
 Some brightly starr'd some evil born, 
 For honour some, and some for scorn, 
 For fair, or foul renown I
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Good, bad, indifFrent none may lack ! 
 Look, here's a White, and there''s a Black 1 
 And there's a Creole brown 1 
 
 Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
 And wish their ' frugal sires would keep 
 
 Their only sons at home ; ' 
 Some tease the future tense, and plan 
 The full-grown doings of the man, 
 
 And pant for years to come ! 
 
 A foolish wish ! There's one at hoop; 
 And four at fives ! and five who stoop 
 
 The marble taw to speed ! 
 And one that curvets in and out, 
 Reining his fellow Cob about, 
 
 Would I were in his stead ! 
 
 Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
 That boyish harness off, to swop 
 
 With this world's heavy van 
 To toil, to tug. O little fool ! 
 Whilst thou canst be a horse at school, 
 
 To wish to be a man ! 
 
 Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
 To wear a crown, to be a king ! 
 
 And sleep on regal down ! 
 Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; 
 Far happier is thy head that wears 
 
 That hat without a crown ! 
 
 And dost thou think that years acquire 
 New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 
 
 More happy than his son ? 
 That manhood's mirth ? Oh, go thy ways 
 To Drury-lane when 
 
 309 
 
 And see how forced our fun ! 
 
 Thy taws are brave ! thy tops are rare ! 
 Our tops are spun with coils of care, 
 
 Our dumps are no delight ! 
 The Elgin marbles are but tame, 
 And 'tis at best a sorry game 
 
 To fly the Muse's kite !
 
 3 io 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
 Our topmost joys fall dull and dead 
 
 Like balls with no rebound 1 
 And often with a faded eye 
 We look behind, and send a sigh 
 
 Towards that merry ground ! 
 
 Then be contented. Thou hast got 
 The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 
 
 There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
 Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast 
 Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 
 
 A sorry breaking-up ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 cccciv. 
 
 LORD HARRY has written a novel, 
 
 A story of elegant life ; 
 No stuff about love in a hovel, 
 
 No sketch of a commoner's wife : 
 No trash, such as pathos and passion, 
 
 Fine feelings, expression and wit ; 
 But all about people of fashion, 
 
 Come look at his caps how they fit ? 
 
 O, Radcliffe ! thou once wert the charmer 
 
 Of girls who sat reading all night; 
 Thy heroes were striplings in armour, 
 
 Thy heroines damsels in white. 
 But past are thy terrible touches, 
 
 Our lips in derision we curl, 
 Unless we are told how a Duchess, 
 
 Conversed with her cousin the Earl. 
 
 We now have each dialogue quite full 
 
 Of titles " I give you my word. 
 My lady, you're looking delightful." 
 
 " O, dear, do you think so, my lord ! " 
 " You've heard of the marquis's marriage, 
 
 The bride with her jewels new set, 
 Four horses, new travelling carriage, 
 
 And deje&ner & la fourchette"
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Haul Ton finds her privacy broken, 
 
 We trace all her ins and her outs; 
 The very small talk that is spoken 
 
 By very great people at routs, 
 At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of 
 
 The book from the innkeeper's wife, 
 And reads till she dreams she is one of 
 
 The leaders of elegant life. 
 
 Thomas H. Bayly. 
 
 To MINERVA. 
 From the Greek. 
 
 MY temples throb, my pulses boil, 
 
 I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad 
 
 So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, 
 And pour it on a lobster salad. 
 
 My brain is dull, my sight is foul, 
 
 I cannot write a verse, or read, 
 Then Pallas take away thine Owl, 
 
 And let us have a Lark instead. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 ccccvi. 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 In the Modern Taste. 1733. 
 
 FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions, 
 Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart ; 
 I a slave in thy dominions ; 
 Nature must give way to art. 
 
 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, 
 Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, 
 See my weary days consuming 
 All beneath yon flowery rocks. 
 
 Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping 
 Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth : 
 Him the boar, in silence creeping 
 Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.
 
 3 I2 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers ; 
 Fair Discretion, string the lyre ! 
 Soothe my ever-waking slumbers ; 
 Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. 
 
 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, 
 Arm'd in adamantine chains, 
 Lead me to the crystal mirrors 
 Watering soft Elysian plains. 
 
 Mournful cypress, verdant willow, 
 Gilding my Aurelia's brows, 
 Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, 
 Hear me pay my dying vows, 
 
 Melancholy smooth Maeander, 
 Swiftly purling in a round, 
 On thy margin lovers wander, 
 With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. 
 
 Thus when Philomela drooping, 
 Softly seeks her silent mate, 
 See the bird of Juno stooping ; 
 Melody resigns to fate. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 CCCCVII. 
 
 THE FLOWER. 
 
 ALONE, across a foreign plain, 
 
 The Exile slowly wanders, 
 And on his Isle beyond the main 
 
 With sadden'd spirit ponders : 
 
 This lovely Isle beyond the sea, 
 With all its household treasures ; 
 
 Its cottage homes, its merry birds, 
 And all its rural pleasures : 
 
 Its leafy woods, its shady vales, 
 Its moors, and purple heather ; 
 
 Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars 
 His childhood loved to gather:
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 313 
 
 When lo ! he starts, with glad surprise, 
 
 Home-joys come rushing o'er him, 
 For " modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd," 
 
 He spies the flower before him I 
 
 With eager haste he stoops him down, 
 
 His eyes with moisture hazy, 
 And as he plucks the simple bloom, 
 
 He murmurs, " Lawk-a-daisy ! " 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 CCCCVIII. 
 
 To A FISH OF THE BROOKE. 
 
 WHY flyest thou away with fear ? 
 Trust me there's nought of danger near, 
 
 I have no wicked hooke 
 All cover'd with a snaring bait, 
 Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate, 
 
 And dragge thee from the brooke. 
 
 harmless tenant of the flood, 
 
 1 do not wish to spill thy blood, 
 
 For Nature unto thee 
 Perchance hath given a tender wife, 
 And children dear, to charm thy life, 
 
 As she hath done for me. 
 
 Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish; 
 And when an angler for his dish, 
 
 Through gluttony's vile sin, 
 Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, 
 God give thee strength, O gentle trout, 
 
 To pull the rafkall in ! 
 
 Dr. John Wolcot.
 
 314 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCCIX. 
 
 SONG BY ROGERO. 
 
 WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view 
 
 This dungeon, that I'm rotting in, 
 I think of those companions true 
 Who studied with me in the U- 
 -niversity of Gottingen 
 -niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 ( Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchife, with which he 
 wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.) 
 
 Sweet 'kerchief check' d with heavenly blue, 
 
 Which once my love sat knotting in, 
 Alas, Matilda then was true, 
 At least I thought so at the U- 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 (At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains 
 iu cadence.). 
 
 Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift ye flew, 
 
 Her neat post-waggon trotting in 1 
 Ye bore Matilda from my view; 
 Forlorn I languish'd at the U- 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 
 
 This blood my veins is clotting in, 
 My years are many they were few 
 When first I enter'd at the U- 
 -niversity of Gottingen 
 -niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 There first for thee my passion grew 
 
 Sweet ! sweet Matilda Pqttingen 1 
 Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
 -tor, Law Professor at the U- 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 3'5 
 
 Sun, moor, and thou vain world, adieu, 
 
 That kings and priests are plotting in ; 
 Here doom'd to starve on water-gru- 
 -el, never shall I see the U- 
 
 -niversity of Gottingen 
 -niversity of Gottingen ! 
 
 (During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head re- 
 peatedly against the walls of his prison; and, 
 finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. 
 He then throws himself on the floor in an agony, 
 The curtain drops the music still continuing to 
 play till it is wholly fallen.') 
 
 Anti-Jacobin. 
 
 ccccx. 
 THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER. 
 
 No morning ever seem'd so long ! 
 I tried to read with all my might ! 
 In my left hand " My Landlord's Tales," 
 And threepence ready in my right. 
 
 'Twas twelve at last my heart beat high ! 
 The Postman rattled at the door ! 
 And just upon her road to church, 
 I dropt the " Bride of Lammermoor 1 " 
 
 I seized the note I flew up stairs 
 Flung to the door, and lock'd me in 
 With panting haste I tore the seal 
 And kiss'd the B. in Benjamin ! 
 
 'Twas full of love to rhyme with dove 
 And all that tender sort of thing 
 Of sweet and meet and heart and dart 
 But not a word about a ring ! 
 
 In doubt I cast it in the flame, 
 And stood to watch the latest spark 
 And saw the love all end in smoke 
 Without a Parson and a Clerk I 
 
 Thomas Hood.
 
 316 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCCXI. 
 
 THE WATER PERI'S SONG. 
 
 FAREWELL, farewell to my mother's own daughter, 
 The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave ! 
 
 The Mussel-man coming to fish in the water, 
 Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. 
 
 This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, 
 This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall, 
 
 And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear 
 Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges and all ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan, 
 
 My mother's own daughter the last of her race 
 
 She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, 
 And sleeps in the water that washes her face. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 ccccxn. 
 "PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." 
 
 I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore : 
 Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door : 
 So he call'd upon Lucy 'twas just ten o'clock 
 Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. 
 
 Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, 
 Will run like a puss when she hears a ra/-tat : 
 So Lucy ran up and in two seconds more 
 Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door. 
 
 The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe; 
 For the moment will come when such comers must go. 
 So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd poor innocent thing 
 " The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." 
 
 Thomas Hood.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCCXIII. 
 
 317 
 
 If the man who turnips cries, 
 Cry not when his father dies, 
 'Tis a proof that he had rather 
 Have a turnip than his father. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 ccccxiv. 
 
 REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN 
 ANY OF THE BOOKS. 
 
 BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
 The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 
 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning ; 
 
 While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
 So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
 
 And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 
 
 That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
 Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 
 
 Then holding the spectacles up to the court 
 
 Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, 
 
 As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
 Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
 ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) 
 
 That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then ? 
 
 On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
 With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 
 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
 
 3 i8 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 
 
 But what were his arguments few people know, 
 For the court did not think they were equally wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone, 
 
 Decisive and clear, without one if or but 
 That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
 By daylight or candlelight Eyes should be shut ! 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 ccccxv. 
 THE LAY OF THE LEVITE. 
 
 THERE is a sound that's dear to me, 
 
 It haunts me in my sleep ; 
 I wake, and, if I hear it not, 
 
 I cannot choose but weep. 
 Above the roaring of the wind, 
 
 Above the river's flow, 
 Methinks I hear the mystic cry 
 
 Of "Clo! oldClo!" 
 
 The exile's song, it thrills among 
 
 The dwellings of the free, 
 Its sound is strange to English ears, 
 
 But 'tis not strange to me ; 
 For it hath shook the tented field 
 
 In ages long ago, 
 And hosts have quail 'd before the cry 
 
 Of "Clo! old Clo!" 
 
 O, lose it not ! forsake it not ! 
 
 And let no time efface 
 The memory of that solemn sound, 
 
 The watchword of our race ; 
 For not by dark and eagle eye, 
 
 The Hebrew shalt thou know, 
 So well as by the plaintive cry 
 
 Of " Clo ! old Clo ! " 
 
 Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, 
 
 Or Sidon's sunny walls, 
 Where, dial-like, to portion time, 
 
 The palm-tree's shadow falls,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 The pilgrims, wending on their way, 
 
 Will linger as they go, 
 And listen to the distant cry 
 
 Of " Clo ! old Clo ! " 
 
 William E. Aytotin. 
 
 ccccxvi. 
 SONG. 
 
 MY mother bids me spend my smiles 
 On all who come and call me fair, 
 
 As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles, 
 To all the sparrows of the air. 
 
 But I've a darling of my own 
 
 For whom I hoard my little stock 
 
 What if I chirp him all alone, 
 
 And leave mamma to feed the flock ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 ccccxvn. 
 AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THERE is a river clear and fair, 
 
 'Tis neither broad nor narrow ; 
 It winds a little here and there 
 It winds about like any hare ; 
 And then it takes as straight a course 
 As on the turnpike road a horse, 
 
 Or through the air an arrow. 
 
 The trees that grow upon the shore, 
 Have grown a hundred years or more ; 
 
 So long there is no knowing ; 
 Old Daniel Dobson does not know 
 When first these trees began to grow ; 
 But still they grew, and grew, and grew, 
 As if they'd nothing else to do, 
 
 But ever to be growing. 
 
 The impulses of air and sky 
 Have rear'd their stately heads so high, 
 And clothed their boughs with green ;
 
 320 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, 
 And when the winds blow loud and keen, 
 
 I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, 
 
 And shake their sides with merry glee 
 
 Wagging their heads in mockery 
 
 Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, 
 
 Where winds can never blow; 
 But visitings of deeper birth 
 
 Have reach'd their roots below. 
 For they have gain'd the river's brink 
 And of the living waters drink. 
 
 There's little Will, a five years child 
 
 He is my youngest boy ; 
 To look on eyes so fair and wild, 
 
 It is a very joy: 
 
 He hath conversed with sun and shower, 
 And dwelt with every idle flower, 
 
 As fresh and gay as them. 
 He loiters with the briar rose, 
 The blue-belles are his play-fellows, 
 
 That dance upon their slender stem. 
 
 And I have said, my little Will, 
 Why should not he continue still 
 
 A thing of Nature's rearing ? 
 A thing beyond the world's control 
 A living vegetable soul, 
 
 No human sorrow fearing. 
 
 It were a blessed sight to see 
 That child become a Willow-tree, 
 
 His brother trees among. 
 He'd be four times as tall as me, 
 
 And live three times as long. 
 
 Catherine M. Fanshawe. 
 
 ccccxvnr. 
 THE BROKEN DISH. 
 
 WHAT'S life but full of care and doubt, 
 With all its fine humanities, 
 
 With parasols we walk about, 
 Long pigtails and such vanities.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTfARUM. 321 
 
 We plant pomegranate trees and things, 
 
 And go in gardens sporting, 
 With toys and fans of peacock's wings, 
 
 To painted ladies courting. 
 
 We gather flowers of every hue, 
 
 And fish in boats for fishes, 
 Build summer-houses painted blue, 
 
 But life's as frail as dishes. 
 
 Walking about their groves of trees, 
 
 Blue bridges and blue rivers, 
 How little thought them two Chinese, 
 
 They'd both be smash 'd to shivers. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 CCCCXIX. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE ABROGATION OF THE BIRTH-NIGHT BALL, 
 AND THE CONSEQUENT FINAL SUBVERSION OF THE 
 MINUET. 
 
 By a beau of the last century. 
 
 Now cease the exulting strain, 
 
 And bid the warbling lyre complain ; 
 
 Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear, 
 
 And mingle notes far other than of mirth, 
 
 E'en with the song that greets the new-born year, 
 
 Or hails the day that gave a monarch birth. 
 
 That self-same sun whose chariot wheels have roll'd 
 
 Thro' many a circling year, with glorious toil, 
 
 Up to the axles in refulgent gold, 
 
 And gems, and silk, and crape, and flowers, and foil ; 
 
 That self-same sun no longer dares 
 
 Bequeath his honours to his heirs, 
 
 And bid the dancing hours supply 
 
 As erst, with kindred pomp, his absence from the sky 
 
 For ever at his lordly call 
 
 Uprose the spangled night ! 
 
 Leading, in gorgeous splendour bright, 
 
 The minuet and the Ball. 
 
 And balls each frolic hour may bring, 
 
 That revels through the maddening spring,
 
 3 22 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Shaking with hurried steps the painted floor : 
 But Minuets are no more ! 
 
 No more the well-taught feet shall tread 
 
 The figure of the mazy Zed : 
 
 The beau of other times shall mourn 
 
 As gone, and never to return, 
 
 The graceful bow, the curtsy low, 
 
 The floating forms, that undulating glide, 
 
 ( Like anchor'd vessels on the swelling tide,) 
 
 That rise and sink, alternate, as they go, 
 
 Now bent the knee, now lifted on the toe, 
 
 The side-long step that works its even way, 
 
 The slow pas-grave, and slower balance 
 
 Stilt with fixed gaze he eyes the imagined fair, 
 
 And turns the corner with an easy air. 
 
 Not so his partner from her tangled train 
 
 To free her captive foot, she strives in vain ; 
 
 Her tangled train, the struggling captive holds 
 
 (Like great Alcides) in its fatal folds ; 
 
 The laws of gallantry his aid demand, 
 
 The laws of etiquette withhold his hand. 
 
 Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er, 
 
 And beau and etiquette shall soon exist no more 1 
 
 In their stead, behold advancing, 
 
 Modern men and women dancing ! 
 
 Step and dress alike express, 
 
 Above, below, from head to toe, 
 
 Male and female awkwardness. 
 
 Without a hoop, without a ruffle, 
 
 One eternal jig and shuffle ; 
 
 \V here's the air, and where's the gait 
 
 Where's the feather in the hat ? 
 
 Where's the frizzed toupee ? and where, 
 
 O, where's the powder for the hair ? 
 
 Where are all their former graces ? 
 
 And where three-quarters of their faces ? 
 
 With half the forehead lost and half the chin ? 
 
 We know not where they end, or where begin. 
 
 Mark the pair, whom favouring fortune 
 
 At the envy'd top shall place, 
 Humbly they the rest impirtune 
 
 To vouchsafe a little space.
 
 323 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Not the graceful arm to wave in, 
 
 Or the silken robe expand; 
 All superfluous action saving, 
 
 Idly drops the lifeless hand. 
 
 Her downcast eye the modest beauty 
 Sends, as doubtful of their skill, 
 To see if feet perform their duty, 
 And their endless task fulfil : 
 Footing, footing, footing, footing, 
 Footing, footing, footing, still. 
 
 While the rest in hedgerow state, 
 
 All insensible to sound, 
 With more than human patience wait, 
 Like trees fast rooted to the ground. 
 
 Not such as once, with sprightly motion, 
 
 To distant music stirred their stumps, 
 And tript from Pelion to the Ocean, 
 
 Performing avenues and clumps : 
 What time old Jason's ship, the Argo, 
 
 Orpheus fiddling at the helm, 
 From Colchis bore her golden cargo, 
 
 Dancing o'er the azure main. 
 But why recur to ancient story, 
 
 Or balls of modern date ? 
 
 Be mine to trace the Minuet's fate, 
 And weep its fallen glory : 
 To ask, Who rang the parting knell ? 
 
 If Vestris came the solemn dirge to hear ? 
 
 Genius of Valoiiy, didst thou hover near ? 
 Shade of Lepicq ! and spirit of Gardel ! 
 
 I saw their angry forms arise 
 
 Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies 
 
 Above St. James's steeple : 
 I heard them curse our heavy heel, 
 The Irish step, the Highland reel, 
 
 And all the United People. 
 To the dense air the curse adhesive clung, 
 Repeated since by many a modish tongue. 
 In words that may be said but never shall be sung.
 
 324 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 What cause untimely urged the Minuet's fate ? 
 Did war subvert the manners of the State ? 
 Did savage nations give the barbarous law, 
 The Gaul Cisalpine, or the Gonoquaw? 
 Its fall was destined to a peaceful land, 
 A sportive pencil, and a courtly hand ; 
 They left a name, that time itself might spare, 
 To grinding organs and the dancing bear. 
 On Avon's banks, where sport and laugh 
 
 Careless pleasure's sons and daughters, 
 Where health, the sick, and aged quaff, 
 
 From good King Bladud's healing waters ; 
 While genius sketch'd, and humour group'd, 
 Then it sicken'd then it droop'd : 
 Sadden'd with laughter, wasted with a sneer, 
 And " the long minuet " shortened its career. 
 With cadence slow, and solemn pace, 
 Th' indignant mourner quits the place 
 For ever quits no more to roam 
 From proud Augusta's regal dome. 
 Ah ! not unhappy who securely rest, 
 
 Within the sacred precincts of a court; 
 Who, then, their timid steps shall dare arrest ? 
 
 White wands shall guide them, and gold sticks support 
 In vain these eyes with tears of horror wet, 
 Read its death-warrant in the Court Gazette ! 
 " No ball to-night ! " Lord Chamberlain proclaims ; 
 " No ball to-night shall grace thy roof, St. James ! " 
 " No ball ! " the Globe, the Sun, the Star repeat, 
 The morning paper and the evening sheet ; 
 Thro' all the land the tragic news has spread, 
 And all the land has mourned the Minuet dead. 
 So power completes : but satire sketch'd the plan, 
 And Cecil ends what Bunbury began. 
 
 Catherine M. Fanshaioe. 
 
 CCCCXX. 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT? ah ! no ; the hour is ill 
 Which severs those it should unite ; 
 
 Let us remain together still, 
 Then it will be Good-night,
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 How can I call the lone night good, 
 
 Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 
 
 Be it not said, thought, understood, 
 That it will be <7W-night. 
 
 To hearts which near each other move 
 From evening close to morning light, 
 
 The night is good ; because, my Love, 
 They never say Good-night. 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 CCCCXXi. 
 GOOD-NlGHT. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT to thee, Lady ! tho' many 
 
 Have join'd in the dance of to-night, 
 Thy form was the fairest of any, 
 
 Where all was seducing and bright; 
 Thy smile was the softest and dearest, 
 
 Thy form the most sylph-like of all, 
 And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest 
 
 That e'er held a partner in thrall. 
 
 Good-night to thee, Lady ! 'tis over 
 
 The waltz, the quadrille, and the song 
 The whisper'd farewell of the lover, 
 
 The heartless adieu of the throng ; 
 The heart that was throbbing with pleasure, 
 
 The eye-lid that long'd for repose 
 The beaux that were dreaming of treasure, 
 
 The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 
 
 'Tis over the lights are all dying, 
 
 The coaches all driving away ; 
 
 nd many a fair one is sighing, 
 
 And many a false one is gay ; 
 And Beauty counts over her numbers 
 
 Of conquests, as homeward she drives 
 And some are gone home to their slumbers, 
 
 And some are gone home to their wives. 
 
 And I, while my cab in the shower 
 
 Is waiting, the last at the door, 
 Am looking all round for the flower 
 
 That fell from your wreath on the floor.
 
 326 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I'll keep it if but to remind me, 
 Though wither'd and faded its hue 
 
 Wherever next season may find me 
 Of England of Almack's and you I 
 
 There are tones that will haunt us, tho' lonely 
 
 Our path be o'er mountain, or sea ; 
 There are looks that will part from us only 
 
 When memory ceases to be; 
 There are hopes which our burthen can lighten, 
 
 Tho' toilsome and steep be the way; 
 And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten 
 
 With a light that is clearer than day. 
 
 There are names that we cherish, tho' nameless, 
 
 For aye on the lip they may be ; 
 There are hearts that, tho' fettered, are tameless, 
 
 And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free ! 
 And some are too grave for a rover, 
 
 And some for a husband too light, 
 The Ball and my dream are all over 
 
 Good-night to thee, Lady, Good-night ! 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald. 
 
 CCCCXXII. 
 CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT. 
 
 FAIR cousin mine ! the golden days 
 
 Of old romance are over ; 
 And minstrels now care nought for bays 
 
 Nor damsels for a lover ; 
 And hearts are cold, and lips are mute 
 
 That kindled once with passion, 
 And now we've neither lance nor lute, 
 
 And tilting's out of fashion. 
 
 Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time 
 
 When Love found words in flowers ; 
 When softest sighs were breathed in rhyme, 
 
 And sweetest songs in bowers ; 
 Now wedlock is a sober thing 
 
 No more of chains or forges ! 
 A plain young man a plain gold ring 
 
 The curate and St. George's.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then every cross-bow had a string, 
 
 And every heart a fetter ; 
 And making love was quite the thing, 
 
 And making verses better ; 
 And maiden-aunts were never seen, 
 
 And gallant beaux were plenty ; 
 And lasses married at sixteen, 
 
 And died at one-and-twenty. 
 
 Then hawking was a noble sport, 
 
 And chess a pretty science ; 
 And huntsmen learnt to blow a tnorte, 
 
 And heralds a defiance ; 
 And knights and spearmen show'd their might, 
 
 And timid hinds took warning ; 
 And hypocras was warm'd at night 
 
 And coursers in the morning. 
 
 Then plumes and pennons were prepared, 
 
 And patron-saints were lauded ; 
 And noble deeds were bravely dared, 
 
 And noble dames applauded ; 
 And Beauty play'd the leech's part, 
 
 And wounds were heal'd with syrup ; 
 And warriors sometimes lost a heart, 
 
 But never lost a stirrup. 
 
 Then there was no such thing as Fear, 
 
 And no such word as Reason ; 
 And Faith was like a pointed spear, 
 
 And Fickleness was treason; 
 And hearts were soft, though blows were hard ; 
 
 But when the fight was over, 
 A brimming goblet cheer'd the board, 
 
 His Lady's smile the lover. 
 
 Ay, these were glorious days ! The moon 
 
 Had then her true adorers ; 
 And there were lyres and lutes in tune, 
 
 And no such thing as snorers ; 
 And lovers swam, and held at nought 
 
 Streams broader than the Mersey ; 
 And fifty thousand would have fought 
 
 For a smile from Lady Jersey. 
 
 327
 
 J28 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Then people wore an iron vest, 
 
 And had no use for tailors ; 
 And the artizans who lived the best 
 
 Were armourers and nailers ; 
 And steel was measured by the ell, 
 
 And trousers lined with leather ; 
 And jesters wore a cap and bell, 
 
 And knights a cap and feather. 
 
 Then single folks might live at ease, 
 
 And married ones might sever ; 
 Uncommon doctors had their fees, 
 
 But Doctors Commons never; 
 O ! had we in those times been bred, 
 
 Fair cousin, for thy glances, 
 Instead of breaking Priscian's head, 
 
 I had been breaking lances ! 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald. 
 
 CCCCXXIII. 
 ON CATULLUS. 
 
 TELL me not what too well I know 
 About the Bard of Sirmio 
 
 Yes, in Thalia's son 
 Such stains there are as when a Grace 
 Sprinkles another's laughing face 
 
 With nectar, and runs on. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 cccxxiv. 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 
 
 LITTLE Ellie sits alone 
 'Mid the beeches of a meadow 
 
 By a stream-side on the grass, 
 
 And the trees are showering down 
 Doubles of their leaves in shadow 
 
 On her shining hair and face.
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUAf. 
 
 She has thrown her bonnet by, 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 
 In the shallow water's flow : 
 
 Now she holds them nakedly 
 In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 
 
 While she rocketh to and fro. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone, 
 And the smile she softly uses 
 
 Fills the silence like a speech, 
 
 While she thinks what shall be done, 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooses 
 
 For her future within reach. 
 
 Little Ellie in her smile 
 Chooses " I will have a lover, 
 
 Riding on a steed of steeds: 
 
 He shall love me without guile, 
 And to Aim I will discover 
 
 The swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 " And the steed shall be red-roan, 
 And the lover shall be noble, 
 
 With an eye that takes the breath : 
 
 And the lute he plays upon 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble, 
 
 As his sword strikes men to death. 
 
 " And the steed it shall be shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure, 
 
 And the mane shall swim the wind ; 
 
 And the hoofs along the sod 
 Shall flash onward and keep measure, 
 
 Till the shepherds look behind. 
 
 " Bnt my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in, 
 
 When he gazes in my face : 
 
 He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
 Build the shrine my soul abides in, 
 
 And I kneel here for thy grace 1 ' 
 
 " Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, 
 With the red-roan steed anear him,
 
 330 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Which shall seem to understand, 
 Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
 For the world must love and fear him 
 Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 
 
 " Then he will arise so pale, 
 I shall feel my own lips tremble 
 
 With a. yes I must not say, 
 
 Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' 
 I will utter, and dissemble 
 
 ' Light to-morrow with to-day 1 ' 
 
 " Then he'll ride among the hills 
 To the wide world past the river, 
 
 There to put away all wrong; 
 
 To make straight distorted wills, 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Which the wicked bear along. 
 
 " Three times shall a young foot-page 
 Swim the stream and climb the mountain, 
 
 And kneel down beside my feet 
 
 ' Lo, my master sends this page, 
 Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 
 
 What wilt thou exchange for it ? ' 
 
 " And the first time, I will send 
 A little rose-bud for a guerdon, 
 
 And the second time, a glove ; 
 
 But the third time I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer ' Pardon, 
 
 If he comes to take my love.' 
 
 " Then the young foot-page will run, 
 Then my lover will ride faster, 
 
 Till he kneeleth at my knee : 
 
 ' I am a duke's eldest son, 
 Thousand serfs do call me master, 
 
 But, O Love, 1 love but thee ! ' 
 
 " He will kiss me on the mouth 
 Then, and lead me as a lover 
 
 Through the crowds that praise his deed : 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
 Unto him I will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds."
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 33! 
 
 Little Ellie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gaily, 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe, 
 
 And went homeward round a mile, 
 Just to see, as she did daily, 
 
 What more eggs were with the two. 
 
 Pushing thro' the elm-tree copse, 
 Winding up the stream, light-hearted, 
 
 Where the osier-pathway leads, 
 
 Past the boughs she stoops and stops. 
 Lo, the white swan had deserted ! 
 
 And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds ! 
 
 Ellie went home sad and slow. 
 If she found the lover ever, 
 
 With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
 
 Sooth I know not ; but I know 
 She could never show him never, 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds ! 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 ccccxxv. 
 
 PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak 
 Four not exempt from pride some future day. 
 
 Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek 
 Over my open volume you will say 
 " This man loved me ! " then rise and trip away. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 ccccxxvi. 
 
 How many voices gaily sing, 
 
 " O happy morn, O happy spring 
 
 Of life ! " meanwhile there comes o'er me 
 
 A softer voice from memory, 
 
 And says, " If loves and hopes have flown 
 
 With years, think too what griefs are gone ! " 
 
 Walter S. Landor.
 
 332 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 CCCCXXVII. 
 
 THAT out of sight is out of mind 
 Is true of most we leave behind ; 
 It is not sure, nor can be true, 
 My own, my only love, of you. 
 
 They were my friends, 'twas sad to part ; 
 Almost a tear began to start ; 
 But yet as things run on they find, 
 That out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 For men that will not idlers be, 
 Must lend their hearts to things they see ; 
 And friends who leave them far behind, 
 When out of sight are out of mind. 
 
 I blame it not ; I think that when 
 The cold and silent meet again, 
 Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind, 
 'Twas " out of sight " was " out of mind." 
 
 That friends, however friends they were, 
 Still deal with things as things occur, 
 And that, excepting for the blind, 
 What's out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 But Love, the poets say, is blind ; 
 So out of sight and out of mind 
 Need not, nor will, I think, be true, 
 My own, and only love, of you. 
 
 Arthur H. dough. 
 
 CCCCXXVIII. 
 
 CLEMENTINA AND LUCILLA. 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien 
 Lucilla asks me what I see, 
 And are the roses of sixteen 
 Enough for me ?
 
 333 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 Lucilla asks, if that be all, 
 
 Have I not cull'd as sweet before 
 Ah, yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 
 I still deplore. 
 
 I now behold another scene, 
 
 Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, 
 More pure, more constant, more serene, 
 And not less bright. 
 
 Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, 
 
 Whose chain of flowers no force can sever ; 
 And Modesty, who when she goes, 
 Is gone for ever. 
 
 Walter S Landor. 
 
 CCCCXXIX. 
 THE CASKET. 
 
 SURE, 'tis time to have resign'd 
 All the dainties of the mind, 
 And to take a little rest 
 After Life's too lengthen'd feast, 
 Why then turn the Casket-key ? 
 What is there within to see ? 
 Whose is this dark twisted hair ? 
 Whose this other, crisp and fair ? 
 Whose the slender ring ? now broken, 
 Undesigned] y, a token, 
 Love said mine ; and Friendship said 
 So I fear, and shook her head. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 cccxxx. 
 WHY REPINE. 
 
 WHY, why repine, my pensive friend, 
 
 At pleasures slipt away ? 
 Some the stern Fates will never lend. 
 
 And all refuse to stay.
 
 334 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 I see the rainbow in the sky, 
 
 The dew upon the grass, 
 I see them, and I ask not why 
 
 They glimmer or they pass. 
 
 With folded arms I linger not 
 To call them back ; 'twere vain ; 
 
 In this, or in some other spot, 
 I know they'll shine again. 
 
 Walter S. Landor,
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS, 
 
 WITH DATES OF THEIR BIRTH AND DEATH. 
 
 ALDRICH, Dean (1647 1710) 
 
 Reasons for drinking CCLXII. 
 ANTI-JACOBIN (1797 1798) 
 
 The friend of humanity cent 
 
 Song of Rogers ccccix. 
 AYTON, Sir Robert (1570 1638) 
 
 I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair xi 
 
 Woman's inconstancy xvi. 
 AVTOUN, William E. (18131865) 
 
 The lay of the Levite ccccxv. 
 
 BAILLIE, Joanna (1762 1851) 
 
 To a kitten CCCLXIII. 
 BARBAULD, Anna Letitia (1743 1825) 
 
 Life ccc. 
 BARHAM, Richard H. (1789 1845) 
 
 1 .ines left at Theodore Hook's house CCCLIH 
 
 The poplar CCCXCHI. 
 BARNARD, Dr., Bishop of Limerick (1727 1806) 
 
 On mending his faults CLIII. 
 
 BAYLY, Thomas Haynes (1797 1839) 
 
 I'd be a butterfly cccxcvm 
 A fashionable novel cccciv. 
 
 BEAZLEY, Samuel (1786 1851) 
 
 When I'm dead on my tombstone I hope they will 
 say CCLXVI. 
 
 BEDINGFIELD, William 
 
 The lover's choice cxxxrv 
 Contentment ccxxv. 
 
 BEHN, Aphra ( 1689) 
 
 The alternative LXVII. 
 
 BISHOP, Rev. Samuel (1731 > 795) 
 
 To his wife, with a knife cxvin 
 To his wife, with a ring cxix. 
 
 BLANCHARD, Laman (18031845) 
 
 Dolce far niente CCCLXXVH.
 
 336 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 BI.OOMFIELD, Robert (1766-^1823) 
 
 Why he thinks she loves him CCLXXXVHI. 
 
 BRERBTON, Mrs. Jane (1685 1740) 
 
 On Nash's statue at Bath CXLII. 
 
 BRETON, Nicholas (155516 ) 
 
 Phiiiida and Corydon IX. 
 
 BROME, Alexander (1620 1666) 
 
 Why I love her LVH 
 To a coy lady LIX. 
 
 BROUGH, Robert H. (1828 1860) 
 
 Neighbour Nelly ccxxvin. 
 BROWNING, Mrs. Elizabeth B. (1809 1861) 
 
 The romance of the swan's nest ccccxxiv. 
 
 BVRON, George, Lord (1788 1824) 
 
 To Thomas Moore CCLXX 
 Love and glory cccxi 
 The girl of Cadiz CCCXLHI 
 To Mr. Hodgson cccxux. 
 
 CAMPBELL, Thomas, LL.D. (17771844) 
 
 Margaret and Dora cccxxix 
 
 Young love's a gallant boy cccxxxix. 
 
 CANNING, Rt, Hon. George (1770 1827) 
 
 Epistle from Lord Bonngdon to Lord Granville cxcvii 
 
 A political despatch cciv 
 
 A fragment of an oration ccv 
 
 The pilot that weather'd the storm CCVH 
 CAPEL, Arthur, Lord (16 1649) 
 
 Loyalty confined LXXIX. 
 CAREW, Thomas (1589 1639) 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek xxi 
 
 The inquiry xxv 
 
 The primrose xxvn 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows xxx 
 
 Ungrateful beauty threaten'd LX. 
 
 CAREY, Henry (j6 1743) 
 
 With an honest old friend, and a merry old song CCLIX 
 
 Cato's advice CCLX. 
 CARTWRIGHT, William (1611 1643) 
 
 To Chloe in 
 
 Lesbia on her sparrow CCCLVIT. 
 CHESTERFIELD, Earl of (1694 1773) 
 
 The statue of Nash at Bath CXLHI 
 
 Advice to a lady in autumn CXLIV 
 
 On Lord Islay's garden CXLV. 
 CLOUGH, Arthur H. (18191861) 
 
 Spectator at extra CCLXXV 
 
 Out of sight, out of mind ccccxxvu.
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 337 
 
 COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772 1834) 
 
 On Job CCL 
 
 Cologne CCLH 
 
 To a young lady on her recovery from a fever ccciv 
 
 Something childish but very natural cccxix 
 
 To a lady cccxxv 
 
 Names CCCLXXVHI. 
 COLLINS, (i8th century) 
 
 Good old things cci.xi 
 
 The golden farmer CCLXXVI 
 
 To-morrow cccxn. 
 COLEMAN, George (1762 1836) 
 
 My muse and I CLXXXI. 
 CONGREVB, William (1670 1729) 
 
 Tell me no more I am deceived LXXXVII 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray LXXXVIII 
 
 False tho' she be to me and love xcix 
 
 Pious Selinda goes to prayers CLXXII. 
 COWLEY, Abraham (16181667) 
 
 Love in her sunny eyes LXH 
 
 The wish LXXXII. 
 COWPER, William (1731 1800) 
 
 To Anne Bodham ccxxii 
 
 The poplar field cccxiv 
 
 The poet's new years's gift cccxxn 
 
 The judgement of the poets cccxxxm 
 
 On some names of little note CCCXXXVH 
 
 On a goldfinch starved to death CCCLX 
 
 The faithful bird CCCLXI 
 
 Epitaph on a hare CCCLXII 
 
 The Colubriad CCCLX v 
 
 The jackdaw CCCLXVI 
 
 To Joseph Hill CCCLXVHI 
 
 Catharina CCCLXIX 
 
 Report of an adjudged case cccxiv. 
 CRABBE, George (1754 1832) 
 
 The whistling boy that holds the plough ccxci 
 
 To Cecilia ccxcvi. 
 
 CRAWFURD, William (1700 1750?) 
 
 On Mrs. A. H. at a concert cvi. 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, John (1729 1773) 
 
 Kate of Aberdeen CLXXXVI. 
 
 DANIEL, Samuel (1562 1619) 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes iv. 
 DB LA WARRB, Earl of (17291777) 
 
 Fair Hebe ccxvi. 
 
 DONNB, John (1573 1631) 
 
 Send back my long stray'd eyes to me x. 
 
 DORSET, Earl of (1637 1706) 
 
 Phillis, for shame LXXIV 
 Dorinda LXXVII 
 Written at sea LXXVII.
 
 338 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 DRYDEX, John (1631 1700) 
 
 Phillis unwilling LXXXV 
 
 To fortune LXXXVII 
 
 A pair well matched xc. 
 EGRKMONT, Earl of (1710 1763) 
 
 The fair thief ccxxx. 
 ELLIOT, Sir Gilbert ( -1777) 
 
 Aminta cxxxv. 
 ETHERIDGE, Sir George (1639 1694) 
 
 A warning to swains LXIX 
 
 Carpe Diem LXXI 
 FANSHAWH, Miss Catherine M. (1764 1834) 
 
 Riddle on the letter H CCCLXXIII 
 
 Imitation of Wordsworth ccccxvn 
 
 Elegy on the birth-night ball ccccxix 
 FIELDING, Henry (1707 1754) 
 
 On a halfpenny CXL 
 
 An epistle to Sir R. Walpole CLXXXIX 
 
 An epistle to Sir R. \Valpole-cxc. 
 
 To Celia cxcm 
 FITZGERALD Edward (circa 1820) 
 
 Because cccxcv 
 
 G opd-nigh t ccccxxi 
 
 Chivalry at a discount ccccxxn 
 
 FLATMAN, Thomas (1635 1688) 
 
 On marriage cxx. 
 Fox, Right Hon, Charles James (1748 1806) 
 
 To Mrs. Crewe cxcvi. 
 GARRICK, David (1716 1779) 
 
 Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must 
 shear CXLIX 
 
 Ye fair married dames who so often deplore CL 
 
 Advice to the Marquis of Rockingham cci. 
 GAY, John (16881732) 
 
 Damon and Cupid xciv 
 
 Phyllida xcvi 
 
 Go, rose, my Chloris 1 bosom grace ccci. 
 GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728 1774) 
 
 The retaliation CXLVIII 
 
 The haunch of venison CLII. 
 GRAY, Thomas (17161771) 
 
 On the death of a favourite cat CCCLIX. 
 GREENE, Robert (1560 1592) 
 
 Happy as a shepherd vm. 
 
 Content LXXXI. 
 GREVILLE, Mrs. Fanny (1720? ) 
 
 Prayer for indifference ccxcvm. 
 HAMILTON, William (1704 1754) 
 
 The despairing lover cit
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 339 
 
 HARRINGTON, Sir John (15611612) 
 
 Treason ccxxxiv 
 HEBER, Reginald (17831826) 
 
 Sympathy CCCLXXI 
 HBRRICK, Robert (159 11674?) 
 
 A dialogue between himself and Mrs. Elizabeth 
 Wheeler xxvi 
 
 To his mistress objecting xxix 
 
 Julia's bed xxxi 
 U 
 
 Jpon Julia's clothes xxxn 
 Delight in disorder xxxiu 
 The night piece xxxix 
 To the virgins to make much of time XL, 
 The headache XLI 
 The ring XLIII 
 To Dianeme LXI 
 To carnations LXIII 
 The bag of the bee xci 
 The bracelet cxxvn 
 To laurels CLXV 
 
 Upon a lady that died in child-bed CLXVI 
 How springs came first CLXXXVII 
 I.ove what it is ccxxxi 
 Need ccxxxn 
 An ode to Ben Jonson CCLIV 
 The Kiss CCLXXVIII 
 The maiden blush CCCLXXVI. 
 
 HILL, Aaron (1684-5 '749~5) 
 
 Modesty and beauty dangerous ccxxxvn. 
 
 HOLLAND, Lord (1773 1840) 
 
 On Samuel Roger's seat CCCLXXXIV. 
 
 HOOD, Thomas (1798 1845) 
 
 I'm not a single man ccxxvi 
 
 To , at Rotterdam CCCLXXXIX 
 
 On a distant view of Clapham academy ccccni 
 
 To Minerva ccccv 
 
 The flower ccccvn 
 
 The burning of the love letter ccccx 
 
 The water Peri's song ccccxi 
 
 " Please to ring the belle " ccccxii 
 
 I've a darling of my own ccccxvi 
 
 The broken dish ccCcxvin. 
 
 HUNT, Leigh (17841859) 
 
 Jenny kiss'd me CCCLV. 
 
 IRVING, Washington (17831859) 
 
 Album verses CCCLXXXI. 
 
 JAGO, Richard (1715 1781) 
 
 Absence CLVIIT. 
 JEFFREY, Francis, Lord (1773 1850) 
 
 Album verses CCCLXXX. 
 
 JENYNS, Soame (1704 1787) 
 
 Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes CLI.
 
 340 
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 JOHNSON Samuel (1709 1784) 
 
 To Mrs. Thrale cxni 
 
 If the man who turnips cries ccccxm. 
 
 JONES, Sir William (17461794) 
 
 To a newly born infant CLXXVH. 
 
 JONES, Miss Mary 
 
 The lass of the hill. CXd. 
 
 JONSON, Ben (15741637) 
 
 To Celia xvm 
 
 Charis her triumph XX 
 
 Epita'ph on the Countess of Pembroke CLXIV. 
 
 KENNY, James (1770 1849) 
 
 The old story over again, CCCXLI. 
 
 LAMB, Charles (1775 1835) 
 
 To Hester cccxxvil. 
 LANDOR, Walter Savage (1775 1864) 
 
 To E. F. XCVHI 
 
 To my ninth decade I have tottered on CLXXIV 
 
 On Southey's death CLXXV 
 
 Feathers CLXXVIII 
 
 I strove with none CLXXXII 
 
 On one in illness CLXXXIII 
 
 To one in grief CLXXXIV 
 
 Ireland ccxii 
 
 A retrospect ccxxiv 
 
 Ignorance of botany ccxxxix 
 
 Where are sighs CCXL 
 
 Her lips CCLXXXI 
 
 Hers never was the heart for you ccxciv 
 
 The pleasure of being deceived ccxcv 
 
 To lanthe ccxcvn 
 
 The dragon fly ccxcix 
 
 Tears cccvii 
 
 Twenty years hence cccix 
 
 Rose Aylmer cccxvi 
 
 To his young Rose an old man said cccxvm 
 
 Roses and thorns cccxx 
 
 While thou wert by cccxxi 
 
 The shortest day cccxxiu 
 
 To a fair maiden cccxxiv 
 
 One year ago cccxxvi 
 
 Rose s Birthday CCCXLII 
 
 The grateful heart CCCXLV 
 
 La Promessa Sposa CCCXLVI 
 
 Sympathy in sorrow CCCXLVIII 
 
 Mother, I cannot mind my wheel CCCLIV 
 
 With Petrarch's sonnets CCCLXXV 
 
 Destiny uncertain CCCLXXIX 
 
 Children playing in a churchyard CCCXCIX 
 
 The effects of age cccci 
 
 On Catullus ccccxxm 
 
 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak ccccxxv 
 
 Hopes have flown, but griefs are gone ccccxxvi 
 
 Clementina and Lucilla ccccxxvm
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 341 
 
 LANIXJR, Walter Savage continued. 
 
 The casket ccccxxtx 
 
 Why repine ccccxxx 
 LEWIS, Matthew Gregory (17731818) 
 
 The hours ccxcn. 
 LOVELACE, Colonel Richard (16181658) 
 
 To Lucasta, on going to the wars XLV 
 
 The merit of inconstancy LIII 
 
 To Lucasta, on going beyond the seas LV 
 
 To Althea LXXVIII. 
 LUTTRBLL, Henry (1771 1851) 
 
 Death CLXXX 
 
 On Miss Ellen Tree CCXLTII 
 
 Burnham Beeches CCCLXXXII 
 
 At Holland House CCCLXXXV. 
 LYTTELTON, Lord (1709 1773) 
 
 Hope and love ccxxxv. 
 MACAULAY, Thomas B., Lord (1800 1859) 
 
 As I sat down to breakfast in state ccx 
 
 Valentine to the Honble. C. Stanhope ccxxvii 
 MAHONY, Francis (1805 1865) 
 
 The bells of Shandon CCLXIX. 
 MELBOURNE, William Lamb, Viscount (1779 1848) 
 
 "Tis late, and I must haste away cxcvm. 
 MONTAGU, Lady Mary Wortley (1690 1762) 
 
 The lover cm 
 
 On Sir Robert Walpole cxcu. 
 MONTGOMERY, James (1771 1854) 
 
 On Robert Burns CCXLI. 
 
 MOORE, Edward (1712 1757) 
 
 The joys of wedlock cxvi. 
 MOORE, Thomas (17801852) 
 
 King Crack and his idols ccvi 
 
 Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour CCLXVIH 
 
 To Bessy cccx 
 
 I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd cccxv 
 
 Dear Fanny cccxxxi 
 
 Love and time cccxxxiv 
 
 Minerva's thimble cccxxxvi 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing CCCXLIV 
 
 Nets and cages CCCLXXXIII 
 
 A temple to friendship CCCLXXXVIII 
 
 From the Honble. Henry to Lady Emma cccxcn 
 
 Reason, folly, and beauty cccxcvi. 
 
 MORRIS, Captain Charles (17401832) 
 
 The toper's apology CCLXV1I 
 
 The contrast CCCLI. 
 MOTTEUX, Peter Anthony (1660 1718) 
 
 A rondelay cxxvi. 
 
 NUGBNT, Earl (17091788) 
 
 I loved thee, beautiful and kind ccxxxvm.
 
 342 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 OLDMIXON) John (1673 1742) 
 
 I lately woo'd but 'twas in haste CXLI 
 
 On himself CCLV. 
 OLDYS, William (16961761) 
 
 The fly CCLVI. 
 
 ORFORD, Robert Walpole, Earl of (1676 1745) 
 To the sunflower cxciv. 
 
 ORFORD, Horace Walpole, Earl cf (1717 1797) 
 
 The entail cxxxix 
 
 To Madame de Damas learning English ccxxxvi. 
 OXFORD, Earl of (1534 1604) 
 
 A renunciation vn. 
 
 PARNELL, Dr. Thomas (1679 1717) 
 
 When thy beauty appears cviil. 
 
 PEACOCK, Thomas Love (1785 1866) 
 
 The fate of a broom ccxi 
 
 In his last binn Sir Peter lies CCLXXI 
 
 Rich and poor CCLXXVII 
 
 Love and age CCCLXXXVH. 
 PETERBOROUGH, Lord (1658 1735) 
 
 Song by a person of quality. cxxxni. 
 POPE, Alexander (1688 1744) 
 
 To Mr. Thomas Southern XLVIII. 
 
 The contented man LXXXIV 
 
 To Mrs. Martha Blount CXXM 
 
 Answer to the question What is prudery? cxxxi 
 
 The town and coumry mouse cxxxvm 
 
 Epitaph for one who would not be buried in West- 
 minster Abbey CLXX 
 
 On the collar of a dog CCXLVII. 
 PORSON, Richard (17591808) 
 
 Epigram ccx LVIII. 
 PRAED, Winthrop Macworth (1802 1839) 
 
 Mars disarmed by Love ccvui 
 
 Verses on seeing the Speaker asleep ccix 
 
 Sketch of a young lady ccxxin 
 
 The chaunt of the brazen head CCCLXXII 
 
 Enigma CCCLXXIV 
 
 The belle of the ball-room CCCLXXXVI 
 
 The vicar cccxc 
 
 A letter of advice cccxcn 
 
 Our ball cccxciv 
 
 Childhood and his visitors cccxcvn 
 
 My little cousins cccc 
 
 School and schoolfellows ccccu 
 
 PRIOR, Matthew (1664 1721) 
 
 Cupid mistaken xcii 
 
 The question to Lisetta xcin 
 
 Answer to Chloe jealous. xcv 
 
 The female Phaeton xcvn 
 
 The right name c 
 
 The garland en 
 
 The merchant to secure his treasure civ
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 343 
 
 PRIOR, Matthew continued. 
 
 In vain you tell your parting lover cv 
 
 The remedy worse than the disease CLXIII 
 
 For my own monument CLXVII 
 
 On himself CLXIX 
 
 To his soul CLXXIX 
 
 The secretary cxcv 
 
 To a child of quality ccxix 
 
 Written in a lady's Milton ccxi.iv 
 
 The lady who offers her looking-glass to Venus CCXLV. 
 
 RALEIGH, Sir Walter (1552 1618) 
 
 The shepherd's description of love xxvm 
 The nymph's reply to the shepherd i. 
 
 REYNOLDS, J. Hamilton (1796 1853) 
 
 On Charles Kemble CCLXXIV. 
 
 ROCHESTER, Earl of (1648 1680) 
 
 The present moment LXIV 
 
 The victor and the vanquish'd LXV. 
 
 ROGERS, Samuel (1762 1855) 
 
 To asleep cccui 
 
 On a tear cccvi 
 
 To cccvni 
 
 A wish cccxin 
 
 An Italian song cccxvn 
 
 An epitaph on a robin redbreast CCCLXIV. 
 
 SCOTT, Sir Walter (1771 1832) 
 
 To a lady with flowers CCXCIH. 
 
 SEDLBY, Sir Charles (1639 *7 01 ) ' 
 
 To Phillfs LXVI 
 
 To Chloris LXVIII 
 
 To Celia LXX. 
 SHAKSPBRE, William (1564 1616) 
 
 My flocks feeds not VI 
 
 mistress mine, where are you roaming ? xv. 
 
 SHELLEY, Percy B. (17921822) 
 
 Good-night ccccxx. 
 
 SHKNSTONE, William (1714 1763) 
 
 Written at an inn CLIX. 
 
 SHERIDAN, Dr. Thomas (16841738) 
 
 Dr. Delany's villa cxxiv. 
 
 SHERIDAN, Rt. Honble. R. B. (17511816) 
 
 On a woman of fashion CXLVI 
 
 Lord Erskine on matrimony ecu 
 
 On Lady Margaret Fordyce CCLXXXVTI 
 
 1 ne'er could any lustre see ccxc 
 The waltz CCCLXVII. 
 
 SIDNEY, Sir Philip (15541586) 
 
 The serenade in 
 
 A ditty v. 
 SKELTON, Rev. John (14631529) 
 
 To Mistress Margaret Hussey~l.
 
 344 
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 SMITH, James (1775 1839,) 
 
 The upas in Mary-le-bone Lane CCLXXIH 
 Christmas out of town CCCLII. 
 
 SMOLLETT, Tobias (1721 1771) 
 
 Her fascination CLXXXV. 
 
 SMYTH 
 
 thou art the lad of my heart, Willy ! ccxxix. 
 
 SOUTHERNS, Thomas (1660 1746) 
 
 After a wedding XLVII. 
 
 SPENCER, Honble. Wm. Robt. (17701834) 
 The adieu cccxxx 
 To Lady Anne Hamilton cccxxxii 
 Epitaph on year 1806 cccxxxv 
 Good-by and How d'ye do cccxxxvm 
 Wife, children, and fnends CCCXL. 
 
 STRODE, William (1600 1644) 
 
 Kisses CCLXXIX. 
 
 SUCKLING, Sir John (1608 or 9 1641) 
 
 The careless lover xxxvi 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? xxxvn 
 
 The siege XLH 
 
 1 pr'ythee send me back my heart XLIV 
 A ballad upon a wedding XLVI 
 
 Love and debt XLIX 
 
 Out upon it, I have loved LI 
 
 The advantage of foreknowledge CCXXXHI, 
 
 SURREY, Earl of (15161547) 
 
 The means to attain happy life LXXX. 
 
 SWIFT, Jonathan (1667 1745) 
 
 Mrs. Harris's petition evil 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1718 cix 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1720 ex 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1724 cxi 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1726 CXH 
 
 The grand question debated cxxi 
 
 On the little house by the churchyard of Castleknock 
 
 ex xv 
 A love song in the modern taste ccccvi 
 
 THACKERAY, William M. (18111863) 
 The white squall 
 Peg of Limavaddy 
 The ballad of Bouillabaise 
 The mahogany tree 
 
 The cane-bottora'd chair \ See Preface, 
 Piscator and Piscatrix 
 At the church gate 
 The age of wisdom 
 To his serving boy 
 On an old lamp 
 
 VANBRUGH, Sir John (16661726) 
 
 Fable related by a beau to JEsop LXXXIX
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 345 
 
 WALKBR, Sidney (1795 1846) 
 
 To a girl in her i3th year ccxxv. 
 WALLER, Edmund (1605 1687) 
 
 Of English verse LXXII 
 
 The story of Phoebus and Daphne applied LXXIH 
 
 To Chloris singing a song of her own composing LXXV 
 
 On a girdle cxxvm. 
 WALSH, William (16631708) 
 
 The despairing lover CCCLXX. 
 WALTON, Izaak (1593 1683) 
 
 The angler's wish LXXXIH. 
 WHITKHEAD, William (17151785) 
 
 The/<? ne sais gueiccixxxrv. 
 WILLIAMS, Sir Charles Hanbury (1709 1759) 
 
 To the Earl of Bath cxcix 
 
 The statesman cc 
 
 An ode on Miss Harriet Hanbury ccxx 
 
 A song on Miss Harriet Hanbury ccxxi 
 
 On the death of Matzel CCCLVIH. 
 WITHER, George ( 1 5881667) 
 
 On a stolen kiss xvn 
 
 A madrigal xix 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair? xxxvni. 
 
 WOLCOT, John (1738 1819) 
 
 What is prudence ? cxxxn 
 
 To sleep ccnn 
 
 To a kiss CCLXXX 
 
 Marian's complaint CCLXXXV 
 
 When Cupids leave the virgin's face CCLXXXIX 
 
 To a fish CCCCVHI. 
 WOLFE, Charles (1791 1823) 
 
 O, say not that my heart is cold CCCLXVII. 
 WORDSWORTH, William (1770 1850) 
 
 To a young lady who had been reproached for taking 
 
 long walks in the country cccv. 
 WOTTON, Sir Henry (1568 1639) 
 
 Upon the death of Sir A. Morton's wife CLXVII. 
 WYAT, Sir Thomas (15031542) 
 
 The one he would love H. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 A valentine xn 
 
 Since first I saw your face I resolved xni 
 
 As at noon Dulcina rested xiv 
 
 A lover of late was I xxii 
 
 Fain would I, Chloris, ere I die xxm 
 
 The willow tree xxiv 
 
 My love in her attire doth show her wit xxxiv 
 
 Cherry-ripe xxxv 
 
 Love not me for comely grace i.iv 
 
 Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature LVI 
 
 The peremptory lover LVHI
 
 346 
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 To Winifreda cxiv 
 
 A man may live thrice Nestor's life cxv 
 
 On the Marriage Act cxvn 
 
 Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast cxxm 
 
 To a glove cxxix 
 
 Susan's complaint cxxx 
 
 Strephon, when you see me fly cxxxvr 
 
 What is a woman like ? cxxxvii 
 
 Last Sunday at St James's prayers CXLVII 
 
 When Molly smiles beneath her cow CLIV 
 
 Robin's complaint CLV 
 
 The shepherd's complaint ciyi 
 
 The days of our happiness gliding away CLVII 
 
 As t'other day o'er the green meadow I past CLX 
 
 Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight CLXI 
 
 Death and the twin sisters CLXXI 
 
 Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade CLXXII 
 
 Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught CLXXHI 
 
 Epitaph in Croyland Abbey CLXXVI 
 
 The nymph and the swain CLXXXVIII 
 
 To any minister or great man ceil 
 
 On some encroachments on the River Thames CCXHI 
 
 The constant swain and virtuous maid ccxiv 
 
 You say you love, and twenty more ccxv 
 
 The courtship and wedding ccxvn 
 
 On Lord King's motto ccxvm 
 
 My heart still hovering round about you CCXLII 
 
 Early rising CCXLVI 
 
 An expostulation CCXLIX 
 
 The sages of old in prophecy told-^ccLvn 
 
 Says Plato, why should man be vain ? CCLVHI 
 
 On breaking a china mug CCLXIII 
 
 The country wedding CCLXIV 
 
 On a kiss CCLXXXH 
 
 The auburn lock CCLXXXIII 
 
 Secret love CCLXXXVI 
 
 The white rose Cecil 
 
 My Lilla gave me yestermom cccxxvffl 
 
 Kitty of Coleraine CCCL 
 
 The honeymoon CCCLVI.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PACK 
 
 A BAND, a bob-wig, and a feather 59 
 
 A bard, dear muse, unapt to sing ' 277 
 
 About the sweet-bag of a bee 661 
 
 A choir of bright beauties in spring did appear 57 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous well ..... 2 
 
 A funeral-stone, or verse, I covet none 126 
 
 Ah Ben ! say how or when 180 
 
 Ah Chloris ! could I now but sit .44 
 
 Ah, do not drive off grief, but place your hand 132 
 
 Ah me ! these old familiar bounds ! . ; 307 
 
 Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate 67 
 
 Ah, what avails the sceptered race 224 
 
 Ah, what is love ! it is a pretty thing 5 
 
 A knife, dear girl, cuts love, they say 84 
 
 A knight and a lady once met in a grove 268 
 
 All my past life is mine no more 42 
 
 All travellers at first incline . .... ... 76 
 
 All you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Hall beer ..... 186 
 
 Alone, across a foreign plain 312 
 
 A lover of late was I 15 
 
 Altho' I enter not. See Preface. 
 
 A man may live thrice Nestor's life 83 
 
 Amaryllis I did love 3 
 
 Amongst the myrtles as I walked 17 
 
 Among trty fancies tell me this 202 
 
 A pretty task, Miss S , to ask 168 
 
 A ring to me Cecilia sends 212 
 
 As after noon, one summer's day 61 
 
 As at noon Dulcina rested <o 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 246 
 
 As Dick and I .- 250 
 
 As Doctors give physic by way of prevention .... 127 
 
 As down in the meadows I chanced to pass i .... 97 
 
 As gilly-flowers do but stay ' 
 
 As I sat at the cafe", I said to myself '9 
 
 As I sat down to breakfast in state ' 
 
 As I went to the wake which is held on the green .... 101 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows 
 
 Ask me why I send you here 
 
 As lamps burn silent with unconscious light J 75 
 
 As Nancy at her toilet sat ... 6 7 
 
 As on this pictured page I look. See Preface. 
 
 Asses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before . ... 108
 
 343 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 As t'other day o'er the green meadow I passed .... 124 
 A street there is in Pans famous. See Preface. 
 
 A sweet disorder in the dress 22 
 
 As when a beauteous nymph decays 78 
 
 " A temple to Friendship, said Laura, enchanted .... 285 
 
 At length, by so much importunity prest . ..... 69 
 
 A tree grows in Java whose pestilent rind 196 
 
 Away let nought to love displeasing ....... 82 
 
 A woman is like to, but stay 102 
 
 Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child 152 
 
 Ay, here stands the poplar, so tall and so stately .... 294 
 
 BEAT on, proud billows ; Boreas blow 52 
 
 Before the urchin well could go .* 173 
 
 Behold what homage to his idol paid. 273 
 
 Behold with downcast eyes and modest glance 264 
 
 Between nose and eyes a strange contest arose 317 
 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly 181 
 
 CHILDREN, keep up that harmless play 302 
 
 Chloe, why wish you that your years. ...... 36 
 
 Chloris, yourself you do excel ...... .48 
 
 Christmas is here. See Preface. 
 
 Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast . . . . .261 
 
 Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear . . 114 
 
 Come from my first, ay, come. 272 
 
 Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer 179 
 
 Come, listen to my stoiy, while. ....... 279 
 
 Come, lovely lock of Julia's hair. ....... 204 
 
 DEAR child of nature, let them rail. . . , . . 218 
 
 Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face 63 
 
 Dear Doctor of St. Mary's 164 
 
 Dear is my little native vale 225 
 
 Dear Joseph, five-and-twenty years ago. 264 
 
 Dear little, pretty, favourite ore. 106 
 
 Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is. See Preface. 
 
 Did ever swain a nymph adore. . . . . . . .121 
 
 Distracted with care. 267 
 
 Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes 49 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes. 12 
 
 FAIN would I, Chloris, ere I die 15 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray 59 
 
 Fair cousin mine ! the golden days 326 
 
 Fair Hebe I left with a cautious design i6t 
 
 Fair Iris I love, and hourly I die 60 
 
 Fair maiden ! when I look at tbee 227 
 
 Fair marble tell to future days 129 
 
 False tho' she be to me and love 66 
 
 Farewell ! all good wishes go with him to-day. .... 197 
 
 Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour .... 191 
 Farewell! farewell to my mother's own daughter . . .316 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 195 
 
 Fluttering spread thy purple pinions 311 
 
 Fly from the world, O, Bessie to me 220
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. ^g 
 
 PACK 
 
 For many a winter, in Billiter Lane a4g 
 
 Fortune, that, with malicious joy . ! 58 
 
 Four Scotchmen by the name of Adams ... 59 
 
 Friends, hear the words my wandering thoughts would say . . 130 
 From you, lanthe, little troubles pass ! 212 
 
 GAILY I lived as ease and nature taught , 2 o 
 
 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may 
 
 Good-night ? Ah ! no ; the hour is ill .... ) ,24 
 
 Good-night to thee, lady, though many 
 
 Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace 1 216 
 
 Go, virgin kid, with lambent kiss q- 
 
 Go you may call it madness, folly . . . . ! ! 210 
 
 Gracefully shy is yon gazelle | 275 
 
 Great Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er .... ."144 
 
 Great sir, as on each leve"e day j '.136 
 
 HAIL! day of music, day of love 70 
 
 Hail, pretty emblem of my fate 139 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care 57 
 
 Health, strength, and beauty, who would not resign. . . . 132 
 
 He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried 127 
 
 He pass'd through life's tempestuous night 176 
 
 Here lies whom hound did ne'er pursue 257 
 
 Here Rogers sat, and here, for ever, dwell 280 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee . . , . . . .25 
 
 Heroes and kings ! your distance keep ....'. 128 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 14 
 
 Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin. See Preface. 
 
 How blest has my time been ? What joys have I known. . . 83 
 
 How happily shelter'd is he who reposes . . . 280 
 
 How happy a thing were a wedding 86 
 
 How many voices gaily sing 331 
 
 How now, shepherd, what means that? 16 
 
 Hush! in the canal below- See Preface. 
 
 Huzza, Hodgson, we are going 244 
 
 I AM His Highness' dog at Kew '78 
 
 I asked my fair one happy day. 2 7S 
 
 I'd be a butterfly born in a bower. ..... 3 01 
 
 I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair .... 
 
 If all be true that I do think ' 8 4 
 
 If all the world and love were young . .... -35 
 If htish'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep . 
 
 If I had but two little wings * 
 
 I feed a flame within which so torments me * 
 
 If man might know the ill he must undergo '74 
 
 If the man who turnips cries 3 '7 
 
 If this fair rose offend thy sight . 2l6 
 
 If to be absent were to be 37 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond 5 
 
 I gaze upon a city * 
 
 I hardly know one flower that grows 
 
 I hate the town, and all its ways 39 
 
 I held her hand the pledge of bliss an 
 
 I in these flowery meads would be ....... 5 6
 
 35 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PACE 
 
 I know by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd . .... 224 
 
 I lately thought no man alive 119 
 
 I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste ....... 107 
 
 I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore 316 
 
 1 loved thee, beautiful and kind . 175 
 
 I loved thee once, I'll love no more ....... 8 
 
 I'm in love with neighbour Nelly 171 
 
 I 'm like Archimedes for science and skill 150 
 
 Immortal Newton never spoke 107 
 
 I'm often asked by plodding souls 189 
 
 In a fair summer's radiant morn 105 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien 332 
 
 I ne'er could any lustre see 209 
 
 In his last binn Sir Peter lies 19} 
 
 In Kbln, a town of monks and bones 179 
 
 In London I never know what to be at 246 
 
 In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch .... 149 
 
 In tatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars. See Preface. 
 
 In the days of my youth I've been frequently told .... 184 
 
 In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining .... 222 
 
 In the merry month of May ........ 6 
 
 In vain you tell your parting lover . . . . . . .71 
 
 I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing 284 
 
 I pr'ythee leave this foolish fashion 40 
 
 I pr'ythee send me back my heart ....'.. 29 
 
 Ireland never was contented 158 
 
 I said to my heart between sleeping and waking .... 99 
 
 I sent for Radcliffe was so ill 126 
 
 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife . . . 131 
 
 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been ... ... 30 
 
 I think, whatever mortals crave 269 
 
 It is not, Celia, in your power 45 
 
 ENNY kiss'd me 2 5* 
 
 uiia, 1 bring 28 
 
 KING CRACK was the best of all possible kings .... 150 
 
 Know, Celia, (since thou art so proud) 4Q 
 
 LAST Sunday at St. James's prayers " 
 
 Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you 3 2 
 
 Life, I know not what thou art 2 ' 5 
 
 Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream . . . . 2 1 5 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone 3 28 
 
 Lo ! in Corruption's lumber-room 158 
 
 Look where my dear Hamilla smiles _ 7 2 
 
 Ix>rd Erskine on woman presuming to rail . . . . 79 
 
 Lord Harry has written a novel 3' 
 
 Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band .... 162 
 
 Love in her sunny eyes does basking play 4' 
 
 Love is a circle that doth restless move 74 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes. .... ... 3 
 
 Love not me for comely grace 37 
 
 MAN is for woman made 95 
 
 Man's life is like unto a winter's day 3
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 35' 
 
 Margaret's beauteous Grecian arts 230 
 
 Maria ! I have every good 226 
 
 Mark'd you her cheek of roseate hue 207 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 54 
 
 Merry Margaret. ..' i 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill 223 
 
 Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers ....... 219 
 
 Moravians their minstrelsy brine 230 
 
 Mother, I cannot mind my wheel 251 
 
 My boat is on the shore 194 
 
 My dearest love, since thou wilt go 18 
 
 My flocks feed not. . 4 
 
 My gentle Anne, whom heretofore 165 
 
 My head doth ache 27 
 
 My heart still hovering round about you 176 
 
 My Lilla gave me yestermorn 229 
 
 My love and I for kisses play'd 203 
 
 My love in her attire doth show her wit 22 
 
 My mother bids me spend my smiles 319 
 
 My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled 131 
 
 My pretty, budding, breathing flower 166 
 
 Myrtilia, "early on the lawn 177 
 
 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook 101 
 
 My temples throb, my pulses boil 311 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his 3 
 
 NEEDY knife-grinder ! whither are you going 148 
 
 Ne'er were the zephyrs known disclosing aio 
 
 Never believe me if I love. 33 
 
 No doubt thy little bosom beats 66 
 
 No morning ever seem'd so long 3'5 
 
 None, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair . . . . 175 
 
 Not, Celia, that I juster am_ 45 
 
 Now cease the exulting strain . . 3 21 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes ia 
 
 O BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send . . . . 91 
 
 O Death thy certainty is such . ._ '3 
 
 Of old when Scarron his companions invited I 
 
 O fond attempt to give a deathless lot a 
 
 Often I have heard it said 2 4 
 
 Oft in danger, yet alive ._ 
 
 Oft I've implored the gods in vain * 
 
 Oft you have asked me, Granyille why >4* 
 
 Old Islay, to show his fine delicate taste ... . . 108 
 
 O, mistress mine, where are you roaming ? . ... 
 
 Once on a time, so runs the fable ... 
 
 Once on a time, when sunny May 2 99 
 
 On deck beneath the awning. See Preface 
 
 One day, Good-bye met How-d'ye-do * 
 
 O, never talk again to me * 
 
 One year ago my path was green 2 
 
 On parents* knees, a naked new-born child . . . . i 
 
 On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess dwelt 
 
 On this Tree, if a nightingale settles and sings ' 
 
 O, say not that my heart is cold
 
 352 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 O, talk not to me of a name great in story 22 1 
 
 O, that the chemist's magic art 218 
 
 O, thou art the lad of my heart, Willy 172 
 
 Out upon it, I have loved 35 
 
 PHILLIS, for shame! let us improve 47 
 
 Phillis, men say that ail my vows . 43 
 
 Philosophers pretend to tell 204 
 
 Phyllida, that loved to dream ...'... 64 
 
 Pious Belinda goes to prayers 125 
 
 Poets may boast, as safely vain 46 
 
 Poor little, pretty, flattering thing 131 
 
 Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast qi 
 
 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak .... 331 
 
 Prudence, Sir William, is a jewel 99 
 
 REASON, and Folly, and Beauty they say ...... 298 
 
 Resign'd to live, prepar'd to die 33 
 
 Riding from Coleraine. See Preface. 
 
 SAYS Plato, why should man be vain 182 
 
 Seest thou that cloud as silver clear 21 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love 13 
 
 Send back my long stray'd eyes to me 7 
 
 Serene and tranquil was the night 251 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair 24 
 
 She came she is gone we have met 266 
 
 She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool . . .231 
 
 Shepherd, what's love ? I pr'ythee tell 19 
 
 Since first I saw your face I resolved 10 
 
 Since truth has left the shepherd's tongue 206 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair . 154 
 
 Sleep, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep 242 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile 216 
 
 Sly Beelzebub took all occasions 178 
 
 Soft child of Love, thou balmy bliss 203 
 
 So look the mornings, when the sun. 273 
 
 Some years ago, ere time and taste 287 
 
 Soon, as the day begins to waste 159 
 
 Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead 274 
 
 Stay while ye will, or go 42 
 
 Stella this day is thirty-four . ?6 
 
 Strephon, when you see me fly i' 
 
 Such were the lively eyes and rosy hue '38 
 
 Sure 'tis time to have resign'd .333 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content 54 
 
 Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 4' 
 
 Sweet Nea, for your lovely sake 297 
 
 TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving . . . . -211 
 
 Tell me no more I am deceived 58 
 
 Tell me not of joy, there's none. 25* 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 3 
 
 Tell me not what too well I know 328 
 
 Tell me, perverse young year! 240 
 
 Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter . . .116
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 353 
 
 That out of sight is out of mind 3ja 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 96 
 
 The danger is over, the battle is past- ...... 33 
 
 The day of brightest dawn (day soonest flown !) .... 227 
 
 The days of our happiness gliding away 123 
 
 The Germans in Greek 178 
 
 The maid I loved ne'er thought of me 243 
 
 Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed . . . . . .85 
 
 The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride 84 
 
 The grateful heart for all things blesses 242 
 
 The greenhouse is my summer seat ....... 256 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure 71 
 
 Then, behind, all my hair is done into a plat 109 
 
 The poor man's sins are glaring. ....... 201 
 
 The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 223 
 
 The pride of every grove I choose 68 
 
 There are some wishes that may start 167 
 
 There falls with every wedding chime 230 
 
 There is a bird, who, by his coat 262 
 
 There is a garden in her face , 22 
 
 There is a river, clear and fair 319 
 
 There is a sound that's dear to me 318 
 
 There's one request I make to Him 34 
 
 The Sage of old in prophecy told 181 
 
 These springs were maidens once that loved 134 
 
 The silver moon' enamour' d beam 133 
 
 The sun was now withdrawn ........ 62 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing 241 
 
 The whistling boy that holds the plough 209 
 
 This day, whate'er the Fates decree 79 
 
 This picture placed these busts between 107 
 
 Though British accents your attention fire 17? 
 
 Thou record of the votive throng 276 
 
 Thus Kitty, beautiful and young 65 
 
 Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care 86 
 
 Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train 47 
 
 Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays '68 
 
 Time was when I was free as air . . . . 256 
 
 'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses 235 
 
 'TisTate, and I must haste away '43 
 
 'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure . ... 39 
 
 'Tis not the lily brow I prize 2 
 
 'Tis not the splendor of the place 
 
 'Tis not your beauty, nor your wit 39 
 
 'Tis not your saying that you love 
 
 'Tis now, since I sat down before 
 
 'Tis said, but whether true or not . . . . . 233 
 
 To all you ladies now on land 
 
 To fix her 'twere a task as vain _ . i 
 
 To his young Rose an old man said "| 
 
 To hug yourself in perfect ease . . i 
 
 To me 'tis given to die, to thee 'tis given 
 
 To my ninth decade I have totter'd on ' 
 
 Too late I stay'd ! forgive the crime a 
 
 Too plain, dear youth, these telltale eyes ' 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom, I retire J
 
 354 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 72 
 
 . 26l 
 
 Try not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain 253 
 
 'Twas in Heaven pronounced, it was mutter'd in hell. . . . 272 
 
 'Twas on a lofty vase's side 254 
 
 Twelve years ago I made a mock 304 
 
 Twenty years hence my eyes may grow . . 220 
 
 Two nymphs, both nearly of an age ....... 232 
 
 UNDERNEATH a myrtle shade 180 
 
 Underneath this sable hearse. ........ 126 
 
 Unless my senses are more dull. . 176 
 
 VENUS, take my votive glass . . . . . . . . 177 
 
 WANTON droll, whose harmless play 259 
 
 Well may they, Wentworth, call thee young 146 
 
 Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain. . . . 134 
 
 Well then I now do plainly see 55 
 
 Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature 38 
 
 What Cato advises most certainly wise is 183 
 
 What is Prudery ? 'Tis a beldam 98 
 
 What nymph should I admire, or trust 62 
 
 What's life but full of care and doubt 320 
 
 What statesman, what hero, what king 145 
 
 When as in silks my Julia goes 21 
 
 When Cupids leave the virgin's face 208 
 
 Whene'er the cruel hand of Death 185 
 
 When'er with haggard eyes I view 314 
 
 When I'm dead, on my tombstone I hope they will say . .189 
 
 When I tie about thy wrist 9 6 
 
 When I was a maid 239 
 
 When late I attempted your pity to move 
 
 When Love came first to earth, the spring 237 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die .... . . 2 
 
 When Molly smiles beneath her cow. '2' 
 
 When slumber first unclouds my brain . . 
 
 When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented . . .238 
 When thy beauty appears . . ; -75 
 
 Where the loveliest expression to features is join d . . . . i 
 
 Whether you lead the patriot band ' 
 
 While at the helm of State you ride . ' 
 
 While I'm blest with health and plenty . 
 
 While on those lovely looks I gaze . ^ 
 
 While thou wert by . . 
 
 While with labour arduous due pleasure 1 mix. . 
 
 Who begs to die for fear of human need . 
 
 Whoever pleaseth to enquire 
 
 Who is it that this dark night ... '226 
 
 Why do our joys depart 
 
 Why dost thou say I am forsworn . 
 
 Why fliest thou away with fear . 
 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear .... '163
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. - 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? ...... 24 
 
 Why, why repine, my pensive friend .... 337 
 
 Why write my name 'mid songs and flowers \ \ 275 
 
 Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade -....! 129 
 
 With an honest old friend and a merry old song .... 183 
 
 With deep affection , 92 
 
 With leaden foot time creeps along I2J 
 
 With virtue such as yours had Kve been arm'd . . . 177 
 
 Would you that Delville I describe ? ...... 9J 
 
 YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams 281 
 
 Ye fair married dames, who so of ten deplore 115 
 
 Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free ...... 44 
 
 Ye nymphs and ye swains, from the groves and the plains . . 122 
 
 Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now 205 
 
 Yes, I write verses now and then 303 
 
 You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume . . . 290 
 
 You bid me explain, my dear angry ma'amselle 290 
 
 You, Damon, covet to posess 100 
 
 You'll come to our Ball, since we parted 295 
 
 Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight .... 125 
 
 Young Jessica sat all the day 235 
 
 You say I love not, 'cause I do not play 20 
 
 You say you love, and twenty more 160 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed 211 
 
 You tell me your'e promised a lover 291
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NO. 
 
 xni ANOTHER stanza is sometimes added to this poem ; but it does 
 
 not appear to be by the same hand. 
 
 xxv and xxvii. Poems almost similar to these are to be found in Her- 
 rick's " Hesperides." 
 
 XLVI. Suckling is remarkable for a careless natural grace. This is 
 one of his best poems, and, as Leigh Hunt sajrs, " his fancy 
 is so full of gusto as to border on imagination." The bride- 
 groom is said to have been Lord Broghill, and the bride Lady 
 Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk- Three 
 stanzas of this poem have been necessarily omitted. 
 
 LXXIX. These lines have also been attributed to Sir Roger L' Estrange, 
 an adherent of Charles I. 
 
 xcv. Cowper, the poet, says, " Every man conversant with verse- 
 
 making knows, and knows by painful experience, that the 
 familiar style is of all styles the most difficult to succeed in. 
 To make verse speak the language of prose, without being 
 prosaic, to marshal the words of it in such an order as they 
 might naturally take in falling from the lips of an extemporary 
 speaker, yet without meanness, harmoniously, elegantly, and 
 without seeming to displace a syllable for the sake of the 
 rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a poet can undertake. 
 He that could accomplish this task was Prior : many have 
 imitated his excellence in this particular, but the best copies 
 have fallen short of the original." 
 
 xcvu. Kitty was Lady Katherine Hyde, afterwards Duchess of 
 Queensberry. Lady Jenny was Lady Jane Hyde, then Coun- 
 tess of Essex. 
 
 Oil. Lady Mary W. Montagu wrote very smartly. Lord Lyt- 
 
 telton once sent her some highly didactic and sentimental 
 lines, beginning, " The councils of a friend, Belinda, hear," 
 of which Lady Mary made the following concise summary : 
 
 " Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet, 
 In short my deary, kiss me, and be quiet."
 
 NOTES. 
 
 357 
 
 Her verses on Sir Robert Walpole are happy, but they in- 
 erilably recall the exquisite couplets of Pope : 
 
 " Seen him I have, but in his happier hour 
 Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power ; 
 Seen him, uncumber'd with the venal tribe, 
 Smile without art, and win without a bribe." 
 
 evil. Perhaps this is the most humorous piece of verse in the 
 
 English language, and yet it is essentially vers de societi 
 One or two slight expressions have been softened down, 
 both here and in other pieces, to suit the taste of the day. 
 " Whittle " was the Earl ot Berkeley's valet ; " Dame 
 Wadger" was the deaf old housekeeper ; " Lord Colway " 
 means Galway ; " Lord Dromedary " means Drogheda ; 
 " Gary " was clerk of the kitchen; "Mrs. Dukes was a 
 servant, and wife to one of the footmen. " The Chaplain " 
 refers to Swift himself. 
 
 cxiv. Dr. Percy erroneously supposed this to be a translation from 
 
 the ancient British language. 
 
 cxxxi. Miss Lepell, a lady of beauty and wit, was maid of honor to 
 Queen Caroline- She afterwards married Lord Hervey. 
 
 cxxxix. This was occasioned by the author being asked after he 
 had finished the Little Castle at Strawberry Hill, and adorned 
 it with the portraits and arms of his ancestors if he did not 
 design to entail it on his family. 
 
 CXLII and CXLIII. A picture of Beau Nash (the celebrated Master of 
 the Ceremonies at Bath) once hung between the busts of 
 Newton and Pope in Wiltshire's ballroom, and it was on 
 that juxtaposition that Mrs. Brereton wrote her lines. (See 
 the " Historic Guide to Bath.") 
 
 CXLIV. Lord Chesterfield also wrote some excellent lines, in con- 
 junction with Lord Bath, on Miss Lepell, who married Lord 
 Hervey in 1720 ; but, happily, taste and manners are so al- 
 tered that it would be impossible to give them. 
 
 CXLVI. Thomas Moore thought that these lines were the joint pro- 
 duction of Tickell and Sheridan. 
 
 CXLVIIL Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined 
 at the St. James's Coffee-house, where one day it was pro- 
 posed to write epitaphs on him. He was challenged to re- 
 taliate, and these lines were the result. " Our Dean," Dr. 
 Barnard, Dean of Derry; Edmund Burke; Mr. Wm. Burke, 
 M. P. for Bedwin ; Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of 
 Grenada : Cumberland, the dramatist ; Dr. Douglas, Canon 
 of Windsor ; Counsellor John Ridee, an Irish barrister ; 
 Hickey, an eminent attorney : Townshend, M. P. for Whit- 
 church ; Dr. Dodd, the popular preacher ; Dr. Kenrick 
 lectured at the Devil's Tavern ; Macpherson, of "Ossian" 
 celebrity ; Mr. Woodfall was printer of the Morning 
 Chronicle- 
 
 cm. Dr. Barnard had asserted, in Dr. Johnson's presence, that 
 
 men did not improve after the age of forty-five. '
 
 353 
 
 ccx. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 not true, sir," said Johnson. " You, who perhaps are forty- 
 eight, may still improve, if you will try ; I wish you would 
 set about it. And I am afraid," he added, " there is great 
 room for it." Johnson afterwards greatly regretted his 
 rudeness to the bishop, who took the insult in good part, 
 wrote the following verses next day, and sent them to Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 Lord Boringdon, afterwards Earl of Morley, and Lord 
 Granville, were old friends of Canning, and the " Lady 
 Elizabeth " alluded to in his poem was one of the daughters 
 of the Duke of Marlborough, and sister to Lord Henry 
 Spencer. She married Mr. Spencer, the son of Lord Charles 
 Spencer. 
 
 Lady Bath with a bad temper had much wit. Lord Bath 
 said to her in one of her passions, " Pray, my dear, keep 
 your temper." She replied, " Keep my temper ! I don't 
 like it so well ; I wonder you should." " A great monarch " 
 was George III. " the minister fell " refers to Walpole. 
 
 This is a parody (said to be the joint production of Canning 
 and Frere) of Southey's Sapphics entitled " The Widow." 
 
 Mr. Flack, the Dutch Minister in 1826, having made a pro- 
 position by which a considerable advantage would have ac- 
 crued to Holland, this political despatch was actually sent by 
 Canning to Sir Charles Bagot, the English Ambassador at 
 the Hague, and soon afterwards an order in Council was is- 
 sued to put into effect the intention so announced. 
 
 A parody on part of Mr. Whitbread's speech on the trial of 
 Lord Melville, put into verse by Mr. Canning at the time it 
 was delivered. 
 
 It is rather difficult to make a selection from Thomas 
 Moore ; nearly everything that he has written might be 
 claimed as vers de societe, whether it be epitaph, epigram, 
 ballad, or sacred song. He could not help being witty and 
 sparkling, and perhaps a little artificial. How charmingly 
 he carols to his Bessy on Love, Death, and Eternity ! 
 Moore is the most brilliant of all our squib writers, as Swift 
 is the most powerful. 
 
 This song was composed for the dinner at Merchant Taylors' 
 Hall, in celebration of Mr. Pitt's birthday (1802). Lord 
 Spencer was chairman. Mr. Pitt was not present. 
 
 These verses express, with much force and humour, the 
 feelings of the British nation on military affairs after the 
 close of the long struggle with France. Five-and-twenty 
 years of almost incessant fighting had made people heartily 
 weary of soldiers and soldiering. But at the present era of 
 non-intervention the poem has a satirical application which 
 Praed probably did not intend. 
 
 Written in the midst of the Catholic Emancipation struggle. 
 Adelphi Terrace was built by the brothers Adams.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 359 
 
 ccxxvu. " Thy great kinsman," the statute o! Pitt. 
 
 CCLXXIII. " Chancellor Van " refers to Mr. Nicholas Vansittart, then 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 
 CCLXXIV. Thomas Moore married Hamilton Reynolds' sister. Charles 
 Kemble was especially admirable in the characters of Mac- 
 duff, Cassio, Falconbndge, and Romeo. 
 
 ccxcvin. I believe Mrs. Greville was the wife of Fulke Greville, that 
 her maiden name was Fanny McCartney, and that she was 
 the mother of the celebrated beauty, Mrs. Crewe. 
 
 CCCLVIH These lines were addressed to Mr. Stanhope (Lord Chester 
 field), to whom the author had given the reversion of the bul-~ 
 finch when he left Dresden. 
 
 CCCLXIII. This has been cut down to bring it within the scope of the 
 collection. I think it has not suffered in consequence. 
 
 CCCLXVIII. This is an admirable specimen of vers de societe. Cowper is 
 a master of playful irony. 
 
 CCCLXXIII. This riddle has been published as Lord Byron's ; but there 
 is no doubt about its authorship. The Rev. Mr. Harness, 
 who edited Miss Fanshawe's " Literary Remains," says he 
 remembers her reading it at the Deepdene in the summer of 
 1816, and the admiration with which it was received. Some 
 excellent riddles have been attributed to the late Lord 
 Macaulay ; but I have good reason for knowing that he never 
 wrote a riddle in his life. 
 
 CCCLXXXII. " Creeches." 
 
 " Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, 
 
 To take it in the very words of Creech." A. Pope. 
 " Yonder Ruin " refers to Burnham Abbey. 
 
 CCCLXXXVII. Thomas L. Peacock was the son of a London merchant 
 and held an appointment in the India House. He was an 
 excellent classic, and wrote several very clever novels. There 
 is a remarkable freshness about the best of his verses. 
 
 CCCXCHI. The flexibility and variety of Barbara's rhythm is quite won- 
 derful. Tom Moore, Praed, and Prior could not have pro- 
 duced a more graceful piece of drollery than these lines. 
 
 cccc. These verses are among the happiest of Praed's efforts, and 
 
 if Messrs. Smith and Elder would have allowed me to do so, 
 I should have placed them side by side with Thackeray s 
 Bouillabaise. Many readers would prefer Bouillabaise ; it 
 is more natural ; but Thackeray, less elegant than Praed, ap- 
 
 vers di societe than Thackeray. 
 This is sometimes attributed to Pope.
 
 360 NOTES. 
 
 NO. 
 
 ccccix I believe there is little doubt but that this was written by 
 Mr. Canning, assisted by Mr. Frere. 
 
 ccccxix. " But never shall be sung." "Go to the devil and shake 
 yourself," the name of a favorite country dance. " The lone 
 minuet " was a celebrated caricature by Bunbury. Cecil 
 refers to Lord Salisbury, then the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 ccccxxi. Mr. Fitzgerald's defect is, that he is a mere copyist of Praed, 
 and he exaggerated Praed's defects: however, there are 
 some noteworthy stanzas by him scattered through the maga- 
 zines. It is said that Praed assisted Fitzerald in his composi- 
 tions. It is certain that those he published after Praed's 
 death are inferior to his earlier efforts.
 
 %-
 
 UC SOUTHS* nGO*AL 155*211 22f. 
 
 
 
 ^: